Latest / Im Krisenmodus / Kyiv in the Fifth Year of War – The Heavily Pregnant Woman’s Song
Transcript
- Die Übersetzung von Jans Stimme vom Deutschen ins Englische wurde mit einer KI erstellt. Ich bin Katja, wir aus Kiew. Wir sind heute hier herbeige. Wir haben viele Eltern. Wir sind viele Eltern. Wir haben, viele Kinder. Wir, erhalten die Hilfe für Kinder. Das ist Katja. Katja ist 25 Jahre alt. Sie hat drei Kinder und ist in einem Backyard in Kyiv auf diesem Sonntag. Morgen. Sie sagte mir, sie kam hier zu bekommen, von den Deutschen. Dann sagte sie mir, sie ist ein Soldat. Und dann fing sie an. Hallo, ich bin Jan Jessen, war und crisis reporter für die Funker Mediengruppe. Ihr könnt meine Informationen in der NRZ, der WAZ, der Berliner Morgenpost, der Hamburger Abendblatt und natürlich auf unsere Funker Mediengruppe portals. Ich habe wieder in Ukraine reintreffen in den letzten paar Tagen, mostly in den Süden, in Kurson, aber auch in anderen Souten Regionen. Und dann kam wir zu Kyiv. Die Ukraine capital war in einem sehr tense state während den Tagen wir da waren. At first glance, everything looked completely normal. Life goes on in Kyiv. The shops are open. The restaurants are open. At first glance, you get the feeling that life is somehow completely normal, that the war has been forgotten. But then the air raid alarms keep going off. And during those specific days we were there, it was exceptionally tense because everyone expected a major Russian airstrike to be imminent. A few days earlier, the Ukrainians had launched their own attack on Moscow, Ich war in Kyiv, weil ich eine Aid-Mission wollte, eine Aid-Mission von Deutschland, die ich sehr gut kenne. Wir kommen zu das in einem Moment. Und natürlich habe ich mich auch gefragt, was das Aid bedeutet, wenn eine Krieg hat so lange gedreht, dass viele Menschen nicht zu sehen haben? Wenn die Willenstöne in Deutschland in Deutschland jetzt nicht mehr ist, I tried to find an answer, not somewhere on the front line, but on a Sunday morning in Kiev in the Troyeshainer district. Troyeshainer is a district in northeastern Kiev that feels relatively bleak. Lots of prefabricated panel buildings, multi-story high-rises, apartment blocks. The social structure is challenging. Many people are financially struggling. We were in a building that used to be an administrative office for the surrounding apartment blocks. On this day, 150 women had come here with their children to collect aid. Many of them had fled from other regions of Ukraine, especially from the east and northeast of the country. Others had always lived in Kiev. What unites them all? They have young children and are in desperate need of support. And waiting for them are two men from the Ruhr region. Even the night before we went to this distribution station, there was another air raid alarm. Nothing happened during the night. The next morning, another air raid alarm. You notice it, of course. When you look people in the eyes, you can see that the war has left its mark. The faces are tired, people look exhausted, but at the same time, there's a certain composure. When it started in February 2022 and in the months that followed, as soon as the air raid sirens went off, everyone went down to the basement. Now people are much more relaxed. There are apps where you can check what is flying in. Are they Shahhead drones, slow, long-range drones, or ballistic missiles? People base their decisions on this information. Do they go to the bomb shelter, the subway, the corridors of their apartments, or do they just wait it out? If ballistic missiles are coming, you have to seek shelter as quickly as possible. They travel very fast, and the damage they cause if they get through air defences is immense. With Shahed drones, it's more manageable. Of course, people die from them too, but people stopped reacting to them immediately a long time ago. The brutal reality of this war is also this. It's not just adults who are affected. The children are too. In kindergartens and schools, they have learned that as soon as the sirens go off, they head to the shelter. Mothers hardly sleep at night because they move into the corridors with every air-raid alarm. You can't get a full night's sleep. That's how it is now, in the fifth year of the war. The building we visited used to be an administrative office for the surrounding apartment blocks. Today, massive piles of boxes were stacked in this room, filled with diapers, baby food, children's