“Laughing Red”: Notes of a professional clown from Ukraine's hospitals and bomb shelters

RU

We were in the third month of the war.

The clowns’ passports were checked meticulously. A Russian visa raised suspicions, even if you were a volunteer. Many were simply afraid of Russians. Russian speech terrified, evoked the horrors of the past. The clowns obtained work permits and listened to the rules (you break one, you can never set foot here again).

“Here's the cafeteria,” a volunteer told us during a tour of TESCO. “Grab some water. Here we have bird cages.” I had no idea people still kept birds as pets.

Someone said: “I couldn't figure out what day it was. All I could do was count days since the beginning of the war: three days, five days, seven, fourteen, twenty-one, forty.”

“We put banners with country names above each room door,” the volunteer continued. “People choose where they want to go next. We place them in the right room. There, they wait for their turn to get on the bus.”

People said:

— “Stop reading that.”

— “But what if I miss the news right when they tell us we can come back home.”

“Here we have Germany, France,” he said, pointing a finger at a laminated table, “England, Lithuania, and Latvia are over there. We try to send people on their way as quickly as possible. But some have to wait.”

Someone said: “The winter was harsh. Constant cold and power outages. I noticed I'd gotten used to moving around in the dark. I do the same thing during the day too, shrinking into myself so as not to bump into something.”

“And this room is for sexual violence survivors,” the volunteer said quietly. “Men are not allowed in there.”

People said:

— “Why am I here?”

— “You're not standing in the line.”

“Well, that's more or less all you need to know,” the volunteer resumed. “Oh, and the toilet is down the hall.”

* * *

A clown cannot stop a war. But halting it — if only for a single person, if only for the fleeting instant when they are together — is something they are capable of.

Working with trauma, you feel like Orpheus from the Greek myth. You have to descend into the underworld, and in order to do that, you need a harp. An instrument to charm Hades. Without it, you will find yourself face-to-face with the trauma, and in this confrontation, you stand no chance of winning. So hold on tight to the instrument you wield best. Otherwise, the trauma will destroy you as well.

The Laestrygones

We checked out from the hostel and rented a room in the very heart of the Old Town. Thick-walled houses standing flush with each other inspired hope of safety.

We went out for a walk. Despite the approaching curfew, the tiny streets of old Lviv were packed. Booked-out restaurants, living statues, angels with yellow-and-blue wings wandering from bar to bar, passers-by shooting at a target with Putin's face on it. A street festival. Right alongside were the portraits of the fallen and a giant map of Ukraine, where one can place a post-it note with best wishes or a prayer. “Thanksgivings and petitions to God,” the sign in Ukrainian read.

We returned home. After checking the directions to the bomb shelter yet another time, we went to bed.

At 4:03 a.m., we woke up to an air raid alert. All sleep is gone in a blink. Once awake, Suzie and I instinctively grab each other by the hands: “To the shelter!”

I jump to my feet and grope around for my shirts and tee in the dark. I dash outside barefoot, trying to convince myself I'm not scared. The way to the shelter lies across the courtyard. In the yard, the wailing of the siren bounces off the four walls. We enter the lobby, pass a long corridor, and find the thick metal door. When I pull, the door yields with a squeal, and we descend into the shelter. Down there, it's damp and dusty. We're alone.

We take a look around. On a lopsided light-blue table, I notice an icon of Our Lady; a few comforters are piled up on a chair next to it; a row of five-liter water canisters lines the brick wall.

“I don't think we'll get killed. The walls are impressive, and we’re three meters or so below ground. But we could get trapped inside. If we do, how long will it take to get us out? There's enough water. We should pack a bag of protein bars. For next time.”

4:40 a.m. I try to stand on my heels to keep off the cold. The floor is leeching warmth. There is no network coverage beneath the concrete and no sound from the outside gets in. Was there a second alarm? I climb the stairs several times to listen, but everything is silent.

Tired of getting cold and waiting, I decide to return to our room and connect to Wi-Fi to learn if the alert is over. Suzie stays in the shelter.

I message Tania. She doesn't read it. She must be asleep. Or also in a basement with no coverage. Feeling lost, I cannot recall the name of the Telegram channel posting updates about threats. I don't have the app Eugenia uses either.

“Look,” Suzie says, entering our room. “I can't sit in that basement all alone with my thoughts. What if you got hit while I'm there? I'd rather we stuck together.”

“It's five in the morning. We have another hospital visit planned for today. To hell with the siren! Let's try to get at least a couple of hours of sleep.”

Trying to fall asleep during an air raid is like pretending you're asleep after you've heard someone's steps in your apartment. Eyes keep darting back and forth beneath the eyelids. You start seeing and hearing drones in the noise of passing cars and flashes of headlights on the ceiling.

