(This story is part of the refugee exodus coverage from Ukraine to Romania in March 2022 to support CashForRefugees fundraising efforts)

When we arrived to the Romanian border, we got a heads up from the previous crew: watch out, the hardest day is going to be Day 2.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

For me, Day 1 was brutal: the unmeasurable, albeit often silent grief of over 250 huddles of refugees crossing into Romania from Ukraine washed over me like acid rain. By the end of the day, my spine was on fire. I was in more physical pain than I ever experienced in my life. And yet, all I did was stand there and meet survivors walking over the border. I never was in any real danger. On my shift I had unlimited access to food, a warm tent to sit down and was surrounded by friendly faces of a whole tent city of volunteers. As a long-time documentary field producer, I was more than physically used to spending a day on my feet in whatever weather, dealing with whatever stuff.

Just not stuff like this.

By the end of the day, I couldn’t help moaning out loud from what felt like a blazing hot, rusty nail driven right into the top of my spine.

I thought then fine, this must the hardest day. And it’s still nothing to what the actual refugees have experienced so I’m going to sleep it off and will pull myself together in no time.

Day 2, bring it on.

The following days the acute pain got replaced by a bit more measurable physical and emotional fatigue that felt a lot more ‘normal’. And I thought ok, I got this.

On Day 4, I noticed something weird: I started seeing the same woman’s face, coming over the border, from different cities, in different clothes, under the different names. But the face was the same. That gave me real terror. I have a very good memory for faces. If I met a subject 10 years ago, I would recognize them 10 years later from a mile away, in a different light, with no error.

And yet, I kept seeing her, again and again.

On Day 5, I started seeing the same boy: about 6 years old, sunken cheeks, grey knitted hat, clutching a toy, with a vacant gaze. I want to say his name was Egor. Or maybe Igor. Or maybe Mykola. I couldn’t tell but I knew I had seen him way too often.

Then came the last night before our shift was over. That felt like the hardest day again because I couldn’t tear myself from the site. I felt like walking away was a betrayal of humanity. I wanted to stay all night. A teammate dragged me away reasoning we have a whole new team in place and they will take over with fresh energy and it will be better for everyone. I listened, but it felt like I left half of my skin at that border crossing.

Driving to the airport was devastating. I kept thinking what if a woman walks over and there is nobody – there is not me – to meet her on the safe side. Logically I knew it wasn’t the case, there is always a crowd of volunteers at the border, but logic didn’t carry its usual weight at the moment.

When I finally came home to LAX, the border agent asked me why I went to Romania and I told him. He said “and how was it” and my face made him stamp my passport and waive me through extra fast.

I’ve been home for several days now. Turns out, the hardest day is every day, whether you are at the border or back in the safety of your own home. Irpin, Mariupol, and now Bucha. It’s impossible not to read the news every morning. But it’s more impossible to live with them.

The blazing hot rusty nail made a home inside the top of my spine. I wake up, take a walk, make breakfast, sit down to work, grateful for distraction and the ability to do something good for the world through my work. When the night falls, I try to stay asleep as long as I can, even through the nightmares, because that’s better than being awake.

Because every awake second of every day I feel the rusty nail inside, as my flesh festers around it, slowly but steadily brewing the poison that circulates throughout my whole body, pooling inside my heart.

Irpin. Mariupol. Bucha.

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