“This isn’t the Middle Ages, and we aren’t serfs”: Locals in Ukrainian-controlled parts of Donbas react to Putin’s territorial demands

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U.S. sources have claimed that Vladimir Putin was prepared to freeze the front line in southern Ukraine provided that Kyiv agree to withdraw its forces from the Donetsk and Luhansk regions, according to a Reuters report filed after the Alaska summit this past August. Putin also repeated the demand in an October phone call with Donald Trump. Ukraine rejected the proposal: surrendering the remaining part of the Donetsk region would mean giving up important fortified areas, as The Insider previously reported, and a Kyiv International Institute of Sociology poll found that 75% of Ukrainians oppose the Russian “peace plan” proposal that would cede Crimea and the Donetsk and Luhansk regions.

The population of the Ukraine-controlled part of the Donetsk Region fell by nearly half over the past year, from 525,000 in August 2024 to 225,000 in August 2025. But despite the fighting, many still regard this land as their only home. They refuse to leave.

Kramatorsk

Before Russia’s full-scale invasion, Kramatorsk — the largest city in the Ukraine-controlled part of the Donetsk Region — had a population of more than 150,000. By January 2025, that figure had dropped to 80,000, and by July it was down to 53,000. The city now lives in a constant “frontline” mode, under regular shelling and frequent drone attacks. Two of the deadliest incidents came on April 8, 2022, when a missile strike on the railway station killed 61 people, and on June 27, 2023, when a strike hit the Ria Pizza café, killing 13.

Shelling intensified in the summer of 2025: in July, the Russian army used Tornado-S multiple-launch rocket systems, wounding three people and damaging civilian infrastructure, and in August, several Shahed drone strikes were recorded, with one hitting a medical facility and others causing damage in residential neighborhoods.

A massive bombardment on Aug. 22, 2025, lasted more than an hour, producing about 30 explosions across the city. Weeks later, on Sept. 10, a new series of attacks began. On Sept. 14 Russian aircraft dropped four FAB-250 aerial bombs on the city center, damaging 35 apartment blocks, three schools, various administrative buildings, several shops, and a bank.

Ekaterina, a pastry chef and owner of the local Coffee House cafe-pastry shop: “If they dare come here, I’ll go to war myself.”

“When the full-scale war began, everyone in Kramatorsk who had money left the city. All the local shops and businesses closed. We somehow managed for a while only because we couldn’t afford to relocate. That’s how I became a monopolist: my place was the only one open in the city. It was mostly men that came [to us], military.

If before the war I showed off because of my good pastry-school education, a French school, now there’s no point. There’s no electricity, no logistics, I had to change recipes to make things last longer, and the young people left. There was no one to work. If, say, a big bearded man comes, he won’t pick molecular cuisine or some truffle freak show. He wants something simple, tasty, homey… so I started making waffle rolls and Napoleon cake. It’s what their mothers and grandmothers used to make.

In April 2025, the shelling got worse. We had to close, and I went to Dnipro with my child. Rent was very expensive: $300–$400 a month, and you had to pay the first two months plus an agent fee. Where are people supposed to get that money when the average salary in Kramatorsk is $250 a month and a good salary is about $400? Many in 2022 couldn’t leave because they simply had no money.

In Dnipro we found a small house — more like a shed — where someone had died and lay for a long time. We cleaned it ourselves. I had a breakdown. It cost $150 a month. To pay for housing and food, I got a job in a pastry shop kitchen making desserts and delivering them. I worked six days a week, 15 hours a day, and was paid $15 a day. It covered the bare minimum, but I couldn’t have kept it up for long.

There is a feeling that we, the people of Donbas, are nobody’s concern. Ukrainians in other regions call us ‘donbasyata’ — it’s like calling someone ‘downies’ (‘downyata’) only ‘donbasyata.’ They say we are to blame for everything because we’re Russian-speaking and pro-Russian. That’s all false, but that’s how the country treats its own refugees. In fact, those who were pro-Russian showed themselves in 2014. They were all registered, and most of them left long ago.

