“Go if you can” How Ukrainians escape the death zone
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The new Russian strategy comes silently – until it hits. Drones instead of soldiers, fear everywhere instead of just on the front line. Their target: the civilian population. In eastern Ukraine, the East SOS team saves people from Russia’s air terror.
A dull rumble in the distance, a bang or deafening explosions – Russian air strikes, sometimes every minute, shake Kramatorsk, Slovyansk, Kostiantynivka and other places in eastern Ukraine. According to the US Institute for the Study of War, they predominantly hit civilian buildings and apartments. There are only seconds between the whistle of the rocket, the hum of the approaching drone and the impact. Glide bombs explode without warning. Her message: You are safe nowhere.
After another night of attacks, eight-year-old Kyrylo stands in front of the entrance to his family’s home in Slovyansk. He looks curiously into the East SOS aid organization minibus that is waiting there. Driver Roman Buhaiov stows the bags with routine haste. “Come on, get in!” he calls – no time to waste in Slovyansk, where even the short breaks are deceptive. His colleague Eduard Skoryk brings more luggage; Shortly afterwards, Olena, 31 years old, the eight-year-old’s mother, appears. She held his one-year-old sister close to her. One last look up at the apartment where she grew up. Then the family leaves Slovyansk – perhaps forever.
“The front line has disbanded”
Hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians have fled the Donetsk and Dnipropetrovsk regions since the summer. It is estimated that up to 200,000 more people will have to be evacuated from the Donetsk region alone, including tens of thousands of children, the elderly and those in need of care. A mammoth logistical task, carried out by a network of aid organizations, emergency services, police and volunteers.
Since the beginning of the full Russian invasion, the team from the aid organization East SOS has been evacuating people from the embattled cities in eastern Ukraine. But the rules of war have changed: “The front line has dissolved,” says Roman. “It is constantly on the move, reaching villages, fields and roads far behind the fighting.”
At the beginning of September, Russian drones attacked houses and cars up to 50 kilometers from the front line. A risk not only for military logistics, but also for escape routes and humanitarian hubs. Far from the diplomatic debates, the situation for the people in eastern Ukraine is changing. The fear is growing.
Escape routes are under attack
“The 10-kilometer zone is definitely a death zone – it is often wider. The probability of drone hits there is 50 percent, if not higher,” says NGO helper Eduard as he steers the car out of the city. Colleague Roman nods: “And it’s by no means certain that a jammer will help against this.” According to the UN, first-person view drones already caused the most civilian casualties near the front in August: 58 dead and 272 injured. A recent UN report documents over 500 cases of systematic Russian drone attacks on Ukrainian civilians.
Refugees and their helpers have to find their way on a dynamic map of the threat. While hundreds of people are being evacuated every week, the team is constantly adapting: “In the past, in Bakhmut, we were evacuating almost at the zero line,” remembers Eduard. At that time, the greatest fear was the positions of enemy soldiers. “Today we can’t get that close – even with a drone jammer and an armored car.”
A radius of 40 kilometers could soon be too dangerous for the team, says Roman. One reason is Russia’s Molnjia wing drones: “With the Molnjia drones they simply fix the controls. They continue to fly even if they have been disturbed,” explains Roman. And they serve as a “taxi” for Russian FPV drones, enabling them to overcome distances of up to 40 kilometers.
With drone warfare, every evacuation also becomes a cost factor: while destructive drones are cheap, jammers and armored cars cost many times more. But as soon as a system has been purchased, it already seems useless because the opponent has retrofitted it. Edward sighs. Today they are traveling without a jammer or an armored car; the expensive equipment is not enough for all teams.
Delicate protective nets against drone terror
On the drive from Slovyansk you see bombed-out gas stations. “This is the first sign that it’s really time to go,” says Roman. They often have to orientate themselves without GPS – the signal is disrupted to protect against attacks.
