A Journey Through Eastern Europe - 2005 – Part Four: Ukraine

by Joel Rookwood

The Wake-up Call

Having spent the previous three months coaching football to young people in Russia, Belarus and Albania, it was time for the final leg of the journey, and what would prove to be a memorable month in the Ukraine.

I had arrived in Kiev 'drunk with fatigue', as Wilfred Owen would say. (Although the irony of that description lies in the fact that no alcoholic drink has passed my lips for near on eighteen months).

My understandable exhaustion was due instead to a hectic schedule during the last twelve months, which has involved fifty-six flights across four continents on various trips, all whilst trying to do my PhD, complete a distant learning Masters and be a university lecturer at home in Liverpool.

In addition I had gone from emotional highs to emotional lows throughout the year, illustrated perfectly in a crazily magical couple of hours one night in May in Istanbul for the European Cup Final.

Had I thought that my final month abroad this summer was going to be a case of going through the motions therefore, then I was sorely mistaken. Indeed I was blissfully unaware that the following thirty days in the Ukraine were about to radically change my thinking.

Now the organisation of the opening fortnight of my stay in the Kiev area had in all honesty left a lot to be desired. It was at a Christmas meeting for OASIS, an NGO that I had previously worked for in Uganda, Zimbabwe, Mozambique and India, where a chance meeting with the head of OASIS' Eastern European Office had culminated in an offer to spend some time working with Kiev street kids this summer.

I had taken a step of faith and agreed to the offer, despite the fact I had only met the man in question for ten minutes. A few emails later and the trip was pencilled in and apparently then set up.

Two days before my intended departure date however, I received a 'phone call to say that the only contact I had in the country had temporarily left his post and couldn't look after me during my stay, as he had promised. Assurances were given that someone else would meet me at the airport and look after me. In truth I was far from reassured.

Despite being a little uncertain however, I caught the scheduled flight as planned. I stepped off the plane not really expecting anyone to be there, and instead was preparing myself for a rare and unexpected fortnight's break from my programme. I had decided on the plane that in the likely event of no one coming to meet me at the airport, then I would simply find a Kiev hotel and work on my PhD for a couple of weeks.

I was being joined by a team from another charity, Samaritan's Purse, two weeks later for some football coaching in the area, and so thought I would just use the time in between as productively as possible. So as soon as I landed I set about looking for a hotel where I could base myself until that time. Then almost from nowhere a timid girl approached me in arrivals and asked if my name was Joel. So someone had been sent to look after me after all – ye of little faith, Mr Rookwood.

I almost reluctantly responded to the affirmative, and so she beckoned for me to follow her, as she led me out to an aging van. The vehicle was randomly enough full of Americans, the majority of whom were jet-lagged and asleep, having been sat there for five hours awaiting my arrival.

Yet I simply had no idea who any of these people were. I didn't even know the girl who had picked me up, and in my fatigued state had forgotten her name already. So there was little else to do but sit alone amongst slumbering strangers in the back of that dark van as it strolled across endless Belarusian farmland.

We travelled for two hours that seemed more like ten, during which time I remained completely unaware of where we were going and what was to be expected of me. All I could do was shrug my shoulders, and say, 'not again.' I could have been concerned, alarmed even at the plight I had found myself in, but I've found that rarely gets you anywhere in life. Instead I thought it best to just accept the situation, surreal as it was, and see what happened.

We did arrive eventually at our destination, despite having an irate driver and a couple of well timed breakdowns en route. Then after explicit instruction, all the passengers clambered off the bus, finding ourselves stood in the midst of a large fairly rundown camp, obviously dating back to Soviet days. It was exactly the same design as that which I had previously worked in at Ryazan and Minsk in years gone by, highlighting once again the uniformity of that regime.

Following orders once again, we threw our bags in a room and went for a debriefing, with everyone but me seemingly in the know as to what was going on. Indeed everyone else present had been working towards this camp for almost a year. An hour later it was about to begin, and I had no clue of what it was or what I was doing there. Conscious of my ignorance therefore, I just kept my mouth shut and hoped that no-one would notice.

