Life in Pokrovsk amid war: Residents weigh evacuation and survival

Evacuation for children: “Mandatory and forced”

I arrived in Pokrovsk at 5:30 a.m. The heat was so intense that there wasn’t a drop of dew on the flowers or grass. The curfew had just ended half an hour earlier, and the sun had not yet risen. As I followed the directions on my GPS past the stadium, a woman was already running lap after lap on the track. We introduced ourselves.

For Alla, her early morning run wasn’t a challenge to the sounds of the frontline but rather a long-standing habit. Circumstances might force her to evacuate, but for now, she has no plans to change her daily routine.

She went on her next lap. Several cars, loaded to the brim with stuff, were driving past the stadium in the opposite direction of Alla’s run. These people had already decided to evacuate.

Before the full-scale war, Pokrovsk had a population of 86,000. Now, less than 53,000 remain, including 3,545 children.

"The situation in the community is currently under control. All critical infrastructure is functioning. We have electricity, water supply, gas, and sewage. Financial institutions are operational. Large stores are closing, but there's no food crisis, and we have medical services. There is phone service and internet. Banks and ATMs are also operational. All social services are provided, and the ASC operates," says Serhiy Dobryak, head of the Pokrovsk City Military Administration.

According to him, the evacuation priority is families with children, the elderly, and internally displaced people. The evacuation of children is “mandatory and forced.” Parents hiding their children face legal action. However, according to the press service of the Pokrovsk City Military Administration, no such cases have been recorded so far.

Ensuring pregnant women don’t die in shelling

"We are working, but I strongly recommend all pregnant women in Donetsk Oblast to evacuate. Don’t tempt fate. In Selydove, a pregnant woman and a new mother were killed. Right now, I have nine women in the maternity ward. Today, we discharged a newborn with his mother. There is another newborn we will be sending to Odesa on an evacuation train," says Ivan Tsyhanok, head of the Pokrovsk Perinatal Center.

He offers me a robe and Crocs left by a doctor who moved to Europe and lets me meet baby Denys.

"He’s seven days old now. I was coming back from my mother-in-law’s place in Odesa Oblast by bus, and the rough ride led to me giving birth here in Pokrovsk," says 22-year-old mother Iryna.

Currently, the perinatal center is the only one in the unoccupied part of Donetsk Oblast that accepts births and assists mothers and newborns.

“We will definitely be working in Pokrovsk until September. After that, it depends on the situation. We have very expensive equipment that needs to be preserved. If we have to relocate, it will be to Pavlohrad in Dnipropetrovsk Oblast or Kyiv. Starting September 1, I will remain with three doctors, who will be working around the clock, which means a reduction in nurses and junior medical staff. Before the full-scale war, we had 26 doctors. That’s the situation,” says Ivan Tsyhanok.

The staff at the perinatal center are women of various ages. Most have young children and must evacuate. However, not only they are submitting resignation letters. By September 1, the center must finalize the list of those who will stay on after that date. No one is making predictions beyond that.

The military keeps businesses afloat

Nadiya, a shop assistant in a small grocery store, spreads out a pile of sheets covered in phone numbers in front of me.

“I’m looking for some place to rent to leave Pokrovsk. I’ve searched in Poltava, Dnipro, Kryvyi Rih. If the rent for a one-room apartment is reasonable, 3,000-5,000 hryvnias ($73-121), there are about a dozen people vying for it,” she says with frustration.

Though the store gets regular deliveries, she’s certain the owner will close it down within a day or two.

“The company that owns the refrigerators wants to take them back — and how do you store food without a fridge? And the day after tomorrow, another company is taking the water tank, so I’m not even ordering more water. Sales have halved in recent days,” she explains.

I dropped by a few more grocery stores: they all have stock. Cafés are filled with customers.

"We have water, electricity, food, and we’re open," Liudmyla, a cook from a café-pizzeria near the train station, tells me. "Most of our customers are military personnel."

They serve buckwheat, baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, pasta, cutlets, chops, and salads.

“We have to adapt to the situation,” says Yuliya Cherkashyna, owner of the Admiral restaurant in Pokrovsk. “We are mostly doing takeout now and offer delivery services. The soldiers miss home-cooked meals, so we have a lot of orders. Our income has, of course, dropped, but we’re holding on for now.”

