Tuesday, March 21, 2023

Arcadia Rodeo Back in Full Force

 Photos by Tony Mangia


The Arcadia All-Florida Championship Rodeo rolled into town for the 94th time and —as usual— provided thrills in the corral once again. While COVID had thinned the fans in the stands over the past few years, this year's event featured some of the world's best rodeo athletes in front of a sold-out crowd.












94th Annual Arcadia All-Florida Championship Rodeo Results:

Arcadia, Fla., March 9-12

All-around cowboy: Marcus Theriot, $5,770, tie-down roping, steer wrestling and team roping.

Bareback: 1. (tie) Clayton Biglow, and Lane McGehee, 86, $3,923 each; 3. (tie) Clay Jorgenson and Gauge McBride, 84.5, $2,073 each; 5. (tie) Mark Kreder and Ty Pope, 83.5, $888 each; 7. Kade Sonnier, 83, $592; 8. Nick Pelke, 82, $444.

Steer wrestling: 1. Tristan Martin, 3.6, $3,016; 2. (tie) Joshua Hefner and Colton Swearingen, 3.9, $2,484 each; 4. Stetson Jorgensen, 4.0, $1,952; 5. Will Lummus, 4.1, $1,774; 6. Cody Cabral, 4.2, $1,597; 7. Stephen Culling, 4.3, $1,419; 8. Marc Joiner, 4.9, $1,242; 9. (tie) Carson Good and Zack Varner, 5.1, $887 each.

Team roping: 1. Jacob Dagenhart/Adam Plyler, 5.3, $3,216 each; 2. Marcus Theriot/Cole Curry, 5.6, $2,838; 3. Cash Duty/Sid Sporer, 5.7, $2,459; 4. Justin Johnson/Kaden Graves, 6.8, $2,081; 5. Clint Wallace/Cole Walker, 7.3, $1,892; 6. Kaston Peavy/Shane Edmonson, 10.1, $1,703; 7. Dalton Turner/Clay Clayman, 10.4, $1,513; 8. Cory Kidd V/Lane Mitchell, 11.0, $1,324; 9. Spunk Sasser/Parker Carbajal, 11.3, $1,135; 10. Cole Frey/Jacup Dixon, 11.4, $757.

Saddle bronc: 1. Sage Newman, 86.5, $4,343; 2. Logan Hay, 85.5, $3,329; 3. Gus Gaillard, 85, $2,461; 4. Jake Watson, 84.5, $1,592; 5. Tanner Butner, 83.5, $1,013; 6. Traylin Martin, 82.5, $724; 7. (tie) Jake Finlay and Stu Wright, 81, $507 each.

Tie-down roping: 1. Michael Otero, 8.5, $3,835; 2. Hudson Wallace, 8.7, $3,384; 3. Marcus Theriot, 8.9, $2,933; 4. Westyn Hughes, 9.2, $2,482; 5. Bryan McClellan, 9.3, $2,030; 6. (tie) Polo Bacque II and Cole Walker, 10.6, $1,692 each; 8. Chance Oftedahl, 11.4, $1,354; 9. (tie) Blayne Saine and Trenton Smith, 11.8, $1,015 each; 11. Macon Murphy, 12.3, $677; 12. Peydon Strayer, 12.4, $451.

Barrel racing: 1. Shaeley Jenkins, 16.54, $4,276; 2. Sara Winkelman, 16.59, $3,421; 3. Taylor Carver, 16.67, $2,779; 4. (tie) Susie Parisee and Ashley Parks, 16.70, $1,924 each; 6. (tie) Mandy Amos, Kathryn Hawkins and Dallas Sawczak, 16.74, $1,105 each; 9. Kara Kreder, 16.83, $855; 10. Lindsey Hayes-Banks, 16.85, $748; 11. (tie) Margo Crowther and Kaylie Garcia, 16.90, $588 each; 13. (tie) Nicole Love and Peyton Stepanoff, 16.91, $374 each; 15. Presley Smith, 16.96, $214.

Bull riding: 1. Koby Radley, 88.5, $4,846; 2. Lucas Mooningham, 88, $3,715; 3. Denton Fugate, 86, $2,746; 4. Jacob O'Mara, 83, $1,777; 5. Riggin Shippy, 82.5, $1,131; 6. Kase Hitt, 81.5, $808; 7. TJ Gray, 81, $646; 8. Blaine Beaty, 79, $485.

