Sunday Morning ~ Kroscienko

April 24, 2022

Hi Everyone,

First thing Tuesday morning I set out to find the Caritas office, about a three mile walk from my hotel through the city. It wasn’t the most beautiful walk, but interesting, and I got more confidence learning my way around the city. Thanks to Google maps I found the office without having to ask anyone. The office was part of a complex that looked to be all Caritas but not being able to read the signs, I’m not certain of that. The receptionist didn’t speak English, but she called someone who worked for Caritas International who did. I explained I was here for the next month and wanted to volunteer somehow and asked if she knew of any opportunities with the organization. She was not in charge of volunteers but gave me the number of someone who was. That was disappointing. It took me an hour and a half to walk there and I’m not good on the phone with a language barrier. I considered just walking over to the refugee center and asking if I could work there and just stay in Warsaw, but when I went back to my son’s he offered to call and speak with this person in Polish (a big help). She asked if I was willing to travel? I told her I’d go where they needed help the most, so she had a coordinator for the border sites call me, which he did about an hour later while I was out walking again. His English was iffy, and my Polish non-existent so I was unsure of the precise details. He did say the site was cold and I’d be outside all day and needed to be very strong. I got a little worried the work would be something like unloading trucks or something but then realized by “strong” he meant “hearty” and willing to be in the cold. That was not a problem I told him. He was also glad I could stay for two weeks. When I told him I didn’t have a car he sounded disappointed, saying it was difficult to get to these sites without a car. I asked if I could take a train? He said he would text me the information so I could be sure I understood it correctly; it would be possible but difficult to get there by train and bus. Back at the apartment I used my personal interpreter again to call back to confirm all the information. Tomek, the coordinator, said someone could pick me up at the bus as it did not go all the way to the border town of Kroscienko. I’d need a ride the last ten kilometers, but if I called when I arrived, someone could pick me up at the bus. I was ok with that, so got my travel tickets on line and went back to my hotel to pack a knapsack, leaving most of my things in Warsaw. Tomek said there was a place for us to sleep in the village of Ustrzysi Dolne where the bus would drop me off so I didn’t worry about finding a hotel. I had a bunch more questions but figured I’d learn when I arrived. 

While I was packing up my stuff my phone rang showing a Texas number. It was a guy named Arnie, who had just arrived in Warsaw from Florida, via Italy, and was heading to the same site the next day. Tomek had given him my number to coordinate travel as he had a rental car. He asked if I wanted to drive with him. I’d already bought my train ticket and had no idea if this guy was a wacko, but he sounded reasonable and I was leaning toward going with him but told him I’d see if I could get my tickets refunded and call him back. I also wanted to check him out on line. Turns out he’d done the same thing I had: applied on-line with this organization, heard nothing, came anyway, then just showed up at the office. After reading his linked-in profile I  decided he was legit so I called him and said I’d take the ride. It ended up being great and so much more convenient. Getting to the border at Kroscienko is a little like getting to Jackman, Maine. There is no way to do it all the way by public transportation. It’s rural and remote, beautiful, and cold.

When I say the Caritas site is at the border I mean the back of the tent is practically touching the fence. When the GPS told us we were 1.8 kilometers away we were stopped by what we thought was traffic, maybe construction or something, but after awhile it was clear this wasn’t just traffic. Arnie pulled around the line of cars and we saw they were in a cue. Then said, “Oh my God, this is the line to get through the border going back to Ukraine.” I’d heard people were going back, but this was incredible. Nose to tail for 1.8 kilometers. The cars were inhabited by only the drivers and they were either older men or women. It seemed very strange. We were stopped by several policemen as we drove past the stopped cars but they let us pass when we said we were volunteering with Caritas. When we could see the border we were stopped again and that policeman directed us to the tent. 