In Dnipro there was a telling incident: I was unloading a car and an electronic watch fell out with wires sticking out. Neighbors saw the wires and the Donetsk license plates and decided I had come to blow up their peaceful Dnipro. They called the police and the SBU. The authorities came, found I was sane and the complainants not so much, and left. But soonwe returned to Kramatorsk and I reopened the café, brought in coffee, found staff, and began working again. But there were almost no people: about 20 customers a day, mostly men, and many of them elderly. There were virtually no women. They had left with the children.

We are the last major nonoccupied city in the Donetsk Region, so for now things are more or less better here than elsewhere. Power is cut for six to eight hours once a week, and if there is a big strike it can be out for a day. They bombed the thermal power plant and the hydroelectric station and I don’t even know how the electricity is being supplied now. We adapt: we bake a hundred wafer rolls in two hours on three machines. They need 220 volts, but sometimes the voltage drops to 180-185 and we rush, whacking them out faster and faster, to get them all out while it holds.

Prices have gone up for everything in the city, even though people’s purchasing power hasn’t. Logistics are terrible, it’s expensive to bring goods here. When we compare suppliers’ prices, ours are about 40% higher than in the Kharkiv Region or other parts of Donetsk under Ukrainian control.

Shelling is constant here. I’m concussed now, sometimes I feel disoriented because of it. Two days ago, FAB-250 bombs dropped right outside my window. There are two huge craters there now. I was in my room when the blast wave hit. The sound was deafening, the pain in my ears so strong it felt like my eardrums were vibrating from pressure. You feel the pain, and your brain just stops processing anything.

My child managed to hide in the bathroom. Tiles fell on him, and he was hurt. At first, I didn’t even understand what had happened — just a huge boom and nothing else. Outside, it was terrifying to look at: walls and windows blown out, chunks of masonry ripped away. The house is gone, it’s impossible to live in. And it’s not the first time it’s been hit. We survived shelling back in 2014, too. This time eight people were injured — 19 officially — but we didn’t even make it into the statistics. We didn’t have time for all the paperwork. My friend came, helped treat my son’s wound and took him to his grandmother’s. I stayed here. No one will rent to me with two dogs.

The doctors said I have a moderate concussion and should be resting for three weeks, taking pills and getting injections. But I have to think about what comes next. My son will stay with his grandmother in the village of Veselyi — it’s closer to the front, and drones fly overhead there.

The main thing I want now is to earn enough money to get my child out, while I stay and keep working. I can’t leave yet — I have my kid and my parents to take care of. Too much responsibility. So I just want to work as much as possible and eventually leave with at least something. Hardly anyone is left in the city. In my apartment block, it’s just me and an old lady with her disabled son.

Some people here are waiting for the war to end. Others think everything will collapse. Many got carried away with Trump’s talk of peace negotiations and thought the war was about to end. I had no illusions. I keep saying: there’s no point waiting or hoping — the war won’t end.

We built fortifications, dug trenches, and set up defensive lines. And now we’re like: “Please, take our nice trenches, our strong defensive lines, you’ll be cozy here. We’ve got everything you need.” Maybe we’ll even leave them our f***ing canned food to make it even better.

From those positions, they’ll push farther west — toward Dnipro, toward Kharkiv. It’ll be a disaster. It makes no sense to believe that giving up territory will bring peace. Agreeing to that would be foolish.

I haven’t seen anyone here who supports Russia. Take my neighbor, for example — an elderly woman. We’ve lived through shelling twice now, in 2014 and again this year. We both saw who was doing it. Even she says clearly: “We’ll help our boys,” meaning the Ukrainian soldiers.

In 2014, some people still had illusions that things would be better under Russia. Now those people are either in Donetsk or in Russia. I haven’t heard anyone here say that in years.

Thank God we have internet access. We can see what’s happening in Donetsk — it’s pure f***ing propaganda, total contempt for the people living there. A friend of mine in Yalta [in Crimea] was thrown into a basement in 2014, beaten and tortured, then released, threatened, and had his dacha with all his vineyards taken away — all for being pro-Ukrainian. After that, he switched to speaking Ukrainian and became practically a nationalist. That’s what they achieved.

