Moving feels scarier than guided bombs: why residents of a frontline community choose to stay under fire?

To reach Velykyi Burluk from Kharkiv, one must drive an hour to Pechenihy (50 kilometers away from Kharkiv), then endure another hour and a half of rattling along the next 40 kilometers. The road to the village has wrecked since the liberation in September 2022. Somewhere past Pechenihy, the bus halts at a checkpoint where passengers are required to provide the serial numbers of their phones, their home addresses, and verify their mobile numbers. Such are the conditions for entering this borderland in the Kharkiv region.

58-year-old Natalia stands as the last in line. She’s just spent a week visiting her daughter and granddaughter in Kharkiv and can’t hide her joy — she’s been longing to return home, where her cats and seven dogs await her. Some of the dogs belong to soldiers, and Natalia cares for them while their owners are on duty. When asked if she’s afraid to return to the frontline zone, she simply shrugs and says:

“I’m just as scared to death when they bomb Kharkiv.”

The dynamic front moves closer as Russian forces encircle Velykyi Burluk on three sides within a 30-kilometer radius. Regardless, Natalia has no fear of another occupation. She bristles at the very notion that anyone could force her out of her own home.

Now, why do I have to think about leaving? I’m not going anywhere. It’s my home.

Recalling that fateful night in February 2022, Natalia says she was working a shift at the local factory while her 8-year-old granddaughter waited for her at home. The very next day, already under occupation, her daughter—the girl’s mother—arrived to join them.

«Comrade occupier, have some onions»

Russian newcomers didn’t really degrade the locals, Natalia says. However, one day, her chatty granddaughter nearly got everyone in trouble.

“Comrade occupier, have some onions,” – the girl said to the armed man.

That’s when Natalia thought she was done. Clearly, the girl was just repeating what she had overheard from the adults. To her surprise, the soldier smiled and started excusing himself:

“We are not occupiers. We came to save you.”

“We don’t need to be saved. Everything was just great, before you invaded.” – the girl responded.

Locals fell under occupation almost overnight. Unlike Kharkiv, where battles raged and Russian missiles struck, this village was enveloped in an unsettling silence—punctuated only by the emptiness of its shops. Within days, cell service vanished, and Ukrainian television gave way to Russian broadcasts.

Russian troops seized the community on February 24 and held control until September 11, 2022. While most residents recall the militants from the so-called “LPR” and “DPR,” others remember the presence of Russian soldiers and special forces. They conducted home searches, detained locals, and abducted them. The foes established a torture chamber in the district police department—one of at least 18 discovered in the liberated areas of the Kharkiv region.

Over two years have passed since those events. Locals greet strangers with smiles and politeness, but the moment a camera is introduced, the conversation abruptly ends. They shy away from being filmed, avoid sharing details, and refrain from giving their names. The shadow of the terror that gripped the village lingers heavily over Velykyi Burluk. Even visitors to the village corroborate these feelings but mostly choose to remain anonymous.

Neighbors fear each other’s shadows. Never imagined I’d live up to witness this.

He’s come to Velykyi Burluk to shop, as not a single store remains in his own village.

Today, there isn’t a single street in Velykyi Burluk left unaffected. At least a few houses on each street have been reduced to rubble, and plywood covers the shattered windows of more than half the buildings. Since the occupation, none of the enterprises that once operated before the full-scale war have reopened. In February 2024, Russian forces destroyed the village’s only hospital, its lyceum, and the last remaining café. By late November, airstrikes had targeted the local school. Residents plead with visitors not to photograph the few surviving buildings, hoping to shield them from future Russian attacks.

«I’m not going anywhere, even if I’m held at gunpoint»

Through the swirling blizzard, a figure wrapped in gray rags moves slowly through the snowy park. 60-year-old Olha is making her way to the store. She pulls off her gray headscarf, revealing hair of the same color, and explains she’s buying hair dye to look her best for the holidays. This isn’t Olha’s first encounter with journalists. They had previously visited during the funeral of her daughter-in-law, Inna, who was killed less than six months ago in a Russian airstrike.

“My daughter-in-law was cooking borscht, and she sent her son to the garden to pick parsley.”

Olha recounts the harrowing details: Inna lost both her arms in the explosion. Olha learned this from her son, a rescuer who had rushed to extinguish a fire only to find himself sifting through the ashes of his own home.

“Mom, I picked her up, and she didn’t have a single bone left intact—she was like jelly,” Olha recalls her son’s words, her voice breaking as she bursts into tears.

Kyrylo’s grandson was struck by a collapsing brick fence during the explosion. The boy was hospitalized in Kharkiv, suffering from injuries and burns, and later sent to Poland for rehabilitation. Olha recounts that Kyrylo didn’t want to leave Burluk and cried bitterly when saying goodbye to his grandmother. Still, she acknowledges that after everything he’s endured, professional care is what he truly needs.

Recently, Olha lost her daughter-in-law, and not long before that, her husband passed away from cardiac arrest. Her grandson is gone too, leaving for rehabilitation abroad. Now, only her son remains with her in Velykyi Burluk. Yet, despite all the loss and hardship, Olha has no intention of leaving her home.

