Easter Monday and Beyond
April 21st
Dr Chris headed off with his ride to Poland early in the morning. After such an intense week of clinics, I decided to take a rest day to catch up on work and planning. But around 10 AM, my body had other ideas as I was hit with vomiting and diarrhoea—not exactly the peaceful recovery day I’d envisioned.
In the background, news about Putin’s so-called “Easter ceasefire” continued to filter through. Despite his grand announcement, nearly 3,000 attacks, shellings, and drone strikes had occurred in the previous 24 hours. There hadn’t been any long-range missile or drone attacks during the nominal ceasefire, but they resumed almost immediately after it expired, even though Ukraine had asked for it to be extended for 30 days.
Reports indicated that Russian forces had simply used the brief 24-hour pause to move positions, resupply, and improve their tactical situation. This surprised absolutely no one here. As one Ukrainian friend put it, “No one here believes Russia has any genuine interest in peace. Their interest is in our land, our resources, and our elimination as a people.”
April 22nd
Thankfully, my illness proved to be just a 24-hour bug. I headed off to CMA office to do some work before catching my train to Dnipro, another day and a half journey that would deliver me to the south-eastern part of Ukraine in the early morning hours.
Dnipro: Reality at the Front Lines
April 23rd
Davyd (a neurosurgeon you can read more about in previous blog posts) kindly came to pick me up from the train with his close friend Vova. As we drove through the pre-dawn streets of Dnipro, Vova shared some hair-raising stories and photos, including images of their vehicles being hit by Russian drones.
Before the war, Vova was a professional musician living in Luhansk. When Russian forces took control, he and his family had to escape occupation. Now his son and the child’s mother live in the Czech Republic while Vova remains in Ukraine, unable to leave due to martial law restrictions on military-aged men. The pain in his voice was palpable as he explained he hasn’t seen his very young son for nearly a year and a half, their relationship limited to FaceTime calls.
I settled into the apartment Davyd shares with his brother Tim (and often Vova and others too). It was small but comfortable, and I quickly realised I’d been given Davyd’s room while the young men were piled into what might once have been a lounge. When I questioned this arrangement, Davyd explained simply, “Since the war began, my room has become the room of anyone who needs it.”
I’d offered to stay in a hotel, but they strongly advised against it. “Hotels, especially those where foreigners stay, are very often the target of drone strikes,” Davyd explained, his matter-of-fact tone highlighting how such extraordinary dangers have become ordinary considerations.
Davyd then took me to his workplace, Mechnykov Hospital—one of the largest facilities near the frontlines that receives many evacuated patients from war zones. Ambulances of various descriptions including camouflaged vehicles and MSF vehicles lined the driveway. As we walked in, he showed me missile damage from November 2024 that was still being repaired. I remembered that a missile hit his hospital the very day he had taken off to go to Kyiv for his medical exam for his visa to Australia for the upskilling we had arranged.
Our first stop was a meeting of department heads. The scene felt like something from an old Soviet-era movie—a very hierarchical system with serious senior doctors seated at a long table facing rows of subordinates. I was introduced to the hospital director, who gave me a warm welcome, having been informed of my visit.
The True Cost of War
The following days with Davyd revealed the brutal reality of this conflict. There were multiple wards full of comatose patients with various serious injuries and amputations—both military and civilian casualties. One woman was suffering brain injuries from a recent Russian bombing attack on a civilian bus. A baby-faced 20-year-old who had been in a car on his birthday during the latest strike had such severe damage to his brain that Davyd had to tell his parents he was unlikely to ever wake up.
Row after row of seriously ill and injured patients filled every available space—patients spilled into the hallways with even intubated individuals in corridors. Many had amputations and serious brain injuries. The nurses were each looking after ten patients. It was horrific. There’s simply no way they can provide the level of care that’s needed.
As Davyd had told me back in July 2023, “It’s the high price we are paying for freedom.” Now, he added, “And we are paying it every day since.”
Davyd’s frustration was evident as he said, “People who are dismissive of what Ukraine is going through need to come here and see our reality.”
Despite being run off his feet with immense pressures from staff, patients, and operating theatre demands, Davyd somehow found time to look after me and show me around. His time in Australia must seem like a distant dream to him now. There were still visible reminders of the rocket attacks on the hospital—windows boarded up, plastic instead of glass panels in the operating room.
He explained that most military trauma arrives at night because evacuation teams try to move under cover of darkness when they’re less likely to be targeted by Russian drones. Consequently, the night shift is extraordinarily busy.
