While we initially planned to go to Kyiv to document the escalating tensions at the edge of Europe,Special Operation On February 24, 2022, launched by Vladimir Putin, forced us to redefine the project we had prepared. Indeed, our original ambition to document how the population had been preparing for months for a potential conflict was cut short. We decided to reshape it by choosing to meet those who had been forced to flee for their survival, on a journey that was very challenging for many, all the way to the Polish-Ukrainian border.
Exactly one week after the start of hostilities, (photo 1) we set off for Poland. The trunk of the car is overflowing with essential supplies, such as sleeping bags, hygiene products, and some canned goods. Despite our relatively small contribution compared to the astronomical amounts of aid pouring into Ukraine, leaving with an empty vehicle would have been senseless. With the help of our loved ones and the association Caravane sans Frontières, we were able to contribute to the collective effort. This organization based in Nyon, which transformed into a significant conveyor of humanitarian aid from Switzerland to Ukraine at the onset of the war, served as our support base. Thanks to their cooperation, we were able to obtain contacts and routes on the ground.
On the morning of the second day of our journey, our trip is interrupted by traffic slowdowns due to the snow falling over western Poland. Completely stopped, we get out of the car to check if the Ukrainian flags that nearly cover it are still intact. At that moment, a driver emerges from his truck and asks us for a sticker. We give it to him, and as we see him head back to his vehicle, we notice that it is registered in Russia. Initially taken aback by the oddity of the scene, we are ultimately moved to see him affix the Ukrainian flag to his rearview mirror.(photo 2)Very symbolic, this episode left a lasting impression on us.
After more than twelve hours of driving and 1500 kilometers traveled, we finally arrive at the address provided by Sylvana, one of the key figures of the Caravane sans Frontières, where we were scheduled to drop off our cargo. More than just a storage location, it is actually a reception and registration center for refugees. We are immediately taken aback by the bustle of the place. The ringing phones, the arrivals crowding at the entrance, and the humanitarian workers rushing about stand in stark contrast to the vacant stares of many individuals, still shaken by the recent events they have endured. They are there but not truly present. It is chilling to realize that these women with their children are the ones who have been forced to leave fathers or husbands behind in the horrors of war.
A supervisor informs us that our supplies are urgently needed closer to the border, 350 kilometers away, where the number of refugees is rapidly increasing. We are urged to arrive before nightfall. Without delay, we get into the car heading towards our destination, which remains unclear. Due to the sensitive and strategic nature of the locations, precise details of the storage sites are provided to us at the last moment.
This part of the journey left a deep impression on us. The excitement of being on the ground was intertwined with the general anxiety of our surroundings. This feeling was heightened as we drove eastward, the highway narrowing until it merged with the stormy sky in the distance. The surrounding gloom was intensified by the onset of night, with our solitude occasionally interrupted by the wailing siren of an emergency vehicle coming from the opposite direction. Tension filled the air as the deep notes of yet another ballad faded into the cabin of the Renault.
We arrive in the border village of Medyka as night falls. The streetlights are off, the windows are dimmed, and the houses appear unoccupied. Fearing an airstrike from Russia, the Poles have returned to the strategies of their ancestors, who during World War II sheltered in hopes of escaping German bombings.
We pass through two checkpoints where our identities are verified, and we join a long queue that allows us to glimpse what seems to be the last border village in the distance. We move slowly along this road lined with fields swallowed by the night, illuminated only by car headlights and the flashing lights of police vehicles. Many buses, which we assume are filled with refugees, head in the opposite direction. All these flashing lights, along with the new information we receive, ultimately leave us feeling mentally disoriented.
We move slowly, zigzagging between pedestrians, law enforcement, and volunteers until we reach the last checkpoint before the border. Numerous police officers are on site to manage the parking and redirect the extremely high volume of vehicles. The bright lights, the incessant noise of cars, and the long strides of visibly tense officers create a very different atmosphere from earlier. Amid this chaotic situation, we finally manage to exchange a few words with a Polish policewoman who informs us that the unloading location we seek is just past the checkpoint. We turn back, passing through a ghostly village; the atmosphere changes dramatically as we distance ourselves from the crowd. While unloading our supplies under the watchful gaze of the military, we learn that at this very moment, hundreds of thousands of people are gathering at the Polish-Ukrainian border, with entire families abandoning their cars stuck in a traffic jam of over fifty kilometers. The fear of bombings or the lack of fuel has forced them to complete the journey on foot. 'We must help our brothers,' some Polish aid workers say.
As soon as we finish unloading our cargo, we receive a call. Sylvana informs us that we need to head to another border post located fifty kilometers further down. We are to pick up a mother and her two daughters who are about to cross the border, and arrange the first part of their journey to Switzerland; they know some members of the Caravan. We set off once again. We delve deeper into the dense Polish forest, renowned for its reputation: in the pitch-black night, the thick fog surrounding us only heightens our anxiety. We don’t know what to expect. Upon arriving at the small border post of Krościenko, We discover a completely different reality. We quickly dress to face the biting cold and grab our cameras to document the scene. At this border, several humanitarian aid organizations and numerous volunteers are providing assistance to the refugees. Many people are running in every direction, distributing blankets, warm clothes, food, and drinks to the refugees arriving at regular intervals, in a calm manner. While some warm themselves by the fire, others keep their eyes fixed on the border. We understand that they are anxiously awaiting the arrival of their loved ones. For some, fear soon gives way to reunions, tears, and happy endings. For others, the tension remains palpable, and in a heavy silence, they seem unable to look away from the dark road that stretches beyond the border.
