Ukrainian refugees at the Western Railway Station
When the war broke out, I heard a good idea from a dear friend of mine. An active program of action in the conflict between compassion and helplessness. When one experiences on one’s own skin how disruptive it can be to lack control over what is happening and to sigh “I need to do something,” he understands why so many women went to nurse in World Wars. Not only out of selflessness, but also to help themselves. Another girlfriend who is now at the Berlin train station is helping day after day as a volunteer– to make clothes once and endvics other times – he said the same thing to me on the phone yesterday: “Sounds funny, but I feel like they’re wearing me”. And that’s how I feel now, after the day I first volunteered to help in this situation.
After two years of coronavirus mystery, it was clear that it was not enough to expose the dove of peace to my profile picture or refer some of it to an aid organization.
What is happening now requires flesh-and-blood participation. To be in, to touch, to look at, to hold, to let go. You need hands and feet and a heart. After two years of screen security, it’s real deep water, “unmasked,” unprotected encounters. After two years of self-defense, you are now guaranteed to get hurt. But maybe that’s not so much the problem.
And you need to add a head because you need to be focused. Switch from English to Hungarian, from Hungarian to English, look for a Ukrainian interpreter, guide you by hand, inform you, buy a ticket to the train to Záhony, help the ticket office, call a taxi driver, volunteer driver, accommodate people, connect people, connect people. More and more post-it swirls on the desktop with name and phone number, address and time. “You’ve called me several times already, I said I have a family now,” a kind voice says into the phone, adding that he understands that there is chaos, nothing wrong.
At first, I also enjoy this hustle and bustle, to find my way around where I have no orientation. “Let me tell you, when will the train leave from Zahon? ” I ask a man in a neon vest. “Most went, 10 percent. ” “But this girl says the website says it will start in 10 minutes.” “No, then only at 10:28.” “Then you still have to wait two hours, let’s get a ticket in the meantime” I tell the girl who wants to get back to Záhony with her brother. He’s now crossing the border. It turns out at the ticket office that they said it was wrong, because the next train leaves at 9:28, but then we have to transfer to Nyíregyháza. The girl is very happy at first, then she gets tense, asking how she will know exactly when she has to move. “That’s the end point”Says the cashier in Hungarian, I translate. It calms me down a bit and notes, “In Germany, everything that is written on the schedule is right and done. ” “Welcome to Hungary” I spread my hands. We both laugh.
Back in the tents, he says, he lived for a week in a shelter in Kiev. The worst was the noise. Noise from sirens, missiles, bombs. When he arrived in Budapest, he was surprised by the silence of the otherwise busy city. Then he drew a plane, heard a siren, and shuddered: consciously he was in Kiev again.
He then says goodbye to his volunteer tents, thanks, and from now on he’s there. And I have to send more people to similar moments of rest: a family to Nagymező Street, a couple to the 10th district, a three-generation female member of a family. “I have a cat at home, no problem? ‘ , “Just get in the taxi and I’ll pay”The landlords say on the phone. In the meantime, someone brought us cocoa too.
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“How quiet Budapest after Kyiv” – 4 hours at the West
Ukrainian refugees arrive at the Western Railway Station on February 28 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Volunteers are waiting for Ukrainian refugees at the Western Railway Station on February 28 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Volunteers are waiting for Ukrainian refugees at the Western Railway Station on February 28 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Volunteers are waiting for Ukrainian refugees at the Western Railway Station on February 28 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees get off the train at the Western Railway Station on March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees get off the train at the Western Railway Station on March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees on the train to Budapest, Nyugati railway station, March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees on the train to Budapest, Nyugati railway station, March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees at Záhonyy, March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees at Záhonyy, March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees at Záhonyy, March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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Ukrainian refugees at Záhonyy, March 7 (Photo: Márton Neményi)
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After three hours, we all lose the yarn, who we tied up with, who, when they come, whether we’ve called or not. Every hour and a half a train comes from Záhony, the crowd is swelling. In moments of pause, I feel like it’s easy to dive in, the whole thing pulls in like a magnet if you’re not alert, if you don’t hold yourself. Then, on the way home, the picture pops up on the four-six.
A pretty mom is waiting for the shuttle bus to the East with a small suitcase. Her little girl can be about a year and a half or two, munching on something in a pale pink coat and ear cap that makes me look at me with huge brown eyes. I kindly speak Hungarian to him, smiling, but I can feel the tears in my eyes, so I turn away quickly so as not to scare him. I’ve kept crying ever since, but it’s free now, I don’t care if passengers look stupid on the tram. I cry until night, I dream at night, they bombed our home. Sometimes I wake up, I hope it gets easier in the morning. Will not. I just feel harder with a recognition: They are me. I’m going again next week.