‘I don’t think beyond tomorrow’: How people in occupied Crimea are surviving one of the hardest summers of the war

This summer in occupied Crimea has been one of the hardest in decades: Crimean cities are regularly shelled by Ukraine, there are few tourists, prices are rising, and there are regular outages of electricity, water, and gasoline. The Bereg cooperative talked to Crimean residents living in different parts of the region, from Dzhankoi to Alupka, about how they’re surviving and why they don’t even consider leaving. Meduza is publishing this piece in full.

The names of the people in this story have been changed for their safety.

‘We live like this: we buy a piece of meat at the store, cook it right away, and eat it’

Iryna

Dzhankoi; about 40 kilometers (25 miles) from mainland Ukraine

I’m from the Kherson region, but I moved to Dzhankoi in 2023. I don’t have any relatives here. We [my husband and I and our two children] moved on our own. We live in a two-story house in Dzhankoi, and when there are strikes, we go down from the second floor and sit in the bathroom.

Strikes happen regularly here. Drones target electrical substations and are shot down right over residential neighborhoods. In May, one hit a house, killing five people, damaging nearby buildings, including stores, and blowing out windows and doors. Since then, drones have also struck the railway station and a substation. Coming from the Kherson region, though, I’ve long since gotten used to all this.

We had no power for two weeks starting July 6. Now it’s back for four hours a day, at just 95 volts — not enough to run a refrigerator or washing machine. The only thing we can manage is charging a phone. We live like this: we buy a piece of meat at the store and cook and eat it right away. It’s not like before, when the refrigerator was always full. And now we wash our clothes by hand.

Authorities promised a [one-time] payment of 15,000 rubles per person to anyone who went without power for more than 48 hours. I applied on July 12, and it’s still under review, even though I’ve seen reports that other people have already been paid.

My older child used to go to daycare, but it closed for two weeks of repairs at the start of summer. It was supposed to reopen on July 1 but never did — all the daycares are now closed because of the power situation. Only emergency programs remain open, for children whose parents work and have no one else to watch them.

We bought an inverter generator for 25,000 rubles, which we turn on in the evening so our son can watch cartoons for a couple of hours. Our daughter, who’s a year old, is afraid of the dark, so turn on a lamp for her before bed to help calm her fears.

Water runs from 6 p.m. to 10 a.m., but the pressure is too weak to wash properly. It’s only strong enough at 3 a.m., so that’s when you wash your hair.

Gas right now [August 10] costs 190 rubles for 95 octane and 150 rubles for 92 octane, though it’s also sold for as much as 300 rubles, with lines stretching for kilometers. My family doesn’t have a car, but I know the going rate because a friend of mine paid that price.

Every product is still available in stores, but prices have risen sharply for staples like bread, sunflower oil, and sugar. A kilogram [2.2 pounds] of sugar used to cost 70 rubles; now it’s 100. Supermarkets bought powerful generators so shoppers could still get butter, sausage, and cheese, and customers can charge phones and power banks inside — the same goes for the city administration building and the local history museum. Walk down the street now and you’ll hear an incredible noise from all the generators.

I’m on maternity leave, and my husband used to work as a freight forwarder, but the company shut down until September. People think everything will get better in the fall, but I wonder what exactly they expect to change come September. Nobody really knows.

In any case, my husband found another job and is now doing an internship. Work is hard to find right now — the Dzhankoi dairy plant and several other companies have closed — and some of our acquaintances are simply staying home.

We’re planning to stay in Dzhankoi — I don’t see the point in fleeing somewhere else, since even a place like Krasnodar gets hit too. What makes me angriest is that the [city] administration isn’t doing anything about the power, while in Krasnoperekopsk, Armiansk, and Krasnohvardiiske, everything has already been fixed and the power is back on. We’re told the electricians are working around the clock, but I don’t believe it. By now, with all the time that’s passed, they could have restored so much of the power supply that I honestly don’t know what to say.

‘Every day, the standard of living falls lower and lower’

Ihor

Sevastopol; about 220 kilometers (137 miles) from mainland Ukraine

I don’t have a car, so the fuel crisis hasn’t hit me the way it has drivers, but it’s still affected me, as supply issues have pushed up prices at supermarkets. At Yeda Voda, for example, shelves were half-empty in early August. There’s also a big problem with Ozon, which has stopped accepting orders from Crimea; [local media] report that its warehouses are overflowing and nothing is being delivered.

Power is cut every day, sometimes for up to eight hours. Usually there’s no electricity from 6 to 8 a.m., then it comes on for four hours before going off again for another four. I work from home, so all of this is genuinely disruptive, and I rely on mobile internet to get by. I haven’t bought a generator since it’s impractical in an apartment, and gas is expensive anyway.

I don’t go to the beach — that’s just how much of a typical local I am. But even on the street, I notice fewer people and cars than last year. Every day, the standard of living falls lower and lower.

