In Kamianka, a snowmelt autumn gives way to mud that clings to every boot. An elderly resident, Tatiana Grushka, speaks of a stubborn wait for happiness that the radio cannot grant. There is no road today, no routine, and no ascent to a distant peak. Perhaps later she thinks, after finishing chores at home, there might be a chance to check whether insurance is available. The village, once a hive of 1,300 souls, now counts only around 40. Most villagers fled when the first assaults began a year ago.
Yet Tatiana refuses to leave. She fled for a few weeks when the town fell under occupation by invaders. Russian forces remained, then disappeared, and she returned last September after Ukrainians reclaimed the town in the southern portion of Kharkiv region. Tatiana endures without electricity, gas, or running water, guiding a small, frightened dog through hours of isolation, joined by her son Nikolai, who seems to age twenty years in the strain at 42. Her resolve centers on her husband, who lost a leg after stepping on a mine. Since then, they have drifted apart. The memory of her friend Natasha, who fled to Spain after a missile killed her husband, lingers in Tatiana’s thoughts. She wonders if she will ever see him again.
“The thing I want most is to see her again,” she whispers through tears. “Please tell Natasha that.” They are landholders with a tractor, three cows, and a family bond that anchors them, even as questions rise about when to leave. The mines nearby tremble with explosions from anti-explosive devices. “Unemployment here is brutal. Some places are silent, with residents unsure whether they are under Russian or Ukrainian control because communication has faded,” explains Tatiana Zolotopup, a volunteer from Lusk.
Painted letters, the Z of the Russian Army, appear amid rubble and dangling wires from destroyed buildings. The landscape is a mix of shattered structures and stubborn nature. The Ukrainian conflict has left dozens of villages nearly empty, turning some areas into ghost towns that Ukraine has reclaimed after months of occupation near the front lines. Silence settles over streets broken only by distant, intrusive noises. A handful of residents endure grim conditions.
Anton, a private who hails from Horlivka, once worked as a security guard at a tourist complex in Yatskivka in Donetsk, a town where civilians are seldom seen. Most activity centers on military vehicles marching toward the fronts, several kilometers away. He also works at the Donbass port, but returns to see what remains and to bring food to elderly folks who prefer not to abandon their homes.
“We evacuated almost everyone I know. There might have been only twenty people left in the entire town. There is nothing to rebuild here, nothing worthy of effort,” he notes. “I came to see a friend’s house today. It is burned and destroyed, the result of the Ukrainian army striking a nearby Russian artillery unit. Everything burned,” he says, stepping back into a car and driving away on a muddy, bumpy road.
The situation is mirrored by the outskirts of Oskil and the besieged Kazakh village, where Kupiansk and many surrounding towns in Donbass endure near-constant bombardment. These areas have become desolate, with scarce civilian life, damp basements, and dilapidated homes. Vehicles move quickly as people try to complete essential trips, while tanks pass and bombardments leave roads scarred and souls frayed.