The little red cross trusted by everyone

Hostages and prisoners alike accept the symbol of trust and hope.

Piotr Ashwin-Siejkowski

Piotr is a chaplain and faith advisor at Brunel University.

At a night time hostage exchange, a hostage wears a pink top and is guide toward the side of a white vehicle bearing a small red cross.

Hostage release, Gaza.

IDF.

The moments when the Israeli hostages are exchanged for the Palestinian prisoners bring many strong feelings. Powerful pictures capture the moment when people on both sides of the brutal conflict regain their freedom. Such images show the hostages embraced by their families and relatives, while the Palestinian men and women are applauded as heroes by their communities. Camera recordings are shaky, we hear the noise of voices, jubilant ones, and see tears on the faces of relatives. The dominant colour among crowds in Tel Aviv is white and blue (the star of David), with yellow ribbons symbols of hope. On the other side: the black military uniforms with green headbands among the members of the Hamas.

Watching these unfolding events one detail can be easily missed: the little red cross. It is there on the Israeli and Palestinian soil, it is on the white vehicles and on the uniforms of volunteers who mediate exchange of hostages and prisoners. This symbol, shown to us, although originating in the Swiss flag, is still accepted by both sides of the conflict as the sign of trust. Of course, the sign of the cross is well known to the Jews and Palestinians and, sadly, has not been only the symbol of glorious, charitable events in the history of that land.

Spotting the small red cross reminds me of the film Schindler's List and the little girl in a red coat… Not everyone can see that girl in red in the overwhelming chaos of events. The viewers can be easily distracted or close their eyes to avoid the brutality of the scene on the movie. What we watch on the day the exchanges commenced is not a movie, it is broadcasting live, and the red cross is there. What is its significance and what does it mean?

At least for me it is a powerful reminder that this small red cross is accepted by everyone – even those who are not Christian - as the sign of their trust and hope in safety, in humanity, in value of promise. In our world of secularism, growing populism, AI, in the world of hate, cruel killings and brutal treatment, on the streets of Gaza where life is annihilated, and outside of cold, grey prisons in Israel, the small red cross appears and embraces both groups. Is not there to judge, does not expect any recognition of its mission, still, remains humble, silent, but a visible reminder of a compassion that is greater than hate. It is accepted by both sides as the bridge on which they wish to walk to their future. Who knows, maybe it will become the door behind which many people from both communities will leave the horrors of this broken world.

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War & peace

27 February 2024

3 min read

Letter from Lviv

Loss, resilience, and a hope one day to count blessings not missile intercepts.

Iryna Dobrohorska

Iryna Dobrohorska is Christian Aid’s Country Response Director for Ukraine.

A woman stands at the back of an armoured military vehicle, the door of which is open.

Iryna stands by a displayed military vehicle.

Ukraine is only two years older than I am. My personal history is intertwined with Ukraine’s history. Instead of the carefree fun I should be having as a young Ukrainian woman, on Saturday I was reflecting that my last two years have been dominated by war since Russia began its full-scale invasion. Over those 730 days, I have witnessed the best and worst of humanity.

I was evacuated from Kyiv to the sounds of explosions nearby, fearing I would be raped or murdered by Russian soldiers if they entered the capital. I’ve wept over losing university friends in combat. I’ve despaired at how Ukrainian writers are being deliberately targeted by the Kremlin.

But I also observed the speed that we Ukrainians built trust and social connections with unknown people. I was proud of the warmth of my hometown, Lviv, which welcomed people from the east of the country - it crushed the myths that Russia was trying to ooze into our national life that we were a divided country that didn’t have the right to exist except as part of Russia.

Not just in Lviv but all over Ukraine. This month in Odesa I felt the same warmth extended to elderly displaced people when I hosted a visit to our local humanitarian partner Heritage Ukraine by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby. He saw for himself how the team, funded by the Scottish faith charity Blythswood, had opened their doors and their hearts to these traumatised strangers facing an uncertain future.

One of those displaced people, Nadia, told me: “We want to go home, but our home is being shelled. At least here we stay with dignity.”

The violence inflicted by Russia is not becoming any easier in the prolonged war we now face.

t’s a scene of resilience I’ve grown accustomed to as I’ve crisscrossed the country to play my small part in the astonishing humanitarian effort powered by the UK public’s incredibly generous donations.

The Iryna I saw in the mirror in 2021 wouldn’t recognise the young woman I see looking back at me today.

In Kherson, I was recording the stories of illegal detention of civilians to the sound of artillery fire. In Mykolaiv, my window view was an apartment block with the roof blown off and clay-coloured water was the only drinking option.

I never thought that I would learn the types of weaponry used in modern warfare. Now I know the difference between the motorbike sound of a drone from the missile whistle above my head followed by the clank when it detonates nearby.

Security awareness is an everyday reality in Ukraine. We often debate during an alert whether choosing to sleep in our own beds instead of going to a shelter may turn out to be our last night. A six-months pregnant teacher friend of mine in Kyiv was killed in her sleep from a drone strike.

The violence inflicted by Russia is not becoming any easier in the prolonged war we now face. Yet I also sense the paradox that we’ve accepted the war becoming everyday normality and so has the rest of the world.

Global attention today is not focused only on Ukraine. A host of other crises are taking precedence in the need for a humanitarian response. My biggest fear is that the long-term nature of our crisis reduces global actors to sympathizing observers.

What I do know is that my generation of young Ukrainians who have lost so much will not allow that to happen. More than ever, I feel the need for a just and resolute peace for Ukraine. With the help of our international friends, the day will come when those who have suffered can go back to rebuild their homes and communities.

As I move on to engage further in Ukraine’s recovery efforts, I feel privileged to have worked for Christian Aid as part of the humanitarian response. I’m most proud of our role in being a catalyst for local people to help themselves by setting their own community priorities in the kind of support they need, giving them a sense of dignity and self-worth.

It’s that kind of world that I dream about - where one day I will count my country’s blessings instead of how many drones and missiles were intercepted the night before.