Andriy & Inna’s Frontline Diary

Day 1: When will the war end?

Kyiv. Late morning in the capital. Andriy drives his dust-covered frontline car, roof rack loaded, and eases to a stop at a traffic light near Independence Square. Another car pulls up alongside. Behind the wheel, a bearded man in his forties leans out the window and calls over:

“Yo, brother, when will the war end?” the man asks.

I’m not sure what’s more startling in that moment – the tactlessness, the ignorance, or the indifference. This fracture in society isn’t new. It existed even when the war felt distant, confined to the East, to those whose lives were consumed by it during the early years of the war. But now, it cuts deeper. It triggers more sharply.

To truly grasp the reality of the front line, you have to go there. So we go. The last time I worked with Andriy was before the full-scale invasion, in what now feels like another life.

This time, instead of taking the usual highway to Donetsk region, Andriy opts for lesser-known backroads.

“I like discovering new routes,” he says. Yesterday, he fixed the car’s air conditioner, so I don’t protest. It’s 34°C outside. Our journey stretches in time, melting like Camembert in a Picasso painting. The rural roads of the Kharkiv region wind through fields of rye and sunflowers. The viewfinder jitters – these roads haven’t seen repairs in years. And as frontline experience shows, the closer you are to the fighting, the more logistics can cost lives.

But here, for now, there’s still a feeling of childhood summers and something like safety.

“Deer! Go back!” I shout to Andriy, and we turn around to try and photograph the small herd, though I’m not entirely sure they were deer. They had been basking in the sun among the wheat, but startled by our approach, they leap across the golden sea and disappeared into the treeline.

We share a simple dinner of carp soup by the shore of a lake where an elderly couple raises the fish. The warmth of the moment lingers as dusk falls. Soon, we are back on the road.

Flashes resembling fireworks burst above the road  to the left, to the right, accompanied by explosions, tracer rounds streaking through the air, and pickups carrying mobile fire teams racing by.

We missed the alarm. Checking the news and reports, we learn Russian forces launched some 400 Shahed drones. About a third of them swept over the Kharkiv region, and the impact is clear.

Day 2: Lucky

Rented apartments near the front line are hardly different from any others, and the problems are much the same.

This time, we find ourselves without water, and it’s not a planned outage. In the morning, Andriy goes to buy milk and drinking water at the store in our own building, only to discover the store has been flooded, apparently by our rented apartment. Another day, another household repair was added to the list of tasks.

Outside, the temperature holds steady at 35 degrees Celsius. While negotiating upcoming work with military personnel, what else is there to do? Naturally, we head to the beach. The most popular, resort-style spot lies on a lake near Sloviansk, known for its salty water and healing mud.

Older residents apply mud to their elbows, knees and backs. I find a marshy puddle and stand in it for a while before entering the lake. The water is warm and salty enough to sting the skin. Visitors rinse off at several taps along the beach. At one, a toddler named Yesenia plays.

The Sloviansk beach is evolving, expanding with shops and rental stalls for inflatable mattresses. It even has a shelter of a concrete bunker.

A man walks near the shelter with a German shepherd. Pavlo, a soldier recently stationed in Kostyantynivka, took in the dog during the winter. She was pregnant, and the birth was difficult. Pavlo helped deliver the puppies. Of the ten born, one did not survive. Pavlo named the mother dog Lucky. She stays close to him, nuzzling gently.

Pavlo heads for a swim. Lucky avoids the salty water but keeps a watchful eye on her owner. Nearby, a young soldier trains on a sports field. His shoulders are covered with tattoos, from stylized images of death on his right arm to scenes of life on his left. He celebrates life openly, having survived mine injuries. Among the cartoonish depictions of smiling mines on his right arm, scars from shrapnel are visible.

Meanwhile, in another part of the region where the morning had been just as busy and peaceful, a massive FPV drone attack struck the market, post office and shops. Dobropillia, a logistics hub and center for people fleeing Pokrovsk and surrounding areas, was hit. That’s where we headed the next morning.

Day 3. The Illusion of Safety

We’re finally on the move. I can’t say where to. In serious international media, a military site like this, protected by secrecy, is simply called an undisclosed location.