According to Yuliya, the biggest threat to businesses after a direct hit from a shell or missile is the curfew. Currently, it runs from 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. in Pokrovsk. If it’s extended, like in Myrnohrad, from 3 p.m. to 11 a.m., nearly a full day, it will be tough for both sellers and buyers.

Incidentally, Pokrovsk’s grocery supermarkets aren’t waiting for the situation to worsen. On the eve of hromadske’s visit to the city, the ATB chain ceased operations, and the EKO-market chain is selling off its goods. The one-dollar stores, including “Aurora,” are also closing down.

"No one’s getting their hair done anymore"

There are several markets still open in Pokrovsk. I stop by the Central Market.

Matana, an Azerbaijani woman who has lived in Ukraine for 16 years, is setting up boxes of fruits and vegetables.

“I get my goods from the wholesale market in Dnipro. I’m not leaving Pokrovsk: my business is here, my stores — how can I leave it all? I’ll send my kids off with my sister, but I’ll stay,” she says.

Until recently, there were many vegetable stalls at the market; now only two or three remain. It’s the same story with other goods. If three or four sellers are working on a long row, that’s considered good. Most of the goods are for the military. By noon, the sellers pack up and leave — why stand around when there are no customers?

"I’m selling everything," says Olena, the owner of a small tea shop. "I’m offering discounts of up to 50%, and if I see someone really wants to buy, I practically give it away for nothing, just to get rid of it. Almost everyone here is selling off their goods, except those planning to reopen their shops elsewhere after evacuating."

In the flower shop, roses, eustomas, chrysanthemums, and dahlias are fresh, fragrant, and festive—a heartbreaking reminder of peace. The shop's owner, Marharyta, sips her morning coffee.

"I have four greenhouses full of flowers. The flowers are there, but there are no customers. The military helps a bit—they fall in love here, go on dates with our flowers. But most likely, I’ll sell these flowers and then evacuate. Just the other day, I returned a batch of flowers to Dnipro for a fraction of what I paid for them there. I have kids; I must leave," says Marharyta.

On my way out of the market, I pass by a tailor shop. The mannequins, as if terrified, huddle together, and the shelves are empty. In the large sewing room, where nine women used to sew and repair clothes, only four are working today.

"At the beginning of summer, we still had plenty of orders—from both the military and civilians. But yesterday, for example, not a single one," sighs Liubov Volodymyrivna, one of the shop workers. Her daughter lives near Kyiv; if the Russians come, she’ll go to stay with her...

Next door, in the dimly lit hair salon, the cashier and two stylists are waiting. Despite the time of day, not a single customer has come. They’re praying for even a soldier haircut.

"We’ve forgotten the last time women came in for a hairstyle. Sometimes someone pops in for a quick trim," the cashier says.

Nova Poshta accepts bicycles

8:20 a.m. The Ukrposhta office has been open for only 20 minutes, but the line outside is already visible from afar: people with bags stand outside because the building is too packed to enter. A woman explains to me that only this branch and one other, located in a distant neighborhood, are operating in the city.

I manage to squeeze inside. From floor to ceiling, boxes and bags are stacked. "Chair," "scooter," "dishes," "shoes"—I read the labels. Before leaving, people are sending their belongings ahead.

An employee announces that no more parcels will be accepted until the current load is picked up by the truck. When will the truck arrive? Whenever it shows up. An elderly man asks if they’ll take his bicycle, only to be told that no one will accept a box of such size. People in the line advise him to try Nova Poshta, saying they’ll take it. There, too, there are lines.

There are also lines at the Pension Fund office, at ATMs, and many people at the Administrative Services Center (ASC). According to Alevtyna Zhuk, the head of Pokrovsk ASC, the center is still providing all services: "We have access to all registries. We’re accepting applications for foreign and ID passports. The queue for the state registrar is booked until September 29—we’ll process these applications as long as we can."

"Bless me for the road"

An elderly woman drags a bicycle loaded with a sack of onions and a sack of potatoes. Liudmyla Mykhailivna is 84. "I went to the wholesale market to prepare for winter. There was only one seller today, and I took the last sack of onions from him," she explains. Her 90-year-old husband will meet her at the gate at home—they’ll somehow manage to carry everything to the cellar.

