‘Everyone knew Ukraine was building up troops’ A dispatch from Kursk, where thousands of Russian civilians have arrived after fleeing Ukraine’s cross-border offensive
Ukraine’s cross-border offensive into Russia’s Kursk region has now been going on for an entire week. According to the region’s governor, more than 120,000 people have fled their homes. A majority of these evacuees now find themselves in the regional capital of Kursk, where their future is uncertain; so far, President Vladimir Putin has only promised each displaced person a one-time payment of 10,000 rubles (about $110), hardly enough to make any long-term plans. The independent outlet Novaya Vkladka sent a correspondent to the city to see how the city and the refugees are dealing with the crisis. Meduza shares a translation of their report, lightly abridged for length and clarity.
Blackout
On the evening of August 9, an enormous cloud of thick black smoke rose into the sky just west of the Russian city of Kursk. The source was a fire at an electrical substation less than 20 miles from Kurchatov, home to the Kursk Nuclear Power Plant. According to the region’s acting governor, Alexey Smirnov, the substation caught on fire when it was hit by a downed Ukrainian drone.
The fire caused four of the region’s districts to lose power, including the one containing the nuclear station. For hours, the only things visible in the area were vehicle headlights, a gas station that had a gasoline generator, and the contrails in the sky from the air defense missile.
“The siren started going off outside, and eventually the neighbor’s little girl started throwing a fit,” recounted a resident who witnessed the fire. “She started crying and screaming that we were about to be conquered. The siren’s wailing, the little girl’s wailing, and black smoke is rising in the distance. My mom started packing her things.”
For several hours, residents of the affected districts had no electricity and no cell service.
“I saw a missile fly up into the sky from somewhere beyond the fields,” another eyewitness said. “Then it suddenly turned around and flew in the opposite direction. I ran to my car. My phone was dead. I started driving and watched as the black smoke cloud rose. I thought, fuck, our home is probably in ruins. I asked a friend to let me use his phone to call my parents, but there was no service. With my hands shaking, I drove home — and everything was fine. Everyone was in one piece.”
The electricity returned around 10:00 p.m., the same night. Almost immediately, the regional authorities declared a “counter-terrorist operation.” By this point, fighting between Russian and Ukrainian troops along the Kursk region’s western border had been ongoing for four days.
Refugees
It’s August 10 at a budget supermarket in the regional capital of Kursk. A large basket full of canned goods and other non-perishable foods that residents have donated to Russian soldiers sits next to the door. Inside the store, a long queue has built up: Only one cashier is working because the others are carrying water and groceries out to the soldiers passing by on armored personnel carriers.
“Let them through; they’re bringing humanitarian aid for the soldiers,” one employee says to the customers in line.
“Well, these guys are bringing aid to injured [refugees from the border areas],” a customer responds.
Several aid distribution points have been organized for refugees from the Kursk region’s border areas. One of the largest is on Belinsky Street, near the city center. It was set up by House of Good Deeds, a local homelessness charity.
The architecture on Belinsky Street combines old, pre-revolutionary buildings and relatively new private homes. The street is blocked off to vehicles, and traffic officers wearing helmets and bulletproof vests stand guard at the entrances.
In front of the aid distribution point, refugees from various border towns and settlements like Sudzha, Rylsk, and Korenevo stand in a line about 50 meters (160 feet) long, waiting to receive groceries, clothing, and bedding. Many are nervous and hesitant to talk to the strangers around them.
At one point, the line dissolves into a crowd as evacuees get impatient and push forward. A volunteer raises his voice: “Everyone, take a step back! Are you going to take a step back or not?”
Soon after, another volunteer shouts: “Everyone who wants a drink, come forward to the table!”
“A mini bottle of vodka each, right?” jokes an old man in the line.
“A glass of water,” the volunteer responds.
Outside the line, a bald man in a tank top tells his wife they need to update their residency registration so that their government compensation payment gets sent to the shelter where they’re now staying.
Another family, two parents and their child, walk by. The woman is wearing a black dress and speaking on the phone in a mix of Russian and Ukrainian. “I don’t know whether to take the TV or to say just screw it,” she says.
Several people who have already received their aid allotments are standing under a tree: an older woman, a middle-aged woman, and a young man wearing socks and sandals. He picks up a bedding set from a pile of items on the ground.
“That’s mine! Don’t touch it! What do you think you’re doing?” the elderly woman says.
“I’m not touching it. I was just looking,” the man replies.
Another elderly woman is standing nearby, waiting for something. A younger woman walks up to her and offers her a set of bedsheets, asking, “Don’t you need these?” The woman doesn’t respond and just stares into the distance.
Similar vacant expressions appear on many of the refugees’ faces throughout the afternoon. One woman in a colorful dress holds two pillows under her arm. Several bags of groceries sit on the ground in front of her. Now that she’s received her aid, she can go to the temporary shelter. Suddenly, an air raid siren starts wailing loudly. The woman doesn’t move. The corners of her mouth are turned down, and her eyes look somewhere past the tall hotel on Dzerzhinsky Street into the sky.