Medicine Under Fire
I watched a brain surgery taking place in an operating theatre with blown-out windows from a previous bombing. During the procedure, I had an interesting conversation with the anaesthetist when I asked if it was Russian I heard her speaking. She reacted somewhat strangely.
“We speak Russian because of ‘tradition’,” she told me. She then added that only villagers spoke Ukrainian—a claim that immediately rang false to me. This was classic Russian propaganda implying that only uneducated peasants spoke Ukrainian. This narrative has been part of the Russian storyline since my grandfather’s times, and he wrote about it in his book. It’s actually not true—I heard more Russian in rural areas, or “surzhyk” (a slang mix of Russian and Ukrainian). The reality is that Russian is widely spoken in Ukraine because of centuries of occupation and repression by Russian overlords.
One of the nurses was having a birthday, so we were treated to a delicious lunch in the operating theatre tearoom, and then, to my surprise, alcohol appeared. They must have noticed my expression because they quickly assured me that those drinking weren’t operating anymore that day. That was true, but apparently, it’s acceptable for the anaesthetists to drink on the job! (To be fair, they didn’t overindulge.)
The anaesthetist was then having a very heated discussion with her teenage son while simultaneously adjusting a patient’s ventilation—her son was very upset at having lost a chess championship. Meanwhile, the head of the department was keen to show me his impressive fishing pictures from the Dnieper River.
Davyd later performed another brain surgery using a hand hole saw that he said he’d spotted in the Royal Brisbane Hospital museum during his visit to Australia. He had jokingly asked his host if he could take the museum piece to use.
By evening, he had to rush off to perform another operation at a private hospital. By this time, my night of no sleep on the train had caught up with me, and I ended up crashing asleep in the staff rest room while he operated.
Later, over a lovely dinner, we had meaningful conversations about professional ethics. Davyd told me about a patient whose surgery he had insisted on taking his time with, despite pressure from colleagues, to ensure the best possible outcome.
A Doctor with Heart
April 24th
As we walked into the hospital the next morning, we ran into the very patient Davyd had told me about the night before. There he was, walking and smiling with his equally happy wife. Davyd gave them a hug, a heartwarming sight that speaks volumes about the kind of doctor he is. We took a photo together to capture the moment.
I praised Davyd for his skills, professionalism, and caring heart that had led to such a great outcome. In his usual humble way, he responded, “It’s all God. I am just tools in His hands.”
We conducted a ward round, again seeing beds stacked in hallways with ICU patients and nurses struggling to care for 8-10 high-needs patients each. For context, in Australia, the nurse-to-patient ratio for these cases would be 1:1 or 1:2.
Among the many sad cases, there were also some success stories, and the patients Davyd had operated on the previous day were looking good. It was interesting to observe the differences between the older doctors and Davyd in how they interacted with patients and families. Many younger doctors have told me they’re trying to move away from the “Soviet mentality” that has negatively affected a generation here.
The department head was eager to show me the damage from the rocket attack. It must have been terrifying for patients when windows were blown out and ceiling panels collapsed with people in the rooms. And this was after much of the damage had already been repaired. This was the rocket attack that occurred the day Davyd had to go to Kyiv for his visa medical examination for his trip to Australia.
Some wards were filled with seriously wounded soldiers and civilians from various Russian attacks and frontline action. One man had shrapnel lodged dangerously close to his carotid artery, presenting a difficult surgical challenge.
Throughout all this, I gained more insights into the immense pressures Davyd works under and the grace with which he handles them. Then it was off to the operating theatre again for another brain surgery.
Peace Plans and Reality
All of this unfolded against the backdrop of news about “peace plans” being discussed internationally. It’s difficult to talk about these topics with Ukrainians because you don’t know who is emotionally able to discuss it and who is trying to avoid thinking about it too much for the sake of their mental health.
The geopolitical reality here is stark: Ukraine is an independent country that suffered an unprovoked attack by Russia. The Russians have committed countless documented war crimes that continue daily: rapes, torture, executions of civilians, executions of surrendering POWs, bombing civilian areas with banned weapons, targeting hospitals and homes, persecuting Christians, kidnapping and deporting children, erasing their identities, and brainwashing them.
I’ve met countless soldiers here. Nearly everyone was a civilian before this war and has simply taken up arms to prevent these atrocities from happening to their families should they come under occupation.
