#Identity

Dorohusk, 26 February, 22:00–24:00 Inside Suchodoiski Palace, a group of five young Ukrainian mothers were huddled in a corner, cradling toddlers and babies. They looked broken. Rooms above and beyond the foyer were packed with sleeping Ukrainians. They were the lucky ones: Dorohusk, a small village one mile from the Ukrainian border, is close enough that some refugees were able to drive out quickly. “We left early and got here in four hours,” Viktor told us. “In Ukraine, we live close to a nuclear power station and we were scared. We never believed that Putin wouldn’t come. He’s an international terrorist. And you in the West must know – he won’t stop at Ukraine.” “Imagine what it’s like,” his wife, Viktoria, said. “Our five-year-old daughter was about to start school for the first time.” She trailed off, then burst into tears, clutching tightly on a bag of supplies left by Polish volunteers. The supplies were piling up outside. An unending stream of Polish families brought bags upon bags of them: nappies, toys, medicine, food, thick jackets for the -5°C night-time temperature. Refugees, too, kept coming. Nina, a 65-year-old Russian-speaking woman from Kyiv, was looking through the bags with her 11-year-old grandson. In one hand, he held a bag with a red football. In his other, a bag of food. Nina clutched a toothbrush. “It took us three days to drive here,” she told us. “I came with Reno and my daughter. We had to leave the men behind.” Beaming with pride, she said her grandson wants to study engineering in the West. But her face changed at the mention of Putin. “I hope he burns in hell. Forever.” Her daughter joined us. “The road from Kyiv was very bad,” she said. “People were driving so fast, they were so scared, that many of them crashed into Ukrainian tanks, which have no lights, along the way. Many of them died. Many of them.” Zosin, 27 February, 11:00–12:00 The reception centre at Zosin, an hour south along the border, was calmer. In a village school, it had taken in only 20 refugees. It was staffed by the Polish fire brigade, arranging rides for those who knew where they wanted to go. “We have to be organised now,” Patryk, a fireman, said. “Now only special address. No more pick up and go anywhere. To Krakow, Warsaw. Only special address.” Polish families and Ukrainians resident in Poland were arriving at border crossings like Zosin’s in greater numbers than refugees. They parked their cars along the rural roads and waited for refugees. Many approached through rows of police cars with flashing lights, pulling bags behind them, wearing all the clothes they could, their children struggling to follow. A few made it through in cars. “I haven’t slept in three days,” Viktoria, a 29-year-old from Kyiv told us. “The drive out took more than one day, then we had to wait at the border for almost two days.” Przemyśl, 27 February, 20:00–22:00 The station here receives trains from Lviv and is a major transit point for onward journeys into Poland. It was in chaos. Refugees, many originally from South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East who had been working in Kyiv, were trying to sleep on makeshift beds along the station’s hallways.  A ticket office has been turned into a supply point for hot soup and drinks. Polish officials set up a desk in the main hall to connect refugees with volunteers offering rides and accommodation across the country, and even beyond; some as far as Belgium and Germany. A young Ukrainian mother travelled for three days with her six-year-old daughter to get here. Her husband drove them as close to the border as he could, and then turned back to Kyiv to fight. Her plan is now to go to a friend’s place in the Czech Republic.  Oksana came with her two parents, both in their 80s, eating bread and soup brought to them by a volunteer. “My father has already lived through wars,” she told us. “But it became very difficult for him and my mother, living in the basement, to hide from air strikes. We had to leave. They want to go back home, but I told them we can’t.” In the station café another young Ukranian mother is waiting anxiously at a table. Her husband Josef explains that her 18-year-old daughter first refused to leave the country, and is now struggling to get out. “She got on a train from Lviv,” Josef told us. “But the train has been held for 40 hours in the middle of fields behind the border. I keep asking Polish officials, but they just tell me it’s the Ukrainians. We’re very worried.”

