‘I should never have just hoped for the best’ A Russian airstrike killed 25 Ukrainian civilians, mostly seniors waiting to collect their pensions. Journalists spoke to a resident and two local evacuation volunteers.

On September 9, the Russian army attacked the small town of Yarova in Ukraine’s Donetsk region. The airstrike hit the town’s center, where a mail truck had just arrived and locals were standing in line to collect their pensions. The attack killed 25 people and injured 19 others. At Meduza’s request, Ukrainian journalist Iryna Olegova spoke with Viktoria, a Yarova resident whose mother-in-law died in the Russian airstrike, as well as with volunteers evacuating civilians from frontline areas.  

Viktoria 

37 years old, Yarova resident 

Before, I lived in Kramatorsk with my son Ilya from my first marriage (who is now 14) and my partner Dima. But on February 26, 2022, we decided to move to his parents’ in Yarova [into an empty house owned by relatives]. People said the enemy wouldn’t reach there, that it would be safe. My wedding dress got left behind in Kramatorsk — we never managed to get married. What kind of wedding could there be in wartime? 

The three of us lived in Yarova [56 kilometers, or 35 miles, north of Kramatorsk]. In the neighboring house were my in-laws, Hennadiy and Svitlana, along with her mother, Grandma Toma. Another grandmother, Hennadiy’s mother Olya, was right across the road. She’s very frail and blind in both eyes. That was how we lived — three houses, side by side. 

We got to Yarova in February. About 1,500 people lived there — not a tiny village by any means. But on June 1, 2022, the town was occupied. I prayed every day for our liberation, because it became clear that the [Russian authorities] had no use for the people here. Life in the village seemed to die. There was no proper food, and money became worthless. It was very hard. 

Thank God, in September 2022, the Ukrainian Armed Forces liberated us. During the fighting to retake the town, I was in the middle of home repairs. Even as bombs were falling, I just kept spackling the walls. I was beyond caring at that point. Afterward, it felt like we could breathe again. Most people returned — even the families with children. Everything started coming back to life: the post office reopened, and stores were getting deliveries again. Public buses started running with weekly trips to Sloviansk. Later, they restored rail service, and we could travel again from Lyman to Izium for groceries and clothes.

In 2023, I got a job at a bakery in Sviatohirsk, and life went on. Of course, there were times we felt anxious, especially when the sound of shelling echoed nearby. Still, we did what we could to turn the empty house we’d found into a real home, buying furniture and hoping things would turn out well, that the enemy wouldn’t return. The thought of leaving didn’t even cross our minds, especially once my husband found a job.

We lived on what we grew in our garden and on humanitarian aid — and we’re deeply grateful to both Ukrainian and international organizations for that. My mother[-in-law] kept the household going: she canned everything she could, probably a hundred jars in total. She worked our garden, her mother’s, and her own. We harvested potatoes and kept chickens. Whenever we talked [about leaving], she would cry and say, “Where would I go? Everything I have is here. My whole life is here!” She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving, always out working in the garden. Even with shells whistling overhead, she’d be out picking peppers. Sometimes we’d yell at her, “Mom, get inside, shrapnel is going to kill you!” But she never showed fear, as if she knew she wouldn’t die. But lately she started saying, “Something’s going to happen,” and we understood — if even Mom was giving up, it was serious. And today [September 11], we buried her.

At the start of the summer, there were suddenly a lot more drones. At night, their buzzing kept us on edge — we’d jump at every sound. It was scary, of course. But after a while, you get numb: whatever will be, will be; you can’t escape fate. Some people left for Kyiv and got killed there anyway. Still, we knew there were no artillery positions near us, no buildup of troops, so there shouldn’t be any strikes here.

Soldiers said different things. On one side of town, they warned, “It’s going to be a bloodbath here — pack up and leave.” But others heard from troops: “You’re leaving too early. We’ll be getting weapons soon, we’ll drive them back, and you’ll be able to stay.” No one really knew how things would turn out. Everyone just clung to the hope that we’d get lucky again.

Many people, especially the elderly, would say, “Where could we go? Who needs us? We don’t want to spend our last years homeless.” Mostly, it was people who’d already lived through [Russian] occupation who decided to evacuate. Those who had already evacuated in 2022 stayed put — they’d had enough, and they knew firsthand what it’s like to live in dorms and gyms [as temporary shelters]. Life is hard without a home of your own.

