Jewish Voices From the Front Lines of Donetsk
Letters from the besieged city in Ukraine, from which Jews are making plans to flee civil unrest and political turmoil
A few months ago, Donetsk was a bustling industrial city, with a thriving economy as eastern Ukraine’s capital of coal and steel industries.
A mere two-hour drive from the Russian border, Donetsk today has become a no-man’s zone of sorts, as the fighting between pro-Russian and Ukrainian forces escalates and as the city residents either flee or hide in their homes. Many of the roads leading to the city are blocked and patrolled by masked armed men, and gun battles explode in the streets from time to time. As of this publication, reports tell of Russian gunshots across the border, and NATO has confirmed that Russian tanks have crossed the border into eastern Ukraine as of this past Sunday.
Few personal accounts of local residents have appeared in English-language media. Below, one finds neither foreign correspondents nor local politicians, but rather voices from the streets of Donetsk, from those who have called Donetsk their home for generations, who knew this mining town well before it hit the headlines. These emails, one from Facebook and the other two addressed to Jewish Agency offices in New York and Jerusalem, are reprinted here by permission of the Jewish Agency. They were translated from Russian by Avital Chizhik.
Donetsk Today, by Aleksandr Polkvoi
Aleksandr Polkvoi was born and raised in Donetsk, Ukraine. An electrical engineer by profession, Polkvoi works in systems engineering in construction. Polkvoi posted this letter on his personal Facebook page, and the letter went viral in Russian and Ukrainian media. This is its first appearance in English.
June 1, 2014
One cannot imagine how horrible it is to observe the death of one’s city.
Donetsk will never be what it once was. You will never see it as it once had been.
On the surface, of course, the city is blooming, a city in springtime—bursting with greens, children playing in the street, groceries selling fruits and vegetables, flowers lining the wide boulevards, and right outside my window, there is a tennis match going on. Donetsk looks like a chronically ill person who does not yet know his own diagnosis.
Donetsk is almost exactly what it once was. Almost—because suddenly, there appeared checkpoints, the concrete fortifications with sandbags, armed masked men with machine guns. Because suddenly, there are barely cars on the streets. Because suddenly, there is a terrified oppressive silence.
Donetsk is dying. After 10:00, not a single store is open, not a single pharmacy nor café, and not a single soul ventures outside. Only a lone taxi circles the streets.
Step outside to walk a friend home after curfew, at 10 in the evening—and one must take along one’s passport. It’s so dangerous that to walk in the center of the city late in the evening, one must be desperate, drunk, a fool—I am suddenly afraid to walk in my own city, and it is this that I mourn today.
The sound of approaching cars now reminds me of the sound of approaching military helicopters. I turn around and see a truck and, sometimes, a full military convoy. To the sounds of gunshots, children in courtyards scream and run home alongside their mothers and grandmothers. But they’re adjusting, they’re getting used to this by now.
All of the conversations are on one subject: Where do you plan to go to, and when? Some want to go to the outskirts of the city, some to the neighboring villages and towns where there are no gun battles, where there is still peace for now. Others have more permanent plans: Lutzk, Zaporozhye, Herson, Lvov, Dniepr, Russia.
Few want to leave—but everyone understands that it will be necessary soon, because our city is doomed. We no longer believe in miracles, nor in a speedy exodus.
Not war, not peace—what we are living in now is a wild agony, waiting for something terrible to happen. One can live like this for a week, two weeks, but not longer, because then one can no longer pretend that all is well and normal, that nothing unusual is going on here.
Companies and businesses are closing everywhere, and I don’t just mean in the industrial zone, in the metal factories and mines. I mean local businesses, construction companies, groceries, cafés, entertainment places. Donetsk is no longer the bustling capital of the Donbass region. Whoever can, sends workers to other locations, or on holiday till September. “We’ll meet after the war,” we tell each other. Employers who have the ability to, are transferring laborers to other cities: Zaporozhie, Poltava, Krivoi Rog, Odessa, Kiev. But this is a minority. Most people are simply preparing to shut down.