Later that afternoon, groups of children began arriving, the vast majority boys aged between about eight and eighteen. Without question they were street kids. The smell and appearance was unmistakable. Skin was visible through gaping holes in their dishevelled clothing and footwear. The new clothes we gave them would represent all that they owned.

So everyone's kit had to be washed at the end of each day and hung up to dry. Evening rain, simply meant damp clothing the following morning. We were gathered in a yard, everyone looking at each other, no one sure quite what to make of it all.

Then the introductions were made and all became clear. It turned out this was a camp for street kids, to offer the youths a break from Kiev, provide them with new clothes and some nourishing food and give them activities to keep them occupied. My role evidently seemed to involved the latter component, as I was introduced as the 'professional football coach' who would be running the camp, with the Americans there as volunteers to help out. My sigh of relief was silent but lengthy.

So I spent the next fortnight in the constant company of these lads. We woke them up, virtually dragged them out of bed, took them to breakfast, and spent the day with them, right up until turning their lights out at night. The older boys were a great challenge, and as a result the days were long and hard, but they were some of the most fulfilling and eye-opening I have had. It was simply an education.

The majority weren't interested in arts and crafts, or in any other sport except football, and so from dawn until dusk, the agenda was based around food, some bible classes and football. I know, it doesn't sound quite as tough as I made it out to be does it? There were several Russian speaking volunteers who helped prevent language from remaining a barrier, and I really got to know some of these boys as a result.

They told me about their lives on the streets, and you could just see in their faces how tough their own lives were. I had worked in prisons with boys such as these, and couldn't help but wonder whether one day I might bump into one at such an institution. It was in truth a depressing albeit pragmatic conclusion to have made.

Evidence of their fiery character was everywhere. They would cry and laugh at one another, fight and hug each other. Many of them were dealing with some immense problems 'at home', notably relating to abuse, violence and drug use. I caught one in his room one night with his head in a bag of glue, and it nearly crushed me. But the more time I spent with the lads the less I wanted to judge them or even pity them. I just wanted to work amongst them, to put something else in their lives, and try and make a bit of difference. I told them about life in England, and showed them pictures of my travels, about life growing up in Liverpool.

At the end of my two weeks with those boys I left thinking that maybe this wouldn't be the last I would see of them. It wasn't just a little melancholy at having to leave; it was something deeper, something inside of me that wanted to do more. There was a connection there, a shared wavelength, an understanding – it's amazing what we were able to communicate even without use of the translators. So rather than forget the experience, I'm hoping to return at Christmas to see how they're doing. Football on the ice and all that.

As well as appreciating spending time with the lads and coaching them football, it was also great to work amongst some very able staff. Indeed the more time I spent there, the more I realised just how much work had gone into the organisation of the camp. It was expertly run by a lovely American girl and a Belarusian couple, who were just an inspiration to me. It was an unexpected blessing to meet them and they opened my eyes as to the now very apparent extent of possibility that exists for working with street kids.

It has been my privilege and I now feel it's my responsibility to go back for more.The following two weeks were spent in neighbouring areas with a team of football players and coaches from Samaritan's Purse. I had joined up with lads I knew well and it was an enjoyable time, if a little safe and uninspiring. In truth my mind was still absorbed with the possibility of full-time work with Ukrainian street kids. Despite my lack of focus however, the final fortnight was still very worthwhile. We coached football in local communities, schools and prisons, on what was the final leg of my Eastern European Adventure. The journey began the day after seeing the European Cup final in Istanbul, and came to a conclusion the day before I was to leave for Monaco to see us win the Super Cup.

Full of ideals about packing-in life as I knew it and heading back to Minsk, I had to take a brief reality check. There was an uncompleted PhD at home, a lecturing post, and a life waiting for me in back home in Liverpool. One day however the pull of my home town might just be outweighed by the need for something more worthwhile, and I might, just might, resist the temptation to return.

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Russia | Belarus | Albania | Ukraine

Joel Rookwood

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