Our correspondent in Ukraine brings us an incredible report. To investigate the Donetsk Oblast, one must travel to Sloviansk and Kramatorsk. These days, such a trip—if one wishes to minimize the risks—requires serious preparation. Antoine Laurent invites us to explore these laborious, time-consuming, costly, and perilous logistical challenges, as well as his impressions from the journey. For security reasons, some details have been altered.
Sloviansk, Kramatorsk… As the Russian army advances into the Donetsk Oblast, the two cities are becoming increasingly essential for anyone seeking to understand current events in this part of Ukraine. There are other towns in the oblast controlled by Kyiv, but they are less central or, because they are closer to the front lines, teeming with FPV drones. In both cities, however, the situation continues to deteriorate. Let’s approach this with skepticism. I know the area; I’ve spent weeks and weeks there—which is precisely why it’s wiser to question my own judgment. Having my routines there—my favorite market or shawarma stand—is exactly what could lead me to a false sense of security. Before leaving, I might as well ask some naive questions, even about topics I’m supposed to know well—and so what if I come across as a tourist?
Probing the Turmoil
Who should I contact to get a serious overview of the situation? What if I wrote first to Andrzej, a Polish volunteer I met for a previous report? It didn’t take long. First piece of the jigsaw puzzle: Andrzej tells me he recently packed up and left, weary of the relentless bombings and faced with the steady increase in the number of FPV drones managing to reach Kramatorsk, where he lived with his partner. However, he’s back for a few days to finish moving out. “It’s intense—it’s really, really intense,” he sums up, before adding that his drone detector1—which he hasn’t gone anywhere without for months—managed to intercept the signal from a surveillance drone flying over Kramatorsk. Friend or foe? The detector can’t tell the difference. In any case, the aerial view of the city appeared crystal clear on the device’s screen.
Yulia, the interpreter who will be joining me, contacts a police officer we plan to interview. The response she receives speaks volumes. “You must absolutely avoid downtown Kramatorsk and the old town, as well as the outskirts of Sloviansk.” All these locations are within range of Russian FPV drones; and the neighborhoods of Kramatorsk mentioned are regularly bombed. The week before our arrival, Russian pilots dropped three bombs weighing several hundred kilograms on the city center, killing six people and wounding 13, as reported by the Ukrinform news agency. My thoughts go out to the shopkeepers I interviewed last winter… Who knows what has become of them, or what condition their shops are in. Through a series of calls and text messages, the situation is gradually coming into focus.
A Route to Survival
We now need to verify that there is a safe route to get there. In December, that was still the case; but things change quickly. What better way to do this than to contact a member of the military? German-speaking and well-organized, the man I was advised to contact forwards my question to his commander. A few days later, I receive an explanatory video. A man whose face I will never see narrates as he points to a computer screen displaying a map and the route to Sloviansk and Kramatorsk that minimizes exposure to Russian drones. “On this road, he’d have to drive very fast [to minimize the risk of being targeted, Ed.]. ” The man, speaking English with a strong Ukrainian accent, zooms in on an intersection. “And here, he’d have to turn left. There’ll be a sign that says ‘Caution, FPV!!’.” That promises to be very interesting.
The man then points out the roads to avoid at all costs and concludes his explanation by mentioning, without dwelling on it too much, that there is another route. “It’s longer but safer.” I recognize the military’s order of priority: speed of travel, sometimes at the expense of safety. We’ll take the second route—but not before verifying the reliability of the advice we’ve received from others. The military, accustomed to immeasurable levels of risk, sometimes tend to consider situations safe that, for others, would trigger a panic attack before the description is even finished. Doubt, doubt, always doubt.
Playing it safe
Let’s now turn to the thorny issue of transportation. It’s always possible to get there and get around once there by public transit or taxi; but if the situation suddenly deteriorates, or if one of us is injured, it’s best to be able to leave the area immediately. Furthermore, local drivers, for whom the concept of risk has become normalized, sometimes take extremely dangerous routes. A few weeks ago, a journalist I know found himself on a bus traveling along the main road connecting Kramatorsk to Sloviansk—a route that even military personnel have described to me as a “kill zone” and that no sensible person has used for at least a year. It’s better to remain in control of your own movements, despite the cost of a round-trip by car from Kyiv—which, in my case, is a journey of nearly 1,500 km.
