Silent Witnesses of War
April 29th – Kryvyi Rih
As my bus pulled away from Dnipro, we passed a concrete plant where the main product appeared to be “dragon’s teeth” – concrete triangular blocks designed to halt advancing tanks. Just when a pleasant outing might momentarily allow you to forget there’s a war raging, you encounter another military checkpoint, complete with bunkers and trenches dug into surrounding fields, Czech hedgehogs scattered through some poor farmer’s wheat.
The landscape itself bears witness to Ukraine’s reality – a country simultaneously trying to live and prepare for death. These silent sentinels of concrete and metal reminded me that normality here is merely a thin veneer over a nation in existential struggle.
I disembarked from the bus in Kryvyi Rih to find Iryna waiting for me, wearing her “JOY” t-shirt and a smile that genuinely shone like the sun. Seeing her again brought an immediate lift to my spirit. She possesses a rare quality – someone whose inner light remains undiminished despite the darkness surrounding her.
She drove me to her apartment where I would be staying. The last time I sat in her kitchen was with Andriy, who translated for us (you can read about him in earlier posts) and who has since gone to war, suffered terrible injuries, and lost a brother. I vividly remember sitting in this very kitchen as he explained that the sounds we were hearing were Shahed drones being shot down overhead while air raid sirens wailed.
Now, Iryna speaks a little English, and I know a small amount of Ukrainian. Between that and Google Translate, we managed to have surprisingly deep, meaningful conversations that felt precious in their authenticity. Language barriers fell away as we connected on a human level about things that truly matter.
We met with Pastor Oleg, his wife, and military chaplain Sveta. Reconnecting with them brought joy as they shared updates about the villages I had visited previously. Things were gradually improving – rebuilding efforts were underway, people were becoming involved in the village church that had been established, and this dedicated team continued serving the communities.
Iryna’s work with children and teenagers in the four Kherson-area villages has flourished. The number of children has grown substantially, not only from residents returning home but also from families who have fled occupied or destroyed villages seeking relative ‘safety.’ They’ve established a kindergarten, though they still need more equipment. Each week, they visit these communities to conduct children’s programs and educational activities, with special attention given to teenagers. They have three summer camps planned for hundreds of kids across different sites.
Yet behind this inspiring work lurks a sobering reality. Iryna is increasingly stressed about how to plan these activities while minimising risks. This region has come under escalating targeted FPV drone attacks – what locals grimly call “human safari.” ( read more about this HERE) Her deep concern about a group of children potentially being targeted weighs heavily as she contemplates how best to manage this unthinkable risk, if at all.
Olga, a volunteer with the church and an English teacher, joined us for lunch and kindly translated. As she showed me her Instagram to connect, we realised I had already been following her – one of those small coincidences that somehow feels significant in a world where connections matter more than ever.
Behind Every Smile, A Story
April 30th
The next morning, Iryna took me to a women’s breakfast she organises for ladies from her church. I recognised many of these wonderful women from the camp in July 2023. They seemed surprised that I remembered them, perhaps unaccustomed to being truly seen in a world that often turns away from Ukraine’s ongoing trauma.
Standard conversation in Ukraine now follows a pattern: casual mention of where the drone hit the building just down the road, followed by personal impacts. Iryna confided that every time she hears a loud bang or something resembling a Shahed drone, her pulse quickens and stress overwhelms her. Like many Ukrainians, she was profoundly affected by a recent missile strike that hit a playground in an apartment complex, killing many children.
I’ve noticed even more on this visit how deceiving appearances can be. Ukrainians are incredibly stoic and determined to maintain some semblance of normality. At times, you might almost forget there’s a war raging. But scratch just beneath the surface, and all the trauma and stress emerges – war is omnipresent in their lives, even when invisible to casual observers.
Looking at these women gathered for breakfast, an outsider might think, “Life seems normal in Ukraine.” They do a round-table sharing of something they’re thankful for – a beautiful practice of gratitude amid devastation. One woman expressed gratitude for seeing her husband for a single day; he’s at the front and received one day’s leave to meet her. During our gathering, two women received video calls from their husbands in army uniforms. One held a baby on her lap who babbled “tato” (daddy) upon seeing his father on the screen – a father heading back to war.
Iryna, sitting beside me, has a brother fighting at the front. Her parents live in Sumy, perilously close to the frontline, under constant rocket shelling. “This is our land,” they insist, refusing to relocate. It causes her endless stress that they won’t even seek shelter in the cellar during active shelling.
