In north-east Ukraine, a small truck emblazoned with a jumping kangaroo delivers help to the most vulnerable — and an Australian is behind the wheel.
On roads covered in pot holes and black ice, a convoy of three vans and a truck head towards a frontline town.
Plastered across the side of the trucks is a kangaroo flanked by the Aussie and Ukrainian flag — the logo of the small aid organisation Davaj Ukraine.
Heading into the void are a group of volunteers from Australia, Singapore, Canada and France; they’re on a mission to deliver humanitarian aid to civilians.
The larger, well-known NGOs have no presence here. The risk is outsourced to smaller groups.
Leading the convoy is an old school friend of mine, Daniel “Rusty” Russell.
His home for the past decade had been Poland, but after war broke out, he started Davaj Ukraine and moved to Kharkiv in north-east Ukraine.
After leaving school, I'd heard Rusty had served in the defence force, peacekeeping in East Timor, and that he worked on oil rigs. But apart from the occasional social media message, we hadn't been in touch in over 20 years.
Last year, I saw Rusty was running a crowdfunding campaign to raise money for Davaj Ukraine.
Since the beginning of the war in February 2022, I had wanted to return to Ukraine, having spent three weeks in Kyiv almost a decade earlier documenting the Euromaidan protests — a precursor to the war.
I donated, and sent Rusty a message saying that I might come over to catch up and document the work he is doing. Within a month, my ticket was booked. I flew out on January 1.
Into Ukraine
When Russia invaded Ukraine a year ago, it triggered an emotional response that galvanised the international community.
It's estimated that 20,000 foreigners are currently fighting in the Ukrainian Foreign Legion in a war of attrition with multiple fronts. That also includes the distribution of aid and supplies, with hundreds of volunteers from Australia and elsewhere across the globe working on the ground.
Rusty's organisation is made up of about 12 volunteers and operates solely on donations from crowdfunding campaigns. So far, they've raised more than $150,000.
This small, grassroots outfit, and others like them, manage the distribution of humanitarian aid provided to Ukraine by NGOs and governments.
They drive into frontline towns, providing humanitarian relief as well as supplying battalions and medics.
They evacuate civilians and through a network of donors, facilitate relocations to Austria, Germany and elsewhere.
And with close to eight million displaced people in a population of just over 40 million, the importance of their work can't be underestimated.
I asked Rusty why he felt compelled to help in Ukraine.
"I saw Ukrainians affected by the war in the first week. They couldn't rationalise why this was happening to them. Witnessing the images of helpless elderly and women being run over by tanks in Kyiv was the clincher. There was no reason for this to happen. It infuriated me," he said.
"I was living next door and Russia could easily do the same thing in Poland. I was in a position financially and geographically to do something. Anyone in my shoes and position, I would expect to do the same."
I joined the volunteers on three missions into frontline towns. This is what we found.
Bakhmut, January 10
Hygiene and medical supplies, blankets, winter clothes, World Food Programme kits.
Day 1
Since the beginning of the war, Rusty has established a network of contacts including military intelligence officers, mayors, and ambassadors.
Drop locations were determined by scanning Signal groups where intel is shared on areas that are most hard-hit. Other times it's a phone call.
The first night we met at a bar near our apartment in central Kharkiv to go over the plan. His phone didn't stop ringing and at one point a woman came into the bar to pick up 500 tourniquets.
The plan was to head to Bakhmut — a heavily contested frontline town in Donetsk Oblast. Five drops were to be made. There were talks of Kiwi volunteer Andrew Bagshaw, who was reported missing while running medical evacuations in Soledar, which had just come under Russian control.
An idea was floated by Tenby Powell of Kiwi Kare to drive within a few kilometres of Soledar and fly a drone over the area Andy was last seen in to try to locate his car.
In the morning, we met at a gym and conference centre in Kharkiv now used to store donations. The vans were loaded with water, blankets, medical supplies, and a drone. A convoy of three vans and one vehicle set off for Bakhmut.
With limited daylight, and after stopping for petrol, lunch and numerous checkpoints, it was decided the team would stay the night in Kramatorsk — 50 kilometres from Bakhumt.
The first drop was made to a combat medic trainer from New Zealand, who met the team outside the apartment in Kramatorsk to collect gauze, patches, chest seals, tourniquets and paracetamol. She mentioned that she trained 25 medics and, after being deployed the following day, only 17 returned.
That evening, discussion continued regarding the proposed recon mission to find Andy's vehicle. It was decided the risk was too great, so the idea was scrapped.
