Bucha. A story from Ukraine

By Alberto Barbieri, physician, psychotherapist and general coordinator of Medu

We cross the Siret border between Romania and Ukraine with MEDU’s mobile clinic. Our team consists of doctors, psychologists and interpreters. We are on our way to the Ukrainian city of Černivci, 40 km further north, once called Little Vienna because of its Austro-Hungarian past, where Romanian, Ukrainian, Jewish, and German cultures intertwined over the centuries. Today this city of 300,000 hosts at least 150,000 displaced persons from war zones in the east and south of the country. Across the border we immediately come across an endless procession of trucks and lorries stopped for days waiting to enter Romania, in the opposite direction. The sense of precarious waiting, the gloomy sky, and the subtle rain heighten the sense of a dystopian scenario.

We finally reach the central area of the city, in a large courtyard surrounded by administrative buildings where local authorities have set up a gathering point for displaced people.

Different services are provided here, from bureaucratic ones to food, basic necessities and first-aid kits distribution. The square is packed to capacity, but a sense of composure, of measure prevails over everything, from the tone of voice to the gestures of the people, especially women, the elderly and children. An impromptu choir sings poignant Ukrainian songs as the many people seem to hear but not listen; as if this were a normal day in a normal place. After all, here in the city they had to build a sense of normalcy out of the most unlikely of situations; the air raid alarm sounds every other day but most people pay no attention to it anymore.

Outside our mobile clinic, a large huddle of patients quickly gathers; mostly elderly men and women with chronic conditions or mothers with children. For counseling, we equip a rather spartan interview space right in the middle of the courtyard, in a small garden protected by large plantains. On the stump of one of them is posted a sheet of paper with an inscription in Ukrainian: psychological interviews, treatment for insomnia. At first, no one seems to want to approach, and we just stand and watch the industrious hustle and bustle around us and, from a distance, the incessant getting on and off of patients from our mobile clinic.

Then suddenly something changes. Around our improvised clinic no crowd begins to form, but the stool designated for the interview is never left empty. As if people do not want to show themselves in line waiting to talk to a psychologist, perhaps afraid to confess a vulnerability that could be mistaken for surrender. As if people glimpse from afar the right moment to sit on that stool that has just been vacated by another occupant. Donekst, Nikolaiev, Odessa, Kharkiv, Kherson, Kiev, Donbass, Bucha…the places where people come from draw the map of war. Many sit down to ask for some medicine to help them sleep again, perhaps a more acceptable request for their inner judge than asking for psychological help. For others, just sitting on the stool has a deflagrating effect, as if this small, protected space is a safe place where apparent normalcy dissolves to finally let erupt all at once the emotions somehow suppressed for days or weeks, from fleeing their homes, often from the loss of loved ones. Here one can mourn.

Olga is a young woman; I spotted her a few minutes earlier in the close proximity of our space. She appeared to me the perfect example of resilience. Confident, strong as she talked to some older women whom she seemed to be comforting. When she sits down on the stool in front of us, a too-thin veil suddenly seems to rip open. It’s all too fast. In a few moments Olga takes us to the horror of Bucha, the havoc of death. Distress streams down her face along with tears, and anguish, as in a mirror, catches those who should care, support, mitigated only by the dullness of those who have never lived through similar experiences, of those who cling only to the inability to think that this is real as their only lifeline. As the minutes pass, we try to reorganize emotional defenses; we seek handholds in the techniques we know, organize a strategy to stabilize the most disabling symptoms that encircle Olga.

More interviews will be needed, pharmacological help will be essential, time now is not enough to get everything out. Meanwhile after a bit of sunshine the clouds have returned, it looks like it will rain, thunder is heard that seems to bring us back to the here and now. It is only appearance though. What is thunder? And how does it resemble a bomb blast? Can we imagine how a familiar weather event can evoke images and smells of terror and death? By my side, our talented interpreter, a refugee herself, is caught in moments of anguish that grows with the maddening rhythm of thunder. We breathe deeply to restore some calm.

Photo by Antonio Zardini