Bull riding: 1. Parker Breding, 86, $1,856; 2. Connor Murnion, 84, $1,406; 3. Wade Berg, 83, $1,012; 4. Hawk Whitt, 82, $675; 5. Billy Stephenson, 81, $394; 6. Jeff Bertus, 80, $281.

Breakaway roping: 1. Sarah Verhelst, 2.9, $1,535; 2. Laine Klasinski, 3.1, $1,335; 3. Brenda White, 3.3, $1,135; 4. Katie Bell, 3.4, $934; 5. Shaylee Wahl, 3.6, $734; 6. Shannah Peterson, 3.7, $534; 7. Micah Barnes, 3.9, $334; 8. (tie) Kaitlyn Coulter and Sadie Dale, 4.8, $67 each.

Other winners at the $148,451 rodeo were all-around cowboy Marcus Theriot ($5,770, tie-down roping, steer wrestling and team roping); bareback riders Clayton Biglow (86 points on Frontier Rodeo's Dark Time) and Lane McGehee (86 points on Frontier Rodeo's Night Fist); steer wrestler Tristan Martin (3.6 seconds); team ropers Jacob Dagenhart/Adam Plyler (5.3 seconds); tie-down roper Michael Otero (8.5 seconds); barrel racer Shaeley Jenkins (16.54 seconds); and bull rider Koby Radley (88.5 points on Frontier Rodeo's Harlon Nights)


More photos>


Sunday, January 15, 2023

A Train, Some Cognac and the Ukraine War with Sergiy

 Article and photos by Tony Mangia

I arrived at the Odesa train station, a half eaten shawarma in hand, prepared for the 18-hour train trip to Zaporizhzhia hoping there would not be any delays. My contact, Kateryna, said she heard lots of explosions there last night and news reports said much of southeast Ukraine's power grid was out.


In Odesa, I had already seen the devastation left by Russian missiles accompanied by the random blare of bomb sirens and blackouts. My host, Vadym, showed me the rubble of a leveled Black Sea hotel and city apartment building both laid to waste by drone attacks—everything around them pockmarked by flying metal shrapnel. 



With a glowing warm November dusk setting on the train station platform, I couldn't tell there was a war going on if not for the number of military uniforms in the mix. It was hard not to notice the higher ratio of older looking troops compared to youthful military faces you see in the United States. Or maybe it was just short-term weathering from the brutal war conditions.



There was a Ukrainian solder leaning on the wall smoking next to me. I said hello and asked how he was doing, trying to make some small talk. He nodded back, but any chance to engage in a conversation was dashed after he immediately looked away, pulling his knit cap further down his weary face. I didn't know if he was headed to battle, but his mud-caked boots led me to believe he was coming back from the war. The soldier looked at me again with kind of a grin and wandered away to another wall. I’d hoped my American accent would open up some sort of Where are you from line of dialogue, but his quick escape left me feeling like an intrusive bug—after all, this was wartime in Ukraine.


While taking photos of the grand terminal, I saw an older couple whom I presumed to be a mother and father help a fresh-faced soldier with a large tote bag. They gave each other long hugs before he tossed the bag onto the coupe class car on the train. I would be traveling in the slightly more expensive two bed “first class” sleeping compartment—hopefully with a vacant second bunk.  



After a few hours of quiet solitude in my berth, except for the mantra of rhythmic clatter of steel wheels on the rails and an occasional horn blast, the train pulled into a station about ten-o-clock. Through a din of muffled conversations and luggage rolling down the aisle my door opened. A man in a crisp, clean camouflage Ukraine military uniform entered.    


Sergiy greeted me with a cordial, ”dobrost,” as he removed  and hung up his military jacket and gently placed a green camo backpack on the floor. I shuffled my large backpack on the floor out of his way and moved the greasy shawarma off to the side of the center table. I nodded a respectful “hello” back. We shook hands before I poked my chest and kind of timidly told him, “American.” A big smile came across his face.


“Cognac?,” was the response as he pulled a slim bottle out of the backpack. It was a generous—and quite unexpected—invitation and a language I understood.