But it sparked a larger debate about the role of a volunteer.
Ritchie, another volunteer, talked about the importance of connecting with the location and its people, but not to let it become your identity. Otherwise, you'll stick around too long and, eventually, run out of luck.
Earlier in the trip, I had asked Ritchie — a social worker from Queensland who runs Davaj Ukraine operations in Rusty's absence (while he's working as an oil rig construction superintendent) — why he was here.
"I f**kin' hate bullies," he said.
It was a common sentiment among foreign volunteers. Jason — who runs Canada Way, a team of three who work with Rusty — served in the military and sold his house so he could stay in Ukraine and continue to help.
Many volunteers had a military background and had trouble finding their place as civilians once returning from service; a propensity for personal sacrifice and disdain for bullies underpinned their stories.
Day 2
We set off early the next morning.
Rusty receives a situation report on Bakhmut and the route was confirmed.
The first drop was to an apartment complex where a young girl named Luba lived. She had lost both parents in the war and was now cared for by her grandmother.
Five kilometres before the last checkpoint bordering Bakhmut, we stopped to put on Kevlar vests and helmets.
Passing the checkpoint, the conversation died down as we drove along a stretch of road commonly targeted by Russian artillery.
Luba is always smiling, despite everything. She has a strong spirit.
Every time we visited her, she would greet Rusty the same way: taking a running leap into his arms with a huge smile.
Rusty was similar — unable to speak or understand the language, a smile, hug or kind gesture was his only way to communicate.
In school, Rusty was an instigator, but never of fights. He was quick-witted, defiant, and always in trouble. He recalls the teachers introducing a new punishment to try to deal with him.
It involved attending classes on the senior campus with older students, in hopes they would set an example. It ended up with two senior students being expelled and the trial punishment was scrapped.
Some of these traits that made school challenging for Rusty would later become his strong suit in hostile environments.
Back in Bakhmut, water, blankets and hygiene supplies were dropped off to residents of the building living with no power or water.
Five more drops were made that day — one to a shelter and two aid distribution centres. Two drops of combat medical aid were made to battalions in Bakhmut.
Kurakhove, January 15
1,000 hot meals, 700 food kits, 300 winter blankets, 2 tonnes of water.
Day 1
The team loaded a two-tonne truck and two vans in the morning and set off on the 7-hour journey to Kurakhove.
I was in the van with Pat* from Queensland — 58 years old and a 30-year Australian Defence Force veteran. He fought with the Ukrainian Foreign Legion when the war began, but was discharged after injuring his back when the barracks were bombed a few days after he joined.
When he returned to Australia, he was questioned by the AFP for six hours. He wasn't offered much help for his back and found it tough to adjust to being home, so returned to Ukraine to work for a small NGO.
Pat explained that most people he joined the Legion with were either dead, had lost limbs or were seriously injured. He didn't want me to take photos of him as he was concerned about losing his pension.
We arrived in Kurakhove at 10pm. The local police station offered to put us up for the night in their basement gym. We unloaded sleeping bags and gear then headed to local volunteer Ira's family home for a late dinner.
Our host was in dire circumstances — the city was bombed a few days before, still in a black out, and yet, here this Babushka was, preparing a full spread for 10 people just before midnight.
For the volunteers, it's a moment to decompress and relax. One of the Ukrainians starts singing and they raise their glasses.
Day 2
We drove into Krasnohorivka with a military escort. The truck was left in the centre of town and the vans were loaded with soup, food kits, blankets and water to be taken to areas most needed.
The first drop we made was to an apartment complex, where residents were distraught and desperate. Rusty went down into a bunker adjoined to the apartments where 12 people had been living for seven months.
An elderly woman wept, pleading for the war to end. Normally armed with an unshakable optimism, Rusty struggled to deal with the woman's tears.
After returning to the truck for the final drop, residents came out of their homes. A woman led me around to the backside of the building, pointing to a large hole in the wall. An exposed living room was visible. I didn't understand what she was saying but I realised it was her home.
I made my way back to the truck and there was a large group of people being given soup and blankets. Within five minutes, a mortar round landed nearby. A minute later, a second — closer. People made their way back to their homes. A third mortar landed closer again. It was time to go.
The convoy headed back to Kurakhove where they were staying another night. Standing outside the police station, exhilarated and relieved, the group processed the day's events.
Bakhmut, January 20
Two drops planned. Visit Luba again to present an offer of relocation to Austria.
