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“I look at footage of Vuhledar today, and I don’t recognize my city. It was compact—you could walk from one end to the other in 20 minutes. I knew every building there. But now, watching the videos, I can’t tell which street it is, which house—just piles of black-and-gray ruins instead of a city,” says Olena, a Vuhledar resident.
In 1989, she arrived in Vuhledar as a 10-year-old schoolgirl with her parents. That same year, the settlement around two local coal mines gained city status. Olena grew up, got her education, married, had a son, worked—and alongside her, her city took root and flourished.
“My little pearl,” Olena calls Vuhledar. She never wanted to live anywhere else. Even when she couldn’t find a job in her field as a marketer after finishing college, she switched careers rather than leave the city.
When Russia’s full-scale war began, she hoped the battered Vuhledar could still be rebuilt—but after Russian shelling, it’s not about rebuilding anymore. It needs to be built anew.
Her father, who commuted to Vuhledar from a neighboring mining town for work, received a three-room apartment in 1989. For Olena, those 73 square meters in a new 10-story building felt downright luxurious. But outside the walls of their new home, things weren’t so cozy back then.
“My first impression of Vuhledar was that it was a bald city—no trees. The old part, with two- and five-story buildings, was green and lived-in, but the new neighborhoods had no trees, no bushes, no flowerbeds. There weren’t even benches with tables or playgrounds in the courtyards. The park was just being started—they’d planted scrawny saplings right before we arrived. There were no clubs, no sports school yet. The city had one movie theater, and tickets for any show were hard to come by. Behind our building was a strip of woods with apricots and acacias where the whole city went for picnics, then a field beyond that. Past the ponds and the Kashlahach River, there were villages with farms,” Olena recalls.
Her warmest memory of childhood Vuhledar is the remarkably clean air. The mines were seven kilometers from the city, so Vuhledar didn’t smell of coal dust—it smelled of steppe grasses and apricot blossoms.
“I still remember the names of those mines—‘Pivdennodonbaska No. 1’ and ‘Pivdennodonbaska No. 3.’ The plan was for Vuhledar to eventually have eight mines. But the new ones were never built,” Olena says.
Signed up as a Ukrainian
Olena had barely settled into Vuhledar when 1991 arrived. Her father stopped getting paid, and her mother’s disability pension was delayed. Fellow citizens started drinking more; drugs became commonplace. Meanwhile, many Vuhledar residents had to decide what Ukraine, now an independent state, meant to them.
Olena says Vuhledar was heavily Russified before Ukraine’s independence. All three city schools were Russian-language, with just a few hours of Ukrainian. You could skip studying it—some kids did, especially those whose parents had come from Russia.
Children from nearby villages, who spoke Ukrainian at home, switched to Russian in the city schools. Ukrainians exiled to Kazakhstan under Stalin from western Ukraine, later allowed to work in Donetsk mines, spoke Russian too.
Olena’s father hailed from Poltava Oblast, while her mother was from a village in Russia’s Rostov Oblast near the Ukrainian border. That village spoke Ukrainian or a Ukrainian-Russian mix called surzhyk, but Olena’s family spoke Russian.
“After August 1991, the mood in the city was pro-Russian. People thought things were better in Russia than Ukraine, that one should go there for work. A lot of people left for Russia permanently. For my parents, all those events were a huge shock. But when I got my Ukrainian passport in 1995, I followed my mom’s advice and listed my nationality as ‘Ukrainian.’ Mom was listed as Russian in her passport, and dad as Ukrainian. She told me, ‘You were born in Ukraine, you live in Ukraine, so take pride in being Ukrainian.’
When I enrolled at the Donetsk Trade Institute, I joined a Ukrainian-language group because I knew Ukrainian would eventually matter to everyone,” Olena says.
The war stopped at the doorstep
By the early 2000s, Vuhledar clawed its way out of depression. The mines were running, miners earned good wages and pensions, and some started businesses. Alongside the mines, a dairy plant opened, then a bakery and a fish processing shop. Modern stores with high-quality goods popped up in the city. Plenty of cafes, a Culture and Leisure Center, a stadium, a pool, a nightclub popular even with Donetsk residents. For kids—clubs, sports sections, a music school, a theater studio. On holidays, especially Miners’ Day, performers came from Kyiv and abroad. The festivals were something else!
“People built comfy cottages, did expensive renovations, took out mortgages—everyone could afford it, and you could pay off a loan in about five years. My husband and I got married in 2005—he worked at the mine, I worked at a cafe. We earned well, bought an apartment on credit in my parents’ building. The city was thriving. Vuhledar folks lived so well that—believe it or not—they’d even call a taxi to go to the next entrance over!”
That’s how prosperous and promising Vuhledar was when spring 2014 rolled around. Donetsk, where rallies were boiling over, was just a 40-minute minibus ride away.