Sometimes strikes happen almost every day; other times there’s a lull for about a month. A missile recently hit near my house at 5 a.m., and it was terrifying. At moments like that I hide in the bathroom, though if it hits the house directly, nothing will help, since we have gas. Just as you start getting used to it, another strike comes, and it’s frightening all over again.

I have plenty of reasons not to leave. Just when it seems like it’s time to pack up, something happens [in my personal life] that makes leaving impossible. Plus, I don’t know where I’d go — so for now, I’m staying put.

I just wish Ukraine would come back and life could return to normal. Of course, it will never truly be like before, but at least this whole situation would somehow be resolved.

‘My husband’s workweek was cut from five days to three’

Inga

Ukromnoye, Simferopol district; about 130 kilometers (81 miles) from mainland Ukraine

I live with my husband and our three children. Overall, the power situation is manageable, but on days when it’s out for 5–6 hours, food in the freezer thaws and spoils. Our water comes from a well, so when the power goes, so does the water — we stock up whenever it’s running. We bought a 75,000-ruble generator for the house, essentially a battery that charges up and then supplies electricity.

My husband works in a neighboring village, where the power is often out for entire days, coming and going unpredictably. His company installed a generator too. His workweek was cut from five days to three, and we lost a third of our income. He’s currently our family’s only breadwinner, and I’m afraid he could be out of work entirely by winter if things keep going this way.

Supermarket prices have gone up by 30%. Cheaper chains like “Ambar” have half-empty shelves, though other stores still have a decent selection.

We’ve driven to the mainland three times for gas, buying 200 liters (53 gallons) each trip — it’s cheaper, and the fuel quality is better there.

During shelling we hide with the kids in the bathroom, though it’s been quiet lately. Our oldest, 17, understands everything and is scared just like we are. The middle child, 7, mostly sleeps through it, and so does the youngest, who’s a year old.

We thought about leaving at one point, but for now we’ve decided to stay. With three kids it’s complicated — our oldest is entering his final year of school, and the middle child is just starting. We’ve decided to get through the winter here and see what comes after that.

‘How my animals and I will stay warm this winter is a mystery’

Anna

A village in northwestern Crimea

The district where I was born and still live borders Ukraine by sea. I moved to the district center when I was young, then came back in 2014.

My return coincided with the neighboring state [how Anna refers to Ukraine] declaring a blockade of the peninsula. Many vacation resorts around the village closed as a result, since visitors stopped coming, and the dogs that had guarded those resorts were abandoned. They ran into the village looking for food among the people there.

I felt sorry for them, so I started feeding some and tried to find homes for others through social media, but I wasn’t able to place a single one.

It had the opposite effect: once people saw my posts, they started bringing animals to me from all over the district. Someone once just walked up and tied an adult dog to my fence. Others brought me animals found on the road with broken legs, or rescued from conflict zones. Several small puppies were pulled out literally from under a lawnmower.

In total, I now have 90 cats and 30 dogs. My property has no kennels or other special facilities — they all live with me at home, with some staying with relatives and others at abandoned vacation resorts. I’m a pensioner, and almost nobody helps me. It’s impossible to support that many animals on a single welfare payment, so I rely on people who care to pitch in.

The power problems started sometime in July, though I don’t remember exactly when, since I spend all my time busy with the animals. At first there was no electricity for two days, then it came back briefly before going out again for another two days. Then something serious happened, and we went five days without electricity, water, or gas.

Since I usually feed the animals porridge instead of store-bought pet food, I had to cook for myself and for them over an open fire. Fortunately, the administration brought me and other village residents a free gas canister in early August, but I’m almost afraid to even look at it or breathe on it — I’m trying to conserve it.

We recently bought an electric hot plate and cook on it whenever there’s power. Today [August 10] there was no power at all, so I had to give the animals dry food. The electricity now gets turned on and off at random, with no schedule at all, but we’ve adapted.

I used to buy pet food from Wildberries and Ozon, but now they refuse to deliver here. It’s more expensive at the store, and the nearest one is 25 kilometers (16 miles) away — I don’t have a car, but people help out.

When there are strikes, the animals get anxious. The dogs often start barking even before a drone alert comes in. I head for the bathroom, and the dogs and cats scatter to their hiding spots.

I’ve never even considered leaving the village. My relatives once told me, “If there’s an evacuation, leave them all behind. Health comes first.” But where would I abandon them all? Are they supposed to just die here alone? I’m not going anywhere.

I don’t make big plans — I don’t think beyond tomorrow, and I just deal with things as they come. Winter worries me because we rely on electric heaters. In past winters, only the cats had heating, since they live with me indoors, but heating with convection heaters is expensive, so we saved however we could. Of the eight heaters we needed, only three worked, and five were broken. Building warm enclosures for all the animals is my biggest dream.

How my animals and I will stay warm this winter is a mystery. The other villagers have stoves they can heat with coal and firewood, but no one can imagine how much that will cost.

I try to distance myself from the situation we’re in. I do my own thing, and I’m grateful to the animals for keeping me distracted.

More than anything, I want peace.

