The road to Kyiv is long – but lined with fruit trees and fearless resolve
Going to Ukraine to see family is a constant fixture of the holiday season. Some things are always the same: the trees that line the streets of Bucha, the Kyiv suburb where my family live, are heavy with mulberries, peaches, plums and pears by the time we arrive; while people’s gardens are ripe with corn, cucumbers and tomatoes, ready for picking and mixing into salads. The first stop on the itinerary is a trip to our favourite lake. To get there, we set off on foot, following the same route across the field, through a forest and over a train track before stopping off at the village shop for ice cream and kvass. Then we wade through a ford and set up camp on a small island. Whole days here are easily idled away, dozing under the poplars and taking refreshing dips.
But some things have changed. What used to be a few hours in the air from London to Kyiv has become a journey of more than 26 hours that involves flying to Poland, making our way to the border and then rattling across the Ukrainian countryside via rail. This year, we switched on our Telegram notifications to keep track of Russian drones and missiles. When our suburb came under fire, we counted the drones in the night sky as the all-female air-defence unit (the Witches of Bucha) shot them down. Known as “Shaheds” after the Iranian company that designs and produces them, the drones targeted us in continuous waves of threes and fours. Sheltered in the basement, we read updates on their heinous progress as they crisscrossed high above. First came the drones’ lawnmower-like whine, then the spurts of gunfire as the Witches took them out. As each fell to the earth, it was comforting to know how many were still flying around. An hour or so into the attack, there were five left. Then three. Then one. Then none. We dragged ourselves from cover but the Witches, many of them volunteers with day jobs, remained on guard for the rest of the night.
Relationships are different too. My uncle, who introduced me to so much of Europe – from Poland’s medieval architecture to sailing around Menorca – hasn’t been able to leave the country in more than three years. His army job keeps him busy six days a week and there is little leeway. On my last night in Kyiv, he took me out for a dinner of dumplings and mangal at a central Crimean Tatar restaurant. Afterwards, we drove on to the station and I boarded the overnight train to Warsaw.
My family gathered on the platform as the sun set over the capital, and as the train began its departure my uncle jogged alongside as far as he could. I turned one thought over in my mind continuously that night: when and where would I see him again?
Julia Jenne is a Monocle writer and researcher. For more opinion, analysis and insight, subscribe to Monocle today.
