Posts Tagged 'stanitsya luhanska'

Ground minus one

“It’s dreary,” says Nadia from the House of Culture, when I ask her how Stanitsya Luhanska in east Ukraine has been changed by the war. “At night there are no lights in the buildings, because everyone has left. It’s dark in the streets at night and no one goes out.”

Nadia’s husband died when their block of flats was shelled in 2014, killing ten people. When I tell her my name she says “The head of the House of Culture was called Lilya. She was killed in 2014 as well.”

She shows us the empty auditorium, where rows of wooden seats face a stage piled with the flags of four hundred countries. The roof is damaged from shelling. When too many supposed residents are stranded in the town after failing to finish their ‘identification’ process, two hundred or five hundred people sleep overnight in these hard wooden seats, facing an empty stage piled with the flags of other, better countries they’ll never visit.

Stanitsya Luhanska is a ghost town. Officially there are ten thousand new residents here since 2014. Only a thousand of them actually live in Stanitsya Luhanska, together with nine thousand phantoms. That’s nine thousand fake Internally Displaced People (IDPs), the vast majority elderly people from over the line of contact in non-government controlled Luhansk, who must register and present themselves in person for ‘identification’ every three months to continue getting their pensions.

An average 9000 people daily cross the line of contact in Stanitsya Luhanska, over the pedestrian-only crossing of a broken bridge and barbed-wire fences and UNHCR tarpaulins and inadequate passport booths – infrastructure, says a Ukrainian border guard optimistically, for 5,500 people daily.

“Why can’t you improve the infrastructure?” I asked him. “Because it’s temporary,” he replied. “We hope.” He means he hopes the situation of half of Luhansk region being out of government control, and needing a border crossing, is temporary. Stanitsya Luhanska has been the only official crossing point between government controlled and non-government controlled Luhansk region since 2014.

A hundred kilometres away in Zolote there’s a ghost border-crossing. It doesn’t look temporary. It has neat rows of brand-new passport booths, a smart covered walkway for pedestrians, high painted fences, lanes for road traffic, and bored, friendly-ish Ukrainian border guards with handsome sniffer dogs. This new crossing point goes nowhere but two small settlements, Zolote 4 and Yekaterinivka, which are under Ukrainian control but lie beyond the Ukrainian crossing point and ground zero of the Ukrainian army frontline. A few hundred people live there in what must presumably be ground minus one, surrounded by landmines, with shells falling on their heads every night from the ground zero of both sides.

The opening of the Zolote crossing point has been unsuccesfully ‘under negotiation’ with non-government controlled Luhansk since spring 2016. “We dread the word ‘opening’. Every time they talk about it, the shelling gets worse,” says Alina, the head of Zolote 4 school. Most of the shelling is at night, and she and her 48 pupils and everyone else in Zolote has not slept for the past week; there has been discussion of opening the crossing among officials in faraway capitals. “For us,” Alina says, “the word ‘opening’ is like terror.”

zolote cemetery.sm

Zolote 4 coalmine – the reason for the settlement’s existence – closed before the war and is now occupied by the Ukrainian army. There are working mines of a different kind littering the fields and even the cemeteries round about. Life  is cheap in east Ukraine. Beyond the red danger signs around the cemeteries are freshly-dug graves, beautifully tidied graves, graves decorated with bright new plastic flowers. Life is cheap, but the dead still get looked after despite the unexploded gifts of war.

Zolote means ‘golden’. When the shelling and the shooting stops, Zolote 4 is the quietest place in the world. No cars coming through the border to nowhere. No cows or goats or children roaming the mined fields. No working industry. A solitary chicken clucks softly, peacefully. It’s strangely warm for December; the low winter sun lights this open, abused landscape a muted pinkish gold. It shines off the gravestones in the cemetery, and they flash and twinkle like sunlit windows, as if you could open them and climb through to a better, undiscovered country.

zolote landscape.sm

Advertisements

Ground zero

This is a system designed for the utmost inefficiency, humiliation, degradation and graft.