That same year, my ex-husband worked at a car dealership, they had around 150 vehicles. The so-called “Don Cossacks” came, forced everyone face down — even the director — and said, “Give us the keys if you want to live.” They stole all the cars, and the people were left jobless. They came, they saw, they took — like pirates, though even pirates had a code of honor. These were just thieves. How can anyone still delude themselves about their motives?

My homeland is Ukraine, even though I mostly speak Russian. I’ve always wanted to stay here. I’ve never gone abroad, never wanted to live in Kyiv — let alone Moscow. I’ll never work under Russia. How can you work, make money, pay taxes to a government that does this? They can go to hell. Seriously. That’s how every Ukrainian I know feels — and they all consider themselves Ukrainians. The more this madness progresses, the more anger it provokes.

We started developing after 2014, Western investment came into the city. In 2017, I got a UN Development Programme grant for my business as a woman entrepreneur. The city was rebuilding: there were fountains, playgrounds, children’s projects popping up.

If Russia had stopped in 2022, when it was clear they weren’t wanted here, things would’ve been far better than they are now. The more f***ing destruction they cause, the more rage they stir. With every ruined house, every friend or family member killed while defending the country, the fewer illusions remain. There are none left now. All of this could have been avoided.

And you realize — if they dare come here, I’ll go to war myself. No matter that I have a child or a business. I volunteer in nearby towns hit by shelling, like Kostiantynivka, and I know for sure: no one here wants to surrender their city.

Sloviansk

Before the full-scale invasion, Sloviansk had more than 100,000 residents. By November 2024, about 50,000 remained, including roughly 5,000 children. That month, Mayor Vadym Liakh urged families with children to leave because of heavy shelling. Since then, Sloviansk has been hit repeatedly by Russian attacks: in June, a drone strike damaged School No. 14; in July, two people (including a child) were wounded in the Lisovyi neighborhood; and in August and September, strikes hit the city center, the industrial zone, residential buildings, and and several infrastructure objects.

Nikolai Karpitskiy, Ph.D. in Philosophy, religious scholar and journalist at postpravda.info: “No peace agreement is possible, nor is life under occupation.”

“I’m from Tomsk, Siberia, where I graduated from the university’s philosophy department, taught there, and defended the rights of believers persecuted by the state. I often traveled to Ukraine, studying local religious communities. In 2014, I condemned Russia’s military actions — I said so openly in Tomsk media.

Because of that stance and my trips to Ukraine, the university refused to renew my contract, and there was no reason to stay in Russia. So in 2015, I moved to Kharkiv, where the local Krishna community helped me find a teaching job at Luhansk National University, which had relocated because of the war.

When the battle of Debaltseve happened, I traveled along the front line in Donbas, writing about how Christians lived amid the fighting. In Avdiivka, I helped deliver food to pensioners by bicycle with other volunteers. Among both us and the locals were people with pro-Ukrainian and pro-Russian views, but there was no conflict.

Only once did my Russian citizenship cause problems. In 2015, I was stopped at a checkpoint outside Avdiivka — at the time the military had orders to detain anyone with a Russian passport. An anti-terrorist unit took me away for questioning about my views, which, as a teacher, I even found interesting. They eventually said, ‘Don’t tease the soldiers anymore,’ and let me go. After that, I passed that checkpoint freely.

Sloviansk emptied out in 2014, as everyone who could do so fled the war-torn Ukrainian cities. People feared both shelling and reprisals. The husband of a friend of mine, a deacon, was taken by pro-Russian fighters under the command of Igor Girkin. He was tortured and executed. Residents began returning in 2015, but out of 110,000 people, about half remain today.

I moved to Sloviansk in 2020, bought a small house with help from a local Christian community, and received permanent residency in Ukraine. Until the full-scale invasion, life was quiet, maybe [there was] one explosion a week somewhere. Until drones appeared, even eight kilometers from the front line it felt peaceful, like the rear. Since 2022, the front has drawn much closer — both in reality and in feeling.