“Sure,” I responded with surprise as we both glanced around the berth looking form a glass or cup. Sergiy motioned with his hand to drink from the bottle and then handed it to me. As the brandy warmed my mouth, I passed the bottle back to him. Sergiy then handed me a wrapped piece of chocolate.


Being unsure if this was a Ukrainian ritual, and not in the mood for chocolate, I didn’t want to offend my new roomie. I peeled of the wrapper and popped the candy into my mouth.


“Is this a tradition?” I asked Sergiy as he took a swig of the cognac before eating a peace of chocolate himself. He held up his hands and shrugged, not knowing what I said, before abruptly handing me back the bottle. I took a sizable gulp and he handed me another piece of candy which looked more like a giant sugar cube. I dropped the sweet block into my mouth.


In between silent pauses and thank yous, this practice of passing the cognac topped off with candy went on for a couple of more rounds before I tried to access my translate app to open up a genial line of dialogue. Damn, no Wi-Fi on the train. In Ukraine, until now, I usually had Vadym to help me translate.


Sergiy saw me fumbling with my phone and pointed to his phone and then mine, back and forth. He was offering to piggyback my phone to his Wi-Fi. It was something my low-tech knowledge had never heard of. And it worked.  Communication was easier, but I was confused —and maybe a little nervous— that I had to use Russian because there was no Ukrainian on the app even though Vadym told me most everyone in Ukraine speaks Russian. Still, speaking Russian seemed oddly profane to me under the country's current circumstances, but that's one of the contradictions of this war.


Through a cognac buzz—and self-consciousness about the odor of my shawarma permeating or cabin— I tried to convey an apology to Sergiy for the smelly chicken wrap that I planned to have for breakfast. He seemed to get it and laughed.


It took some linguistic jostling, but Sergiy divulged that he was an Ukraine Army officer returning to the front lines. He had just come from a hospital and was headed back to join his unit after being wounded by shrapnel fighting with a tank division near Donetsk. Sergiy removed his sweater to reveal fresh freckles of wounds up and down his arms.  He then gestured to his right leg before standing up and dropping trou. I immediately noticed two jagged cuts where a large metal fragment pierced his thigh clean through about eight inches from his groin and even closer to his femoral artery. The wound was still fresh with stitch marks that still looked susceptible to infection, especially if he was headed to the grimy front. Despite his injuries, Sergiy seemed unfazed about going back to the trenches outside of Dnipro—a key city mercilessly bombed many times since the war began.  His blue eyes showed no sign of battle fatigue and were almost enthusiastic.


With a baffled look, Sergiy asked me where I was going and what I was doing here in Ukraine during the war. I didn't feel like making this conversation about myself, but did briefly explain that I was there to do a story about volunteers fighting the war behind the scenes. I asked Sergiy if I could take his photo. He politely said no and I respected that. Media officials had instructed me not to photograph any military personnel without permission.


Despite some progress with the translate app, there was still a lot of pauses and hand gestures to convey questions and answers between us. I did find out Sergiy had wife and two children. He quit his job as an IT in Kyiv and joined the army immediately after the first Russian attacks on February 24, 2022.  Sergiy's facial expression underscored his vow to keep fighting until Ukraine is free of any Russian occupation.


It isn't always easy to admire somebody you just met or never heard of. But that wasn't the case with Sergiy. It took only a couple of hours for his quiet hospitality and stoic demeanor and assuredness to earn my reverence. He was a man who was fighting for freedom with his life and, despite already carrying the physical scars of the war, would be going back to it. Because of a random shared train cabin, Sergiy offered me a glimpse into his life although I could still only imagine what survival on the on the front lines was really like.


Up to now in Ukraine, I had only heard the sirens and seen scorched buildings, but hearing Sergio’s sacrifices and first hand experience in battle made the brutality of this war more of a reality. His wounds made it tangible. It humbled me knowing that he was one of millions fighting for independence and the basic freedoms for his children and all of Ukraine.


There were a couple more rounds of cognac and mouthfuls of chocolate while Sergiy insisted I watch some videos of his armored unit firing at Russian targets he had recorded on his phone. High quality clips except for the pixilated identification numbers painted on the turret of the Soviet-era T-72 tank. Another contradiction. I presumed they were blurred out for security reasons. He proudly held up the screen in front of my face like they were highlights from his kid's soccer match. Sergiy grinned and nodded his head while I looked at the concussion-inducing volleys coming from the tank hidden in a tree-lined field while his fellow soldiers cheered and threw fists into the air. This was the same spot where he was wounded. It was fascinating first-person war footage.


