Mission to Zarichne
In the isolated villages of east Ukraine, Jack Bon Holly and his humanitarian group, Stamford for Ukraine, are doing important work delivering aid. My colleague and I accompanied him on one of these vital missions.
The finer points of the mission begin in a church basement, though the people and events that have allowed the chaotic scene to be possible stretch back over time and distance, an unbelievable number of donors, organisers, and volunteers. A small group of determined people fan out across a row of heavy blue shopping bags, each with their own item: milk, pasta, beans, tortilla wraps, toothbrushes. It is a well-oiled routine, one that has been done many times before.
These bags of much-needed food are primarily destined for Zarichne, a small village barely two kilometres from the front line. They will be accompanied by yet more essential items: blankets, clothing, medical and hygiene supplies. The man loading the items far past the point where it should be possible is Stamford native Jack Bon Holly, and for Stamford for Ukraine he is the end of the line. In the chaos of loading and coordinating the threat of the journey almost recedes, but Jack has done many of these missions by now — in fact, he is only days back from his previous one — and it can never be far from anybody’s mind.
The items are loaded with precision, in order of destination, so that they may be unloaded and distributed as quickly and as efficiently as possible. Jack knows his van could provide a target for any lurking Russian drones; he is not taking any chances, but it is a harsh reality of war that in the end it comes down to luck.
“A lottery,” as Jack put it on a phone call. It is something he and his fellow volunteers know all too well.
The journey begins early the next morning, navigating out of Kharkiv and stopping, as is tradition, at the OKKO garage for much-needed coffee. The atmosphere is tense with concentration, with schedules to keep and a seemingly endless list of things to do and people to meet. The van protests its cargo, constantly alerting Jack that it is dangerously overloaded. The items fill the converted ambulance to the ceiling, and yet this is only one of the missions — others will bring similar amounts to those in need, an impressive feat of generosity and logistics. This mission, like many others, is in cooperation with Masha; a woman of seemingly boundless energy, she sources the medical aid and organises where it would be best distributed, relying solely on donations and her own impeccable powers of organisation.
As the journey progresses, moving out of Kharkiv oblast and into Donbass, the evidence of war grows all the more apparent. Izyum has suffered heavy damage, the skyline at one point dominated by a row of blackened apartment buildings, chunks collapsed into rubble in their courtyards. Beyond the town, roads cut through fields littered with the mechanical debris of battle and signs of the human toll left in its wake. Memorials are scattered along the road, some for fallen Ukrainian soldiers, others marking the sites of mass graves discovered when the area was liberated and the Russians driven east. A village lies abandoned, obliterated by Russian shelling, the houses burned and roofless husks. It is difficult to imagine that the destruction could get worse.
The mission’s first stop is Kramatorsk, an industrial city of impressive architecture, also heavily scarred by bombing. It was here that in June 2023, two Russian missiles struck RIA Pizza, a popular pizzeria filled with customers. Part of a targeted strike against civilian buildings, the restaurant was utterly destroyed, its upper floors collapsing. Thirteen people died, four of them children.
The reality of the war begins to take on a solid shape, things known but not truly appreciated until now: the skeletal wreckage of the restaurant, the photographs and flowers of all those smiling young faces at the memorial, and most of all in Jack’s account of arriving on the scene twenty-five minutes after the explosion. He describes climbing in through a narrow window, crawling over a couch to get inside the collapsed wreckage before eventually retreating, fearing the notorious double-strike attack the Russian military is known for. It is a strange and terrible thing, to look at the faces of so many killed, to realise that I am older than all but one.
It is a reminder of where we are, the proximity to the danger. Shortly afterwards, waiting to meet Masha and her husband Borys in a nearby restaurant, Jack fixes us with a look. “So,” he says, his tone light yet still conveying something serious. “If there was an air strike, where in your apartment would you go?” He seems somewhat relieved to hear that we at least know the two walls rule — a minimum of two walls between oneself and the potential explosion. We suggest the hallway or the bathroom. Jack nods and recommends the bathtub.
