President Joe Biden has issued a poignant statement regarding the dire situation in Bakhmut. If someone had uttered this sentence to me a couple of years ago, I would have scoffed in disbelief. At that time, most Ukrainians were oblivious to the existence of Bakhmut. However, now, when I reveal that I hail from Bakhmut and departed from there permanently in February 2022, on the very first day of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, people’s expressions instantly change. They treat me with a somber demeanor, as if we were standing at a gravesite. Simply mentioning the name of my hometown tells a heartbreaking story.
I carry the essence of my town within me, and I symbolize it on Google Maps with a heart and the word “home.” Yet, Russia has physically erased it from the face of the Earth, turning its name into a synonym for destruction and depicting street battles of an intensity scarcely witnessed since World War II. In an article by Phillips Payson O’Brien and Mykola Bielieskov titled “What the battle in Bakhmut has done for Ukraine,” they explore the profound impact of the conflict in Bakhmut on the entire country.
There are times when I find myself engrossed for hours in newly published photographs of the ruins I once called home. I search for glimpses of the city I remember so vividly. I have treaded these streets countless times on my way to school, known a classmate residing in that building, and visited the neighboring building where my dentist practiced – the very same building where I had an appointment on February 24, 2022, an appointment that I never got to attend. When I manage to identify a familiar neighborhood among the destruction, a profound sense of relief washes over me. It reassures me that I haven’t forgotten everything. My town is etched deep within me.
During times of peace, I used to offer tours of Bakhmut to friends from other cities. However, I have never attempted to do this virtually, to guide someone through a city that is effectively nonexistent. Only a few edifices have survived the onslaught – the rest reduced to ashes and vast quantities of crumbling concrete that were once homes to countless individuals. There is barely any sign of life remaining, except for a few chestnut, apricot, and cherry trees visible in drone footage – a miraculous sight considering the ferocity of the Russian invasion that Bakhmut endured.
Allow me to take you on a virtual journey through my beloved Bakhmut.
Bakhmut, spanning a modest 40 square kilometers, can be traversed by bicycle in little over an hour. In the scorching summer, the steppe is an unforgiving place, with the heat omnipresent regardless of the time of day. But as October arrives, the leaves change their hues and dance in the gentle breeze.
To the north of the city lies Stupkey, perched upon vast salt deposits that have defined Bakhmut as a mining town for centuries. On one occasion, I strolled through tall grass alongside Mark van den Meizenberg, a descendant of a Dutch family that established a salt mine called “Peter the Great” 140 years ago. We ventured until we reached a ravine and a salt lake, close to the site of the old mine. It was at this site that Mark’s family resided until the onset of the First World War and the subsequent revolution, laying their loved ones to rest in the local Dutch cemetery.
The “Peter the Great” salt mine was ultimately dismantled by the Bolsheviks, with salt extraction operations flourishing in Soledar, a mere 10 kilometers away, where richer salt deposits were discovered. I have explored these industrial salt mines on numerous occasions, and each time, I uncover new wonders. There is a subterranean church, intricately carved salt sculptures, galleries with towering ceilings of up to 30 meters where symphony orchestras have performed, a magnificent tree adorned with festive lights, a therapeutic sanatorium, and even a football pitch. I delighted in showcasing these marvels to my friends, giving them a taste of the seabed that existed 250 million years ago – a seabed whose salts have flavored the meals of Ukrainian households for generations.
Once, I accompanied a group that included a local artist named Masha Vyshedska. Masha brought her ukulele along for the journey. We found solace in a secluded corner of a grand gallery, enveloped by the soft glow of the lights we had carried with us. As Masha strummed her ukulele, I captured the magical moment on video. The salt walls reflected her elongated shadow, and the sound of the ukulele echoed throughout the underground chambers. We became so immersed in the experience that we almost lost track of our group, narrowly avoiding being stranded in the mine overnight. Sadly, that enchanting space now lies beyond the front lines, inaccessible to us.
