One mans journey out of war-torn Ukraine
Manny Marotta: first-person feature
A journalist’s guilt from not doing enough outweighs his desire for safety as he musters up the courage to return to Ukraine.
First-person feature
Guilt – as I’ve come to know it, is all-consuming. It can create distance between you and your current reality, it will seek you and find you in moments unexpected. That’s what it has done to me in the past three weeks since I’ve returned from war-torn Ukraine to the comfort of my home in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.
It was my Political Science and History major that sparked my interest in Ukraine, and my Bachelor in Writing encouraged me to pursue Journalism. Throughout my studies I developed a keen interest in post-Soviet countries and Eastern Europe. I always wondered what a country was like after breaking away from Soviet rule and establishing a democratic government. I chose to travel to Ukraine during this time specifically to cover what I hoped wouldn’t happen but anticipated would.
My first week in Ukraine was normal and the energy of the city remained steady and almost peaceful. I walked around Kyiv, interviewed the locals, captured photos of day-to-day life, and visited museums. Everything seemed normal until 22 February when Russia and Ukraine severed diplomatic ties, a signal to me that the relationship between the two countries was worsening. On 24 February, the invasion began at 5AM when Russian troops crossed the border in the Eastern Donbas region. Feelings of paranoia and distress, unharmony, and news of the Russian incursion flooded throughout.
My immediate reaction was to leave but my roommate Sam, a retired British journalist I was working with, felt it was our duty to stay back and document in Lviv. After a few interviews and a couple hours, the uncertainty of the safety of the city grew and we knew we needed to leave. No one knew which city would be bombed next or who the Russians would target. There were no train or bus tickets available so Sam and I agreed the only way out would be to walk. That meant a 20-hour journey (45-mile trek) in winter with 50 pounds of luggage, three bottles of water and concern that we might be trapped in a war zone.
There was something far more difficult for me to handle, other than the strenuous hike out of the city towards the border. For a young 25-year-old healthy young man, the trip was hard enough, but manageable. My heart was heavy as I watched mothers with children struggle to make any headway, fighting all the same things I was fighting… just younger, more vulnerable, and almost hopeless. I witnessed a woman have a heart attack, only to be left on the side of the road with no way of getting help. I carried luggage for an elderly woman limping her way to the border with a cane and her suitcase.
For me, I had affirmation that every step I look was closer to home and safety. Along the walk, that feeling became lost in the guilt that that was only my reality. I was no longer excited about leaving but was distraught over what and who I was leaving behind.
I met a 24- year-old young man, just one year younger than me, who was forcefully removed from the line of refugees and humiliated in front of the crowd. “Don’t be a coward, go back and fight for your country,” stated the soldier to the men with their loved ones. His task was to check documents and ensure that any man aged 18-60 was not exiting the country. I couldn’t imagine the things going on in their heads, the fear of abandonment, the fear of war and the painful truth that safety wasn’t really meant for them, only for those closest to them.
After a full 24 hours, I finally arrived at the border feeling sleep deprived and aggravated. I was crammed between wailing children, broken families, grieving elderly couples, and dogs in crates. I remember noticing how beautiful the sunrise looked as I sat for the first time in Poland to eat a donut and drink coffee. I believe it represented something far more to me. In that moment my unveiling guilt crept through as I replayed everything I saw along that journey.
Now, as I move throughout my day…when I make a cup of coffee or sit in a bar, I’m overwhelmed with feelings of regret that I ever left. It’s impossible for me to not feel as though I never did enough. The guilt was strong enough that I reached out to an organization in Ukraine as soon as I returned home after two nights in Poland. They offered to have me come back as an embedded journalist, attached to a military unit involved in the conflict. I plan to return in April in hopes to appease my guilt and be just one of many voices telling the stories that must be told.