Rusty, bullet-riddled and outdated road signs indicate that Belgorod, a city of some 340,000 inhabitants in Russia, lies 88 kilometers down this road. But making the journey to Belgorod is impossible: it would mean crossing one of the most dangerous borders in the world at present. All border checkpoints on the Russian-Ukrainian border, where I am right now, have been closed since 2022, when Russia launched its large-scale armed aggression against Ukraine. The borderlands are now a frontline no one dares cross. However, these cratered roads will take me to Dementiivka, a village just a few minutes' drive from the Russian-Ukrainian border.
@Alex Craiu
It's sunny when I leave Kharkiv, but the following night was dark: the numerous attacks on military checkpoints kept the residents of Ukraine’s second-largest city awake all night. Kharkiv is the Russian-speaking city that refused to be part of the Russian world. “Kharkiv, Hero City" is a title I see everywhere around. In 2022, President Zelenskyy bestowed this title onto the city of Kharkiv, honoring the stoicism and resistance its inhabitants displayed in staving off the Russian aggression since the start of the war. Then, on the morning of February 24, Russian troops crossed the same border I'm headed towards today, advancing on Kharkiv and clashing with Ukrainian forces along the way. Some units even managed to storm the city, but on February 28, they were forced to withdraw. Since then, however, Kharkiv has remained the target of attacks which exert “moral and psychological pressure to further destroy the city”, says Lieutenant General Ihor Romanenko.
My journey from Kharkiv takes me north. The area isn’t safe – the locals advised me against any attempt at reaching Ruska Lozova, the first village north of Kharkov, and certainly not Dementiivka. Shortly after leaving the city, I make a brief stopover at a destroyed and obviously abandoned gas station. Whatever remains of the bullet-punctured rickety tin roof reveals the sky as if looking through a strainer. For a brief moment, I take another look at the road signs pointing to various cities in Russia. They have been washed off or torn down all over the country, but these areas are an exception. As traffic is restricted and closed to the general population, the removal of these signs was not deemed a priority amidst the plethora of difficulties facing this area.
@Alex Craiu
I stop at one of the many military checkpoints to ask how far I am allowed to go as a journalist. I am warned that the road ahead is extremely dangerous, that both sides are trading artillery fire, and that a vehicle transiting the area will most likely be noticed by overflying drones. Any vehicle in the border area is deemed hostile and Russian forces will take it down. Therefore, I tell the commanding officer I understand the risks, despite his efforts to talk me out of venturing beyond Dementiivka.
I offer him my thanks, he bids me good luck, gets into a car and drives off in the opposite direction. It appears that I'm on my own from here on out. The sense of freedom to go, both in theory and in practice, to a place where I can die at any given moment somehow unsettles me. I am determined, unless something really bad happens down the road, to keep going either till the end of the road, or until something bad actually happens.
The two countries now have only de jure borders, as de facto these extend where the frontline makes it impossible to advance. The situation on the ground constantly fluctuates. On those days when Ukrainian forces get intel regarding an imminent attack, most don’t even manage to get past the military checkpoints north of Kharkiv. The village of Pytomnik, which has been almost completely razed to the ground, doesn’t appear to be inhabited, unlike Ruska Lozova, where you can still spot cars doing supply runs for the only store still open in the village. Paradoxically, the quiet here feels uneasy. It's the silence you see in horror movies, when you know something bad’s about to happen because everything’s gone incredibly quiet. The same is true of Pytomnik. No people or animals in sight, no cars or noise of any sort. I can't afford to linger any longer, so I make my way north on this stretch of road littered with shell craters. Some trees are uprooted, others are scorched.
The charred frame of a bombed café brings to mind happier times this place must have seen: the people who stopped here on their journey through the vast lands separating these two huge countries; the children who played here in the years of peace, when war was nothing but a bad dream. Now, the landscape is apocalyptic: from afar, the trenches resemble a circuit on an electrical board, a labyrinthine shelter in a place that has seen such brutal destruction.
The farther I advance, the harder it is for me to find at least one house with the roof intact. I now realize I won’t be able to find anyone still living in Dementiivka, but still, I press onwards, a lump in my throat. Despite the cold outside, I keep my car windows rolled down, as I feel the need to stay connected to the reality outside. I want to hear every sound, any sign telling me I should go back. The sight of an army car approaching at great speed in the rearview mirror startles me. I barely have enough room to move aside, so narrow is the road in the wake of so many explosions. The car overtakes me and before long mine is the only car on the road again. But the silence from earlier is replaced by the sound of artillery fire heard in the distance. I knew this would be something I’d hear sooner or later. But what really gets me worried is the flapping sound of what clearly is a flat tire. I take this as my cue to turn the car around to Kharkiv, because it's crazy to get so close to the frontline on just three wheels.
@Alex Craiu
But I came all this way to see the remains of the village of Dementiivka, and even though I know I can’t move forward with no spare wheel, I decide to press on. I pass the village of Nove, and the bullet-riddled Khartron bus station is where I allow myself to pull over. Although it might have seemed pointless and absurd, I needed to understand this place. I am surrounded by scattered ruins. From a distance, the sound of artillery fire is now clear to hear. The explosions come in sets of two or three in a row in between breaks of up to a minute. My eyes are scanning the skies, looking for any drones flying over that must have already caught sight of me. My primary drive is, therefore, curiosity rather than an attempt at assessing potential threats or at defending myself.
Dementiivka was captured in March 2022, but at the end of a one-night mission, the Russians were driven away from the village. But thousands of tons of grenades and artillery destroyed the entire village, which Russian occupation troops were expected to reclaim in June 2022 after the Ukrainian battalion withdrew for several weeks. The Ukrainians pushed back on the very road I’m driving today, almost on three wheels. This time the Russians’ retreat was swift, leaving behind a significant amount of weapons and heavy equipment that would later serve the Ukrainian army. Two years on, even the ruins of 2022 have now been destroyed. All that’s left to see are huge piles of bricks. The houses look like broken Lego constructs, pieces lying around everywhere in heaps. Unlike Ruska Lozova, Dementiivka oozes not even the mere impression of normality. It’s impossible to navigate the city ruins – no places to hide, not even the slightest bullet-ridden sheet of tin, like the one through which I had peered at the sky earlier. I was weary about drones, but the birds here frightened me the most.
@Alex Craiu
With very little air left in the tire and even less control over the steering, I made my way back towards Kharkiv. I stopped occasionally to take pictures and record a few videos, for without them today's trip would have been less meaningful. This rural setting is too far for any air raid sirens to reach, which at any rate would be quite useless here. Due to its proximity to Russian territory, any missiles or drones arrive here within seconds, sometimes even before the sirens go off. No one ever comes here with the promise of a safe return, as startling as that might sound. This place is a reality you understand only if you see it for yourself: too remote to ever make the news, and too dangerous for any civilian to pass through.
The city of Kharkiv, looming on the horizon, restored a sense of inner peace. Noise is known to sometimes bring peace, when silence makes your heart quiver with fright of an impending air raid. Dementiivka is where the birds frightened me.