Now, when the explosions hit, no one goes to the shelters — it’s pointless. Air raid alerts happen five times a day, but the strikes rarely coincide [with it] because it’s impossible to track them all. Yesterday drones were flying over; today I read that one local was killed. Living through this is terrifying, but you get used to it with time.

A few months ago, there was an explosion 500 or 800 meters from me, the house was completely destroyed. I was walking to the market, and people around me barely reacted. They kept walking the streets, working, and buying food. There’s a big difference between systematic and sporadic shelling.

Now Kostiantynivka is being struck systematically: there’s no power, water or gas, drones and missiles are destroying homes one by one. When utilities and repair crews can’t even work — that’s systematic destruction. In Sloviansk, they fix things quickly after strikes, and people have accepted that any of them could be next. It’s a kind of Russian roulette. I’ve decided to stay until the very last moment, but if things get really bad, I’ll go to Kramatorsk.

Since the start of the full-scale invasion, prices have risen two to four times depending on the product. The variety of goods has decreased, but there will never be hunger here because Ukraine is a breadbasket. Even if a major war breaks out across the entire country, people will live on porridge, but they will live.

My citizenship or nationality has never mattered here, even after the start of the full-scale war. No one looks at your passport; they look at your beliefs. Everyone knows that Ukrainians curse Russians, but among themselves, they argue even more fiercely.

Because of the war, a sharp political culture has taken shape: any question is seen as a matter of life and death. Even in religious communities — among Hare Krishnas and Christians — there are debates over whether to take a pacifist or radically patriotic stance, whether to support the front or withdraw and focus on spiritual matters, whether to speak out actively or maintain neutrality. But everyone is united in a pro-Ukrainian position. No one holds a pro-Russian one. Even the traditional pacifism of the Hare Krishnas here is pro-Ukrainian: everyone wants Ukraine to win and criticizes Russian Krishnas for their different, pro-Russian “pacifism.”

It is natural that most of the blame is placed on Russians — they are the ones bombing us. But sometimes frustration is also projected onto the local authorities: why they didn’t prepare better, why there aren’t enough shelters, whether there is corruption, and so on. Russia is seen as the aggressor, and everyone understands that the Russians want to kill them. Therefore, no peace agreements are possible, nor is life under occupation.

Even communication with antiwar Russians isn’t working out for Ukrainians right now. I myself take part in some discussions, but only as an equal participant — like any other Ukrainian — and in both Ukrainian and Russian without any problem. And I can hear that no one here believes in dialogue or cooperation with Russians.

In 2022, Ukrainians naively thought it was possible to explain to Russians what was happening here, that they would understand and show support. But it soon became clear that no one could be convinced. And that was it, “dead means dead.” Even I have lost communication with like-minded people in Russia.

Some Russians say, “I support Ukraine. Ukrainians are our allies. We’ll stand together and try to convince other Russians not to go to the front. Let’s find common ground...” And Ukrainians reply: “That’s your problem. We live under bombs here, defending our country, and you want us to take part in your activities? The internal fight against Putin is your responsibility. We are fighting for survival.”

It also depends on the person. If someone speaks on behalf of Russians and takes responsibility for everything Russia is doing — or speaks only for themselves — they’ll be listened to. But when someone speaks on behalf of hypothetical “Russians who are against Putin,” that’s an immediate goodbye.

The idea of transferring our lands through any kind of agreement is completely unrealistic, even unimaginable. I myself will not live under occupation, and no one else will want to either. This isn’t the Middle Ages, when people could be handed over from one state to another like serfs.

First of all, there is a misconception in both Ukraine and Russia that the east is entirely pro-Russian and the west entirely pro-Ukrainian. That’s not true. It’s true that many in the Luhansk and Donetsk regions used to vote for pro-Russian parties. But there is no genuine Russian identity here, only Ukrainian or post-Soviet.

People here considered themselves locals because the idea of Ukraine had not yet fully formed — but it is taking shape now. Those who voted for the Party of Regions did not want to join Russia or see themselves as Russians; they wanted compromise, peace, and open borders, like in their Soviet past.