Dorohusk, 26 February, 22:00–24:00 Inside Suchodoiski Palace, a group of five young Ukrainian mothers were huddled in a corner, cradling toddlers and babies. They looked broken. Rooms above and beyond the foyer were packed with sleeping Ukrainians. They were the lucky ones: Dorohusk, a small village one mile from the Ukrainian border, is close enough that some refugees were able to drive out quickly. “We left early and got here in four hours,” Viktor told us. “In Ukraine, we live close to a nuclear power station and we were scared. We never believed that Putin wouldn’t come. He’s an international terrorist. And you in the West must know – he won’t stop at Ukraine.” “Imagine what it’s like,” his wife, Viktoria, said. “Our five-year-old daughter was about to start school for the first time.” She trailed off, then burst into tears, clutching tightly on a bag of supplies left by Polish volunteers. The supplies were piling up outside. An unending stream of Polish families brought bags upon bags of them: nappies, toys, medicine, food, thick jackets for the -5°C night-time temperature. Refugees, too, kept coming. Nina, a 65-year-old Russian-speaking woman from Kyiv, was looking through the bags with her 11-year-old grandson. In one hand, he held a bag with a red football. In his other, a bag of food. Nina clutched a toothbrush. “It took us three days to drive here,” she told us. “I came with Reno and my daughter. We had to leave the men behind.” Beaming with pride, she said her grandson wants to study engineering in the West. But her face changed at the mention of Putin. “I hope he burns in hell. Forever.” Her daughter joined us. “The road from Kyiv was very bad,” she said. “People were driving so fast, they were so scared, that many of them crashed into Ukrainian tanks, which have no lights, along the way. Many of them died. Many of them.” Zosin, 27 February, 11:00–12:00 The reception centre at Zosin, an hour south along the border, was calmer. In a village school, it had taken in only 20 refugees. It was staffed by the Polish fire brigade, arranging rides for those who knew where they wanted to go. “We have to be organised now,” Patryk, a fireman, said. “Now only special address. No more pick up and go anywhere. To Krakow, Warsaw. Only special address.” Polish families and Ukrainians resident in Poland were arriving at border crossings like Zosin’s in greater numbers than refugees. They parked their cars along the rural roads and waited for refugees. Many approached through rows of police cars with flashing lights, pulling bags behind them, wearing all the clothes they could, their children struggling to follow. A few made it through in cars. “I haven’t slept in three days,” Viktoria, a 29-year-old from Kyiv told us. “The drive out took more than one day, then we had to wait at the border for almost two days.” Przemyśl, 27 February, 20:00–22:00 The station here receives trains from Lviv and is a major transit point for onward journeys into Poland. It was in chaos. Refugees, many originally from South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East who had been working in Kyiv, were trying to sleep on makeshift beds along the station’s hallways.  A ticket office has been turned into a supply point for hot soup and drinks. Polish officials set up a desk in the main hall to connect refugees with volunteers offering rides and accommodation across the country, and even beyond; some as far as Belgium and Germany. A young Ukrainian mother travelled for three days with her six-year-old daughter to get here. Her husband drove them as close to the border as he could, and then turned back to Kyiv to fight. Her plan is now to go to a friend’s place in the Czech Republic.  Oksana came with her two parents, both in their 80s, eating bread and soup brought to them by a volunteer. “My father has already lived through wars,” she told us. “But it became very difficult for him and my mother, living in the basement, to hide from air strikes. We had to leave. They want to go back home, but I told them we can’t.” In the station café another young Ukranian mother is waiting anxiously at a table. Her husband Josef explains that her 18-year-old daughter first refused to leave the country, and is now struggling to get out. “She got on a train from Lviv,” Josef told us. “But the train has been held for 40 hours in the middle of fields behind the border. I keep asking Polish officials, but they just tell me it’s the Ukrainians. We’re very worried.”

