AVDIYIVKA, Ukraine -- For many locals in Ukraine's Donbas region, the 2022 Russian invasion marked only an escalation in a war that first upended their lives in 2014.
In the eastern city of Avdiyivka, many civilians interviewed earlier this month were trying their best to maintain some sense of normalcy, even as Russian forces closed in.
A damaged sign that once said "I Love Avdiyivka" in the devastated Donbas city, photographed on March 28.
The following interviews were made shortly before controversial new regulations effectively banned journalists from entering Avdiyivka and other frontline areas.
Iryna
Behind Avdiyivka’s long-dormant train station lives Iryna. Several trees around her house have been shattered by artillery shells, and neighbors now run out into the street to collect the branches that they use to feed their stoves.
Iryna cooks in her hallway, where it's easier to ventilate the smoke. The walls of her house are perforated by shrapnel. Some of those holes were made by a shell that landed in her backyard a few months ago and blew off her right leg.
“When they told me they would cut off the rest of my leg, I wasn’t upset. I only asked my son (seen in the background of the photo above) whether he is going to take care of me," Iryna recalls. "When he said yes, I knew everything was going to be all right."
"I miss working and walking around, but that’s fine. So I lost my leg. Things like that happen here. It's no reason to stop living,” Iryna says, smiling.
Her faith is shared by many others who remain in Avdiyivka and believe the danger in their town is not significantly higher than in the rest of Ukraine.
“There's no point worrying about the shelling. It either hits you and you die or it doesn't. It’s like worrying about having a heart attack," she says. “It’s sad that Ukraine is such a dangerous place to live now, but there's not much we can do about it."
With limited access to the Internet, some Avdiyivka locals can’t access news reports, while others choose not to.
“I don’t want to hear about how bad the situation is in Avdiyivka. I want to stay here so my life can remain normal,” Iryna says.
Dima
Not far from Iryna lives 12-year-old Dima. He and his sister Vika are two of the 43 children that still remained in Avdiyivka as of early March. Like Iryna, Dima’s family tries to retain some sense of normalcy. They spend waking hours above ground in their house and only go down to the cellar at night when the shelling tends to be most intense. Their house has not been severely damaged yet.
“When shrapnel or a shock wave does some damage, we just repair it. It’s endless work, but we like our house looking good,” explains Dima’s father, Serhiy.
Choosing to stay above ground poses significant risks, but as Dima’s mother says, “They're kids. They should grow up in a house, not a cellar.”
The couple worries that the authorities will forcibly evacuate their children.
“The police tried to convince us that kids can’t live here, but they're wrong,” she says.
When asked if he’s afraid, Dima glances toward his mother. “If my parents are not afraid, I'm not going to be afraid either,” he says.
Dima’s friends left with their families long ago. He would like to be able to play with them in the streets and go to school again, but in the end it’s not his choice. The decision is his parents’.
Svitlana
For the past year, Svitlana has lived in the cellar beneath the ruined building that was once her house. The Avdiyivka native shivers from the cold in the smoke-filled cellar.
“It’s hard to believe the situation could get any worse,” she says.
As she is speaking, a large artillery shell explodes nearby. The walls shake and small pieces of concrete fall from the low ceiling. Svitlana starts to cry.
“I don’t even care about the shelling," she says. "I just need to get some wood from somewhere. Sometimes I feel like if a bomb killed me it would be better than dying here slowly from the cold.”
Despite the explosions echoing through the streets, she grabs her coat and leaves to ask her friend in another neighborhood whether there is any firewood to spare.
Throughout Avdiyivka, people face similar challenges: Where to get food, and wood for the stove? How to ventilate smoke-filled cellars? When is it safe to go out to charge phones, headlamps, and batteries?
Volunteers and the Ukrainian authorities have attempted several times to evacuate Svitlana.
“I survived nine years of the war. Why would I leave now?” she says. “I was born in Avdiyivka, and I don't know any other place than this.
Valeriy
Not far from the place Svitlana goes looking for firewood lives Valeriy. Glass crackles under his shoes as he paces at the entrance to a communal cellar. The 65-year-old doesn’t react when an explosion booms nearby, nor does he look up when the sound of a drone fills the street. In Avdiyivka, explosions are audible every couple of seconds and, for some, the sound of combat has become like white noise.
When asked about the rattle of assault rifles coming from a neighboring street, Valeriy shrugs. He doesn’t know any specifics. The Avdiyivka local is surprised to learn that his shelter is only a little over 1 kilometer from advancing Russian positions.
“Only 1 kilometer left? I had no idea,” he sighs. “Well, I am not even sure what Avdiyivka looks like anymore. I try to stay underground, and whenever I need to go out, I don’t go far.”
Valeriy says that he will stay “as long as it doesn’t get too bad in Avdiyivka.”
Volunteers of the military administration of the town say they hear this answer often. They worry that once civilians like Valeriy decide it’s gotten “too bad,” it will be too late to leave.