The Ukrainian city of Kupyansk reminds me of a movie taking place at London in 1941. Sirens go off every half an hour. The sound of explosions is constant, basically becoming a new background noise. Half-standing buildings with nearly piles of bricks are everywhere. 

On the horizon, about five miles away from the now-evacuated city, Ukrainian and Russian troops battle. At a viewpoint in the city center, what I suspect was a beautiful sight before the invasion is now covered in smog, with smoke clouds coming out of three recently targeted areas. 

We cross the river — the Oskil — that divides the city. To get through, we have to drive over a poorly made wooden bridge that is replacing the main one, which the Russians had bombed three days earlier. We are crossing it “at your own risk,” one of my fixers, Borys, tells me. As we drive closer to the front line, the explosions get louder. They are suddenly surrounding us. 

We stop at what before the war had been a gas station. Across the street is a grain storage facility that had been destroyed by enemy bombing. A car carrying soldiers stops at the gas station. They come out to smoke cigarettes,  a habit that many Ukrainians have acquired since the war started. When they open their trunk, I spot fresh blood in it. They had just assisted a friend who was hit. “It’s the price of war,” the soldier tells Borys and another fixer, Dennys, in Ukrainian. 

News outlets report that Ukraine’s counteroffensive in the country’s eastern and southern regions is slow going. They also say that Ukrainians living in big cities such as Kyiv, Kharkiv, and Lviv have resumed their regular lives. Yet, my experience there as a journalist tells a far different story.

I am witnessing a country grown accustomed to sirens as part of the daily routine. I see more tearful goodbyes in train stations than happy reunions. I witness communities deciding to live under bombing and amid rubble in order to protect homes. I see children go to school in metro stations, deprived of the chance to play outside with friends on a sunny day.

The first story I’m pursuing is about an organization providing aid to Ukraine’s army, the Ukrainian Freedom Fund. After spending a morning in its Kyiv office, the group’s public relations employee, Yulia, walks with me back to my hotel. It doesn’t take long for me to see the pain the war is causing in Ukranians.  

When talking about the frontlines, Yulia starts to cry. Three months ago, her cousin had died in battle. I get the impression she has barely had time to sit down and process her loss. “Life must go on,” she says, while I sense a tone of exhaustion and anger in her voice — just like those of many other Ukranians. 

That afternoon, I take the train to the eastern city of Kharkiv — one of the worst-hit regions in the country. My carry-on is at its limit, and I struggle to move it across the train station. I also have a nearly bursting backpack, a bulletproof vest, and a helmet. 

Complaining never crosses my mind, though. I am walking next to soldiers burdened with twice as much weight as I have as they make their way to the front lines. As I struggle to walk down the stairs to the platform, a soldier takes care of my carry-on. Embarrassed, I insist on carrying my own gear. “It’s too heavy,” the soldier says. “Let me.”

The generosity of Ukrainians keeps me going, even as I approach days of fear. In Kharkiv, I travel to towns near the Russian border to witness the aftermath of the occupation by Russian troops. Even though Kyiv has liberated many regions, they are now rubble. 

Many locals died during the occupations. Others left. Yet, a year later, some are determined to use their resources to rebuild their lives. I see at least five people manually putting together the pieces of their destroyed properties. Some are eager to talk to me. They even invite me inside to witness the damage from closer angles. 

At Kupyansk, a soldier taking a day break from the frontline sees “press” on my bulletproof vest and asks my fixer where I am from. As he says Argentina, the soldier immediately gets out of the car to take a photo with me. “Go Ukraine,” he yells while his friend takes a picture of us. “We will win this thing,” he adds. 

A local policeman in the same spot gives me the remainder of a bag of hazelnuts. I try to signal that he should keep them. Living in an evacuated city near the frontline means that the few products one can find are twice as expensive as usual. He insists I keep them. “You see, you’re one of us now,” Borys says. 

My other fixer, Dennys, was raised in Kupyansk. Borys invites him to our assignment so he can show us around. As we drive across the city, Dennys points to the spots where he used to hang around with his friends years before the invasion. We pass by his school and a soccer field, where he would play every week. They are now demolished.

Even though Dennys moved further away from the region in February 2022, he visited Kupyansk often to help with anything he could, just like many locals. Recently, he used his savings to buy generators for the community.

Dennys also started an initiative to paint one of the bridges in its original blue and yellow colors. After the Russians invaded the region, they put their national colors on it. 

As we drive back inland, farther away from the front lines, Dennys keeps looking out the window as he tells me stories from his days in his hometown. “I’m sorry,” I say, as I try to hold back tears. I have come to the realization he might never get to live that again. “It’s what we have to live with now,” Borys says. “This is what war looks like.”