In early August, the authorities started forcing families with children to evacuate. A police officer came to us, too, urging us to leave. Then he came back again and said, “You’re still here? What on Earth are you doing?” That’s when I realized I needed to act. My kid was already scared — the walls shook from the blasts, and plaster was crumbling. I understood I had to get out, to save my child, especially since the Russians kept advancing. Each night, those strikes would rattle everything. It was just too much.

A volunteer who came with the police said, “I’m going to put in a[n evacuation] request for you.” I was crying and not happy about it, but I said, “Fine, go ahead.” What could I do? If they were forcing us, we’d have to go.

There had been no power for a long time, and the phone signal was terrible — I could only get a connection at work in Sviatohirsk. I waited about a week. In that time, things got so bad that in my head I was just screaming, “Get me out of here!” The explosions at night were constant, practically on a timer. There were strikes in the daytime, too. Neighbors’ houses were hit. Before, we could tell from the sound what kind of shell or drone was coming and how far it was by whether it whistled or buzzed. Now there were so many noises that it was impossible to tell what was coming and from where. Recently, shells started landing just a hundred meters from our homes. That’s when I finally gave in, and I too started calling [the evacuation-assistance charities] Save Ukraine and Angels of Rescue.

They told me we might have to wait a bit while the coordinator found housing for us. I was bawling, and my mother [Svetlana] tried to comfort me. They said we could only take three bags per family. How could we possibly fit everything we needed into just three bags? My son is already taller than I am — he also needs clothes and shoes. My mom said, “Just pack what you can; we’ll mail the rest later.” That calmed me down a little, and I started getting our things together.

My parents [Svetlana and Hennadiy] said, “We’re not going anywhere.” My husband also decided to stay. It was awful. I kept begging: “Go, please go!” Their daughter called from Kramatorsk: “Mom, what are you thinking? You have to get out right now!” But my in-laws just said, “Who would need us over there? This is our home, we’ve lived here our whole lives, and Grandma’s blind — how would we even move her?”

On September 9, the three of us left: my son, Grandma Toma, and me. My mother insisted, though Grandma Toma kept shouting, “I’m not leaving you, I’ll stay with you till the end.” They took us through Sloviansk and Kramatorsk, but before we reached Lozova, the phone rang — we were told there were already bodies in Yarova. I knew my mom had gone to the post office to collect Grandma’s pension. I still don’t know how we made it to Lozova. The phone signal kept cutting in and out. Grandma Toma tried to calm me: “I can feel it, Sveta’s in the hospital, everything will be okay, Vika, don’t cry.” But when Dima and Dad finally got through, they said Mom was gone. After that, I couldn’t hide it from Grandma anymore.

We were told that the first strikes landed close to our homes. Mom had just gone to the post office [to collect Tamara’s pension]. She managed to get through to Dima, asking, “What happened over there?” and then the call dropped. She was hit right after that, and she never got up again. Her body was badly burned — the blast scorched her face. Her own daughter could identify her only by the old scars on her back.

Mom was a really good woman — tough as they come. She kept the family going, always helped out — even the neighbors. I called her “Mom” for six years. She never said a bad word to me, never blamed me for anything, never raised her voice. In her youth, she worked in social services and later on the railroad. Lately, she hadn’t been working — she stayed home on disability. She would ride her bike to get groceries, asking neighbors where things had been delivered so she could buy flour, oil, and sugar to feed the family. She was a fighter. She was 57. She never lived to see any [biological] grandchildren.

I knew many of the people who died, though not all by name. One was Aunt Tanya, a good woman. She lived with her sister. Before the war, she was a postal worker, very kind, and also always out in her garden.

Seryozha, our neighbor across the street, survived. He’d biked to the post office. Later, I saw what was left of his melted bike in a video online. He’d parked it off to the side, walked away with a friend, and apparently, the pine trees saved them from the blast. He got a concussion, and he’s in the hospital in Kramatorsk now. After the bombing, he called us. He said it was horrific — screams, people shouting. Then another blast hit, more chaos, and he tried but couldn’t find Mom. There were burned-up, torn-apart bodies everywhere. He called my folks and said, “Come get Sveta’s bike,” which was still intact, parked a little ways from the blast. Dad [Hennadiy] — I have no idea why — went for the bike, and Dima followed after him. They saw everything themselves and couldn’t speak for two days afterwards.

After the attack, Dima’s sister in Kramatorsk called for an evacuation car. Within an hour, it arrived and took Dad, Dima, and Grandma Olya [to Pavlohrad]. They left with just the clothes on their backs. Dad was in very bad shape — he’d always stuttered under stress, but now he barely speaks. He and Mom were together for more than 30 years. What he’s been through — there aren’t words for it.

