The Kramatorsk Diaries part 1

Location, location, location. Why I moved to Kramatorsk in Eastern Ukraine...

“What? You’re doing what?”

“I’m moving to Kramatorsk,” I half-mumbled, hoping it didn’t appear quite as ridiculous out loud as it was beginning to sound in my head.

“What the hell for?” asked my dear friend, Solomia, the look of pity on her face quickly turning into one of concern.

I hunted desperately for a reasonable reason but managed only a feeble, “Well, it’s easier to drive to the frontline than from Kyiv.” That much was true; from Kyiv to Kramatorsk and onto the frontlines around Bakhmut is an epic ten-hour coffee and Red Bull frenzied drive. “Plus, I’ve finished all the safety training, so I need to do some photography, or I will starve,” I said unconvincingly.

Solomia just shook her head, and although not said aloud, the word “idiot” drifted gently on the warm Kyiv breeze and settled in my subconscious.

I’d been running Hostile Environment First Aid Training (HEFAT) courses for young Ukrainian journalists and fixers across Ukraine for the past year and a half, but now the funding had run out, along with a chunk of the wages I have still yet to see.  This leaves me in the position of having to make a living as a photojournalist again, and naturally enough, for me, at least, that involves being in the east of Ukraine.

“Why Kramatorsk?” I heard the imaginary host of any of those awful daytime TV house buying/relocation/renovation shows polluting the airwaves ask.

“Well, Kirsty,” I smile saccharinely, “I want something with a view, easy access to work and cheaper rents than Kyiv.”

“How exciting,” the imaginary Kirsty tells the camera, “we think we’ve found you just the place.”

CUT TO: EXTERIOR SHOT – KRAMATORSK - NIGHT

It’s hard to take in the building due to the total darkness, but it’s a Soviet-era housing block located in a square of identical Soviet-era housing blocks on the outskirts of the Soviet-era city of Kramatorsk. I turned to Katie, an American journalist on the same work or starve mission I’d teamed up with, and together, we had just driven the ten hours from Kyiv.

Katie had arranged the apartment via a friend in Odesa who had fled Kramatorsk when the full-scale Russian invasion happened in February last year. It was midnight, and barely a light shone this close to the frontline when a flash of a torch flickered in a doorway.

“That must be Katya and Ruslan, the neighbours,” said Katie, hopefully.

It was, and a Soviet-era couple shuffled out of the darkness and greeted us warmly. With a gallon of water and some unidentifiable vegetables in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Ruslan took Katie’s rucksack, and we entered the building.

“It’s on the ninth floor,” said Katie nervously. The tension was palpable as we eyed the elevator, Ruslan, and the elevator again. He walked straight past, leaving me to fight through the dense wave of despair oozing from Katie’s inner being.

To cut a long climb short, we made it up the eighteen flights of oddly spaced stairs to the apartment, and Ruslan let us in. We chatted with him for five minutes in Russian, which was interesting as neither Katie nor I understood or spoke Russian before he left us gasping for breath and slightly bewildered in the hallway.

Dumping our bags, we explored the flat: three large rooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a toilet. After a few minutes, Katie returned to the kitchen, where I was still recovering from the ascent. “There’s no sink,” she said.

“What do you mean, no sink?”

“Exactly that, no sink.”

We examined the flat forensically, going from room to room like a SWAT unit, “Clear, no sink,” then on to the next room - nothing but the tiny sink in the kitchen. We examined the bathroom meticulously for clues that a sink had once been present. Nothing.

“Maybe the Russians had it,” I proffered, “they do like that kind of thing.”

“Fuck knows,” replied Katie looking slightly alarmed. “Which way is east?”

I checked the compass on my phone. “The back of the flat is the east.”

“Bakhmut is thirty miles that way.”

I nodded.

“Maybe we should turn off all the lights. We’re in the tallest building in Kramatorsk and glowing like a lighthouse in direct line of sight of Russian positions.”

“Good point,” I said, quickly killing the lights.

Ten minutes later, we sat in the kitchen pondering the concept of the missing sink over a shot of brandy.

“Welcome to our new home,” I said, raising a glass as the ominous rumble of air defence rocket launches drifted across the night.

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