Today our meeting with Andrej begins with smiles and a piece of cake. He is a volunteer from the local Caritas who decided to help his people from the beginning of the war, even though he expected to do something else in his life.
We went to meet him because we wanted to tell him that we are not only here for them, but WITH them. In a city under attack, we are volunteers who are working nonstop to help civilians in all the ways they can since many months: from distributing food aid to delivering warm clothes in view of the gelid winter that is coming.
Suddenly, during the conversation, he is pleasantly surprised when we speak some words in Ukrainian and Russian languages. So, with his permission, we ask him some personal questions like why most people in these areas of the country continue to speak Russian.
"Russian is my mother language. I was born in Odessa but my grandparents have Russian origins, like "many" people in Ukraine. Since the war’s outbreak in 2014, we have started to use more the Ukrainian language, which has been chosen as the only official language in schools".
He goes on telling us that it is impossible to have such an immediate change between the two languages because they are not at all the same, although they are similar. From the beginning of the war until today, many people - especially in the western regions - began to distance themselves from Russia and to speak Ukrainian.

Current situation
In October there has been an escalation of violence. As a matter of fact, the collaboration between the Israeli army and the Israeli settlers maintains and intensifies the apartheid system perpetrated by the State of Israel against the Palestinian population.
In particular, Israeli settlers used violence during the celebrations of three Jewish holidays in the first half of the month: the settlers, escorted by the Israeli army, invaded both the Al Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem and the Ibrahim one in Al Khalil dozens of times. Not only have these repeated incursions barred Palestinians from accessing their places of worship, but they also resulted in a significant number of arbitrary arrests and detentions. In addition to this, throughout the month there were dozens of attacks by settlers on the Palestinian civilian population in the cities of Al Khalil, Nablus, Huwara and Jerusalem: shootings into crowds, attacks on schools, roads blocked and damages to private Palestinian cars and shops.
In October, the olive harvest began throughout Palestine, a symbol of Palestinian resistance. This activity brought together Palestinian, Israeli and international activists who wanted to support Palestinian families, scared that the Israeli settlers and occupation forces could attack them while they were harvesting their own land - which unfortunately occurred.

She was introduced as “Babushka Vera” and immediately she was “grandmother Vera” for us too.
A frail old woman from Mykolaiv, very thin, with white hair.
She was the first person we used to say good morning to when we woke up and goodnight before sleeping. As Vera, like us, slept in the basement shelter.
She had decided not to leave despite the war, because that city was also her home.
So, every night around six, she used to come to the shelter.
Maybe because finding ourselves and being together, the bombs that fell at night seemed less scary.
Or, maybe because, despite the great fear, she was not alone.
She had worn-out green plastic slippers that she left under her bed/sofa every day.
Who knows if they are still there.
Vera loved us!
She used to smile at us, always glad to see us, she hugged us and in the evening she used to chat and joke with us.
Once her son came to visit her, we saw her sitting in the backyard with her granddaughter. Who knows what she was talking about.

My eyes bump into a little boy, he should be 15 years old and no older.
He's part of the unaccompanied foreign minors' group who arrived on Cyprus Island.
So he's alone. He's very thin and has a gaunt face.
He doesn't notice me, he doesn't notice anyone even though he's surrounded by people. He frowns, making an expression of pain, and he starts to cry.
He puts his hands on his head, touching his thick black hair, then on his temples. He begins to pull some air out of her lips and bursts into tears that he can't control.
He bangs his fists against an iron pole, making some noises that are choked screams.
He definitely wants to scream but he doesn't: it's the only thing he can control.
But the tears no, he doesn't control them and they fall like waterfalls that wet his face.
I quickly look around and the others don't notice him.

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