“I went to one of those rallies in April 2014, to see what was happening. People around me were yelling, ‘Russia, come!’ It scared me—I realized these were thugs. My husband went once too—he was horrified. We both knew we didn’t want Russia coming, didn’t want what was happening in Donetsk.
In May 2014, someone organized a referendum in Vuhledar—to recognize the ‘DPR’ authorities. I was there—it happened at the Culture and Leisure Center. Ballot boxes stood in the foyer, with big lines. I voted against it. Then Donetsk and Russian TV claimed 98% of Vuhledar voted for it. But somehow, pro-Ukrainian authorities held on in Vuhledar,” Olena recalls today.
She says a military administration was quickly set up—Vuhledar became a front-line town.
“Anxiety and fear were daily. It’s a straight road to Maryinka—28 kilometers. In the summer of 2014, Maryinka faced heavy shelling, and people fled to Vuhledar under fire. Once, Vuhledar got shelled too—a round nearly hit a structure ventilating the underground mine facilities.
Constantly, awful news. Like ‘DPR’ fighters shooting Ukrainian soldiers in nearby Blahodatne. War was right there. Refugees from occupied territories showed up in Vuhledar, some locals tried to leave, others waited for the Russians—it was shaky. But by mid-2015, things calmed down a bit. We believed ‘DPR’ wouldn’t come here.”
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But warning bells kept ringing.
… In 2014, Olena’s friend went to a men’s monastery in the nearby village of Mykilske for a service—and heard talk of “Ukrainian filth” and support for Russian troops.
Or this: The owner of a Vuhledar restaurant started cooking meals for Ukrainian soldiers in 2014—some staff quit rather than feed “Ukrops.” Other Vuhledar folks backed them, avoiding the place.
“I don’t know how that woman kept her business going. She was always pro-Ukraine. Her son and husband both fought in Ukraine’s Armed Forces—both died,” Olena sighs.
From 2015 to 2022, Ukraine worked to shore up its hold on Vuhledar. Investments flowed into the local economy and community—new roads, squares, parks, playgrounds got built, foreign partners held trainings and seminars for local entrepreneurs. Right next to the occupied chunk of Donetsk Oblast under “DPR,” Vuhledar folks were building new homes.
“Those years, Ukrainian culture got a big push in Vuhledar. The city kept holding mass cultural and patriotic events that really brought people together. Ukrainian song contests, parades on Vyshyvanka Day, concerts—they seized every chance to make Vuhledar folks feel part of Ukraine.
We got a Ukrainian church too—services were in a room at a workers’ dormitory, but we could bless Easter baskets there, come for Christmas, other holidays. They didn’t manage to build a full church by 2022, sadly. I think those cultural events helped people start accepting the Ukrainian language and their belonging to Ukraine,” Olena recalls.
She says in 2014, very few Vuhledar residents joined the Anti-Terrorist Operation—just a handful. Olena’s husband didn’t. He worked at the mine, saying he’d enlist if war broke out. He mobilized in May 2022.
“When the full-scale war started, I didn’t expect so many Vuhledar guys to join the Ukrainian Armed Forces. Now, by my count, 15 Vuhledar men have died at the front,” Olena says, taking a sad breath.
A city of shelling and eerie silence
On the morning of February 24, 2022, Olena saw Russian rockets flying toward the city hospital from her apartment window—just 600 meters from her building.
“We’d been a front-line city since 2014, but Vuhledar had no proper shelters. People hid in basements. I stopped going to basements—after a rocket hit one, I realized they weren’t safe. If it collapses, no one’s digging you out.”
… Olena gets anxious talking about the big war hitting town. Her memories flare up like searing flashes.
“Late February, my friend and I went to city hall to offer help. Our mayor vanished—hadn’t been seen for maybe a month. His deputy asked us to figure out how much food the Vuhledar community needed. I don’t recall how many people we were counting.”
“The hospital wasn’t working. Our troops moved into the building right away. No doctors stayed—they had left in February. Wounded lay on the street, covered with blankets, sheets—that’s it. No medicines, pharmacies shut down in two or three days. A painful memory: a wounded person on the asphalt, so many people around, and no one can help because they don’t know how, and they’re bleeding out. I still haven’t learned first aid.”
“We found mummified bodies in basements and apartments—lonely elderly Vuhledar residents. Lots of old people died then. The cemetery’s far from town, constant shelling—so they buried people first near the Protestant church, then just in courtyards—wrapped in a black bag or rug and buried.”
“No electricity. I’d charge my phone at a generator in a hardware store. Generators ran in other shops, some offices, until they closed. We’d catch a signal on the 10th floor of our building—that’s where it worked.”
“First few days, I still saw police cars on the streets. Then they disappeared. After shelling, lots of stores got wrecked—looters showed up. Fires were put out only at first as there was no water in the city. Water supply stopped on February 15 for some technical reason, but no one fixed it. Soldiers and volunteers brought water; we’d run for it under shelling. You’d wash your hair, then your clothes in that water, then use it for the toilet.”