And in Donbas, more than half of the population felt that way. Pro-Russian politicians exploited these dreams and misrepresented them as genuine pro-Russian sentiment. It’s important to understand that Ukraine has no centralized propaganda like Russia does, so there’s complete anarchy in terms of information, and politics are hard to navigate. Every blogger, every party, every leader is their own propagandist. People were used to voting for local politicians without thinking about their “pro-Russian” stance.

In general, Russian propaganda is full of nostalgia for the Soviet Union. It even affects some young people who never lived in Soviet times but idealize it because they’ve been shown a picture of it as a paradise. Still, even they don’t want to be part of modern Russia.

Some people are politically illiterate. In Avdiivka, volunteers once brought food to an elderly woman whose apartment had been hit directly by a Grad rocket. The flat was burned out, but [Orthodox] icons still stood there — and among them, a portrait of [Viktor] Yanukovych. The woman said that under him, things were calm and life was good. Another man was hiding from mobilization, convinced that when the Russians arrived, they would give him an apartment in Donetsk and a job. In another building, an elderly man said he “didn’t know who was shooting at us.”

These people are not organized and cannot act as a political force demanding independence. But more and more people in Sloviansk now see themselves as Ukrainians, especially the young — and they know Ukrainian perfectly, unlike the older generation. Even the elderly now realize they live in Ukraine and that this is not just their local territory, but part of the Ukrainian state.

In 2015, half of the residents said, “We don’t care who’s in power, we’ll live under anyone.” But now no one here would agree to give up any territory under any circumstances. If you asked, “Would you agree to join Russia if these regions were transferred to it?” — the overwhelming majority would say, “Absolutely not,” even in exchange for peace.

When the referendum was held in Donbas, many people did come out to vote. It was a psychological reaction. People felt utterly helpless: they saw what was happening, couldn’t control it, and feared for the future. The referendum created the illusion that by voting, they could somehow influence events. It was a coping mechanism.

I believe that in the future, both sides’ use of artificial intelligence will affect the course of hostilities. The front will freeze, and we will lose the concept of the rear: the entire territory of both Russia and Ukraine will become a war zone. Because of drones, there will be no safe places anywhere, unfortunately. But without the drone revolution, the situation here would be much worse. The war had turned into one of attrition and was leading to Ukraine’s defeat. Now the odds have evened out. Technology is developing symmetrically: what we see in Sloviansk and in Kyiv will soon be happening across all of Russia. No one, in either Ukraine or Russia, will feel safe.”

Kostiantynivka

Since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion, Kostiantynivka has come under regular shelling due to its strategic significance. Both Ukrainian and Russian media call it “the key to the Druzhkivka-Sloviansk-Kramatorsk agglomeration.” The Institute for the Study of War describes the area around the city as part of a “fortress belt” in the Donetsk Region.

In 2023, Kostiantynivka was the site of one of the deadliest Russian missile strikes of the war. On Sept. 6 of that year, a missile hit the central market, killing 17 people and wounding 36. The market stalls and nearby residential buildings were destroyed. Then, on Aug. 9, 2024, another missile struck a shopping center, killing 14 people and injuring 44. By spring 2025, local authorities said that 25-30% of the city’s housing stock had been destroyed, and fewer than 9,000 residents remained out of a prewar population of 67,000.

During the summer and early fall of 2025, Russian shelling only intensified. Ukraine’s National Police reported that the city was being hit by 10 to 25 airstrikes a day, in addition to artillery and drone attacks that damaged dozens of residential buildings. The strikes have led to mounting civilian casualties: on Sept. 3, nine people were killed and seven wounded in artillery and drone attacks. Communications and electricity are frequently cut off, according to local officials. A report by Serhii Horbunov, head of the Kostiantynivka Military Administration, indicated that only 5,469 residents remained in the community as of Oct. 14.