No rental agency will agree to let you hire a vehicle to travel to the Donetsk Oblast, but, fortunately, I can count on a British friend. According to this man—the son of an opera singer who lived in Nice and of a Royal Air Force pilot—a trip about fifteen kilometers from Russian positions would be nothing more than a walk in the park. The phlegmatic nature of this excellent subject of Her Majesty, as you will have gathered, is entirely in keeping with the traditions of a certain Albion that we shall refrain from naming. So he offers to lend us his car. “Are you familiar with the curse that befalls my vehicles?” he feigns to ask, as he hands me the keys. I am, but Yulia, looking worried, answers in the negative. “Surprisingly, they have a tendency to burn—along with everything inside them,” our host tells her, before beginning to list the cars he once made available to volunteers or soldiers, all of which ended up blown to pieces by the Russian army. No doubt his upbringing prevents him from formally warning us; but the message gets through: we’ll remain on our guard.
Protect Yourself or Run Fast
The evolving situation, the route to take, transportation… Slowly, every question, every need is addressed. I finally pick up the bulletproof vests, helmets, and first-aid kits that the Kyiv office of the French NGO Reporters Without Borders (RWB) provides free of charge to journalists. My first instinct: to rip off the “Press” badge on the vests. Since 2022, dozens of journalists—both Ukrainian and foreign—have been victims of Russian attacks, as RWB noted in April: there’s no way we’re going to draw attention to ourselves. In fact, several people strongly advise us to leave the protective gear in the locker room. The advice may come as a surprise. Yet it’s simple to explain: as a Russian drone pilot, we’re told, generally speaking, a military vehicle is a higher-value target than a combatant, who is himself a better target than a civilian vehicle, which is itself a better target than a civilian. As is customary, the term “war crime” isn’t even mentioned.
As for the other main threat, we’re told—namely, gliding bombs dropped from aircraft—they weigh at least 250 kg, and a bulletproof vest won’t be of much help. In short, it’s better to be able to sprint and therefore not be weighed down by this heavy equipment. With this charming advice in mind, we inspect the first-aid kits provided by RWB. The equipment is of good quality. However, we’ll need to bring five additional tourniquets, since the kit contains only one—out of the five or six needed to be truly prepared for an emergency: one per limb and one or two spares, in case any of the equipment is defective. With these final preparations complete, we’re ready to leave Kyiv.
Eyes in the Sky
We’ll first spend a night in Dnipro, where we’ll meet up with an American volunteer who’s agreed to lend us a drone detector, another welcome gesture of solidarity, since this essential piece of equipment costs around 650 euros. A Spanish doctoral student—whom we met three years ago in Sloviansk and who wants to conduct a few interviews in Dnipro—joins us for the trip. Music, potholes, a never-ending highway with its bare concrete slabs exposed, devoid of asphalt or lane markings, discussions about the role of civil society in Ukraine and how it’s evolving… The hours pass, and we arrive at our destination before curfew. The next day, the association’s volunteers who are hosting us give us a tour of their base, located in a rather unusual spot: an abandoned industrial complex.
“What’s pretty cool here,” one of them remarks, amused, “is that it looks like it’s already been bombed.” “That’s probably one of the only advantages,” he continues, because “the vehicles are too visible” and our host fears being targeted by the Russian army—not to mention the syringes littering some areas of the courtyard. All of these reasons will prompt the volunteers to move their base at the end of May. The visit comes to an end. It’s time to head to the train station, where we meet up with Jozsef, a Hungarian reporter covering Ukrainian news for the newspaper Átlátszó who is joining us on the trip.
The Agony of Tires
Over a meal, we take stock of the situation. We’ll spend three nights in Sloviansk. To minimize our exposure to attacks of all kinds, we’ll limit our movements there to the absolute minimum: we’ll stock up on four days’ worth of supplies—including drinking water—while on the road, and we’ll make sure we have enough diesel fuel upon arrival to leave again, since gas stations are prime targets. In addition, we’ll try to get around on foot whenever possible. Finally, we’re on our way. Soon, the city’s vaguely maintained asphalt gives way to rutted roads where we sometimes travel at less than 20 km/h. Rain begins to fall, creating huge muddy puddles in some places that we have to navigate with caution. We can’t see the bottom of them, and the potholes are sometimes more than 25 cm deep.
