Kramatorsk

A Diary From the Eastern FrontSpecials

by Phil Rambousek, Kramatorsk & Mangush.

The next day, we woke up in our Kramatorsk hotel, eager to get on with what we came here to do, and get to the front line. Instead however, we got to experience the universal hallmark of war reporting: being stonewalled by reluctant bureaucrats, and waiting. So much waiting, in fact, that I have come dangerously close to loathing cafes and bars, something unprecedented in all my life.

In the end, our efforts to link up with our initial objective – a paratrooper unit – were becoming so frustrating, that we decided to leave Kramatorsk on the next bus to Mariupol, at 6 AM the following day. In the meantime, we spent some more time with our guide, took a hike in the local chalk cliffs, and ended the day by watching the Euro 2016 while drinking beer with a group of journalists and soldiers. Except for the frustration of being so close and yet so far, and the lack of a viable alternative prospect for getting to the front, war seemed pretty comfortable. So far, the penalty shootout between Italy and Germany was by far the most stressful experience we had.

The nDSC_0066ext day, we were eager to leave. On the bus to Mariupol, we stopped at a checkpoint, and all men under forty years old were pulled off the bus and questioned. It was only a minor inconvenience, but I could not help to think about the many grizzly reasons that young men have been forced to get off the bus or train by an armed squad before. We were also beginning to see some real effects of the war. Buildings damaged by artillery fire here and there, soldiers, tank barriers, barbed wire, and the eerie and completely abandoned two lane highway to Mariupol.

Upon arriving in Mariupol, we set out for the nearby town of Mangush, which serves as the headquarters of the 8th Battalion of the controversial Right Sector, or Pravyi Sektor.

The PravSeks, as they call themselves, originated in the chaos of the 2013 Maidan protests. It sought to organise the students and street fighters’ efforts against the riot police. Since then, it has mutated many times, and the remaining PravSeks fighters have mostly followed a new splinter organisation of their original founder, Dmytro Yarosh.

We were allowed to interview whomever we wanted, and spent the night at their barracks. Everything was different when it came to taking photos. Frustrated with the soldier’s excuses that they were not allowed to have their photos taken, I complained to the commander, who said that he gave no such order. When I triumphantly returned to the troops and readied my camera, they explained that I had misunderstood; the photogenic soldiers had unfortunately just left the front, they said, and who could possibly be interested in photos of the ugly ones who were left behind? For the sake of building rapport, I went along with their jokes and put my camera away.

The 8th Battalion is a light infantry unit of a few hundred soldier, mostly from the west of Ukraine. A sign on the HQ door reads “the 8th does not speak the language of the collaborators”- a reminder to stick to Ukrainian, a second language to many, said the Chief of Staff. The Chief of Staff himself was in his mid-twenties, about our age, and had just completed a degree in history when the Maidan revolution happened. He spoke intelligently about why he was fighting and about his battalion’s role in the war. He said that Ukraine was being let down by its corrupt government as well as the West. Above all, he stressed, Ukraine must withdraw from the Minsk Agreement and push uncompromisingly for its lost territory. We had to agree that the Agreement existed only on paper, anyway.

Given the PravSek’s reputation as being a virtually fascist organisation, I was stricken by how ordinary these people seemed. To me, they represented a rather accurate depiction of Ukrainian society. The female soldiers we spoke to joined up for the simple reason that the regular army did not accept women for front-line positions. Some of those we spoke to said they had problems with the law before the war. One of these soldiers in particular said the war saved him, in a way, from a life of total instability. He said he had spent his entire life prior to it on the road; moving from city to city, running away from the police as far as St Petersburg, and trying out an endless number of professions:

“IDSC_0072 think I was best at selling sunglasses”, he said; “you wouldn’t believe how much money you can sell this for”, he continued, pointing to his – given the circumstances oddly stylish – pair of glasses on the table.

Many in the unit were above fifty, or they at least looked like it, and at least a few significantly overweight for a soldier. Almost all had served in the Soviet army, mostly in the infantry, but one was a major, no less, on a Soviet submarine. While I was less convinced by the dedication to the cause of the small time crooks, most of them seemed unified in their passion for the war. They all agreed that they were better fighters with higher morale than the Ukrainian conscripts. Some said that if only the government let them have a bigger role and gave them more independence and support, they would win the war in no time.