‘If the accumulated problems aren’t solved urgently, there will be a revolt’

Oleh

Dzhankoi; about 40 kilometers (25 miles) from mainland Ukraine

I live in Dzhankoi. We had no electricity at all from July 5 to 16. Starting July 17, power was supplied irregularly for 2–4 hours a day, at a catastrophically low voltage of 120–140 volts, or 150 if we were lucky. In some villages, it doesn’t even reach 100 volts.

At that voltage, basic appliances like refrigerators and washing machines would either fail to turn on at all, in the best case, or literally burn out in the worst. I was careful with mine — or maybe just lucky — and nothing burned out. To avoid the risk, I bought a voltage stabilizer, but it doesn’t help much, since most models don’t work at input voltages below 150 volts.

In August, daytime temperatures in Crimea reach nearly 40 degrees Celsius (104 degrees Fahrenheit), so without a refrigerator, food spoils within hours, and I had to forget about air conditioning entirely. A neighbor with a generator saved me by running power to my refrigerator for four hours a day. Stable power was restored in Dzhankoi on August 12, though in the surrounding villages, the situation still leaves much to be desired.

I live on the first floor and have been lucky with water — it’s almost always available. It’s much harder for village residents and for Dzhankoi residents on higher floors, since the water supply depends on electricity. For them it often comes out as a thin trickle for 2–3 hours, and sometimes there’s no water at all for a whole day.

Food prices have risen noticeably. Perishable goods like vegetables, fruit, and sausages have disappeared from stores, though everything else is still available.

Overall, people are desperate — they’ve been pushed to the limit. If the accumulated problems aren’t solved urgently, there will be a revolt.

I’ve thought about moving, but for now, that’s all it is — a thought.

‘I’m getting by however I can, and I’m not planning to leave’

Anton

Alupka; about 980 kilometers (609 miles) from mainland Ukraine

Starting around July 21, the city went four days straight without power. Now it’s supplied from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. Conditions are worse in other cities, but we may get more [electricity] because we have no gas.

I recently passed through Yalta and saw people crowding outside supermarkets to charge their phones, since the stores had put out extension cords. We’ve had something similar here too, but only during total power outages.

I have a car and a scooter, but I haven’t been to a gas station in a while. I only heard that [Kremlin-appointed Crimea head Sergey] Aksyonov [as of August 4] set the price of 92-octane gasoline at 100 rubles. In early July, I drove to the mainland and brought back 100 liters (26 gallons) of gasoline, waiting in line eight times at four different stations over the course of a day. People around me were tense and angry.

The last time I filled up was in early August, at 190 rubles, with no lines at all. I just drove up and that was it. The most I’ve ever paid was 275 rubles, and resellers have charged as much as 350, even 500 rubles. But what choice do you have?

I ride a motorcycle to work now to save fuel. Since the start of August, I’ve been working as an assistant at a private villa. Before that I worked at a factory, but construction was frozen due to logistics problems along the “Novorossiya” highway.

I used to give tours for tourists every summer, and my pay depended on how much work I did. This year there are no tourists at all, so I didn’t even bother trying.

These days I hardly go anywhere except work — only on weekends do I treat myself to the beach. Everyone there is local; I can tell from the license plates.

In Crimea they banned riding motorcycles from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., saying they sound like drones — they can tow your scooter to an impound lot and fine you 30,000 rubles. I once got lost near Sudak and had to sleep on a mountain pass; luckily, I had a sleeping bag and a hammock with me, and something was being bombed in the distance all night. Now I always race home by 9:30 to make it in time.

Drones almost never fly over Alupka. There was only one time, [July 22], when I heard explosions at night, after which the power went out. But near Sevastopol, where I vacationed last year, there was constant cannon fire. It was scary.

Because of the power outages, various products disappeared from supermarkets for a while — dairy, for example — but now there are almost no empty shelves anywhere. The one thing I’ve noticed missing is cigarettes. At Yeda Voda, 70% of the products are gone. Only vodka is left. Other stores bought generators and reorganized how they operate.

At the store near my house, while there was no power, employees would unscrew the cap off a bottle of water I wanted to buy, keep it, and screw on a different one. That way, once the power came back, they could scan the item into the Chestny Znak system. Sellers also copied barcodes into a notebook by hand.

Prices have gone up by about 30%. I used to buy the “Adrenaline” energy drink for 110 rubles; now it costs 160. Camping gas canisters have gotten a lot more expensive too — they used to cost 100 rubles, peaked at 250, and now sell for 170. These canisters are the main lifesaver for people when the power goes out.

I’m getting by however I can, and I’m not planning to leave. My mother is here, and I don’t want to abandon her. The mood, of course, isn’t great, but we’re living one day at a time. Back in late May there was still confidence that the tourist season would take off and we’d be able to earn good money. This summer, there’s no hope of that.

Winter is coming soon, and I hope I’ll be able to earn at least a little money to buy alternative energy sources — a big gas canister, say — so I’ll have something to cook and heat the apartment with.

I really want all of this to end.