Day 1
After taking Soledar only a few days earlier, the road we used to enter Bakhmut was no longer accessible, so we took the road from Chavis Yar. The back roads were muddy. The journey was slow. We passed tanks and there was incoming fire as we approached Bakhmut.
Excavators were digging new trenches in the fields to our right, preparing to push back the Ukrainian line of defence. Two kilometres away from our destination, one of the vehicles in the convoy stopped.
One of the volunteers was concerned with the incoming fire, so the plug was pulled. It was a rule that if one person in the convoy decided it was too risky, the mission was cancelled.
Rusty arranged for us to stay the night with a group of American paramedics from Global Outreach Doctors in Sloviansk.
The plan was to gather intel to see if conditions in Bakhmut had changed and look to go back with one of the vans in the morning. We waited for them outside their house, which apparently had heated floorboards. The neighbourhood was pitch black. The stars were so clear, it reminded us of home.
The team of paramedics arrived. It'd been a heavy day. One of them was shot at for the first time. As we were introduced to the group, Rusty met someone he's only ever spoken to over the phone. They hugged like old friends reunited.
That evening, Rusty, the team of GO Docs paramedics, and another American volunteer discussed the escalation in artillery strikes in Bakhmut and projected an increase in evacuations.
Pete Reed led the conversation. Within 45 minutes, the group had devised a plan to manage evacs in the Bakhmut area to be up and running in 48 to 72 hours. They joked about potential names and decided on the BEN: The Bakhmut Evacuation Network.
I chatted with Pete in the smoking room at the back of the house.
He was 33. American. Bright, quick-witted and selfless, a solid communicator. During the meeting, he demanded everyone's input. He asked to be interrupted. There was no ego. He seemed like someone used to putting other people before himself.
We talked about our time in Mosul, where he met his partner.
He told me she was a photographer who'd covered the war in Yemen. He spoke about her with so much admiration.
Pete would be killed two weeks later when his evacuation vehicle was hit by a missile in Bakhmut.
Day 2
The next morning, Rusty received word the lines hadn't changed in Bakhmut and another group of volunteers who were running evacs verified the road from Chavis Yar was still OK to take.
We headed back to Bakhmut. On route to the apartment complex where Luba lives, Rusty spoke with PH* — a French photographer and translator — about how to present the relocation offer to Luba and her grandmother.
He was hoping they would leave with us that day. It was agreed to not be too pushy, but to make sure they were aware that at some point soon Bakhmut may fall, and if that happened, they would have no way of getting out.
We arrived and Luba ran up to Rusty, jumping into his arms. PH presented the A4 sheet that detailed the offer made by a Ukrainian woman now living in Australia. She had an Austrian husband and after hearing of Luba's story, wanted to help her relocate to Austria. Free housing, social assistance, free education, free health care.
Luba's grandmother immediately rejected the offer. She didn't even consider it. She only wanted more food and hygiene products. Rusty was dejected. He distributed the remaining food kits and we left.
On the way back to Kharkiv we stopped in Kostyantnivka to do one last job.
Andrew Bagshaw, the missing NZ volunteer, had since been confirmed dead and Rusty was asked to collect his vehicle and possessions.
Of all the things asked of a volunteer, this seemed like the most unreasonable.
Two more members of Kiwi Kare came to help tow the vehicle. An off-duty soldier who lived in the area took issue with the vehicle being moved. Pretty soon, the local police arrived.
It was dark, muddy and there was no winch on the truck. After standing around in the cold, trying to find a solution, Rusty called it quits for the day.
I'm reminded of a conversation I had with a young aid worker from the US called Alex. He said volunteering is governed by Murphy's law — anything that can go wrong will go wrong.
Rusty said the balance between empathy and self-preservation becomes harder to manage as the conflict — and the suffering of Ukrainians — goes on. The death of volunteers like Andy Bagshaw and Pete Reed puts it in perspective.
"It always haunts me when there's a death in the volunteer community because we never came here to go to those extremes. We came here to create longevity for the resistance and to alleviate pain amongst the helpless," he said.
"Pete Reed was doing what he loved and paid the ultimate price. Our second team behind Peter was also doing what we all came here to do, but luck spared them.
"We want to help the most vulnerable and this can take us to the point where we may not have been willing to go to at the beginning of the war.
"We came here to do one job and we continue to help ease the pain and suffering of the innocent victims, but now we have to battle our internal compass as to how much one helps and how far we're willing to go while not putting ourselves in harm's way."
*Names have been changed.
Credits
Words and photographs: Luke Cody
Editing and production: Leigh Tonkin