Most women at this table travel hours weekly to help villages destroyed by Russian bombs, providing support to traumatised families. As we sat there, soldiers came and went from the café – some likely to die before year’s end, leaving children fatherless and wives widowed. I wondered how many of these women managed to sleep through the night despite several air raid sirens that had sounded. Yet if I posted these cheerful breakfast photos on social media, people would inevitably claim they prove Ukraine isn’t suffering.
After packing up, Iryna took me to the train station. I had a small language mishap where I told her my train place was “forty” not “four” (mixing up my Ukrainian numbers). This sent her into distress about how uncomfortable my journey would be, and she frantically tried to sort out my ticket. Eventually, she looked at my ticket and realised I actually had a comfortable cabin, not the open-seating carriage she feared would make my 18-hour journey unbearable.
While waiting with coffee, we watched soldiers coming and going – saying goodbyes, packing equipment into pickups, likely heading to places from which they might never return. Iryna showed me video her brother had sent from the frontlines: a KAB bomb exploding near their dugout, setting everything ablaze. After witnessing that horror, she asked an NGO to help provide fire extinguishers for her brother’s unit. The everyday realities of this war continue to shock me, even as Ukrainians discuss them matter-of-factly.
As my train departed, I settled in for the journey, grateful for time to enjoy the countryside and catch up on work and sleep while processing everything I’d witnessed.
Return to Lviv
May 1st
I arrived in Lviv around 4:30 AM and made my way out of the train station. The combination of darkness, checking my phone, and extremely uneven pavements nearly sent me sprawling. Thankfully, I caught myself before injury ensued – only my dignity suffered mild damage. I stopped for coffee, figuring it would be more considerate to arrive at the apartment around 5:00 rather than 4:30, only to receive a call from Regina asking my whereabouts because she was already awake waiting for me!
After a shower and a couple hours’ sleep, I enjoyed a beautiful breakfast Khrystyna had prepared. Then it was off to a leadership meeting with CMA to debrief about the month’s activities and plan for the future. Following lunch, we headed to the warehouse for a meeting with the mobile clinic team to gather feedback and develop plans. All in all, a productive day with an energetic, bright, and open-minded young team whose dedication continues to inspire me.
Brief Respite
May 2nd
I finally had my first half-day to myself after weeks of intense work. I walked into town, savoured a nice coffee at a café, and did a quick bit of shopping – small pleasures that felt luxurious after the emotional intensity of recent weeks.
Later, I met with Khrystyna and Yuri to record a video interview and one of my lectures, as they’d received numerous requests from students unable to attend in person. The hunger for medical knowledge despite wartime conditions speaks volumes about Ukrainian determination to build for the future even as the present remains under attack.
That evening, Regina surprised me by booking an art session for a relaxing evening – a thoughtful gesture that allowed creative expression to process all I’d witnessed. As we painted together, creating something beautiful amid a landscape of destruction felt like its own small act of defiance.
Training Future Lifesavers
May 3rd
Dawn arrived and the Save A Life team picked me up for their tactical medicine and first aid training session. Today’s participants weren’t medical professionals but ordinary citizens—soon-to-be soldiers preparing for deployment to the frontlines in just two weeks. A hollowness filled my chest as I observed this diverse assembly of kind faces, young and old alike, knowing where they would soon be applying these critical skills.
Among the trainers was a cardiologist whose life had taken an unexpected turn. En route to an interventional cardiology course, he was intercepted by the mobilisation team and conscripted into military service. Despite his medical expertise, he had initially been destined for infantry deployment but managed to secure officer training that would allow him to utilise his medical skills in the military. Now, alongside other volunteers, he dedicates himself to providing this tactical medical training to civilians thrust into combat roles.
The training team included Alyna from CMA serving as manager and instructor, alongside Tania whom I’d met earlier in my trip to Lviv. A neonatologist named Dima had generously volunteered as my translator for the day. Alyna had specifically requested my feedback on their training methods from an Australian medical educator’s perspective, positioning me as an observer rather than a participant.
The atmosphere was understandably solemn as everyone present contemplated the harsh reality of where these skills would soon be tested. Yet even in this setting, humanity’s irrepressible spirit surfaced unexpectedly. During a scenario where trainees were instructed to assess an “unconscious” buddy’s responsiveness by asking a question (typically something like “Andriy, can you hear me?”), one of the many heavy smokers in the group leaned over his “patient” and asked with complete seriousness: “Do you have Marlboro cigarettes?” The moment of levity rippled through the room, a brief respite from the weight of their imminent future.
