En Route to a Safer Haven
As the reality of the conflict in Ukraine became clear in March, Antoine Leboyer (MBA 1992) went searching for a way to support the refugees fleeing the war. Within a few days, Leboyer was part of a convoy driving 16 refugees (and one dog) from the Polish town of Chelm to host families who would receive them in his hometown of Munich.
It is 11 pm. I am driving a minibus on a highway in Poland. My Ukrainian passengers include two families, a mother and her two children, and two older women with their dog. It's raining, and we can't see very well. The driver of the car leading the convoy maintains a steady speed of 130 kilometers per hour in order for us all to stay together. After more than 1,000 kilometers of driving, I am tired, but I'm suddenly struck by the realization that I don't know how I originally got in touch with the Civil Munich Relief Organization.
Since the beginning of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, images of the war have been spreading: In the middle of the Munich train station, a center to receive refugees was set up. Signs posted in German and English are now offered in Ukrainian, too. Where I live, cars with Ukrainian plates have started to appear.
The facade of the Munich Opera House is illuminated with the blue and yellow of the Ukrainian flag. The violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter, a resident of Munich, gathered musicians from the city's three main ensembles for a concert to benefit Save the Children. Lahav Shani, music director of the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted. The encore after Beethoven's 5th Symphony was the Ukrainian Anthem, imperious and dignified. Everyone in the hall rose to their feet.
Closer to me at the university, one of the brilliant PhDs with whom I work is absent from a meeting one day. He apologizes the next day and says he went to the train station to pick up a Ukrainian law student named Valentyna, who is now staying in his guest room.
Over the weekend, I travel to Switzerland for my daughter's graduation. In the Zurich train station, three people with a ragged look on their faces arrive at the ticket office. They explain that they're from Ukraine and ask how to get tickets to Basel. The young woman to whom they spoke, without flinching or hesitation, tells them that they only have to show their passports and that public transport is free to all who travel for their safety.
The reality of this conflict becomes immediate and tangible.
I wonder what I can do. At some point while surfing the Internet, I must have arrived on the website of the organization Civil Munich Relief, which transports refugees to host families. I added my name to a list of volunteer drivers; I cancel appointments on two consecutive days in order to be available to participate in a convoy.
While browsing Civil Munich Relief's website, I realized that the founder, Markos Kern, is an entrepreneur and owner of a startup. I contact him to ask him if he would be willing to be interviewed for Entrepreneurial Realities, a podcast that I started at the Technical University of Munich, where I work with startups in the field of software and artificial intelligence. Markos's initiative is so typical of the approach of good entrepreneurs, who do so much with so little.
A few hours later, the recording is done and I confirmed with him that I could be available in two days to travel. He confirms that I am in the database of volunteers and that I will receive a communication if they will have enough cars. A few days later, at 11 am, my cell phone rings.
“In particular, he insists on the fact that we must make them feel at ease even if their German or English is limited. Above all, we must not ask these mothers, wives, daughters, or children where their husbands, brothers, and fathers are.”
At 5 pm, I go to the parking lot of the mythical Allianz stadium, where the prestigious Bayern Munich soccer team usually plays. While waiting for the whole team to arrive, we load cars with food, medical equipment, and strollers for children. An hour later, Markos arrives to give us a briefing of the operation, to explain who is doing what, and how the families will be contacted.
He explains that the Chelm refugee camp in Poland where we are headed is not among the worst camps and that we must understand the state of mind of the people we will find there. In particular, he insists on the fact that we must make them feel at ease even if their German or English is limited. Above all, we must not ask these mothers, wives, daughters, or children where their husbands, brothers, and fathers are.
He also explains that even if we don't go into a war zone, the trip will be hard on us, physically and emotionally. We all smile thinking we are very strong but as soon as the convoy starts moving, at 7 pm, we are all on alert.
The outward journey lasts 12 hours. It rains quite heavily. Two drivers are in each car. We take a break every three hours, and we are advised to do everything we can to sleep. But when we arrive in Chelm and stop for a coffee, our looks say it all.
The first step is to go to a abandoned factory that serves as a storage point for the items we have brought with us. A Ukrainian van joins us, and we start to unload our minibuses. The Ukrainian drivers don't speak English and look tired, but we all hug one another.
Then we go to the city where the camp is located in an old abandoned supermarket. We are expressly asked to not take pictures. The camp is quite striking: a big shed with hundreds of cots. The camp is not full, but we see exhausted and irritated children. The first group of families is waiting for us, but another group has decided to go to Warsaw. Christopher, our contact, asks us to wait until an additional convoy arrives; it is unthinkable to leave with empty seats.
