My wife is Ukrainian. Her parents lived in a town in the centre of the country, far from the borders everyone was watching. From 2014 onwards we followed the deterioration the way you follow anything that concerns people you love and cannot reach: constantly, and without much to show for it.
Let me be honest about what distance gave us, because the easy version of this story would make me look cleverer than I was. Distance did not give us clarity. The picture was never clear. What it gave us was subtler and, in the end, more useful — we had no reason to need the comforting answer. The people on the ground had every reason. That asymmetry is not intelligence. It's just position. But it's where the work starts.
In December 2021 they were visiting us in Switzerland, and I tried to hand them a plan at the kitchen table. It is one thing to build contingencies in the abstract. It is another to look at people you love and say, in effect: I think something terrible might happen to you, and here is what we do if it does. They were not persuaded. In mid-January they went home — pushed back, in the end, by the ninety-day Schengen limit. Bureaucracy, banal and indifferent, moving them toward the place we were trying to pull them away from.
So we built it anyway. Primary: a commercial flight out of Boryspil. Fallback: drive west to Kraków and cross. Documents and medication split across several bags and carried on the person, so that no single loss ended the plan. What to abandon decided in advance, while it was still an abstract question. Cash in small bills, because showing a large sum creates a different problem. One operating principle, repeated until it was boring: move, don't negotiate. And one trigger that didn't depend on anyone's judgement in the moment — no contact for three days meant assume a line has been crossed and start moving west, without waiting for confirmation that would never arrive cleanly.
There was a last resort, and I'll state its weakness rather than hide it. If commercial routes collapsed I would go in and bring them out overland through the Carpathians, using the only terrain skill I actually had. What I did not have was a good answer for the way back — moving elderly people through uncertain ground is a different problem, and I never solved it. It sat in the plan as the thing I hoped not to need.
Around the twentieth of February they agreed. The execution was entirely unremarkable: a train to the city, a bus from the main station to the airport, and a phone call from the gate saying boarding was proceeding as usual. It was the last scheduled flight from Boryspil to Zurich. The route was suspended the following day. The invasion began four days later.
No plan was ultimately needed. Every plan had been built. That is what this work looks like when it works — nothing happens, and nobody thanks you for the disaster that didn't occur. The reward for acting on enough is a boring Sunday.
What got them out was not prediction. I did not know there would be an invasion. I had no sources and no private line to anyone who did. What I had was a way of holding the uncertainty — and the training to convert an unclear picture into a decision that could be made while it was still cheap to make. Deciding early cost airfare. By March, a seat on a bus out of Kyiv ran to around twelve thousand euros a person, with no guarantee of getting through.
I could do this only because I happened to carry the training. That is the part that has never sat right. The president has an intelligence service; an ordinary family facing the worst week of its life has a search engine and whatever it can bear to read. Aegilo is the attempt to close some of that gap commercially — and Aegilo Rescue is the attempt to close it for the people who can't pay, because the knowledge that got our family out shouldn't depend on being able to afford it.