Two months of vacation in Ukraine convinced me that Ukraine has not surrendered — and never will. People live with faith in victory, in a better, brighter future. Yes, life is very hard now — low salaries and pensions, rising prices for food, utilities, transport, and services — all this weighs heavily on people’s hearts. But the worst part is the daily loss of the nation’s best sons and daughters — the brave soldiers of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. Yet despite all the pain and hardship, life goes on: adults go to work, children to school, institutions operate, logistics functions — the state, the country lives and develops. And all this fills the heart with faith and hope.
I would like to share a few sketches, new impressions from my stay in the small Galician town of Boryslav. Once, this town was a center of oil and ozokerite extraction in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a cradle of the workers’ movement. Recall Ivan Franko’s story “Boryslav Laughs.” Over time, the deposits were exhausted, the town lost its former importance, and now it lives quietly and modestly, like thousands of others across Ukraine.
In the center of town stands the Alley of Glory, dedicated to Boryslav residents who died in the war. Their portraits seem to look reproachfully at us, the living — at times preoccupied with trivial problems, forgetting the essence of life and the beauty of the surrounding world. Their eyes gaze at passersby, leaving no one indifferent. Someone always comes here — lays flowers, bows, stands in sorrow. With each passing year, month, week, the row of portraits grows longer (may the Muscovites be cursed forever). It is an Alley of Glory and of Grief.
Several times I witnessed a funeral procession passing by, carrying a fallen soldier to church. A slow, mournful cortege moves through the streets, accompanied by flags and standards. People along the road cross themselves, kneel, and bow. Every day at 9 a.m., from loudspeakers in churches, in public transport, on the radio, and television — a minute of silence is held. People rise, stop whatever they are doing, and honor the fallen with silence.
I was deeply moved by the children, the school students. When they walk to school and meet you, they greet you and wish you a good day. When they ride the bus, they thank the driver for stopping. Clean, bright, well-mannered kids. My acquaintance says this is typical of the provinces, that big cities are different. Maybe so — but “the province,” Boryslav, brought me joy. Sometimes the province matters more than the center.
Despite the hardships and burdens, people are generally kind and open-hearted. When you ask for help, they never pass by — they explain, show, advise. They are patient with themselves and with others. In my opinion, the most defining trait of a Ukrainian is patience — perhaps sometimes even excessive patience and tolerance.
Here’s an example. A bus trip from Lviv to Kraków through the Krakivets border crossing usually takes about 5–6 hours, depending on traffic. Our trip lasted 13 hours (we left Lviv at 1 p.m. and arrived in Kraków at 2 a.m.). Why? About a month ago, the Polish authorities introduced a new rule: all Ukrainians crossing the border must provide fingerprints and an iris scan. The procedure now takes more than twice as long. To avoid such delays, the Polish side should have increased the number of officers handling this. But no — everything remained as before, with only one or two officers working. The burden of waiting was shifted onto Ukrainians. Processing one bus takes over an hour. If your bus happens to be twelfth in line, count for yourself how long you must wait — twelve hours to cross the narrow strip of land from the Ukrainian gate to the Polish one. Passengers were not prepared for this; no one had warned them. They had to endure it — going in and out of the bus dozens of times, finding something to eat or drink, or looking for restrooms. Among them were small children, elderly people, and the sick. Many passengers, unprepared for such delays, missed their connecting flights and trains they had booked in advance.
Meanwhile, enterprising young men, aware of the situation, boarded the bus offering — for 40 euros — to take passengers across the border within an hour by minibus. Only a few agreed. Somewhere along the way, exhausted people gathered into a crowd, forming something like a small protest. The border guards tried to calm them, saying it was not their fault but the Poles’. People began calling the Ukrainian consulate — no one answered, as the working day had ended; the hotline didn’t answer either. And that was it. The weary passengers dispersed and obediently waited for their turn — which barely moved. So one wonders: do Ukrainian consulates and embassies not know what is happening, how people are being tormented at the border? Of course they know, but they do nothing to improve the situation. During processing, one passenger asked a Polish officer, “Why are you treating people like this?” The woman didn’t even reply. That, it seems, is the attitude toward Ukrainians. Would the Poles behave this way with Germans, French, or Americans? What would happen then? But with Ukrainians — they can, because Ukrainians are patient.
Thus my trip to Ukraine ended with this unpleasant episode. It will, of course, soon be forgotten, because there were many more positive emotions — good meetings, conversations, and experiences. My faith in the strength of the Ukrainian people, in their resilience and their future, has only grown stronger. The most important thing is that Ukraine lives and fights. It exists — and will always exist.
Glory to Ukraine!
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