Evacuations are carried out by local officials, the State Emergency Service’s Phoenix group, the White Angels police unit, and the charities Angels of Salvation and Proliska. Each evacuation typically removes more than a dozen people. On Sept. 25, for example, Proliska volunteers visited 19 addresses and rescued 11 residents.

Tetiana, a nurse: “So all those people died for nothing?”

“When the full-scale war began, it was still possible to live in Kostiantynivka. There were frequent explosions, but it was bearable. Everything worked, there were still many people and children. But by July 2024, the city looked like a ghost town, draped in camouflage nets. The main avenue was once an international highway to Donetsk, now it’s riddled with holes and burned-out cars. Empty and terrifying.

I left for Dnipro with my younger children in September 2024. My eldest son stayed behind with his fiancée and her mother, until the very last moment. His father lived nearby, alone and unwilling to leave, so my son stayed to help him. They had three German shepherds, a Pekingese, and a bunch of cats — they fed them all when other people fled and left them behind.

In September, their house was hit by [KAB-500] guided bombs. The windows were blown out. My son said he didn’t even hear the bomb — just felt ‘something hot running down his back.’ A fragment struck his lower back and abdomen. His fiancée managed to hide in the basement. They didn’t call an ambulance, she bandaged him herself, put him in a car, and drove him to Druzhkivka, 28 kilometers away.

Two weeks before the injury, he told me living there had become unbearable. Eventually, they left together with all the animals they could fit. It was really something — two cats and four dogs in that tiny car, they drove six hours until a volunteer took over the wheel and brought them to Dnipro.

Now my son is bedridden. He can only move for two hours a day. His spine is partially fractured. After a week in the hospital, he was discharged, still with an infected wound. Private care costs 3,900 hryvnias (about $80) a day, plus dressings. No one helps; everyone just wants to make money.

The city is being destroyed. When this happened in Bakhmut, we saw it on the news. Now we’re living it ourselves, this is a second Bakhmut. I once hoped to return — to my job, to my apartment. Then they bombed the hospital where I worked, and in September 2025, they bombed my home. It was a four-entrance building; a shell went straight through the second and third entrances. I received photos of it burning. Later, I saw a TikTok video showing only ruins. Thankfully, no one was inside.

I knew this would happen, but it’s hard to accept that at 50, I’m homeless with two underage kids. If I can’t work, what happens to them? We live day to day. There isn’t a single intact high-rise left. My neighbors and I started a Viber group to file a petition for housing aid. There’s no help from the government. My daughter-in-law went to register her parents’ destroyed home, but officials told her, ‘That’s already occupied territory.’ It’s not occupied yet! But if it were, there’d be no compensation at all.

Many people still remain in Kostiantynivka. Those who refused to leave did so not because they wanted the Russians, but because they had nowhere to go. They had homes, pets, farms. Mostly, they’re elderly, lonely people. Who would take them in?

When my current husband evacuated from Kostiantynivka in 2023, they dropped him off at the bus station in Dnipro, and that was it. He later found volunteers who rented two houses: one for people overcoming addictions, the other for elderly evacuees: grandmothers, grandfathers, people with disabilities. When I left, local officials asked if I needed help. But ‘help’ meant a bus out of Kostiantynivka, a transfer to a train, and then temporary housing in western Ukraine — for a few months, until you find work.

There’s no water or power in Kostiantynivka now. My son’s house is technically within the city limits, but there hasn’t been running water since the invasion began. They stocked up on drinking water; fire trucks brought technical water, and that’s how everyone lived. I’m terrified of what will happen when winter comes. I used to work as an operating and surgical nurse — when people from Bakhmut came in with frostbite, amputations were constant. Losing toes was the best-case scenario. Most lost feet or legs.

Life there now is like Russian roulette. You might not wake up tomorrow. Drones fly around looking for movement — and when they see it, they strike. They’re killing deliberately. Thinking about how people live there makes my heart stop. But people still help one another. There are men who are afraid to leave, and their wives who stay with them.

Even here in Dnipro, shelling has become more frequent — first industrial targets, then residential areas. When I started working in a hospital here, colleagues told me, ‘They should’ve just wiped Luhansk and Donetsk off the map at the start of the war.’ And this is Dnipro — a Russian-speaking city. I never spoke Russian myself, but that’s what people say. It’s not just here, either.

