24 hours in Ukraine The terrible reality of life after 1000 days of war
Ukraine has just celebrated a bitter anniversary - 1000 days of war. How do the people there live amid so much death and destruction? Glimpses from a single day provide a brief insight.
20.11.2024, 22:04
dpa
No time? blue News summarizes for you
- Russia's war of aggression against Ukraine has broken a sad sound barrier of 1000 days.
- Moscow shoots up Ukrainian cities with missiles - and deliberately targets civilians.
- Russia's attack has left deep scars in the country - the people oscillate between despair and hope.
The clock on the wall of her room stopped - the hands frozen by the Russian bomb that hit the dormitory in eastern Zaporizhia, which served as a home for displaced Ukrainians. It was 1.45 a.m., which Natalia Panasenko will probably remember forever. She was staying in an apartment on the top floor, her home for almost a year after the city she considers home had been occupied by the Russians.
The force of the explosion hurled a door at her, smashed her fridge and television and shredded the flowers she had just received for her 31st birthday. "I come from a place where war happens every day," says Panasenko. "It seemed calmer here. And (now) the war has caught up with us again."
Nov. 11 was a typical day of violence and resistance in Ukraine. The AP news agency sent reporters to several locations to document 24 hours of life in the country - just as it was preparing to mark a bitter anniversary on November 19: 1,000 days since Russia launched its major invasion.
November 11 began with two Russian attacks - one bomb hit Panasenko's apartment, another killed six people in Mykolaiv. Before even half the day had passed, a Russian missile hit another apartment building, this time in Kryvyi Rih. But it was also a day when amateur swimmers ventured into the cold Black Sea, steelworkers went about their work despite obstacles, a baby was born and actors were cheered on a theater stage.
About a fifth of internationally recognized Ukrainian territory is under Russian control. These invisible geographical lines are constantly shifting - the closer you are to them, the more dangerous life becomes.
Odessa, 6.50 a.m.
The water temperature in the Black Sea is 13 degrees, the coast is mined. The city where Dymtro lives is regularly targeted by drones and missiles. But the Ukrainian, who only wants to give his first name out of concern for his family's safety, seems undaunted as he goes swimming with a few friends. Before the war, the group comprised a few dozen people, but many fled the country, men were called up for military service and some returned with disabilities. Dmytro's 33-year-old stepson has been missing since a combat mission in the Donetsk region.
For the swimmers, the regular ritual provides at least a semblance of normality, making it a little easier for them to bear the cruelty of war.
Zaporizhzhya, 12 noon
For Serhiy Saphonov, managing the steelworks in this city means constant calculation in times of war. The workforce of once 420 people has shrunk by more than half, and power cuts caused by Russian attacks require creativity to keep operations running. Russian soldiers are moving closer to the mine in Pokrov, which supplies the plant with coal. And Zaporizhia is increasingly the target of Russian glide bombs.
The names of 92 former steelworkers who have joined the military are listed on a notice board outside von Saphonov's office, followed by photos of the dead. Employees are organizing collection drives for the equipment of colleagues on the front line. "Everyone knows that we have to hang in there, hope that things will get better," says Saphonov.
Chernihiv, 1 p.m.
Wladyslawa Friz has performed more reconstructive operations in the past 1000 days than in the entire previous decade of her career. And the injuries are unlike anything she has seen before. Her days start early and end late; in the first months of the war, she says, the hospital received 60 patients every hour and eight surgeons were on duty non-stop. They lagged further behind with their work because so many of the wounded required a series of operations.
On Nov. 11, Friz was rebuilding the cheek and jaw of a patient injured in a mine explosion. But her options are limited, she says. They do what they can, "but there are no metal structures for reconstruction. There are no state funds for implants".
The doctor is worried that the world will soon abandon Ukraine, especially as the war enters its fourth year in a few months' time. The global community is losing interest in the events in Ukraine, "while we are losing people every day," she says.
Odessa, 6 p.m.
Julia Ponomarenko has given birth to two babies in the past 1000 days, with daughter Marjana arriving on November 11. Her husband Denys is fighting at the front. The family's hometown, Oleshky, was flooded after the explosion of the Kakhovka dam, but by then Ponomarenko had long since fled from the Russian occupation forces, who were targeting relatives of Ukrainian soldiers. Marjana will grow up with two brothers and a sister; she was an absolute dream child, as her mother says. "We now have another princess."
Kiev, 9 p.m.
The actors from the Ukrainian Drama Theater in Kharkiv can't go on stage at home - too many bombs, too few people who would dare to gather in one place. So the ensemble moved to the Ukrainian capital, where it performed to an almost full house at the Franko Theater on November 11. The Franko Theater went on hiatus for several months when the war began, but is now full almost every night when there is a performance, according to director Yevhen Nyshchuk.
The applause when the curtain goes down is almost deafening. This is not only due to the quality of the performances, says Nyshchuk. It also has to do with "this inner realization that, despite everything, we will create something, we will live".