On the way to this “undisclosed location,” we turn toward Dobropillia. A smooth highway cuts through vast open fields. But the view brings no comfort: this road, exposed and without tree cover, is among the most dangerous. There’s one burned-out car. And another, hit and abandoned. Men are stretching camouflage netting over them. And just twenty minutes later, Russian drones will strike a truck right here.

The illusion of safety is the feeling that lingers in the air here, alongside Russian drones that strike randomly and indiscriminately, hitting anything and anyone: on the road, in the city that just yesterday pulsed with life, but today even civilian men are arming themselves with hunting rifles.

Day 4. The Potato Ranking

Our photo editor gave me a hard time today. He says I write like I’m putting sausage on bread, a reference to an old Soviet cartoon. If that metaphor doesn’t make sense to you, congratulations: you’re free of Soviet nostalgia.

His advice? Don’t spell out our routes or plans in the diary — save that for the reportage. These notes, he says, should be about smells, sensations, and the things we’d never put in a formal report.

Dear photo editor…bro, I’m trying!

Today, we slept until noon. Then I spent the afternoon writing. So here’s a taste of Kramatorsk’s food scene — our small pleasure when we’re not in the field.

When not digging trenches or manning a machine, I sometimes feel guilty eating in cafés. My conscience whispers that I’m not really “working.” But I eat anyway, and I rank everything. My food memories begin in the 1990s in the Luhansk region, so: potatoes. Fried. Sliced in half-moons, cooked in oil with onion. Or more stylishly, country-style with dill and garlic sauce.

It’s summer now, which means okroshka, a chilled soup you can find at nearly every café in town. But only two places do it right: one with radish, the other made with mineral water and kefir.

In winter, it’s all about borscht. And one café even serves wild mushroom broth from the Carpathians. I’ll only reveal those locations in private — my favorite dishes disappear fast.

Coffee? Easy. The best aroma and strength — Kavyarnya Poruch. The pink café, Coffee House, stays open the latest. Andriy once had a coffee at “Kofeynya No.1,” but the bookshelf there was turned spine-in, hiding titles like Dontsova, Khakamada, and a Russian-Ukrainian dictionary. Not recommended.

For now, the food supply is stable. You can find oysters at the supermarket and exotic fruits at the local market. Sweet local tomatoes. Real fragrant sunflower oil, the kind my grandmother used to pour on bread and sprinkle with salt.

As we savor food and memories, we finish writing, process photos, and search for our next destination. Messaging press officers, calling contacts, gathering info — these often take longer than the actual trip.

Dear readers, if you have suggestions about what we should cover next — please reach out Andriy.

Day 5. Friends

Danger feels distant after just three hours of sleep. The brain hasn’t fully woken up, and fear doesn’t register. Everything feels both real and detached, like watching from the outside.

In moments of risk, values surface quickly. Some people focus on saving lives. Others hold tight to homes, to family graves, to remnants of normalcy. Even if that normal includes daily explosions nearby.

Danger creates unlikely bonds. It brings people together, united by the values they choose. Today we stand with those who choose life: volunteers and law enforcement officers evacuating civilians from the most dangerous areas.

Back in our base town, we take off our bulletproof vests and hug. The air is 36 degrees Celsius, and our shirts are soaked. The hug still feels good.

Could anyone in 2013, when the Revolution of Dignity reached its peak, have imagined that one day, hugs with police officers would feel this meaningful? Or that such gratitude toward law enforcement could even exist — let alone feel necessary?

Day 6. While we still can

Our paths diverge. I, Inna, have to return to Kyiv. Andriy stays in the Donetsk region.

The train is already waiting on the platform. Couples hold each other tight — the value of time rises with each minute closer to departure. In that closeness, even the laws of physics seem to blur: the windowpane disappears between two palms pressed together.

I watch through the glass — parting embraces, chalk hills, tree lines, fields, more fields, more tree lines. And later, embraces of reunion.

Back in Kyiv, I pull my two backpacks, tote bag and suitcase from the overhead shelf. A young woman reaches for part of my luggage to help. She’s traveling with friends, exploring Ukraine region by region. Donetsk region was the last stop on their tour of the country’s Left Bank.

“We wanted to discover it while we still can,” she says.

Authors: Andriy Dubchak & Inna Varenytsia