Photos and voices from Sumy, a Ukrainian border city facing constant Russian attacks
Sumy, a Ukrainian city just 18 miles from the Russian border, has been under regular Russian attack since the start of the full-scale invasion. When Ukraine’s military launched its cross-border offensive into Russia’s Kursk region in August, the strikes intensified dramatically, as Sumy now serves as a rear base for the Ukrainian advance. For the people of Sumy, war has long been part of daily life, though that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Meduza visited the city to capture what life there is like and spoke with three residents about their days and nights under constant Russian bombardment.
Kateryna (name changed)
Nurse
The neighborhood where we live, [in the southeastern part of the city], isn’t safe. Several businesses close to our house have been shelled, and there’s energy infrastructure nearby that’s been bombed by Shahed [drones]. We’ve been hit pretty hard.
Bezdryk [a village that’s officially part of the city] is very close to us — that’s where the Iskander missile hit and killed our soldiers. We heard the strike, but I can’t remember the exact date because we have bombings and strikes every day, and the dates all blur together.
When our [military] moved into [Russia’s] Kursk region, the bombings and shelling intensified dramatically. Of course, we knew this would happen. The situation in the region is tough overall. At first, only the five-kilometer [about three-mile] zone [along the Russian border] was considered the front line in [the Sumy region], but things have gotten much worse: people were ordered to evacuate from the 10-kilometer [about six-mile] zone, and now, it’s expanded to 20 kilometers [over 12 miles].
Sumy is being hit every night — not only by MLRS [multiple-launch rocket systems] but also by Shaheds. Sometimes there are 15, then 20. Occasionally there are 50. They fly in along the entire border of our region and then scatter across Ukraine. This goes on from around midnight until 10:00 in the morning. At night, you see people chatting in local messaging groups — no one’s sleeping, they’re talking about where the drones are flying. The Shahed makes a loud buzzing sound as it flies, and when it’s about to strike, you hear a sharp whistle. On top of that, you hear gunfire, which is our air defense trying to shoot them down. The shooting is awful.
The authorities advise us to take cover somewhere — like in the bathroom — to stay away from windows in case there’s an explosion and the glass shatters. Or they tell us to go to shelters, like basements or designated ones. But often people don’t run to the shelters, they go down to basements or stay at home in rooms with two walls [between them and the outside], like the hallway or the bathroom. My husband and I hid in the bathroom. You just sit there and listen to the shelling. I’d cover my ears with my hands, hunched up on a stool in the bathroom.
Some people do use the shelters, but the thing is, air raids can last 19–20 hours, sometimes even a full day. You can’t sit all that time in a damp basement with mosquitoes and other insects, so most people don’t really go there.
My friend has a cat that senses danger. About three minutes before an explosion, it’ll jump off the windowsill where it had been sitting calmly, bolt to the hallway, and sit there in the corner. Another friend has a dog, a huge Rottweiler, and it also senses the explosions a little in advance and runs to hide under the bed.
Some people in Sumy say they’re experiencing the same thing they went through in 2022. Back then, the artillery was intense, but it didn’t really reach the city. Yes, there were air raids, which were terrifying, but they happened once or twice a week. Now, we’re being shelled every day — more powerfully and more intensely. They’ve started hitting the city with KABs, and that’s really scary because [the explosions] are massive. When a KAB hits, the whole city hears it. The same goes for Iskanders — they’re deafening. The buildings shake, and windows crack within a two- to three-kilometer radius [of the blast].
But the city goes on: the traffic lights are working, there are a lot of cars on the roads, people are going to work. Bakeries, stores, and pharmacies are open. Colleges and schools [have switched to] online learning. Doctors are also only available remotely — there’s no going to the clinic, and you have to call your family doctor if you need help. But the ambulance still comes; one came for me about three weeks ago. My husband is an artist, and the medics loved his paintings, so we decided to give them one as a gift for getting to me during the shelling.