"Where would we go if we had to leave the city? I don’t know. My husband has problems with his bathroom routine—how would he travel? We’ve lived our lives, what is there to save? God willing, they won’t come. And if they do, what will they take from me? These potatoes? If the volunteers come to drag us out, maybe then we’ll go," she muses.

Elderly and disabled people are being evacuated by charitable foundations and volunteer organizations. Since the start of the full-scale war, the EastSOS Foundation has evacuated over 11,000 immobile citizens.

"Our foundation has a hotline. Relatives of immobile citizens, their neighbors, social workers, and hospitals contact us. No matter how hard the local authorities try, they don’t have the resources to evacuate the elderly and immobile people on their own," says Vladyslav Arseniy, a worker with the EastSOS Foundation.

Central Street in Pokrovsk is so long it seems it could lead straight to the outskirts. Finally, house number 169. A massive walnut tree by the fence is generously laden with fruit. The owner will not be gathering them this fall. Today, 84-year-old Luiza Petrivna is evacuating.

The evacuation train is scheduled to depart at 2:10 p.m. The volunteers promised to pick her up at 12:30 p.m., but she’s been waiting on her doorstep since 8:00 a.m.

Her son is dead, she’s long divorced from her husband, and her house has turned into a crooked shack. No relatives, no caretakers. Her 84 years of life fit into two checkered bags.

"For Luiza, evacuation is salvation because how would she survive here alone under shelling?" the head of the local neighborhood committee, Tamara Ivanivna, who arranged her evacuation, tells me.

Finally, the volunteers arrive. I write Luiza Petrivna’s name on her bags with a marker, so they don’t get lost during the evacuation process. The dog, who had been hiding behind the doghouse, jumps out and whimpers.

"Go back to your kennel," she orders the dog. Such a brief farewell. Outside, there’s a pot of meat left for the dog, and people from the street promise to feed him.

Volunteer Sasha helps Luiza Petrivna into the van. Neighbors, who are around her age, approach. They embrace her, crossing her for the road. "Lizochka, Larysochka, Tamarochka," they whisper to each other through tears. Given their age and the times, it’s likely they’ll never see each other again. The volunteers promised to arrange for Luiza Petrivna to stay in a care home...

Registration at the evacuation point

Every day, a train leaves Pokrovsk for Lviv. After registering at the evacuation point, people who have a place to live in the new location can leave on it. Until recently, additional special evacuation cars were attached to this train once every eight days—used to transport people whose resettlement and care would be arranged by the local authorities at the destination. (Currently, this is Rivne Oblast; starting September 1, Kirovohrad Oblast will be accepting displaced people from Donetsk Oblast.)

Due to the approaching front lines, evacuation trains are now being organized every four days. Volunteers from the EastSOS Foundation brought Luiza Petrivna to this train.

The heat is unbearable, and the food people brought for the journey is likely to spoil. The train cars have no ventilation, and there are five or six people crammed into each compartment. Belongings are underfoot, behind backs, and overhead. There’s no medical support.

According to the central evacuation point, 123 people were evacuated from the Pokrovsk territorial community on August 22.

"And who will evacuate you?" I ask the workers at the evacuation point.

"My belongings are already packed. If the city military administration announces an emergency evacuation, I’ll leave. Preliminary plans indicate that the city military administration will relocate to Dnipro," says Viktoriya.

Hope dies last

I walk through several city blocks and find myself on a street where one flowerbed cascades into another. A few women are carefully trimming the wilted roses and thinning out the bushes. Thanks to their efforts, the flowerbeds burst into a brighter bloom.

The women, laughing ("Oh, we’re so dirty, oh, our hands are all in soil, completely black"), give me a rose but firmly refuse to be photographed. No problem— I tuck the long, thorny stem behind the strap of my backpack and take a selfie. Then I walk through the streets with the rose tucked behind my strap—some people smile at me, others look on in wonder.

In the park in front of the Donetsk National Technical University building, the janitors are diligently weeding between the paving stones. I stop. The front line rumbles nearby, the situation is dangerously uncertain, yet the city is still tidying itself up! To my sincere admiration, the janitors, Tetiana and Ihor, respond simply: “Who told you we’d let the Russians in here?”

This report was created with the support of the German Federal Foreign Office.