With evening comes the first drop-off. Masha and Borys lead the overloaded van down narrow roads caked in ice, crawling the miles into the outskirts of Kramatorsk. The location is unassuming and at the end of a road that is more ice than anything else; this, combined with the van’s weight and an inconveniently parked driver, means that despite his admittedly impressive ice-driving skills, Jack decides it’s better to unload at the side of the road. It is a wise decision — not a single person can avoid slipping as the medical supplies are unloaded into grateful hands. This is but a taster of the roads ahead: more ice and pothole than road, it’s very clear why a big part of volunteer work involves sourcing replacement parts and repairs for cars.
The drop-off complete, the evening is spent in Kramatorsk, a rare moment to take a breath before the danger of the day ahead. But the reminders are never far away — walking back to the apartment that is ours for the evening, courtesy of yet more volunteers generous with both time and resources, we are unnerved to hear the air raid siren. It is not an unusual thing to hear, but at that moment, in the dark of absent streetlights, it is decidedly eerie. Kramatorsk’s sirens are different to the ones we have heard before, a long, mournful howl that holds its note for an unnervingly long time. With the wreckage of the bombed pizzeria practically visible from where we are, it is impossible not to feel like that low, steady note is something akin to grief.
The day’s first stop is a medical drop, bringing supplies to a hospital that cares for soldiers too injured to be treated at one of the stabilisation points. These points, located close to the front lines, triage the injured and sends those in need of further care to a hospital like this one. Here, soldiers are given more extensive treatment and hopefully recuperate. The buildings show evidence of fighting: smashed windows, tarps pulled over missing sections of roofing or wall. But the hospital is quiet and well-organised, and a welcoming committee is available to help unload the much-needed supplies. Relying on Masha’s colour-coding, the correct boxes are quickly unloaded and handed over, vital equipment to keep the hospital operating for a little more time.
Moving back to the van, Jack advises that now is a good time to put on our body armour. With this addition, a new sense of urgency is palpable. Jack has never minced words: he has told us on several occasions in the lead-up to the mission that we would be risking our lives, and that our safety cannot ever be guaranteed. He has seen what can go wrong; he doesn’t want anybody going into such a thing without being able to make an informed decision. Of course we’re committed, but riding towards Zarichne in body armour, the destruction outside becoming so common it’s almost uniform, it is suddenly about as real as it gets.
Masha rides in front with Jack, helping navigate through the checkpoints. They make a good team, and between his quiet confidence and Masha’s impressive energy we get through the toughest checkpoints with no trouble at all. Arriving at Zarichne, everyone has just enough time to pile out of the van before the first of the explosions: a dull thud, felt more than heard — outgoing artillery. It, and the occasional chatter of rapid gunfire, is the constant soundtrack to the visit. Jack keeps a close eye on the sky, watching for Russian drones. “If they see us,” he warns, “they’ll try to hit us.”
With the front line barely two kilometres away, Zarichne is in a precarious position. Formerly occupied by the Russians and then liberated, it faces constant Russian bombardment. The people living here rely on such aid drops as these: food and warmth are unreliable, and each time Jack returns, more houses are in ruins. The streets are lined by collapsed or burned-out homes; a car lies on its side, blown off its own driveway. Surviving here are dozens of people, and Anatoly, a local man, is on hand to direct the aid to where it is needed most.
The drop-offs are done quickly, and here is one of the major differences between grassroots organisations such as this. Other organisations insist on paperwork, on documentation, on villagers signing for the aid they receive and presenting official ID. Jack explains how ridiculous this notion is: the people here have no interest in waiting around in large groups to present their names and addresses to strangers. Such things would put them in untold danger. This is much better for everyone: the aid is left at a trusted centre point, and after the van has moved on, the villagers organise the aid among themselves.