After more than an hour exploring the various points of interest in the small makeshift camp, the refugee family we need to pick up arrives. The mother, accompanied by her two young daughters, has fled nearly 650 kilometers. The strength and courage she has had to muster are evident on her face; she looks exhausted, and worry is etched on the girls' faces. We accompany them to the hotel, where the tension slowly eases and the family begins to smile. We then encounter a somewhat surprising issue: the room has been paid for by the... Caravane sans FrontièresThe landlady hadn't realized that three Ukrainian women were going to sleep under her roof. She used the excuse of non-payment to get us out, but we soon realized that this could hardly be anything other than xenophobia. A verbal joust ensues: she doesn't want them in her hotel. We are stunned by such an inhuman lack of consideration. The woman, taking on the airs of a shrew, begins to rant, scream and explode with rage, while the little girls cower in fear. They're not very old, four and six at the most, and they find themselves there, at a late hour, forced to witness a heated altercation they understand nothing about. Indeed, you have to imagine that this lady was just babbling in Polish that nobody understood. It was very difficult for us to communicate with her. The mother, at her wits' end, was also trying to calm things down. In the end, our host let us stay after receiving a bank transfer, which had obviously dissipated his ardor... What emotions we experienced on our first day in Poland.
The next morning, we head towards the nearest major train station. The route takes us through winding country roads. Aléna, the mother, is prone to motion sickness, so we have to stop several times. After some difficulty, we arrive at the Rzeszów train station in the early afternoon. At the entrance, volunteers are grilling sausages and offering free food to anyone who wants it. Nearby, more refugees are arriving from the buses we had seen picking up people at the border the night before. They are supervised by heavily armed Polish police officers. A real scene unfolds around these individuals, with journalists from around the world, volunteers, and amidst it all, a Chinese banner being proudly photographed in front of the bus that is gradually emptying. In the crowded train station hall, women, children, and elderly people wait for their trains. Some families are fortunate to have relatives in Poland, Slovakia, or Hungary and are heading to reunite with them. Others, less fortunate, wait for a train whose destination only represents the unknown. In this room, despite a few children playing, the overall atmosphere is one of resignation, but also of relief, as some take the opportunity to close their eyes and regain strength. We accompany the family onto the train, which is also packed to the brim, ensuring they will be safe. We leave some treats for the girls before saying goodbye. The mother thanks us, and the emotion is visible in her eyes, which begin to well up with tears.
We return to Medyka, this time in broad daylight. Picture a straight road through a gray, wintery plain. The road is under construction, patched in places, with hundreds of vehicles lined up, all heading in the same direction. Buses overtake us, flashing lights and sirens blaring all around. Here, imagination alone isn’t enough to describe the situation. Dozens of vehicles of all types, registered from all over Europe, queue for hours to enter Ukraine. We find the massive line of vehicles waiting to enter Ukraine. Alongside it, there’s a mix of people: caregivers, former soldiers, Ukrainians returning to defend their country, and war reporters. On all their faces, we see the same determination. We pass a young soldier with a French patch, walking with his head down, looking as if he has witnessed something terrifying. Upon reaching the border crossing, we meet another Frenchman, a journalist this time. He shares that he has previously covered a migration crisis in Poland, but of a different nature: in November 2021, many Syrians fleeing the brutal repression of dictator Al-Assad had also rushed to Europe's gates, hoping for asylum. Brought to Belarus by President Lukashenko, they were thrown against Poland's borders, where Frontex had a very different fate in store for them—blamed for their faith and culture. At that time, he tells us, journalists were even prohibited from approaching within two kilometers of the border…
We move on. Ahead of us stands a large transit point for refugees. The small border shop, usually relatively calm, is now overwhelmed. Many people are organizing and sorting various humanitarian supplies. We take photos and videos, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible to those who need to be left alone. However, we witness a rather disturbing spectacle that revolts us both. Some journalists disregard the personal space of these individuals and take photos without their consent, all while staging the suffering of others. We move through the camp and eventually catch sight of the refugees crossing the border. We take our photos; the faces are weary as they arrive by the hundreds. Some come with their children, while others carry frightened animals in their arms. Some elderly people have no luggage at all. The sight of desolation becomes real. Meanwhile, the volunteers are busy. Here too, food, first aid, and warm clothing are being distributed. We try to make one or two children smile, but the task is harder than usual. The cold seems to freeze even the laughter of the children. They continue to arrive every moment. As they pass the final, highly symbolic barrier, some start to cry. After warming up and eating, the refugees are loaded onto buses that take them to the Przemyśl train station, just minutes from the border, where they will then be dispersed throughout Europe.