“Food stocks ran out fast, stores all closed, volunteers handed out some stuff, traveling merchants sold things at tripled prices, if not more. Farms near the mines had dairy—they’d bring milk to town, give it out free so it wouldn’t spoil. After Russians hit the farms, cows wandered the fields past the woods—I don’t know where they went after. I got lucky—a friend left me keys to her cafe with a 500-liter water tank and tons of food—fish, meat, oil. I shared with friends, made preserves from red fish and meat to last longer.”
“I think that by around March 12, 2022, the city had no power, no heating, no signal. And that’s when our administration left.”
“Shelling was relentless. At first, I thought it was random, then realized it wasn’t. Russians deliberately targeted objects keeping the city alive—hospital, post office, stores, spots giving out aid. I know Vuhledar residents who were convinced it was our Ukrainian Armed Forces firing.”
“Awful rumors spread: a few people killed there, a family dead here, a kid’s arm blown off there. My son—he was 15—I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. Vuhledar was crumbling before our eyes. Entire building entry sections were collapsing.”
“At night, Russians didn’t shoot. I’d look out from the balcony—dead silence and pitch darkness. Candles flickering in a few windows, flashlight beams. Emptiness.”
The joy of the awaiters
In April 2022, Olena and her husband started talking about leaving. Her mom didn’t want to go—how could she abandon her husband’s grave? He’d died in 2009. But after another shelling, when the family lay on the floor in terror as blasts roared, she agreed. It was April 7. That morning, Olena saw a kilometers-long column of Russian equipment heading toward the nearby village of Pavlivka.
“I told Mom we’d be back in a few weeks. I was thinking two or three months. But looking at our home one last time, I felt I’d never see it again. And I was right—a week later, it took a direct Russian hit,” Olena says.
Her husband got her late father’s old Slavuta car running—it’d been parked in the garage for years. They left in a rush, didn’t stop at the cemetery to say goodbye to her dad, though the road out passes it. Later, in a Telegram video, Olena saw the tidy cemetery turned into scattered graves, toppled headstones, overgrown weeds…
She doesn’t know how many stayed in the city when they left. Many Vuhledar residents had moved to basements, and no one counted them.
“Most people left during 2022. Those who stayed—I can’t imagine how they survived winter with no food, water, or heat. I know in 2023, volunteers reached the city once or twice a week with food, stoves, firewood. But in 2024, they only got through a few times. Brigade guys defending the city helped people,” Olena says.
Russians captured Vuhledar only on October 1, 2024—ten and a half years after trying to tear it from Ukraine with that referendum.
“In October, Russians spread videos of Vuhledar residents greeting their troops. Hard to count—maybe just over a hundred. The awaiters who’d waited out. Among them was a woman who’d run our city college before the war, styled herself a community figure. She waited for Russians with her husband. Guys from the 72nd Brigade said Vuhledar awaiters were feeding Russians info on our city units before they even rolled in,” Olena notes bitterly.
Keys to doors that don't exist
Volunteers and 72nd Brigade fighters posted photos and videos online of Vuhledar still resisting.
In Dnipro, where Olena got IDP status, she devoured those clips: “I watched my city get destroyed and die bit by bit. At first, I’d mentally note, ‘This could be fixed, that restored.’ Then it wasn’t just wrecked homes—their walls looked like a net, a web about to snap.”
In Vuhledar, Olena loved Shakhtarskyi Boulevard and its summer stage, where all the city’s holidays and festivals happened. And the Culture and Leisure Center—velvet curtains, seats, pricey gear, amazing concerts for 30 hryvnias. She loved the marble miners’ memorial stele and the road to it. All that is left of it is gray-black ruins now. Like her home. Now she even misses the narrow, murky Kashlahach River no one ever swam in…
“We left in such a panic we didn’t take even basic clothing. Everything stayed in Mom’s and my apartments. All lost forever. You ask what my heart aches for most. Family keepsakes. Photos of Mom and Dad, my wedding album. A yellowed land deed from my grandma in Khorol County, a 1914 coin from her too. My son’s first tooth.
I asked my friend’s husband, who defended Vuhledar, to bring me photos—gave him keys to Mom’s and my places. He died. Almost a year later, his buddies gave her his stuff—and a miracle: my keys were there. Though there are no doors left to unlock,” Olena says.
She doesn’t think the keys hint at a return to Vuhledar. No one’s pumped water from the mines—they’re flooded. Experts she trusts told her it could turn into a swamp, with sinkholes. The city lived off those mines.
“The Vuhledar administration, now in Dnipro, says the city will definitely be rebuilt. But can you say anything for sure now? Still, how I wish this nightmare would end.”
… Maybe this spring won’t be as cold as 2022’s, when thermometers hit minus 11. Maybe the surviving apricots in the surviving woodstrips around Vuhledar will bloom early. And who knows—maybe the city will sprout new parks, rise with new houses. And be ours again.