At the Caritas tent we were greeted by Ilona, a Polish women who’d been working here for her second stint. The tent is a grey structure about 100 feet long, lit with a few dangling bulbs, dank and cold inside, but out of the wind and rain. She oriented us to all the supplies in the tent available for those in need: diapers, infant formula, female hygiene products, toothpaste and toothbrushes, soap, creams, hats, mittens, stuffed animals, toys, hot water bottles, pet food, information printed in Ukrainian, Polish, and English. There was a big urn for hot water and we could prepare tea, coffee, hot chocolate, or instant soup. There were crackers, biscuits, cereal bars, chocolate bars, and some chips we could give as snacks. There were long wooden tables set up the whole length of the tent, the one closest to the food had paper and crayons for kids to draw. The next one down was covered with toys. After that was a charging station for cell phones with several different sized cables. At the end of the tent were three padded lounge chairs and blankets in case someone needed to lie down.

When we arrived no one was in the tent except Ilona. She said it had been very quiet that day. We asked about all the cars going back to Ukraine and she said she thought maybe it was because of the Easter holiday. Today is Orthodox Easter and a big holiday in Ukraine. I was astonished! People would wait in that line to go home during a war for the Easter Holiday? Are you kidding me? She said she wasn’t sure but she thought that was it (her English is really good). 

Our jobs, we learned, would mostly be serving tea and coffee and offering some emotional support. I was a little nervous about that since I wasn’t going to be able to communicate very well. Or at all. Turns out Arnie, with a car, was very useful at transporting people who had come through on foot to the refugee center 10 kilometers away. Once people cross (and it is all women, children, and a few older men) they get taken to a school where they can stay for up to 48 hours. There they have people to help them find a place to stay and arrange transportation. It is magnificently organized. Our tent is only the greeting station and they don’t stay very long. Only to get a warm drink and wait for a ride. There is a mini bus that they use for transport but it takes time for them to go back and forth and Arnie was eager to expedite their process. 

It took us six hours to get here from Warsaw so the first day we only worked from 1 in the afternoon until 7:15 pm when the last people left the tent. Ilona did all the talking but she couldn’t understand a lot of the Ukrainian either. Across from the Caritas tent is another tent set up by Polish firemen and it is manned for 24 hours. Initially the Caritas tent was as well but now there are fewer people crossing to Poland and there aren’t enough volunteers to keep it open all night so we closed it up at 7:15 and drove back to Ustrzyki Dolne to the Caritas house where we would sleep. I was dying to get someplace warm. My feet were frozen. I wish I’d brought my Uggs. I can’t believe how cold it is here but realize we are way further north than I imagined (about the same latitude as northern Quebec) and we are in the mountains. It must have been absolute hell two months ago. By the time we drove away from the tent the line of cars was another kilometer long and it was clear they would be in those cars for days. It just didn’t seem possible they were doing this for Easter.

The Caritas house is a convent where they provide the volunteers a place to sleep and eat. It is very basic, but warm (ish), and there is a hot shower. It is in a gorgeous location on a hill in the mountain village. The sisters are on the third floor and we all share two connected rooms and a small bathroom on the ground floor. I think it’s a library and office. The other rooms on this floor are used for a day care center for seniors. Downstairs is a small kitchen and dining room for us to use. I’m not sure if the sisters use it as well; I’ve not seen any of them there. Four of us are sleeping on a pull-out sofa, chair, and mattress on the floor. Two of the four snore but otherwise I have no complaints about the accommodation. It’s way better than sleeping in that tent. Or in the thousands of cars lining the road.

The following morning the line of cars was even longer–––three kilometers. Some of the drivers of those cars came into the tent for coffee and we learned they are not going back for Easter. They are Ukrainian volunteers, women and men over 60, who are going into Poland to buy cars and bring them back to Ukraine for the military to use, replacing ones that the Russians have destroyed. One woman told us they do this repeatedly; this is her third trip. Going through customs takes time and she said they prepare to wait at least fifty hours in line to cross. Another driver, who spoke excellent English asked where we were from. When we told him the US he said he was so grateful for all the people who come to help. He said knowing the world is supporting them gives them encouragement and strength. I was practically in tears as he spoke. I told him the Ukrainians are inspiring us with their bravery and strength and everyone I know wants to do what they can to help.

