Yellow in Ukraine

October sirens and memories

---

BREAKING: My interview with volunteers at the Dnipro community help point was broadcast on Sunday, 30 October on Eric Bond’s Talk of Takoma show on Takoma Radio. Archival streaming is here.

---

25 OCT: It’s difficult to look away from the beautiful scenery passing by the train window. I’m en route from Kyiv to Dnipro, Ukraine this morning, leaving Kyiv at dawn. In Ukrainian October, Жовтень (Zhovten) means “yellow.”

And just as with November (Листопад - Listopad), which means “leaves fall,” the name describes the month exactly. There is no question that this is the yellow month. 

It is not like the red, orange and yellow vista I left behind in New Hampshire at peak leaf season a week ago. Ukraine’s leaf season has a different effect. Golden light reflects off the foliage, tinting all of outdoors and any windowed interiors. Fallen leaves, turning bronze, dot the plazas, parks and neighborhoods. Children gather leaves by the fistful, then throw them overhead to flutter back down around them, scenes captured by doting filmographer-parents. 

The vigilant broom-wielding cleanup crews sweep the leaves up. Rakes? Leafblowers? What for?

I had a pleasant and emotional day of arrival in Kyiv, 15 October. The weather was warmer and autumn not as far advanced as it had been in New Hampshire. I was traveling with my good friend Natallii, who has been living as a refugee in Germany. We met in Krakow, Poland and took the train to Kyv together. 

I was fortunate to have a native-speaker with me. My Ukrainian is still fairly basic. Announcements and directions at border crossings and train stations are beyond my ability. 

In Kyiv Natalii was greeted by her boyfriend Denis, and I by my student Akim. He was the first recipient of first-aid materials stuffed into my backpack in the US. He made a generous donation to cover the cost of his kit and more. He also treated me to the first decent espresso drink I’ve had since I left Ukraine eight long months ago on the brink of Russia’s attack.

It was October 2017 when I first visited Ukraine, and had one of the most romantic - in the sense of an ideal experience - afternoon  of my life¹ strolling with a good friend along the Dnipro River on a path lined with birch trees, past a river beach on an island, through parks, over bridges, and culminating in a small cafe near a (ridiculously artificial) waterfall - all tinged with gold light. It wasn’t even a sunny day,  yet I was content, a rare feeling at the time.

That visit was when I determined that, yes, I wanted to move to Ukraine to live and work.

Two years later it was again October when I stepped off the plane to do exactly that. Again, I stepped into Zhoften’s golden light.

Kyiv’s air-raid sirens are in stereo. They sound outside my apartment and from my pocket. I have an air-warning app installed on my phone. Warnings have been going off daily, sometimes twice- or thrice-daily, since I got here. The second day, 17 October, was the worst, Just before daylight the sirens wailed, then I could hear explosions as well as sirens. And, oddly, like something from The London Blitz, I heard machine gun fire

Revisiting Ukraine seemed reasonable a couple of months ago when I was making travel arrangements.  And, though there was a concentrated attack on Kyiv 10 October, it seemed like a one-off event. Also, by that time, my plan was woven with tasks and obligations to other people. I was to meet Natalii in Poland, and we were to travel together. I was bringing in first aid kits and materials for a couple of local volunteer groups. It was time to get my residency permit renewed, which can only be done in person. I wanted to see my friends, and deal with my apartment. 

The new dangers in Kyiv are due to Ukraine’s success. Since I started my travel plans, Ukraine began an offensive that collapsed the Russian front, exposing it to be flimsy, the Russian troops fleeing before the Ukrainians, leaving tons of heavy material behind that the Ukrainians promptly commandeered to turn on the invaders.

Dictator Putin announced a “mobilization” - a military conscription - to feed the meat-grinder he calls a “special military operation.” Russian men of conscription age fled the country in droves. The men who haven’t fled started arriving on the battle front immediately with no training and in some cases, with no weapons.

Putin appointed a new military commander Sergei Surovikin to conduct the Ukraine “special operation.” Two days before my flight to Europe Surovikin stepped up the bombardment missile campaign in Ukraine, widening it to include Kyiv and other major cities to the west, apparently an attempt to demoralize civilians and to take out gas and electricity infrastructure.  There were no military sites targeted in Kyiv, however. 

To be here yet again in October, but now in wartime, knowing that the tide of Russian brutality and destruction had crested just a few miles over thataway - stabbed me with sorrow for all that was lost and fear for all that was almost lost or could yet be lost. I felt pride in Ukrainians, too, of course, and a strong desire to DO something helpful. I’m glad I brought those first aid kits.

I was “lucky” enough to be present for the historic first kamikaze drone attack on Kyiv. The drones, made in Iran, are inexpensive weapons. They can be programmed to hit a certain coordinate, but cannot be communicated with once they are launched. They travel slowly and are loud. The sound has been likened to a moped or lawnmower. I can’t say I heard the drones. If I did, I didn’t realize that’s what I was hearing. 

Apparently, they hover, then dive onto their targets. The military calls them “loitering munitions.”  The slow speed and  hovering makes them susceptible to small-arms fire. In videos of the incident soldiers and police officer can be seen blasting away at one of these drones as it swoops by just above the rooftops. This automatic gunfire is what I heard.

Shortly after it was revealed that these drones can be shot down with small-arms fire, the government issued a plea to civilians to please leave the task to trained members of the military services.

Now, a few days later, I take the train to Dnipro to meet good friends and hand over a few first aid supplies. I’ll write about distributing those supplies, how to send aid to Ukraine, and what sort of aid to send, next time.

I AM making progress on my graphic stories, which I vowed to post here. Here’s a sampler: some finished panels and a large panel yet to be colored.

1. My companion that day, who neglected to bring a hat, does not share my ideal remembrance, but recalls it as a cold, wet day resulting in a head-cold.