"You can only think and remain silent": the fear of Ukrainian territories under Russian occupation

Kyiv“When I read or watched movies about employment, I didn’t think it was something so, so terrible and dangerous. It turns out that, in reality, you can only think and keep quiet, like the partisans,” Nina confesses, and a few seconds later her message disappears. For four years now, she has been writing and deleting every text message she sends to her family on the other side of the line that separates Ukrainian territory under Russian occupation. And from time to time, she reminds them to do the same. She was never a political activist or a fighter against any regime. But with the arrival of Russian troops in Melitopol, now the district center of the occupied Zaporizhzhia region, fear gripped her. In these few sentences in Russian that appear on the mobile phone screen, there is no information about military objectives or any criticism of the regime. She only talks about how her life has changed since the beginning of the large-scale invasion four years ago. This fear explains why it is so difficult to find information and stories about life in the occupied territories of eastern Ukraine. It's also become difficult to keep in touch with family members who stayed behind. "We mostly talk about the weather; you know what I mean." "I used to be irritated by these strange, primitive digital images with good wishes, but I have relatives who, since the beginning of the war, started sending them to me twice a day. 'Good morning' and 'good night.' I'm glad to receive these messages: it's their way of telling me that they're old, that they're alive now, and that everything is alive, taking refuge in other parts of Ukraine.

'It's like 1933.' A few seconds later, this allusion to the Stalinist era by Nina will also disappear. But the problem isn't just her deleted phrases. People disappear too. In the small pockets of freedom that still exist—the shared chats—there are strict rules of communication. No real names are used. If someone disappears, their account is blocked immediately. Two days without a response is cause for concern. One user of one of these chats explains that there was a 65-year-old woman who suddenly stopped replying. Days later, they read a newspaper clipping: she was to be tried for liking social media posts.

A stranger who starts asking about the general mood in a group chat arouses skepticism and jokes about the "senior comrade," referring to the Russian secret services. The jokes, of course, are only made by those in Europe or relatively safe in Ukrainian-controlled territory. For those under employment, the jokes can end, at best, with their phone being confiscated; at worst, with imprisonment. Those who have been particularly "witty" can expect torture.

“We walk down the street smiling like idiots, and we only talk at home. My husband is luckier: at least he can swear and vent. We don’t even talk to our best friends. There are traitors who betray us,” Nina sends me in another message. Later she adds something about wiretapping and widespread distrust, about a world divided between pro-Russians and those now forced into silence. The supposed defense of Russian speakers, which was one of the pretexts for Vladimir Putin’s invasion, doesn’t extend to opponents of the regime; not even old age guarantees that “they won’t come looking for you.”

Lack of professionals

However, in addition to the fear of possible reprisals, she now lives with another fear: fear for her loved ones. For her disabled daughter, who spent several weeks in intensive care with sepsis. For the possibility of shortages of necessary medications and qualified specialists.

In Melitopol, the problem is not so acute. In the periphery of the occupied territories, the situation is much worse. In Berdiansk, a small city on the shores of the Sea of ​​Azov, for example, the shortage of specialists borders on catastrophe. "Here, for some reason, there are many ENT specialists; for everything else, you have to go to Simferopol or Rostov-on-Don, 200 kilometers away," another resident tells me. Ambulances arrive, provide first aid, but even in cases of stroke, they leave the patient at home. The local hospital now seems more like a facility under special regime. Russia tried to solve the problem by sending specialists on month-long assignments. But this type of care proved ineffective due to the enormous waiting lists.

Among the few positive things are the repaired roads and a greater variety of products in the shops. But residents are going out less. Constant power outages mean the elevators aren't working; the heating is intermittent; even the water, though technical, is delivered by tanker trucks… The inhabitants complain that Moscow supposedly allocates funds, but these are embezzled locally, although the exact cause of the cities' deterioration is unknown.

"The worst thing is this suspended state. My apartment isn't registered in my name; maybe they'll come to evict me tomorrow," another person tells me. All the space left by local residents is now occupied by recent arrivals from Russia and families of Russian military personnel.

Some parents complain that the teachers, instead of the traditional collections for new curtains, have suddenly started raising funds for drones, and generally for the militarization of school education. For their part, the regime's supporters seem oblivious. Some speak happily of the new car they have finally been able to buy and nostalgically recall the Soviet regime.

For pro-Ukrainian activists, the only hope of returning home is the liberation of the territories. This hope resurfaced with the information from the General Staff about the kilometers liberated in the south. "Sometimes I dream that I will finally wake up at home. The sad thing is that not all of us will see it again, not even in the best-case scenario. Only three of my contemporaries died after leaving their homes. Their hearts simply couldn't take it," recalls a 56-year-old resident of Berdiansk.