A couple of days ago, we packed our suitcases and left for [Ukraine’s] Zakarpattia region. I can’t sit in the basement all day anymore like we did at the start of the war. I’ve almost stopped sleeping because of the nightly shelling, and my nerves are completely shot — and it’s not just me, it’s a lot of people. So we left, especially since my husband had heart surgery, and he can’t handle any stress. We’re currently in Zakarpattia, getting our paperwork in order, and then we plan to head to Germany.
I think starting this so-called “special military operation,” as the Russians call it, was a huge mistake. Instead of fixing their own territories, especially in the distant regions, they invaded our country. It never should have happened. We posed no threat, and the deaths on both sides are utterly senseless. To give you an idea, Sudzha is only 45 kilometers [about 28 miles] from us, and naturally, many people in Sumy have relatives in Russia. We used to visit each other. Now, only a few people keep in touch with their Russian relatives, and there’s a lot of mutual hatred on both sides. We have relatives in Russia too, and they think [the war] is our fault. But how is this our fault?
I feel a whole range of emotions. There’s resentment toward Russians for not standing up and stopping all of this, for just putting their heads down and accepting it. There’s confusion and bitterness. These feelings change depending on the day, depending on how heavy the shelling is. Of course, the worse it is, the angrier you feel.
I just want it all to end so we can visit each other, sit at the same table and talk, like before. I want the families torn apart by this madness to come back together. Back then, everything was genuine and full of warmth! [Our relatives in Russia] loved our family so much, and we loved them. I can only hope that this love remains and that, over time, the mutual resentment and hatred will fade away.
Svitlana
Pensioner
The shelling has gotten a lot worse and the city, naturally, isn’t operating fully. But it’s still going! Despite the constant running to bomb shelters and the buzzing of Shaheds at night, which is nerve-wracking, to put it mildly. During the day, things are so-so, but the nights are far from peaceful.
Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel like we’re a frontline city. I was at the market today, doing some shopping, and saw my neighbors. I went to the store easily. In the first days of the war, we were hiding in basements and shelters, but now we’ve relaxed a bit. Although sometimes, of course, I go to the hallway and hide between two walls when something is flying at us. Missiles reach us fast, you know — sometimes the explosion hits first, and only then the siren goes off. So people barely have time to run and hide. You can hear a Shahed coming from far away, but a missile? Just one second and that’s it. Where could you even run?
I’m not planning to leave the city; I have nowhere to go. My granddaughter and great-grandson are here, and my daughter and her husband are currently receiving medical treatment abroad, so I’ll stay home. And then, it’s as God wills — there’s no escaping fate. Besides, the stores are still stocked and pensions are being paid on time. We haven’t had any power cuts all week, except for today, when it was out for just a couple of hours. We still have water and gas. It’s much harder for those in the 10-kilometer zone near the border, but for now, thank God, we’re holding on. It’s tough, but we’ll get through it. You just have to keep living, laugh more, not panic, and believe that things will get better.
I was born in Russia — my father was from Vinnytsia [in Ukraine], and my mother’s parents were Ukrainian immigrants. I finished school in the Far East, then moved to Tomsk for college, where I met my husband, who’s from Sumy. We worked in the Udmurt Republic for a bit, and then my husband said, “Let’s go home,” and we moved to Sumy.
You know, in all my 54 years of living in Ukraine, I’ve never seen any “Banderites” or Nazis. Life here has always been normal. I used to fly to the Far East every two years to visit relatives, but now my cousin calls and asks:
“Svitlana, have you been liberated yet?”
“Whom did I need to be liberated from?!” I ask. “I’ve lived here for half a century and traveled all over Ukraine — everything is fine here!”
That’s why this war is incomprehensible to me. People in Russia have changed. My sister lives there too. Even she, who’s an intelligent person and has traveled abroad, supports the war. What happened to them? There must be so much disinformation over there.