Dorohusk, 26 February, 22:00–24:00 Inside Suchodoiski Palace, a group of five young Ukrainian mothers were huddled in a corner, cradling toddlers and babies. They looked broken. Rooms above and beyond the foyer were packed with sleeping Ukrainians. They were the lucky ones: Dorohusk, a small village one mile from the Ukrainian border, is close enough that some refugees were able to drive out quickly. “We left early and got here in four hours,” Viktor told us. “In Ukraine, we live close to a nuclear power station and we were scared. We never believed that Putin wouldn’t come. He’s an international terrorist. And you in the West must know – he won’t stop at Ukraine.” “Imagine what it’s like,” his wife, Viktoria, said. “Our five-year-old daughter was about to start school for the first time.” She trailed off, then burst into tears, clutching tightly on a bag of supplies left by Polish volunteers. The supplies were piling up outside. An unending stream of Polish families brought bags upon bags of them: nappies, toys, medicine, food, thick jackets for the -5°C night-time temperature. Refugees, too, kept coming. Nina, a 65-year-old Russian-speaking woman from Kyiv, was looking through the bags with her 11-year-old grandson. In one hand, he held a bag with a red football. In his other, a bag of food. Nina clutched a toothbrush. “It took us three days to drive here,” she told us. “I came with Reno and my daughter. We had to leave the men behind.” Beaming with pride, she said her grandson wants to study engineering in the West. But her face changed at the mention of Putin. “I hope he burns in hell. Forever.” Her daughter joined us. “The road from Kyiv was very bad,” she said. “People were driving so fast, they were so scared, that many of them crashed into Ukrainian tanks, which have no lights, along the way. Many of them died. Many of them.” Zosin, 27 February, 11:00–12:00 The reception centre at Zosin, an hour south along the border, was calmer. In a village school, it had taken in only 20 refugees. It was staffed by the Polish fire brigade, arranging rides for those who knew where they wanted to go. “We have to be organised now,” Patryk, a fireman, said. “Now only special address. No more pick up and go anywhere. To Krakow, Warsaw. Only special address.” Polish families and Ukrainians resident in Poland were arriving at border crossings like Zosin’s in greater numbers than refugees. They parked their cars along the rural roads and waited for refugees. Many approached through rows of police cars with flashing lights, pulling bags behind them, wearing all the clothes they could, their children struggling to follow. A few made it through in cars. “I haven’t slept in three days,” Viktoria, a 29-year-old from Kyiv told us. “The drive out took more than one day, then we had to wait at the border for almost two days.” Przemyśl, 27 February, 20:00–22:00 The station here receives trains from Lviv and is a major transit point for onward journeys into Poland. It was in chaos. Refugees, many originally from South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East who had been working in Kyiv, were trying to sleep on makeshift beds along the station’s hallways.  A ticket office has been turned into a supply point for hot soup and drinks. Polish officials set up a desk in the main hall to connect refugees with volunteers offering rides and accommodation across the country, and even beyond; some as far as Belgium and Germany. A young Ukrainian mother travelled for three days with her six-year-old daughter to get here. Her husband drove them as close to the border as he could, and then turned back to Kyiv to fight. Her plan is now to go to a friend’s place in the Czech Republic.  Oksana came with her two parents, both in their 80s, eating bread and soup brought to them by a volunteer. “My father has already lived through wars,” she told us. “But it became very difficult for him and my mother, living in the basement, to hide from air strikes. We had to leave. They want to go back home, but I told them we can’t.” In the station café another young Ukranian mother is waiting anxiously at a table. Her husband Josef explains that her 18-year-old daughter first refused to leave the country, and is now struggling to get out. “She got on a train from Lviv,” Josef told us. “But the train has been held for 40 hours in the middle of fields behind the border. I keep asking Polish officials, but they just tell me it’s the Ukrainians. We’re very worried.”