Sergiy stepped out between the train cars for another one of his numerous smoke breaks and I started to feel the effects of the cognac and long day. When he returned I apologetically told him I was ready to sleep. Sergiy agreed, but not before one more shot. I obliged. As I fluffed the pillow and tried to stretch out under a sheet in my bed, I could see a glow from his phone and heard him quietly talk to his wife. 



There was some weak lukewarm coffees and Sergiy's smoke break the next morning before I bid him a brief goodbye and a wholehearted good luck as the train screeched into the Zaporizhzhia station. Kateryna greeted me at the door and just like that, Sergiy was gone, but not forgotten. 


I still often wonder what this war has in store for him.

Monday, December 19, 2022

The Ukrainians fighting a behind-the-scenes war against Russia

Article and photos by Tony Mangia

On February 24, 2022, Vladimir Putin deployed ground forces and unleashed a barrage of missile attacks on an always apprehensive, but peaceful Ukraine. This unprovoked military assault changed the course of Ukrainian lives in an instant. Putin’s man-made storm of firepower and terror was enough to mobilize the Ukraine military and at the same time, generate a whole new faction of unheralded volunteers and grassroots activists into fighting a war from behind the scenes with little funding or resources. It was a movement born out of pride, as well as survival, in cities from Lviv to Kharkiv and wherever Ukrainian cries were heard. 


A child's stuffed toy lies outside bombed
apartment buildings in Zaporizhzhya.


Spurred into action, many Ukrainians began sacrificing their incomes, time with their families and sometimes their lives in order to battle the indiscriminate and brutal Russian invasion and save fellow compatriots in need. Significant cogs in a supplemental machine addressing needs which the government and military sometimes can’t fill. Ukrainians who took it upon themselves to fight back in their own courageous ways.


This is an introduction to some of these unsung and resourceful Ukrainians you may never hear about —  the activists, volunteers, fundraisers, suppliers, journalists, inventors, innovators, specialists and humanitarians who fight the war behind front lines and keep supply lines flowing and hope alive. I met these crusaders in Odesa and Zaporizhzhya — Ukraine cities besieged by the war — and would like to share some of their stories.


I had my first introduction to the reality of the war in Ukraine when I stepped off the bus from Moldova and the low-pitched groan of bomb sirens greeted me at the same time as my Ukrainian host, Vadym.


The wailing snapped me from the weariness of a 20-hour flight itinerary to Chisinau followed by a six-hour bus ride to Odesa. A highway route slowed down by  three checkpoints (where soldiers took each passenger’s passport to a kiosk for verification). One while leaving Moldova and two entering Ukraine.


Vadym saw me glance up at the sky like I was expecting something to fall and shook my hand. He assured me we were in no danger in pretty good English.


“This is normal for us,” he smiled.


Looking around, it seemed like most Ukrainians felt the same way and went about their everyday business despite the ominous warning reverberating in the cool evening air.


Introduction to Ukraine


An immigration lawyer by trade, Vadym now finds himself teaching high school-aged students at at Odesa University during the war.


“Not too many people migrating to Ukraine right now,” he darkly joked before telling me about classes held in bomb shelters after sirens interrupted his lectures.  He mostly does zoom classes now.


Vadym.


We drove to the city center for dinner and a stroll. Curfew was 11 pm until 5 am in Odesa and many of the streets were already darkened because of area blackouts or voluntary shutoffs, although some businesses in the city center were still open. Pockets of mostly young adults congregated outside clubs and restaurants and I didn’t observe many children. The only McDonald’s was boarded up and shut down. Barricades of sand bags and hedgehogs (those vehicle deterrents that look like giant jacks from the child’s game) surrounded by soldiers blocking streets to government, military or other strategic areas were commonplace. The usually bustling waterfront was essentially shut off to the public at large—including the famous Potemkin Stairs.


Men clean anti-Russia graffiti from monument of
Russian empress and city founder Catherine the Great in Odesa.
It is the location of numerous skirmishes between pro-Russia
Ukrainians and Ukraine soldiers since the war began. In July, reportedly, a petition
calling for Ukrainian President Vladimir Zelensky to replace the monument
with a statue of an American porn actor got over 25,000 votes.

