When Russia invaded Ukraine and why it was the one time I felt ashamed to be a journalist

I am proud of this profession. But one time it really broke my heart.

March, 2022.

For weeks, I skim in and out of Irpin, the hammered city on the crust of the capital. 

It has become a sinister microcosm for the Kremlin’s war against its neighbors, an almost-bitter victory for its unfettered war crimes. So much of Irpin has been blown to bits, with civilians trapped inside as Russian soldiers march forward, cutting survivors off from life-saving humanitarian aid, medicines, food, water, electricity, communication, and heating despite the sub-zero temperatures.

Not long ago, around 60,000 Ukrainians lived in the town. Now, it’s impossible to know how many are there, having survived Russia’s persistent aerial bombardment. Ukrainian forces destroyed the crossing into Kyiv to stymie Russia’s advance, cutting off the main artery that tanks would have taken to reach the capital. Since then, hardly a day has passed that the Russians have not fired artillery into the wreckage, aiming directly at those running desperately to get to relative safety.

But for the first few days of the evacuation effort, I feel ashamed to be a journalist. What I witness is something akin to a scene of vultures, to my worst nightmare…