Back to Izyum

Their crimes remain.

This time, the birds are singing.
There is a lovely smell of pine trees.
On the ground, pinecones seem to decorate the yellow sand. That yellow sand.

This time, I don’t hear any flies. I don’t hear a deafening silence. I don’t hear the clicks of the cameras. Nobody is wearing white overalls and digging the soft soil anymore.

There are no faces with empty eyes. There is no active fighting nearby, no shots to be heard, no artillery.

But they are still here. The hundreds of graves, now empty.

The dunes between the trees are twinned with holes and wooden crosses that no longer stand. Some candle jars and flowers were brought by relatives of the dead.

I look at my feet – this time it’s not scary to look at the ground – it’s empty of horrors.

But the crimes remain.

The 449 people found there were Ukrainian civilians and servicemen.

Only a few meters away from them, as their tortured bodies were rotting in unnamed graves, Russians were holding their positions, eating, sleeping next to their victims.

Their crimes remain.

A commemorative sign reads: “This is a place of pain, grief and mourning. Eternal me mory to all those killed, the world must know the truth.”

On September 17th, 2022, I had no tears. They didn’t come. It took me nearly two years to manage this trip, and this time the tears came suddenly and unexpectedly, along with the memories of the horrors I have witnessed that day.

I didn’t realise how much I needed those tears.

This is a place of pain, grief and mourning.