The buzzing approaches. Your body freezes and gets heavier, pushing itself into the mattress; your stomach sticks to your back; a wave of heat rips through your body, leaving behind a sheen of sweat. You cannot breathe or budge. Gradually, you manage to convince yourself it was only a car. I fall asleep.

At 5:22, an explosion jolts us awake. A message from Tania:

“Good thing you're in the shelter.” “We're back in our room,” I reply. “But there are missiles. Get to the shelter right now.”

I grab a bag of clothes to keep myself warm in the basement, and we run. This time, there are people in the shelter.

I sit down on the grimy stairs and put on socks and Robin's red jacket. Who knows how long we'll be stuck in here? People avoid looking each other in the eye — as if afraid to acknowledge the reality of the danger. “If I don't see fear in another person's eyes, mine might not be real after all.”

At 5:59, a second siren signals the end of the raid.

Back in our room, I rush to check the updates in chats and news channels.

“One of the missiles hit a kindergarten (six kilometers away); the blast wave took out the windows in a medical college building. Four civilians were injured.”

Photographs of the damage done.

We scroll through the news as if it could make us feel better. As if we didn't understand what we were dealing with.

“This was the most massive strike on Lviv since the beginning of the war. Most of the threats were shot down by air defenses. One residential building on the outskirts was hit. Its roof is on fire. Firefighters are en route. Two are dead.”

“Lviv's market was hit.”

A little later, we read in The Guardian: “Over 100 houses were damaged; over 500 windows were blown out. A children's playground was destroyed.”

And then it was time to leave. We packed our things and went for a cup of Armenian coffee. It was important to go outside and see “normal” life. People going to work, sweeping streets, selling pastry. Life goes on. But something has changed. Everyone's lack of sleep is almost palpable. Or is it that I didn't get enough sleep and see it in everyone else?

We order our coffees and sit down to prepare for our work at the hospital. My concentration is shot. Thoughts are all over the place. I feel like I know nothing at all about clowning. What do I have to offer? It seemed so easy just yesterday.

Instead of our act, Suzie and I discuss what foods we should bring to the shelter. We also need to buy a couple of warm items. Summer clothes aren't enough.

“I slept like the dead. I didn't even hear anything,” a girl says on the phone.

Today, everything feels different. The harsh sound of a chair dragged against the coffee shop floor makes us jump. A car dashed past us, and a piece of rubber fell out of it. Can I kick it? What if it's a bomb? Absurd thoughts keep popping up. Letters on the menu randomly stick together, forming things like “Czech hedgehogs” and “Our Father in Heaven.”

On our way to the bus stop, we notice a couple. The man is donning a suit; the girl, a wedding dress. Yet another wedding! On the morning after an air raid!

Shadows

“Would it be weird if I asked them to show us the bomb shelter?” Suzie asked on the way to the hospital. “I don't see anything weird,” I said, as I was thinking the same.

A siren caught us right on the doorstep.

The hospital appeared to be living a life of its own, torn apart from reality. The usual gloomy Soviet interior, the usual hallways and staff. Nothing aside from a piece of paper on the wall with an arrow pointing towards the shelter, which people barely notice, is saying there is danger. But even for me, someone who has yet to become accustomed to this kind of life, the hospital seems like a safe, well-protected place. Who would bomb a hospital? Even if someone would, my chances of being rescued here are much higher.

The head of the PR service welcomes us.

“I’ll show you to the ward.” “Are we allowed to work during an air raid alert?” “Of course!” the woman says, sounding surprised at my naivete.

She leads us through endless hallways, stairs, and the underground level, where I notice the hospital shelter. It's empty and abandoned.

“We have two wards for you today,” our guide says. “Oncology and general pediatrics.”

There are six of us, so we break into groups of three. Suzie and I each have a pair of clowns to mentor. We quickly decide who goes where. Our group stays in the general ward, and Suzie’s walks on, to the oncology department.

A couple of minutes later I get a message from Suzie: “Those who can walk went to the hallway for the time of the alert. Those who can't walk have stayed in their beds, next to windows. That's f*cked!”

Mentoring. During the visit, I follow the other clowns like a shadow. I chase the thoughts of danger away. Instead, I try to focus on what I see: how patients respond to the clowns, what situations my colleagues find confusing, how they improvise, and when they repeat themselves. I make notes. What I get is a shorthand report of what you can't put into words: hospital clowning.

We gather for a follow-up discussion in a closet (the safest place in the ward). We grab three dusty chairs and settle down amidst buckets and mops.

“There was a seven-year-old girl in ward three,” I start. “Sveta, I think. Remember her? What made her laugh?”

The clowns exchange glances.

“I don't know,” Tania replies.

“Okay,” I say, “Let's try a different way: what did she respond to?”