Dorohusk, 26 February, 22:00–24:00 Inside Suchodoiski Palace, a group of five young Ukrainian mothers were huddled in a corner, cradling toddlers and babies. They looked broken. Rooms above and beyond the foyer were packed with sleeping Ukrainians. They were the lucky ones: Dorohusk, a small village one mile from the Ukrainian border, is close enough that some refugees were able to drive out quickly. “We left early and got here in four hours,” Viktor told us. “In Ukraine, we live close to a nuclear power station and we were scared. We never believed that Putin wouldn’t come. He’s an international terrorist. And you in the West must know – he won’t stop at Ukraine.” “Imagine what it’s like,” his wife, Viktoria, said. “Our five-year-old daughter was about to start school for the first time.” She trailed off, then burst into tears, clutching tightly on a bag of supplies left by Polish volunteers. The supplies were piling up outside. An unending stream of Polish families brought bags upon bags of them: nappies, toys, medicine, food, thick jackets for the -5°C night-time temperature. Refugees, too, kept coming. Nina, a 65-year-old Russian-speaking woman from Kyiv, was looking through the bags with her 11-year-old grandson. In one hand, he held a bag with a red football. In his other, a bag of food. Nina clutched a toothbrush. “It took us three days to drive here,” she told us. “I came with Reno and my daughter. We had to leave the men behind.” Beaming with pride, she said her grandson wants to study engineering in the West. But her face changed at the mention of Putin. “I hope he burns in hell. Forever.” Her daughter joined us. “The road from Kyiv was very bad,” she said. “People were driving so fast, they were so scared, that many of them crashed into Ukrainian tanks, which have no lights, along the way. Many of them died. Many of them.” Zosin, 27 February, 11:00–12:00 The reception centre at Zosin, an hour south along the border, was calmer. In a village school, it had taken in only 20 refugees. It was staffed by the Polish fire brigade, arranging rides for those who knew where they wanted to go. “We have to be organised now,” Patryk, a fireman, said. “Now only special address. No more pick up and go anywhere. To Krakow, Warsaw. Only special address.” Polish families and Ukrainians resident in Poland were arriving at border crossings like Zosin’s in greater numbers than refugees. They parked their cars along the rural roads and waited for refugees. Many approached through rows of police cars with flashing lights, pulling bags behind them, wearing all the clothes they could, their children struggling to follow. A few made it through in cars. “I haven’t slept in three days,” Viktoria, a 29-year-old from Kyiv told us. “The drive out took more than one day, then we had to wait at the border for almost two days.” Przemyśl, 27 February, 20:00–22:00 The station here receives trains from Lviv and is a major transit point for onward journeys into Poland. It was in chaos. Refugees, many originally from South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East who had been working in Kyiv, were trying to sleep on makeshift beds along the station’s hallways.  A ticket office has been turned into a supply point for hot soup and drinks. Polish officials set up a desk in the main hall to connect refugees with volunteers offering rides and accommodation across the country, and even beyond; some as far as Belgium and Germany. A young Ukrainian mother travelled for three days with her six-year-old daughter to get here. Her husband drove them as close to the border as he could, and then turned back to Kyiv to fight. Her plan is now to go to a friend’s place in the Czech Republic.  Oksana came with her two parents, both in their 80s, eating bread and soup brought to them by a volunteer. “My father has already lived through wars,” she told us. “But it became very difficult for him and my mother, living in the basement, to hide from air strikes. We had to leave. They want to go back home, but I told them we can’t.” In the station café another young Ukranian mother is waiting anxiously at a table. Her husband Josef explains that her 18-year-old daughter first refused to leave the country, and is now struggling to get out. “She got on a train from Lviv,” Josef told us. “But the train has been held for 40 hours in the middle of fields behind the border. I keep asking Polish officials, but they just tell me it’s the Ukrainians. We’re very worried.”

