On Warsaw Shores.

It's over two years now since Russia invaded Ukraine.

Read that again: "Russia invaded Ukraine". Crazy, I know.

And with that came the displacement millions of innocent people from their cities, villages and homes. It still sounds unreal, like a nightmare, at least it does to me.

As time has passed, and media agendas have crawled from one spectacle to another, I find myself reflecting more and more on the implications of this invasion - this war - and my own personal exposure to its consequences.

In the late spring of 2022 I travelled to Warsaw as a volunteer. I don't speak Ukrainian, I can only just get by in Polish. But, you know what - smiling is a universal language, right? And besides, I wanted to "do my bit" to support the thousands of devastated souls arriving in Warsaw every day.

So, sitting quietly now, I remember...

"Just move around the concourse, hand out the water and smile..." the co-ordinator said, "A smile goes a long long way."

As I stepped onto the platform of Warszawa Centralna, I was immediately struck by the sight before me. A sea of humanity, a wave of refugees, crashing upon the shores of safety, desperate to escape the storm of war that had engulfed their homeland only a few hours by train away. The air was thick with a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and relief, as men, women, and children clutched their meagre belongings, their eyes filled with a haunting blend of despair and hope.

I had come to Warsaw to volunteer, to offer what help I could to those fleeing the conflict in Ukraine. But as I stood there, amidst the chaos and the suffering, I felt overwhelmed, like a small pebble in the face of a vast ocean.

How on earth could I possibly make a difference, when the need was so great, the pain so profound?

But then I looked closer, and I saw the human spirit shining through, like the sun peeking through the clouds on a stormy day. The mother, her arms wrapped tightly around her children, whispering words of comfort and reassurance. The elderly couple, their hands clasped together, their love a beacon of strength amidst the searing uncertainty. And the other volunteers, faces etched with compassion, handing out blankets, food, and water, small acts of kindness that meant the world to those who had, for now at least, lost everything.

And in that moment, I understood that my role was not to literally stop this wave, but just to help those caught in its currents. To extend my hand, to offer a lifeline, to be a rock upon which they could cling, if only for a moment.

So in I dove, immersing myself in the gasped stories and the struggles of those I met. I listened as they poured out their hearts, sharing tales of homes destroyed, loved ones lost, and dreams shattered.

I held hands and patted backs, offering silent support and understanding, a reminder that they were not alone in their pain. As best I could.

The recollections came quick and fast. One woman, about the same age as me, her face lined with grief, told of how she had watched her husband killed before her eyes whilst driving on the highway west, how she had fled with nothing but her children and the clothes on her back.

A little girl spoke of the terror of huddling in her basement, listening to the sounds of bombs and gunfire, wondering if each moment would be her last. And where was the dog? And grandpa?

And so it went.

These stories were like a punches to the gut, a stark reminder of the terror and utter senselessness of the invasion. Of the very real symptoms of dictatorial madness.

But amidst all this darkness, I recognised glimmers of light, moments of resilience and hope that simply took my breath away.

Another young girl, no more than eight years old, had lost both her parents in Kharkiv. Yet despite this, she greeted me with a smile, her eyes sparkling with a determination far beyond her years. She clung to a single, tattered photograph of her family, pointing to each member with pride and love. "I will find them again," she said, her voice steady and strong, "Won't I?"

Those words have stayed with me, almost hauntingly, a reminder we all need of the incredible strength of the human spirit, the ability to find hope and purpose even in the darkest of times.

Looking around at the other refugees, I saw that same strength shining through, like a thousand candles flickering in the night.

Then there was the old guy who had walked over forty miles from his village home, his boots still wrapped in fertiliser bags, to reach the safety of the Lviv train. There was the pregnant woman who had given birth en route, her baby a symbol of new life amidst all the confusion and destruction. Her son, just a teenager himself, had taken on the role of protector, guiding his mother and younger siblings out of Ukraine, to safety, with a courage far beyond his years.

Each story is a testament not only to the resilience of the human spirit, but to the power of hope in the face of unimaginable adversity. As I listened and offered what comfort I could, I felt my own perspective shifting, my own priorities realigning if you like.

I had come here thinking that I would be the one offering help, but in truth, these refugees were also helping me. They were teaching me about the true meaning of strength, about the incredible capacity of us mere humans to endure and to heal.

They showed me that even in the darkest of times, there is always a glimmer of light, a reason to keep going, to keep fighting for a better tomorrow.

As the days went on, I felt myself drawn deeper into their world, and into the community that had sprung up amidst the chaos. I watched as strangers became friends, as shared trauma and hope forged bonds that transcended language and culture. I saw the power of human connection, the way a simple smile or a kind word could ease the burden of a heavy heart.

It was then I realised, this was the true meaning of of what I was doing - giving of myself in service to others. It's not about grand gestures or heroic deeds, but about the small, everyday acts of kindness that can make all the difference in someone's life.

I continued to show up, for those few blurred days, offering what help I could. I pulled faces at the children, distracting them from the horrors they had witnessed. I passed around food and clothing, providing for their very basic needs and restoring some sense of dignity.

I listened to their stories, bearing witness to their pain and their triumphs.

I simply listened.

And as these waves continued to crash upon the shores of Centralna, I found myself becoming a part of their story, a small but vital thread in the tapestry of their lives. I was dumb-struck at their resilience, at the way they picked themselves up and carried on, despite the weight of their trauma and loss.

I will never forget the moment when a young mother, her face streaked with tears, pulled a fellow volunteer aside and pressed a small, hand-sewn doll into her hands. "For you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "To remember us, to remember that we are still here, still fighting. Slava Ukraine!"

I don't think I'll ever forget that moment, if nothing else, it's a tangible reminder of the incredible strength and spirit of the Ukrainian people. As I looked at these incredible people, at the waves of humanity that stretched as far as the eye could see, I knew then that I would carry these memories with me forever.

The thing is, in the end, this is what it actually means to be human, to reach out and connect with one another, to bear witness to each other's pain and to each other's joy. Right?

It is in those moments of connection, of shared humanity, that we find the strength to weather even the fiercest of storms.

I, for one, continue to stand with Ukraine, to offer my hand and my heart in solidarity and support. In their resilience, in their courage, and in their unwavering hope, I see the very best of what it means to be human.

And I too hope that there will be a future where these waves of war and suffering are replaced by waves of peace, of healing, and of freedom.

Liked that? Try this for size:

Of Light and Dark.

A melting pot of souls. Life below ground. The beating heart of a once divided city and the joy of symmetry: Warszawa Centralna.

Reticulate.David Henzell