clothes, toys, hygiene products, winter jackets and sleeping bags. All things that families with young children desperately need. It was a warm summer day in June. The first women were already waiting in the yard, and people stood patiently in line in the hallway. Many obviously knew each other. The children played together. Others clung to their mothers. When you walked in, and especially André, my photographer with his camera. It was confusing for some of the children, you could tell. And right in the middle of this room, which was so packed with boxes, stood a man with long hair, a thick beard, a baseball cap and shorts. That was Matthias Marun. Some NRZ readers might know him as a reporter. Today he's not here as a journalist. Today he is distributing aid. I've known Matthias for many years. For decades, he was a legendary reporter at the NRZ. Er hat. Sich immer wieder ein Rollmodell für mich als ein Young Reporter gesagt. You don't easily shake off 40 years of habit, but it's gratifying to suddenly realize I don't even need to take notes. Then again, that's exactly why I'm here. A remarkable sentence. You don't have to write anything down anymore. For 40 years, he was the one documenting stories. Now he's trying to help people. And Matthias has always been defined by the fact that his reporting was incredibly human. He always had a big heart for the people he wrote about. A lot of empathy. I think that's also the crucial reason why he decided to provide aid. I notice it in myself too. When you are on the ground, when you have the privilege to go out there, talk to people, meet individuals in the darkest moments of their lives. Du musst dich von Stein beitragen, nicht zu fühlen. Ich muss etwas tun, auch. Ich muss Menschen in Deutschland mobilisieren, die helfen. Er hat auch die Erfahrung, die Menschen in der Krieg sind, die für den ersten Mal in der Krieg sind. Er kann sie bedenken, stehen bei ihnen. Das war wahrscheinlich eine der Gründe, warum er das gemacht hat. Together mit seinem formeren Freund Wolfgang Kintzer, der vor vielen Jahren der Lokal-Editorial-Team in Essen, für viele Jahre. Er reintet sich in Kyiv und Rivner mehrere Mal ein Jahr. Es gibt die Essen-basierte aidorganisation Ukraine Wirkommen und die Hattingen-Association Hand in Hand mit der Ukraine. Die beiden arbeiten zusammen. Wolfgang Kintzer ist aktiv mit Ukraine Wirkommen und sie primarily headt sich in Rivner, Essen's Twin City. Together sie dann auch zu Kyiv fahren. Sie haben eine Van von der Lions Club, die sie mit aidkommenden. At the same time, they raise money so they can buy items locally. It all goes to families who desperately need the support. Not just internally displaced people, but also locals in Kiev who are struggling to get by. I asked Matthias why he keeps making the trip, and if there was one moment where he realized, this is what makes it all worth it. He didn't have to think about it for a second. Regarding the rewards of this work, one memory stands out vividly. On my first day, a young woman arrived with her daughter. Or rather, she was heavily pregnant. When I handed her a food package, she sang a song for me. That was a profound emotional peak. It was the moment I realized that what I am doing here is deeply meaningful. I never met this woman. I only know her through Matthias' memory. She was heavily pregnant, receiving a food package. And then she started to sing. It is not a grand gesture, not a lengthy speech of thanks, just a song. When he told me about it, I got goose bumps. I can imagine exactly what that moment was like. In that instant it became clear to him, what you do there on the ground truly helps. And that is exactly what I always realize whenever I am out in the field, speaking with people and recording their stories. For them it is incredibly important that you are simply there, that they feel they haven't been forgotten, that there are people who care about their stories. We also provided aid in Posad Pokrovsky between Kherson and Mikolaiv, Und es war einfach das gleiche, das Überwhelming Gratitude, das überwachsen Sie. Es ist tief, und ehrlich gesagt, ein bisschen humbling. Aber natürlich ist es ein Incentive zu gehen, zu gehen, zu gehen, zu gehen, zu schreiben, zu schreiben, zu schreiben, zu schreiben, die Menschen zu verlassen, zu geben. Das Morgen, rund 150 Frauen waren da mit ihren Kindern, mit ein paar husbands. Sie haben die Kinder in den Armen gebracht, die Strollers gehalten, und