The Refugees

Jim here. I've highjacked Sharman's blog. I hope she doesn't mind. This morning when we awoke at 4 a.m. and it was rainy, cold, and breezy outside, it seemed like a good day to sleep in a bit. But then you think of the refugees who will be waiting at the train station, coming from the worst of circumstances, who don't have the luxury of a warm bed or who have been traveling for days after escaping their bombed cities and destroyed homes. Then, strangely, I can't think of a good reason to stay in bed. 

Normally, we walk to the train station, but today we drove, since it would be easier and faster to leave directly from there to go to church services at 10 a.m. We arrived at 5am and entered the station. Most of the area where passengers pass their time is in a breezeway, with a tall metal girding overhead (which serves as prime resting spots for the dozens of pigeons that reside there), covered with a thin layer of metal or wood, uninsulated. I imagine it looks much the same as it did in 1872 when it was originally built. The breezeway area directly feeds the train platforms without doors or walls or heating to protect you from the weather. You can hear the rain overhead and see the puddles developing below where the roof leaks. On the sides of the structure are enclosed waiting areas, ticket counters, and coffee shops, McDonalds, Subway, and KFC. Thousands of people pass through the station each day in the heart of Romania's largest city.

One day they were filming a scene for a TV show in the main hall of the train station.

Already, as soon as we arrived, there were several Ukrainians who found us in our volunteer vests, seeking our help. The first man needed help to Berlin, and then a woman and a baby he encountered on his travels to Bucharest decided also to go to Berlin. What do they do? How do they get there? Do they have to pay? How soon can they move on? Where can they sit and get a cup of coffee and a bite to eat until they move on? Is there a toilet that does not cost? There is anxiety and nervousness in their faces and their voices. I'm able to reassure them when I speak Russian and help them to the ticket area to procure tickets. And immediately, others see my orange vest and surround me with inquiries. Can I get to Bulgaria? I need to go to Vienna. Can you help me get to Budapest? It comes in waves and then calms down. There are no written instructions. We learn from other volunteers, the firemen and policemen, and other missionaries who have spent time there. We just learn as we go, and we work with the weary travelers to figure out next steps. The women at Ticket Counter #1 are used to seeing us and other volunteers. I'm sure they get frustrated at times with the indecision, the changes, the confusion they encounter. Mostly, they are patient and kind. One day, one of the ticket counter women got frustrated with me because I had to make some changes that were annoying. Later, I found some flowers and gave them to her and said thank you. She's been much more patient with me ever since. 

The Romanian government funds all in-country train travel for the refugees, as do Bulgaria, Slovakia, and Hungary. Others may as well, but at least these are the Romanian neighbors who cooperate to help the refugees get to their destinations. For cross-border travel, there is a fee of three euros per person. I can usually tell when they don't have any money. Sometimes I will ask if they have the money for the fee, and sometimes they just look at me and shrug their shoulders and say I have nothing. Other times they hesitate, and that moment of hesitation tells me all I need to know. And for some others, it is not a problem. If they hesitate or say they don't have any money or if I can see that they are destitute, I tell them not to worry, that it's covered. And that small gesture yields another moment of relief. I can see the face of the woman from Mariupol as she says, despairingly, we had to leave so suddenly, and this is all we have. Our paths intersect sometimes for a brief moment, maybe for a few minutes, or 30 minutes or intermittently for a few hours as they wait for the next train. There isn't time to develop a relationship, and we will never see each other again. I want to remember each person's story, each face, because each is significant, worth remembering, but then the next person comes along, and it kind of flows together. I feel bad that that is so, like I should have that person's face and story etched in my mind forever.

This Ukrainian mother and daughter asked to take a photo with Jim.  

