Last weekend, when I was taken into Russia's Kursk region by the Ukrainian army, I remembered how, as a foreign correspondent, I had rued all the bureaucratic hurdles in travelling to and from Moscow.
When I was posted to Moscow, years ago, as a British newspaper’s correspondent for the region, I was messed around by malicious Russian authorities for months before I was granted a Russian press visa. Even after that, Russian airport officials had a knack of making entry to or exit from their country unpleasant.
It was always a joy to board a Western plane flying out of Russia. The air crew said they recognised “that look” of relief on the faces of those taking their seats and, sometimes, would immediately offer a celebratory drink to passengers – even if they were flying economy.
So I smiled as the armoured personnel carrier I was in sped past the wreckage of the Russian passport control building at the border with Ukraine, and I entered – visa-free – the country that in 2022 launched Europe’s largest conflict since the Second World War.
I want to describe some of the emotions I felt on an assignment that was very different from most journeys I’ve ever written about. I was born in London to Ukrainian refugees who left their country during the Second World War, and arrived in Britain where they met in 1948. There had been no Ukrainian organised community in Britain before the war, and my parents helped build the small and vigorous diaspora that helped keep alive the notion of an independent Ukraine that the Soviets – and now Vladimir Putin’s murderous kleptocracy – has persistently attempted to crush.
My first language was Ukrainian, and I was brought up in an environment where I learned about Ukrainian history and culture, and about relatives who had fought throughout the 20th century for Ukrainian independence.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 02, 2024-Ausgabe von The Independent.
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