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1,000 days of war in Ukraine summed up in a single 24-hour period of violence and endurance

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1,000 days of war in Ukraine summed up in a single 24-hour period of violence and endurance

Lori Hinnant, Illia Novikov and Dmytro Zhyhinas
| Associated Press

Kyiv, Ukraine —The clock on his wall stopped almost as soon as the day began; The hour and minute hands were frozen due to the Russian bomb that hit the dormitory used as a home for Ukrainians displaced by the war.

It was 1:45 a.m. in an upstairs room in the eastern city of Zaporizhia, just a year after the town Natalia Panasenko considered her true home fell under Russian occupation. The explosion blew out a door above her, destroyed her refrigerator and television, and shattered the flowers she had just bought for her 63rd birthday.

“The house was full of people and flowers. People were congratulating me… but then nothing happened. “Everything was mixed into the rubble,” he said. “I come from a place where war continues every day. We just left there and it seemed quieter. And the war caught up with us again.”

November 11 was a typical day of violence and resistance in Ukraine. It has been 1,000 days since Russia’s full-scale invasion on Feb. 24, 2022, as The Associated Press prepares to mark a grim milestone Tuesday as it chronicles 24 hours of Ukrainian life.

The day began with two Russian bombings, one hitting Panasenko’s apartment and the other killing six people in Mykolaiv, including a woman and her three children. Less than halfway through the day, a Russian ballistic missile destroyed another apartment building, this time in the city of Kryvyi Rih.

Swimmers braved the waters of the Black Sea off Odessa, steelworkers limped the economy along, a baby was born. Soldiers died and were buried. The lucky ones found some healing for their lost limbs and broken faces.

About one-fifth of Ukraine’s internationally recognized territory is currently under Russian control. Invisible geographical lines are constantly changing, and the closer one gets to them, the more dangerous life becomes.

There is almost no life in the no man’s land between Russian and Ukrainian forces. It’s called the Gray Zone for a good reason. Ash-coloured houses, charred trees and blackened pits left by exploding artillery shells after 1000 days of war stretch as far as the eye can see.

Odessa, 6:50 am

In late autumn, the waters of the Black Sea hover around 13 degrees Celsius (55 Fahrenheit). The coastline is mined. The city of Dmytro is regularly targeted by drones and missiles.

But Dmytro, who insisted on being known only by his first name out of concern for his family’s safety, remained undeterred as he dived into the waves for regular swimming with a handful of friends.

Before the war, the group numbered several dozen. Many fled the country. Men were mobilized to fight. Some returned with barriers keeping them out of the water. His 33-year-old stepson disappeared after the conflict in the Donetsk region.

For Dmytro and the other swimmers, this ritual grounds them and makes the brutality of battle more bearable. He said the risks his hobby brings are worth the reward: “If you’re afraid of wolves, don’t go into the woods.”

Zaporozhye, noon

Managing the Zaporizhstal steel mill in wartime means days full of calculations for Serhii Saphonov.

The staff of 420 is less than half its pre-war levels. Power outages resulting from Russia’s attacks on electrical infrastructure require an “algorithm of action” to maintain operations. Russian forces are approaching the coke mine that supplies coal to the plant in Pokrovsk. And the city is under increasing attack from Russia’s unstoppable glide bombs.

Right outside his office is a billboard with the names of 92 former steelworkers who joined the military. Below are photos of those who died. Staffers are holding fundraisers to provide supplies for their front-line colleagues, including two bulletproof vests in the corner next to his desk.

“Old workers carry everything on their shoulders. They have hardened. They know their job,” Saphonov said. “Everyone knows that we have to hold on, hold on, hoping that things will get better.”

Chernihiv, 13:00

Dr. Vladyslava Friz has performed more reconstructive surgeries in the last 1000 days than in the previous decade of her career. And the wounds are like nothing he’s seen before.

His days start early and end late. He said that in the first months of the war, 60 people were admitted to the hospital every hour and eight surgeons were working non-stop. They are still catching up because many of the injured need more than one surgery.

He was repairing the cheek and jaw of a patient injured in a mine explosion on November 11.

“Appearance is one’s visual identity,” he said. “There is work to be done; we do. We have no choice. There is medicine, equipment and personnel, but no metal structures to rebuild. “There is no government funding for implants.”

He said he would not abandon his patients, but he worried the world would abandon Ukraine as the war approaches its fourth year.

“The global community continues to lose interest in events in Ukraine as we lose people every day,” he said. “The world seems to have forgotten us.”

Odessa, 6pm

Yulia Ponomarenko has given birth to two babies in the last 1000 days, including Mariana on November 11. Her husband Denys is fighting at the front.

Their hometown, Oleshky, was flooded after the burst of the Kakhovka Dam. But by then he had already escaped from the occupying Russian forces, who were targeting the families of Ukrainian soldiers.

Born healthy at 3.8 kilograms and 55 centimeters (8 pounds, 6 ounces and 21 inches) tall, Mariana will grow up with an older brother and sister, as well as a menagerie of two cats and two dogs.

“This child is much awaited, much wanted. Now we have another princess,” Ponomarenko said.

Kyiv, 21.00 pm

Actors cannot perform in home theaters in Kharkiv; There are too many bombs, too few people willing to gather in one place. So they moved to the Ukrainian capital and played to an almost full house as guests of the Franko Theater on November 11.

“Due to the war, Kharkiv theater cannot perform on stage. We play underground. It is literally underground art. There are only two to three places where we can play in Kharkiv, that’s all,” said Mykhailo Tereshchenko, one of the leading actors of the Taras Shevchenko Academic Ukrainian Drama Theatre, named after Ukraine’s most famous writer.

Franko’s director, Yevhen Nyshchuk, said that after the war began, the theater suspended production for several months. Now that there is a play almost every night, the place is packed and the long applause when the curtains close is deafening.

He believes that the reason is beyond a performance at this point and expresses it as follows: “This inner awareness that despite everything, we will create, we will live, we will come, we will meet, we will applaud each other. ”

Volodymyr Yurchuk and Anton Shtuka contributed from Kiev.

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