Greetings from Novorossiya

7. THE FALLEN CITY

IN JULY 2014 Donetsk is still a relatively peaceful place, but here is where you can best see the changes that have taken place during the conflict. From a typical European city, it has turned into a godforsaken hole.

What stands out at first sight is the emptiness. You can see with your naked eye that, unlike in April or even May, there are fewer people. Traffic in the streets has almost vanished. Traffic jams in Donetsk? No one remembers they ever existed. Some residents took their cars away from the city, others hid them securely.

“They are concealing the cars, because the separatists steal them. It’s simple: if they like a particular vehicle, they take it. All those pricey SUVs were not theirs,” says Pavlo, a cabbie, who drives me around Donetsk. “I don’t even wear my watch because I don’t want to lose it.” He shows me a bare wrist.

One day I’m sitting in one of the few bars that are open until late at night and a Porsche Cayenne pulls over. Two uniformed young men get out. Theoretically, at ten o’clock curfew begins, but it is the insurgents who break it most often. As it turns out, these two are from Russian Ryazan. They have come for a double date. Their girlfriends are already here. Laughing, conversations, flirtations. A car pulls over outside and one of the militants gets up from the table. He pulls two huge bunches of roses out of the car. One is white, the other red. He hands them over to the women sitting at the table. When a few shots are heard nearby, their security guards show up. The “Donbas volunteers,” with rifles, line up in front of the bar. They obediently wait until the rendezvous is over.

It is not only expensive SUVs that fall prey to the separatists. It can be any car or even an ambulance. One day when I was walking down Ilyich Avenue, I was passed by a black car that looked like a delivery vehicle. Inside I noticed a man in uniform. Only when the car drove away did I recognize the lettering AMBULANCE. Probably out of haste or laziness no one had removed the lettering. Rumors spread fast among Donetsk residents that ambulances were to be avoided because you could find a “surprise.” Not all the seized ambulances were repainted.

Empty spaces are particularly visible in places that in April and May were teeming with life, on Pushkin Boulevard, for example. Two months ago it was full of people walking, relaxing, and socializing. Now it is as gloomy as the rest of the city. It’s not a problem to find a seat on a bench because they are almost all empty. It’s more difficult to make a dinner reservation because the restaurants are closing one by one. When I arrived in Donetsk on July 11 there were still many. When I left the city ten days later only half of them were still functioning or they closed very early.

Although many stores have shut down, shopping for food is not difficult. All basic products are available, but the selection is more limited. And there are problems with ATM machines. Some of them have notices posted: “No money.” Similarly, banks are often closed for “technical reasons.” You can’t miss the open ones because they are full of people. Functioning ATM machines have daily limits, getting lower and lower every day. I did manage to find five machines that still dispensed money. They will soon stop working, too. Coming to the city with cash withdrawn somewhere else is the best option.

After a thirty-minute tram ride and a short walk I reached the apartment building where I was renting a flat.

“I have been left alone here. I don’t know what for. Perhaps I should leave, too?” says Raya, my landlady. At the stairwell entrance there is a posted notice. I learn that in case of artillery shelling there is a bomb shelter in a nearby basement. A few days later a new notice appears saying that cold water will only be available from five to ten in the morning and from five to ten at night. Hot water can only be had in the evening. I can’t complain because I live in the city center and the water problem is less bothersome here than on the outskirts. There the water pressure is very low and hot water almost doesn’t exist. Responding to “numerous questions from the residents,” the City Council put out an announcement explaining that water in the fountains is recycled through a closed recirculating system. People had probably been outraged by the presumed wastefulness.

Why hasn’t Pavlo, the cabbie, left yet? Like many other people he has no place to go, but he is afraid to stake everything on one roll of the dice.

“I don’t have any family to take me in permanently. I have no idea how I could start a new life with my wife and two children but without any support,” he explains. It happens very often to Donbas residents that the Donetsk or Luhansk regions, or the city in which they were born, is their entire world. They have never left its borders. That’s why now, even if their life is in danger, they are scared to risk everything, and they try to wait for the war to end. Others simply have to stay here. They can’t afford to live anywhere else.

Pavlo claims that people are tired of the separatists, but usually they are not eager to organize and challenge the new “authorities.” And when they are eager, they don’t know how.

But first impressions are completely different. Walking in the streets of Donetsk you can easily meet a supporter of the “people’s republic.” These people are very happy to express their views. They are not afraid because what’s to fear? It is their people who control the city. If Ukrainian forces enter Donetsk, the Slovyansk scenario may be repeated: some people will flee and others will transform themselves from separatists into Ukrainian patriots.

Yet when you come to know the residents better or talk to them far away from the insurgents (many journalists don’t pay attention to this detail when they ask people for their views), you will hear critical remarks about the separatists.

“I am a friend of the Donetsk Republic,” Roman, a translator working for the foreign journalists, says to the separatists. Only when we are alone does he state: “They are scum.”

