Three years after liberation, Ukraine’s Kherson faces another kind of siege
KHERSON, Ukraine (AP) — Most of the streets in Kherson are now empty. three years after liberation ends nine-month Russian occupationThe city that once sparkled with joy has now sunk into cautious serenity; a place where daily life takes place behind walls or underground.
On November 11, 2022, people flocked to the main square of the southern Ukrainian port city, waving blue-yellow flags and embracing soldiers who freed them after months under Russian control. They believed the worst was over.
Instead, the form of warfare has changed. From across the Dnipro River, Russian troops are attacking in steady concentration, and drones now prowl the skies over a city of broken windows and empty courtyards.
Still, those who remain insist that even living in a mostly empty and closed city is easier than living under Russian rule.
recently Angelina Jolie’s visit It was a welcome morale boost for residents whose daily struggle for survival was highlighted by photographs showing the American actor in a basement and on a street protected by narrow mesh corridors needed to protect civilians from drones.
Kherson, once home to some 280,000 people, has become a forgotten front-line enclave; Explosions still echo every day beneath billboards reading “City of strength, freedom and resilience.”
A florist among the ruins
55-year-old Olha Komanytska’s small flower kiosk stands out against the bomb-ridden center of Kherson. Her red and white roses pour from tall buckets; There’s a surreal explosion of color in a corner where crowds once gathered but are now seen by only a few customers.
“Almost no one buys flowers,” he says. “We’re just trying to make it happen.”
For nearly 30 years, Komanytska and her husband grew flowers in the countryside of Kherson. After their greenhouse is destroyed, all that remains is the kiosk.
She wears a black headscarf to mourn his death. He died of a heart condition, but he believes the war pushed him to do so.
Her eyes fill with tears as she talks about him, and she admits that she can’t stay in his grave for long. “No more than five minutes,” he says, adding that this is because of the danger of drones.
But security at the stand is no better. Once a bullet flew over his head. He says he survived only because he bent over, and then points to the broken window, which he covered to hide the damage.
Like many in Kherson, Komanytska learned the city’s new rules of survival. He can recognize any weapon by sound—artillery, rockets, bombs—but says drones are the worst. He now closes early and walks home clinging to the walls, sometimes hiding under trees to avoid their “eyes”.
He imitates the voice; a low, high-pitched whine. “They’re always looking for a target,” he says. “I walk home at night and they’re on me. You just run. You used to be able to hide under the trees. Now… I don’t know where to hide.”
The only time his somber face softens into a smile is when he remembers the liberation of the city. “That day was amazing,” he says, repeating the word several times as if he wants to make it real again.
Defending the city from the sky
On a cool autumn day, yellow leaves collect in the net above the street as city workers stretch more nets; Plastic netting once used on construction sites is now being repurposed to protect civilians from drones.
In one hospital, the entrance was completely surrounded by protective netting along the sides, overhead and perimeter, leaving only a narrow passage for staff and patients. Authorities say such sites where civilians gather in large numbers are a top priority because they are frequently targeted.
Despite the constant tension and the terrifying alertness in the air, the city is still alive. Post offices are still operating, but their entrances are blocked off with concrete slabs meant to absorb explosions. Despite the risks, small cement tanks are kept ready at bus stops where transportation continues, reminding us that bombardment can come at any time.
An invisible shield above the nets protects Kherson. They are the city’s electronic warfare systems that use radio signals to detect, intercept or disable enemy drones.
Max, 28, who declined to give his full name for security reasons, serves in the 310th Separate Naval Electronic Warfare Battalion, which is responsible for the electronic shield over Kherson and the region. He worked in the field of electronic warfare for two and a half years as the field became increasingly critical.
His front-line job feels more like a programmer’s workspace: computer screens display maps and data streams, while sounds from neighboring units echo around the room.
Max said the job is to identify targets and ensure they fail their missions, “whether they be drones hunting civilians, infrastructure, vehicles or even humanitarian convoys.”
He says up to 250 FPV drones can head towards Kherson in just half a day. However, Max’s unit blocks over 90% of the gaming-style workstation.
“When you see a strike hit a soldier or a civilian, it hurts you — it weighs on your soul. You want to do everything possible to make sure it never happens,” he said, adding they can also intercept live feeds from Russian drones and watch their operations in real time.
“I think they want to destroy us as a nation, not just the military but everyone, so we will cease to exist.”
My childhood is underground
To maintain a sense of normal life, some activities, especially for children, were moved underground. The basements of old apartment buildings are now turning into cozy rooms equipped with carpets and colorful decorations.
Once a week, a kids’ club meets here to play chess and checkers, with small tables filling the room as children focus on their next move, laugh and wander freely under posters about breathing techniques if anxiety sets in.
Chess coach Oksana Khoroshavyna says training will be stricter in peacetime, but for the past two years the club has mostly been a place for Kherson’s children to meet and make friends.
“These kids stay home all the time,” he says. “They work online; everything in their lives is remote.”
Until recently they were able to travel to tournaments in Mykolaiv and spend every free minute outdoors; this was something they could no longer do in Kherson. Even those journeys have stopped now: entry and exit routes have become very dangerous.
In another basement, 16-year-old Artem Tsilynko, a high school senior who hopes to study dentistry, practices boxing with his peers.
“For me, this place is about unity,” he says. “Although life in Kherson is very limited (social life, sports life), we still have the chance to train.”
He spent almost a quarter of his life in war and says the fear for his own life diminished over time, but still returned at night during heavy bombardment. “When you sit in the basement, your heart is pounding,” he says. “It’s hard to fall asleep after this.”
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