Unexpectedly, we had the opportunity to meet the members of an attached Chechen battalion, who asked us to interview their commander, known as Muslim. These were obviously seasoned and ruthless fighters, with flowing beards, which they incessantly stroked, and scarred by gunshot wounds. Before coming to Ukraine, some had fought for ISIS – as we were surprised to learn – and most had spent their entire lives fighting the Russians in the Chechen wars. The Chechens were an entirely different sorts of people, who went anywhere anyone happened to be fighting Russians. Despite their intimidating appearance, they impressed us with their sense for humour. When they asked why the West has not helped their plight, and whether anyone cared for the situation in Chechnya today, I assured them that the West hasn’t forgotten.

I went to bed most impressed by this unexpected encounter, and thoroughly depressed by the tragic fate of this tiny nation. Partly because of their tragedy is determined by the simple fact that they are located in the wrong part of the world, and partly because I knew full well that the fate of the Chechens has long been forgotten.

A Diary From the Eastern FrontSpecials

by Filip Rambousek, Kramatorsk.

Getting up early this morning, I caught a 6 AM train from Kyiv to Slavyansk, a city in the east of Ukraine, which has grown by more than 30.000 internally displaced persons (that is, refugees from the areas directly stricken by war) from its originally size of some 90.000. Aside from the fact that it has a direct train connection to Kyiv though, and is used by most local international NGOs for their headquarters, it is only remarkable for how run down and unremarkable it is.

DSC_0027After a quick meeting with international NGO workers, we were glad to catch a marshrutka (minibuses that serve as the backbone of public transport in much of Ukraine) and travel some 20 minutes south, to Kramatorsk. Both Slavyansk and Kramatorsk were actually at one point under rebel control, but the rebels withdrew in the July of 2014. The 5th of July is now officially celebrated as the Kramatorsk independence day.

Kramatorsk is virtually the press HQ for the conflict, as well as the provisional seat of the Donetsk Oblast, and it is a larger, and overall much more interesting city than Slavyansk. Our guide was a local activist and Kramatorsk native, who has been shelled, seen the front line engulf him, and experienced life in rebel controlled territory.  We spent the day exploring the city, talking about the war, and meeting all sorts of volunteers and representatives of civil society.

Being Czech myself, I was shocked to find a Czech cultural centre at the local library. The centre organises language classes and supports students who want to study in the Czech Republic. De jure, the aim is that these young people will return and help reform Ukraine. De facto, the director knows full well they simply want to get out of here. I have not seen this much enthusiasm for the EU in a long time. Do they see in the EU something that many of us do not, or do they not see the many drawbacks that the member states have to put up with?

Then again, anything is better than living at the edge of war.

Next, we toured DSC_0025a local volunteer workshop, which focuses on producing camouflage nets and ghillie suits for the Ukrainian soldiers and materiel. This has so far been the highlight of my trip. The volunteers- mostly women from 50 up- were so glad to see that they had not been completely forgotten by the world, their welcome could not have been warmer. We sang the Ukrainian anthem, fought off demands that we immediately eat soup because it was absolutely clear that we were starving, and promised we would be back to celebrate the Kramatorsk liberation day.

As everywhere in this city, we heard war stories.

We were told the ways many of the local boys, ranging from 16 to 18, died fighting, and the ways the volunteers themselves ended up in Kramatorsk, as many of them have had to leave Donetsk and the surrounding areas. In the enDSC_0019d, one of the few male volunteers told me his brother had been killed while taking part in the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. The brother’s death was his family’s tragedy, he said, but his nation’s shame.

We agreed that our countries’ experiences were much too similar.

In the evening, we met with the head of the local veteran’s association, who talked us through the organisation’s brief history and work. He described the difficulties they have with persuading the vets to talk to a psychologist, as well as the many different types of extreme sports events which they provide for the vets just to fill their need to feed their adrenaline addiction, which so often arises after experiencing combat. Overall, this interview was the most difficult; the man, a veteran himself, admitted he disliked talking to journalists, because they always ask about what he did in the war. We resisted these questions, but sensed he was glad when he left.

Finally, I have already begun to reach my goal of experiencing the practicalities of a (quasi) military life. In short, I learnt that moving around in a warzone in a military outfit, with heavy boots and a heavier backpack, on a scorching hot day, is exhausting and demotivating. The only thing that could make this even more stressful would probably be to be shot and have to shoot back.   

Tomorrow, when we leave Kramatorsk and move on, we might get to experience just that.