Culture
‘No Sleep ‘Til Kyiv’ captures the civilian road to supporting Ukraine’s front lines
By: Emily Votaw
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ATHENS, Ohio (WOUB) — In the piercing cold hours of an early November morning, a disciplined procession of vehicles moves through the dark outside Tallinn, Estonia.
Painted in hues of muted olive drab, sage, and dusted khaki, the convoy appears, at first glance, unmistakably military.
As night slowly gives way to day, that impression softens.
These are not armored transports or government-issued vehicles. They are, for the most part, used pickup trucks—Ford Rangers, Toyota Hiluxes, Isuzu D-Max—refurbished by volunteers, packed with vital supplies like trauma kits, stretchers, and thermal blankets, and driven not by soldiers, but by civilians who have left behind ordinary lives to carry them to Kyiv. Once there, Ukrainian troops take them directly to the front lines to combat the Russian invasion.
One of those volunteer drivers is Jon Gudorf, an American from Dayton, Ohio.
Not so long ago, Gudorf was living what he describes as a routine life—working in real estate, preparing tax returns, “pretty boring stuff,” he said—until he watched a five-minute video about the first American, Stan Miller, to join a volunteer convoy delivering aid to Ukraine.
“I saw that and was immediately like, okay—I’ve got to do this,” he said. “There’s obviously nuance in some areas of political theater. But in this case, it just seems so clear to me that Ukraine is fighting for its survival—its freedom and independence—like we did 250 years ago.”
This particular convoy is organized through NAFO—the North Atlantic Fella Organization—and its 69th Sniffing Brigade, a decentralized network that raises funds, refurbishes donated vehicles, and delivers them directly to Ukrainian troops.
For Gudorf, who has since taken part in multiple convoy relief efforts organized by various groups, the appeal is the immediacy of the work.
“It’s not money going into some massive pit of an organization and hopefully some of it then gets to the right place,” he said. “This is like, you’re bringing a truck, and you’re delivering it yourself, as well as spare tires and tourniquets and burn kits.”
Even on his first trip, Gudorf understood, at least on paper, what lay ahead: an exhausting 36-hour trek through the Eastern European winter. Still, he was nervous, initially imagining a journey into an archetypal war zone: radio silence, back roads, and constant danger after crossing into Ukraine.
While he noted that “[…] it’s not that it’s not that,” the reality, Gudorf said, is far more complex.
For the first 12 or so hours, the convoy moves through landscapes that could be mistaken for the American Midwest—long stretches of farmland dotted with McDonald’s and Circle K gas stations. Gudorf joked that if you were dropped in by parachute, you might think you had landed in Ohio.
This illusion fades as the convoy crosses into Ukraine.
The fields lose their bucolic calm. Bright red placards marked with skull-and-crossbones begin to appear, warning of landmines buried just beyond the roadside. Since 2022, Russian forces have turned Ukraine into one of the most heavily mined countries in the world, using rockets, drones, and manual placement to scatter explosives across vast areas.
Farther along, in Borodianka, apartment buildings stand hollowed and collapsed—destroyed during Russian airstrikes in the early days of the invasion. In Bucha, a Wall of Remembrance bears the names of hundreds of civilians killed during the town’s monthlong Russian occupation.
“There’s people from nine months old to 95-years-old on that memorial wall,” Gudorf said. “The Russians tried to explain that away—saying it was all, you know, soldiers they had killed—and it was actually mostly women and children and the elderly. So it’s just horrendous. And then that’s still going on today. I mean, that hasn’t changed. That’s just what they do. They are a destructive force.”
When the convoy reaches Kyiv, the trucks are handed directly to Ukrainian troops, who take them to the front lines for logistics, evacuation, and supply transport.
That work, and the people behind it, is documented in the film No Sleep Til Kyiv, which follows NAFO volunteers transporting aid from Estonia into Ukraine.
The documentary will be screened tonight at the Athena Cinema (30 South Court Street), where Gudorf will participate in a post-screening discussion. Proceeds from the screening will support the purchase of vehicles and medical supplies.
Gudorf said he hopes the film challenges common American misconceptions about Ukraine.
“Ukraine is an extremely advanced and modern country,” he said. “Kyiv is a city of seven million people and it’s as cool and as exciting as any European city you can imagine. Sometimes we can go too far with the pity party and think that this is like a developing country who’s, you know, desperate because of poverty, but it’s not that—they’re literally being invaded.”
He emphasized that Ukrainians are fighting to preserve an independence declared in 1991 after decades of Soviet control. He also pushed back on narratives suggesting widespread support for Russian control.
“Ukrainians for the vast majority do not want to be part of Russia,” he said. “That narrative is a lie. It is a total lie. There are of course sympathizers in the east of Ukraine, but many of them were imported by Russia in the first place. […] That narrative is B.S. It’s a territorial empire-type war of aggression by a nut job madman, no different than any other time in history.”
Gudorf said individual efforts matter, and that support from organizations like NAFO is making a tangible impact.
“Mother Teresa used to talk about how it may seem like a drop in the ocean, what you’re doing to overcome big ballistic missiles and drone factories and all this stuff,” he said. “And I know, it’s easy to wonder – what’s one pickup truck or what’s a $100 donation in the face of that? But, you know, without the drops, the ocean would run dry.”