A young couple surviving the daily threat of death

Editor’s note: In Neale Bayly’s summer series, “Solo Moto“, he recounts his life-changing 5-week motorcycle trip around Ukraine in 2023. That trip changed his life in profound ways, and sent Neale off in new directions with his Wellspring International Outreach foundation. In this story, Neale introduces Igor and Anna, a young couple trying to live a peaceful life within range of the war’s front lines.

Alone, the silence of the dark night lays heavy across the fields and woods. The horizon reveals a faint glow of the city lights but everywhere else is black. Nervous fingers brush the trigger and check the safety, ears straining for any noise that shouldn’t be heard. Breath, heartbeat and shoes on the dirt are the only sounds, the pulsing between his temples flashing images through his mind on the beat, like snap shots in an album of rockets, explosions and the last goodbye as his wife fled across the border to Romania.

Then he heard them, otherworldly giants in the distance screaming their haunting battle cry, filling the silent night air with their spine-chilling roar. Behind the concrete blocks, the fear swept over him as he felt these murderous creatures growing closer, hidden for now by the dark. Fierce, inhuman beings invading his land, destroying everyone and everything in their path, and he alone, with one automatic rifle, the last line of defense before children would be snatched from their beds and families destroyed as these grotesque abominations took over this village.

My new dear friends Anna and Igor.

While we sit on the unfinished, concrete patio outside the kitchen, Kitty the dog is annoying the cat. Shoes and boots are scattered haphazardly against the glass door; the dog bed filled with random toys. Anna brings more coffee as Igor talks about his attempt to ride to the North Cape in Norway on his motorcycle. Ukrainian flags flap in the light breeze while we eat oatmeal, fruit and toast. Enjoying this hearty breakfast, the sun, now up a while, climbs into a clear blue sky and Kitty makes us laugh with her antics. We discuss our plans for the day and with Anna needing to work, Igor will take me exploring his favorite roads along the Dnipro River. He knows an old Cossack settlement he thinks I’ll be interested in and the weather is predicting warm and sunny.

My aperture of attention has been small these last days. Breakfast on the patio, conversation and walks through the woods to the lake with Anna and Kitty, followed by leisurely cycle rides along the ancient fortifications that ring the village at sunset. I learn Igor and Anna met in 2004 when Anna hid in his music shop right before the Orange Revolution. Igor later traveled the world with a documentary film crew as an audio technician, and Anna worked in public relations with a background as a journalist and film director. I also learned Igor was the editor of a scooter magazine for a three-year period prior to starting his film career in 2011. Anna and he officially started dating in 2008 and have been together since.

Their house is new. Located 25 kilometers outside the city of Kyiv, it is surrounded by trees and they are not far from a large lake. There are multiple other families in their new village and they are all working to put the finishing touches on their homes. Neighbors come for a cookout one evening. We stop to collect their friend’s dog a couple of streets away for our walks, and on the surface life in this small Ukrainian village is good.

Small town living, the Ukraine way.

Rising from bed after a night of drone attacks on the city, where the constant thump of the anti-missile guns and the sound of explosions have filled the night, it’s the strain on their faces more than the tiredness that shows. Going just a little under the surface the inability to think about, or plan, a future becomes immediately clear. How can you think about such things when at any minute a missile can come and your life be over? What is also clear is Igor and Anna, like everyone else in Ukraine, have a story of fear, anxiety and stress that started at 4.a.m on the morning of February 24, 2022. By some macabre game of chance, they are able to sit at home, with all their limbs, with their family members alive, while they await the next air alert never knowing if it’s the one that ends their lives.

As the days pass there are other fears that rise to the surface, but also for me some incredible revelations. “It’s like a weather app for missiles,” my son Patrick says as I explain my dinner conversation with Igor and Anna on the phone. First you download an app that sends alerts when “rockets are flying,” and then you go to a telegram channel that tracks missiles so you know what type they are, where they are heading and how you should respond. MiG 31k is tricky. It means somewhere in Ukraine a MiG is in the air. These war planes are able to carry Kh-47M2 Kinzhal hypersonic missiles, capable of traveling at 10 times the speed of sound, which is around 7,000 miles per hour in old money. They either carry 1,000 pounds of high explosive or a conventional thermonuclear warhead. Having seen the damage caused by this type of weapon, I’m not surprised when I’m told no one reacts to them as you aren’t going to survive if one of these lands anywhere near you. It certainly makes for some interesting moments at dinner when the air alert goes off signaling a MiG in the air. Other types of missiles cause them to react differently, and here under the peaceful surface of normal Ukrainian life, the stark reality of Russia’s brutal campaign to destroy civilian infrastructure, and kill or maim as many innocent civilians as possible, could not be clearer.