“Fear?” she ventures to assume.

“Control over fear. She laughed when one of you acted scared, and the other gave instructions. To understand a child's needs, it's enough to pay attention to what they are most responsive to. In Sveta's case, she needs a sense of security. So we create a situation of choice. You need to give her a problem she can solve. Or not solve and simply laugh at you. Say, you're afraid of her toy rabbit. She can take it and scare you, or she can reassure you by saying it's just a toy. In this case, she decides whether fear has a place.”

“I enter a ward and don't know what to do next,” Yura interjects.

“What do you normally begin with?”

“I ask their name, a couple of questions, and then I try to come up with something real quick.”

“Do you talk a lot?”

“A great deal!”

“Whatever for?”

“Ha! Whatever for...”

“No, really, what for?”

“To avoid pauses.”

“What happens if there is a pause?”

“It would mean that nothing's happening. That we failed. No one is laughing.”

“Suppose I don't feel like laughing. What do you have to offer?”

“To offer you? I could do something absurd, or dance a funny dance.”

“You're still trying to get me to laugh. But I don't feel like laughing. I don't want to have fun right now. What then?”

“Then I failed.”

“How about you try to figure out what I want?”

“How do you mean? As a person?”

“Yeah. What do I want right now?”

Yura falls silent and takes his time looking at me.

“See, you just made a natural pause. Was it empty?”

“No, it wasn't.”

“Why?”

“I was interested in you,” Yura says with a smile. He must have anticipated my next question:

“Why do you think a pause feels empty at a hospital?”

“I don't know,” he replies, avoiding the obvious. He doesn't dare to take the final step.

“A wild guess?”

“Sure.”

“Do you ask what the child wants?”

“I never thought about it. No.”

“You have to ask. Being a clown doctor is not about you; it's about the patient you visit. A pause is an opportunity to see the patient, to understand how they feel and what they want. It helps you see the focus of your future act. This way, your performance is relevant to the actual situation, not your idea of it. You won't have to impose fun anymore. Children will laugh because they shared a meaningful experience with you, made a spiritual effort, and feel better as a result. They will feel seen. This is what matters the most.”

* * *

After the visit, two nurses invited us for a coffee. “We won't take no for an answer.” They led us through dark hallways to the staff kitchen. A box of eclairs was waiting for us on the table.

“I work at a military hospital,” a young nurse said. She was wearing pink scrubs with superhero prints. “It's not far, just down the hill. Every day I see those poor boys without arms or legs. So much hatred!” Tears began to pour from her eyes, but she didn't seem to notice.

“Why did those beasts even come to us!” the older nurse continued. “What do they want with us? We had a normal life. My husband and I recently got a mortgage to buy an apartment. We had a future. But look how it turned out! I wish the future never came... I buried my mother recently. She was born in wartime and died in wartime. What kind of a world is this?”

We were silent. We had nothing to add, but they didn't need our words. They just needed to talk to each other in our presence. In our company, they could once again feel the abnormality of what was happening. They could see the pain and horror in our eyes and remember that there is and will be a different life.

“One has to forgive, though,” the younger nurse said, wiping her eyes. “Forgive whom?” the older woman snarled. “Those monsters? They are killing our children! Are we supposed to forgive them?”

“We should at least try. After all, we need it the most, so as not to live our lives in constant hatred. You can't build a life around hating someone!” “You might be right. You can't build a life like that, of course. Here, help yourselves to the eclairs, don't be shy.”

* * *

We returned to the city after dark. Curfew was in half an hour, but the heat wasn't receding. We felt like grabbing an ice cream. Shops and cafes were already closed, but a fish restaurant was still open on the square. We sat at a table and ordered some vanilla ice cream. Just a couple minutes later, they brought us three scoops each in metallic bowls.

Suddenly, there was a bang and wisps of black smoke: a lamp exploded in the middle of the restaurant. After the strike, the city had plunged into gloomy tension. It was as though the lamp had sensed this tension too and finally short-circuited.

* * *

Before falling asleep, I had a brief chat with a friend.

“Today was upside down. Everything's different. We keep waiting for something. Things didn't get back to normal until evening.”

“Your every day is different from the day before. Under normal circumstances, it's the same 24 hours, but where you are one day could count as a year in intensity. I forget the movie where it happened.”

“It was Interstellar. Twenty-five years elapsed in three hours.” “Yeah, exactly! On the ocean planet!” “Yes. Because of the black hole's gravity, spacetime was warped near it.” “It's warped where you are as well... Because of the black hole.” “It's all weddings, prayers, and funerals here.” “Must be hell.”

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Russian text drawn from: Igor Narovski, “Laughing Red”: Freedom Letters, Riga, 2024. ISBN: 9781326939144