While the attention of the world is riveted on the Russian build-up of troops at the border with Ukraine, the war-weary residents near the so-called line of contact that already divides the eastern region of Donbas oscillate between disbelief and glum resignation.
“Life isn't bad here,” says Viktor, “though it does get lonely sometimes.” The spry 79-year-old lives in the almost deserted village of Vodyane, a couple of kilometres from the front line.
Empty houses with boarded-up windows and doors line the only street of the hamlet, a reminder that those who could leave already did so years ago. The ones who remained either couldn't or wouldn't. For some there is always the cellar as the ultimate sanctuary.
In the village of Bakhmuts'kye, 83-year-old Nadezhda Ivanovna and her son Yuri are two of those. The pair lived through the worst of the fighting in 2014, finding shelter in their basement as mortar shells brought down houses and blew out windows all around them.
“If something happens, we'll just go to the basement again,” she whispers, wringing her hands. “We don't have much of a choice.”
In recent months, Russia has moved about 100,000 combat-ready troops to Ukraine's border, prompting fears that it might invade. Regular bursts of gunfire in the distance make for a dispiriting backdrop to daily life but one that is inescapable.
Ira, 39, a mother-of-two, confides of having no certainties and little hope for the future. “We've been at war for eight years already, yet it seems that everybody forgot,” she sighs, as she cradles her baby daughter, Zlata.
In 2016, Ira had to flee her family home in Bakhmutka for the relative safety of Ivanhrad, a hamlet located further away from the front line. While mortar shells can still be heard exploding at night, they're now distant enough not to be a cause for concern. “I barely even notice it any more, to be honest.”
When asked if she has made any kind of preparation for a possible escalation of hostilities, she says that she hasn't, but not for lack of want. “I wish I could, but I don't have any money, and nowhere to go,” she laments. “Our only relatives all live in eastern Ukraine, we have no alternative.”
Viktor, like many others, also isn't looking to flee. “This is my land, this is my house, why should I have to leave because they decided to fight?”
Like many other residents of the region, Viktor gives little credence to the possibility of a Russian incursion, let alone a full-blown invasion. “They're not going to attack, I think the media is playing this up.”
It is a sentiment echoed on the streets of Bakhmut, a town about 20km from the front. “It's psychological warfare, it's manipulation,” a local driver tells us forcefully. “Nothing is going to happen.”
Not everybody, however, shares that conviction. According to a sociological survey conducted in late January by the Kiev International Institute of Sociology, 48.1 per cent of Ukrainians perceive the buildup of Russian troops to be a real threat of an invasion, while 12.8 per cent found the question difficult to answer.
While Nadezhda says she doesn't know what is going to happen, the retired teacher fears that the conflict could flare up and disrupt their lives again.
During our conversation, gunfire can be heard going off sporadically in the distance – a daily occurrence in Bakhmuts'kye. “I actually think it's pretty calm these days,” she says, dismissing our concerns with a gesture of the hand.
Some people do seem to have undertaken preparations for a possible invasion. In the city of Severodonetsk, newly painted signs point out the direction of the nearest shelter, while in Slovyansk, the website of the city administration lists the “protective structures” available to the population.
However, when we set out to find some of those, we were met with either ignorance or outright dismissal. Asked for directions, a pharmacist on the former Karl Marx Street exclaims: “Air raid shelters? They're just basements, that's it.”
psychologist
When contacted for comment, the civil-military administration of the city – a temporary governmental body that replaced the elected officials in some places near the front line – declined to answer, citing concerns related to the coronavirus pandemic. “Unfortunately, we are unable to provide you with the information you need because, due to the heightened quarantine restrictions caused by the Covid-19 outbreak, all contact with the media is temporarily restricted.”
On the main square of the city, people go about their business, seemingly unburdened by the possibility of an escalation of hostilities. Mothers stroll down the street with their children in tow, while a group of older men sitting on a bench can be heard arguing about politics.
Yet psychologist Tatyana Aslanyan believes this apparent serenity belies real concern. “People do not want to think about it, it's a defence mechanism,” she explains. “They have dissociated themselves completely from the whole ordeal.”
The founder of a psychological support centre in Slovyansk, Aslanyan has been treating people traumatised by the conflict every day for the past six years. She says she recently inquired about the city's preparations and found them to be woefully inadequate – or non-existent. “I tried to know what actions had been taken to prepare the city in case of an attack, as we would be the first line of contact. Nothing has been done. Air raid shelters aren't even ready.”
In the past few weeks, Aslanyan has learnt how to perform first aid, but her attempts to get her friends and neighbours to prepare have so far been unsuccessful.
Some of them have reproached her, accusing her of inciting panic. “I'm not," she assures us. "I'm not saying that we should panic, but we need to be ready and we’re not.”
