This stop, just beyond the front line, offers perhaps the closest thing to a proper cup of coffee you’ll find. Well, as proper as it gets. You probably shouldn’t relax too much here, though. Shelling could start at any moment. Russian positions are less than 10 kilometres away. Anyone who has been to Kurakhove will surely remember this crossroads. Coffee, pastries, cigarettes, and everything you need. For many, Kurakhove is synonymous with this spot where all possible roads from the war converge, and only two lead to peace. It’s not hard to guess what and where they transport. One way, it’s weapons and ammunition; the other, it’s the wounded, the dead, and refugees. A sort of logistical hub.
Since 2014, this city has embraced its role amidst turbulent times. It was a year when Russian forces attempted to annex several Ukrainian regions and proclaimed their puppet republics, like the so-called “DPR” in Donetsk and the “LPR” in Luhansk. Crimea was swiftly taken without contest, while Russian efforts in Odesa, Kharkiv, Zaporizhzhia, Kherson, and Dnipro eventually faltered. The Ukrainian efforts to reclaim Donetsk and Luhansk fell short back then. Crimea remained untouched, as Ukraine lacked both the means and the manpower for a fight. Ukrainians only managed to hold onto a portion of Donbas. Since then, Kurakhove has transformed into a frontline town and, unfortunately, practically a border town. In the areas occupied by ruthless Russian proxies, chaos, lawlessness, and the entirety of a true ‘Russian world’, as they call it, took hold. This “Russian world” consistently ushers in turmoil, lawlessness, and tyranny, spiced with a toxic blend of militant Orthodoxy, Bolshevism, and the pseudo-grandeur of a “great Russian literature”.
During those times, the war hadn’t yet reached its current intensity. Local clashes erupted sporadically, accompanied by occasional shellings that struck Kurakhove multiple times. From Donetsk, Russian mercenaries targeted the city with multiple rocket launchers, causing significant casualties, injuries, and widespread destruction. Meanwhile, a steady stream of civilians traversed the volatile frontlines, moving between the occupied territories and government-held areas. Despite the numerous checkpoints along the way, many undertook the journey, covering the mere 35 kilometres to Donetsk’s outskirts—a bus ride of less than an hour along dilapidated roads. It was rumoured that residents from occupied Donetsk eagerly made the trip to Kurakhove’s market for high-quality goods, especially food, given the poor quality of supplies arriving from Russia.
Many Ukrainian citizens who refused to live under the Russian occupation found refuge in Kurakhove, obtaining status as internally displaced persons and occasionally returning to their homes to check on things. Their numbers exceeded 15,000.
Meanwhile, residents of Ukrainian-controlled Donbas travelled to Donetsk for medical care in its hospitals, closer than those in Dnipro or Kharkiv. Communication with Donetsk ceased during the onset of COVID-19 and subsequent quarantine measures, completely cutting off travel to the occupied territories. Then, in 2022, full-scale war erupted, and the city became a hostage to its geographical location.
Almost daily, the deadly enemy fire of various calibres rains down here incessantly. The once beautiful, well-maintained, recently renovated town is gradually descending into ruins. Even the cemetery is not spared, as shells erase the memory of those long gone. It appears the occupiers are intent on obliterating Kurakhove, much like they did with neighbouring towns such as Maryinka, Avdiivka, and Bakhmut.
“We don’t have a single building left with intact windows,” laments Natalia Puzhaylo, the first deputy mayor of Kurakhove. “Several apartment buildings are completely destroyed. People have died in their own homes. We had a humanitarian centre set up in the school, distributing aid. In 2022, a rocket struck it at night, thankfully without casualties. Later, more rockets hit the school again. There’s still humanitarian aid buried under the rubble there. They even targeted a youth café that posed no threat—it was closed and unoccupied. They’re hitting schools, kindergartens… The Kazka kindergarten, so beautiful, took direct hits from two rockets just 15 seconds apart, right at midnight. Then they struck the nearby ‘Hostynny Dvir’ hotel, leaving it without roof, windows, or doors.”
People are gradually leaving Kurakhove, and entire neighbourhoods are becoming empty spaces. Yet, the town refuses to surrender. Somehow, it finds the strength to persevere, to resist, and even to nurture hopes for the future. Local authorities strive to stem the decline: they keep the roads and sidewalks clean, meticulously mow the lawns in the town centre, and tend to the flower beds. They preserve damaged but repairable buildings by boarding up broken windows and covering roofs with tarps to shield them from rain and snow. Officials argue that major repairs should wait until after the war, which makes sense. However, they also recognize the futility of inaction. So after each shelling, residents swiftly clear debris, fill craters and reopen roads.
Interestingly, during rare moments of calm, residents who had relocated to other parts of Ukraine returned. They revisit their homes, gather belongings, tidy yards, plant gardens, tend to their dachas, and make repairs to their apartments. But when shelling resumes, and tensions at the front line escalate, they leave once more. Every day, an evacuation bus departs for Dnipro or Pokrovsk, connecting to a weekly evacuation train heading westward to other parts of Ukraine.
