BEING HUMAN

I am one of these men in the lines for the military medical reevaluation… The existential, far from Hollywood patriotism, observations you will not read in the news about the Russian war in Ukraine… I dare to share… Although our Mission has not changed… I wish you a blessed Sunday, and keep your children away from the war…

…Long lines of tired men aged 25 to 60 stretch to the doctors’ offices. Hundreds of people are crammed into narrow, stuffy corridors, lacking oxygen and daylight. Some have been standing here for several days, arriving at 7:00 am to get in line to see doctors.

The corridors of the old Soviet-era hospital, where military medical commissions take place, embody the gloomy and depressing spirit of the era. They stretch endlessly as the Soviet reality used to be gray, monotonous, and hopeless. These narrow, windowless corridors resemble tunnels leading to the unknown. This is a frozen frame from a movie about Soviet reality, where a person is just a cog in a faceless system, where the main thing is not comfort but the implementation of the plan and compliance with instructions. Although decades have passed, this corridor still retains the spirit of a Soviet hospital, where a person is nothing and the system is everything.

Once painted pale green, the walls now resemble a shabby canvas on which life and time have left their inexorable marks. The paint has peeled and cracked, exposing gray plaster in places like old wounds that cannot heal. Even the nails driven into the walls to hang some posters or instructions look like another wound inflicted on this tormented body of a building. These walls are mute witnesses to how people’s fates were decided behind one door, and lives were broken behind another. And all this pain and despair seems to have been absorbed into the very structure of these walls, forever becoming their integral part.

Old fluorescent lamps flicker dimly under the ceiling, their cold glow only emphasizing the squalor of the situation. They barely do their job, creating the appearance of illumination rather than dispelling these gloomy corridors’ shadows. The yellowish light of the lamps is more like a painful glare, which makes the faces of the people present look even paler. In some places, the lamps don’t work, leaving entire sections of the corridor semi-darkly. And these islands of shadows further enhance the oppressive sense of uncertainty that prevails here. Even when one of the lamps starts blinking nervously, it is perceived as an ominous sign, the approach of something inevitable. With each new flash, they push another “patient” to the room where their fate will be decided.

The floor in the corridors is a colorful mosaic of different materials, reflecting the entire history of this building. There are old, worn stone slabs that remember Soviet times, faded parquet creaking and wobbling underfoot, and ceramic tiles from the “bright nineties” that have already lost their original color and are covered with a grid of cracks. All this colorful floor is also uneven and wavy, making you stumble and constantly look down at your feet. It has absorbed millions of steps and thousands of human destinies, and now it whispers these stories to those who know how to listen.

Long wooden benches stretch along the walls – once, perhaps, light brown, but now darkened by time and countless touches. They are witnesses to thousands of human stories, experiences, and fears. Their surface is covered with scratches, cracks, and dents – traces of all those who sat here waiting for their fate. Men sit on them, hunched over and staring at the floor, exhausted by the stuffiness and heat, paralyzed by the unknown of what lies ahead. Their minds are filled with anxious thoughts, and their faces are frozen with uncertainty. Everyone realizes that the outcome of this commission can dramatically change their lives with one word – “fit.”

Behind the peeling doors with numbers are the doctors’ offices, where the fate of these men is decided. Crossing the threshold, they enter the realm of indifference and formalism. The walls, covered with posters of anatomical diagrams and sometimes with patriotic slogans, seem as cold as the looks of the doctors sitting there like judges at a tribunal. For them, all these people are just a faceless stream, divided into “fit” and “unfit .”They don’t see anyone as a person, a unique story, a family. They see only bodies to be examined and forms to be filled in. Massive desks piled high with papers and medical instruments are a barrier between those who decide and those whose fate is being decided.

