Long after the flood of memories and the scorched streets, a small bed shop has taken root in a damaged neighborhood. A fragile garden grows on a grave at the entrance of a residential block. The wall once marked by gunfire now bears fresh paint as neighbors reclaim the space. Children wander again in a playground that might have turned into scrap metal, a stark reminder of the price paid. Six months have passed since the horrors of the war exposed the civilians of Bucha to indiscriminate violence, yet the city is steadily trying to erase traces of devastation and to shoulder its collective trauma. The first stage of healing moves with speed; the second lingers, almost unmeasurable. Few speak openly about what happened anymore, and many live with their ghosts.
Oleksandr Beszmerny describes how Bucha remained under occupation, with neighbors looking after each other under pressure. Irpin, a city on the front line, endured even more material ruin and stood as a grim theater of conflict. “The hardest part of coming home was finding the people who died, not only those killed by the Russians but also others who perished after days spent hiding without heat, water, or enough food,” he recalls. On the doorstep, two neighbors passed away soon after the end of the occupation. “It’s impossible to leave the horror behind, but we’re trying,” Beszmerny adds with a tired smile.
Indeed, Bucha became notorious as the first major civilian massacre of this war, a brutal chapter following the devastation of a city near half a million people. From late February to late March, a sequence of atrocities unfolded at the gates of Kyiv: extrajudicial killings, torture, rape, and mass graves, leaving hundreds dead. Some victims were so mangled by time under occupation that they lay in unmarked graves at the local cemetery. “At first, everyone wanted to speak about what happened to them,” recalls Lilia Usakova while she sweeps autumn leaves from the street outside her home. “But not many talk about it anymore. People are exhausted and trying hard to erase it from memory.”
Tragedy reshaped this suburban town west of the capital, as shared pain forged new ties among neighbors, promoting solidarity and mutual aid. “The community has become more united and empathetic,” notes Usakova, now 72, who moved here years ago with a family that endured political persecution elsewhere. “My family has a history tied to oppression, and that history intersects with today’s scars. People remember who stood by them and who abandoned them, and that memory weighs heavily.”
Teams of workers continue to inspect roofs and rebuild facades, repairing the places where bodies were once found and where the city’s drainage and gutters carried the evidence of violence. The priority has been to restore houses that did not require demolition, while schools used by occupying forces as command centers and barracks are cleaned and repurposed. Most destroyed homes are boarded up to hide their ruin, and heavily damaged streets are repaved. “We are giving our best effort,” says the head of the reconstruction brigades, adding that the immediate challenge is restoring electricity and heating to damaged homes before winter fully sets in.
slow homecoming
A barracks of prefabricated houses, donated to the town by international partners, stands beside a school where weapons and supplies were once left behind. These temporary homes shelter those returning from the brink of ruin. “About 70 percent of those who left during or just before the invasion have returned,” notes Iryna Paschna, Bucha City Council Director of Social Services. “Families with children are still reluctant to return, haunted by the memory of what happened. Yet this remains a place where absence is felt as much as presence.”
As winter approaches, conversations center on the coming months. The community remains tense, unsure of what lies ahead, and the heating systems are being repaired even as the fear of renewed aggression lingers. A veteran volunteer, once coordinating emergency ambulances, now keeps a ready bag packed, prepared to react if danger returns. People listen for every sound and prepare for the worst, while choices about rebuilding carry a mix of caution and resolve.
Natalya Zhabenko, a 65-year-old displaced resident living in a prefabricated shelter, speaks softly but with clear determination. Her house burned during the earlier occupation and she moved with her sister into a temporary lodging. The sounds of distant airstrikes and explosions from the early battles near the Antonov airport are memories etched in her eyes. Now, like many others, she lives with an ever-present sense of unease—yet she clings to a simple wish: to reclaim her garden, to see flowers and a bench in a corner of the yard. That small longing keeps her hopeful amid the ongoing uncertainty.