Nearby, an older woman leans against a building and cries as she discusses the situation with someone on the phone. “In my old age,” she says. “To go through a thing like this in my old age…”
‘We’re still going to beat them’
A bald older man in a plaid shirt stands off to the side, his cell phone and wallet sticking out of his breast pocket. His daughter and her husband stand nearby. The three of them traveled here from the village of Martynovka, just a few kilometers east of Sudzha.
“Oh, I found you guys! Glad to see you got out of there,” another man says, walking up to the family. “Are you staying in Kursk or heading somewhere else?”
“Yeah, we’re staying in Kursk,” the bald man says. “What are we supposed to do with 10,000 rubles [$110]?”
“I called Sasha [before the evacuation] and asked whether he planned to leave. He said, ’No, why would I do that?’ Then today, I called him and asked, ‘Well, did you leave?’ And he said, ‘We left. At the last moment.’”
“How did you guys get out?” the bald man asks.
“By car, and you?” his friend says.
“Wow — we went by foot, through fields and forests — no time to get the car. We went as a group,” the man says.
His daughter interrupts him: “Okay, Dad, time to go.”
Overall, the refugees don’t talk much about the evacuation itself; it mostly comes up briefly as they stand in line. A slightly more common discussion topic, especially among older people, is the Ukrainian incursion itself and how the Russian army failed to stop it. This is what three older men are discussing as they stand outside a different aid distribution point, this one organized by the Russian Red Cross.
“Everyone knew that [Ukraine] was building up [troops] there,” a man in a camo baseball cap says. “For two months already!”
“Apparently, they even fired on an ambulance,” a heavyset middle-aged man says, joining the conversation.
“Well, they also shot a pregnant 24-year-old,” the older man responds.
“What did they bomb in your town?” a third man asks.
“The train station and the city center.”
“I went back to tell my brother to get out. He was expecting some fairytale ending,” a man in a plaid shirt says.
“They shot down three helicopters,” the man with the cap continues.
“Look, [they’ve shot down] planes, helicopters, and missiles. If [Ukraine] fires, it means there’ll be a response [from the Russian army] — 40 minutes later,” the heavyset man says.
“But we’re still going to beat them,” says the man in the plaid shirt.
A line has built up at the Red Cross distribution point, but it’s smaller than the one set up by House of Good Deeds; here, there’s a ticket system for receiving aid. Around the corner, a couple sits in the grass, tired of waiting. Another man smokes a cigarette nearby. Opposite them is an old apartment building. Above the door’s intercom, someone has drawn the pro-war V and Z symbols in marker. Below, someone has written, “No to war!”
‘Only the Internet tells the truth’
Central Park Mall, the largest shopping center in Kursk, is a block away from the Russian Red Cross aid point. Like any other day, all its stores, supermarkets, and coffee shops are open. Children play in a ball pit on the fourth floor while an indoor roller coaster clangs along its track.
However, there are fewer visitors than usual for a Saturday afternoon; the clothing stores and the food court are all empty. The movie theater is closed, as is the rooftop area above the seventh floor; according to a sign, it hasn’t been open since August 7.
“We have missile alerts every 15 minutes,” a teenage girl tells her friends near the children’s play area. “And you have to wait an hour for the buses. Sometimes even three.”
Meanwhile, several hundred yards from the humanitarian aid area, the feeling of the war’s proximity seems to fade away. On the city’s central Lenin Street, three young women in fancy dresses walk towards Kursk’s Red Square, where a blood transfusion station was set up after Ukraine’s cross-border offensive began. Outside the nearby Pushkinsky mall, a couple is taking their wedding pictures.
Two cashiers are chatting behind the counter in a grocery store near the mall. One of them says she’s skeptical that there’s really fighting going on in Sudzha.
“I have a friend from Sudzha who left the day before yesterday [August 7]. She said that everything is fine there, the buildings are all in one piece, and nobody’s panicking. And they’re saying the same thing on TV,” she says.
“That’s all lies,” the other says.
“Sure — only the Internet tells the truth,” the first woman says sarcastically.
‘Do you think this will ever end?’
By Saturday evening, the line at the House of Good Deeds aid station has shortened to about 20 meters (65 feet). More and more cars stop by to drop off pillows and blankets for the refugees. It’s noisy and disorderly as volunteers try to distribute the items.
An older woman in a blue robe sits on a low metal fence near where the cars are unloading. She turns her tired gaze to a volunteer in a green vest. “I haven’t forgotten about you,” the volunteer says.
The woman then turns to her grandson, a skinny boy holding a bag that’s already full.
“Grandson, they promised me a blanket and pillows, and then I’m leaving. I’m tired,” she says. Then, after a beat: “Grandson, will you help me carry them?”
At that moment, a volunteer gives the woman a set of bedding that’s just been dropped off. She thanks the volunteer, takes the items, stands up slowly, and walks away. Nearby, a mother and son smile as they receive their pillows, as well.
Next to a nearby apartment building, three friends are smoking and discussing when they’ll be able to return to their homes.
“Do you think this [Ukrainian offensive] will ever end and we’ll be able to go home?” one woman asks her friend. “I mean, everything there is going to be mined.”