The offices have a conveyor belt atmosphere. Doctors work at the limit of human capabilities and mechanically perform their work, trying to examine as many men as possible in a short time. The following “patient” goes through this crucible: undress, breathe, don’t breathe, come back. A cold stethoscope on the chest, indifferent fingers probing the joints, and prickly, evaluating looks that make you want to cower and disappear. But you have to stand and endure.

And finally, the verdict. One word that defines everything. “Fit” – and you no longer belong to yourself. The unknown is ahead, and behind you is a life that will never be the same. “Unfit” – and you seem to get a chance to live. But what do you do next? What is life like when others go to die instead of you?

Doctors stamp documents, sending men to meet the unknown. They try not to think that behind every “fit” man, a family will now live in constant expectation and fear. There will be a wife waiting for her husband somewhere, who will not know if she will see her beloved from the war. That somewhere, there will be children who may lose their father forever. That somewhere, there will be elderly parents for whom their son is the only support and hope… Otherwise, the feeling of guilt will drive the doctors crazy. That’s why there are no emotions, no compassion, only stamps…

Fear of an unknown future hangs in the corridors like a heavy fog. Paradoxically, younger men, barely over 25, have less of it. They are still full of youthful maximalism and belief in their own invulnerability. They do not yet fully realize what it means to hold real weapons and look death in the face.

But older men, already in their 40s or 50s, are much more worried. They have years of life experience behind them that taught them to appreciate every moment. They have already built their lives: find love, start families, have children. And now, the thought that all this can be destroyed instantly paralyzes them with hidden fear.

Many thoughts swarm in their heads. How is the wife who is left alone with the children? Will she have the strength and finances to cope with all the difficulties? What if he dies in the war and never sees his family again? These men understand the cost of war, making their fear even more piercing.

But the worst thing is that the real culprit of these hidden sufferings is not so much the doctors and the system as the Russian aggression. It is this aggression that has forced Ukrainians to make this painful choice: to go to war or to live with a sense of guilt. It is because of this Russian aggression that every “fit” person is a potential victim, every family is a hostage to the unknown, and every child is an orphan.

It was the Kremlin regime, blinded by its imperial ambitions and supported by tens of millions of Russians, including Russian Christians, that unleashed this bloody and merciless unprovoked war against Ukraine. It was Russian soldiers who set foot on our land and brought death, rape, torture, destruction, and pain. And now every Ukrainian, whether at the front or in the rear, is forced to pay for it with their own lives, health, well-being…

Every family that is forced to send their husband, father, or son to war is another victim of Russian aggression. Every wife who writes messages to the front with a trembling hand in messengers, not knowing whether she will receive a response, is another proof of Russian crimes. Every child who falls asleep wondering whether his father will return alive is another indelible sin on the conscience of the Russian invaders and Russian Christians in particular…

And even those doctors who are now forced to turn into soulless functionaries of the system, stamping “Fit” in documents, are also victims. Victims of the situation in which Russian aggression has put them. Because in peacetime, they would never have stooped to such cynicism, would not have taken on such a terrible responsibility – to decide for tens of thousands of men who should live and who should go looking in the eyes of the death and fight against the Russian occupiers.

So when I see these endless lines at military registration and enlistment offices, these exhausted faces and trembling hands, I remember that behind each of them is a Russian soldier with a machine gun, supported by hundreds of thousands of Russian Christians… Behind every destroyed life is a Russian tank or Grad… Behind every stingy man’s tear is a Russian bomb that tears apart peaceful Ukrainian cities and the bodies of Ukrainian defenders and civilians. I remember…

And as long as Russian soldiers are trampling our land, as long as their bombs and missiles are tearing our cities apart, this will not stop. We pray and do everything we can to ensure the day comes when the word “fit” loses its ominous meaning. When we can breathe a sigh of relief and start living, not surviving. When our families are reunited, our children safely play in the yard, not in a bomb shelter. Only then will we indeed win… Peace be with you and keep your children away from the war…
—
Taras M. Dyatlik, Ukraine
829 of the ongoing full-scale Russian war