Commencing in April 2014, when Russia initially made its move on eastern Ukraine, militants repeatedly launched assaults on a military base near Tsvetmet – an industrial area situated just south of Stupkey. These militants sought to seize the 280 Ukrainian tanks housed there, armed with guns, grenade launchers, and tanks of their own. Local activists risked their lives to smuggle supplies and essentials over the fence to aid the Ukrainian soldiers. The militants briefly claimed parts of Bakhmut that spring, but our special forces swiftly repelled them by July.
I resided near the base at that time. Tsvetmet primarily consisted of factories and private homes, but a cherished recreational area had recently sprung up – the Alley of Roses – named after the multitude of rose varieties that adorned the landscape from spring until late fall. Adjacent to this park was a serene lake where we would enjoy picnics and feed the ducks and swans.
I vividly recall sitting in the hallway of my apartment building, listening to the reverberations of tanks on the asphalt beneath my window, anxiously awaiting the lull in automatic gunfire. My husband and I were expecting our first child. When the streets finally fell silent, I mustered the courage to venture outside, needing to confirm that the Ukrainian flag still fluttered above the base. And it did, despite the ruins that lay in its wake. As the sun rose, we grabbed our cameras and embarked on a mission to document the aftermath. A Ukrainian soldier stationed at the base, witnessing the anguish etched on my face, embraced me and reassured me that everyone had survived and that everything would be alright.
The counteroffensive against Russian aggression, as detailed in the June 2023 issue, shaped the course of events in Bakhmut and beyond.
My son, Tymofiy, came into this world in February 2015. Just one day after his birth, we sensed the tremors caused by Russian shells exploding on the outskirts of Bakhmut. A nurse urged me to take my baby to the basement of the maternity hospital, warning that shelling was imminent. In that cramped space, seven anxious mothers held their infants, accompanied by silent men and hospital staff. A girl who had given birth just a few hours prior was carried down on a stretcher. Panic gripped me as I hurriedly called my relatives and friends to inform them that we were being evacuated. I envisioned fleeing with my son nestled in my arms. However, the rumors of renewed shelling proved false, and we soon returned to our rooms.
The weariness of fear eventually sets in. You become skeptical of warnings about possible shelling, yet the tension remains palpable, even during weeks without the thunderous sound of cannons or new rumors that feed on your anxieties. The sight of the Ukrainian flag majestically flying over the tank base always managed to bring solace.
When Tymofiy was little, we would take him to the local supermarket to indulge in ice cream before embarking on bicycle rides along the promenade that skirted the Bakhmutka River. This park was another recent addition to the city’s landscape. It had once been neglected and overgrown with reeds. But after the riverbed was cleansed and its banks fortified, it transformed into a vibrant space. Local fishermen would perch on the riverbank, waiting patiently for their catch, while children would congregate on playgrounds adorned with swings and basketball courts. Adults sought refuge under the shade of young trees, posing for photographs alongside green sculptures of dinosaurs, elephants, and bears.
Bakhmutka – the river that bears the name of our city. The wild fields encircling it served as a defense against Tatar raids from Crimea and later became home to Cossack saltworks. The fortress of Bakhmut emerged around these parts as early as 1701. It stood protected behind a wooden wall, with straight streets leading to gates, a church, houses, and the saltworks.
The local museum proudly showcased a model of this fortress. As a child, I would gaze upon it with fascination. The miniature houses were delicately crafted from matchsticks, affording a glimpse of the river that sliced through the fortress. After 500 years, speeches and songs in Ukrainian once again invoke the imagery of Bakhmut as a fortress – a stronghold designed to ward off the enemy and ensure protection.
Bakhmut’s central square hosts the usual attractions – a town hall, a majestic fountain, bustling shops, and inviting restaurants. However, my gaze inevitably lingers on the vacant pedestals – sturdy granite platforms teeming with historical significance but devoid of any presence. One of these pedestals once held a statue of Lenin, a nod to the ubiquitous Lenin statues found in Ukrainian cities – towering, gray, and desecrated by pigeon droppings. Beneath this statue in 2014, a crowd gathered brandishing Russian flags, vehemently protesting against the Revolution of Dignity that had recently ousted Viktor Yanukovych’s Russia-backed regime from power in Kyiv.
During those years, I served as an editor for a local website…
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