Ukrainian villagers can go home now. Rebuilding is a different matter.
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Noah Robertson Staff writer
| PARTYZANSKE, UKRAINE
For most people in this farming village, it was more than six months before they could come home, after Ukrainian officials had largely cleared away the mines in early December.听
They had to take a bumpy dirt path to get here, because multiple bridges on the former route were damaged by shelling. They brought blankets, coats, tarps, tools, and food because their work would be long and the winter is harsh. They began repairing their homes, often without knowing where to start, and mourning with their neighbors.
The war had taken away what made Partyzanske, Partyzanske. Now, months after the Russian army retreated, the villagers are returning to again make their home a home.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onAmid the war in Ukraine, villages like Partyzanske are the lowest priority for government rebuilding efforts. But residents are still going back to their war-torn homes to pull their lives back together.
鈥淲e are such fools that we will rebuild it,鈥� says village leader Raisha Shulga.
The scenes in Partyzanske are a window into life as the Ukrainian government鈥檚 lowest priority. Fighting an all-consuming war and facing an economic recession, Kyiv can鈥檛 afford to rebuild everywhere. And what aid does exist mostly filters toward more densely populated cities like nearby Mykolaiv, where most of Partyzanske鈥檚 residents now live.
The humanitarian challenge for Ukraine鈥檚 government is that many of them don鈥檛 plan to stay in Mykolaiv. Making Partyzanske livable again will take months at the least, but villagers may not have a choice. Some are now renting apartments from people who themselves fled farther west and will eventually want their homes back. Others have lived in Partyzanske for decades and say it will always be their home, even if now there鈥檚 no home left.听
鈥淲hat about how you feel inside?鈥� says Ms. Shulga. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e Ukrainian. You want to work your land.鈥�
鈥淲e really wanted it to be beautiful鈥�
Nataliia Shulgina and her son are cleaning the mess off their lawn when Ms. Shulga arrives. On the grass are cracked shingles, fence posts, plastic waste, broken bricks, and a heap of other rubble. Almost all that鈥檚 left of their roof is scaffolding. There鈥檚 a cluster bomb canister in the backyard 鈥� a souvenir of either the Russian capture of Partyzanske early in the war, or the Ukrainian army鈥檚 long defensive position here later.
They walk to the street, watching their feet because there are still some unexploded shells around, and hug Ms. Shulga. Together, they tour Ms. Shulgina鈥檚 home and point out vacant walls that used to be rooms.
Ms. Shulgina and her then-husband spent almost half of the 1990s building this home. There were carefully molded ceilings, a silo and water tower for their cows, and flowers decorated onto the outside walls. 鈥淲e were working our whole life to build this house to leave it for our children and grandchildren,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e really wanted it to be beautiful.鈥�
And for the first month of the war, she and her son stayed. They watched as the Russians overtook the area and retreated. They felt the shelling that began afterward 鈥� 42 explosions on March 31 alone. Soon after, they fled. There wasn鈥檛 anything left for their cows, so they let the animals go.
In Mykolaiv they rented an apartment, and her son found a job. The two of them now survive on that salary and occasional food aid. They came back in mid-November and found family photo albums and documents stored in a safe place by the Ukrainian soldiers who sheltered in their cellar. Their home鈥檚 religious icons were among the only things untouched, says Ms. Shulgina.
She and her son started clearing rubble and sorting the furniture that could be salvaged. 鈥淎fter that, the scale of work is so big we don鈥檛 even know what to start with,鈥� she says. They can stay in Mykolaiv, even though rent is increasing.
鈥淚 feel pain in my heart because I like this life,鈥� she says of the village. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have anything that is your own in the city.鈥�
鈥淎 kind of captain, commander woman鈥�
Ms. Shulga is used to organizing people.