Out riding with Igor, I witness some of the destruction wrought by this war against his homeland.

The longer I stay the more Igor and Anna share, and it’s clear the darkness that came on February 24 never goes away. It might be masked by their efforts to maintain their home and continue their life, but it is clearly taking a toll. My outdated education of war was learned from a family that fought six years of Nazi aggression. It came from black and white WW II war movies and history lessons, not from actually seeing it first-hand. I had never thought about how supermarkets have to function for people to eat, gas stations need to pump gas for cars to move and everything from businesses to hospitals have to provide all the usual services. Of course, in the badly damaged areas this is not possible, but here outside Kyiv life goes on as best it can.

Out alone with Igor on our motorcycles, it becomes clear he struggles with his inner demons. A previous heart surgery and the knowledge he could be called to the front lines any day to fight weigh on him. He smokes heavily, as do so many people in Ukraine, as they took it up, or went back to it, when the war broke out. At times when he stops to smoke, I see him stare, not at anything in particular, and most statements I make are countered with an opposing view, never with any agreement, as if the inner fight needs a venue. I can’t understand, but I try, and over a number of days we ride hundreds of miles along quiet back roads, through the rural heart of Kyiv’s farming community, towns and villages that will never be seen by Western media, nor by the eyes of the watching world.

We stop for food at a small store, but it is closed, necessitating Igor to go in search of the owner. There is one road running through what can barely be described as a village with some farm houses and this one store on the corner. He finds the owner a few hundred yards up the road and she walks down the hill to open up for us. There is a heavy-duty locking system that requires quite the process to open, and then we are in the old store. Igor buys bread, fish and drinks and on we go.

Checking out some of the local fare.

I’m interested in the height of the fences and security gates surrounding all the properties. Everything is extremely clean, quiet and peaceful, but life is clearly lived out of view behind these high walls. I ask Igor if it’s because there is a lot of crime. He says there isn’t, and maybe he’s never given a thought to the fences as he offers no opinion on the subject.

Back at the house, I learn Anna has been volunteering for a local hang-gliding club, raising money for soldiers outside work hours. Igor has been sending me handmade leather key chains to sell in the USA to raise money. Everyone, it seems, is leaning into the war effort in spite of their own internal struggles. Another observation is that conversation can’t go into the future; it has to stay current, or on politics, geographical situations, war or history. There is no solid future for Ukrainians, only waiting and hope. Hope for the victory that will remove the fear, the insecurity, and allow Igor and Anna to plan. To let them to move forward, and while they will probably never resume their old lives, they will at least be able to start their new one.

Too soon it’s time for me to leave. I have a long ride to Odesa ahead, and with predicted temperatures likely to top 100 degrees Fahrenheit, I will need to proceed with caution due to the excess of pot holes, tar banding and repair work. My departure is not easy. Anna insists on a last breakfast and resistance is futile, so I enjoy our last moments together deep in conversation.

May peace come soon to these wonderful people, in this beautiful land.

Out on the highway, I’m sad to leave the sanctuary of their home, and the chance to spend time with Ukrainians who don’t have a voice in this war. They are not on the front lines, haven’t lost their homes or limbs, but their lives have been dramatically and tragically affected in a way I’ll never understand. In the oppressive heat, the near endless fields of sunflowers and grain become hypnotic, and liters of water chased with black coffee are critical to the success of this mission. I ride deep now in contemplation; I always do, as my purpose here in Ukraine becomes clearer to me. I realize I can offer something Igor and Anna can’t provide for each other. Something their neighbors, family or friends can’t give them. Where last year during my time in Ukraine it was too early in the war for anyone to put their experiences in a timeline, this visit made me realize everyone can now tell me exactly where they were at the same moment in time. This year I could listen to their story that started at 4.a.m. on February 24 2022, and I vow to listen to as many people as possible who want to share their experiences with me. My hope is that in some small way, it can ease their pain.

The miles float by now in the saddle of this marvel of modern technology, and I drift off to the dark nights Igor talked about from the beginning of the war. The moments the Russian tanks advanced on Kyiv, and he stood alone, gun in hand, with the murderous voices of the giants coming to destroy him and his neighbors filling the black, night sky.

Neale Bayly

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