Right now, we’re looking for ways to bring the family back together [Victoria, Ilya, and Tamara are in Ukraine’s Rivne region]. They’re supposed to be transferred from Pavlohrad to a town in the Vinnytsia region, and after that, we’ll see. It’s hard to organize [due to shelter placement restrictions and the logistics of moving refugees], but we’re trying. The only truly hopeless situation is the kind that happened to our mom.

The whole street where we lived is basically empty now. Another woman I knew from town didn’t want to leave at first. She had evacuated in 2022, then returned. She managed however she could and kept saying, “I’ve had enough. I’m done with all the running around.” But now she says, “I can’t stay here anymore, I just can’t take it.”

I think only the really old folks will stay in Yarova. Most of the younger people will probably leave. We’ll only go back if it’s still Ukraine. We’d rebuild our homes, because home is home. But if it’s occupied? No way we’re going back. I’m not living with those idiots in charge.

There’s nothing left but to accept it, move on, and keep living. Staying behind in that frontline zone was wrong. We stayed too long. Mom kept saying, “Everything’s gonna be fine, everything’s gonna be fine.” Then, in a second, she was gone. Now I tear myself up about it. I blame myself. I should never have just hoped for the best. My psychologist keeps telling me, “You have to be strong, believe things will get better.” My mom was strong and believed in better days — and now she’s gone. It feels like the ground is gone from under my feet. I don’t know how to believe in anything better anymore.

Oleh Tkachenko 

chaplain, head of the charitable foundation Breath of Hope Mission

Just two or three weeks ago, we thought Yarova was still pretty safe. It’s on the route to Lyman, a bit past Sviatohirsk. From Yarova to the front was about 15 kilometers [about 9 miles], give or take. [Meduza calculates that Yarova’s distance from the front is shrinking.] In late August, our evacuation vehicle came under drone fire about three kilometers from the front line. Once we made it to Yarova, we figured it would be safe enough to change the blown-out tire. So I took off my vest and helmet, got out the jack, and then the shelling started. Our vehicle has “Evacuation” written on it, clearly indicating it’s not a military target. Our mistake was thinking the Russians have anything human left in them, that they’d see the sign and stop. But nothing stopped them from bombing the Okhmatdyt Children’s Hospital [in July 2024].

It’s the same now. In Yarova, this wasn’t some bomb that just missed its target. This was a deliberate strike meant to break Ukrainian society. Children, mothers, grandmothers are being killed… For what?

On the morning of September 9, our driver was doing a routine evacuation from Yarova together with the police and the [humanitarian group] White Angels. Everything went fine. Plenty of people chose not to leave, so only about eight were evacuated to Sloviansk. And as soon as they arrived in Sloviansk, they got word that the Russians had hit Yarova with guided aerial bombs.

The regular post office there isn’t working anymore, but officials do what they can, bringing people money [on special postal service trucks]. [The bomb hit] right in the town’s center, where locals were waiting to pick up their pensions.

Yarova isn’t some place with a bunch of troops or military targets. There aren’t any! It’s just an ordinary Ukrainian village. And [they sent] nine guided bombs. [Meduza could not verify this count.] Who exactly did the Russians “liberate” there? The current numbers are 25 people dead, 19 badly wounded.

One family had refused to evacuate that morning, but after the strike, when our driver returned to pick people up, they did leave Yarova. Only this time, it was without their grandmother — she was killed in the bombing.

We keep begging people to leave: the war isn’t stopping, the Russians keep coming, and the front line keeps inching closer. But honestly, that’s not even the main worry anymore. Drone activity has gone way up: guided bombs, Shaheds, all kinds of drones are hitting more and more of the front. I don’t even know how many times Sloviansk and Kramatorsk have been hit in the last day. On September 10, our van was coming back from Kostiantynivka when a strike drone flew right overhead. It’s not isolated attacks now — it’s systematic. But even with all that, a lot of people still stay put.

For 11 years, the entire Donetsk region has been hit hard, but some cities, like Sloviansk and Sviatohirsk, managed to recover [before Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022]. Sviatohirsk and the little towns around it were absolutely gorgeous — clear water and fresh air. Then the Russians torched everything, and now the area is mostly in ruins. After our army liberated that part of the Donbas, people in towns like Yarova started hoping things would work out, that everything would be rebuilt. But [it turned out otherwise].

Vladyslav 

Sloviansk resident, evacuation vehicle driver for the charitable foundation Breath of Hope Mission

Yarova is a typical small town, about six to eight kilometers [about four miles] from the front lines. They had two or three shops still running, and ordinary people were just living there, quietly and peacefully. There was no military headquarters there — at most, there were maybe a couple of houses where they could have been storing diesel for the military. There were no military installations at all.

