War limbo is a reality that envelops a significant portion of the towns overlooking the abyss of Ukraine’s eastern front. Visitors don’t notice any major troop movements through their streets, and there are hardly any residents left, those that remain forced to survive like automatons amid the almost total lack of even the most basic supplies. But the reality of war is constantly felt amid the soundtrack of the thunder of artillery, the threat of drones monitoring or attacking, bombs from aviation, and the accumulated destruction after months of daily attacks by the Russian enemy. Dobropillya, near the disputed city of Pokrovsk in the Donetsk region, represents this limbo well.
On his old bicycle, Oleksander, who is “almost 70 years old,” moves forward with a bag of potatoes hanging from the left handlebar. His smile and determination are part of the armor that residents often wrap themselves in to keep going. “We are fine, we are surviving in this land of ours, while we wait for the victory of the Ukrainian army,” he notes, despite acknowledging the constant attacks. “Look at the hospital,” he adds, pointing to the bombed buildings behind him. So why doesn’t he leave? “This is my home, this is my family, I fear nothing, and I await Ukraine’s victory. Everything is wonderful,” he concludes. He is convinced that the Russians are not going to take Dobropillya.
The destruction is visible throughout this town, which in peacetime had around 30,000 residents. Now only around 1,000 remain, after the number of refugees increased fivefold in August, according to data from the NGO Proliska, which carries out evacuations.
The bombs have targeted the hospital Oleksander refers to. Like a ghost, a man wanders among the ruins in the light rain. It’s Vadim Bobkov, 60, the director of these facilities for the past two decades. Seeing them reduced to rubble pains him; he’s in shock. Despite everything, he says he tries to go there from time to time. On this occasion, he’s checking on the electricity usage and warning the provider to cut off the service, as nothing remains but rubble.
“This used to be a large 450-bed hospital. We served 100,000 people,” Bobkov laments, tears welling in his eyes. “Now there are no people and no hospital.” The hospital director, who was evacuated to the city of Dnipro, is aware that the bombs have left the facilities beyond repair even though, when the Russian threat became unsustainable a few weeks ago, all the potentially useful equipment was taken overseas.
Moving through the shattered buildings, covered in dust and debris, the reporter stumbles upon a white body bag on a stretcher partially covered by fallen masonry. He alerts Max, 31, the military paramedic from the 59th Brigade who is accompanying him. He confirms that there is indeed a body inside. As soon as he inserts the scissors and tears the plastic, the body emits a strong odor. It is dressed in camouflage clothing, so he points out that he is probably a soldier. Max reports the discovery by phone and is ordered to leave the body where it is.
The streets bear the marks of drone and artillery fire on the asphalt. Packs of stray dogs forage as crows fly overhead. Some vehicles are burned out, buildings look battered by shells and, in some cases, half-scorched or destroyed. But every now and then, someone surprises by emerging from the devastation. They are usually elderly people with plastic jugs fetching water, or with a cart hunting for supplies or firewood.
In Dobropillya, where there is no running water and barely any electricity, three shops remain open where residents can stock up on the most basic necessities. There are also two taxi drivers, but “hardly any work,” says Victoria, 49, the manager of one of these grocery stores, half-jokingly, lamenting that “there’s no longer any authority in the city.” Like her, she explains that most of those who stay do so because they can’t find work elsewhere.
Victoria receives bags of bread two or three times a week. That’s precisely what Olena, a 54-year-old resident who is already wearing a hat to combat the cold and damp, goes to buy. Back at her single-family home with a vegetable garden in the back, she introduces her husband, Mikhailo, also 54. Mikhailo, a semi-disabled man with almost complete paralysis of the right side of his body, is the main reason they continue to live in Dobropillya. “He wants to die in his house,” Olena says. One of her main occupations is looking after the 20 or so cats they have. Some are kittens from their own litters, and others are cats from neighbors who have passed away.
“I’ve lived here my whole life,” explains Tamara, 78, covered in a hood and a filthy coat as she walks with a plastic bag in her left hand and a walking stick in her right. She claims she’s not afraid and doesn’t even pay attention to the destruction surrounding her. “My son went to Kursk,” she says, referring to the region in Russia where Ukrainian troops staged an incursion last August. Tamara says he promised to come and pick her up and take her to the neighboring country.
Arrival and departure from Dobropillya takes place aboard a semi-armored military vehicle. Its front end is covered with a metal grille to minimize the impact of drones and it is equipped with a detection system that constantly warns of the presence of these unmanned aircraft in the sky. The last few kilometers of the road connecting to the town are covered by a tunnel of green mesh, forming another defense. In any case, the soldier at the wheel firmly presses his foot on the accelerator. Although the Ukrainian authorities maintain control over Dobropillya, it is currently located about 10 kilometers (six miles) from Russian positions. A common distance for drone activity.
The Russians control around 70% of the Donetsk region, where the Pokrovsk front is located. In this area, they launched a surprise attack in August, which Ukrainian troops responded to with a counteroffensive in September. The line separating the positions of the two armies is winding, shifting, and includes some salients where units of the invading troops remain surrounded. A Russian soldier, Alexander Zaborovsky, acknowledged via Telegram last week that logistics were complicated and that his side had been unable to deliver supplies to the men engaged in a tug-of-war with the Ukrainians. “Few people know what the boys are eating,” Zaborovsky laments.
Olena can’t find an explanation or a clear reason, but she often dreams at night that the war will end on December 4. She clings to that date with hope. In the meantime, she’ll continue to go to Victoria’s shop under the pounding of artillery and take care of Mikhail and the cats.
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