Well, where do we go then?

Well, where do we go then? is a photographic journal chronicling the travel of Ukrainian refugees fleeing war via the Ukraine - Slovakia border. All photos were captured on 35mm film and taken over 2 weeks at the end of March 2022, in which the photographer, along with a documentary film team, traveled with a handful of families to record and assist with the exodus. The route of migration covered is a three point line between the border crossing of Vyšné Nemecké, the main refugee camp in Michalovce, and the train station in Košice, Slovakia.

Focusing mainly on women and children, the series taps into the raw and incredible power that manifests at the core of a mother’s unconditional love for her children. Flanked by hastily packed suitcases, toddlers, and early teens, countless mothers push forward, herding their children and scant belongings westward, towards the unknown but with the hope of returning soon to a safer and more secure Ukraine.

Notably absent from most of the works are men, required by wartime law to stay in Ukraine and fight for the nation. The few men who do appear in the series have been granted special leave, most often due to special medical circumstances.

Most are exhausted when they first arrive at Vyšné Nemecké. They come in the early morning, just before dawn around 5 am, when the border opens for the new day. Some are hungry, others tired, still more are dazed. They walk hesitantly into the new country, pushing noisy shopping carts, aided by teenage Slovakian soldiers at the ready to carry luggage or weak children.

A seat is what most need, especially the elderly, and then some coffee or tea. Many cry when they finally stop moving and sit down here. The temperature is unpredictable in late March and these mornings have been exceptionally cold. There are sandwiches, strollers, toothbrushes, and toilets. There is soap and shampoo as well but there is no shower. There is a medical tent and the fire department has a big contingent. Representatives from the Maltese church have good candy and fruit tea. The Greek Orthodox Church has their own corner, replete with supplies and a temporary chapel. 

While the mood is somber, there are fleeting moments of joy. It is almost always a child that breaks the tension, a celebration of the final remnants of an innocence not yet lost.

When Teddy Bears, toy cars, and dolls can’t elicit a smile, the last option is often bubbles. There is something about bubbles. The few times that I saw them floating in the air, these soapy wonders never failed to bring joy, to lift the spirit, and to raise the collective hopes of many of those present. 

In the early hours of the morning, when the border is closed and the flow of refugees has stopped, there is time for prayer. In the Greek Orthodox Church’s tent, a makeshift chapel has been set up, presided over by a Slovakian army chaplain and a young priest in training. 

The congregants are all volunteers, exhausted from back to back shifts, and the emotional toll they have to pay with each round of duty at the border. The service is in Slovakian and is rife with prayers for their neighbors in Ukraine. 

After the border, the next step on the journey is the refugee camp in Michalovce. Busses come and go throughout the day, bringing wave after wave of the displaced. This is the first chance many families will get to sleep and have a warm meal since crossing into Slovakia. The camp is well stocked with donations, providing those in need with most of the necessary basics. However, like at the border, there are no showers here.

Many people arrive with pets. The dogs seem more protective now - as if they can sense the injustice that has been perpetrated against their masters. They are uneasy, quick to bark, paranoid in their alertness. They cling tighter than in peaceful times, agitated in exodus. 

There is good care for them in the camp. A tent provides donated food, leashes, toys, treats, and veterinary care. They are not barred from any corner and are generally a welcome addition to the solemn grounds. 

During the day, the big sleeping tent is quite empty. Most of the people have gone out into town or to roam around the campgrounds. The few pieces of belongings brought along are left behind next to or on chosen cots. There are few empty spaces. Several children play in the corner designated for fun. There are many used toys and a projector has been set up to screen children’s movies.

Many who stay inside during the day sit or lie on their beds, scrolling away at the news on their phones or staring off into some abyss. Several seem unable or unwilling to leave their sleeping bags.

Come nightfall, the tent will be packed.

On my first night in this camp, I went into the sleeping tent. The camp was quiet and very cold that night. It was 3am and everyone but this one little boy was asleep. He sat upright, next to his sleeping mother. His cot was near the entrance and the only light inside the tent was from a floodlight spilling in from outside. It was only a sliver but it lit the boy up. Initially, he didn’t make any noise or any fuss. He simply sat there and stared at me. After I took his photo he smiled, flapped his arms, and giggled.

The next day, a Slovakian minister came to tour the refugee camp along with many photographers and journalists. In the evening, they flooded into the tent. Their questions and photos kept many people awake. They even asked a few of the residents to pose for the pictures. That was the last time people were allowed to take photos at night in the sleeping tent. 

As dawn breaks, it’s time to head out of the camp and onto the next destination. The Michalovce train station is a short ride away, no more than 6 - 7 minutes. Loading and unloading the bus takes takes considerably more time. 

Organizing tickets in the train station can be confusing. Those who need tickets relay their destinations and the number of travelers to volunteers who then work out the details with the tickets agents. The tickets are free of charge for those holding a Ukrainian passport. 

Children mull about, dazed and tired as the result of another night not spent in their own beds. 

The train cars rock back and forth, gradually putting the weary to sleep. The big lumbering cribs screech into some small town and crawl right back out. The landscape changes. Snow-capped mountains give way to meadows awakening for spring. Depressed towns showcase industrial decay. Dystopian places, beautiful in their desolation. 

Some remark that it looks just like home. But most are too tired to pay attention. The seats are comfortable enough and it’s warm on this train. It was cold in the tents but still warmer than walking in the middle of the night. So, now it is time to dream. If there is anything left to dream about.

Kristina and her 2 children arrived in Slovakia last week, having traveled by foot, after fleeing the Luhansk region 3 weeks ago.

On our train ride from Michalovce to Kosice, she told me what had happened.

One evening, after dinner, while the family was sitting in the living room, her kitchen exploded. It was a direct hit from an artillery shell. Then the power went off. 

Jasmin, her youngest, changed. Before the bombing she was calm. Now, she can’t sit still. She’s funny though, very cute as well, and Kristina and I laughed as she giggled and climbed around the train car. But it wasn’t really funny. Something was wrong in the child’s head.

Her oldest, Artur, struck me as stoic. But can a 10-year-old really be stoic? I suspect that’s his way of coping with the trauma. 

During the hour train ride, we played and talked. When she showed me the photos of her apartment building, specifically her house, we cried. When I found out her husband was missing, I cried some more.

After an hour train ride, we arrive in Košice. The refugee camp here is in a community center. It is smaller than the camp in Michalovce and there are no tents. The space is crowded. It is next to the train station and there are no busses coming and going. There are stacked containers for sleeping and the food is prepared in a proper cafeteria. 

The community center has a pool but it appears to have been abandoned for quite some time. It is fenced off and crows fly about, dipping in and out of the muck that’s accumulated in the deep end. 

In the last car of the train, as Yuri stared out at a vanishing eastern Slovakia, he told me it looked just like Kryvyi Rih, where he was born. Later on the train ride, he showed me videos of the town on his phone, before the war, and proudly exclaimed that Volodymyr Zelenskyy also came from there. 

We were heading west to Vienna where a new home was waiting a mere 1,500 kilometers away from the carnage and calamity of war. With Yuri and his family well set for their new beginning, I would leave them just short of Vienna in order to start the journey over again with new families who had new stories to tell. 

As their train pulled away, I collapsed on the platform and cried. I cried everything I had ever felt inside, everything that I had pretended not to feel, and everything that I had always said was fine. 

I cried because the next train ride would be different yet it all felt so familiar. 

I cried because there was a home waiting for me to go back to.