Dorohusk, 26 February, 22:00–24:00 Inside Suchodoiski Palace, a group of five young Ukrainian mothers were huddled in a corner, cradling toddlers and babies. They looked broken. Rooms above and beyond the foyer were packed with sleeping Ukrainians. They were the lucky ones: Dorohusk, a small village one mile from the Ukrainian border, is close enough that some refugees were able to drive out quickly. “We left early and got here in four hours,” Viktor told us. “In Ukraine, we live close to a nuclear power station and we were scared. We never believed that Putin wouldn’t come. He’s an international terrorist. And you in the West must know – he won’t stop at Ukraine.” “Imagine what it’s like,” his wife, Viktoria, said. “Our five-year-old daughter was about to start school for the first time.” She trailed off, then burst into tears, clutching tightly on a bag of supplies left by Polish volunteers. The supplies were piling up outside. An unending stream of Polish families brought bags upon bags of them: nappies, toys, medicine, food, thick jackets for the -5°C night-time temperature. Refugees, too, kept coming. Nina, a 65-year-old Russian-speaking woman from Kyiv, was looking through the bags with her 11-year-old grandson. In one hand, he held a bag with a red football. In his other, a bag of food. Nina clutched a toothbrush. “It took us three days to drive here,” she told us. “I came with Reno and my daughter. We had to leave the men behind.” Beaming with pride, she said her grandson wants to study engineering in the West. But her face changed at the mention of Putin. “I hope he burns in hell. Forever.” Her daughter joined us. “The road from Kyiv was very bad,” she said. “People were driving so fast, they were so scared, that many of them crashed into Ukrainian tanks, which have no lights, along the way. Many of them died. Many of them.” Zosin, 27 February, 11:00–12:00 The reception centre at Zosin, an hour south along the border, was calmer. In a village school, it had taken in only 20 refugees. It was staffed by the Polish fire brigade, arranging rides for those who knew where they wanted to go. “We have to be organised now,” Patryk, a fireman, said. “Now only special address. No more pick up and go anywhere. To Krakow, Warsaw. Only special address.” Polish families and Ukrainians resident in Poland were arriving at border crossings like Zosin’s in greater numbers than refugees. They parked their cars along the rural roads and waited for refugees. Many approached through rows of police cars with flashing lights, pulling bags behind them, wearing all the clothes they could, their children struggling to follow. A few made it through in cars. “I haven’t slept in three days,” Viktoria, a 29-year-old from Kyiv told us. “The drive out took more than one day, then we had to wait at the border for almost two days.” Przemyśl, 27 February, 20:00–22:00 The station here receives trains from Lviv and is a major transit point for onward journeys into Poland. It was in chaos. Refugees, many originally from South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East who had been working in Kyiv, were trying to sleep on makeshift beds along the station’s hallways.  A ticket office has been turned into a supply point for hot soup and drinks. Polish officials set up a desk in the main hall to connect refugees with volunteers offering rides and accommodation across the country, and even beyond; some as far as Belgium and Germany. A young Ukrainian mother travelled for three days with her six-year-old daughter to get here. Her husband drove them as close to the border as he could, and then turned back to Kyiv to fight. Her plan is now to go to a friend’s place in the Czech Republic.  Oksana came with her two parents, both in their 80s, eating bread and soup brought to them by a volunteer. “My father has already lived through wars,” she told us. “But it became very difficult for him and my mother, living in the basement, to hide from air strikes. We had to leave. They want to go back home, but I told them we can’t.” In the station café another young Ukranian mother is waiting anxiously at a table. Her husband Josef explains that her 18-year-old daughter first refused to leave the country, and is now struggling to get out. “She got on a train from Lviv,” Josef told us. “But the train has been held for 40 hours in the middle of fields behind the border. I keep asking Polish officials, but they just tell me it’s the Ukrainians. We’re very worried.”

