These people once had a home in Bakhmut. That house – and for that matter, the entire city – was levelled, as tends to happen when the Russians arrive with their “russkiy mir” (Russian world/Russian peace). They are refugees in Ukraine, living in a church. They have no possessions, yet insisted on giving me some buterbrod (sandwiches) for the journey – a gesture of gratitude for my attempt to help. It’s a strange feeling: I have so much, they have nothing – and Ukraine is, in truth, protecting Europe from fascist aggression.