Pokrovsk: a city living out of a suitcase

Ukrainian article of the week published in the 44th edition of the "What about Ukraine" newsletter on September 5th, 2024. The article was written by Maiya Orel for Hromadske and was translated for n-ost by Olesia Storozhuk.

"Dear residents of the Donetsk region! Save yourself and those close to you! Evacuate!!!" — such an sms with three exclamation marks from the regional military administration appears on my phone as I cross the border from the rest of Ukraine into the Donetsk region.

When I was leaving Kyiv, the military told me the frontline was just ten km from the city.

In Pokrovsk on 22 August, the locals tell me it is only seven or eight kilometres away. The banging of explosions here quickly follows air raid alarms. A short period of silence seems suspicious and creates even more tension. I talk to a man in a cafe about how he copes with this situation.

"Every night, I do the same thing: put headphones into my ears, turn on a film at full volume — and I hear no sounds of explosions or the walls shuddering," he tells me, while laughing.

Evacuation of children compulsory

I arrive in Pokrovsk at 5:30 a.m. The summer heat leaves not a single dew drop on the flowers and grass. This is thirty minutes after the end of the curfew, but the sun has not risen yet. A woman is jogging, round in circles, at the stadium where my navigator leads me. I introduce myself. Her name is Alla. For her, a morning jog is not a way to deal with the rumble from the frontline, but a long-time habit. Under certain circumstances, she might try to evacuate, but for now, she is not going to change her daily routine.

I leave her to continue her run. Opposite Alla, several cars pass the stadium — so crammed with household “treasures” that the passengers’ faces are hard to see. These people have decided to evacuate.

Before the full-scale war, Pokrovsk’s population comprised 86,000. Currently, fewer than 53,000 reside in the city, including 3,545 children.

"The situation in the city is so far under control,” says Serhii Dobriak, head of Pokrovsky city military administration. “All critical infrastructure facilities are working. The city has electricity, a water supply, gas and sanitation. Financial institutions provide their services. Big shops have closed, but there is no lack of food, and the healthcare system functions. We have phone and internet connections. Moreover, banks and ATMs operate. All social services are provided, and the administrative service centre works."

According to him, families with children, the elderly and the IDPs are the first to evacuate. The evacuation of children is "obligatory and compulsory". Parents hiding their children are subject to court hearings and proceedings. However, according to the press office of the Pokrovsk administration, no one has been punished yet.

All pregnant women "recommended to leave"

"We are still working, but I strongly recommend all pregnant women in the Donetsk region to evacuate,” says Ivan Tsyhanok, head of the Pokrovsk Perinatal Centre. “Do not tempt fate. Look at [frontline town in Donetsk] Selydove, where a young mother and a pregnant woman died. Currently, there are nine women in our maternity ward. Today, one newborn child left our centre with his mother. There is another — and we’ll send him with the evacuation train to Odesa."

He suggests I put on a medical gown and Crocs left by a doctor who went to Europe and allows me to meet baby Denys.

"He is seven days old,” the 22-year-old mother Iryna tells us. “I was on the way from my mother-in-law back home in the Odesa region, it was too shaky in the minibus, and they brought me to Pokrovsk to give birth here."

The Perinatal Centre is now the only place in the non-occupied area of Donetsk that delivers babies and helps women in labour and the newborns.

"We will definitely work until September in Pokrovsk,” adds Ivan Tsyhanok, “and then we will see. We have highly expensive equipment, and we must save it. If we have to move, we will go either to Pavlohrad in Dnipro region or to Kyiv. From 1 September, only three other doctors and I will stay here, working around the clock, and the number of nurses and junior medical staff will reduce accordingly. Before the full-scale war, we had 26 doctors."

The perinatal centre's staff comprises women of different ages. Most of them have small children and have to evacuate. However, it is not only them who are leaving. The centre must create a list of those who will definitely continue to work. No one is making long-term plans.

Business relies on the military

Nadia, a salesperson at a small food store, shows me a bunch of papers with phone numbers.

"I'm looking for accommodation elsewhere, so I can leave Pokrovsk,” she says with a heavy heart. “I’ve already tried Poltava, Dnipro and Kryvyi Rih. But if the rent is ok, UAH 3,000-5,000 (~65-110 euros per month) for a one-room apartment, it has dozens of applicants."

Although products are regularly delivered to the shop where she works, she is sure the owner will close it in a day or two.