The next morning Vadym led me to a bombed out beach hotel — a whole three-story section blown away to its cement slab — not far from his dacha (summer home) where I was staying. The resort inn sat underneath a probable target which the misfired drones had been aimed —a hilltop military base that was struck earlier in the war. 


Half of Odesa resort hotel is all that's left after
Russian drone strike.


We then drove to a nearby apartment complex where Vadym showed me a section of a residential building — built upon a onetime Soviet-era military base closed decades ago — that was ripped apart by a drone strike. Two innocent civilians were killed in that attack — including a man just sitting in his car. Vadym said that Russia might have mistakenly targeted the building because its poor and dated intel still had it labeled as a military installation, but quickly added that he, and most Ukrainians, believe it was a deliberate attack on non-military citizens.


Russian bombs killed two innocent civilians at a residential
apartment complex — decades ago it was a Soviet military base.

We later walked the sidewalk along the Black Sea resort where signs warned bathers about drifting detached mines (strategically anchored in the water by the Ukrainian navy as a defense when Russia set its sights on Odesa— an important port city) floating dangerously close to the beaches. People still walked in the sand and a few foolhardily swam in the cold autumn water where, sadly, a few tourists were blown up by one of the deadly spiny orbs. Most people just frequented the kiosks selling hot dogs, coffee and flavored horilka (Ukrainian vodka) that were still open.


Sign warns beachgoers of deadly stray mines off Odesa shoreline.


While checking out a group of motor scooters on the walk back to the car, Vadym tells me that the police have instructed motorcyclists to stop and shut off their engines when the sirens blare because they sound so much like the low-flying and noisier Iranian drones that Russia has been using to destroy Ukrainian cities. The similar buzzing could start confusion and panic. I would, over the next few days, notice that few of the bikers obeyed that rule.


Iranian drones launched by Russians sound like motorcycle engines.


One day we went to a local organic market filled with local cheeses, meats, fish and produce. Vadym explained that most of the seafood was freshwater during the war because boats couldn’t fish the Black Sea with that maze of Ukrainian mines making navigation dangerous. He was a regular at the market and knew most of the vendors by name. I watched Vadym contently go from stand to stand purchasing all of the ingredients for a real homemade borscht he would prepare that night.  


“Borscht is a true Ukrainian dish,” he proudly announced.


Vadym’s beet-based soup was a delicious nightcap with its dollop of sour cream and garlic, crusty bread and sea salt on the side — especially with the temperatures dropping.


"Borscht is a true Ukrainian dish"


The next day, Vadym introduced me to a Crimean restaurant where we enjoyed yantyk (a sort of flattened giant pierogi) and local beers for lunch. It was Halloween and I saw a few spooky decorations and and a couple of costumed people through the restaurant’s window. There were no children trick or treating.


Sirens went on and off intermittently that night into the morning. 


The next day, Kateryna, my contact in Zaporizhzhya, informed me via WhatsApp that there had been a major missile attack that morning and that she heard lots of explosions around Zaporizhhya. 


We later found out the volley of explosive projectiles was the largest Russian bomb attack since October 10 and meant to disrupt the Monday morning commutes. The wide-ranging outage crippled electric grids and the internet all over central Ukraine.


Power resumed later on and it didn’t delay my 18-hour overnight train to Zaporizhzhya leaving that afternoon.  The trains are capable of running on steam power if the electricity is out.



The Activist


I met Kateryna last spring in a Romanian train station while interviewing Ukrainian refugees making their way back to their homeland despite the war raging on. The strong will and determination I sensed during the fifteen minutes I spoke to her and her friend, Tania, before they hopped a bus out of Suceava across the border at Siret and back to Ukraine, intrigued me right away. I felt Kateryna had a lot more to say and I told her I would follow up on her journey back and their fight against Putin and his invasion.


To me, at the time, Kateryna seemed confounded, and a little suspicious, that a random American stranger at a train station would take such interest in the plight of Ukraine and its people. And, after we parted ways at that Romanian train station, I was sure Kateryna believed she would never hear from me again.


But I didn’t forget and Kateryna would become my central contact and enthusiastically introduce me to other guides when I did physically arrive in Ukraine five months later.


