War & Conflict

After months of increasing provocations against its neighbor, Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022. My previous seven years of work spent documenting Central American refugees spurred me to travel to the conflict with an eye on documenting the refugees flooding into Poland from Ukraine as the brutal Russians wreaked destruction on Kyiv and other cities. Upon arriving in Poland, I was immediately struck by how European countries surrounding Ukraine swiftly opened their borders and granted asylum. This treatment was in sharp contrast to the reluctant, slow process of processing Central American refugees entering the United States through the Mexican border. The first stop was in Przemysl, Poland.I didn’t expect the embrace of Ukraine's neighbor to be so big. In Poland, refugees were treated with the utmost kindness upon arrival. They were provided with coffee and meals as soon as they crossed the border and were offered free train trips anywhere in Europe. Being this close to the conflict, seeing the human faces of those fleeing it, I knew I had to go to Ukraine and bear witness to their flight. I boarded a train leaving Przemysl, Poland, at 3:00 PM on April 2 and my first stop in Ukraine was Lviv. . To take my seat, I had to go down a stairway and climb back up to reach customs. The stairs were dark and empty, and I felt a pain in my stomach. A tall, heavyset man in his late 50s sat across from me. Igor spoke very little English but enough to chat with me. A mechanical engineer by trade, he gave me my first Ukrainian language lesson: Picture, Yes, Thank You, Please. These are a few basic words that would prove incredibly useful to me during my journey. He also showed me the first of many kindnesses that locals would bestow upon me in the coming weeks, sharing his water and allowing me to recharge my phone using his external battery. Seven and a half hours later, I arrived in Lviv at 10:30 PM. I had no place to stay or any contacts in town. There is a nightly curfew in Ukraine set for 9:00 PM. The station was filled with soldiers. I was planning to sleep there and find a hotel the following morning when the curfew was lifted. However, a guard warned me that press members were not allowed to stay there overnight and escorted me outside to the Help Center. After showing my passport and press credentials, I was taken by car to a hotel in the center of town. Everything was dark. I got to the lobby, was handed a room key, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. The lights were out, and I had to pay cash. Thankfully, I had changed money in Poland before leaving for Ukraine. Lviv is a beautiful city. I was struck by its charm and how much it reminded me of Paris. The streets were made lively by musicians, and the flow of people strolling or dining out. But the illusion of normalcy was shattered the first time I heard the public alarm howl in the middle of the day. My heart stopped, I was disoriented and did not know what was happening. I thought we were being attacked. Later, it was explained to me that the alarm signals a missile is being fired from Russia into Ukraine. I made my way to the Lviv Media Center, where I was issued a Ukrainian Press Pass, a helmet, and a Level 7 bulletproof vest. At the Media Center, I obtained the military accreditation required to travel to Kyiv and deeper into the now war-torn country. Remarkably, I also had the good fortune to meet a group of Mexican freelance photojournalists, Eduardo Quiroz, Christopher Rogel Blanquet, and David Peinado, who hailed from my hometown, Juarez, Mexico. They were kind enough to invite me to join their group as they headed into Kyiv. Initially, I had planned to limit my stay to Lviv, but with the support of my newfound friends, I found the courage to continue the journey. We took a night train out of the city the following day, arriving in Kyiv the following morning at 7 a.m. From that point on, the four of us would share a one-bedroom apartment previously occupied by a Ukrainian friend of Christopher's who had hastily left for Mexico City the day Kyiv was first attacked. The 19th-floor apartment was messy, with dirty dishes left in the sink and personal belongings strewn all over the floor. Clearly, Christian's friend and his partner had escaped from Kyiv. This apartment became the hub from which we ventured out on day treks into Irpin, Bucha, and Chernihiv, cities that had taken the heaviest damage from the Russian offensive, suffering war crimes such as rape, torture, and mass civilian executions. In Bucha, I understood that two segments of the population most desperately needed humanitarian help: its senior citizens who could not - or would not - leave their city and the packs of dogs made ravenous by hunger. They were strangely and disturbingly connected by the crisis. The dogs would roam together, looking for food, and attack the most vulnerable elders, who could only try to fend them off with their walking sticks. Traversing those war-torn streets, I would see people cooking outside on portable gas stoves or campfires. They would often beckon to me with their hands, drawing them to their mouths and asking if I was hungry. I was comforted that kindness like this could still be found, even amid all the pain, suffering, and violence I had witnessed. As I had done seven years previously in the US-Mexico borderlands, to more fully convey the plight of refugees, I decided to journey back into Poland with them. On April 11, I boarded a bus from Lviv to Medyka, Poland. Every available seat was occupied by women and children fleeing the conflict. When we arrived at the border, we were held on the bus for four hours, awaiting inspection and processing. As we set foot in Poland, we were greeted by the sight of mobile kitchens staffed by volunteers from an array of European countries, including Italy, Norway, Germany, Asian nations, and the Indian subcontinent. Making my way around those kitchens, I felt gratitude that the larger free world was making itself present and expressing its solidarity for the Ukrainian people in the face of Russia’s terrible war against the free people of Ukraine.

I’m notorious for staying--comfortably--behind the scenes; gradually, I’m coming into a place where I can own my profession out loud. The opportunity to speak here is exciting. I have worked in the Philly art scene for about two years. Prior to working with Ada, I worked within the gallery and editorial teams at InLiquid. The prominent art non-profit exclusively features local visual artists in their gallery. Her La Carvana series moved me to write a blog post on the InLiquid website. Shortly after posting, she reached out to me. That’s how our journey began. Now, a year later, I am a professional freelance writer and creative. Also, Ada became one of my greatest friends. Our time together is an extraordinary one. We have found a rhythm unlike any other. Essentially, she translates the written and recorded stories of people in her photographs into English. It is my job to write them down eloquently. Since she walks alongside the caravans, we often spend hours sifting through (what feels like) hundreds of encounters. It’s amazing. At no point in my life could I imagine contributing to a cause as large as hers. Her work is an intersection between art and a humanitarian call for action. There are thousands of men, women, and children who are denied the opportunity to speak about their experiences. The people documented in her series often go unseen. Ada’s photography re-establishes the respect they deserve. She has taught me to see art as an act of rebellion; it combats the systems that silence the oppressed. I have come to realize that artists should always advocate for something greater than themselves. Ada’s tenacity, passion, and grit motivates me to succeed as a woman of color in the arts. It has been an honor to help her find a voice. Little did I expect, her lens turned to my community’s struggles. I’m blessed that she has. The Black Lives Matter movement has flipped the script on our typical meetings. Normally, Ada educates me on the Latinx view of American society. Now, I can educate her on the Black experience. I would love to—physically—join her as she walks in the protest. However, I, like many others during this pandemic, have an underlying condition that is at risk of being aggravated while standing with my peers. By working with Ada, I have been given an opportunity to fight for my people…from a safe distance. I believe that it is important for all communities, not just minorities, to gather in solidarity. By working together, we can create change in innovative and invigorating ways. Our multiple voices create a variety of revolutionary outlets. I hope that as you look at this series, you are moved to create a positive change for the future. Words from Moran Lloyd