Just months after Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the M06 highway, linking Kyiv to the country’s west, still bore the scars of war. From Zhytomyr to the capital, devastation was visible everywhere. Some sections were reduced to ashes, with parts of the infrastructure destroyed to block the advance of Russian tanks.
The road was an evacuation route for refugees fleeing westward and so became a target for Russian forces. It earned a grim nickname: “the highway of death.”
Russia has intensified its aerial assault on Kyiv. One night may pass in relative calm, giving a fragile sense of normality. The next, the city is under assault from record numbers of drones and missiles: over a thousand in July alone. By night the fires rage. Mornings are heavy with smoke.
“Life in Kyiv has been on the brink of madness in recent weeks. It’s really hard to combine the life we’re trying to live as if we were in peace and then there are nights like this one, which are becoming more frequent, during which you could die,” says Diana Moroz. She’s a friend, who lives in Kyiv. As we sit in a downtown restaurant, the air-raid siren sounds the all-clear. People here compare it to the darkest days of the battle of Kyiv in 2022. Almost every other night, residents head down into the metro stations, which serve as makeshift bomb shelters amid the relentless Russian assaults.
A group of volunteer drone fighters stands ready at all times to defend the skies over Kyiv. The unit, known as Mriya, meaning “dream” in Ukrainian, is a unique unit composed of intellectuals – including many legal professionals and artists. I met one of its members, Oleksiy Kolchanov, a lawyer, just hours after Kyiv endured its record-breaking overnight drone assault. Another record will be set in the coming days.
“Last night was rough and long,” Kolchanov says, describing the attacks. “Our positions in the city are quite narrow, so we have only a few seconds to fire,” he explains, noting that this limited window is crucial to avoid endangering civilians. “It’s like playing chess.” On both his day and night shifts, Kolchanov is accompanied by his small fluffy white dog, Yasminka.
Unfortunately, at times they find themselves confronting Russian drones with weapons that date back to the second world war. “We’re fighting 21st-century drones, sometimes with weapons from the last century,” says Kolchanov, with frustration in his voice.
Some 500km to the east, in Ukraine’s second-largest city, Kharkiv, the scars of war are even more visible. Once-grand boulevards are lined with shattered buildings. The streets are quiet, with only a few cars passing by, but the restaurants are far from empty. Even on weekdays, the local zoo is bustling with visitors including children, the animals seemingly undisturbed by the air-raid sirens.
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The attacks are a daily event. At one point even the hotel walls shake. Slava Fesenko is one of the local volunteers risking his life to deliver supplies to soldiers. His missions bring medical aid and food to the frontlines, but recently, he’s been carrying letters from local children to the defenders. “They thank them for protecting us, for making it possible to play and go to school,” Slava says as he describes the messages. Just days ago, a Russian drone narrowly missed Slava and his group.
At his modest home and garden on the outskirts of Kharkiv, accessible only after passing through a checkpoint, he shows his collection of Russian helmets, drone fragments and grenade casings. These are the war’s grim souvenirs. Many of these items will eventually be used in fundraising efforts, passed into the hands of private citizens supporting the defence effort.
“It will be all right. We will resist, and there will be peace. We’ll keep working until the very end,” he says.
Branislav Ondrášik reports for the Slovak daily SME
