At the start of each trauma course run by the UCD Ukraine Trauma Project, the participants stand to attention for a minute’s silence for fallen comrades – heads bowed, hands by their sides, or with hand on chest. When the speaker says “Slava Ukraini” they answer “Heroyam Slava” in unison. On the wall of the training centre in Kyiv there’s a Ukrainian and an Irish flag, side by side.
In advance of our arrival, three volunteer drivers have driven trucks packed with specialised clinical and training materials from UCD in Dublin to Kyiv.
The trauma course is intensive: eight hours per day for two days. We run three courses over the course of a week – and an extra half-day cardiac resuscitation course.
The project was established in 2022 to provide training in pre-hospital emergency care of trauma-related casualties. We’ve a team of nine – plus interpreters – for 146 participants. We get to know them well. We break into small groups. We mix at coffee breaks and at lunch.
Participants from previous courses drop in to see us if they happen to be in Kyiv. Some of the participants are referred by colleagues who have attended previous courses; this is our seventh trip to Ukraine.
Most of the course participants are in their 20s and 30s; a third are women. Many have distinctive tattoos. “It’ll be easier to identify me if I’m killed,” a young combat medic tells me.
They’re a mix of civilian and military first responders and trainers. Many have come from the front line. Most had no medical experience before the war. I meet a computer programmer, an IT consultant, a plumber, people from all walks of life. Some have more than one job; a business consultant and a psychiatrist both also work as volunteer combat medics.
Some are injured or undergoing medical treatment. An obstetrician/gynaecologist who does regular night shifts on air defence has a large gash on his leg from a recent drone attack. A woman hooked up to an IV drip says it’s the last day of her treatment; she takes notes with her free hand.
The psychiatrist-combat medic tells me that she herself suffers from PTSD, which, she says, helps her treat the physical and mental trauma of her patients.
Some are grieving loved ones. A young woman is wearing a keyring owned by her boyfriend, an army commander who was killed recently. A fitness instructor, she says his death motivated her to train as a combat medic.
Some are injured and grieving. A young vet who had a knee replacement is back working after his leg was shattered by shrapnel; his girlfriend, who was 16 weeks pregnant, was killed in a separate attack. Like him, she was a combat medic. His eyes well up with tears when he tells us his story. Ours do too. .
A woman with pink hair jokes that she tucks it under her helmet so that the Russian drone operators will not spot her. Her humour is mixed with defiance.
One thing that is striking is that no one complains – about the conditions they work under, the geopolitical uncertainty, the fact that combat medics and the injured are targeted by the Russians.
They are keen to learn. One of the vets says that human medicine is easier because you only have to know about one species.
They come from different backgrounds and, if in the military, from different ranks – but you wouldn’t know it. In discussions, each is respectful of what the other has to say. They clap each other when they do presentations or demonstrate the new skills they have learned.
On the day I read on my phone about toxicity among medical staff in an Irish hospital, a dentist – who is now a medical instructor – compliments the members of our small group teaching session on their skill and courage; the group includes a historian, one of the vets, an electrician, a mechanic and a kindergarten teacher.
They know that many Ukrainians have come to Ireland since the start of the war and that the Irish Government stands with Ukraine.
I meet no one who thinks the war will end soon.
Uliana, a tactical medicine trainer and artist, explains that Ukraine must only negotiate from a position of strength – otherwise, the Russians will come back. She is softly spoken but there is a steely determination in her voice.
On the day it is announced that 40 Russian bombers were hit by Ukrainian drones, no one mentions it. They are focused on the job they are doing.
An ambulance evacuation medic who works on the front line googles UCD. “It says UCD is a global university. Is that why you’re all here?” he asks me. He’s carrying an emergency kit bag with a UCD sticker. I give him a UCD pin badge. It’s as good an explanation as any.
The UCD Ukraine Trauma Project was set up by Prof Gerard Bury – and is supported by UCD, UCD Foundation, HSE Global Health, the Irish Red Cross, and philanthropy; Prof Chris Fitzpatrick is its vice-chair.
