Isobel Koshiw: ‘There must have been more than 100 bodies lying in the courtyard’
There are so many moments that stand out in my mind. We were driving through Kharkiv in March, a week after Russian airstrikes destroyed a lot of the city centre. It was empty, the windows on almost every building blown out by the blasts and courtyards full of rubble. Dima Yatsenko, our driver at the time, turned to me and said: “It’s like I’m in a nightmare.”
On that same trip to Kharkiv, we went to interview the head of one of the city’s morgues. We were standing in front of the gates and were told his office was on the other side of the courtyard. We began walking through but suddenly stopped in shock. There were more than 100 bodies lying in the courtyard, some in body bags piled on top of each other, some wrapped in blankets or sheets with bits sticking out. My immediate reaction was to turn back and walk out. In any case, a man came to tell us that they didn’t want us there.
Months later, when the Ukrainians conducted a lightning offensive in Kharkiv, our team was able to reach nearby Izium. It was an amazing moment. People stared at us – we were their first visitors after the military and police. Lots of people burst into tears while talking to us. When we walked into the city administration building, the ground was still hot because a missile had hit only a few hours earlier.
Dan Boffey: ‘She seemed so utterly lost’
The day I arrived in Bucha, north of Kyiv, shortly after the Russians had retreated from the town, will live with me for ever. The violence perpetuated there was so overwhelming, from the pools of Russian blood in the cratered homes to the bodies freshly buried in the front gardens. But it was the testimony of Zinaida Grynenko, 61, that made the most profound impression.
Her son-in-law had been found dead the previous morning. She had been led to the man’s body, riddled with bullets, as she had emerged from her cellar after weeks in hiding. Zinaida had a scrap of paper in her hand.
A few weeks earlier her daughter had sent her husband out to get some supplies from an abandoned neighbour’s home. He had disappeared. His wife had subsequently evacuated with their 16-year-old son.
The piece of paper in Zinaida’s hand had been found on her son-in-law’s body. It was the wishlist of items he had been asked to pick up.
Zinaida was yet to break the news of the man’s death to her daughter. She said her grandson would be utterly broken and had no idea how to tell him. Despite standing outside her own home, she seemed so utterly lost.
Emma Graham-Harrison: ‘Ukraine’s extraordinary response to extraordinary horror’
As the first Russian missiles hit Ukraine, I was on a sleeper train rattling across the countryside to Kyiv. My editor had called to say that after several false alarms, the invasion was really happening. I knew I needed to sleep, but I couldn’t.
So I stared out the window at rows of bare trees hung with balls of mistletoe, and waited for Ukrainians on the bunks around me – it was an open, third-class carriage – to wake to their new reality.
The train was coming from Mariupol, a city targeted from the very start with such ferocity that it became international shorthand for Russian war crimes.
I wondered how I would react if I woke to news London had been invaded, with my family and so many people I loved trapped in its streets and houses. Would I cry, scream, collapse?
As light filtered into the carriage, passengers around me opened their eyes, checked their phones, overheard the hushed, urgent conversations of their neighbours. As the news spread, there was shock, sadness, fear – but no tears or shouting. Just a stoical evaluation of what to do next.
Those first few hours of the war were undramatic, but they have stayed with me – my introduction to the pragmatism, courage and determination that I would come to know so well, Ukraine’s extraordinary response to extraordinary horror.
Luke Harding: ‘We are a kilometre away from the Russian army’
The plan was simple: meet a Ukrainian commander outside the city of Donetsk. The trip, inevitably, meant driving towards the frontline. We headed towards the Ukrainian-controlled town of Kurakhove. It was late afternoon. The route was picturesque. We drove over a lake and into the city centre. The commander was nowhere to be seen. After a few phone calls, he told us to meet him at a forward position near the town of Marinka. The Russian army controlled the eastern half of Marinka, the Ukrainians the western sector.
At a checkpoint Ukrainian soldiers were reluctant to let us through. We kept going, past mostly abandoned houses and gardens. Where was the commander? A few kilometres further on, the mood got ominous. “Guys, we are a kilometre away from the Russian army,” our security adviser, Adam, pointed out. We put on flak jackets and helmets. I noted a cylindrical object in the middle of the road: an enemy Grad missile. And the commander’s black vehicle, parked up next to a shed. I jumped out and shook his hand.
The same second there was a whistle: the Russians were lobbing shells in our direction. One exploded nearby. Then a second whistle.
We said a hasty farewell to the commander, jumped into our Mercedes van and drove off at speed, laughing nervously and cursing our mistake.
I have been a Guardian foreign correspondent since 2000. It was my shortest interview: no question was asked, no answer given.
Five minutes later, we began to relax. On the same spooky road, we passed a man mowing his front lawn, seemingly indifferent to the sounds of battle all around.
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Dan Sabbagh: ‘The ordinary people caught up in a pointless war’
The moments that most stand out for me are those of personal connection with Ukrainians, living in very different circumstances to my own, and the kindness they have shown a total stranger.
I met Nina, in her late 60s, in Mykolaiv in October. She had recently returned to the city, despite Russian bombing, because she thought things would improve. At the end of our chat, Nina held out her hand, fingers curled down, and said: “I’m so glad you’ve come.” I can still feel her grasp.
Ordinary Ukrainians are so generous with their time and stories. Tamara Leodinivna’s house, in a village south of Chernihiv, had been destroyed in the early stages of the war. She willingly relived the violent period of occupation. Then she added: “Thank you for coming to our benighted village.” Her gratitude was so touching. Nothing matters more than stories of ordinary people caught up in this pointless war.
Katerina is a dental surgeon from Mariupol who lost everything including her livelihood. I met her working for the Red Cross in Kyiv. She is ethnically Russian but had long ago chosen to live in Ukraine. I mentioned her in this piece, but it doesn’t capture her passion. I’ll never forget Katerina explaining her choice to be Ukrainian, and what she felt about the Russian invasion, in this small Red Cross office in Kyiv in August. Before he could begin translating it, I could see that it had moved my colleague Artem almost to tears.
