It’s early morning when Aleksandr—known as Sacha to friends—prepares his coffee. Sacha is a volunteer at Hell’s Kitchen, in Kharkiv; this volunteers’ kitchen prepares meals for both civilian and military hospitals in the city. Today, Sacha oversees deliveries.
Yourii* is a drone operator. At the bar, he talks about his deployments. « When a bomb explodes too far away, it disappoints me. I prefer when they explode close, » he comments. For Varvara, a psychology student, the addiction to adrenaline is just one of the psychological consequences of the war in Ukraine.
In Ukraine, the world of volunteers attracts all kinds of motivations. For some, evacuating civilians from the front lines under the threat of FPV drones is a vocation guided by divine Providence.
« Here, you sleep when you can, eat when you can, and shit when you can. » This crude adage is the reality for the volunteers at the base. These medics, war first responders, live in a constant state of alert, in a long alternation between intervention and rest.
For civilians near the front lines, mutual aid has become indispensable; humanitarian deliveries from local NGOs help alleviate the burden of war. It is in this context that the synergy between foreign and local volunteers finds its full expression.
It is a long, piercing wail that awakens in the middle of the night. Sharp and crescendoing, like the sound of an airplane stalling. The noise persists and draws closer before giving way to a loud explosion. It is 3 a.m. in Kharkiv. Moscow’s retaliation for the June 1st attack has begun.
It is a resounding coup. After 18 months of preparations, the SBU, the Ukrainian intelligence service, strikes hard and strong throughout the rear of the Russian country. One day before new talks in Istanbul, the Ukrainians neutralize part of the strategic bombers of the Russian Federation.
In Kharkiv, resilience is the watchword. Daily life must be adapted, and every opportunity to live and smile must be seized. In a hospital in the country’s second-largest city, Easter celebrations become a bulwark that prevents the war from stopping life.
At man’s height, between the lines — Little Frenchy