The first place in Donetsk any journalist should visit is the office of the Donetsk Public Administration, still the separatists’ headquarters. You can get press accreditation there. It was very early in the morning, so I called them to ask whether I could come.

“Please, come. We are already at work,” replied Klavdia, Press Bureau Secretary of the Donetsk Republic.

The surroundings of the building have been tidied up. The barricades that were here in May are gone, and the only tents still standing are the ones with propaganda materials. The separatists want to prove that the city is totally under their control and that they don’t need any security. I enter the building.

“I have come to get my press accreditation,” I say to a guard.

“OK, call them so they confirm it.”

“From my phone?”

“Sure!”

I call Klavdia. I pass my phone to the guard and she explains something.

“You may go. Fifth floor.”

“Am I supposed to go there alone?” I am surprised, but this thought I don’t say out loud. Press accreditation appeared for the first time during the referendum. The procedure was similar, but my entire time in the building I was under the careful scrutiny of the “owners.” In May when I was coming in with a group of journalists, a guard said: “If we notice that you are recording something or taking photos, we will confiscate your equipment.” Now nobody cares. Previously, the building looked like it had been struck by a tornado. Everything was scattered and destroyed. Now, on the floors where the journalists hang out, everything is relatively neat and tidy.

My instincts tell me to go left, toward the staircase, but someone is following me.

“Hey, young man, where are you going? Please use the elevator,” says one of the guards.

“It’s functioning?” I can’t hide my astonishment.

A uniformed man nods. I walk toward the elevator.

On the fifth floor I enter the press bureau. I meet Klavdia there. She takes my information. “Oh, Poland doesn’t support us. I won’t issue accreditation,” Klavdia jokes, with a smile on her face. When she has all she needs, she leaves the room to print our accreditations. She is away for a very long time.

There are two more employees of the press corps and one Western journalist in the room. He is reading a separatist newspaper. I can only see the other side of the paper. The correct name of the region is given in large print: “SOUTH EAST—NO. NOVOROSSIYA—YES.” The press employee sitting next to me stares at his computer screen the entire time. He is browsing Vkontakte, the Russian equivalent of Facebook, and he is playing some version of Bubble Shooter. The other press employee is fooling around with his video camera. After a while a stringer shows up. He is a freelance journalist working for Russia Today. He is Ukrainian but he supports the separatists and knows them all. He sits back in the armchair and starts talking, breaking the grim atmosphere. He and the fellow playing on the computer chat about their vacations. The stringer has been to Egypt. The computer guy takes his eyes from the screen from time to time, as if he were doing something important. The Western journalist will occasionally throw a glance at them, and the “cameraman” is not interested in the conversation at all. That’s why the stringer turns to me.

“When I am on vacation I am embarrassed to admit that I am Russian,” he says, unexpectedly, to my astonishment. He continues talking about an article in the Egyptian press that explained why Russians were the worst tourists: because they abuse alcohol.

“It’s true! Russians buy everything in Duty Free. They drink all the way to Egypt, then on the bus, and finally they have to be dragged to the hotel because they can’t walk on their own.” He laughs his head off. Then he says that drunk Russian tourists behave really badly. They provoke fights, they insult other people, and they are very loud. According to him, no tourists from other countries behave like them.

“That’s why, when they ask me where I come from, I say I am Ukrainian. And then all of them say OK.” He gives a thumbs up.

The computer guy has probably never been to Egypt, so he changes the subject to Israel. Stringer has been there, too, so now they can exchange opinions. They describe Israel in superlatives. Everything there is great, beautiful, and delicious. It is easy to get a good job and have a better life. After I heard talk about the shame of being Russian, I thought nothing else would surprise me. And suddenly I hear about an Israeli model for Donbas. I have heard about Transnistria, Abkhazia, Ossetia, but Israel?

“They don’t have any natural resources, but they have good brains. That’s their wealth. We can do the same in Donbas,” proudly claims the computer guy. Stringer nods in agreement, but I am not sure if he believes that it is possible. How would they do it? Who will pay for it? Russia? Russia was to turn Crimea into another Singapore, but it has changed its mind for now. If Russian financial aid hasn’t reached Crimea, it is even more certain it won’t end up in Donbas. Meanwhile huge sums of money should be invested in the region to rebuild buildings that have been destroyed, streets damaged by tanks, and bridges that have been blown up. The list is very long. In the beginning of September the Ukrainian government estimated that eight billion dollars were needed. This amount increases every day.

In the end Klavdia comes back and says that the Central Department Store has been blown up and everyone has to get there fast, so today accreditations will not be issued. Supposedly, the CDS was blown up by Ukrainian nationalists. What for? Nobody knows.

Next day I come back to pick up my press accreditation. I get it right away. It is pretty and laminated. In May it would have been printed on a piece of paper.

“Oh, this looks so much better than the previous one,” I say to Klavdia.

“Well, we’re developing.”