After a prolonged break due to editing the Kherson film in Odesa, the Kramatorsk diaries are now back. Apologies if I didn’t take you on that particular ride, but trust me, you’d hate me for it. The image of three grown adults alone in a room having an argument that goes, and I quote, “We can’t use adverbs. Adverbs are propaganda.” It is unedifying and not why you are here. More on that in future diaries.
A word to the new readers who signed up during my sabbatical. The Kramatorsk Diaries started life in Kramatorsk, Donetsk. I then moved to Kherson for six months and now live in Odesa. After deep and expensive consultations with my branding team (my son), I decided to go with continuity and stick with the ‘brand’ name, The Kramatorsk Diaries.
During the last batch of diaries, my morning routine was as follows: I would wake up, turn on the radio, and listen to the Conservative Party eating themselves from the feet up. Now they are gone (mostly), and my primary concern is a lack of comedic input for the diary preamble. But all is not lost. To borrow a term from those with a religious bent, hallelujah, they’re back, but now it’s a leadership election. It’s akin to giving six juvenile chimps spatulas and a couple of dozen eggs, locking them in a room and expecting them to develop a nuclear fusion device. Hours of fun for all the family lay ahead.
We are currently taking a break from editing, but some issues remain. So, while they are cleared up, George Llewelyn, editor, cinematographer, and all-around Renaissance man, and I decided to head to Donbas, where the fighting on the Eastern front is fierce.
We were particularly interested in Pokrovsk, a logistical rail and road hub in the heart of Donetsk, where the Russian forces are currently amassing troops and armour in an attempt to snatch the strategic city. At the same time, Ukraine is busy hacking off parts of Russia in the Kursk region.
So, we set off in my slightly newer replacement for, Sorry, my old Honda 4X4, who passed away peacefully in Kherson, to Dnipro, where we would spend the night before heading into Pokrovsk.
A mandatory evacuation order is in place in Pokrovsk, so we had two significant worries: A—would we be allowed in, and B—what would we eat? The answer to B was easy. After a quick trip to the supermarket, we came out with a comprehensive survival pack.
6 packets of Tuc salted biscuits,
6 tins of mixed pate (chicken, duck, liver etc.)
Sixty sachets of mixed coffee (cappuccino, caramel latte etc)
4 packets of various pasta & accompanying tomato-like sauce.
A block of an unknown provenance cheese.
A salami sausage.
A banana.
I looked at the list and its nutritional value and considered the possibility of scurvy, promptly dismissing the idea when I remembered George’s supply of fruit gums in the glove box.
The system of accessing the front lines varies around the country. Kherson is complicated and involves a lot of unseemly grovelling. My experience in Donbas is different; until now, it has involved driving up to the military checkpoint, flashing my military press card, and Bob’s your uncle, you’re in. So it was that after a nine-hour drive, we arrived at the checkpoint. They took a few details, and we were waved through. Not a slither of unseemly grovelling passed my lips.
We drove through Pokrovsk’s pretty streets. They weren’t as deserted as we had imagined, but they were far from normal. Full-sized roadside billboards are blank except for a single word in bold red font: ‘EVACUATE.’
“Reassuring," said George.
“Aye”, said I, pretending not to understand the Cyrillic script.
As we approached the railway station, a police car, bullhorn blaring on a loop, drove up and down the street, urging everyone to evacuate immediately. There was no misunderstanding its meaning, so we promptly ignored it and parked at the railway station.
Expecting scenes of panic and distress on the platform were our immediate thoughts, but it was quite the opposite. Family groups stood calmly in tight circles, maintaining as much a sense of normalcy as possible. They chatted, held hands, and occasionally hugged. These were possibly the last moments they would ever spend together as a complete family, and they savoured every tiny, precious moment accordingly.
I find these the most difficult moments to photograph. There you are, saying possibly your last words to a loved one, when some stomping idiot from Liverpool in body armour with two huge cameras around his neck arrives and tries to ‘blend in.’
The British flag on my body armour helped break the ice, and I did little to dissuade them that I was not personally responsible for delivering long-range Storm Shadow missiles from the UK.
Moments of peace and reflection were occasionally shattered by artillery shells exploding nearby. However, these were quickly forgotten, and the families returned to their conversations.
An announcement on the tannoy for evacuees to board the train brought about an instant change. The brave faces slipped. Eyes reddened, and handkerchiefs dabbed at flowing tears. It’s excruciating to watch, even more so to photograph. This is the very moment a family breaks apart. There are simply no guarantees they will ever be together like this again. War is about to slash a jagged bleeding wound into the hearts of families, now openly sobbing as they bid their final farewells to their most loved ones. It’s brutal.
Imperceptibly, the train wheels start their first revolution; each turn is another tear in a breaking heart. Hands reach out to hands, separated by thick plate glass. The desire for one last moment, one last touch, is human instinct in its most raw and painful form.
Young men run alongside the train as it accelerates from the station. A final glance, a final meeting of the eyes as a loved one disappears into another life, another world. The run slows to a jog, to a walk, until the young man’s shoulders fall, and he stands waving helplessly at someone long out of sight.
Then it’s over. The ambulances leave the platform. The NGOs pack their trucks, and the newly broken-hearted leave the platform to start a new life, alone but for a heart full of bittersweet memories.
I was good hearing your voice as I read the text. Very heartbreaking.
The use of adverbs gave me a chuckle. A memorable part from Walter Cronkite's autobio was a professor challenging him to write a paper WITHOUT adjectives.
God to know you outlived your Honda. This is a good description of families separating. I’ve always found that slavs cry easily, with joy or with pain. But Ukrainians in particular. In these circumstances, this must be unbearable to see a loved one leave on a train.