It was late February 18, 2022 when Andreza Matais, EditorinChief of Estao in Brasilia, gave me the mission. I was at Budapest, after Jair Bolsonaro’s meeting with farright Prime Minister Viktor Orbán.
The idea was to extend the trip a few more days and count the ‘prewar period’ if a conflict intervened Russia It is Ukraine it seemed imminent, but there was no date for it.
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Or would I go back Moscowwhere a week before reported on the meeting between Bolsonaro and Vladimir Putin; or went to Kyiv, the Ukrainian capital. Visa restrictions imposed by Moscow or fate, who knows led me to the country that would be invaded days later.
By the night of the 23rd, diplomatic channels were exhausted. The President of Ukraine, Volodmir Zelenskyycalled Putin and was not answered. War was near.
The almost unanimous opinion was that the Attack, if it happened, would not hit Kiev, 700 kilometers from the border. While the goal was never to report on the conflict itself, the plan was to pack your bags, sleep and get out of there the next day by plane or train. It wasn’t time.
My phone rang at 3am with the warning that Putin announced the invasion. For someone born in the 1990s in a peaceful country like Brazil, in the middle of a War was almost surreal.
I took my packed suitcase, went down to the hotel lobby and very early in the morning called the exChancellor Carlos Francewho put me in touch with the Brazilian Ambassador to Ukraine, Norton Rapesta.
From below I heard the first bomb being dropped on Kiev. Putin surprised the experts. The war would also take place in the heart of Ukraine. With the story unfolding before me, plans changed at that moment. It was necessary to do journalism, which I saw.
The emergency call sounded for minutes for the first time. Together with my journalist colleague Matheus Brotero, I ran to the bunker at the subway station.
Almost ironically, the room had been built by the Russians Cold Warwhen Ukraine was part of it Soviet Unionto protect the population from a possible American nuclear attack. The same place was eventually used to protect against Moscow.
That’s where my getting in and out of the bunkers began. Each minimum safety interval was an opportunity to tell the story of life at war. I witnessed the rush for groceries in supermarkets and secured my bagged potatoes.
I saw the hotel I was staying in turn into a ghost hotel. Officials left in a hurry with the news that the Russians were approaching the capital. I filled the hotel bathtub without taking a shower. What if there was no water?
To sleep I put the bed away from the window for fear of splinters. Through the gap I could see a war tank in the darkness of the cold Kiev night. The Ukrainian military waited for the Russians in a defensive posture and a bloodbath was possible. I put on pajamas and preferred to rest as if I were in Brazil. I knew the next day would be worse.
The conflict escalated and the embassy offered protection. I asked how to get there if there is no transport. “I’m not your chauffeur,” a diplomat replied. Between one bombing and the next I walked, with a card in hand and the word “PRESS” press in English on my body, made out of cardboard found in the abandoned hotel reception. I left my food supplies with friends I found in Kiev. Surely, I thought, I’d find food before they did.
Arrow Aspas Left I’m not your driver Arrow Aspas Right
A Brazilian diplomat’s response to a question about how a reporter should travel to the embassy
It was a 20 minute walk through deserted streets. Always film, of course. But the video was deleted by the Ukrainian army, who approached me with the ferocity of war, fearing the footage would be used by Russian espionage.
From the embassy I walked to the train station, scene of scenes that still haunt me when I read about the war. Difficult to translate in these lines. I saw parents, forbidden to leave the country, tearfully waving at their children and wives, some with only the clothes on their backs, hiding in the wagons. When would the next hug be? Many of these will never happen again. in the direction Warsawat Polandthe train was crowded.
It was 24 hours without food or water in the narrow corridor. The escape express drove in complete darkness. Cell phones were banned and the emergency lights in the hallway were taped up. Any light could attract the attention of Russian troops and become a target.
Rummaging through the same backpack I use in Brasilia, I found a crushed granola bar at the bottom. I was relieved, I started sweating from hunger. Next to him is Mathias, whose mouth is watering. At Squeeze we shared this little banana and candy bar that we remember to this day.
The Poles welcomed us in Warsaw with blankets, fruit and even a bottle for the little ones. Those who left the house frightened and with their clothes on their backs could not hold back the tears. We were safe on the other side of the border.
War journalism was never the aspiration of this reporter, not an adrenaline junkie but news obsessed. how do you teach Lourival Sant’Annacolumnist for Estao, reporting on an armed conflict is not without fear. It does journalism anyway.