We try to meet the Ukrainians as they depart from an arriving train so that we can help them along. It's usually fairly easy to pick them out. It's usually women (maybe a grandmother, mother, and children) with a few bags, lingering for a moment as they figure out what to do. We ask, Are you Ukrainian? And then we ask how can we help? Most are so relieved to have that help from all of the volunteers, and for those who don't speak English, when I speak in my not-great but passable Russian, they calm down a bit because help is there. We ask where they are going, whether they have tickets, do they have a place to stay, would they like something to eat and drink. Mostly, they need train tickets to the next place and a temporary place to rest, although many have stayed in the Bucharest area in refugee centers. I try not to be too inquisitive because I realize that most do not want to unload on a stranger and the subject matter is so tender, particularly after riding on the train, sometimes for many days, after escaping the death and destruction of their cities and homes. And I need to keep my emotions in check so that I don't bring to the surface in the refugees something that just makes the situation even more difficult. But I usually will ask where they are from. And when they tell me Mykolaiv, Kherson, Donbas, Kharkiv, Mariupol, Kramatorsk, and other city names, I can look at them and acknowledge that I'm sorry and I understand in a small way that they have come from such horrible circumstances. That little bit of acknowledgement yields a tiny moment of connection when they realize that someone else knows and cares. Since my Russian is just ok, they can tell that I'm not native Ukrainian or Russian, so I sometimes tell them that Sharman and I have come from the U.S. just to help with the Ukrainian refugees, and that is a big deal to them. Wow, you really came just to help us? That's right, because we know that this is so very hard for you and that you've lost so much. This is just a small way for us to show our support. Every time, they are so grateful and glad to have this fleeting friend. Occasionally, just the question, Where are you from?, brings tears, because that brings to the surface all that they have left behind. And occasionally, I will squeeze their shoulder and say I'm sorry. You are safe now. 

Sharman has taken on herself the impossible task of trying to maintain a tiny bit of order in Red Cross Tent #3 where there are piles and piles of clothing donations. She wonders if it does any good, since it will never be completely organized. But I was with her today when she found a warm coat for a young boy that was a perfect fit and would protect him from the rain and cold. Mom was so thankful. And then she found some shoes and socks for an infant. And some other clothes for a mom. We found some inexpensive trainer shoes that we added to the shoe pile this week but which but were gone two days later. The simplest of things are significant.

No matter what progress is made the day before...it's chaos the next day. Sisyphus comes to mind...

Some roller bags and shoes for refugees that need them.

Although the stories and faces kind of meld together, some stick out. Like the woman and her two young children and mother who had been on the train for five days, escaping the unending bombing in Mariupol. They had been living outside for a few weeks since their apartment was destroyed, cooking whatever they could find over a fire, which she says was unimaginable. There was no water, no sanitation, but they managed to escape, then to endure a long, slow train ride with poor food, bad water, and poor hygiene. The kids were sick to their stomachs. How can we possibly ever really empathize? We can't. We helped her get some medication, some food, a place to rest, and arrangements for next step. There was the woman from Mykolaiv whose face was filled with angst and stress. The tension was obvious, and the reason for it became evident. Not only had she escaped horrible circumstances, but she was responsible for her sick mother, and two mentally challenged family members. It was all on her shoulders. And she didn't know what to do. It took a while to help her out and to try to ease some of that anxiety. We have learned quickly not to judge someone who may be a little short or impatient, because we can never understand what they have gone through. There was the male college student, originally from Azerbaijan, who was studying in Kharkiv, and was on the street, about 100 yards away, when a bomb landed on an apartment building. He said the destruction was awful. I helped him get an Uber ride to the bus station so he could meet his brother in Berlin. He proudly told me about his mother, who is the director of an art museum in Azerbaijan. He gave me her telephone number in case I visit. 

I want to tell you all of the stories. I wish I could. Relative to the pain these Ukrainians suffer, being here in Bucharest at the train station seems a small thing. But we directly see that in those moments, we are able to provide at least a little comfort and reassurance for which they are so grateful. That provides all the satisfaction in the world to us and it blesses our lives forever. And I am so thankful to share this experience with Sharman. She is the best. We are grateful for your prayers and support and for your prayers for those who suffer so much. On this Easter Sunday, I think of the Savior and the gift he offers us. I don't know exactly how or when, but I believe that He will provide a way for these souls, these refugees, a way to heal and have peace. Some day.