The hours pass. As fatigue sets in, our concentration wanes. Several times, I slam on the brakes just in time to avoid an accident. Tires screech. Unfazed, Jozsef, sitting in the back seat, works on his computer. When asked if he’s ever driven on roads like this during his many trips to Africa, our companion replies with a laugh: “Yes… but they were in better condition.” To our left, military vehicles speed past us, splattering mud on our windows and windshield. The conversation turns to current events in the Western Balkans, which Jozsef has been covering for several decades.
The Final Stretch
Here we are at last in a small town just before Sloviansk. One last stop, a coffee, a final check of the route. In front of a café-grocery store, sheltered by the anti-drone nets that already cover the road, three men are smoking cigarettes, beer cans in hand, exchanging a few casual words. As I get back into the car, I think once again that it would have been better not to have a 4×4, even though it’s so practical given the condition of the roads. The Ukrainian army, with its roughly one million men, doesn’t have sufficient resources to equip itself solely with military vehicles; especially since the front lines, as a soldier once told me, “devour vehicles”. Soldiers therefore often travel in civilian cars—sometimes repainted green, sometimes not—with, of course, a preference for 4x4s. No comment.
A fresh start. We turn on the drone detector and this time refrain from fastening our seatbelts. If the image of our vehicle appears on the detector’s screen, it means we’re being targeted. Two extra seconds to jump out of the vehicle can make all the difference. Silence. Everyone pricks up their ears. Traffic is heavy on this country road. “Biiiip!” The detector has picked up a frequency. Yulia, who’s holding the device, shows us the screen: static, like on old CRT TV sets. A drone, certainly, but one flying far away from us—its radio signal is too weak for the detector to relay the image from its cameras. “In this region, they’re often Ukrainian drones: the pilots fly here to train as well,” the American volunteer told us. Let’s hope so.
An armored vehicle comes into view, covered in metal mesh and chains, designed to provide extra protection against drones. It moves slowly, its muffled rumble punctuated by clangs of metal. I keep my distance. Noticing my presence, the driver is courteous enough to pull over to let me pass. On all sides, anti-drone nets protect the road all the way to the outskirts of Sloviansk. We recall the police officer’s instructions and open the windows to hear what’s happening outside. Against fiber-optic-guided drones, the detector is useless.
A Night Between Two Worlds
Finally, we arrive safely. Just as we park the car under the cover of a tree, facing the direction we came from, the owner of the apartment we’re renting—dressed in shades of gray and green—arrives to hand us the keys. The courtyard floor is littered with broken glass; some windows are boarded up; and the blooming lilacs fill the air with their scent. Inside, the curtains on every window have been carefully drawn. Judging by how clean everything is—including the kitchen utensils—we can tell this isn’t exactly peak tourist season. We’re not complaining, though: the apartment is on the ground floor, and the common areas lead to a basement where we can take shelter if the neighborhood comes under attack. The dozen or so large bottles of water stored on the damp, grimy floor make it clear that this kind of scenario isn’t just theoretical.
Opening a drawer, I discover a stack of old, hand-colored postcards, with titles and captions written in Russian and French. “Biiip!” The drone detector—which we forgot to turn off, though we did remember to recharge it—snaps me out of my reverie.
Once again, no images. In the Telegram groups set up to warn residents of attacks, notifications keep scrolling by: surveillance drones, Shahed-type drones, FPV drones, gliding bombs… The list is long, and the pace of updates is relentless. Around us, however, there is total silence. Perfect, because it’s high time we went to sleep. It’s been a long journey, and everyone falls into a deep, heavy slumber. Around 6 a.m., a series of explosions rouses me from my sleep: Russian bombs are demolishing buildings, wiping out lives. The noise is distant; sleep is essential. I fall back asleep immediately. It’s ultimately the piercing sound of a brush cutter that rouses me from bed a few hours later. One way or another, even in Sloviansk, flower beds have to be tended.
