Ukraine Encounters: A Journey Through Borders and Souls
My journey to Ukraine began on a quiet August morning, filled with anticipation, second thoughts, and logistical challenges.
It was Monday, August 19, 2024, when the long-awaited moment finally arrived, my journey to Ukraine to meet Vudi Xhymshiti. This decision had been in the works for weeks, weighed down by second thoughts and the logistics of the trip. As the end of July approached, I had explored every possible route to reach Vudi: car, plane, train. In the end, the train seemed the most practical. I booked tickets to Berlin and Warsaw, preparing myself for a journey into the unknown.
Before the departure, I spent the weekend with my wife and daughter in Borger, Drenthe. We attended Boerenrock, a festival celebrating the lives of farmers and country folk. It was a cheerful day, filled with laughter, music, and the earthy spirit of the people around us. Yet, as the day came to a close, a fistfight erupted in the crowd, a somewhat chaotic end to an otherwise joyful outing. Back at the holiday park, we settled down for a final family barbecue, savouring the moments before my departure.
The next morning, at 7:00 a.m., I set off with my close Dutch friend R., who drove me to the Zwolle train station under a steel-blue sky. As we approached the station, his voice carried the weight of concern. "Be careful over there," he warned. "You never know what might happen. They could lock you up at the border without reason." I appreciated his concern, offering a reassuring reply: "You know, I’m always careful. Thank you for thinking of my safety." With that, we hugged, and I headed toward the station to catch my first train to Hengelo.
The journey began on the Blauwnet train, a quiet ride that gave me time to reflect. Arriving in Hengelo ahead of schedule, I noticed that no train to Berlin was listed on the board. A cigarette seemed like a good idea, and as I lit one, a young man in his early twenties approached me, asking for one as well. Our conversation was spontaneous, sparked by the shared moment. He told me he had just come from his girlfriend’s place, where he had spent the night.
"Do you like her?" I asked. "Yes," he said earnestly, "I hope it works out." He returned the question, wondering what I was up to. "I’m headed to Berlin," I explained, but added that I hadn’t seen a train listed yet. Without hesitation, he checked the schedule and pointed it out. "It’s up there now," he said. I thanked him, said goodbye, and prepared for the next leg of my journey.
The train to Berlin arrived on time, pulling into platform five. I found my seat in the first-class compartment, though it was far from luxurious. Squeezing into my seat was a challenge, the wide table in the middle leaving little room to manoeuvre. Next to me, a man was trying to sleep, leaving no room for a friendly "good morning." The other passengers, engrossed in their tablets and phones, gave only vague nods of acknowledgment. I resigned myself to a solitary, quiet journey, far removed from the chatter often promised in train commercials.
It didn’t take long to realise that my fellow passengers were a family, parents and their two adult daughters. Eventually, a few words escaped from the father, revealing that they had travelled from Verona and were headed to Berlin for a family trip. Yet, the conversation was brief, and the silence soon returned.
Feeling restless, I walked the length of the train, too tired to read and too uninterested to immerse myself in my phone. Soon, we arrived at Berlin Central Station, a stunning, overwhelming structure of glass, steel, and movement. The flashing screens, advertisements, and throngs of hurried people surrounded me as I made my way to the exit. A neglected-looking young man approached me for a cigarette, speaking English with a German accent. Despite answering him in German, he continued in English, a humorous twist on an otherwise routine encounter. Moments later, a homeless man selling a joint edition of the Amsterdam and Berlin street newspapers caught my attention. His story was a familiar one: he had fled Syria and was now struggling in Germany as a refugee, homeless and adrift. His pain was palpable, but words seemed unnecessary. We parted ways silently, each retreating into our own world
After a quick meal and a cash withdrawal, I headed back to the train platform, ready for the next part of the journey. Four passengers were already seated in my compartment, nodding in acknowledgment as I joined them. The only interaction came from a woman who politely asked me to lift her suitcase onto the rack. Once again, everyone was absorbed in their phones, no conversation, no connection.
Opposite me sat a young woman dressed in an expensive suit, her legs crossed and her luggage equally luxurious. She spoke only in Russian, texting and making calls the entire trip. She barely ate or drank, only sipping from a tiny bottle of orange juice. The rest of my fellow travellers followed her lead, silent and detached.
Deciding I needed a change of scenery, I wandered to the dining car, an old but functional space. The staff spoke only Polish, but with the help of some improvised sign language, I managed to order a beer. It was a welcome break, the drink tasting like nectar after the stillness of the journey.
The Polish conductor had an unforgettable appearance, white hair swept back into a crest, a too-tight jacket, pants too short, and shoes paired with low white socks. At one of the transit stations, I noticed him step out of the train and allow a Roma family, five adults and three children, to hitchhike between stops without tickets. It was a small act of kindness, one that touched me deeply.
The train finally pulled into Warsaw Central, where I stepped out for a cigarette. An older man with plastic bags approached, asking for a smoke in fluent English. His name was Michael, and it didn’t take long for me to realise he was well-educated. He offered to help me find an affordable hotel, and as the rain poured down, we took a tram together. He helped me buy a ticket, laughing that he travelled for free.
At the hotel, Michael inquired about the price, and I decided to take the room. We headed to a nearby bar, where his plastic bags travelled with him. Over a couple of beers, Michael shared his story, he had lost everything and had been homeless ever since. "How do you cope with life on the streets?" I asked. His response was incomplete, fragmented. "It’s complicated," he said. "I have a problem with alcohol, not drugs. I live day by day, trying to manage." His physical condition mirrored his emotional state; he visited the bathroom four times in an hour. I thought to myself, Tomorrow, I’ll advise him to see a doctor.
As the bar closed, we exchanged phone numbers, though his phone wasn’t working, out of charge, out of credit. He gave me a handshake, thanking me for treating him like a "normal person." I handed him fifteen euros, knowing he needed it for food. As he left, I climbed into bed, utterly exhausted, hoping for sleep to come swiftly.
This was just the beginning of a journey that would take me deeper into unknown lands, into the heart of Ukraine and into the stories of the people I would meet along the way.
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This piece was also edited by my friend and brilliant journalist, Vudi Xhymshiti.
COVER Photo: An ordinary evening in Kyiv, where life carries on amidst the backdrop of conflict. The resilience of the people is evident in every corner of the city. (Photo © Borderlines, Fried Didden)