Five long months of teaching, networking and rallying Ukrainians during bombings, blackouts and personal sacrifices on her part. Five months of watching Ukraine hold their own from the sidelines through filtered news reports for me.


Activist and instructor Kateryna.


When Kateryna met me at the Zaporizhzhya 1 train station, I’m sure she still had reservations about my aims and probably never thought I would follow up on my journalistic objective. The thought of an American actually showing up in Ukraine during a war after only a quick encounter and a few months of correspondence on Facebook was, to say the least, out of the ordinary. 


Over the months, that spark of emotion I saw in her green eyes last May had now transformed into a altruistic crusade against Putin and Russian oppression since then. A glow that has turned into a fire.


A lawyer by trade, Kateryna had tired of the legal red tape and haggling and became an anti-Russia activist, fundraiser and consultant. She was born and raised in Zaporizhhya and her pride for her hometown was evident right away. So much, that Kateryna even insisted, after I suggested paying for a taxi to my hotel, on taking one of the new trollies she wanted to show off.


The Teatralny Hotel was a stately hotel —one of the nicest in Zaporizhhya — and more than I expected. It’s marble staircase in the lobby was barely tread theses days. The only time I knew of any other guests was when the late night bomb sirens sounded and from my room, I could hear hallway chatter and people clomping down the stairs to the basement. I, myself, would get used to the nighttime wails and just roll over back to sleep. It was the price of paying the war-bargain rate of twenty-five dollars US a night — and feeling guilty about it.


Kateryna seemed to know a lot of people as we walked through the city center. She showed me the charred fronts of residential buildings — their windows blown out and pulled back walls revealing the inside of people’s homes — results of the Russian bomb barrage on September 29 — only blocks from the hotel. Workers were still cleaning up the site.


Bombed buildings in city center of Zaporizhzhya.


As we walked the old world streets, a convoy of four ambulances streamed towards the local military hospital, their distinctive European sirens breaking the serene quiet.


“If there is more than one ambulance,” bemoaned Kateryna, “It means they are probably carrying wounded soldiers.”


We were only about 15 miles from the front lines.


Diverting from the sobering reminders of war, I took Kateryna for lunch at a fashionable place she chose. It continually amazed me how life went on in Ukraine with the battlegrounds only miles away and the bombings routinely breaking up the conventionality of people's routines — not to mention the unbelievably low prices despite food supply shortages.


After the server placed a small folding chair next to the table for Kateryna’s handbag (I have never seen this before, but it is quite popular in most Zaporizhhya dining spots) we started with salads. I had dumplings along with a local beer. Over shots of a orange-colored berry tea made from sea-buckthorn tincture (native to Ukraine), I listened intently as Kateryna told me about her career as a “human systems architect, business strategist and advocate.”  


She is involved in a number of NGOs, government organizations and consulting groups and it’s hard to list them all. Kateryna is also writing a book about human system architecture — a new science discipline which examines how human systems work by the same three rules of categorized restrictions: The rules of the human brain, the system rules and restrictions of the exact system.


Heavy stuff.


Kateryna was the inspiration for my trip and now a common thread to all of the brave people I will meet during my ten days in Ukraine. I know she won’t stop training civil activists until Ukraine is victorious.


After lunch, she introduced me to Sergio.


The Supplier


I meet Sergio at the top of some storefront basement stairs, standing next to banana cartons now filled with food goods and clothing. He and another man are toting the boxes downstairs. Sergio, the director for the Agency of Development of Chernigivske Territory, has been working tireless with his group of volunteers in Zaporizhzhya supplying coats and most importantly (right now) blankets for IDPs (Internally Displaced Persons) who will need warm clothing during the upcoming winter. Sergio stresses the need for simple amenities like blankets of any type.


Sergio and some new children's coats his volunteers made.


Surveying the room, I spot an an area where a few camouflaged vests and medical kits sit in a corner of the cramped basement. Sergio proudly says he has volunteers making these personal armor vests and backpacks for the front-line soldiers too.


Sergio humbly tells me he has been heading the group since the war started and has been receiving donated supplies from the United States and other countries. Standing proudly in front of piles of new blue and red children’s hooded down coats, boxes of boots and shelves of baby food, Sergio says his group has supplied winter attire for over 1500 IDPs, including 200 Ukrainian children, but are still a long way from completing their task.