One woman went to Lviv and was asked, ‘Where are you from?’ She said, ‘Dnipro.’ They replied, ‘Then you’ll still be able to buy a house.’ She asked, ‘Who can’t?’ They said, ‘People from the Donetsk and Luhansk regions.’ They think we started the war. But Donetsk was a mining region of hardworking, strong people. Why are we hated in our own country?

When I heard Putin say he’d take our regions and that would bring peace, I wondered — how will the mothers react? And the comrades of the men who died? Does this mean they all died for nothing? If so, we should’ve given up the territory right away and saved those lives.

At first, those thoughts seemed logical. But when Kostiantynivka came under bombardment, even the most pro-Ukrainian residents said, ‘Let it be under someone, we don’t care who, just make it stop.’ It’s better than living under constant fire.

People in Dnipro mostly support ending the war that way — it’s not their territory. It doesn’t concern them. They just want peace where they are.

I don’t know how I’d live under occupation. How can you live alongside people you hate — the ones who caused all this? I want to go home so badly. But to what home? There’s nothing left. Every house is destroyed.

We’re all exhausted. When it’s finally over, maybe we can think about what to do next. For now, we can’t afford to buy housing, and what’s the point, if the war could come here next? Why buy a home only to see it destroyed again? We live in waiting mode — one day at a time. I just want it all to end, at least by next year. Even if they take the territories in agreement under some deal, fine. Let them. Just make it stop. How many more people — civilians, children — must die? How many homes must be destroyed?

Last September, my former mother-in-law wasn’t allowed into Russian-occupied Donetsk because of a phone check. In August, neighbors trying to cross through Poland, Belarus, and Moscow were also turned back. People with Russian passports and Donetsk registration can’t go home. At Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow, officials inspect phones — if you liked a pro-Ukraine post or left a comment, you’re an enemy. They confiscate passports, put you on a flight to Belarus, then hand back your documents and say, ‘You’re free’ — without even asking if you can afford to get home. That’s how Russia ‘saves’ Donbas residents — by refusing to let them return. It makes no sense, but that’s how it is.

If Russia really wanted to “liberate” Donetsk, they would’ve entered the region directly from the start. Instead, they’re scattering their forces. Kostiantynivka is about the same size as Bakhmut, it took them two years to seize that city. Who knows how long this will take? Maybe they don’t want territory as much as they want war: the factories run, weapons are made, money flows. For some, it’s just business. The human cost is the last thing they think about.

Recently, I saw a TikTok video of a girl, apparently Russian, saying: ‘You think Russia came to free Donbas? You’re wrong. No one ever planned to free anyone.’”

Oleksii, pensioner: “Even if there is a peace deal, forgiving this is impossible”

“Until April 2025, it was never quiet in the city, but we still had electricity, gas, internet, and water. Utility crews were still around, so people stayed. Stores were open. There were strikes, but not as frequent as now. Now the KAB [guided] bombs come in like crazy.

Still, almost every day — boom, boom — you’d run to the window and look where the smoke was rising. From my second-floor window, I could see the whole city. Every night, there were three to five heavy explosions — KABs or rockets, something serious. There wasn’t a single quiet night anymore. They also bombed during the day. But electricians kept working. If something was damaged, they fixed it. That’s why some residents stayed.

The shelling intensified in April, and since August or September, the city has been under constant fire — it’s being wiped out. Stores were still open in June. I remember the Detsky Mir children’s shop downtown. By September, it was destroyed, the windows blown out. Maybe somewhere near the rear, some private shop still works, but neither markets nor kiosks have operated since August.

My friends left in October and said it was impossible to stay. Out of ten houses, only three or four were still standing. Entire streets were wrecked. There was no water by summer — June or July — and no electricity, gas, or internet. All the utility workers had left. Drones fly around and hit not only cars but cyclists, even pedestrians. The situation is horrific.

