Issue 2. Water

Beyond the physical pleasure of dipping yourself in water, swimming is a way to find inner peace. If you can swim, everything’s more or less fine. But when I tried that in wartime Ukraine, nothing happened quite as expected.

I always carry a swimsuit with me when I travel. Whatever the destination or purpose of the journey, I tell myself that I'll always find water, a beach, a pool, a pontoon or a ladder, and that I can slip into it as one slips under a blanket, to find peace and comfort. I've been to Ukraine several times since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion. One winter morning last year in Kyiv, I decided to go for a swim in the Dnipro. I knew it wasn't frozen yet. Probably icy, but nothing insurmountable. I left my hotel with a backpack containing my swimsuit, a towel and flip-flops in case the ground was a little uncomfortable near the water.

I have to admit that I'm not usually a big fan of river swimming. Rivers scare me a bit, they're often dark, the ground is muddy, and you never know what you're going to find: the beasts are very different from those you might encounter at sea, and I imagine them to be dark, ferocious and mysterious. In Baghdad, where I worked for a long time, I never dared go swimming in the Tigris, but that was for other reasons: there were too many corpses, victims of the civil war often thrown off bridges in the early hours of the morning without further ceremony. It was even said that you should never eat the fish at the market, as it fed on corpses. So I swam in my own almost private swimming pool, the one nobody used at the Hamra hotel, cold even in the middle of the suffocating hot summers. I would swim laps to wash away the horrors of the day.

But there I am in Kyiv. Deciding to go on foot, well covered with my hat, I arrive at Verkhniy Val, one of the main avenues leading down to the river. It had been a difficult night, with numerous air alerts of Russian missiles being fired, one of which ended up hitting a school, fortunately empty, in the middle of the night. Like many Ukrainians, I didn't go down into the shelter, worried but also confident in the ability of army specialists to counter the air assault. That morning, however, people’s faces showed that mixture of anger, exhaustion and fear to which one never becomes accustomed. The avenue is long, and I feel as if I'm walking against the flow: nobody is heading towards the river. A Ukrainian friend had pointed out a place where I could try to get into a swimsuit and immerse myself, but there were no guarantees, as “nobody goes that way anymore”.

The sky is dark gray, it's not snowing yet, but it feels imminent. I reach the end of the avenue, and there are no pedestrians anymore. In front of me, I can make out the river, but it’s behind tall port buildings. I'll have to figure out a way to squeeze through. I walk along the empty, gloomy buildings. The motivation to dip myself into the open water hasn't quite worn off yet. Still, I'm proud to be able to swim “anywhere, anytime, in any situation”. Beyond the pleasure of swimming, I'm looking for inner peace. If you can swim, everything's (more or less) fine. There remains a form of life, of freedom, the possibility of gliding and the pleasure that comes with it. As long as there's swimming, there's hope, my swimmer's brain tells me, each time pumped up by the endorphins my brain releases in the water, in quantities that are greater than in any other pleasurable situation.

But I can't find an entrance between the hangars, under the bridge. I feel the presence of water, but it's still too far away, impalpable, hidden behind the port facilities. Feeling the presence of water without seeing it is the worst thing. It's as if a wall were erected between ourselves and happiness, between our eyes and the horizon. Then I think to myself: what does the horizon of Ukrainian soldiers in the trenches look like? How does it feel to be holed up with only a glimpse of the sky, often full of Russian drones or missiles?

I tiptoe up to try to peek at what’s beyond the gates. I'm unlikely to see any enemies here, nor am I in any danger, but I sense that my plan is fast becoming more complicated.... I wander around for a good half-hour, without finding the slightest gap. Everything seems frozen in the war and its consequences. The river is no longer just a river, however majestic it may be. It's what the military call in their jargon a “wet cut”, an obstacle to be defended or crossed.

Speaking of the military, here they come. Suddenly, an armored vehicle appears, quiet and determined. Coming straight towards me. I stand still, repeating the gestures my body knows by heart from years of news reporting and fear of gunfire. I move my arms away from my chest to show that I'm not carrying anything. My legs, too, a little bit, to make clear I have no intention of fleeing in either direction. And despite the tingle of apprehension, I offer a broad smile that shows a friendly and above all harmless attitude. I'm well aware that a tense soldier has no friends, only suspects in his sights.