“Every blanket helps,” he reminds me before I say goodbye.


Kateryna makes a phone call and excitedly says, “He’s in his store.”  


And off we go to meet Max.


The Innovator


A music store isn’t exactly where you would think of finding the visualization and funding of wartime supplies, but, if anything, The Rock Shop might be a good front.


Kateryna introduces me to the owner of the store, Max, and two of his employees, Dima and Ivan. The three of them are packing chocolates and individually wrapped cookies decorated with frosted flowers — in the blue and yellow of the Ukraine flag — that will be sent to soldiers on the front lines. They offer me one of the oversized cookies, which I sheepishly accept on the premise that I will eat the now symbolic confection “when Ukraine wins the war.”  Making the honor twice as sweet.


That’s gets a laugh and thumbs up from everyone.


As I looks around the store, I mention the wide selection of ukuleles among the other musical instruments, speakers and keyboards. 


“A lot of soldiers come in here,” says Dima in his Yale hoody. “They sit in corner and strum a ukulele or guitar to themselves.”


“It adds a touch of normalcy after weeks on the front lines,” adds Max.


Sending sweets and keeping up spirits within the troops are not Max’s only contribution to the war effort. On the side, he has been helping develop, test and fund —with his own money — the technology for a drone-like surveillance camera which can fly up to an altitude of two miles and travel a distance over 30 miles.  Reconnaissance high technology that will be difficult for Russian tracking systems to locate and destroy. A real advantage for the Ukraine army.


Max tells me the trial runs have been good and prototypes almost ready for production.


Before I bid farewell to The Rock Shop, Dima and Max show me some large caliber ammo and a twisted and rusted belt with a few rounds still stuck in their sleeves that I saw laying on the counter.


Max and Dima show off some artillery from a blown up Russian tank
 a Ukrainian soldier brought in.

“One of our soldiers brought this in as a thank you,” beams Dima. “It’s part of the machine-gun belt from a Russian tank his unit blew up.”


I could tell by Max and Dimas' grins that this was a thank you that meant a lot to these guys.


The Media


It was a sunny morning when Nataliia picked me up at the hotel, almost balmy compared to the usually chilly days of November in Zaporizhzhya. Our meeting was set up by Kateryna.  


Nataliia is a media producer at a Zaporizhhya public access television station. Besides putting together interview programs and remote news coverage, Natalia produces radio and digital programming inside a state-of-the-art facility outside the city center. Stylishly dressed in a sweater with a fake fur vest, Nataliia suggests a quick lesson about Ukraine’s history would be a good way to start the day.  I agree.


More —


Thursday, June 23, 2022

Ukrainian refugees returning home despite war

 Story and photos by Tony Mangia

Like most of the world, I was watching on February 24, 2022 when Russia invaded Ukraine. The chaos might have been a world away, but it was still hard to watch millions of innocent Ukrainians suddenly become victims and refugees from their own homes as they made their way towards camps in Hungary, Poland and Romania. 


Carrying only what what they could stuff into their cars or tote in their suitcases, this humbled mass of humanity made its way through the winter cold along the treacherous routes to nearby welcoming countries and the unknown. The image of fear and trepidation played out in the photos of the refugees lining the roads leading out of Ukraine.  And, as Putin’s aggressions mounted, there seemed like it was the only one choice to guarantee the safety of their families. 


Those images are hard to forget. 


Now, nearly three months later, many of those same asylum seekers are going home. They are hopeful, but wary, not knowing how this war will end. Over that span, the refugees have had plenty of time to ponder and find numerous reasons to head back home despite the dire circumstances. Some because of financial hardship, some because they missed family members who stayed behind and others to lend a helping hand in the fight against Russia.


A child's rendering of the Russian invasion in a drawing.

The stress of being displaced to a strange country, the feeling of helplessness or the touch of a familiar hand had become too much of a sacrifice despite the risks of going home. It’s hard to imagine that pain of coping with isolation from loved ones — many who are still within firing range of Russian artillery.


Now that Vladimir Putin has concentrated most of his aggression on the eastern border, many brave Ukrainians are returning to their families in Kyiv, Lviv and central sections of the country despite the hazards.