"The company owning the refrigerators we use wants to pick them up. How can we store food without a fridge?” Nadia outlines the situation. “Two days later, another company will take the canteen for the drinking water, so I won't be able to order water anymore. Our revenues have decreased by half in recent days."

I visited some more food stores: they do have goods. Local cafes are full of visitors.

"There is water, electricity, there are products, so we are open," says Liudmyla, a cook from a pizzeria close to the train station. "Our most frequent visitors are the military."

They offer buckwheat, baked potatoes, pasta, meatballs, steaks and salads.

"We must adapt to the reality," says Yuliia Cherkashyna, owner of the Admiral restaurant in Pokrovsk. "Now, we mostly provide food 'to-go' and make food delivery. The militaries miss home-made food, so we get many orders. Of course, the income is lower, but we keep working."

According to Yuliia, the curfew is the biggest threat to business, other than a possible direct hit by a projectile or a missile. It currently lasts from 9 pm to 5 am in Pokrovsk. If the curfew is introduced from 3 pm to 11 am, almost for the whole day, as in the Donetsk town of Myrnohrad, it will be difficult for both salespeople and customers.

By the way, food stores in Pokrovsk are not waiting for the situation to worsen. On the eve of hromadske's arrival to the city, the ATB store stopped operating, while the EKOmarket chain is making the final sale. Shops selling miscellaneous goods, such as Avrora, are also closing.

"No one is doing their hair anymore"

There are several city markets in Pokrovsk. I'm peeking into the central one. Matana from Azerbaijan, who has lived in Ukraine for 16 years, is laying out boxes with fruits and vegetables.

"I bring the products from Dnipro, from a wholesale market,” he says. “I'm not going to leave Pokrovsk: I have my business here, my stores — how can I leave all that? I will help my children evacuate with my sister, but I personally will somehow live here."

Until recently, there were numerous vegetable stands at the market, but now, only two or three are left. The same is true for other goods. The goods are mostly bought by the military. The salespeople stay until noon and go home — it is pointless to wait for someone later.

"I'm selling out," says Olena, owner of the tea stand. "I’m offering discounts up to 50 per cent, and if I see that a person really wants to buy something, I sell it for almost nothing, just to get rid of it. Generally, everyone who is not planning to reopen with the same business after evacuation is selling out.”

The flower shop offers roses, lisianthus, chrysanthemums, and dahlias — fresh, fragrant and festive. This is a heartbreaking scene. Marharyta, the shop owner, is drinking her morning coffee.

“I have three greenhouses with flowers,” says Marharyta. “I’ve got flowers, but no customers. It’s the military who help out — they fall in love here and go dating, and buy our flowers. Still, I will most probably evacuate once these flowers are sold out. The other day, I returned a whole batch of flowers for nothing to Dnipro where I bought them at a high price. I have children, I must evacuate.”

A dressmaker is located just at the exit of the market. Mannequins, looking scared, are standing together in one corner, while the shelves are totally empty. Only four of the nine women who used to sew and repair clothes remain in the big hall.

“In early summer, we still had many orders — both from the military and civilians, but yesterday, for example, not a single one,” sighs Liubov, who works here. Her daughter lives near Kyiv, and if the Russians come to Pokrovsk, she will go to her place.

A cashier and two hairdressers are nearby in a dimly lit hair salon. It is pretty late, but no customers are coming in. The military are the only ones to help out their business.

“We have almost forgotten when women came to do their hair here,” the cashier says. “Only occasionally does someone come to cut their hair.”

Even bikes can be sent by post

8:20 am. A branch of the Ukrposhta post office has just opened, but the queue is visible from a distance: people are standing outside with their belongings as the premises are full. A woman explains to me that only two post offices work in the city — this one and another in a district which is quite far away.

I manage to squeeze inside. The space is packed with boxes and sacks, from the floor almost to the ceiling. ‘Armchair’, ‘roller’, ‘tableware’, ‘shoes’ — the boxes read. Before evacuating, people send their stuff to the new place. The post officer announces she will not accept new packages until the truck collects “all that.” When will the truck come? It comes when it comes. An elderly man asks the post office to take his bicycle, but hears that such a big box is unacceptable. People in the queue recommend that he go to another office, Nova Poshta — they will take it. But they have queues as well.

Queues are seen in many places: near the Pension Fund office and ATMs, and numerous people are waiting at the administrative service centre (ASC). According to Alevtyna Zhuk, head of Pokrovsk ASC, the institution provides all its services: “There is access to all the registers. We accept applications for international passports and IDs. The waiting list for the state registrar stretches until 29 September — by then, we will process these applications.”