Ilona (who left on Friday) had explained to us that a woman would be coming to collect two boxes and one bag full of bandages. It was all in a pile in one corner of the tent. Saturday morning in the rain, I was standing at the opening of the tent and saw a young, beautiful woman approach on foot and ask a policeman where the Caritas tent was. He pointed to us and she came in and asked for the boxes. Wioletta, another volunteer who came when Ilona left, pointed to them. The woman’s face seemed to fall when she saw them and went over to try to pick them up. She was speaking Ukrainian and even Wioletta, who speaks Polish, couldn’t understand her. I asked, “English?” She said, “Little bit.” I said I could help carry them to her car and she said, “No car.” and looked about to cry. We tried to pick them up and, though not very big, they weighed a ton. She opened the bottom box and inside was a military vest and my God, how do they wear these? It had to weigh 40 pounds! We packed it back up and put the box in a bag with handles so it would be easier to carry. I carried the second box with her over to the border where she wanted to walk into Ukraine. I don’t know what was said, but the border guard wouldn’t let her walk through. She put her hands over her face crying. I said, “You need a car to pass? No walking?” She nodded. I pointed to the line of cars waiting to go in and said, “Maybe ask if you can go in one of those cars?” She looked pretty fragile. We walked over to the first car and the guy got out and a policeman came over. There was a lot of talking back and forth and the guy in the front car said to me, “These cars not good. Police will get her car.” What I finally learned via Wioletta translating was she needed to find a car not carrying goods they were importing. Those bringing in cars and supplies took a long time to process. She needed to go with just passengers crossing over. I saw a press car pass through rather quickly but she couldn’t go with them. So she stood on the road and waited, wiping her face, and taking deep breaths. I went to get her a coffee and a granola bar, handed them to her, and she smiled and thanked me. About an hour later I looked out of the tent and saw her getting into a car and going through. God bless her.

The people coming over from Ukraine to Poland are mostly walking across having been dropped off on the Ukrainian side by husbands turning around to go back to fight. I don’t know why they wouldn’t let someone walk the other way. It’s very hard to see people coming this way. The women are carrying small children and older children are dragging small suitcases. The women are usually crying. They look healthy physically and so far the children seem to be holding it together for their mothers. On Friday, while waiting in the tent, one of the small boys, maybe 7 or 8 years old, sat down at the table with the paper and crayons and drew a picture of a tank with a Ukrainian flag flying from it. On the side were the words: “We are strong. We will be victorious”. This was written in Ukrainian but someone here translated it. When the car came to transport them to the refugee center, the child got up from the table and left the drawing. It broke my heart. May his words be the truth.

Ok, I’m going to try to post this, but I want to say I do not feel I’m in any danger here. And I’m not doing anything heroic. But I’m happy to be handing out warm drinks if that can be any comfort at all. There are two medics here but they are standing around without much to do. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Easter in Warsaw

April 17, 2022

Hi Everyone,

It’s Easter Sunday and the Catholic mass is serious business here. Confessionals are actually used, pews are full, and a big exodus and simultaneous entrance occurs every hour on the hour. Baby carriages line the handicap ramp. The crowd is decked out in black and grey, though the forsythia is in bloom and trees I can’t name are about to bud. I see few, if any, people smiling, though I can’t differentiate culture from trauma. No one is wearing a mask so faces are visible. Poland dropped all Covid mandates on April first. The languages being spoken all sound the same to me, though I’m told there is Polish, Russian, and Ukrainian. I detect joy in the gorgeous voice of the woman behind me as she sings the hymns. I see the words projected on a screen above the altar and try to follow along, working to decipher how she pronounces all these consonants. I don’t even open my mouth; joining in is not an option. 

The trip here was smooth as overnight plane rides go, though I’ve clearly got some adjusting to do. The plane was full to the brim; I’d forgotten how close we sit to each other. Crowds never used to bother me but the pandemic and two years of solitude have affected my comfort with personal boundaries. The sardine experience seems all wrong now. It felt like the seating areas shrunk, seats were smaller, crew smaller too. I don’t think I saw a flight attendant three times the whole trip. We had to show proof of vaccination at check-in so I tried to ignore all the people on the flight disregarding the mask policy, especially since there was no one enforcing it. I’d occasionally point to the mask sitting in the lap of the guy next to me and he’d put it on without a word but it was like the crew had given up and masks were optional. Delivering meals seemed optional as well. Only some people got breakfast. I don’t know if they paid more for their flight or what, but I didn’t get one and didn’t have the motivation to go looking for it. 

The complimentary wifi at the airport in Zurich was accessible after scanning your boarding pass into one of the “airport scanners” which I didn’t even try to look for. I found it a relief to read a book, sleep on the Starbucks bench, and people-watch like the old days. It used to be very entertaining to watch people interact but now they are mostly looking at their phones. I saw a few (mostly older) reading books, some were talking to each other, all were very subdued. There wasn’t much for holding my attention. I had five and a half hours to kill there and between taking walks, window-shopping for expensive watches, reading, and napping, the time passed amicably. The flight to Warsaw boarded on time and was full to capacity but was delayed twenty minutes due to “increased military activity” in both Switzerland and Poland. That announcement was the only indication that anything was amiss in this part of the world. Having done customs in Switzerland, arriving in Warsaw was easy. I grabbed my bag off the carousel and exited to find my smiling family holding a bouquet of flowers and my gorgeous new grand daughter. 

After arriving at the family apartment we went on a long walk so I could learn the neighborhood but I was tired and disoriented. Lots of Ukrainian flags are hanging from balconies and all the buildings look similar. Remembering street names was out of the question. Consequently, the following morning I got extremely lost trying to make my way from my hotel back to the apartment. A ten minute walk took me an hour and forty minutes. It was a Good Friday miracle I found the street at all. Then when I finally found the apartment building, I realized I hadn’t gotten instructions about how to contact them to let me in. I stood outside and hoped someone came out soon so I could just grab the door and enter. A few minutes later an old woman made her way outside and, not wanting to appear to be an intruder, I held up my address book with the address on it, pointed to the name, then the address, then me and said, “My son.” Of course this was in English as I haven’t even mastered the greetings in Polish. She smiled and nodded and held the door open. Phew!

Shopping for the Easter here on Friday and Saturday was very European. We pushed the baby carriage through markets, bakeries, and Turkish butcher shops. Though the weather is still quite cold the open air market was bustling. There were mostly root vegetables, cabbages, and massive wooden crates of apples. I have never seen apples this big and in such abundance, even in the autumn at home. I learned apples are a big part of the Polish economy and Russia had been a major importer. In 2014 when the sanctions began after the invasion of Crimea, Russia retaliated against Poland by banning imports of it’s apples. In response to this action, the Polish government funded the production of hard apple cider to avoid wasting the millions of bushels of apples in surplus. Their advertising slogan was “Your patriotic duty never tasted so good”. So this cider is now popular here and it is great. I love hard cider and lent is over. I will be very happy to do my part. I’ve only had one variety so far but will be sure to try them all before I leave. Love the ingenuity.

Monday is a holiday, too, so on Tuesday I will go to the Caritas office downtown and see what help I can offer. I’ve learned they are looking for people to teach English to Ukrainians in some of the eastern villages so that might be an option. 

Love to all and Happy Easter,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Walking Gently

Kwa eni uyenda umaweteka. ~ At someone else’s place you walk gently and humbly.

~ Chewa proverb

April 10, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I feel like I have been leaving home for a long time. Not having traveled abroad for more than two years it all feels a bit strange.  Organizing seems more difficult than it used to, especially when straddling seasons. I’m at the point where the house seems to be saying, “Go already!” 

Leaving home has always taken some work. It’s a project to go away, leaving all the daily tasks to dangle. Attending chores to be done before leaving makes me look at this life I’ve filled with endless tasks: plants to water, bills to pay, unfinished projects to stash, mail to arrange for. I stop to imagine when our main form of communication relied on written correspondence stretching over days or weeks. Letters, actual hand written letters, arrived from a long lost someone, delivered by a nice man pushing a cart. This was in my lifetime, though it seems like some strange ritual I should be reading about in a history book or novel. Letters would be answered with a thoughtful process of writing, sealing, stamping, sending–– tasks that seem more like exciting adventures than chores. I wonder how such delay in communicating would change the course of events. I think about this as I place an empty box in the hall, ready to collect requests for donations, advertisements, and magazines I ordered from the girl scouts. It feels hollow. 

Utilities attended to, I think of all that pumps into a home keeping it alive. A last trip out to the compost and I see daffodils poking though and remember I planted hundreds of them to brighten my mood at this time of year. I’d forgotten about them. 

Being stationary for such a spell has created a co-dependency between my home and me. We love each other. I’m possessive. I feel no one else could love it like I do. It’s like my child; I’m the one who raised it. I cleared the trees. I chose the person to dig the foundation. I watched carefully as they did so. I watched the walls be lifted. I prayed for the guys on the roof, sheathing and protecting us. I made this house into a home. I bore the children who lived here while the walls absorbed their voices and spirits. I patched the holes in those walls. I chose the colors, protected the floors, hung the collected pieces that make it whole. I’m like a mother leaving her baby. I leave instructions for all the little idiosyncrasies: the front door, the drain, the furnace. Then think of the cat’s habits and, wow, trying to explain all that makes it sound so complex, these tasks I do automatically, thoughtlessly. Writing it onto a list seems cumbersome and archaic. When did this happen? 

I no longer consider the land where the house rests as a possession. I’ll be it’s steward and tend it with love, sculpted into a living portrait portraying my life. It’s all temporary; it will morph as the world goes on. I planted more fruit trees this week, wondering if I’d be here to pick the fruit. I imagine the shade they’ll give, picturing fruit dangling down and wonder if I’d be able to climb a ladder then? I look at the card hanging from the tiny branch: fifteen to thirty feet. I look up and wonder how high is thirty feet?  

What ifs are not emotionally useful to me and I try not to go down their roads too often. Over the last month, however, many what ifs crept into my thoughts. I’d shake my head as if I could dump them out of my brain. What if I only had ten minutes to leave? What if I couldn’t find my family? What if bombs were falling around here? If I had to leave in ten minutes because it’s the safest option, where would I go? What if the place I built and loved was destroyed? Could I do it all again? 

Since this war started many have told me their ancestors were from Ukraine. They fled during this war or that one. Generations down the line they made new lives, good lives. They’ve never visited the land their ancestors fled in search of safety, food, or love. Do they like their lives here? Are they grateful for this land and this home? 

How do we walk humbly and with gratitude in a new strange place? How do those who welcome us provide air and water, shelter and safety, with dignity? If we had few choices about when and where to go, how would we incorporate the richness of the lives we were forced to flee into the strangeness, fear, sorrow, and hope of the new ones facing us? 

I’ve spent weeks sorting, cleaning, organizing, preparing to leave, so I can do so comfortably with clear head, clear mind, knowing plans might change and my stay extended. Does this house really need me? Of course not. The doors will open and shut. The crocuses will bloom and die. The peepers will serenade until it warms sufficiently for them to move on to their next life with grace. I recognize all this. I acknowledge the times we are in with frustration and sadness, wanting to do my part with as much hope as I can muster, because the what ifs can go either way.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Full Spoon

Cipande ca therere cikoma n’kuyenderana. ~ The spoon full of relish gets tasty if it goes around from one to another.

~Chewa proverb

April 3, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I was looking for proverbs about generosity, which, has been on my mind this week. I’m so inspired by the generosity of many who reach out to alleviate suffering. I found this proverb and envisioned a spoon being passed with everyone taking a bite of relish (which is not a condiment as we use the word, but a vegetable or meat dish). My pandemic lens colored it with repulsion. We shouldn’t be eating off the same spoon! But as I typed the words, I realized it was “spoon full” not “spoonful”. There’s a difference. The word “spoon” may actually be a small bowl with a handle that each person takes from. Perhaps they used the word spoon instead of bowl for translation as there is no English word to describe their vessel. As the scarce relish gets passed around and shared there is more joy and value in the dish. Of course! When reading it that way, I went from thinking, “Eww, gross” to “Yes, absolutely.”  What a difference a syllable can make, and how important translation and interpretation is. We all do better when we all do better is how I read that.

When I was training for my job in Congo, we had an amazing week in the northern part of The Netherlands where we did various group exercises. One exercise (life changing for me) began with being assigned to a group of five people from different countries. We were given a list of random things to acquire and instructed to gather at six pm. On the list were: two chairs, three cans of tomatoes, ten books, two gerry cans of water, and a bunch of things I can’t remember. I vividly remember the ones I listed, because they were heavy. None of us knew what the assignment would be but there was speculation during the day as we searched for and assembled the listed items. It was both fun and exciting as we had no idea what we’d do with these unrelated items. When we gathered in a big room with all our stuff, each group was given a folded piece of paper with instructions on it. We were to walk, carrying the things we’d brought, to a specific location about a mile away. We couldn’t go back to our rooms before heading out.

Being a group of strong personalities it was interesting to see how we made decisions about how to carry all we’d brought to walk the mile. The water was cumbersome and we traded off carrying it for short distances. The German doctor put the two chairs together and placed them on his head. I’d brought a bag with the books so slung that over my shoulder, the woman from Belgium had a small backpack and some of the smaller stuff went in there. We carried other items in our arms passing them around as we took our turn with the water. Walking in the grey light and drizzle, we were laughing as we cooperated our way to the designated spot. Victorious in accomplishing this, we were handed another paper that sent us to another destination, the distance of which we did not know. Oh. Okay. Not so funny anymore. We were tired. It was getting dark. But we reorganized and went on our way. The water was getting to be a problem. We’d chosen big gerry cans as we thought it would be good to have a lot of water on this mysterious exercise. Well, when the rain started in earnest and we were soaked, the heavy, slippery cans were impossible to carry. The nurse from Thailand went into the woods and got a strong stick which we placed through the handles of the water cans. Then two of us put the stick over our shoulders. I thought this was amazing multi-cultural teamwork. That thought only lasted a short time, when, recognizing we weren’t Thai field workers who do this every day, we got very sore and exhausted well before getting to the next destination. Our group’s mood was shifting rapidly from cooperation to conflict about the best way to get there. We made it, only to be handed another slip of paper with another destination. It was about eleven pm at that point and I almost started crying. The woman from Belgium did start crying as did the nurse from Thailand who had blisters on her heels. We hadn’t been advised on proper footwear for the occasion and our feet were soaked. It was hours past my bedtime and I wanted to go to sleep. We pushed on to the next destination where I was sure there would be a van with hot cocoa and maybe whiskey. But no, this went on until 2 am when there actually was a van to take us back to the hostel. We were still expected to be at the morning meeting at 8, where I was hoping they would pass out bandaids. 

The morning meeting was a debriefing of all that went on the evening before. We were asked to describe each person’s role in the exercise. There was a lot of interesting discussion, but I was shocked when the woman from Belgium described me as the joker in our group. Totally taken aback, I said, “What? I wasn’t making jokes!”  She explained that in Belgium there is a card game where the joker can be used as any other card. She said she thought I was very adaptable and could function in many different roles within the group. (And believe me, there were lots of them by the time we were done). I was flattered by her words, but struck by how that could be misinterpreted by those who come from a different culture, even when speaking the same language. This recognition was a major point of the whole grueling exercise. Other points included some small understanding of what it’s like to carry belongings when you have no idea where you are going or how long you will be moving, how cooperation dissolves when there is fear and discomfort, who emerge as leaders, and how others react to them. It was incredibly powerful. 

So, along with gratitude for all those who give so generously and how that spirit will multiply exponentially, I’m thinking about the value of diplomacy and understanding. I’m thinking of how committed all sides must be to respect and understand cultural differences, how difficult it is,  how I admire all those who practice it. 

Love to all,

Linda