Dorohusk, 26 February, 22:00–24:00 Inside Suchodoiski Palace, a group of five young Ukrainian mothers were huddled in a corner, cradling toddlers and babies. They looked broken. Rooms above and beyond the foyer were packed with sleeping Ukrainians. They were the lucky ones: Dorohusk, a small village one mile from the Ukrainian border, is close enough that some refugees were able to drive out quickly. “We left early and got here in four hours,” Viktor told us. “In Ukraine, we live close to a nuclear power station and we were scared. We never believed that Putin wouldn’t come. He’s an international terrorist. And you in the West must know – he won’t stop at Ukraine.” “Imagine what it’s like,” his wife, Viktoria, said. “Our five-year-old daughter was about to start school for the first time.” She trailed off, then burst into tears, clutching tightly on a bag of supplies left by Polish volunteers. The supplies were piling up outside. An unending stream of Polish families brought bags upon bags of them: nappies, toys, medicine, food, thick jackets for the -5°C night-time temperature. Refugees, too, kept coming. Nina, a 65-year-old Russian-speaking woman from Kyiv, was looking through the bags with her 11-year-old grandson. In one hand, he held a bag with a red football. In his other, a bag of food. Nina clutched a toothbrush. “It took us three days to drive here,” she told us. “I came with Reno and my daughter. We had to leave the men behind.” Beaming with pride, she said her grandson wants to study engineering in the West. But her face changed at the mention of Putin. “I hope he burns in hell. Forever.” Her daughter joined us. “The road from Kyiv was very bad,” she said. “People were driving so fast, they were so scared, that many of them crashed into Ukrainian tanks, which have no lights, along the way. Many of them died. Many of them.” Zosin, 27 February, 11:00–12:00 The reception centre at Zosin, an hour south along the border, was calmer. In a village school, it had taken in only 20 refugees. It was staffed by the Polish fire brigade, arranging rides for those who knew where they wanted to go. “We have to be organised now,” Patryk, a fireman, said. “Now only special address. No more pick up and go anywhere. To Krakow, Warsaw. Only special address.” Polish families and Ukrainians resident in Poland were arriving at border crossings like Zosin’s in greater numbers than refugees. They parked their cars along the rural roads and waited for refugees. Many approached through rows of police cars with flashing lights, pulling bags behind them, wearing all the clothes they could, their children struggling to follow. A few made it through in cars. “I haven’t slept in three days,” Viktoria, a 29-year-old from Kyiv told us. “The drive out took more than one day, then we had to wait at the border for almost two days.” Przemyśl, 27 February, 20:00–22:00 The station here receives trains from Lviv and is a major transit point for onward journeys into Poland. It was in chaos. Refugees, many originally from South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East who had been working in Kyiv, were trying to sleep on makeshift beds along the station’s hallways.  A ticket office has been turned into a supply point for hot soup and drinks. Polish officials set up a desk in the main hall to connect refugees with volunteers offering rides and accommodation across the country, and even beyond; some as far as Belgium and Germany. A young Ukrainian mother travelled for three days with her six-year-old daughter to get here. Her husband drove them as close to the border as he could, and then turned back to Kyiv to fight. Her plan is now to go to a friend’s place in the Czech Republic.  Oksana came with her two parents, both in their 80s, eating bread and soup brought to them by a volunteer. “My father has already lived through wars,” she told us. “But it became very difficult for him and my mother, living in the basement, to hide from air strikes. We had to leave. They want to go back home, but I told them we can’t.” In the station café another young Ukranian mother is waiting anxiously at a table. Her husband Josef explains that her 18-year-old daughter first refused to leave the country, and is now struggling to get out. “She got on a train from Lviv,” Josef told us. “But the train has been held for 40 hours in the middle of fields behind the border. I keep asking Polish officials, but they just tell me it’s the Ukrainians. We’re very worried.”