leden die Kinder bei der Hand. Many brought small gifts. There was a small box filled with drawings, sweets and other items. It was wonderful, of course. Outside in the courtyard stood Katia, whom you heard at the very beginning. She had her little daughter with her, a young woman, 25 years old, with three children, Kolja, six, Polina, the little one by her hand, four, and Vladik, just two years old. Her husband had volunteered for the military on the very first day of the Russian invasion. I asked her what life in Kiev feels like for her today, and then she cried. It was a moment where you don't immediately know how to react. Her little daughter looked up at her with wide eyes, not quite knowing how to handle the situation either. Seeing her mother cry was likely something she hadn't experienced very often. In any case, Katia then told me what her situation looks like right now. It's very hard. Rockets and drones are constant and you hear shelling everywhere. We barely sleep at night. Even in Kindergarten, the kids are constantly rushed to shelters, due to air raids. It's grueling. Katja says it is very difficult. Rockets and drones are constantly flying overhead, and shelling can be heard everywhere. They can barely sleep at night. Even in the kindergartens, the children have to repeatedly go down to the shelters due to air raid sirens. She says it is grueling and utterly exhausting. For the children, there is no everyday life without war. The oldest, Kolja, is just six. The war has now been going on for over four and a half years. Er weiß noch nicht mehr die Zeit ohne Krieg. Er weiß die Sirens, die Nights, wo niemand wirklich schlafen. Und jetzt, der nächsten Tag, es muss noch sein, Kindergarten, Schule, Leben. Das ist sogar mehr so für die zwei Kinder, die nicht mehr wissen, was diese Krieg. A kurze Zeit später, ich meet zwei andere Frauen, Freunde, die zusammenkommen, Natalia und Christina. Both sind für ihre Turnen. Und beide erzählen mir sehr unterschiedliche Geschichten. Natalia ist 26. Sie ist aus der Sumi region in nördlichen Ukraine, eine region die unter heavy Feuer zu diesem Tag. At der Anfang der Krieg, sie flog zu Kyiv mit ihrer Familie. Her home-village ist called Novomikolaivka, oder eher, es war das, weil das village noch nicht mehr gibt. Her grandmother und drei brothers waren auch verletzt zu fliegen. Today, sie leben in einer kommunal housing-facilie. I ask Natalia if she wants to go back one day. She answers immediately. My husband is here. He is serving somewhere nearby. I think we will just stay here. This is our life now. Not because she has forgotten her homeland, but because her life now takes place in Kiev. Her husband serves in the army. Die Kinder sind in Kyiv gegründet. Die Krieg hat sich in der Mitte der Leben gegründet, vielleicht für immer. Standing next to Natalia is Kristina, 39 years old. She and her husband have always lived in Kiev. Natalia and Kristina met in this neighborhood. They keep coming here together to receive support. Kristina's daughter, Milana, is 5 years old and has autism. Her son is 2 years and 7 months old. He had to undergo heart surgery immediately after birth. I ask Kristina what the war feels like in Kiev. Many people outside of Ukraine believe the capital is relatively safe. Looking at the images coming out of Kyiv, open restaurants, open cafes, people working in offices during the day, one might think so. But Kristina experiences it differently. When the invasion began, we first went to a village with the children. Just as we stepped out of the house, a rocket flew directly over us. I was so terrified. And for Milana, all of this is especially difficult. Sie ist startled bei jeder Siren und immediately points to the window. Now, my little son is afraid, too. It is incredibly hard with small children. Milana has learned what the Sirens mean. She knows that something could happen again at any moment. And Sasha, the little boy, is now growing up with that exact same fear. Milana is autistic, making her exceptionally sensitive. Even though a daily routine, »We get by somehow«, she says, a short sentence. She doesn't say any more than that. While the next families collect their packages, Natalia tells me something else I hadn't expected. She has been pregnant twice in the middle of this war. She seems relatively resilient, very energetic, not like Katya, who burst into tears. Natalia is composed. She shares the harrowing things she tells me in