If my house burns down, I’ll sit on its ashes. I’m not going anywhere, even if I’m held at gunpoint.

A question that has no answer

“Mom, why did the war happen in my childhood?” asks 7-year-old Myroslava. Her mother, 32-year-old family doctor Yana Melnykova, seems to find no answer. After months of forced exile, Yana returned home to care for her patients and, as surprising as it sounds, to give her daughter the better life she believes they can only find in their war-torn village.

Yana was born and raised in Velykyi Burluk, leaving her home village only twice: first to study at Donetsk Medical University and later to flee the occupation in 2022. Today, she is one of just two family doctors in the village, making her something of a local celebrity. As she walks through the streets, a passerby beams at the sight of her, stopping to take a photo with her as though she were a television star.

“My job is my absolute passion. I love my elderly patients. Each of them is like a family to me.”

Myroslava was just 5 years old when Russian forces occupied their home. At first, she didn’t recognize the explosions; her mother had reassured her they were only trucks rumbling down the road. Even now, Yana continues to tell her daughter that the distant rumbling is just their clumsy neighbors. But Myroslava knows better—she’s already aware that the sounds are Russian shells striking nearby.

In January, Myroslava will turn 8. A third-grader, she also takes English lessons and practices wrestling. She steps into the ring wearing a helmet and a pink cap—the same shade as Barbie’s, her favorite. Myroslava still believes in Santa Claus, adores Wednesday Addams, and has her room adorned with photo wallpaper featuring characters from Frozen. Yet, despite her youthful innocence, she is acutely aware of the harsh reality she lives in.

I wrote ‘Russia is a shithole country’ at school.

Myroslava confidently lists Ukraine’s other enemies in the war: Belarus, China, and Iran. She confuses North and South Korea and tells her mom how the Slovak prime minister shook hands with Putin.

Like all the kids in the village, Myroslava attends school remotely. While Yana is at work, she stays at home with her 87-year-old great-grandmother. In her free time, she plays in the yard with her friends, their laughter filling the air—until the sirens sound, forcing them to scatter and retreat to safety.

“I understand that at any moment, something could go terribly wrong, but we’ve learned to adapt,” Yana says calmly.

Yana vividly recalls the last time a shell struck the village. The impact hit just across the street from the polyclinic where she works. When she was alerted to the threat, she had barely two minutes to dash into the next room, where her mother, Liudmyla, was seeing patients. Together, they hurried to take shelter in the stairwell. Meanwhile, at home, Myroslava, who was alone just a few meters from the blast near the airport, wasn’t frightened by the explosion itself—her fear was for her mother’s safety.

Despite regular shelling and escalation at the front, Yana has no intention of leaving her home. She admits that before the full-scale war, she wanted to move to Kharkiv so that her daughter could attend a nice school and join hobby groups. In the spring of 2024, when Russian forces began deploying aerial bombs, Yana finally made the decision to evacuate. However, the relentless shelling made Kharkiv just as perilous as Velykyi Burluk, forcing her to reconsider her plans.

Yana ultimately decided to return to Velykyi Burluk when she realized she couldn’t find a job in Kharkiv that would cover the cost of an apartment and provide for her daughter. Her savings would have lasted only six months in the city. And after that? The uncertainty was too great.

We will leave only if our tanks do.

“Mira is in the third grade now, so her classes end at noon. What kind of job could I possibly take if I have to pick her up from school at 12?” Yana reflects. “My mom would come with us, but she’s still a year and a half away from retirement. And my grandmother? She’s 87—she wouldn’t be able to take Mira to school. So, it’s not that simple,” she says with a sigh.

After all, having survived the occupation, Yana believes that it will not happen again.

“We will leave only if our tanks do. It won’t be like in 2022, that’s for sure. Especially since my love is guarding our border,” Yana says with a smile, thinking of her boyfriend.

Yana has been divorced from Myroslava’s father for several years. Now, she’s dating a soldier whom her friend Alla introduced her to. Before the full-scale war, Yana and Alla hadn’t been especially close, but it was she who convinced Yana that it was safe for the family to return to Burluk.

“She wanted to marry me off,” Yana laughs, then adds, “May she rest in peace.”

Alla, just 27, lost her life on February 14, 2024, when a guided bomb struck her home. That evening, she had invited Yana and her daughter over to celebrate Valentine’s Day. They didn’t go. Once the initial shock subsided, Yana realized how some unexplainable distraction had kept her from that meeting—a twist of fate that had saved their lives.

Occupation and resistance

On the eve of the full-scale war, Russian forces amassed hundreds of pieces of equipment along the border. Ukrainians were urged to prepare an “emergency suitcase” with documents and essentials. Many began stocking up on food, medicine, candles, and anything else they might need. While some cleared store shelves in panic, others refused to believe it was necessary.

“I stood in the store, staring at the candles everyone was told to buy. But I felt ashamed to get them—like people would think I actually believed there would be a war,” Yana recalls.

Despite her doubts, on the night of February 24, she gathered all the important documents “just in case.” In the morning, her ex-husband called, calming her down and confirming the unthinkable: the invasion had begun.

