THE ONES WHO STAY

After months of increasing provocations against its neighbor, Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022, under the false pretext of "de-nazifying" the young and prospering democratic country.

My previous seven years of work documenting Central American refugees spurred me to travel to the conflict with an eye on documenting the refugees flooding into Poland from Ukraine as the brutal Russians wreaked destruction on Kyiv and other cities. Upon arriving in Poland, I was immediately struck by how European countries surrounding Ukraine swiftly opened their borders and granted asylum. This treatment was in sharp contrast to the reluctant, slow process of processing Central American refugees entering the United States through the Mexican border.

The first stop was in Przemysl, Poland. I didn't expect the embrace of Ukraine's neighbor to be so big. In Poland, refugees were treated with the utmost kindness upon arrival. They were provided coffee and meals as soon as they crossed the border and were offered free trips on the train to anywhere they wanted in Europe.

Being this close to the conflict and seeing the human faces of those fleeing it, I knew I had to go to Ukraine and witness their flight. I boarded a train leaving Przemysl, Poland, at 3:00 p.m. on April 2, and my first stop in Ukraine was Lviv. To take my seat, I had to go down a stairway and climb back up to reach customs. The stairs were dark and empty, and I felt a pain in my stomach.

A tall, heavyset man in his late 50s sat across from me. Igor spoke very little English but enough to chat with me. A mechanical engineer by trade, he gave me my first Ukrainian language lesson: Picture, Yes, Thank You, Please. These are a few essential words that would prove incredibly useful to me during my journey. He also showed me the first of many kindnesses that locals would bestow upon me in the coming weeks, sharing his water and allowing me to recharge my phone using his external battery.

Seven and a half hours later, I arrived in Lviv at 10:30 p.m. I had no place to stay or any contacts in town. There is a nightly curfew in Ukraine set for 9:00 p.m. The station was filled with soldiers. I planned to sleep there and find a hotel when the curfew was lifted the following morning. However, a guard warned me that press members could not stay overnight and escorted me outside to the Help Center. After showing my passport and press credentials, I was taken to a hotel in the center of town by car. Everything was dark. I got to the lobby, was handed a room key, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. The lights were out, and I had to pay cash. Thankfully, I had changed my money in Poland before leaving for Ukraine.

Lviv is a beautiful city. I was struck by its charm and how much it reminded me of Paris. The streets were made lively by musicians, and there was a flow of people strolling or dining out. But the illusion of normalcy was shattered the first time I heard the howl of a public alarm sounding in the middle of the day. My heart stopped; I was disoriented and did not know what was happening. I thought we were being attacked. Later, it was explained to me that the alarm signals a missile is being fired from Russia into Ukraine.

I made my way to the Lviv Media Center, where I was issued a Ukrainian Press Pass, a helmet, and a Level 7 bullet-proof vest. At the Media Center, I obtained the military accreditation essential for traveling into Kyiv and deeper into the now war-torn country.

Remarkably, I also had the good fortune to meet a group of Mexican freelance photojournalists, Eduardo Quiroz, Christopher Rogel Blanquet, and David Peinado, who hailed from my hometown, Juarez, Mexico. They invited me to join their group heading into Kyiv. Initially, I had planned to limit my stay to Lviv, but with the support of my newfound friends, I found the courage to take the journey further. We took a night train out of the city the following day, arriving in Kyiv at 7 a.m.

From that point on, the four of us would share a one-bedroom apartment previously occupied by a Ukrainian friend of Christopher's who had hastily left for Mexico City the day Kyiv was first attacked. The 19th-floor apartment was messy, with dirty dishes left in the sink and personal belongings strewn all over the floor. Christian's friend and his partner had escaped from Kyiv. This apartment became the hub where we ventured out on day treks into Irpin, Bucha, and Chernihiv. These cities had taken the heaviest damage from the Russian offensive, suffering war crimes such as rape, torture, and mass civilian executions.

Traversing those war-torn streets, I would see people cooking outside on portable gas stoves or campfires. They often beckoned to me with their hands, drawing them to their mouths and asking if I was hungry and needed nourishment. I was comforted that kindness like this could still be found, even amid all the pain, suffering, and violence I had witnessed.

As I had done seven years previously in the US-Mexico borderlands, to convey the plight of refugees more fully, I decided to journey back into Poland with them.

On April 11, I boarded a bus from Lviv to Medyka, Poland. Every available seat was occupied by women and children fleeing the conflict. When we arrived at the border, we were held on the bus for four hours, awaiting inspection and processing. As we set foot in Poland, we were greeted by the sight of mobile kitchens staffed by volunteers from an array of European countries, including Italy, Norway, Germany, Asian nations, and the Indian subcontinent.

Making my way around those kitchens, I felt gratitude that the larger free world was making itself present and expressing its solidarity for the Ukrainian people in the face of Russia's terrible war against the free people of Ukraine.