Those who could leave have already left. Some have sent their families away, many others are preparing for the journey ahead. Those who remain are those who have nowhere to go and those who can’t afford it. They stay here and wait, insisting that nothing can get worse than what is now.
People are quickly running out of money, and there’s no way of making an income here. I expect that the banks will run out of money sooner than the people will. These banks won’t be able to stay open for much longer, in case of mass evacuations from here—whether there is war, or whether simply a few thousand armed men are able to take control of two regions with 7 million residents—the moment we lose our banks, we lose our incomes, our pensions, any semblance of a functioning economy.
And this will happen. These days, our constant struggle is not about earning a living but rather about simply surviving. Yes, my friends, this is where our thoughts lie.
No one here believes that we civilians are needed by anyone. The people are abandoned, and Donetsk has become a prison cell from which one may still escape, if one only throws away everything, an apartment, all property, a job, one’s hopes and dreams for the future, because survival is key, it’s most important.
Everyone here knows, instinctively, that this will go on for a while, and it will only get worse, and many will die. Just like this city is dying.
They have killed our futures. They have barraged them with Molotov cocktails, Kalashnikov shots, and the vitriolic hatred on both Russian and Ukrainian television. We are the tiny speck on a grand scale, where grown men of different governments gleefully move their checkers pieces, making decisions based on statistics merely. How much our deaths will affect their statistics—that remains to be seen.
Tears choke me out in shame over this injustice, over this destruction of the future, over my pain in having to take my child far away—and I am terrified that if I don’t move quickly, one day, I will be unable to take him away.
Protect peace. You don’t understand how important it is—more important than anything else. Protect the peace wherever you live, because war is no film, it is here and now. Protect the peace wherever you are. Because we, here, we have failed.
Donetsk, ‘Like a War Movie,’ by Sasha Ivashchenko
Sasha Ivashchenko was born and raised in Donetsk, Ukraine. He is a mining engineer, has a bachelor’s degree in social sciences from Israel’s Open University, and since 1996, has been teaching Hebrew, Jewish history, and philosophy in Donetsk’s local Jewish Agency center. Ivashchenko is the author of two books, The Tears of the Holocaust (available in English) and The History of the Jewish Community in Donetsk. He lives with his wife Katya and his daughter in Donetsk.
June 3, 2014
I wish you a happy Shavuot. Now, we suddenly understand all too well how important it is that we keep the Ten Commandments—do not kill, do not steal, etc.
When battles ensue daily in the place you live, looting, banditry, terrorism, you suddenly understand the Ten Commandments all too well.
I no longer have the energy to describe the situation here in Donetsk; please read the attached account from a Donetsk blogger, who very accurately describes the city’s condition and its residents’ feelings.
Some personal news and observations:
Last week, Katya and I got married. It was like a movie. We went to city hall early in the morning; on that day there were battles in the city, there was the smell of war in the air, the city was empty of people and cars—and there we are, standing in city hall, getting married. Like a war film. Then we went out and bought the simplest wedding rings in the only store that was open, and rushed home.
We didn’t have a wedding feast. No one was in the mood, and everything is closed in the city, and no one wants to leave the house if it’s not absolutely necessary. Katya’s father and his wife ended up getting stuck in a cut-off region for a few days, as battles went on, and couldn’t make it.
The next day, Katya, Mama, and I traveled to the Israeli consulate. We were quite anxious, as only three days before then there was a gun battle on the railroad, with two civilian casualties who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Trains are irregular now, some go, some are canceled, some change their route entirely. At the train station, it looks like a wartime evacuation, masses of people gathering their possessions and leaving the area. When we came to Dnepropetrovsk, it felt like another country entirely: peaceful, quiet, and yet only a few hours away by train from our Donetsk.
The United States sees an ally in a regime that is too predatory—and too weak—to be a reliable foreign-policy partner