a very calm tone. Ich war sehr stark, mit meinem ersten Valentin, ihm jetzt 3.10 Uhr. Wir haben sehr stark, ich war in der Verkürzung. Das war nicht in der Verkürzung, sondern in der Fahrt. Das war die Fahrzeuge. Wenn die Russische Invasion begann, ich war mit meinem ersten Sonn. Heute ist er drei Jahre und zehn Monate alt. In der Zeit, Kyiv war unter heavy bombardment. Wir waren in einem Schilder, doch es war nicht wirklich ein Schilder, Just a parking garage. When the building was hit and the doors were blasted out, I was simply terrified. I cried, thinking, I just hope they don't kill me now. Aber ich habe auch noch ein zweites Kind. Ich habe noch einen Mann, mein Mann, der jetzt 8 Jahre alt. Wir leben in diesem Moment, wir leben in diesem Moment. War geht, aber wir müssen uns halten, halten uns für einen anderen und wir leben. Alles ist subservient zu dieser Krieg, including pregnancias, including births. I was astonished that Natalia shared this in such a calm tone. Kristina did as well for that matter. She too told me her story with a steady voice without crying. It was almost fatalistic. I found that remarkable as well. When I was in the hospital giving birth to my second son, the heavy bombings started again. I was terrified of going down to the shelter because it was so overcrowded. So we just ran out into the hallway instead. Shortly after he was born, my son had to undergo heart surgery due to an inflammation. We found ourselves back at the heart center, a second time. And during our stay, the intense bombardments resumed. My boy was in the intensive care unit, while I was alone in the regular ward. It was an incredibly harrowing experience. Perhaps this is her way of coping with these memories. You cannot forget it and you do not want to forget it. Both of them are traumatized and without a doubt the children are too. But telling the story in such a matter-of-fact way is, I believe, a coping mechanism to keep from completely losing one's mind. Listening to them this morning, the same words keep coming up, fear, sleep deprivation, sirens. And yet these women are standing here with their children. They collect their diapers, baby food and some clothing. Afterward, they head home Back to a daily life that is almost unimaginable in Germany, The distribution continues Box after box Package of diapers after package of diapers For the volunteers, it is routine For many of the families, it is not For this Sunday to happen at all It takes someone to organize everything, That woman is Maria Makimkoa She is energetic, vibrant and full of life Orange hair, manicured nails and deeply, deeply dedicated. She founded the organisation Serza Marigi, which translates to Heart of Mary. Shortly after the Russian invasion began in February 2022, she and her friends started helping out in destroyed villages. Later, they decided to focus their efforts on supporting mothers and young children. Many of the women arriving today are internally displaced persons, like Natalia, who fled a destroyed village in the Sumi region. Others live in Kiev, but have husbands fighting at the front. I asked Maria how she would describe the mood in the country after more than four years of war. Die Menschen, die hier stehen, sind stark. Sie nicht zu sein, zu beurteilen, zu despach. Sie stehen zusammen und unterstützen uns. Das ist das unsere Gesellschaft aufbaut. Wir bauen unsere Sürprizität jetzt. Matthias Marun has also experienced this sense of solidarity time and again over the past three years. However, he is also noticing that organizing the aid missions is becoming more difficult. I ask him whether the willingness to donate is declining in Germany. Yes, definitely. It has been especially extreme over the past year. Donor attention has shifted to conflicts in Gaza, Israel, Lebanon and Iran. Furthermore, the longer a war lasts, the more people think, what can you do? We can't help anyway. But that is nonsense. The people here are still facing the exact same problems. These are the exact problems facing Katia, Natalia, Kristina and all the other women I met this morning. Perhaps that is the hardest part. The war has lasted so long that, for many people outside of Ukraine, it has simply become background noise. Reports of bombings in Kyiv are now accepted almost as an inevitability. Some people are even annoyed that it is still being reported on. Naturally, this makes things difficult, especially for humanitarian aid workers like Matthias