The training facility itself revealed much about the conditions these citizen-soldiers would soon face. They slept in basic camp accommodations, and lunch—which we shared together—consisted of simple fare served in personal mess kits that each person brought along. The stark utilitarian environment stood in stark contrast to the sophisticated medical training facilities I was accustomed to back home, yet the quality of instruction and seriousness of purpose were no less impressive.
As I observed each demonstration and practice session, I found myself cataloguing feedback while simultaneously processing the profound emotional weight of what I was witnessing—civilians from all walks of life preparing for the unimaginable. My professional assessment of teaching methodologies couldn’t be separated from the human reality before me: a cardiologist who should be saving hearts in a hospital was instead teaching tourniquet application to shopkeepers and students who should never have to use such knowledge.
Looking into their focused faces, I saw determination overlaying fear, courage wrestling with uncertainty. These weren’t soldiers by choice or profession—they were Ukraine’s citizens answering an existential call. The training wasn’t theoretical; for them, it represented the thin line between life and death, not just for themselves but for their comrades who would soon depend on them in moments of crisis.
As the day concluded and I shared my observations with Alyna, I struggled to maintain professional detachment. How do you clinically evaluate training methods when you know the stakes are so desperately high? My feedback focused on technical aspects—communication techniques, skill reinforcement, retention strategies—but privately, I carried the weight of fifteen faces I might never see again, whose lives might depend on what they learned today.
Faith, Farewells, and the Long Journey Home
4–6 May
On my last Sunday in Ukraine, Regina invited me to her church—a gesture that led to one of the most touching experiences of the trip. Without telling me, she had arranged for the congregation to prepare for my visit. Song lyrics were translated into English, a translator stood ready to interpret the service, and each hymn included one verse sung in English. I was moved beyond words. In return, I honoured their effort by stumbling my way through the rest of the service in Ukrainian, to the quiet amusement and graciousness of those around me.
The sermon was profound, and I was grateful for warm conversations afterwards with English-speaking congregants. Among them was Milana from the Christian Medical Association, who shared with me the haunting story of her four-year-old son. Since a missile had struck near their home, he has lived in constant fear of air raid sirens. She also mentioned an Australian, Teresa—who turned out to be someone I knew—who had come with her cousin to donate ultrasound machines. Milana was overjoyed that her department had received one.
Later that day, we gathered at Rudi’s for a team dinner. As always, Anita outdid herself with the catering. We had planned to meet Dima and the girls for coffee, but fatigue got the better of us. I still had to pack, and the day’s emotions were already overflowing. Rudi, with his characteristic generosity, presented me with parting gifts that I will treasure.
The next morning, I boarded the train to the Polish border with a full heart. While I was ready to return home, I also knew I would miss this place and these people. There’s a sense of purpose now—a roadmap for how we can help more effectively from afar.
The train ride was no less dramatic than the rest of my trip. My only option was a top bunk in a carriage full of sleeping passengers. The train, coming from Kharkiv, was tense and hushed. Climbing awkwardly into my bunk without stepping on anyone was a feat of graceless acrobatics. Near the border, the train came to a halt. Doors locked, toilets sealed, and soldiers boarded with torches to check passports and search for stowaways. An hour and a half later, we were on our way again.
At the Polish checkpoint in Przemyśl, I braced for a long wait but was through in under half an hour. That left me time to explore the quaint town. Outside customs, I spotted a man in an Aussie shirt. “Great shirt, mate!” I called out. His head whipped around: “You’re from Oz too!?” He was an ambulance officer from Western Australia, now on his third tour helping with evacuations. He’d even been injured by a drone. We discovered we knew someone in common. His bravery and sacrifice made me feel proud to be Australian.
From there, I caught a train to Warsaw. My bag, stuffed with books and medical gear, felt heavier with each step. Unfortunately, Warsaw’s lack of escalators didn’t help, and with the hotel walkway closed, I found myself lugging everything up and down stairs and across a highway. By the time I reached my bed, it felt like a reward earned.
The flight home on 6 May brought mixed emotions. I was grateful to touch down in Brisbane—even if my quest for a budget hotel saw me land the only one in town with four flights and no lift! Finally, almost home. And now, some serious work to be done!
This concludes Part Five of my Medical Mission to Ukraine series. Through these stories of resilience and tragedy, I hope to bring awareness to the ongoing humanitarian needs in this war-torn region. Join me in supporting the Ukrainian people as they face unimaginable challenges with dignity and courage.
Your support—whether financial, practical, or spiritual—will be more critical than ever as we forge ahead with sustainable projects to help Ukrainians. Please consider how you can help.
