IRPIN (KIEV). We arrived in Irpin, the sky is leaden and in the background columns of dense and dark smoke are climbing upwards disturbed by the north wind: that is Bucha, which has fallen into the hands of the Russians.
The road is littered with Friesian horses and trees cut down to create barricades. As soon as we get out of the car a crackling roar confirms that we have arrived on one of the fronts of the battle of Kiev. The rockets, when they fall close, no longer emit dull thuds like those heard in the distance from Maidan square: the noise is deafening, thunderous, and the earth trembles.
For Russia, President Zelensky fled to Poland, but he denies it shortly afterwards, even if it is not known where he is for security reasons after having escaped three attacks. As every day, he addresses the Europeans: “Help us, we need tougher sanctions”, and he compares the Russians to the Nazis.
On the streets of Irpin, groups of frightened civilians are seen with bags, suitcases and animals in their carriers. A soldier with his Ak47 over his shoulder carries a shopping trolley with hygienic products for children, walking briskly. Another roar and we push forward in the direction of the front heading towards a destroyed bridge: it was blasted by the Ukrainian army to try to stop the advance towards Kiev.
The bridge is cut off, a white van has fallen and smashed into the chasm below, the Irpin River flows quickly and nervously among the debris and the reinforced concrete blocks that obstruct its path.
From above we see a human chain that crosses the watercourse trying not to fall off a wooden walkway made slippery by the mud of the shoes of too many people who want to leave that country ravaged by fighting. Other missiles fall nearby, but no one seems to notice. It’s too late to think about a rocket and its devastating effects after you’ve heard it.
A young military man holds out his hand to these disoriented people to help them change sides and climb the stairs towards the street: he squeezes them tightly, pulling them towards him. Let’s go down those stairs to human misery. When you get to the water level, there is a balustrade, but it is not a railing, it is the drainage pipes that passed under the bridge road. All this is surreal, but the war teaches that reality can go further than the imagination.
People pass by, the explosions continue and photographs are taken. The click of the camera marks the moments, underlines the gestures of the people, blocks the glances. You decide when to stop time.
Arriving on the other side of the Irpin River, you stop and look back, the waves are agitated, the water is green and the foam is ivory. Militiamen pass by with some crates of ammunition, asking not to photograph. Resistance needs confidentiality to exist. In theory, you couldn’t be there, the damned Ministry of Defense accreditation hasn’t arrived yet, but they don’t look at the documents since we arrived during the clashes. There is no time for formalities during a missile attack.
An elderly lady approaches with a walker and what her son could be supports her: one wonders how she can cross that slimy walkway. She has to ask herself the same question too, because once she sees that treacherous passage she stops and sighs, her eyebrows snap towards each other, her pupils tremble and her forehead wrinkles more and more. It seems to feel the lump in the throat of that woman too old to flee the war quickly.
Three soldiers stand guard under the bridge, a colleague offers them cigarettes which they gladly accept. Meanwhile, people pass with difficulty, the river flows and the rockets fall.
There are stairs to go up to the other stump of the bridge, the road is a couple of kilometers long and deserted, a van goes back and forth to bring people to safety. Three other soldiers seated with a nearby bazooka, the kind capable of taking down even a helicopter, look at the smoke screens coming from Bucha. Everyone is wondering how tough the battle over there can be. Bucha fell into the hands of the Russians again and is a few thousand meters away.
The minibuses carrying civilians have no fuel to continue commuting and when the civilians stop moving, hostilities escalate.
Crossing the river again I notice a soldier who medicates a large wounded dog, docile and affectionate, which however feels pain and strokes the arm of the military doctor who is treating him with his left paw.
On the way back, one of the many barricades built with tires filled with earth is bigger than the others, so we decide to stop to document families and children preparing Molotov cocktails, the symbol of resistance in Ukraine.
A woman calls us, sees us cold, offers us hot coffee and biscuits, we gladly accept. Her gaze is sincere and she is happy to put a lot of sugar in the cup. In war, hatred is blind, but love sees very well.
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