“What have we turned into?” cries a woman who worked all her life as a telecoms engineer, brought up children and sent them to study in the same profession, so she could have a decent, honest peaceful old age on the pension she earned over 44 years labour. “It’s just dirt everywhere! I can’t look at it, these awful handcarts and trolleys, these ubogiy detky, wretched children who stink of beer and can’t get a proper job, look at you just to see how much money they can make out of you, and they just say ‘takoye polozhenye, that’s just how it is’. Why must we live like this? My son says I should stop coming. But it’s my money! How did we come to this?”

This is travelling, aged 76, by bus from Luhansk in east Ukraine on artillery-battered roads through endless sandbagged bunkered checkpoints, disembarking at a falling-down footbridge where for 50 Russian rubles one of those wretched children will carry your chequered refugee bag and trolley, and for 300 rubles will carry you, your ailing heart and arthritic knees and boiling blood pressure, on an old bus seat strapped to a luggage trolley up the broken steps and down the steps and wheel you along as humiliatingly as a sack of potatoes, or else it’s a kilometre on foot and for more rubles or hryvnas maybe you can jump the queues and maybe you can’t, herded between rusty tangles of barbed wire, queues you can’t pay to jump for vile squat toilets that your old bones won’t let you squat to, the anxious wait when you find out if your name has mysteriously disappeared from the Ukrainian list of border passes, a cup of tea provided by the Red Cross in a shipping container with not enough seats, waiting and hoping not to be trampled in the sudden geriatric stampede (“Here comes the marathon,” says a borderguard ironically) when your herd of pensioners is finally allowed through the last makeshift checkpoint and passport check, and you’re in Free Ukraine.

stanitse luhansk border.sm

And what welcomes you? Ukrainian flags, ruined houses, a bullet-riddled bus station full of stray dogs and rubbish and angry people selling grubby fruit and pork salo, refugee tents from the Red Cross or UNHCR or some church or other, four portaloos from USAID but they’re not even portaloos, they’re blue plastic boxes over a stinking hole in the ground. More sordid wretches waiting for your money to take you to the State Pension Fund and the bank, and then it’s more queues and paying to maybe get in a shorter queue so that just maybe you will make it today through the process of ‘identification.’

stanitse luhansk salo.sm

This is a system designed to prove you’re an Internally Displaced Person (IDP) who has moved to live here from non-Ukraine controlled Luhansk, and are thus entitled to a Ukrainian pension. Although of course everyone knows you’re not an IDP, you paid to be registered as one here in Ukraine-controlled Stanitsya Luhanska but you don’t live here because you can’t afford to and no one wants you and there’s no house or room for you to live in. All ‘identification’ does is force you and thousands of others every three months to pay to get to the bridge and pay to cross it and pay to jump this queue and that queue and probably pay again to spend the night somewhere because there still isn’t time to do all of this in one day.

All of this to get a Ukrainian pension worth less than 100 dollars that is yours, that you worked honestly your whole life for, and of course you are also getting a pension on the other side of the bridge from the non-recognised ‘Lugansk People’s Republic’ which is less than 100 dollars too, and you’ve already spent half of one pension getting to this side to claim the other pension, and you’ll spend the other half on medications for your cataracts and your boiling blood pressure, that are cheaper to buy on this side than that side but there’s the worry that someone at a checkpoint on this side or that side will confiscate them, and you’ll have to pay yet again to keep them. You spend what’s left of this or that pension on the journey back home through a non-declared war zone, to the house you don’t officially inhabit, in a non-recognised state, over a border which doesn’t officially exist, that you’ve crossed to prove you are something you and the whole world and its dog knows you’re not, so you can get a pension you can’t live on, which you are already getting, which you earned in a country called the USSR that doesn’t exist anymore and yet is reborn right here in the queues and the pointless bureacracy and the graft and the schemes to jump queues; and the collapse of the USSR which you thought you’d lived through and left behind is also reborn right here in the scraping to survive, the utter humiliation, crawling over each other, shoving each other out of the way, exploiting and being exploiting, cheating and lying and being lied to.

How did you come to this? This is your decent, honest, peaceful old age.

stanitse luhansk toilets.sm


previous posts

A novel about the Crimean Tatars' return to their homeland


%d bloggers like this: