by Klara Leidl
I stand at the border, directly at the border to Ukraine, in the mud, where I find signs of probably thousands of people standing in the same spot, waiting, eating, and fleeing to Poland and far on. Remains like a hat, pieces of stuffed animals or food that had to be left behind in a hurry can be found here. I gaze into the distance, my hand on my head shielding the sun with my flat hand. The warm weather touches my skin and I breath in a sense of spring. Thousands of people queuing at the border in their cars or lorries trying to bring aid supplies to lost and destroyed towns and to people who are starving and hurting from marks of war. I think, when not knowing we are all here at the border of war, one might think lots of happy faces and families are waiting to cross borders while traveling within their holidays. The scene looks unrealistic as the sun shines down on packed cars and a street full of travelers. Travelers to a place that is unknown and unsure, travelers that are risking their lives out of love and selfless support, travelers that care about humanity, travelers that are rather fleeing than traveling, fleeing people that are running away from war, runaways that are unsure weather there will be a way back. Is it a one way ticket? We hope, we desperately hope there will be a way back, back to their husbands and fathers, back to their families, back to a life that is worth living. Back to cities with a rich culture that were blossoming. When the sun sets I’m still at the border, waiting, endlessly waiting. This is not my first time waiting at the border for people to being picked up. Last time I was in the car for nearly seven hours. Awaiting old people who have been fleeing from their city in a broken van with shuttered windows, collecting children on their way out to bring them into safety. It’s frustrating at times to wait not knowing when it’s over. But the moment when being confronted with the ones we are evacuating defends every doubt — every doubt whether helping is one of my concerns.
A storm is coming while I’m sitting on a bench in front of the white wooden guest house, dark clouds are rolling in and the sky is saddened with gray fog. A cold breeze is clinging around my nose. I’m eating pasta we’ve cooked for guests that are staying the night to continue their drive in the morning heading to Kiev. The clouds are moving fast and creating a thick wall that pushes me to go inside — inside to our fireplace, where we warm up for the night to sleep in the dormitory. I’m tucked in at bed in my sleeping bag and a pillow that is not mine. A glass of whiskey makes me calm down and finally I fall asleep.
I wake up on my mattress with clear white linen sheets to sounds of birds chattering in the cherry blossom tree. I lift up my head to gaze out into the distance, throughout trees lined up as an enriching forest. The fresh leaves saving residues of water from the last rain. My home — a beautiful place. Energy sprouts through my bones as I stretch my body reaching towards my pillow with my weak hand. My fingertips feel the soft surface of my cotton fabric. I remember, when in Poland, a friend from Ukraine was fascinated by a printed piece of textile somebody had donated. We were playing around with it, wrapping it around our head while the wind was floating through our hair.
Free, we felt free in that moment, lost, but beautifully free.
© Klara Leidl 2023-08-30