"What will the Russians take from me? My potatoes?"

An elderly woman is carrying a bicycle loaded with a sack of onions and a sack of potatoes. Liudmyla Mykhailivna is 84. “I’ve been to a wholesale market, it’s time to prepare for winter,” she says. “There was a seller today, and I took the last sack of onions from him.” At home, her 90-year-old husband will meet her. Together, they will somehow haul the sack into their cellar.

“I have no idea where we should go,” she speculates. “Moreover, my husband has problems going to the toilet — how would he go? We have lived our lives; we have nothing to lose. God willing, they will not come here. And even if they come — what will they take away from me? Maybe these potatoes? Perhaps, if volunteers force us to go, we will.”

The elderly and people with disabilities get assistance with evacuation from charity funds and volunteer organisations. For example, the charity fund East-SOS has evacuated over 11,000 citizens with reduced mobility since the beginning of the full-scale war.

“Our fund has a hotline,” says Vladyslav Arseniy, representative of the charity fund. “We get inquiries from relatives of citizens with reduced mobility, as well as from their neighbours, social workers and doctors. Local authorities, even though they are doing their best, lack the capacity to guarantee evacuation of the elderly and people with reduced mobility on their own.”

Tsentralna Street in Pokrovsk is so long that it seems to carry on all the way to the outskirts. Finally — No. 169. A giant walnut tree stands near the fence, with a bumper crop of seeds. The house owner, 84 year-old Luisa, will not harvest them in autumn. She is leaving today.

The evacuation train should depart at 14:10. Volunteers promised to pick her up at 12:30, but the woman has been waiting on her doorstep since 8 am.

Her son died, she divorced long ago, and the house turned into a hovel. There are no relatives and no caregivers. Eighty-four years of her life can fit inside two checkered bags.

“For Luisa, evacuation is a salvation; how would she survive here otherwise?” Tamara, head of the local district committee, tells me.

Volunteers finally arrive. On Luisa’s bags, I write her surname with a marker — so that the stuff does not get lost during the evacuation process. The dog that hid in the kennel runs out and yells.

“Go back to your home,” his mistress orders. This was a rather short goodbye. Outside, a pot containing meat is left, and people living in the street promise to feed him.

Sashko, a volunteer, helps Luisa to get into the minibus. Her neighbours — the same age as her — come closer. They hug and bless Luisa, wishing her a good journey. “Lisochka, Larysochka, Tamarochka,” they whisper to each other tenderly and cry. Considering their age and times, they will probably never see each other again. The volunteers promise to take Luisa to a nursing home.

Evacuees moved out in groups to west

Every day, a train departs from Pokrovsk to Lviv. This train is intended for people who have found a new place to live and have been through the registration procedure at the evacuation point. Until recently, once every eight days, extra carriages were added to this train — for people who rely on the help of the local administrations of host communities to find accommodation and provide basic needs. (Now it is the Rivne region; starting 1 September, IDPs from the Donetsk region will be accepted in the Kirovohrad region).

Due to the frontline moving closer, evacuation trains are organised every four days. To one of such trains, volunteers of the East-SOS fund bring Luisa. It is extremely hot, and the food people take with them is very likely to spoil. The carriages are not ventilated; five to six people fill each compartment, designed for only four passengers. Their stuff is everywhere: under their feet, behind their backs, and above their heads. No medical supervision is provided for.

According to the evacuation point’s data, 123 people are evacuated from the Pokrovsk territorial community on 22 August.

“And who will evacuate you?” I ask the evacuation point’s workers.

“I have collected my stuff already,” says Viktoria. “If the city military administration announces urgent evacuation, I will go. Currently, the administration is likely to move to Dnipro.”

Hope still blooms

I pass several city districts and find myself in a street full of flowerbeds. Several women are carefully cutting old roses and thinning out the bushes. As a result, the flowerbeds sparkle even brighter.

The women give me a rose and flatly refuse to be photographed, laughing: “Oh, we are so grimy, we have dirty hands, absolutely black.”

Well, fine — I put the long thorny stem in my backpack’s strap and make a selfie. I walk the streets with the rose in the strap. Someone smiles at me, others look amazed.

Some janitors are carefully uprooting weeds between the tiles in the green area near the Donetsk National Technical University. I stop here. The frontline is rattling nearby, the situation is dangerous and uncertain, but the city is still looking pretty. Tetiana and Ihor, the janitors, react to my sincere admiration very simply: “Who told you that the Russians will be let in here?”