or Wolfgang Kinscher. For the people in Ukraine, the shelling has also become part of daily life. But it is something you can never truly get used to. You live with the air raid sirens every single night, every single day. You don't get any sleep. You have children who are terrified of the sirens. Husbands are dying at the front or returning mangled. You cannot just accept that. That is why there are always people like Katja who break down in tears when they share what they go through every day. Before Matthias drove on, they finished the distribution after about three hours and then set off for Rivna, Essen's twin city. He told me one more story that had deeply moved him. It happened in February of this year. At the time, the Russians were heavily bombing Ukraine's critical infrastructure, electricity, heating, water. It was bitterly cold. This had a massive impact on daily life for people in Kiev, especially those living in the high-rise apartment blocks, some of which have 20 or 25 stories. The pumps could only push water up to the second or third floor. Mats met a mother back then, who lived on the 23rd floor. Her story left a profound impression on him. One case deeply shook me. A mother of five, three of whom are autistic, described the unimaginable toll of constantly climbing those stairs. Her oldest son could help a little, but she still had to carry the other children, along with all their water and groceries. I honestly don't know how she coped. She wasn't here today. I had hoped she would come so I could check on how she's doing. He had hoped to see her again. That was all he really wanted, just to know how she was doing. But she didn't come that day. Afterward, the two of them loaded the last few boxes, packed the van, and set off for Rivna. There they visited several projects, including one at a hospital. They brought along equipment from the Gesellschaft für International Zusammenarbeit, GIZ, for a new rehabilitation ward at Hospital No. 2, a project that the initiative Ukraine We Are Common has been supporting for a long time. They also brought a piano and other musical instruments for a centre for children with disabilities und visited a facility for adults with disabilities. From there, it was straight back to Germany. These trips always last 4-5 days, incredibly intense journeys. From Essen to Rivna it is 1,600 km, with Kiev adding another 200 km on top. On top of that, crossing the border back and forth can take hours. Wolfgang told me they once had to wait 16 hours at the border. On this trip, it was 4 hours, Aber auch das ist, dass sie in der blisteren Sonnen, sind. Und sie werden immer wieder zurückgekehrt. Wolfgang sagte mir, dass manchmal man sich nach Hause denken, dass das letzte Mal für lange Zeit war. Aber in reality, sie finden sich auf der Straße wieder wieder, alle zwei, drei oder vier Monate zu helfen, die Menschen in Ukraine zu helfen. Was macht aid, wenn ein Krieg hat so lange, dass viele Menschen nicht mehr bringen sich zu sehen? Ich finde, ich habe einen Antwort auf das Sunday. morning. Sometimes aid looks remarkably simple. A package of diapers, baby food, a stuffed animal, a few warm blankets, or simply the knowledge that someone made a long journey from Germany. The most important thing is the message, you are not forgotten. There are people in Germany who, even after four and a half years of war, have not lost sight of the fate of the Ukrainian people. I noticed this during the encounters on the ground as well, this fear of being forgotten, und der siehe Freude, dass jemand immer noch interessiert über ihre Platt. I think back to Matthias' story about the heavily pregnant woman. Upon receiving a food package, she began to sing. No grand thank you. No long speeches. Just a song. I think I finally understand why Matthias Maroon has never forgotten that song to this day. It doesn't change the front lines, but it shows a human being. You are not forgotten. And sometimes, that is exactly what help is. That concludes today's episode of our podcast In Crisis Mode, This podcast was produced by Alexander Baumeister who is also a journalist working for a radio station of the Funker Media Group If this episode resonated with you please like and follow us It truly helps make our work more visible, If you know people whose stories belong on this podcast please write to me at christenmodus at funkamedian.d Take care of yourselves See you soon Bye for now, Ein Podcast von Funke.