At the last drop, we meet Auntie Lyuba — a wonderfully warm woman who greets everyone with hugs, even those she has only just met. After everything is dropped off, she ushers us into her home where she makes us comfortable with bread, salo, soup, and samohon, the local moonshine. Even in the hardship of her circumstances, Auntie Lyuba is typical of the Ukrainian people: a generous host, always eager to return a favour with one of her own. She would love to have us stay, but Jack explains that we must move on.
We say our goodbyes and make one final visit to an elderly lady who was at one time an English teacher. Bombed out of her home now, she lost a leg in the attack and now lives with friends. She is gracious but griefstricken, explaining that she has been left with nothing. “Homeless,” she says. “I have a house, but I am homeless.” Despite the fact that she is propped up on a crutch, balancing carefully on the ice with her one leg, she does not mention the loss of her limb once. It is the loss of her home she speaks of — at her age, a particularly cruel thing. Her strength in the face of such loss is admirable, though it should not be necessary. The fact that she and the others in Zarichne make up only a handful of the people aided by the missions, each with their own similarly heartbreaking stories, is astounding.
The final stop calls on a couple Jack heard of from a Ukrainian woman living in Stamford. Yuri and Viktoria live in the basement beneath what was once their business: a large department store, now extremely bomb-damaged. Their chimney is broken, so they cannot light the stove; it has been bitterly cold, and Jack has arrived with food and blankets. In keeping with the pattern, Viktoria does not let this gesture go without one of her own, and she has managed to bake Jack a beautiful loaf of bread as thanks. As always, Jack has an ear out for others to help; Yuri tells him of his brother’s village, yet another isolated place in desperate need of assistance. Nobody has been to this village in some time and the people there are desperate. Jack promises to try, adding another destination to his list.
We drive back through streets lined with burned-out shops. Through the wreckage it is easy to imagine the kind of places these towns and villages would have once been; meeting the people who remain gives a glimpse of the sort of kind, good-humoured, generous people who called them home. Jack drives quickly, back down long, almost deserted roads, until a point where he slows down, relaxes, and says, “I think we can call that one a success.” The tension breaks; the relief is obvious, but temporary. Jack is already planning his next mission.
Our luck has held, but as we drive away, we leave people like Auntie Lyuba and the English teacher waiting in their homes and shelters, hoping their luck will hold out until morning, and each and every morning after that. If not for the missions, these people would be left on their own. No large aid group ventures this far into the war, deeming it too dangerous for their personnel. There is no Red Cross; no UN. Without Jack, Masha, and their overloaded vehicles; without the team of people working tirelessly to source donations of food and clothing, provide money, liaise with and translate for those who need help, these people would be left to fend for themselves in an environment so hostile and dangerous that many people struggle to comprehend it.
The arrival of Jack’s van on their street takes away some of this uncertainty, but Jack does this work out of pocket and relies entirely on donations. How do you put a price on the moment that food and clothing is handed over to somebody who needs it with a desperation many of us are lucky enough to never know? Jack is the end of an impressive chain of people doing incredible things; this is not an anonymous big-name organisation leaving aid to rot in warehouses no further east than Lviv — something many people have told us is happening. This is direct, donation to village, working with local people to identify who needs what the most, delivered under Jack’s watchful and utterly dedicated eye. It is beyond humbling to witness.
As the invasion of Ukraine continues into its third year, donations have begun to slow. There has been increasing talk from Western governments about pulling back aid and assistance for Ukraine. It would be a humanitarian disaster, and the possibility is very much in the minds of those helped by Jack’s missions. They have been forgotten before, but I think anything we can say has been best said by Jack.
Speaking to the English teacher, who was inquiring about UK policy in regards to Ukraine, she was nervous about the implications if Britain withdrew its help. “That’s your country,” she told Jack.
“That’s the government,” Jack replied firmly. “That’s not me. I’ll still be coming.”