11:22 p.m.: Gliding bombs heading toward Kramatorsk
11:23 p.m.: Sloviansk, be on alert
11:24 p.m.: Oleksijevo-Droujkivka / Droujkivka – danger of gliding bombs as well
11:24 p.m.: Danger of gliding bombs heading toward Sloviansk
Exhausting Days
The days—bright and full—fly by quickly. In the evening, the intrigues of Alessandro Barbero’s novel The Eyes of Venice carry my mind away through the dominio da mar (the maritime territories) of the Most Serene Republic and the sanjaks of the Ottoman Empire; a soothing escape, after grueling interviews and the alerts sent to us by the drone detector—five to ten times a day—as we race at full speed toward our meeting places. Just once, an aerial view of Sloviansk flashes across the screen for a fraction of a second. The day before our departure, Yulia and I decide to take a seat on the bench under a small pergola covered in Virginia creeper, just a stone’s throw from the entrance to our building.
We begin discussing the day’s interviews. Less than two minutes later, a shrill sound rings out. We exchange startled glances. “FPV!!!!” We rush toward the entrance hall. The alarm hadn’t gone off. Had we, in a state of hyper-vigilance, misinterpreted some random noise? Shortly afterward, a resident posted in a chat group that a Russian FPV drone, guided by fiber optics, had crashed into a window in the neighborhood. After dinner, a mosquito flies into the kitchen. “Mini-FPV!” we joke, as the adrenaline rush subsides.
Finally, the day of departure arrives, along with its frustrations. Due to a lack of time, I gave up on taking pictures of some sites which may soon no longer exist. Images flash through my mind: the massive bas-relief honoring the workers on one of the signposts at an NKMZ factory, once the industrial flagship of Kramatorsk; a view from a bridge; a bombed-out factory on the outskirts of Sloviansk… and on the way back, that striking sight, which I can once again only describe to you. In the foreground, amid the tall grass of a vast meadow, an elderly woman, a scarf over her hair, sits on a stool, busy milking a cow by hand. Behind her, her husband, wearing a cap, leans one hand against the animal. Further away, an excavator is working on the construction of a gigantic line of fortifications: anti-tank trenches half-filled with black water, embankments, coils of barbed wire… What a cliché… But we’ve already run late, and Jozsef has a train to catch to Budapest. He has to be back by Monday to work on a documentary about the story of a young Hungarian man who fell on the front lines after joining the Ukrainian army.
So many memories, and a heavy heart
What I saw and the testimonies we collected left a deep impression on me. Sloviansk, Kramatorsk… Before going there to conduct interviews, I had been a volunteer there; and I met so many people there, including Jozsef, Yulia, and Andrzej. In the spring of 2023, during my first visit, both cities seemed impregnable. We never thought the Russian army, then bogged down in Bakhmut, could ever get anywhere near them. A large number of volunteers were working there. The two cities had probably not been so international in a long time. And English had likely never been spoken there as much as it was then. Since then, Platonivka, Dronivka, Serebryanka, Sviato-Pokrovske… all these towns we used to visit have been taken—which likely means they’ve been completely razed… What has become of their residents, whom we supplied with basic necessities—those who refused to be evacuated and whose hope or indifference used to make us seethe with frustration? And how must those who have spent their lives in this region be feeling?
A slowdown brings me back to reality. The workers toiling away to repair the secondary roads—which have become vital for access to the two towns—have gotten a dump truck stuck in the mud, blocking half the roadway. With cigarettes hanging from their lips or tucked behind their ears, wearing athletic shorts and flip-flops, the drivers are moving sluggishly under the blazing sun. Smile. I’d love to see the look on a labor inspector’s face if he saw such construction site attire. Military vehicles are piling up one behind the other. Seen from the sky, what a beautiful target…
Antoine Laurent is a freelance journalist. A contributor to the Swiss bimonthly Echo Magazine, the Italian media Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso Transeuropa, and other publications on a more ad hoc basis (Le Courrier de Genève, Linkiesta, etc.).