The Donbas: Part Two
The soldiers often leave in the middle of the night for missions, taking advantage of what commander Alex says they call “gray light,” po siromu. I did not immediately know what the direct translation was into English but assume it refers to twilight: the time just before or after sunset which allows them to operate without detection in the soft light so that “we can still see but are chu chu [a little bit] hidden.”
During the day, all of their movements can be carefully watched by Russian drones. At night, we exercise strict light discipline. As do all civilians in the area. Windows are covered with boards or black trash bags (as they are in our house) to allow using lights inside the house. A light on at night in Donbas is an inviting target for a Russian missile once their eyes in the sky catch it.
A soldier and friend of Rebekah’s who works as part of an anti-drone unit sent her this message of caution for living in our area:
“…If the weather is cloudless - enemy scouts with wings will have the whole sky (but they can fly far and see far). they are just looking for a cluster of people and equipment. if more than 5 people live in the same building - then everyone should be banned from using a mobile phone!! Wi-Fi is possible. a net or trees, or bushes can help from a kamikaze [drone]... and one more thing: you don't have to trust all people!”
A Ukrainian scout drones flies over a training field in the Donetsk Oblast
Throughout eastern Ukraine, light discipline is still taken very seriously. The first time I visited Kharkiv, Ukraine’s second-largest city, I was convinced it was a ghost city where all residents had fled from. The next morning as the city came to life, I stood corrected. Over a year after the Ukrainian success in the battle for Kharkiv, the city remains very much alive.
That is also how it feels in the Donbas. At night, silence and darkness enfold our village. The only interruptions are the sounds of artillery firing in the distance, the deafening booms of MLRS, HIMARS, or Grad rocket and missile launchers, and the sporadic whistle and subsequent boom of an incoming missile.
On my first night here, I went to use the outhouse and brush my teeth before bed. I brought my headlamp turned to the lowest setting which emits a soft red light. A soldier immediately stopped me, trying to tell me something in Ukrainian. I, of course, had no idea what he wanted to say and tried my best to explain I was just using the “toyalet.” He kept trying to tell me something but after eventually realizing we weren’t going to understand each other he waved me on “tse dobre [all is well]” On my way back, I quickly learned all was not dobre. The pitch-black sky was suddenly bright as day and I heard the distinctive whistle of an incoming missile followed by an ear-shattering boom. That felt like my first lesson in listening. I did, however, later learn that the soldier was not objecting to me going outside, the issue was my headlamp.
The company’s deputy commander Dima, for example, never uses a flashlight at night. As we walked between houses one night, he told me he had extra special eyesight which allowed him to see in the dark. Seconds later he walked straight into a wall.
The hardest thing about being here is the dichotomy between the beauty of this area and the sounds of war.
Appreciating and noticing the galaxy of stars overheard or the beauty of the mustard fields is something I normally keep to myself. It is difficult for the soldiers here to see Donbas the way I see it. They are forced to be here. Forced to live in destitute abandoned homes far away from their own homes. Forced to live and protect an area in which half of the people do not want them to be there and are actively rooting for their enemies to kill them.
They even have a term for them. “Zhduny,” the waiting people. Many Ukrainians estimate that around 50% of the people in the Donbas villages are waiting for the Russians to come and liberate them and reabsorb their territory like it was in the days of the Russian and Soviet empires. Alex later told me that Russians use the same term to refer to Ukrainians in occupied territories. While trying to record some extra loud grad launches one morning, I caught part of our discussion on the subject:
Many soldiers have told me often of their dislike for this area. They complain the people are too dependent on the government, asking for everything to be handed to them while at the same time plotting against their own government.
For many soldiers, it is a delicate dance to be in these villages where they must live in order to defend the Donbas and keep it in Ukrainian hands. But they do so constantly wary that a Russian sympathizer who lives next door will one day call in a strike on their area.
The medics I have been staying with have been treating an elderly couple living in the village. Very cognizant of the 50/50 dynamic, my first interaction with the woman who had walked into our driveway was incredibly hesitant. For one, she didn’t speak a lick of English and the best I could offer her in response was “Ya ne ponyu [I don’t understand]. Prashu prashenya [I am sorry]”
A nearby Grad launcher was still shaking the entire village as it fired toward Russian positions. I had been on the phone with my partner back home when a particularly close launch thundered through my ears. At the same time, my hotspot decided to die, thus abruptly cutting off the phone call.
I had been constantly assuring everyone back home I was in a safe area and was worried he would be convinced a strike had hit us. I was rushing across the street to the house with a Starlink when I ran headfirst into the woman.
She was standing in the middle of the street, lugging a grocery cart behind her, visibly shaken. She has maybe four teeth. I went to her and tried to explain it was an outgoing launch and everything was ok: “vse dobre, vse dobre.” She launched back at me with a long tirade in Ukrainian. I knew she was shaken by the noise but couldn’t understand if there was something more she needed.
I called out for one of the guys on our team, Oleg, to come and translate and help her. They conversed in Ukrainian for a few minutes while I stood next to her feeling helpless and frustrated I couldn’t speak her language.
Oleg later told me later she was asking for food and pointed out her house to me. The next time she wandered into our driveway I sprung to action. “Chas! [One second!]” I promptly ran back into the house and gathered whatever extra food I could find. I came out with a couple of loaves of bread and some eggs.
I wish I could say I lept to give her food simply out of the goodness of my heart. But it also partly came out of a wariness of the 50/50 zhduny, waiting, dynamic: I was very scared to anger our neighbors, having heard many stories of Russian sympathizers calling in the coordinates of army housing. After just a few days with these men who had gone above and beyond to shelter us, I was already fiercely protective and incredibly worried about their safety. The company commander hosting us told me that when his company was full, they numbered over 100 men. At this point in the war, they have 13. I couldn’t do anything to help or protect them when they were in the trench, but I could help woo some neighbors. So when I had the opportunity to make one welcome our presence rather than report it to the Russians, I leaped at the chance.
I later realized that the babushka one of our teammates had been checking on was the very same woman. I was mortified by my skepticism toward an old woman simply looking for help. But that is also the dynamic of this war, especially here in the Donbas where neighbors do not trust neighbors. Everyone is afraid, civilians and soldiers alike. They are afraid of what will happen, traumatized by what has already happened, and exhausted from living like this for over a year with no end in sight.
But our now Babushka and Dedushka are no fans of the Russians. The Ukrainian medic on the team, Viktoria, said the first time she went to their house to check blood pressure and medication needs, the husband promptly sat himself down and went into a long tirade against the Russian army, Vladimir Putin, and what they have done to the Donbas and its people.
They lived a hard life and Babushka was clearly unnerved by the frequent sounds of war near her house. She told us they had recently moved to the village after their previous house had simply collapsed one day. She was easily startled by the artillery and missile sounds, telling Rebekah and Viktoria she only wanted heart medication to try and help soothe her when it was particularly loud and frightening.
When we went over a few days later, Rebekah having procured the necessary medications to treat Babushka’s heart and Dedushka’s COPD, they thanked all of us profusely. Viktoria translated that they kept saying thank you for our work, referring not to the medication but to the army. As we were staying with the soldiers in the village, they associated us with them as well, telling us repeatedly that they wished us good fortune and encouraging us to push the Russians back and defeat them. I, of course, was contributing nothing but serving as a witness to their work but was tremendously relieved to hear them welcome the army into their village so enthusiastically.
Editor’s note: For many weeks, I have sat on this blog post. As much as I want to show the beauty and reality of life in this area, for security reasons, I cannot actually share the many photographs I have taken. The photos in this post were not taken in our village.