My family left earlier, but I stayed behind to take out some things from the house. On April 4, I was caught in shelling myself. I’d gone out in the evening to remove the boiler and radiators when — boom — a flash in the air, then shrapnel everywhere. The fence was shredded, and the windows and doors blown out.

A 24-year-old neighbor who was next to me was killed. Such a pity. I was hit by shrapnel too — both legs. They took me to the hospital, which no longer exists, by the way. It’s just ruins now. Back then, in April, it was still standing. They gave me first aid.

They told me later that staff watched me all night because I’d lost so much blood and they feared I’d die. In the morning, I was evacuated to Dnipro and hospitalized in intensive care. I’ve had seven surgeries since — then an eighth, and a ninth coming soon. I still walk with a four-wheeled walker.

I’ve seen the videos people post online, cars driving through the city, filming the devastation. Nothing but ruins. Firefighters have left, so homes just burn. I even spotted my own house in one video, burned to the ground. I plan to file a police report. In that video, my house was completely destroyed, only two walls [were] still standing. It was a good, two-story home. I never thought that at 50 I’d become a displaced person with no home.

I feared the city would be captured, so my family and I never intended to stay. I absolutely didn’t want to end up under occupation. When they say Putin is ready to sign a peace deal if he gets all of Donbas, I see it as a lie. After what he’s done, how can you believe him? Most people think like me. But a small group, the so-called “waiters,” at the start of the war believed Russia would come and life would get better. They’d argue and shout about it. Then, after the train station, the registry office, and the schools were bombed, they kept quiet. They didn’t expect the city to suffer so much. They thought the Russian army would come in and things would calm down.

I told them, ‘If they come, you’ll get hit with a rifle butt, given a rusty gun, and sent to clear mines.’ Because Russian soldiers have shown who they are — we saw Bucha, we saw Irpin. We know what they’re capable of. That kind of cruelty continues.

The idea of giving up territory for peace is a double-edged sword. On one hand, these are our lands, our homes. On the other, so many young men keep dying. If we could know for sure the war would truly end — if Putin wouldn’t lie again — maybe then you could draw a line and call it done.

Most of Donbas is already under Russian control. Only three cities remain: Kostiantynivka, Kramatorsk, and Sloviansk. The rest of the Donetsk Region is occupied. Kostiantynivka now lies in ruins. I believe saving lives is what matters. If the city were still whole, maybe I’d feel differently. But what difference does it make if no one lives there?

I’ve stopped following politics. I once had hope. Trump said he’d stop the war. But it’s clear that influencing Russia is almost impossible. America can’t do it. The war goes on. Maybe there’s some big geopolitical game behind it all, but we don’t know. It’s all speculation. The fact remains: all these meetings and talks have led nowhere. The war goes on. I don’t even know how it will end. I don’t want to imagine the worst — nuclear weapons. I just hope it doesn’t come to that. That would be tragic for everyone.

But I still believe Ukraine will win. Hope dies last. At the start of the war, Ukrainians came together. People lined up at enlistment offices, but there wasn’t enough weaponry. Still, we reclaimed territory and drove the Russians out of Kherson, Kharkiv, the Kyiv Region. That was when the West needed to help — strongly, firmly, the whole world needed to unite. But Europeans still buy oil and aluminum and pay Russia money in various ways. It’s such hypocrisy. It’s painful to watch. Sanctions come in drops, and Russia adapts. They keep Ukraine on a short leash, drip-feeding us weapons. It feels like they want the war to drag on forever. If everyone cut ties with Russia completely, then maybe we’d see results. Then we could win.

I would never live under occupation. Everyone here feels the same about Russians: only negativity. I understand their people are brainwashed. Propaganda turned out to be the most terrifying weapon. Their minds are so poisoned they think killing children and stealing is fine — priests bless them for it. How do their hands not wither when they cross themselves?

Even if there is a peace agreement, forgiving this is impossible. Maybe the pain will fade with time, the wound will close, but the scar will stay forever. The longer time passes, the less it hurts. But the scar remains. Ukraine and Ukrainians will remember this for generations.”