We drive to the small town and decide to park in front of a large vacant lot in the industrial area. To the left, huge piles of clothing are being sorted by volunteers, while some refugees sift through them, looking for something to help them face the cold. (photo 23)Further along, food stands provide hot meals free of charge to the refugees. Children are given toys and chocolates, bringing a touch of humanity to this chaos. Volunteers bustle around like bees, flitting from one place to another, offering essentials and bags filled with clothes for children or babies.
As night falls, we head to the train station in the city. Like the one in Rzeszów, it is also crowded. Upon entering the hall, we notice it is dominated by journalists from around the world, from French television to Al-Jazeera. A young French speaker explains to a reporter why he is preparing to join Ukraine to fight. Here, cameras reign supreme: filming, broadcasting, capturing sensational images. It's a competition to find the most striking, most sensational shot. A young woman cries in a corner, and instead of offering her a tissue, the Indian television crew zooms in on her with a harsh flash. This is journalism at its worst. We are shocked by what we witness and quickly leave.
We join their Airbnb top officials in the Caravane sans frontières, We exchange a few words about the situation in Ukraine, which is worsening day by day, and the future of our report. They inform us that Aléna and her daughters are en route to Switzerland and that everything is going well. We go to bed early.
The next day, we head to Medyka one last time. We plan to return to Germany that evening and then to Switzerland the following day. At the same border crossing, amidst the general gloom, a street pianist (known as “klavierkunst_” on Instagram) plays. sings Imagine , a Lennon song, an ode to peace that provides comfort in such a context. Some people embrace as they listen. Next to the line for the buses, many are sorting through boxes filled with toys for children. We decide to donate the remaining toys and sweets we have into these boxes, which will surely bring joy to many wounded hearts.We leave the border and head towards Germany. However, we receive a call from Sylvana, who ultimately asks us to join her at a warehouse for humanitarian aid.
We are now joined by Andrew, a young man barely in his thirties whom we picked up in the town of Medyka. He seemed to be wandering through the village with only a sleeping bag as his luggage. His appearance—worn brown jacket, faded jogging pants, and tattered shoes—makes us wonder about his background and what he has experienced. He’s a true Brit, chatty, smiling, and a rock music fan. Although his past is unclear, the bits he shares suggest he is actually homeless. He came to Ukraine just before the war to help the villagers from his late grandfather's hometown, but after the conflict began, he was forced to follow the same path as the refugees and head back. We take him with us to the warehouse, where he is eager to contribute. His willingness is quite touching. We arrive at the warehouse, fill the car, and head back to the border, where we will drop off the supplies at nightfall.
The next day, we drop Andrew off at Krakow station. Our back seat is now empty, and it's inconceivable for us to return to Switzerland empty, especially as many refugees have to wait more than three days for a train to the rest of Europe. So, armed with Google Translate, we start looking for people who would like to make the journey with us. Admittedly, we don't look very reassuring: our beards and technical outfits make us look more like mercenaries than volunteers. After a fruitless half-hour spent surveying all the people waiting in the crowded aisles of the station, we come across a grandmother. We show her our project on Google Translate, but she doesn't seem to understand. A younger woman, holding the hand of a little girl, joins us. We realize that they are one and the same family. We try to make them understand that we want to help them, but the little girl starts to cry. The situation is too stressful for her. We offer to transport them to Dresden, where they might be able to reach Berlin. We were naive to think that they already had a route planned. In reality, nothing was certain for them. We reassured them by calling on a Ukrainian friend in Geneva and a family member who had lived through the war exodus, who explained that we had good intentions. And so we set off for Dresden. Along the way, we learn a little more about each of them. The grandmother's name is Valentina, the mother Anna, and the daughter Yeva. We stop off at a hotel in Dresden, where once again we encounter a few problems. At first, the man at the front desk refused to let them sleep because they didn't have a valid covid certificate... after some deliberation, we managed to convince him to drop the matter. The family, exhausted, heads off for a night's rest, a welcome night's calm after so much emotion.
The next day, the decision is made: they will come with us to Switzerland. We tackle the final part of the journey. Once we pass the German border, Anna relaxes, and tears begin to flow down her cheeks, marked by the events of the past days. This is extremely touching for both of us, and it’s at this moment that we begin to understand, albeit very partially, the psychological toll of what they have all endured. Gradually, smiles begin to appear. Anna takes photos of the Swiss landscapes, while Yeva looks out the car window, commenting on all the new things she discovers under her grandmother's tender gaze.
Our journey thus comes to an end, while the journey for Yeva, Anna, and Valentina is just beginning. We return to our routines as if nothing has happened, resuming our daily distractions. Meanwhile, they must find their footing in their new home in Geneva. They hope every day for the situation to improve so they can return home. This family is very dear to us. We worked hard to find a dance class for Yeva, secure funding, and provide her with dance clothes. But none of this could have happened without the help of many people who are still there today, supporting them. This is what we can do on our scale—and we will continue to do so.
Slava Ukraini.
Marc-Aurèle Barez et Louis Sandro Zarandia
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