How I was leaving my home. Days 5-6
February 28 - March 1, 2022
Six days and six nights in the car. Just six, including a dreadful trip to Lviv, when I got lost and we ended up driving alone on a broken road past cemeteries.
Throughout this journey, if I may call it that, I acutely felt the impact of daylight and its absence on my mental and emotional state. Each night in the car, it seemed like dawn would never come. Sometimes, I thought it would never come at all.
In the mornings, I felt an incredible surge of energy and strong belief that everything would work out, that I could manage all of this. But by 6-8 PM every other day, just the thought of another night in the car would drive me to the edge. It made me dizzy, and I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmingly sleepy.
There was pain in my lower back. Sitting for extended periods is incredibly harmful for me, but I had no other choice. Sometimes, I tried to tuck my left leg under me, but it was very uncomfortable. The gas and brake pedals seemed to creak. I listened more carefully to the body of my car than to my own, shuddering at every new sound.
My children were pale and emaciated, my mother was wrinkled and almost hunched over. We smelled of sweat, despair, and hopelessness, despite my imaginary armor, helmet, and visor.
I devised a personal lifehack after the first two nights in the car. To avoid missing my turn, I set an alarm for every 15 minutes.
This way, when we stopped, I could take a quick nap. If the traffic jam started before my 15 minutes were up, the driver behind me would wake me — we had agreed that he wouldn't overtake me, but would instead wake me up. However, there was no guarantee that someone behind wouldn’t take advantage of the situation, as people still drove in the opposite direction, although fewer of them. And if the line didn’t move, I would at least manage to sleep for 15 minutes.
That’s how I survived. I had never experienced this before — six days of car travel without sleep. I truly tested my body’s resilience, both physically and mentally.
And I don’t know which was harder — not sleeping or not losing my mind.
I’ll skip over the details of the other three days spent crawling meter by meter toward the Sheghiny border.
In this article, I want to share some of the other things my eyes saw during this trip.
Refugees.
Throughout the entire journey to the border, both day and night, people were constantly walking along the edges of the highway. Among them were many Indians and Koreans. They walked in slippers and sneakers, carrying suitcases and bags on their heads. They seemed quite positive, joking, and sometimes even singing. But the further we drove, and the longer they walked, the more abandoned suitcases appeared along the track. Right on the road, they would sit down and repack their bags, leaving behind many items as they continued their journey. I saw abandoned books, clothes, personal hygiene items, notebooks, diaries, tools, and a lot of shoes.
The hardest part was seeing mothers with strollers, walking to the border. They had escaped from that bastard called Khuilo on foot, carrying their children in their arms or slings. Some kids were walking hand in hand with them.
There were several girls carrying small suitcases in one hand, while holding their 2-3 month-old babies in the other. They walked confidently, calmly. Their eyes were glassy, and their movements were automatic.
My heart broke. I couldn’t take any of them with me because there was no room in the car. I offered someone a mat, as I saw many people carrying rugs with them, and for some, I offered water. Many, as I wrote earlier, were carrying, leading, or dragging their pets with them.
I still don’t understand how they walked… But at the same time, I understand.
A lot of people abandoned their cars, wrapped themselves in blankets and bedspreads, and continued their escape on foot.
Foodbanks.
But along this path, in this traffic jam of cars and desperate people, we survived not just on willpower and strength. We were also helped by people living in the western part of Ukraine. I had always known about their hospitality, their love for their country, and their devotion to helping others.
Almost every eighth kilometer, for all of us refugees from across Ukraine, hot soup or borscht awaited us. There was also tea, coffee, and sandwiches. They organized such a massive humanitarian campaign that it took my breath away.
It was clear that everything was organized according to a well-planned system: men chopped firewood, kindled, and maintained several fires. You could just stop by and warm up. Near some fires, there were food stalls of all kinds. Women helped serve food. Many of them baked pies, and cooked vareniki and dumplings. Can you imagine?
In one village, a large trailer pulled up, carrying a huge barrel of uzvar and several pots of warm pies. It was just some family who wanted to help however they could.
God, I’ve never eaten anything tastier in my life.
Thanks to these people, we didn’t suffer from hunger on the way to the border. My children, under the influence of stress, ate anything they saw — even things they had never eaten before, like chicken legs in soup and sandwiches with boiled eggs and pickles.
The shops and gas stations were empty.
I am deeply grateful to these people. Your help was truly invaluable.
When we were nearing Sheghiny, in addition to food, we were given soap, water, and diapers. Everything was Polish-made, which gave me confidence that we would make it through and breathe again, calmly.
As we neared the border, there were more and more police and military vehicles.
It was around 8 PM, March 1st.
A man in uniform approached our car and asked me to lower the window:
Do you need European car insurance?
Yes, indeed, - I replied, feeling that I would pay any price in the world for this insurance.