An officer opens the passenger-side door, adjusts his weapon and slides it to his left side, leaving it clearly visible. He's in his thirties, with an elegant, well-trimmed mustache, and asks me for my papers, in Ukrainian. I answer in English and apologize for not speaking his language, but he understands me perfectly and carefully examines my passport, press card and military accreditation. His colleagues stare at me from the car, suspicious. Very calmly, he turns to them to explain, I think, that everything's fine and that I'm a journalist. But his tone doesn't change, he doesn't smile, and he tells me that the area is “military” and that I have nothing to do here, that there's nothing to see, and that pedestrians aren't allowed in this area. He'd like to know what I'm doing here, and I understand that. I obviously look like a fool, but I decide to be upfront, and not lie. “I'm looking for a place to go swimming in the river”. His gaze hesitates between anger and laughter. The soldier looks at me intently and wonders whether I'm a madman or, worse, a spy disguised as a madman.

To prove my good faith, I ask him if I can show him the things in my bag. “Yes”. I open the bag and pull out a swimsuit, a slightly “technical” towel that doesn't take up much space, and flip-flops. He turns to his brothers-in-arms and, laughing, tells them that I really do have swimming gear.... Very politely, the soldier hands me my papers, and tells me with a smile that this is a “military zone, no swimming”. I feel silly and sheepish, in front of these men in uniform, who are politely laughing at me. There’s a war going on.

Yet elsewhere, in other lands, in Iraq, in Israel, in South America, even in Afghanistan, I had found comfort in swimming. The unheard-of pleasure of plunging, even for a few moments, into water that washes both eyes and soul, that relaxes the body and soothes anxieties. Whether it's salty or not, framed by the walls of a swimming pool or free and oceanic, whether it's hot or cold, heavy or light (yes, some waters are heavier than others), choppy or calm, water makes you forget war, screams, anger, alerts, images that are too strongly imprinted on the retina. I sometimes think that if all those involved in a war, and especially the aggressors, were forced to swim, they'd be less cruel. Swimming allows you to put your anger or doubts to rest at the bottom of the water, to solve questions that you thought were existential but which turn out to be nothing more than minor problems.

Newspapers all over the world that have the leisure to talk about peace, joy, beauty and solutions, and that don't report on the daily grind of war, famine and global warming (there are still some, I think) — regularly feature articles that help mere mortals get better. There are usually wonderful recipes based on plants, breathing, massages, decoctions, warming blankets, fruits or vegetables.... a wide range of solutions. But out of ignorance (poor them), they rarely mention swimming, a simple swim, outside of any competition, without the intense effort of racing or the fear of not making it to the end of a training session.

The sea, of course, is a different matter, as there are no tiles nor lengths. But there's the pinch of salt water, the waves, the depth, the delicate lapping that whips around your face, more effective than all the skin-rejuvenating elixirs sold at pharmacy prices. As my grandmother used to say — and she swam three times a day, summer and winter, in the cold waters of Brittany — “c'est ravigotant” (it’s invigorating). Swimming should be prescribed by doctors.

Still motionless in front of the soldier, I realize I won't be getting my body and soul treatment this day. I put my things in my bag and turn around. The soldier gets back into his vehicle, and I can sense that they're waiting to see me go, for good. With a determined, vexed step, I don't look back and start heading out towards the avenue leading to the city center. Suddenly, I hear the car catching up with me. A little worried, I tell myself that they’re suddenly having a doubt, and perhaps want more explanations from me. The big jeep draws up to me, the driver rolls down his window while the vehicle still moves, at my pace. “You know, you should go to Odesa. That's where I'm from. We’re making fun of you a bit, but I understand you. I swim there, all year round too. And in the morning, it's wonderful. Have a good day, be careful, it's wartime now”. The jeep speeds up, the soldier gives me a smile and a thumbs-up, the reassuring gesture of a swimming buddy.

If one day you genuinely take up swimming, you'll come to know this secret shared by compulsive swimmers. You'll enter a world where people recognize each other without knowing each other. In the early hours of the morning, you'll see a man walking on the street of a capital city, in the middle of winter, holding a small bag, sometimes just a plastic supermarket bag. With a quick, supple gait, a simple goal, and a smile that already reveals the pleasure of being among the first to enter a swimming pool at 7 am. You'll know what he's got in his bag: a swimsuit, towel and goggles. And you’ll know what’s on his mind, anticipating the pleasure of rediscovering his healthy drug. Or you may come across a woman in an elevator, her hair still a little damp, her face both soothed and awake, despite a slight mark around both eyes, a mere shadow, the mark of her swimming goggles. These people wearing the same outfit and the same smile will glimpse at you with a shared, tribal look of recognition, a simple flash in the eye that says, “you know too”. This little thread that connects swimming junkies is only visible to the initiated, but it's strong and joyful.

So one day I will definitely go swimming in Odesa. In times of peace.

Illustration: Anna Ivanenko