Enraged by the horrors unfolding after the Russian invasion, Jeff Farrell took leave from his newspaper job to go to Ukraine and report on the war
On the frontline in Ukraine A
n air raid siren wails. An explosion erupts, a deep rumble, and the ground vibrates. Lights flash on and off in cafes and bars. People who had been sipping cocktails and beers run for shelter under an archway below a building.
This is the city centre of Lviv in western Ukraine in late
spring. I was standing with two rucksacks bound for the train to Kyiv, a 15-hour railway trip east. I had been in Lviv for two days and wanted to make my way slowly towards the front line in the east to see some action. Now I have stopped in my tracks. The ground still vibrating. I’m confused. My eyes darting. My heart pounding. Should I run with others for shelter under the archway or take cover in the bomb shelter back in my hotel three blocks away? I decide on the latter and whip out my phone and film
myself rushing to the hotel. A soldier standing bravely on the corner hears me talking in English as I film, my words fast and blurted, and shouts: “Get back to your hotel.” I rush down the steps into the restaurant-cum-bomb
shelter in my hotel on Lista Street. The guests are a mix of Americans, one is ex military and the other is a security contractor, and Ukrainian guests. Swilling beer. Finishing dinner. The only one in a panic is me. Julia, the bartender, casually pulls the beer tap, filling a glass. “I can’t believe it,” I said, “I’ve never heard a bomb in my life.” She shrugs. “I’m not afraid,” she says, serving me the drink.
“You get used to it.” I sip my beer, gripping the glass to stop my
hand trembling. I now feel embarrassed to be rattled. I had considered myself a hardened journalist. A decade ago, I wrapped up a three-year stint as a freelance stringer/ correspondent in South America. For one story that I turned into a book (The Cocaine Diaries), I went into prisons in Venezuela to interview drug mules. The inmates were armed with machine guns and grenades. In Colombia, I interviewed Pablo Escobar’s top hitman, the now late Jhon
12 | theJournalist “
I’m no soldier. I can, however, arm myself with a pen and notebook and give people a voice
Jairo Velásquez, also known as Popeye. I was in dangerous places talking to bad people. Roll on the years and I worked as a reporter in London for
about five years, working for most of the national press. I was bored, however, as most of my reporting involved sitting at a desk. I was restless. I quit reporting and moved sideways into subediting. I was still sitting at a desk but at least I had my mornings free to write a novel. Later, I headed home to Dublin to sub for the Irish Daily Star – my reporting days and South America gung-ho journalism long behind me. That was until Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24. I was enraged at the horrors that later unfolded. Mass graves. Cities levelled. Images of charred bodies after bombing attacks. Women and children killed. Raped. Tortured. I was furious at this war on our doorstep in Europe. If I were a military man I might pick up a gun and head to the eastern frontline. Join the some 20,000 foreign fighters said to be here. But I’m no soldier. I can, however, arm myself with a pen and notebook and give people a voice.
Left: uniform of UK ex military
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