This is the Medyka Border Crossing at Przemsysl.  It is emotionally overwhelming to simply pull up to it, as I did for the first time yesterday.  There are cars and vans from organizations from all over the world.  There is a big bus out front with refugees - families, holding garbage bags with their clothes, moms carrying their children’s scooters, stuffed bears, strollers.

This is as close as you can get to take a picture.  Picture taking is strictly forbidden any closer, for privacy and to maintain dignity.

To get in the building, you must be registered as a volunteer.  The first step is getting covid tested.  On the line to be tested I met two groups from Israel, one Jewish and one Christian, and a former Oakland PD officer.  

He told me he had been shot five times to stop an investigation that was getting too close for someone’s comfort and was retired due to PTSD.  Frank (not his name) said he was here trying to decide whether to try to join in the fighting or do humanitarian aid.  

Both the Jewish and Christian Israeli groups were the sweetest people.  I am crying as I write this.  There are aid worker/volunteers from everywhere in the world and everyone is so kind, so warm.  We are brothers and sisters as soon as we meet.  Or maybe it is better described as one big improvisational theater troupe, as everyone is good naturedly improvising every step of the way.  But this is not theater, it is intensely overwhelmingly real.

The Jewish Israeli group are two American therapists and one Israeli therapist, all living in Israel.  We connect around shared trauma treatment backgrounds and Jewishness, the difficulties of working across language and cultural barriers.  We exchange numbers and agree we will see if we can connect later in the week to do some work with children together.  

On to registration.  You can’t get in the building without registering and having a wristband indicating that you are.  You can register either as driver or a volunteer, with only volunteers allowed to enter the refugee center. It wasn’t always that way.

But men registered as both, used it as a way to scout out attractive young women, then offer them rides.  They did not arrive.

Inside the center, it is hard not to weep.  Rows and rows of cots, cribs, babies and children curled up with their moms, grandmothers.  A boy, looks to be the age of my four year old grandson, walks by with a Paw Patrol backpack, big stuffed bear sticking out of the top, holding his mom’s hand.  There is also a an atmosphere that everyone here is here to offer care and aid in many forms.  Phone companies donate SIM cards, a group of “world class chefs” have set up a World Class Kitchen (big signs and t shirts announce this) to feed refugees and volunteers.  There are people traveling with their dogs and donated dog food lines one wall.

My neighbor, John, is orienting and training me on this, his last day here.  We head off to the Medyka border crossing, which is a major entry point.  There is the typical vehicle border crossing, jammed with vehicles. 

But, and I am crying as I write this, there is an entry point where people enter on foot, carrying what they can carry.  It is cold, raining, windy.  

Again, there are signs of people coming to help from everywhere in the world.  There is a bus that says SWAT team in big letters on the side.  Only here it refers to the Sikh Wellness and Awareness Team.  More tears.  Maybe there’s hope for us.

We are then off to Korczowa Refugee Center, a major center for people coming more from the North and Northeast. Here I register as a driver, and they take information about my vehicle, make, license plate, capacity, as well as my passport information.  I get my badge. 

Then it’s time to get some passengers.  My first group is a family, grandma, two daughters and two babies.  The procedure is we go to the security desk and register:  my passport, one adult passenger’s passport, my vehicle make and license plate, number of passengers on the trip, and destination.  I am given a tag to give to the officer at the security point at the exit gate.  He asks the destination and number of passengers.  Checks with passengers for confirmation. His partner call the security desk and reviews what is in the log to check that it matches with the tag and their data,  and we are allowed to leave.

Prior to our leaving, with the help of a translator, I asked the family if it was okay if I took a picture.  I made it clear that it was completely fine to decline, the only thing important to me was that they felt safe and comfortable.  I told them that I would use the picture to tell people about what was happening here, to help people to feel with them, which would lead to donations, to support this work.  I showed them pictures of my family;  my youngest grandson is the age of one of their babies.  They thanked me profusely for helping them and said yes.

I then drove back to the refugee center to refill my van for the return trip to Krakow. 8 people wanted a ride to the main train station in Krakow:  Natasha, her daughter, Karina, Anna, Alicia, Victoria, Tatiana, Anna and her 4 year old son, Karym, and Karym’s scooter.  A lot of weeping, with the help of translator telling me they loved me, I was such a good man, squeezing my hands, my arms.  

They insisted I get in the photo.  Karym was not in the picture because he was having a  4 year old melt down.  He wouldn’t get out of the van.  His mother asked if I would lift him out.  I talked to him softly and quietly, telling him in words he couldn’t understand that I knew he was having a lot of feelings, big ones, and that in a little while I was going to pick him up.  Having checked with his mom that it was okay, I told him I had a candy bar for him.  He was not angry at this point, more that hurt and smoldering look 4 years get that says:  I know you’re all powerful and can do anything, and I am hurt, angry and disappointed that you don’t just make this better.

And then he didn’t want to be put down.  So I held him for a while, gave him the candy bar, and then they were all off to the train.