Two years ago, she was chosen to head Partyzanske and a neighboring village for a five-year term. She earned the position because she鈥檇 lived in the area for 30 years and because of her chutzpah. 鈥淚鈥檓 a kind of captain, commander woman,鈥� she says. 鈥淓veryone is like a friend of mine. I am like a mother to them.鈥�
Before the war, there were 1,100 residents between the two villages. Just dozens of families have returned. Those who have did in part due to Ms. Shulga鈥檚 efforts to get Ukrainian deminers into the village. They鈥檙e still working around Partyzanske, detonating shells out of sight but within earshot.
The deminers first arrived in Partyzanske around early December, after two straight weeks of Ms. Shulga lobbying the local government, representing 11 villages. And she urged residents to return because the deminers can only enter private property with the owner鈥檚 consent, and homes might otherwise be ignored.
But almost none of the returned families actually live in the village, which creates something of a bureaucratic paradox. The local government won鈥檛 buy simple supplies like tarps for people unless they live full time in a damaged home, says Ms. Shulga. But to actually return full time to their damaged homes, the people of Partyzanske need far more than tarps.
Supplies often just aren鈥檛 available, says Oleksandr Tolokinnikov, chief of press service for the neighboring Kherson Regional Military Administration, whose villages face similar rebuilding needs. The government has been distributing wood stoves and other heating equipment for villages this winter, he says. Even with aid programs, crucial materials are still scarce.
鈥淣ot many people want to risk their lives and go there to work to rebuild,鈥� says Mr. Tolokinnikov. 鈥淭here is the need and there are the programs to help them, but there is also a lack of resources.鈥�
Even villages with less damage than Partyzanske suffer from being low priorities. Farmers need to harvest their crops in order to plant this spring, but fields are the last areas that will be demined in the region. Meanwhile, missile tails and cluster bomb canisters poke out of fields like lawn darts.
鈥淣ow we have to work even more鈥�
Mr. Tolokinnikov says the government is just telling people to stay away from such fields.
For villages like Partyzanske, that鈥檚 almost like saying they can鈥檛 restart their lives. People live off the land.
Before the war, Oleksander Zveryshyn and his wife, Hanne, farmed thousands of acres in the area. When Ms. Shulga walks to their home, though, the yard is filled with scorched vehicles and debris. Inside his barn, Mr. Zveryshyn stands atop a mountain of sunflower seeds, illuminated by light through an empty roof. Torn plastic hangs from the rafters like drapes.
Since mid-November, he and his wife have regularly driven to the village and worked from 7 in the morning to 7 at night. Their 180 tons of seeds are all ruined here, he says 鈥� fresh and black on the surface but arid and gray underneath. Their tractors, aerators, and harvesters are almost all damaged. Mr. Zveryshyn hopes to lease another farmer鈥檚 in the spring.
If he could get reasonable loans somewhere, the farm could be back to normal in two years, he guesses. But those are hard to find, he says, and they can鈥檛 count on the government.
鈥淲e were hard workers and now we have to work even more,鈥� says Mr. Zveryshyn.
Ms. Shulga walks into another building next door to have coffee with her husband, Serhii. There鈥檚 a carpet hanging over the door, keeping heat from a wood stove in the room.
For years, she and Serhii put off renovating their own home because of other expenses 鈥� children, tuition, weddings, apartments. But 鈥渁t some point, we decided to do something for ourselves,鈥� she says. They finished three years ago, having added panoramic windows and a brick driveway. 鈥淲e didn鈥檛 have enough time to enjoy the luxury life that we had,鈥� says Ms. Shulga.
Their home is on the village line and was under direct Russian fire. Shells punched through their walls and ruined their farming equipment. In early December, they were planning to buy a mobile home in Kyiv and move into their driveway.
Ms. Shulga describes her old home as though she were telling stories of a lost friend. In the winter, she says, the village is almost always under a harsh, cold wind, but their home was sealed.
鈥淚t was very cozy,鈥� she says, pausing. 鈥淚t will be as well.鈥�
Oleksandr Naselenko supported the reporting of this article.
