It's all about the hookups with priests

"First, we go to the heart of the hospital, the church," said Father V. 

A squirrelly man of about 35, I'm a little shaken by his instantaneous trust and ability to squeeze his car between tanker trucks moving at 50 miles an hour. He has an oval face and deep set, brown eyes to cast about his unassuming gaze, softening his greasy, pointed features. If he wasn't a priest, I wouldn't want to meet this guy in a dark alley. However, he's practically a saint; he's the only priest serving some 1500 mental patients, and I felt ashamed this place gave me the heebie-jeebies when he so easily hugged, blessed and touched people.

But here I am, about to follow him into a mental institution where I don't speak the language, and to illegally take pictures of patients. Just 15 minutes ago, he was cutting people off in traffic, dodging potholes and playing some black funk from The Temptations' soul years, something I found strangely ironic. I had heard Ukraine is quite embarrassed about the condition of its psych hospitals, and particularly sensitive about photographers. I have a penchant for these situations.

We park the car outside a tan colored, four story building and trudge up some steps, where I am startled by a dog standing in the hallway. After a quick stop at the chapel, he takes me to the first few rooms of patients. Not speaking any Ukrainian, and too rusty with my Polish to make out more than 'yes' and 'hey you,' I rely totally on Fr. V to interpret. He lets me know when I can shoot by winking and making a shutter motion with his index finger, grinning from ear to ear. When one of the hospital officials walks by, he shoos the camera away. Doors are opened with the "Russian System," as he calls it, by ringing a buzzer 10 times before someone looks at you through a keyhole. When the door finally opens, I'm stunned at what I find. 

I have worked twice with mental patients. Once was in Rockford at the Janet Waddles facility for my AP Psychology final, I wrote my final paper on Depression and Anxiety in Schizophrenic Individuals that I interviewed. The other time was in Milwaukee, a photo project at the Grand Avenue Club, an incredibly warm-hearted institution providing community and opportunity to individuals with mental disability. 

In Ukraine, all of the patients are herded into rooms, usually about 25x25 feet or so. There are 10-15 cots per room, the sheets are clean from what I saw, and people seem to be fed en masse from cooking pots. It's not terrible, but most look more like walking and lying corpses than patients. I was particularly affected by the 'isolation room,' as I call it. Fr. V explained how everyone in that room needs constant supervision, and therefore is placed inside until further notice. Some of them have been there for years, pacing the same square box and sleeping in the same bed. They aren't allowed to leave.

I am reluctant to let out too many details. I don't want to get anyone in trouble, and this is the first trip of (hopefully) many with Fr. V and a long-term project. Stay tuned.