We go to the small train station in Chelm, and after a half-hour a train arrives. The previously empty station is suddenly full of women and children. Christopher gets a sign and scribbles "Munich, Germany" on it in Ukrainian.
After a basic customs process, the reception services do a superb job. People who need medical attention receive medical care. Each child—and there are many of them—receives chocolate, orange juice, and a small stuffed animal. This moment of humanity demonstrates how deeply everyone understands the gravity of the situation.
Little by little, groups come to see us and ask who we are. One family asks to join us, then a second one, and finally there are enough of us to go.
We return to the camp to quickly take care of some formalities, as well as COVID tests, which are fortunately negative. Markos in his briefing had explained to us that there had been positive cases in previous convoys, and that we were to transport refugees whatever their state of health. My co-driver and I would have driven them regardless of their status, but we confess we are a bit relieved.
We still have to wait for the police to arrive and validate everyone's papers. We use the time to take photos of the refugees, one by one, to send to the teams in Munich who will immediately start looking for reception points. This is the goal of the Civil Munich Relief Organization: to deliver families to real accommodations, not to another shelter.
At 2 pm, we finally leave. In three cars we have one dog and 16 refugees, including an old man, women, and four children. The men who were capable of fighting remained at the front. Very few of our passengers speak English, so we use Google Translate and pass our phones back and forth to communicate with them. We're grateful for these new technologies.
It starts to rain again en route. We have more people with us than on the drive the night before, but we are better accustomed to driving in a convoy by this point and we stay together comfortably. I am starting to get sore but I find myself with more energy than I'd thought and end up driving the lead car from 4 pm to 12 am. My co-driver is younger and doesn't hesitate to drink Red Bull. After a while, the floor of the car is littered with empty cans.
During a break, one of the mothers asks me in uncertain English where to buy SIM cards. It's late, I'm tired, and I don't think of suggesting that she use my cell phone to send even a few lines of SMS. (The next day, when I'm back home, I feel badly about this moment, but my mind wasn't as clear as it had been the day before.)
A few moments later, our senior passenger asks me in English if I am tired. He had come from the camp, rather than the convoy that had arrived at the train station. I thank him while admitting that indeed, I am not so young anymore, and I start to feel the weight of the journey. But I am touched by the dignity he exudes and by the fact that he asks after my wellbeing.
“People who need medical attention receive medical care. Each child—and there are many of them—receives chocolate, orange juice, and a small stuffed animal. This moment of humanity demonstrates how deeply everyone understands the gravity of the situation.”
A little before midnight, my phone rings. It is Valentyna , the Ukrainian student who is staying with my PhD student. She has contacted Civil Munich Relief to help the central team in Munich. She speaks Ukrainian and English, so she can collect information about our passengers to find suitable families to receive them. Solidarity and resourcefulness are in action. I give them my cell phone and hear them conversing with an animation that I hadn't seen before. An hour later, on the convoy's WhatsApp group, we start to learn where the refugees will be settled once they arrive, and we are all relieved.
I give up the wheel to finally get some sleep, and I wake up about an hour later. We have to call the host families to tell them when we will arrive. It is late, but they answer the phone almost instantly. The first family is in a small village outside of Munich. I drop off a mother and her two children. As I carry the full suitcase with great difficulty, I realize this is the first time that we've smile together. An hour later on the other side of town, a young couple picks up the two women and their dog. I realize that the dog is injured and has a bandage.
I am at this moment quite physically drained. I leave the car and the other driver at 4 am. Half an hour later, I arrive home.
I had not told my wife nor my daughter about my trip. Only my son knew about it; we had exchanged many messages. I write a few words on our WhatsApp family group before falling asleep. When I wake up at 10 am—which never happens—I realize that I had accidentally sent my messages to a group of colleagues with whom I usually communicate in English.
I realize that I am not mentally able to work. Suddenly, every image, every minute comes back to my mind with a surprising precision, and I feel a need to share what I have experienced. I make a phone call to one of my colleagues, who kindly scolds me for contacting him instead of resting.
I have an idea. Two of my fellow drivers are students at the technical university in Munich where I work. The young woman who led our convoy is working on her bachelor's degree. I send an email to the president of the university and the members of his staff whom I know. One responds quickly to say that the university is actively advising the German government on the economic measures to be taken to win what he describes as the "economic war" in progress. He warns me not to be surprised if no one responds to my request and not to see it as ill will.
An hour later, the president's communication director responds by email that they will interview this young woman for the university newsletter and that it's a great idea.
And finally, it's for these reasons that I write down my impressions, to explain that there are three parallel fronts in this war: the military, the economic, and the humanitarian.
The first must be managed by the military. The governments must manage the second in a coherent way. It is up to all of us to contribute to the third, even if our roles are modest, because the need is immense.