The journey into the hinterland leads through tunnels made of white and green fishing nets. But the delicate protective shield is repeatedly interrupted so that only the beams are visible. Every now and then you pass construction workers and soldiers who are setting up the important drone protection networks along the route – and are themselves exposed to danger from the sky. Things are moving too slowly, says Roman as he checks the drone detector.
“Is that coming from the car?” The eight-year-old listens for a noise. “It’s coming from the car, don’t worry,” Olena reassures him. Kyrylo snuggles up to his mother. “When are we there?” She laughs. “Not for a long time. It’ll take time.” She fled for the sake of her son, even though she hasn’t found a place to live yet. “He has been very frightened in the last few weeks, doesn’t sleep well and gets scared easily.”
“We tell people, go if you can.”
Today the family will reach the transit center in Pavlohrad. Then we take the train to Dnipro, where the three stay with a friend. Olena doesn’t know what will happen next. But in Dnipro, Kyrylo has the chance for face-to-face lessons for the first time – and many people his age with whom he can play.
“We tell people every day: Go if you can,” says Eduard. The 33-year-old understands well the pain of families who lose their homes: He joined East SOS after he had to move his own family out of Bakhmut. Under fire, he evacuated his grandfather, who had continued to hold out. “I realized: Many people can’t take care of themselves – but they all deserve protection.”
In Ukraine, this protective space is becoming increasingly scarce: “The state no longer has any free living space. Zero,” says Roman. East SOS therefore supports existing facilities, renovates buildings and sets up care places. But there is hardly any space for more people. The result: evacuations stall.
The aid organizations and institutions are sounding the alarm: Without more places for old and bedridden people, a humanitarian catastrophe threatens: If they stay behind, they and their relatives will be helpless at the mercy of Russia’s air terror – or risk starvation if the caring relatives die. The two of them also know such cases.
While Slovyansk and Kramatorsk are emptying, the humanitarian infrastructure is shifting: another transit center has been built in Losova, Kharkiv region. Hundreds of people arrive every day. So does 12-year-old Andrey. He holds the transport box with his cat on his lap. The boy’s gaze goes blank. Psychologist Nataliia Levchenko sits down and speaks to him quietly.
Levchenko says she doesn’t have to explain the war to the children: “They know exactly what’s happening in our country. Surprisingly, none of them cry.” She more often looks after adults. “Sometimes when they arrive they find out about the death of someone close to them who didn’t make it in time. We try to stabilize them.”
Mother Lyubov Pimenova, 49, fled Bilozerske with son Andrey. The mother had stayed at the mine for her job as a telephone operator. “Of course Andrey was afraid, especially when the guided bombing began.” A month ago they fled to Novodonetsk to have electricity and water back. The boy lived in seclusion, but he didn’t want to leave. “As soon as I decided we were going to escape, it was quieter again and he didn’t want to. ‘Where are we going?’ he then asked me. As soon as it got loud again, he asked me ‘When are we going?’ Now we are here.” The future scares her. Lyubov had already fled once, but couldn’t find work in two cities and went back – despite the danger.
Three days without water or electricity
Coordinator Alla Riabtseva is a refugee herself and understands their fears and desperation. “Until August we had normal numbers, between 80 and 150 people per day. Then they began to increase, to 250 per day, because our Dnipropetrovsk region was also affected.” In August it was expanded to 250. But at the end of August up to 450 people were arriving at the new center every day. “Our staff is reaching its limits,” says Riabtseva. “But we know why we do this.”
You prepare yourself mentally for every scenario: “Pavlohrad is now a front-line city.” It has been the target of massive drone and missile attacks for a week. There was no water or electricity for three days. Those who can afford it leave the city. But the transit center continues to operate – with the help of generators.
For Roman and Eduard, the journey back to the death zone around Kramatorsk has become a dangerous routine. They know drones can hit anyone. “It’s scary to see your own vehicle in the live stream on the small screen,” says Roman, always with the drone detector in his hand. But they will stay, says Eduard. As Russia inflicts fear on ever larger areas, they are sending an example of humanity.