On our [late] father’s birthday, I wrote to her:
“Dad helped liberate Kyiv from the fascists and fought almost all the way to Berlin. And now, his great-grandchildren, who [live] in the Far East, have come to kill me and my great-grandchildren. What a paradox. What kind of [children] did you raise, Alla, that they’ve come here to kill me for money?”
“But you have Nazis there,” Alla replied.
“How many times have you visited us? And have you ever seen a single Nazi? Or did someone maybe treat you poorly because you speak Russian? Nothing like that ever happened! What’s the point of this war? I don’t understand!”
So, I’ve stopped talking to my own sister — I just can’t. I think it will be very difficult for the younger generation to forgive all of this. But good always triumphs over evil. I think it will win this time, too.
Father Oleksandr
Orthodox priest
Things have gotten really nerve-wracking lately. If before the shelling was less frequent (mostly hitting the border areas), now there are a lot more explosions, and it’s really loud in Sumy.
Of course, when our troops started moving into the Kursk region, we knew this would happen. But understanding it is one thing; living through it is something entirely different.
When the [Ukrainian military’s] offensive in the Kursk region started, we were all really inspired, but now the excitement has worn off. Our thoughts are shifting toward the looming winter and with winter comes uncertainty. It’s already clear that there will be power outages. I don’t know who to believe: some say the cold season will be mild, others say it’ll be harsh. But if they’re already cutting power in the summer, I can only imagine what it’ll be like in winter.
I worry constantly about my family, not so much because of the explosions, but because of the cold. I can’t leave here myself — I can’t abandon the parish and the people I’m helping. But I’m looking for places my family could go.
There’s been an increase in [military] vehicles on the streets, which also adds to the tension. On the one hand, I feel protected by the military presence, but on the other, seeing someone with a weapon, even if it’s one of our [own soldiers], still makes you uneasy. And then there’s the heavy smoke at night — the border areas are burning [because of the shelling], so the city is always shrouded in smoke. Sometimes you wake up in the morning and it’s hard to breathe, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Otherwise, on the surface, the city hasn’t changed much. The stores are open, kids are laughing. Life in Sumy goes on at its own pace. Hardly anyone is afraid of the strikes or loud noises anymore because they’ve become so constant here.
During air raids, the post office and other institutions, like banks, shut down. And sometimes our air raids last for days. But everyone keeps working — the road crews, the police, and public transport. Over the last two years, we’ve had to learn to live and work under these conditions. At the start of the war, it was a complete nightmare — we didn’t know what to expect, what a missile strike meant, or what it could do. But now, we understand everything.
If, God forbid, we get occupied, there will be no place for me here — I know that perfectly well, given my background. I would have to leave. And that would mean losing everything, not just in a material sense. For example, the neighborhood where I grew up and now have my parish is literally a part of me, and losing it would feel like losing my family. That would be a tragedy.
But I have two options if the Russians come here. Either I leave, or I stay and protect what’s dear to me until the end. As a priest, I can’t take up arms, but I can be a medic, a volunteer, or a chaplain.
Still, I’m an incurable optimist, and that optimism stops me from seeing things clearly. At first, I thought the war would end by the fall of 2022. That didn’t happen. Then, I was sure Ukraine would win in 2023. So, I can’t make predictions anymore. I just pray that this nightmare ends soon. That somehow the Russians realize they’re committing a colossal crime, one that will leave a terrible mark for centuries. That they understand how they’ve been manipulated, how propaganda turned the Z-majority into a herd, and that they have some kind of epiphany. I’m hoping for a miracle.
But even in this difficult situation, we have to find joy — connecting with people, helping those around us. Children are still born, schools open, people fall in love and get married. Life goes on. Yes, ten years of war is certainly a long time for one human’s life. But it’s also a wealth of experience. A huge number of moments, not all of them bad.
This is how we’re living, and we won’t have another life on this earth. So, we have to find something good in what we have right now.
Interviews by Irina Olegova
Photographs by Meduza