"Now they'll come running back," said Natalya, as the muffled boom of rocket fire seeped down through the thick, damp walls of the technical college in Yasynuvata.
“People are scared even to go out and do a bit of shopping. One woman was blown to bits in the market. Her son went around collecting all the pieces.”
For Natalya and more than 100 other people, including children and elderly men and women, this dank basement has offered refuge from fierce fighting between Ukraine’s military and Russian-backed separatist rebels.
“More than two months some of us have been here,” said Natalya.
“People with allergies and asthma. They can’t stay at home, because their doors and windows have been blown out. But what kind of life is it down here? Look at my granddaughter – growing up underground like a potato.”
The young girl rolled her big eyes and went back to playing with her mobile phone, and wriggled occasionally to get comfy on her wooden board, which rested on a row of chairs brought into the basement from the classrooms above.
The basement is full of such arrangements, draped with multicoloured blankets of wiry wool and dotted with plastic bags of belongings: clothes, medicine, make-up, toys.
This is where scores of people sleep, eat, watch a little old television plugged into the corner, and talk about how they ended up here and what will happen next.
"In Ukraine we never had this feeling of being against each other. We all lived together, no matter what language we spoke," said Lyudmilla (68), propped up on a row of chairs with two anti-asthma inhalers at her side and Rita the dog at her feet.
"Of course western Ukrainians have a different culture to us. We are closer to Russia. But that doesn't matter.
“Can’t we live together in one country with those differences?”
Crumbling plaster
Artillery fire rumbled again but talk did not abate in the basement, its residents trusting the old heavy walls, even as the plaster crumbled here and there and added its musty scent to those of washed clothes that wouldn’t dry and the bucket toilet in the next room.
“They call this a ceasefire; we’ll all be in the madhouse when this ends,” muttered Natalya. “Why have they turned us into enemies? We just wanted our autonomy, but they wouldn’t give it to us.”
As Natalya cursed Ukraine’s new pro-western leaders, an older lady spoke up from across the room: “What about Yanukovich? It’s his fault. This all began because of him! He stole everything!”
“Don’t start with that,” shouted Natalya. “You think this new lot don’t steal? And now we’ve got a war as well. And no work or wages or pensions or school!”
Like many people in eastern Ukraine, most of those living in the basement saw the revolution that ousted Viktor Yanukovich in February as a coup led by politicians from central and western regions.
They trust often poisonously biased reports on Russian state television, which for nine months has told them that they face persecution from US- and EU-backed “fascists” who hate Russian-speakers and want to stop them using the language, despite it being the dominant tongue in many pro-government areas, including Kiev.
From Russian media they hear only tales of alleged atrocities by government forces and the heroism of rebels, whom they insist are local men with a smattering of Russian volunteers. They don’t believe claims by Kiev and the West that Moscow’s troops are fighting here, and they think US tanks and Polish snipers are helping Kiev’s military.
Murderous ‘junta’
While most of Ukraine sees the insurgency as a Russian-orchestrated bid to block the country’s shift towards the EU and
Nato
, in Donetsk and Luhansk many regard the militia as brave defenders of their own land, battered by the forces of a murderous Kiev “junta”, and the Kremlin is invoked as protector and potential saviour.
The tactics of a poorly trained, led and equipped army have only turned more easterners against the government, and the deaths, injuries and destruction caused by its artillery give them more cause to fear and resent Kiev and its allies; the rebels also fire shells but most locals, like Russian media, blame Ukraine’s military.
Walking through the basement in a flowery blue housecoat, her sandals crunching shattered glass and splinters of wood, Galina praised members of the “Vostok” militia for bringing food to the college and fuel for its one generator.
Vostok, which controls this 35,000-strong town 20km from Donetsk, is one of the more disciplined rebel units; the worst groups comprise men who seem to have spent years staggering drunk around their village and now continue do the same while carrying a Kalashnikov.
Galina stopped between two gaping holes in a wall of the college, gouged by tank shells she believes were fired by the army.
“I buried my father in February, before the fighting,” she recalled.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever find his grave, now that all the gravestones have been flattened by bombing. We can’t even bury our dead, because the graveyard is mined. People are wrapping bodies in plastic and burying them in the backyard.”
On dusty ground behind the college, overlooked by ranks of smashed windows, a little metal pot sat on a pile of charred rocks and ash.
“We cook out here,” said Galina, casting a weary look over the faded pink façade of the building.
“This is where I studied,” she added. “How could I ever imagine that one day this place would save my kids?”
Brown leaves already blew through the courtyard, and the trees dotted round about showed a few bare branches.
“People ran here wearing whatever they stood up in. They didn’t have time to pack warm clothes or many belongings. We don’t even know what’s left of our apartments now,” said Natalya.
“But we’re strong women,” she added, wrapping her arms around her granddaughter.
“We’ll manage and take care of each other and get through the winter – just as long as they stop shooting.”