Water, Generators, and Life During Wartime
I noticed stacks of large water bottles in both Davyd’s hallway and toilet, as well as in the hospital toilets and spare rooms. Davyd explained that they must always be prepared for power and water outages. This is also why all businesses have heavy-duty generators—these are no longer luxuries but necessities for survival.
That evening, we went for a lovely walk by the riverside with Davyd, his brother, and his best friend. Watching them stroll through the trees and along the beautiful park, you could momentarily think that nothing unusual is happening here—that everything is normal. Some uninformed visitors might even arrive, keep their eyes closed to reality, not talk to anyone, and share this superficial impression.
But it doesn’t take much to scratch below the surface and see the truth. As we walked, we passed a concrete shelter built for people to run to during drone attacks. Then we passed an apartment building with several sections missing—Davyd explained how they had “cut off” the damaged apartments to repair the structure after a missile strike. It was only a block away from his house, and I remembered him telling me about this attack, which I’d also seen on the news.
In front of the apartment stood a heartbreaking pile of toys—a monument to the children killed in this Russian strike.
Davyd spoke about how important these walks are for his wellbeing and mental health, how essential it is to just move among the trees and sit by the river to feel some moments of peace. I chatted with his friend, and despite the smiles and jokes, a tragic story unfolded. His brother was killed in Irpin in 2022 by invading Russians. He had been in an area that was occupied but managed to escape in the refugee exodus.
While in a refugee support centre, he heard about an opportunity to work with José Andrés’ World Central Kitchen. He ended up not only delivering food but also aid, driving ambulances, and evacuating elderly people from frontline areas. He showed me multiple videos and photos of FPV drone attacks on their vehicles.
Earlier that day, he had joined us for lunch and showed us footage of a rocket attack on their headquarters in Kharkiv that morning. Thankfully, no one had been in the kitchen when it was hit, but he looked visibly shaken. Of course, this incident didn’t even make the news, despite involving a famous global NGO.
As I looked out over the Dnieper, I thought of the images I had dreamed about this river throughout my childhood as my grandfather spoke of the beautiful Dnieper River immortalised in Shevchenko’s poems.
Anzac Day in Ukraine
April 25th
This date in Australia is Anzac Day, and it wasn’t lost on me that the fight against tyranny and for our values of freedom that we commemorate on this day is being played out right now in Ukraine. Even some Australians and New Zealanders are fighting here, and several have lost their lives in this conflict.
The morning handover once again revealed neurosurgical injuries from Russian attacks, including those suffered by civilian women. Hospital staff dynamics were tense—people are tired, nerves are frayed, and there’s a desperate need to clear beds to make room for the next wave of patients.
I was impressed with the kindness and graciousness that Davyd maintained through all of this. At his private hospital, he performed spinal surgery on a young woman, and it was wonderful to see that many techniques he’d learned in Australia were helping his very grateful patients here.
It was also evident, as I was introduced to many colleagues and former teachers, how well-respected Davyd is among those with good values. He is genuinely liked and respected by his peers.
In the evening, we went to their church for band practice ahead of an upcoming weekend event. It was soothing to listen to their beautiful music. Many musicians spoke about how playing helped calm their souls during these troubled times. At first glance, they looked like any other (highly talented) youth band—but then I realized that some of the people playing were neurosurgeons operating on bomb-damaged brains, people who evacuate others from frontlines under drone fire, people whose family members had been killed fighting in this war. And those were just the stories I knew. It’s a powerful reminder to never make assumptions until you’ve listened to people’s stories.
Weekend in Dnipro
April 26th
Davyd had to see patients this Saturday morning at his third job! His brother Tim kindly took me to the local farmers market for the apartment blocks, which was a delightful experience. Despite it being early spring, there was already produce available, along with meat, sunflower oil, and plenty of dairy products like homemade cheeses, kefir, raw milk, and fresh cream.
We purchased some breakfast items, including a cheesecake made with the “first milk of the cow,” as well as delicious homemade sausage. There was also honey and dried fruits available—a surprising bounty given the circumstances.
Then we headed to their church for more band practice. I spoke with their pastor, who expressed deep gratitude to anyone supporting Ukraine or speaking truth about the situation. He emphasised, however, that they encourage Ukrainians not to expect anything from outsiders—to be self-sufficient and to understand that for many people, this war will seem distant. “Support is needed and incredibly appreciated,” he said, “but we are careful not to expect it.”
