Entering the War Zone

September 9th

On the train ride from Warsaw to Przemysl, I strike up a conversation with a dark haired woman named Imma from Kyiv. She asks why I am traveling to Ukraine. When I tell her my plan to paint portraits of the wounded soldiers there, and then gift them each his portrait, she breaks down in my arms, weeping. “Thank you! Thank you! There is still kindness in the world!” I reassure her there are a lot of us, so many more of us than the dark actors.

It turns out she is highly connected – she immediately texts her friend, the Deputy Mayor of Lviv, and puts us in touch. I have a call scheduled with the Mayor’s office tomorrow. Imma is strong, filled with passion and energy. Luckily, she warns me to arrive at the train station early; I was unaware that we have to go through passport control on the Polish side of the border, as well as on the train, as one enters Ukraine. The line the next morning is unusually long, and I’m gratified and relieved that I arrived well ahead of time.

As my train crosses the border, passing through small villages with a noticeable preponderance of tractors, the woman charged with checking my passport, machine gun slung over one shoulder, cracks a smile when she sees where I was from. Imma whispers to me excitedly “See? She’s happy that you’re here!”. The warmth from these women presages that my visit will be deeply appreciated.

Sandbagged window

Nestor, my young host, is waiting at the station when I arrive. (read more)…