Iron & Soil: Journey Through the Battle for Ukraine
Part 1

1,733 words

In December 2024, the Estonian aid organization Mission Ukraine carried out an aid mission to the Ukrainian frontline. Five men took part in the journey: Andri Kiige, Margo Rääk, Georg Kirsberg, Lauri Koni, and I.

During the mission, four vehicles were delivered to various frontline units of the Ukrainian army, essential supplies were provided to a partner organization operating in Odessa, and medical equipment for soldier training was transported to Kyiv. From Odessa, two additional vehicles and various humanitarian aid supplies were taken to the frontline region.

For a week, the Estonian volunteers stayed with soldiers in the Zaporizhzhia, Donetsk, and Kharkiv oblasts, sharing their living conditions and dangers, witnessing firsthand the reality faced by Ukraine’s defenders.

In total, nearly 8,000 kilometers were traveled.

The frontline is two days away from Estonia – without stops, even closer. Drive at full speed, and you’ll reach the edge of the world in under thirty hours. The Eastern Front stretches across Europe like an unhealed wound, from the Baltic to the Black Sea. At our border, it smolders. In Ukraine, it burns.

Bright blue searchlights sweep the sky like ancient signal fires on mountain peaks: Ukraine is calling for aid! These beams cut through the darkness, reaching eastward like lightning into the night, and westward like a beacon whose call echoes over mountains and plains. The sons and daughters of Europe who hear it know – this is the hour of awakening.

From the Carpathian Mountains to the lighthouses of the Black Sea, from the burial mounds of the steppes to the pine forests along the Oskil River, this call for help resounds. It rises from golden-domed old towns, from endless village streets, from panel buildings stacked like matchboxes, from vast fields lined with trees. It ascends into the heights, gliding across borders, reaching the shores of the Baltic, the snow-covered hills of our homeland.

Somewhere, the enemy lurks – a hungry, bloodthirsty predator. It has crept westward many times before. It has been stopped before. It has waited for Europe to fall asleep once again – and it has returned.

Not all Estonians feel this war as their own. Some turn their gaze away. Some take comfort in distance. But those who know history, who understand the meaning of blood and sacrifice, hear the call deep in their bones.

And so, we go.

In war, elegant phrases and well-crafted speeches matter little. There are only men who do what must be done. The road does not provide answers – only kilometers to cross, liters of fuel to burn, checkpoints to pass. But the work matters. The men we bring these vehicles to – some will not see spring. They know it, and we know it too. No words are needed.

Five vehicles drive in convoy through Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Poland. One night is spent in Bialystok.

Original convoy from Estonia

Driving from the shores of the Baltic to the edge of the Black Sea is a trial for a novice driver, one who still officially carries the “new driver” sign – especially in a minibus, having only driven a small car before. But by the time we arrive, one feels like a seasoned driver already.

We cross the Ukrainian border at the Ustyluh checkpoint on the evening of Tuesday, December 10th. The roads grow rougher, the lights fewer. We pass fuel trucks and military convoys, men with tired faces and rifles slung over their backs. In the cities, windows remain dark, statues stand wrapped in sandbags, waiting for what is to come.

We spend the night in Lutsk and continue our journey in the morning. After Zhytomyr, we decide to take a shortcut. Smaller roads, less oncoming traffic. Somewhere between the forests, the first mishap strikes: the lead vehicle’s tire bursts.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all it takes. Hands move swiftly, cold metal warms in our grip. The tire is changed, and then we are on our way again.

At key checkpoints, regional and city borders, we must stop. A flashlight beam through the window, a voice from the darkness. A question. An answer.

“My voluntyori iz Estonii.” (“We are volunteers from Estonia.”)

It always works. And the road carries us forward. By late evening, we arrive in Odessa.

After two thousand kilometers of roads, border crossings and checkpoints, gas stations and bad coffee, we finally reach the shores of the Black Sea. The city greets us with the salty scent of the sea and the rattle of old trams. We need rest.

Our lodging is on Derybasivska Street. A grand old building, high ceilings, history in every corner. The artist Wassily Kandinsky once lived here, and his restless spirit still seems to wander these gallery corridors, slipping down the smooth-worn stone staircases. Perhaps it was these very streets and the sea breeze that shaped the wild colors of his abstract paintings.

The apartment’s owner, Natalka, gives us a generous discount. She knows we are volunteers.