By the morning of September 9, we had five or six addresses for evacuation from Yarova [addresses provided by police, local organizations, and volunteers]. Four families refused to go. They said things in the area were quiet. The rest left with us. We also passed by the spot in the center of town where there used to be a post office, right next to a church. A large crowd had gathered there, and we stopped to ask for directions.

On our way back to Sloviansk, we got a call that said there were a lot of dead and injured. Police told us: bring body bags and go collect the dead. We grabbed the bags in Sloviansk and drove back.

By the time we got to Yarova, the military had already finished everything: all the wounded had been taken to the field hospital, all the dead to the Sloviansk morgue. We got another request: to evacuate a woman and her child, and visit a few more addresses. We picked up the woman and her seven-year-old daughter, and as many others as we could. Everything was rushed and tense. All the houses around where the bomb hit had burned down, and people were in shock. Before, explosions had been something distant, out in the woods — almost background noise. But this time, nine massive guided aerial bombs hit, tearing up a whole block of houses.

We drove down the street, houses ablaze, craters everywhere, glass shattered in all directions. Elderly women stood there, petrified. Some tried to hose down neighboring homes to stop the fire from spreading. Others just ran in panic whenever they heard a car coming. The same people who had refused to come with us that morning [before the attack] had fled on their own by now, leaving however they could. That’s how terrified everyone was.

The tragedy has touched almost every family in town. Everyone lost someone — everyone there is connected: brothers, in-laws, fathers, mothers. We evacuated a man whose wife was killed, a guy who lost his mother. One woman refused to leave because she wanted to bury her husband in Yarova first. She was waiting for his body to be brought from the morgue. She said, “When it all happened, I got buried under corpses.” The bodies of two large men fell on top of her. That’s what saved her life.

The town has been deserted. On the morning of September 9, cars were on the road, people were out and about, and stores were still open. But today, September 11, we drove through the entire town and found almost no one, not even at the addresses where we had evacuation requests. There are a lot of drones there now. The guys and I hid behind trees to avoid them, because those things will chase anything — cars, people, whatever moves. They don’t care if you’re civilian or military. Whoever they spot, they strike.

In places like Kostiantynivka, Lyman, and Yarova, it’s mostly seniors or people with limited mobility who have stayed behind. Convincing them to leave can be tough. The process is simple: a son or daughter calls us [from a safer area] to ask that we evacuate their parents. They give us a phone number, but, of course, the parents don’t have any signal. So, we show up at their door and they look at us in surprise: “We weren’t expecting you! We have nowhere to go.” We tell them, “But your son asked us to come!” The last time this happened was in Kostiantynivka. The woman told us, “I don’t want to go anywhere. My TV is working. I have power, I have water. I’m fine where I am. I’m comfortable here.”

Sometimes, people are so disoriented from the shelling that they don’t even know what they want. Leave? But where to? Most fear the uncertainty. After all, where do you go at 70, at 80 years old? A lot of people have gotten used to living like this. Some live near the church and believe God is protecting them. They don’t realize that God is “sending them a boat” for the fourth time in just a couple of days, hoping they’d “sail away.” “Is there a priest here?” I once asked in Kostiantynivka. “No, he left,” they answered. “Then why haven’t you left? Your neighbor’s house is already gone!”

Some people say, “Where would we go? We’ve planted potatoes.” Or, “How could I leave if I have 200 kilograms of flour here?” Humanitarian aid kits gave them five kilograms of flour at a time, but where are they supposed to bake bread, with no power or gas? Nobody’s baking over a wood fire. At best, you might make some soup, toss in some instant noodles, maybe a can of something. All the food just piles up. One grandma, when she was being evacuated, looked at all her supplies with tears in her eyes. At the time, the house next door, with the same kind of supplies, was burning down. But all she cared about were the four boxes of canned food she was abandoning.

Of course, it’s difficult to leave: these are their homes, their lives’ work. But when your house is completely flattened, people go wherever they end up. Some leave in nothing but slippers; others take the time to pack an emergency bag, their documents, pension savings, and supplies for the first few days. When they reach “the Mainland,” volunteers are ready to help with mattresses, clothing, groceries, and the other necessities.

War is mud, shit, and blood. Nobody should have to know what that’s really like. So, if you can, especially if you’ve got kids, get out. Civilians can’t do anything there. If you really want to pitch in, go make [camouflage] nets out in Zakarpattia. Don’t just sit around in some place like Kostiantynivka until you end up buried there.