Air raid sirens rang out as Vadym Ovcharenko entered the hotel lobby in downtown Zaporizhzhia, a smile appearing on his face. “Not like back home, is it?”
“You can see how real the war is now. On TV it seems so different, but now that you’re here, you can see how it really is. It’s hell, that is the only way I can describe it. People talk about going to heaven or hell, well I’m already here.”
Vadym, a painter, has called the Dublin suburb of Blanchardstown home for more than two decades since arriving with his wife in 2001. He also has two children, with his daughter working in the Mater hospital and his son studying at Trinity College. However, he was forced to leave behind what he labelled “the Irish dream” 19 months ago when Russia’s invasion of Ukraine began.
“I had a comfortable life, it was perfect, or so I thought,” he said. “But now I have seen the two sides of life. Before the war was a different time, that life is over. This new life doesn’t seem real. I’m afraid to close my eyes at night in case someone else ends up closing them for me”.
The decision for the 51-year-old to leave his family behind for the front line was heart-wrenching. “It’s very tough being away from them for so long. Every day I send them a video being like ‘Hello, I’m still alive, nothing has happened to me!’ When they see me visually it is easier for them, so I try to do that at least once a day.
“I’m so proud of them. It is so hard seeing them grow older and mature while I am not around. I would love for them to be able to visit me but I don’t want to put them in danger. I think about them all the time.”
But the decision was one he had to make. “If England invaded Ireland what would you do? I know what you would do ... Irish people are like Ukrainians, they would fight for their land, for their country, for its people.”
He is also grateful for the strong support his adoptive country has shown Ukraine. “What Ireland has done for such a small country is amazing,” he said. “So many people have been helped and taken in and it shows how much the Irish people care. Ukrainians will not forget how Ireland helped us when we needed it most.”
The transition from family man to fighter was a big one, but adapting to the gruesome nature of war was easier than many might think. “People just have something deep inside of them,” he said. “You just find a way to deal with it, it’s like an intuition on how to fight and keep on going no matter what is happening around you.”
“From my first day, I could feel the hand of death trying to grab me. It was as if time stopped. It really was like a movie. As the bombs are dropping or the bullets are flying, everything enters a state of slow-motion. The ringing in your ears lasts for days afterwards.
“All you’re thinking about in those moments is about asking God to help you, because you can’t do anything to save yourself. For example, at the start of the war we were driving a jeep down a country road when all of a sudden we hit a roadblock. Next thing we know eight shells start to land around us, each getting closer than the last. You are just sat there, praying, hoping that the next one doesn’t land just a few metres closer.”
Clearly lacking in sleep, Vadym leant back into his gaudy Queen Anne chair and let out an exasperated sigh as I asked what the hardest part of day-to-day life on the front lines is. “This is the life of an animal. Each day I just try to survive. I made a promise to my family that I would come back alive though and that is one I’m trying so hard to keep.”
Vadym has already managed to make good on that promise once, returning home in October for two weeks respite from the frontline after receiving special dispensation from the Ukrainian authorities to briefly circumvent the country’s wartime rules, which forbid any man between 18 and 60 from leaving.
It was the “perfect” fortnight, according to Vadym, who says that he thought about the moment he would see his family again every night since he departed. “I have never appreciated the little things so much,” he says. “Every morning I would walk down to SuperValu and wait for them to open at 8am. I’d buy myself a croissant and orange juice and it was like being in heaven.”
Ultimately though, this fleeting visit came to an all-too-soon conclusion, with Vadym back on Ukrainian soil once again, not knowing when the next time he sees his family will be.
Back in spring, he was adamant that he would stay and fight to the bitter end, but a further six months of witnessing slaughter first-hand has changed his perspective.
“When I decided to come here last year, I thought I was a strong man, afraid of nothing. But this is no longer true. In reality, I am an old man. I’m 51 years old now and physically it’s hard, very, very hard,” he said.
Any future permanent departure is made trickier by the fact Vadym travelled to his homeland on a Ukrainian passport, and not an Irish one, meaning his movements are at the behest of Ukrainian authorities. Should this permanent return to Ireland come to pass, he is acutely aware of the challenges of trying to assimilate back into normal society.
“That’s a big problem that boys have been having here, I’m very aware of it. It can be such a struggle but no one talks about it. Spending so much time around death must have an impact. I know for me, the things I have seen and experienced will live very deep inside of me, and I don’t think I will forget some of them.
“A problem here is solved by shooting or violence, but when you go back to the real world you have to deal with problems in another way and a lot of people can’t cope.”
