Driving
through the Donbas, the coal-mining region of eastern Ukraine, has always been a
special kind of journey. The landscapes are gray, rolling flat fields with slag
heaps from nearby mines dotting the skyline every now and again. The winter,
which has already settled in, adds to the gloom with its sub-zero temperatures
and ice on the occasional houses we pass by. But after a while I start noticing
something even more sullen – the almost complete lack of people on the streets.
The
region has suffered six months of fighting between the Kyiv-controlled and
pro-Russian separatist forces. At least 4,707 people have died, according to
the latest report from the UN, but the worst may still be yet to come with the
region sliding into economic blockade. Things have worsened after Kyiv decided
last month to cut off the region from the Ukrainian financial system,
effectively banning all banking activity and severing payment of wages, pensions
and social benefits. On top of this, vital medical and energy infrastructure have
been destroyed during the conflict, while social services are all but absent
after the withdrawal of the Ukrainian government from Donetsk and Luhansk
regions.
The
de facto authorities in Luhansk, nestled in the former state administration
building – now pompously called the House of the Government – are quick to
assure me that everything is in order. Humanitarian aid is being distributed by
extensive volunteer networks, 38 soup kitchens have opened across the separatist-controlled
parts of Luhansk region, and no one is left out, they assure me. But they
hasten to add that more than 60 per cent of the population are entirely dependent
on humanitarian aid for their basic daily needs.
I decide to go on my own to see whether these statements are true.
Luhansk’s
vocational boarding school for disabled children is a two-storey building
tucked away in the city’s Vostochniy District, which saw some of the fighting over
the summer. Some 100 children with mental disabilities, cerebral palsy and
other severe conditions live in the school, which also doubles as a workshop
and showcases the children’s artwork.
“Praise
be to God, we were always able to offer three hot meals per day, even during
the worst of the fighting,” a senior member of staff tells me, asking to keep
her identity anonymous. “But we would like to see some improvements. We rarely
get any fish, we haven’t gotten any products with calcium for months,” she
adds.
The
school also houses one of the humanitarian aid distribution centres which were
opened in Luhansk after the first Russian humanitarian convoy arrived in late
August. Right now there isn’t much to distribute, because no food has been received
since September and local officials explain that the latest convoys from Russia
only contained construction materials. But the volunteers are not sitting idle.
“We
have about 870 addresses of people who can’t leave their houses on their own.
So now we’re visiting them, helping them get their pensions, so they can
understand they’re not alone,” explains Inna Ugolnikova, a 50-something
volunteer with a glowing smile and dark red lipstick.
Many social service workers followed instructions from Kyiv and left the area during
the summer after the fighting broke out, essentially leaving the most
vulnerable people on their own. “We didn’t have electricity for nearly two
months and these elderly and disabled people were just staying at their homes,
completely alone. So when we visited them for the first time after that, they
were crying,” Inna Ugolnikova added.
As
we drive out of Luhansk, a street market along Budyonnoho Boulevard captures my
attention. It appears unusually large for a city under siege. Dozens of people
are lined up in the mud and melting ice, presenting their goods on sheets of
paper and plastic. Passers-by shoot awkward glances at the showcased wares: watches,
clothes, pickled vegetables, old audio and video tapes. Suddenly it becomes
clear that this is a flea market, in which everyone brought out everything that
they could spare from their homes with the hope to score some extra income. But
we continue to drive to a nearby village.
Novosvitlovka
is only some 20 minutes away from Luhansk by car, but it looks like another
planet. The moon-like landscape is dotted with craters, scorched tanks can be
seen on almost every street, and very few houses have escaped the shelling. The
church at the entrance of the village has also been damaged. In the small
courtyard two men are concentrating on welding together what looks like a
support frame for the dome of the church.
Next to them is Iryna Tchernyakova, 60, a local volunteer who dons a thick
black coat to shield her from the frosty wind. “I’m ordering these clothes
here, which are donated by people in the village for those who have lost their
homes. There’s nothing else for me to do at the moment,” she tells me.
Further
down the road, at the burned-out carcass of Novosvitlovka’s former House of
Culture, two more women report they hadn’t received their pension for the last
five months. “No one informed us of anything, no one tried to contact us,” they
said. “We are starving,” one of them added, a desperate look in her eyes.
Dusk
comes sooner in the winter, and shortly after 4 pm it’s time for me to leave. On
my return journey, I can’t help but think how different conditions are in
Luhansk and Novosvitlovka. And while I found no evidence to back up reports of people
starving to death, parts of eastern Ukraine do seem like they’re sliding
towards a humanitarian disaster.
Krassimir Yankov is Amnesty International’s Ukraine researcher.
