Status: Evacuated

The Consolidation Crew–Last photo in Ukraine

This post is made possible by my former university professor, who gently suggested that I do something with my time and update this shindig.

On March 1st, I sat in Regan National Airport in Washington DC, staring at the CNN report on the television screen. Russian soldiers were occupying the airport in Simferopol, Crimea in the southern part of Ukraine. Peace Corps had begun evacuating all volunteers within the country eight days earlier. I hadn’t said goodbye, cleared out my Kolomyia refrigerator, or properly packed. As I gawked at the screen and clutched my teddy bear, all I could think was “this isn’t how this was supposed to end.”

Currently, I am home in Nebraska, living out of my backpack in my uncle’s spare bedroom. Each day, I spend—on average—two hours refreshing the Kyiv Post. For the sake of both my sanity and social skills, I should probably wean that down a little…

So, how did Peace Corps transfer 229 volunteers from their Ukrainian sites to their US homes of record in under a week? Well, there was a system. It was well orchestrated. And intricate. And above all, we were fortunate enough to have a group of caring and professional Ukrainians who left their own families in the middle of a political upheaval in order to ensue that every PCV made it out of Ukraine safely (a specific thanks to my regional manager, who missed his son’s first steps in order to personally put his volunteers on the plane.). In a way, it was sort of an honor to participate in such a well-orchestrated, one-time event of this magnitude. And yet, I wish it had never happened.

The actual “leaving Ukraine” process is still quite hazy. Even two weeks later, it still hasn’t quite settled that we actually did that—we actually packed up and left. The whole experience feels like something I sleep walked through. I read that e-mail, I got on that bus, I boarded that plane, and I sat in my assigned seat. But I didn’t register it. Auto-pilot took over and I followed instructions, completely numb. Never did I think we’d actually evacuate. Worst case scenario in my head: we’d spend a weekend hanging out in consolidation and then, head back to site on Monday.  Obviously, I thought wrong. …hence, my horrible packing efforts and the jar of canned chicken still hanging out in the back of my fridge. (Although, to be fair, Pani Nadia gave me that chicken in September. I never had any real intention of eating it.)

You see, Peace Corps comes with a built-in security system; somewhere in the mix of all the policies and paperwork encountered during pre-service training, the emergency plan is beat into your brain. It’s a pseudo-military hierarchy: there’s a security officer, PCV wardens throughout the country, and a series of alert statuses.  Throughout the three months of EuroMaidan events, we’d steadily remained on “alert.” Basically, that meant “go about your daily life and if you see anything out of the ordinary, notify Peace Corps.” I saw my kids marching through the streets with flags and chanting. I saw Ukrainian Christmas trees decorated with purple tube lights. I saw no cause for concern.

Then, in late January, things moved to a “standfast” status, requiring all volunteers to remain at site and prepare for possible consolidation or house arrest.  I bought a lot of brussel sprouts and an excess of eggs. I also half-assedly packed a bag. Roughly 2.5 feet of snow had just been dumped on us, and I could barely walk to the store. Realistically, it didn’t seem like anyone was going anywhere. So I stayed home with my tea…and waited.

Eventually, EuroMaidan calmed down and “standfast” was lifted. Things went on, like normal. I applied for a six-month extension of my service, writing a work plan stretching from March to November—it was two pages long. I called the kids in Brody and made plans to see them at an upcoming Peace Corps event in L’vivska Oblast. I bought new knitting supplies. I coordinated an English day camp for the coming weekend, and assigned the kiddos homework. After school on Tuesday, I took myself outside in the sunshine for a run through the village. As I ran I remember thinking specifically about “joy.” That’s what my service had evolved into: pure joy. That same afternoon afternoon, I got a phone call from my warden—the situation on Maiden was escalating and the “standfast” was back on.

Somehow, this “standfast” felt different. Something was more serious. An hour later, my regional manager called from Kyiv. He asked about the status of my emergency bag and my food supply—he also strongly advised me to cancel my Saturday English camp. I got nervous, made my cancellation calls, and I pouted as I mashed my refried beans.  This revolution thing was spoiling all my fun. It was also getting a unnerving.