Yana stepped outside and heard the explosions. She rushed back in, dressed her daughter, and shared the grim news with her parents. They hurried to the basement for safety, but Yana stayed behind… to cook soup. Her parents still remember their disbelief at her calmness: the war had begun, yet their daughter was calmly preparing a meal. For Yana, cooking in that moment was a form of meditation, a way to anchor herself amidst chaos.

A few hours later, she stood outside and watched Ukrainian soldiers retreat through their yard.

“I stood there crying. I couldn’t believe it. I thought maybe they had repelled the attack and it was over,” she says, her voice heavy with the memory.

That moment was Yana’s last real chance to escape with her family. However, their old car wasn’t capable of going far or fast, and she had no idea that Ukrainian forces would be retreating for an extended period, leaving them to endure life under Russian occupation.

From the start, Yana sought a way to reach government-controlled territory, fearing that the Russians might coerce doctors into cooperation. But unsettling rumors began circulating through the village: some who tried to escape were caught and sent back by the Russians; others were forced to spend the night in trenches, hiding from “Ukrainian shelling,”; and there were even stories of civilian convoys being fired upon. As time passed, the danger of leaving only grew, and Yana realized that escaping was no longer an option—not just because of the risks on the road but for reasons that went far deeper.

Read more: “Happy Childhood” in Kharkiv. The dance ensemble changed the bombed halls into a basement

If the Russians had gone through my phone, they wouldn’t have let me leave.

When asked what they might have found, she deflects the question. Even now, nearly three years later, she is cautious not to give too much away.

During the occupation, many Burluk locals became partisans. They counted enemy vehicles and passed information about Russian movements to the Ukrainian forces. But with almost no communication in the village, this was a challenging and dangerous task. Residents often risked their lives searching for internet coverage and sending messages, knowing it was nearly impossible to verify if the messages had been successfully deleted.

In June, months after the invasion began, Burluk residents were finally offered a chance to escape through a “green corridor.” Yana waited to see if others managed to leave safely before deciding to risk it with her daughter. Crossing the dam of the Pechenihy Reservoir, which marked the contact line, she felt a wave of relief—as though the ordeal might finally be over.

“I was carrying the suitcases, and Mira was in my friend’s arms. When the shelling started, someone shoved me into a trench. I started screaming that my child was out there,” Yana recalls, her voice trembling. “They told me she was safe, in a concrete shelter. When the shelling finally stopped, I climbed out of the trench, pulling myself up with my hands so hard my nails stuck into the dirt.”

When they eventually made it to Kharkiv, Yana felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria. “I was just happy to see people on the streets again,” she says, a faint smile appearing as she remembers. “I couldn’t stop smiling.” But once the initial relief wore off, reality set in. They needed rest, time to regain their composure, and to face the daunting question: What’s next?

Emigration and returning home

At the time, Yana’s brother was living in Ireland with his wife. He assured her that there weren’t as many refugees there as in other countries, so she wouldn’t have to spend nights in gymnasiums with her young daughter. For the mother of a 5-year-old, this was a decisive argument.

In Ireland, Yana and her daughter were welcomed by a local family in their guest house, where several other refugees were already living. The host promised to help Yana confirm her medical degree and find a job. However, from the beginning, Yana knew she wouldn’t stay in Ireland.

“I was depressed there,” she admits. “Even though I speak English well enough and was offered a hospital job, it just wasn’t for me. I don’t like putting on a smile when I feel like crying,” she says with a shrug.

Her struggles went beyond cultural differences. Some of her challenges stemmed from interactions with fellow Ukrainians.

“When people from Kyiv, Ternopil, or Lviv cried about fleeing bombings… I realized I had to leave. No one understood people like us, like those from Mariupol or villages like ours,” Yana recalls.

On September 11, 2022, Ukrainian troops liberated Velykyi Burluk. Just three months later, on December 12, Yana returned to her home village and was back at work the very next day.

I feel sorry for people. At first, most of them took sedatives, but now nothing helps. They’ve just sucked it up and accepted the horror.

When asked how her work as a family doctor has changed since the full-scale war began, Yana’s eyes fill with tears. Her voice trembles, thin and raw with emotion:

“Back then, I wanted something completely different. And now I realize—we had such a great life. Now, I want to go to work even more because I feel sorry for people. They have no money to get proper care. The hospital was bombed, so there’s nowhere to do some basic medical procedures. At first, most of them took sedatives, but now nothing helps. They’ve just sucked it up and accepted the horror.”

The war has reshaped every part of Yana’s life. At 32, her ambitious dreams and goals have been replaced by simpler, more intangible ones. All she wants now is to be with her lover—but that will only happen after Ukraine wins the war.

“I want to wait for him to come home from work in the evening to cook dinner and sit down together as a family,” Yana whispers, her voice catching as she gulps for air.

Meanwhile, in the training room, little Myroslava is finishing her wrestling class. Wearing her pink helmet, she punches the heavy bag with determination. Her mother waits for her in the hallway, joined by other women who share the same fragile hope—that their children will be better off here, in the dangerous yet beloved Velykyi Burluk.

Text: Victoria Kalimbet
Photo: Iva Sidash