The outspoken radio presenter on how to change your mind in a world that is notoriously unforgiving of uncertainty. Our daily digital ThinkIns are exclusively for Tortoise members and their guests.Try Tortoise free for four weeks to unlock your complimentary tickets to all our digital ThinkIns.If you’re already a member and looking for your ThinkIn access code you can find it in the My Tortoise > My Membership section of the app next to ‘ThinkIn access code’.We’d love you to join us.Radio presenter and writer James O’Brien doesn’t hold back. His previous book, How to Be Right, was all about winning arguments. In this ThinkIn he’ll talk about the follow-up, How Not to Be Wrong: The Art of Changing Your Mind, which is about making your mind up rather than making your voice heard. In a world that can be notoriously unforgiving of uncertainty, and sometimes actively hostile to nuanced discussion, taking the time to examine our opinions and ask where they come from is as important as it can be uncomfortable. `Editor: Matt d’Ancona, Editor and Partner, TortoiseBuy the book here. How does a digital ThinkIn work?A digital ThinkIn is like a video conference, hosted by a Tortoise editor, that takes place at the advertised time of the event. Digital ThinkIns are new to Tortoise. Now that our newsroom has closed due to the coronavirus outbreak, we feel it’s more important than ever that we ‘get together’ to talk about the world and what’s going on.The link to join the conversation will be emailed to you after you have registered for your ticket to attend. When you click the link, you enter the digital ThinkIn and can join a live conversation from wherever you are in the world. Doors open at 6:25pm for a welcome and briefing. Come early to get settled, meet the team and chat to other members. ThinkIn starts at 6:30pm. Members can enter their unique members’ access code to book tickets. Find yours in My Tortoise > My Membership in the Tortoise app.If you have any questions or get stuck, please read our FAQs, or get in touch with us at memberhelp@tortoisemedia.comRead our ThinkIn code of conduct here. What is a Tortoise ThinkIn?A ThinkIn is not another panel discussion. It is a forum for civilised disagreement. It is a place where everyone has a seat at the (virtual) table. It’s where we get to hear what you think, drawn from your experience, energy and expertise. It is the heart of what we do at Tortoise.

Dorohusk, 26 February, 22:00–24:00 Inside Suchodoiski Palace, a group of five young Ukrainian mothers were huddled in a corner, cradling toddlers and babies. They looked broken. Rooms above and beyond the foyer were packed with sleeping Ukrainians. They were the lucky ones: Dorohusk, a small village one mile from the Ukrainian border, is close enough that some refugees were able to drive out quickly. “We left early and got here in four hours,” Viktor told us. “In Ukraine, we live close to a nuclear power station and we were scared. We never believed that Putin wouldn’t come. He’s an international terrorist. And you in the West must know – he won’t stop at Ukraine.” “Imagine what it’s like,” his wife, Viktoria, said. “Our five-year-old daughter was about to start school for the first time.” She trailed off, then burst into tears, clutching tightly on a bag of supplies left by Polish volunteers. The supplies were piling up outside. An unending stream of Polish families brought bags upon bags of them: nappies, toys, medicine, food, thick jackets for the -5°C night-time temperature. Refugees, too, kept coming. Nina, a 65-year-old Russian-speaking woman from Kyiv, was looking through the bags with her 11-year-old grandson. In one hand, he held a bag with a red football. In his other, a bag of food. Nina clutched a toothbrush. “It took us three days to drive here,” she told us. “I came with Reno and my daughter. We had to leave the men behind.” Beaming with pride, she said her grandson wants to study engineering in the West. But her face changed at the mention of Putin. “I hope he burns in hell. Forever.” Her daughter joined us. “The road from Kyiv was very bad,” she said. “People were driving so fast, they were so scared, that many of them crashed into Ukrainian tanks, which have no lights, along the way. Many of them died. Many of them.” Zosin, 27 February, 11:00–12:00 The reception centre at Zosin, an hour south along the border, was calmer. In a village school, it had taken in only 20 refugees. It was staffed by the Polish fire brigade, arranging rides for those who knew where they wanted to go. “We have to be organised now,” Patryk, a fireman, said. “Now only special address. No more pick up and go anywhere. To Krakow, Warsaw. Only special address.” Polish families and