City in southern Ukraine was under Russian rule for nine months. A DW correspondent describes how life is in the place where he was born, with residents divided between the joy of liberation and the fear of a new phase of the war. I spent a year without going to Kherson. Coming home after so long would have been exciting, even in peacetime. But my hometown is home in the middle of war. In mid-November, the Ukrainian Army returned to Kherson, and Russian forces retreated across the Dnipro River.
Since then, townspeople have embraced Ukrainian soldiers every day, asking for autographs, waiting in lines for water and humanitarian aid. Learning to hide under artillery fire and telling about the nine months of occupation.
Path full of checkpoints
Kherson remains a closed city, access is restricted. The military and police speak of “stabilization measures”. Journalists and aid workers are only allowed in and out under military escort.
The highway to the nearby regional capital Mykolayiv is getting busier and busier. Columns of trucks with food, fuel, emergency generators and humanitarian aid can be seen. In some places, the road was damaged by bombing. The detours take you along dirt roads that are barely passable because of the typical November rains. “Dear ones, where you are going, there is a lot of mud,” says an elderly woman in the village of Kisseliwka, pointing to a stuck postal van.
The remains of the famous Antonivsky Bridge, the longest in Kherson, still overhang the Dnipro River. Russian troops entered the city over this bridge in late February and blew it up on their way out. An older graffiti invokes Russian “victory”, a more recent inscription insults the occupiers.
If you stay here unprotected in the open for only a short time, you get shot straight from the other side of the river. Russian soldiers set up their positions there, near the small town of Oleshki. Ukrainian soldiers from a nearby checkpoint hide us under a bridge and advise us to move on quickly.
With bulletproof vest through the city
Surrounded by checkpoints, the inhabitants of Kherson are divided: between the joy of liberation and the fear of a new phase of the war. After all, the city is now close to the front line.
Not all residents, the soldiers say, have yet understood what this means. There is no operational warning system against air strikes, nor safe shelters.
The Russian Army has been bombing Kherson. Explosions can be heard with increasing frequency. Civilian infrastructure, army and residential buildings are targeted. The number of civilians killed or injured increases with each passing day.
Meanwhile, on Perekopska Street, two men tear down a large sign praising Russian annexation. They say that the Russians put up such posters all over the city. “At least one more week of work for us,” says one.
Yuri Savchuk carefully folds parts of the poster. He is director of a museum dedicated to Ukraine’s participation in World War II. Savchuk returned to Kherson in the first days after liberation to document the current war. “I’ve already done 50 interviews on the subject”, says the historian proudly.
And the desire to speak is really great. Almost all willingly tell their story of resistance. Serhij Anatolijovitsh, a retired doctor, offers to show me a Russian “torture chamber” where the occupiers imprisoned dissidents.
It is located in an old jail. At the entrance, there are police. Inside, investigators document traces of torture. After the release, someone wrote on the door: “Glory to Ukraine and its armed forces”.
“In the morning you could hear the Russian anthem, the detainees were forced to sing it. At night, there were terrible screams,” recalls a saleswoman from a neighboring store.
Mine warnings in the city
Before their withdrawal, the Russian military laid mines on many houses. Now mine clearance teams are working in several public buildings, including the city library, where the Russian secret service was based. A police station was blown up as a precaution.
Other critical infrastructure objects were blown up by the Russian Army itself before its withdrawal. In Kherson, there is no running water, no electricity. People line up with buckets and bottles at the still intact private wells. Cell phone signal and internet access are gradually coming back. In the early days, Starlink terminals were provided at some public access points. “Only 64 people can connect at the same time,” says a sign in a park.
The Russians also blew up the broadcasting tower in Kherson. It had soon been occupied by them to stop Ukrainian television broadcasts. Now Vladimir, an elderly man in a camouflage jacket, watches over what’s left of the tower. Vladimir suffers from a herniated disk, but he doesn’t want to go to the hospital at all. “If not me, who will take care of all this? There’s valuable equipment here, metals. I don’t want anyone to steal it.”
Vladimir says that before the Russian invasion he had registered in a Kherson suburb for territorial defense. Afterwards, he says, he briefed the Ukrainian side on moving Russian troops to a strategically important airport nearby.
“I crouched down in a cemetery and pretended to mourn my wife,” he says. “I memorized everything and passed it on to our Ukrainian reconnaissance officers. I said there were two fans and five cans of meat in a store. That was our secret code for helicopters and troop carriers.”
queues for everything
In Kherson, most public services have yet to be restored. Residents spend their time waiting in lines to get water, internet access or Ukrainian phone cards. On the first day after the liberation, there were celebrations in the main square.
There are still daily concerts, but most people now prefer to queue for free toiletries, food, warm clothes and medicine. There are some Russian products left in stores, especially liquor and cigarettes, but less and less. Since October, suppliers say, there is no more restocking.
#portrait #Kherson #Russian #occupation #ISTOÉ #DINHEIRO