I noticed a construction project underway at the church. It wasn’t for a new children’s area or community centre—it was for a new bomb shelter.
The pastor shared stories from the beginning of what he called “the acute phase of the war,” reminding me that this area is not far from where Russia invaded in 2014, meaning they had already endured a decade of conflict. Refugees flooded to them from the second day of the full-scale invasion. “They were in the courtyards, in my office, on every part of the church floors,” he recalled.
Like churches in western Ukraine I visited last time, they fed, clothed, provided medical care, and helped refugees travel further to safe havens in the West. Many people told him they had had the impression that Protestants in Ukraine were a dangerous sect, but their experience had been their first encounter with “real Christians.”
One lady who had lost everything in occupied Luhansk came back to them with 100 hryvnias—all she had (about $3 Australian dollars). She kept insisting on giving it, so the pastor finally suggested, “How about you find someone worse off than you and help them?” She liked that idea.
The pastor pointed to his brother walking past and explained he was from Berdiansk and had been under Russian occupation for two months before finding a way to escape. “It was imperative,” he said, “because it is impossible for Christians to live under occupation. All the Protestant churches are closed down, they are persecuted, some have been killed or tortured, and they are not allowed to use the Ukrainian language.”
Several congregation members are fighting at the front, and some have been killed. The pastor’s own son fought during the first two years in some terrible battles and now has health problems that led to his discharge.
In the evening, I joined Davyd, Tim, and Vova as they played in their church band for a youth event. We also had a Bible study, and some young people eager to practice their English translated for me.
One young woman I sat with during the study mentioned she was praying about what she should do and where she should go. When I asked about this, she confided that she no longer feels safe in Dnipro and is considering leaving the country.
She described a shahed drone hitting just 300 meters from her home. She couldn’t go outside to help immediately because she’d recently had surgery, but when she finally ventured onto her balcony, she could hear the screams of people around her. “I still hear the sounds of the drone coming in to hit the building,” she said, her demeanour completely changing as she spoke. This previously bubbly, chatty young woman began shaking, her hands fidgeting as she flushed with emotion. The trauma was clearly still raw and present.
As we headed back to the apartment, Tim started feeling unwell. By the time we reached the building entrance, he was vomiting. I suspected it might be related to his keto diet and not having eaten all day.
Sunday Service and Family Connections
April 27th
Poor Tim continued vomiting all night, so Davyd decided to take him to the hospital. The rest of us headed to church for a youth service featuring some magnificent musical performances, including a choir, band, and string quartet.
A kind man volunteered to translate the service for me. He had escaped from Russian occupation in Luhansk, losing everything, but expressed gratitude that he had come to Dnipro because here he met his wife. The pastor’s message centred on being thankful for blessings even during wartime.
He mentioned their military chaplain, whom they wanted to visit but had to meet halfway because the risk of drone attacks was too great where he was stationed. Almost as an aside, he mentioned that the explosions I’d heard about in the city on that morning’s news feed had hit next to his apartment block—but he’d slept through it!
Davyd later had to do more patient consultations, and Vova prepared chicken soup for Tim, who was still in the hospital. Meanwhile, I caught up on work and correspondence.
I heard from contacts in other cities we’d visited that they had been under shahed and rocket attacks, but thankfully they were okay. One pastor had his windows blown out but suffered no injuries.
Davyd casually asked if I’d heard the explosion the previous night. Apparently, it had occurred somewhere nearby (which I later confirmed in online reports), but he hadn’t paid much attention. Meanwhile, I continued my reputation for being able to sleep through missile and shahed drone explosions!
That evening, we were invited to dinner with Davyd’s older brother Mark and his wife Daria. They treated us to a meal at a beautiful riverside restaurant—a generous gesture. They had an adorable little boy, and it was lovely to meet them. They enjoy traveling, but because of war restrictions, Mark cannot leave the country; only Daria can travel.
Mark is also a surgeon, specialising in paediatric (children’s) maxillofacial procedures. He showed me some recent surgeries he had performed on Russian bombing victims, including a young girl with large pieces of shrapnel in her neck. So tragic.
Final Days in Dnipro
April 28th
I had some quiet conversations with Davyd as we prepared more soup for Tim, who was still unwell in the hospital. Davyd had taken a rare day off, and I was glad to see him rest, as he had endured such a hectic week and appeared very tired. It was good to see him able to sleep in.