It takes courage to fight a war on the front, but it takes just as much fortitude and resilience to return home to one. You might call it the Ukrainian civilians’ version of the Snake Island “Go f—k yourself” to Putin.


In May — almost three months after Putin’s aggression, I had just finished working with a volunteer program in Romania  when I started meeting groups of Ukrainian refugees (all women and children) who were returning home. 


Volunteer helping out at Suceava train station.


Sitting among the local men — an out of the ordinary number of them nursing morning beers —  I sipped a coffee looking out at the ornate light fixtures silhouetted against a clear blue morning sky at the Suceava train station. Among the normal commuters, I noticed some groups bustle about the terminal platforms and get on specially marked buses in the parking lot. 


Suceava, I found out, is the last train stop before a highway threads its way alongside the eastern foothills of the Carpathian Mountains through golden fields of sunflowers leading to Siret — one of the seven major entry points into Romania and a border town once flooded with tens of thousands of refugees after the invasion by Putin’s army.


The road to Siret from Suceava.

The Suceava train station has now become a major junction where Ukrainians make one of the final transportation links back to their homeland. 


The Suceava train station.

Lumbered down with large tote bags and suitcases, some of the nearly 900,000 Ukrainians who became refugees in Romania board buses back to their crippled cities. Mostly women and children, there are also throngs of day trippers coming from Ukraine to purchase food and other supplies which are scarce or too expensive there.


While there are so many singular narratives pertaining to the Ukraine invasion and the fighting, lost among the depressing headlines are the personal accounts of the refugees, activists and volunteers whose lives have been affected by the war. 


Here are a few of their shortened individual stories as refugees, their journeys back home and what they see in their futures:


Slava was a woman I met at the refugee welcome center at Suceava train station. She seemed anxious knowing the border of Ukraine — which is about 25 miles north as the dove flies — was within reach. She was returning to her homeland after 77 days in Romania. A two-hour bus ride from Suceava was the only thing standing in the way of touching Ukrainian soil for the first time in months. 


Slava at the World Central Kitchen kiosk.

As Slava waited for  the mini-bus home, Father Nistor was handling the chores at the center this day. Working with the World Central Kitchen, the Romanian Orthodox priest was happy to dole out supplies and faith in equal measures. Father was also thrilled to call his wife who wanted to talk with me, an American, in English. Sandwiches, bottles of water, snacks along with directions and language translations were provided to anyone who asked.  


Orthodox priest, Father Nistor, is one of many volunteers helping
Ukrainian refugees return home.

A defiant Slava did not know exactly what she would be returning to, but her homesickness overcame any fears of Russian occupation. Slava was lucky enough to work for an American-owned company in Ukraine that paid her salary while she was away.


“We are thankful for the world’s support and donations,” she said.


Tania— a 26 year old from Dnipro a city about 100 miles northwest of Mariupol — left her hometown when the Russian made advances towards it.  She worked as civil activist in Ukraine and is passionate about her hate of Russia and how she wants to help out her volunteer boyfriend and mom who are still there.  


“There was a lot of talk about nuclear bombs before I left,”  she said. “We didn’t know what to expect.”


Tania reflects on her future in Ukraine.

Tania is now working as a project assistant for an NGO raising money and making contacts with other charitable groups who help out.


Kateryna is a 32 year-old friend of Tania who was first “going home” to the Kyiv region before leaving to lend a hand to the military.


“Nervous, but I’ll do what I can do to help,” the self-described activist said. 


Kateryna remembered  the bombs she heard in Kyiv before she left.  


“You could distinguish the difference between the ground and air bombs and where they would land,” is how she described the bombardment on the northern front. 


I’ve been in contact with Kateryna — while she in Zaporizhhya, a city about 100 miles from battle weary Mariupol. She is working with Mainstream — a community NGO raising money for bulletproof vests, helmets, food and medicine for the army. They have very successful, but the group has a giant task in front of them.


Kateryna at Suceava train station.

“We are trying to find money and buy things for the army,” she said, briefing me on her work. “And I’ve been training civil activists.”


Kateryna has kept me up to date with her progress and proudly showed me photos of the supplies they collected at the volunteer hub for ibashorcs.xyz which also supplies technological needs for the Ukraine military.


Soldiers and soldiers get new supplies. 
Continued—