Ukrainians resident in Poland were arriving at border crossings like Zosin’s in greater numbers than refugees. They parked their cars along the rural roads and waited for refugees. Many approached through rows of police cars with flashing lights, pulling bags behind them, wearing all the clothes they could, their children struggling to follow. A few made it through in cars. “I haven’t slept in three days,” Viktoria, a 29-year-old from Kyiv told us. “The drive out took more than one day, then we had to wait at the border for almost two days.” Przemyśl, 27 February, 20:00–22:00 The station here receives trains from Lviv and is a major transit point for onward journeys into Poland. It was in chaos. Refugees, many originally from South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East who had been working in Kyiv, were trying to sleep on makeshift beds along the station’s hallways.  A ticket office has been turned into a supply point for hot soup and drinks. Polish officials set up a desk in the main hall to connect refugees with volunteers offering rides and accommodation across the country, and even beyond; some as far as Belgium and Germany. A young Ukrainian mother travelled for three days with her six-year-old daughter to get here. Her husband drove them as close to the border as he could, and then turned back to Kyiv to fight. Her plan is now to go to a friend’s place in the Czech Republic.  Oksana came with her two parents, both in their 80s, eating bread and soup brought to them by a volunteer. “My father has already lived through wars,” she told us. “But it became very difficult for him and my mother, living in the basement, to hide from air strikes. We had to leave. They want to go back home, but I told them we can’t.” In the station café another young Ukranian mother is waiting anxiously at a table. Her husband Josef explains that her 18-year-old daughter first refused to leave the country, and is now struggling to get out. “She got on a train from Lviv,” Josef told us. “But the train has been held for 40 hours in the middle of fields behind the border. I keep asking Polish officials, but they just tell me it’s the Ukrainians. We’re very worried.”

What should companies that profited from slavery do now to make amends? Our daily digital ThinkIns are exclusively for Tortoise members and their guests.Try Tortoise free for four weeks to unlock your complimentary tickets to all our digital ThinkIns.If you’re already a member and looking for your ThinkIn access code you can find it in the My Tortoise > My Membership section of the app next to ‘ThinkIn access code’.We’d love you to join us.In the early 1800s, Benjamin Greene was running his own brewery and managing of a number of sugar plantations in the West Indies. When the British government abolished slavery in 1833, he was paid the equivalent of almost £500,000 in today’s money to compensate him for the loss of his ‘property’ – that is, men, women and children who had been kept as slaves on the plantations. Greene’s brewery is now the highly successful Greene King brewery chain, just one of 43,000 UK companies – including several major banks – named on a database at University College London to have directly or indirectly benefited from these compensation payments. What can and should these companies do now to make amends?Editor: James Harding, Editor and Co-founder, TortoiseHow does a digital ThinkIn work?A digital ThinkIn is like a video conference, hosted by a Tortoise editor, that takes place at the advertised time of the event. Digital ThinkIns are new to Tortoise. Now that our newsroom has closed due to the coronavirus outbreak, we feel it’s more important than ever that we ‘get together’ to talk about the world and what’s going on.The link to join the conversation will be emailed to you after you have registered for your ticket to attend. When you click the link, you enter the digital ThinkIn and can join a live conversation from wherever you are in the world. Doors open at 6:25pm for a welcome and briefing. Come early to get settled, meet the team and chat to other members. ThinkIn starts at 6:30pm. Members can enter their unique members’ access code to book tickets. Find yours in My Tortoise > My Membership in the Tortoise app.If you have any questions or get stuck, please read our FAQs, or get in touch with us at memberhelp@tortoisemedia.comRead our ThinkIn code of conduct here. What is a Tortoise ThinkIn?A ThinkIn is not another panel discussion. It is a forum for civilised disagreement. It is a place where everyone has a seat at the (virtual) table. It’s where we get to hear what you think, drawn from your experience, energy and expertise. It is the heart of what we do at Tortoise.