Davyd shared that during the first year or so of the war, he did not have a reservation from mobilisation despite being a military surgeon in a major hospital. This meant he could be picked up from the street at any time to join the army, so he would go nowhere except between home and work. Now, thankfully, he has a reservation, as he regularly operates on military personnel and saves many lives, making him more valuable in his current role.
We did some shopping, and while Davyd ran errands, I made chicken soup for Tim, hoping it would be something he could eat and keep down. After delivering this to Tim, we visited a park with 80-year-old Sakura cherry trees. Davyd explained they were originally from Japan during Soviet times but were grafted onto local cherry trees because the climate here was too cold for pure Japanese varieties.
Following a pleasant walk around the city, Davyd showed me his medical school. The building was lovely but seemed almost deserted. Davyd wondered if this might be a consequence of more classes moving online, first due to COVID and then because of the war. He pointed out a student residence that had been hit by bomb debris.
After enjoying pizza for lunch, we strolled along the river, spotting beautiful ducks, tulips, churches, and people fishing. Sadly, we also passed many dusty, closed-up restaurants and riverside coffee shops—casualties of the war’s devastating impact on tourism. Davyd showed me some of Dnipro’s iconic landmarks. His kindness in playing tour guide was touching, and I also thought it provided him a good opportunity to take a mental break from his demanding work.
We caught a marshrutka, which is called a share taxi but is really more like an old-style minibus. There was no ventilation or air conditioning, and it was packed tight. We held on as best we could. At each stop, more people boarded, even when it seemed physically impossible to fit anyone else. Nobody was deterred—people crammed in at every stop, literally bulging out the door.
Some passengers had been pushed further into the bus without having paid, so people started handing cash down the line to pass to the driver. Before I understood what was happening, someone was handing me money, and I thought, “Why is this guy giving me cash?!” Apparently, this is standard procedure. All I could wonder was how on earth someone sitting at the back would get off when their stop came up. Quite an experience!
When Vova finished his studies for the day, he picked us up with a surprise in mind. The young men took me to a beautiful spot in nature by the Dnieper River—their “secret happy place” where they went for peace and recharging. (Although they also showed me a video of a night they went there when Russian rockets were being shot down just across the river from them!)
The scene was truly breathtaking and peaceful. The sun setting, birds gliding past, cormorants diving, and insects buzzing created a tranquil tableau. Wildflowers and wild onions dotted the landscape. What made it even more special was that I had grown up with romantic images of this place from my grandfather, who often spoke of the beautiful Dnieper, the fishing, and its celebration in the poetry of Taras Shevchenko.
As we drove through fields of rich black Ukrainian soil, we passed a pickup truck with a Browning gun mounted on the back, manned by soldiers. Their job: to shoot down shahed drones coming from the east or south before they could hit the city. It was a sobering reminder that our peaceful outing was possible only because of their vigilance.
On the way back, the young men reminded me that taking photos of military installations is a criminal offense—including vehicles like the one we’d seen. One could be accused of identifying targets for Russian forces.
They asked about my next destination and advised me not to stay in a hotel anywhere. “Hotels get regularly targeted,” they explained, “especially if they have foreigners visit or have ties with NGOs.” Vova recounted how his NGO had made an agreement with a hotel he was staying in, and three days later, that hotel was hit with a missile. “It’s a fairly regular occurrence,” he said matter-of-factly, explaining why I had mostly been accommodated in churches or private homes.
Farewells and Looking Forward
April 29th
My time in Dnipro was coming to an end. There were heartfelt goodbyes and thank-yous exchanged. Davyd and I prayed together, and I expressed my deep gratitude for his exceptional hospitality. He kindly offered to post my grandfather’s book to Lilia at the museum in Velykomykhaivka—my grandfather’s village, which is still too close to the frontline to safely visit. “One day,” I promised myself, “I will go there and sign the book in person.”
Vova again generously offered to drive me to the bus station along with Davyd. Tim was still in the hospital. Vova was wearing his military jacket with spaces for patches—the perfect moment to give him the kangaroo army patch I had brought as a small token of thanks.
His reaction was both surprising and heartwarming. He clutched it to his chest with genuine joy, saying it was the best gift he could receive and would be a special memory. He immediately attached it to his jacket.
As I prepared to leave Dnipro, I reflected on the extraordinary people I’d met—ordinary citizens living through extraordinary times with courage, resilience, and even joy despite the constant threat of violence. Their stories will stay with me forever, as will my commitment to sharing their reality with the world.
This is Part Four 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.
