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MoreDavid Van Zanten came to Whanganui back in 1991. He was initially a supply teacher but then worked at St Augustine’s (now Cullinane College) and then 14 years at Collegiate.
BY DOUG DAVIDSON
The story was published in River City Press
However, over the past 11 years, he and his wife Elizabeth have taught in places like Oman, China, and Morocco, and he is now in Ukraine (Elizabeth is remaining in Whanganui for this latest teaching contract). A constant has been his love of running, including, as he says, “sadly running past many tank-blocking items’ in Ukraine. David has written the following for the RCP.
YBAXA! YBAXA! (ooh wah ha!, ooh wah ha!) Alert! Alert! These herald in the warnings of imminent strikes, which ring out often at my schools in Ukraine, for which I am International Academic Director. The alert today is a special one as two sets of MiG31s are detected, which means ballistic missiles could be on their way. Usually, the alerts are for Shahed drones, which are mostly shot down and for which the game of Russian roulette [unfortunate, unwanted but literal term here] is played by the citizens as they go on with their ‘normal’ lives in defiance.
I’m in Kyiv mostly. My other school is in Dnipro, which is the distance of Hawera from Wanganui from the front line which is just beyond Zaporizhia. I visit often. They have many alerts daily.
The first time there, I chose to read a story to the eight nursery children who come to school every day regardless of the hell in which they live. It fills me with admiration and tears in equal measure. The children introduced themselves to me as we stood in the shelter beneath their school. They were asked to describe how they were feeling. The first stood up, and said proudly “I’m strong”. The rest followed one by one. Six were strong; two were happy. Their answers carved me up inside. Three-years-olds and four-years-olds stood in a shelter as drones and missiles and air defence units and cannon fire raged in the distance. Telling me they were strong was a moment of deep pathos. A moment for which the word ‘pathos’ was made, I feel.
I was heading more recently to Dnipro by train. The train was on its way to Zaporizhia, with many soldiers on board destined for the front. Their faces will haunt me [ochi napovneni strakhom I bolem – ‘eyes filled with fear and pain’]. A missile alert was happening in the area at this time, so the train slowed, and the air became somehow heavier as the potential danger spread through the carriages, and all became silent as though breathing too heavily would disrupt the balance. People endure in a collective, which has the glue of common struggles, hope, sadness and understanding. There is also a resolve, an enduring strength of spirit which bonds all who live through such times.
Back in Kyiv there are small plots of lawn around the city in which Ukrainian flags sprout to life daily. Thousands upon thousands of them. Each with a loved one’s name and unit number. To approach such shrines is beyond description. There are many people standing quietly, stoically, sadly and respectfully. Some planting new flags, others tending to existing ones or crying as they remember and honour the dead.
The brave dead whose absence creates great dark spaces in one’s heart Kyiv is a beautiful city. Founded over 700 years before Moscow. It is known for its many churches and parks, chestnut trees and amazing architecture. A city in which the male population is massively reduced, and there is a sorrowful faraway look in the eyes of the
remaining women as they carry on living.
It is now 3am, and another siren makes itself known to the slumbering populace [The sound of lawnmowers is the sound of Shahed drones, according to many people here. I find that difficult to place, as lawnmowers have images of Sunday afternoons and communities and families. But it is easy to know that I am a long way from New Zealand].
The drone sounds are followed closely by the staccato cannon fire as the city’s hidden batteries open up in their defence of a city, a people, a culture and a right to live without tyranny. Often this is accompanied by the dull thud, thud, thud of patriot missiles being launched to find their ballistic partners in a drastic mid-air coupling. The night sky becomes a fireworks show. A show which few see. A show for which no one smiles.
I came here as a calling, along with a dozen other souls whose friends and families all tried to dissuade them from making this journey. A camaraderie and a purpose exist. A desire and a need to connect the world of sanity and hope, and potential and love to as many people as we can.
Darkness cannot exist where there is light, I have read. So, we bring our collective light to this place of
greatest need. We kindle our flame higher against this darkness.
This is our calling
This is my calling
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