Humanity amid the horror

A mother cradles her child. An old man clutches a large plastic bag into which he has crammed all the belongings he could fit. The children who are old enough to understand what is happening are silent, those who are not are tugging gently at their grandmothers’ coats. This is one scene of the Jewish exodus from Ukraine.

The cramped corridors and dirty stairwells of the few synagogues and community centres owned by the Jewish community in Ukraine’s neighbour, Moldova, have been quiet this week – but they are not empty. Women are sitting stunned as they process for the first time the idea that they have become refugees. Teenagers are texting their fathers and brothers for news.

Since Russia invaded Ukraine, more than two million people have become refugees, according to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. Many have ended up in Moldova, Europe’s poorest country, which borders Ukraine to the south.

Among those leaving Ukraine are thousands of Jews, and many have sought the help of the Jewish community in Moldova. Local Jews say they have seen thousands of Ukrainian Jews pass through, seeking help, shelter and advice as they plan their next moves.

Katerina Starchenko, 70, sat in the corner of a study room of one of the capital Chisinau’s four main synagogues – the Sinagoga Sticlarilor, or Glassmakers’ Synagogue, which was erected in the 19th century and is now run by the Chabad-Lubavitch Chasidic movement. It took two days for her to reach Moldova from her home in the industrial city of Kryvyi Rih, central Ukraine.

“It was frightening,” she said. “The road wasn’t easy and we were constantly having to stop at checkpoints on the route where there were men with guns. It made me very nervous.”

Starchenko was driven by her 33-year-old son, along with his wife and daughter. Ukraine has banned men of fighting age (18-60) from leaving the country, so he left them at the Moldovan border and turned around. “He has gone back to fight,” she said.

Like many Ukrainians, she wasn’t prepared for war. It seemed ridiculous to think Russia would decide to invade Ukraine, she said. “I am 70 years old already,” she said, “but my children and grandchildren are young. They don’t deserve this.”

Nearby is a backpack and a trolley decorated with sunflowers into which she has packed a few clothes and mementoes. She is going to pay 150 euros each for her daughter-in-law, granddaughter, and herself to get by car to Italy, where she has a daughter. “I don’t think I will be going home anytime soon,” she said.

Moldova, not a member of Nato nor of the European Union, is the most fragile of Ukraine’s western neighbors, with an under-equipped healthcare system that was battered by the Covid-19 pandemic. But since the fighting started in Ukraine, Moldovan society has mobilised to support the influx of Ukrainians.

“Thousands have come through here,” said Lea Gotsel, 23, the wife of one of the Sinagoga Sticlarilor rabbis, as she stood surrounded by refugees eating an afternoon meal of couscous and leftover Passover matzah.

The city’s synagogues are run by various Orthodox groups who often do not have full-time rabbis; the organisations send in rabbis from the US and Israel, who often stay for several years at a time, serving the community of anywhere from 5,000 to 20,000, depending on how one counts people with Jewish heritage. Far fewer than 5,000 attend synagogue on a regular basis.

Most Ukrainians who arrive in Moldova are unlikely to stay. It is estimated that some 40,000 have already left for neighbouring Romania, from where they will have begun to disperse across Europe.

Natalia Bilokonenko, 52, had been sheltering in an underground car park from Russian missile attacks on Kyiv when she decided she had to get her seven-year-old daughter out.

“I thought we could stay,” she said, “but the fighting in the districts around Kyiv started to get much worse and I got frightened. I got a message at 2am saying there was going to be a group of people leaving that morning, so I decided to take my daughter and go.”

They boarded a bus organised by the city’s Jewish community and the Israeli government and set out for Moldova. When she arrived, she was told the Poland-registered bus was not going to be allowed to enter Moldova, and that she would have to find her own way to Chisinau. She got in contact with Chabad in Moldova, who told her they would help her pay for a car if she could find one.

Bilokonenko’s son and ex-husband are fighting. As she spoke, her phone kept buzzing. “I am in constant contact with him,” she said about her son. “I am a doctor, and usually as a doctor you learn to control your emotions, but I am so worried about him. He says he is safe,” she said as her eyes began to redden.

She is going to take her daughter to Italy, where she has a friend with whom she can stay.

“I want to say one thing about Ukraine,” she said. “The Ukrainian nation is very strong in spirit and we will fight to the end.”