She has no illusions. A few months ago, two of her acquaintances were mobilized. One, a diabetic, weighed over 160 kilos. The other was strong, healthy – a painter, like Kandinsky. The next day, they were far from home, in a training camp, preparing for battle. The painter is now gone. The diabetic boy lies in a hospital, his leg wounded.

A morning in Odessa. The air from the Black Sea is cold, but the sun is already rising over the rooftops, its first golden rays reflecting off the church domes. We are taken to a school, a quiet house on a poplar-lined street, where the war has not yet shattered windows or left scars on the walls. But in thoughts and feelings, the war is everywhere.

On the journey through western Ukraine, towards the frontlines.

The children are waiting for us. The teachers stand beside them, their faces lined with experience, but kind. The principal, teachers, children, and parents all stick together in difficult times. The tables are covered with boxes, dozens of carefully packed gifts for the men fighting on the front. Drawings, handmade crafts, socks knitted by grandmothers, food packed by mothers, torch candles crafted by the children. The things that keep the men alive and remind them what they are staying alive for.

A girl with glasses stands at the front of the classroom, holding a letter of gratitude for the soldiers. Her father is at the front. She tries to read the letter out loud, but her voice trembles, and the words get stuck. She presses the edge of the card against her cheek, as if searching for strength, squeezes her eyes shut, and presses her lips together to hold back the tears – but they come anyway. The teacher wraps an arm around her. For a moment, everything around us is silent.

We load the packages into the vehicles. The soldiers with us are either younger than they should be or older than they’d like to be. They have seen too much. They speak little. But when the children hand them their Christmas cards, something changes in their faces. War hardens men, but a child’s drawing brings tenderness.

Later, in the trenches of Kharkiv Oblast, we sit in the dark and light the same kind of torch candles the Odessa schoolchildren had made. We watch the flickering flame in the bunker, casting shadows across the walls. And we think of the warmth we left behind.

With us is a soldier whose callsign is “Dantes”. A big, jovial Odessan, likely Gagauz, he laughs easily, but there is something sharp in him. And then there is Serzh, a 62-year-old philosopher with a white beard. Before the war, he was a literature teacher. Now, he looks like a wild warrior.

War changes men. But in that moment, in that school, surrounded by children and their quiet hope, everything is, for a brief instant, exactly as it should be in peacetime.

Serzh, Dantes, and the children.

That evening, we gather at our Odessa headquarters – a small corner bar, its shadowy garden overgrown with wild vines. At the table sit twenty people, locals and soldiers, among them the bar owners, Viktoria and Pavel Harchenko.

Viktoria looks like someone who could be wearing high heels and silk dresses, not sorting medical supplies for the front. She could easily be on the cover of a fashion magazine, but she made a different choice. When the war began, she shut down her bar overnight and turned it into a supply center. By now, she has helped equip thousands of frontline fighters, and many of them still stop by whenever Odessa is on their way. She organizes everything with confidence, a sharp gaze, and quick, precise movements – like a commander who has no time for small talk.

Her husband, Pavel, is a Muay Thai champion, his powerful presence carrying the discipline of a trained fighter. With broad shoulders and a gruff voice, he might intimidate a newcomer stepping into the bar for the first time – but it’s misleading. When he laughs, he laughs wholeheartedly. When he embraces someone, it’s firm, like greeting an old friend. If needed, he can grab a heavy crate with one hand and crack jokes with soldiers with the other. He is Viktoria’s opposite, yet her perfect complement.

The bar no longer sells anything but beer and lemonade. The rest of the space is filled with boxes – food, clothes, medicine, candles. On the counter stands an empty howitzer shell casing, called a gilz here. That’s where donations go. Every time a new mission begins, a thick stack of banknotes is dug out from the shell’s depths – enough to buy fuel and set off again.

We sit by the fireplace with Serzh. The flames are low, fading slowly. My Russian (and Ukrainian) is broken, his English is the same, but we understand each other well enough. We talk about poetry and philosophy, about the great Ukrainian poet Ivan Franko and his epic poem Ivan Vyshenskyi. The mightiest verses always walk the same paths. Love, war, and the journey. Lyubov, voyna i voyazh.

One by one, toasts are made, voices warm with gratitude. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for caring.” A pale flame still flickers in the fireplace wall. The damp and cold wind hums through the garden, carrying with it the salty scent of the Black Sea. The city is cloaked in darkness – curfew has begun. We load our small team into the van and drive back to Derybasivska.

With Dantes.