“As of today, around 15,000 residents live in Kurakhove and its surroundings, compared to more than 40,000 before the war,” says Natalia Puzhailo. “Additionally, there are about 6,000 new internally displaced people. People are not very willing to leave their homes despite various encouragements to do so. The biggest problem,” explains the official, “is that many parents refuse to take their children to safer areas, and we have to persuade them. According to her, there are still about 250 children in the city and around nine hundred in the entire community. This is despite the fact that neither schools nor kindergartens are operating—all education is remote.
The majority of Kurakhove’s current residents are pensioners, comprising around 60 per cent of the population. Many businesses that operated before the full-scale war had to shut down, leading their employees to relocate elsewhere. Those who remain include public sector workers who haven’t lost their jobs, employees in housing and utilities, teachers working remotely, and resilient small entrepreneurs who continue to operate despite the risks posed by ongoing shelling.
Volodymyr, a seller of household goods at the market, sees little reason to leave just yet. His small business thrives here, meeting crucial demands. During our conversation, military personnel stopped by his shop multiple times, illustrating its essential role in the community.
I approached Volodymyr as the siren wailed, witnessing him break off a conversation with a colleague outside and swiftly seek shelter under the shop’s awning. Light-heartedly, I questioned the safety of his chosen refuge, given its modest protection. He smiled and replied that while nothing could shield them from a direct hit, being inside his shop somehow felt safer to him. He recounted a recent incident where a projectile had struck the grocery warehouse just across the road, demolishing it and piercing through basements, with shrapnel puncturing his shop walls, fortunately without causing harm due to the late hour when the streets were deserted. Yet, such fortunate occurrences are rare. Lately, the aggressors have grown more desperate, failing to breach Ukrainian defences and escalating endless daytime shelling of Kurakhove. Just recently, they struck the market at noon, resulting in significant casualties: seven dead and countless injured.
Peace is a distant memory in Kurakhove. People avoid unnecessary trips outdoors, their ears tuned to the distant echoes of artillery. By 4 PM on weekdays, the streets are deserted. “When there’s an explosion, everyone rushes to the corridors,” explains Natalia Puzhaylo. “Some head to the basement, others to the best-protected entrances, while those in dormitories gather in the main corridor. Windows are covered, and power banks are charged in case of electricity cuts. When it’s quiet, it’s unsettling because you wonder if something is being planned. Can you imagine? One night, seven rockets landed within half an hour.”
Initially, shelling was confined to nighttime, but now it occurs during the day, too. Bomb shelters have been set up, and residents are advised not to lock building entrances so people can seek cover quickly.
Volodymyr takes refuge from the constant shelling in the cellar of his rented house in Kurakhove. Originally from a nearby village, he was forced to move to town after his home was destroyed in relentless bombardments near the front line. His village, perpetually under heavy fire, has been obliterated, leaving no trace of where his house once stood. Despite the hardships, Kurakhove offers him some stability now. Winter brought its own challenges; besides the relentless attacks, the bitter cold allied with the adversary. Yet, they persevered. Despite Russian efforts to freeze Kurakhove’s residents to death, they failed.
Understanding the context is crucial here. Kurakhove came into existence in 1936 with the establishment of its thermal power station, which remains its cornerstone industry. The town relies heavily on this facility, especially during winter when it provides essential heating for residents. Consequently, the power station becomes a prime target for enemy shelling. Last winter, efforts to maintain heating in the radiators helped prevent them from cracking. However, by the winter of 2023-24, operations were completely halted. Any hint of smoke from the chimney drew immediate fire.
In response, residents adapted as best they could—setting up wood stoves, receiving help from volunteers with heaters, and stockpiling firewood, pellets, and coal. Today, the town wears a sombre veil. Even amidst late spring’s attempt to conceal the ravages of war with blossoming trees and flowers, the reality persists. It’s evident in the haunted expressions of its people, in the chilling wind, and notably, in the sight of homes barricaded with chipboard against the sun—a poignant symbol of lives under siege.
Kurakhove is a haven for many animals. Packs of dogs leisurely soak up the sun while solitary cats stealthily navigate past these dozing canines into the basements of abandoned houses. I do not know where their owners are or why they didn’t take their four-legged friends with them. Each animal, like every person, has its own tale to tell.
As I wandered through town, I witnessed local residents feeding stray animals three times, assuring me that they were not neglected there. Perhaps in caring for these creatures, people find solace in what the war has taken away from them. Who can say for certain? What is evident is the tenderness and affection they show towards dogs and cats—far more than they reserve for journalists. The residents of Kurakhove harbour a distrust towards those with cameras and PRESS badges, viewing them as bearers of misfortune. “You are filming here now, and then immediately Russian missiles land here, and people die.”
Identifying oneself as a journalist near the frontline can be a complex experience. On one hand, it can potentially facilitate access and foster trust. On the other hand, it may also result in unanticipated obstacles.
Lately, there has been intense Russian activity in the Kurakhove area – they’ve been trying hard to breach the Ukrainian defence in order to capture the city. Gaining control of Kurakhove would have significant implications for the entire southeastern front. It’s not just about the Russian threat to Vuhledar from the north and the possibility of besieging this stronghold. Kurakhove also provides a route to Pokrovsk, which currently serves as a temporary centre of the Donetsk region. If Pokrovsk is captured, it would effectively mean the formal occupation of the entire Donetsk region, which is a major goal for Putin. Therefore, the defence of Kurakhove is of crucial strategic importance, and the outcome of this city’s resistance could greatly impact the war.