Wednesday rolled into Thursday, and Maiden started burning, quite literally. The Kyiv metro was shut down, and Peace Corps instructed us to consolidate on Friday. With a little more care than the initial attempt, I again half-assedly packed a bag, organized my belongings, and cleaned out my fridge (this whole process was eased by the consumption of my last L’vivska Christmas beer). Friday morning, I trouped across town to our consolidation point. I spent the day knitting on Chicago Marrieds’ couch/bed, convinced that this would soon blow over.

Friday evening, there was another e-mail. The subject held one important word: EVACUATE. Between the actual discovery of said e-mail and Vanessa’s declaration of “we’re gonna need more beer,” I don’t really remember any specifics. I called my mom and I aimlessly wandered around the room, trying to decide what was an appropriate next move. All and all, I’ve had better moments.

For my consolidation group, evacuation wasn’t immediate. Some groups began the bus to airplane process began at 8:00 AM the next morning. We sat until Monday. Which meant, we had to keep our impending departure a secret throughout the weekend. No Ukrainians could know we were on the way out. It was a safety thing. It was also ridiculously hard.

Over the weekend, there was a lot of Jenga playing and chip eating. Some people ventured into the city and bought souvenirs. I refused. Instead, Seth and I danced in our pajamas. Meredith blew bubbles. After witnessing said shenanigans, another volunteer declined to share a hostel room with us. Success!

Monday morning there was an 8:00 AM bus to L’viv where our consolidation group rendezvoused with other consolidation groups, and then, a there was a 4:10 flight to Vienna. Dinner in Vienna was followed by a night in the airport hotel, and another flight to Washington.

The flight was a flight. I pretended to care about the in-flight entertainment and drank my free wine. Upon our arrival at the DC airport, a large bus rolled up to gather the last 60 arriving evacuees. We were told 32 of us could fit on said bus, and there would be another along shortly. We loaded our bags and climbed aboard…there were empty seats everywhere. “We can all fit on here!” we called to the PC staff member charged with collecting us. “We’ll just put the rest of the bags in the aisle.” Very tactfully, he reminded us that in America there are both weight limits and safety standards for mass transport. I was confused. Where the hell were we?

I held it together from Kolomyia to DC. But upon arrival at the convention center, I was met by “my boys” –the guys who were supposed to lead Nebraska Wesleyan’s Global Service Learning across Ukraine with me this coming summer. This was the project. Together, we’d been conceptualizing and planning it for over a year. I crumbled. I cried like a toddler who just wants to put her shoes on before her socks. I cried for things I just couldn’t have, no matter how hard I stomped my foot. And like the good men that they are, Steven and Andrew took my bag, used their newly acquired USD to buy me a margarita, and held my other hand while I drank it.

Post American libations, I checked into a very comfortable hotel room. Three days of “transition camp” followed. There were info sessions about money, options, and safety. There were conferences with Peace Corps higher-ups. And most importantly, there was a buffet…involving bins of bacon. And a soft serve machine. There was also a vat of Reese’s Pieces. We were all encouraged to eat about our feelings. The salad bar, stocked with out-of-season produce, served as a make-shift shrink—and it was offering unlimited personal sessions—so we indulged. I have no regrets.

On Saturday March 1st, I again ventured to the airport. This time, I was Nebraska bound. But between airplanes that were late, airplanes that were broken, and airplanes that left without me, I never actually made it home…and probably would have been better off taking a platzkart Ukrainian train to my final destination. After another night in DC, I was delivered to my welcome-sign-wielding parents via United on Sunday morning. We hugged, laughed, and ate Mexican food.

So, how do I feel about this whole “evacuation” thing? To quote my students, “I have many emotions.”  Most of them…I haven’t really sorted out yet. It’s overwhelming, confusing, exhausting, guilt-inducing, and a little surreal…just to name a few. It’s a set of feelings that is hard to articulate to friends and family—without seeming like a horrid ass. You are glad to see them, but at this time, in this moment, you had plans to be somewhere else. And even more so, you’d prefer to be finishing what you started.

So now, we wait. Peace Corps has left an open window: if the situation stabilizes during our 45 day administrative hold, we’ll return to our posts. If not, well…my brain really hasn’t gotten that far.