Photo: Roman Pilipey Agence France-Presse A man was eating a meal in one of the few cafes still open in Pokrovsk, in the eastern Donetsk region, on October 15.
Léa Dauple – Agence France-Presse in Pokrovsk
Published at 16:15
- Europe
Outside, sporadic explosions disturb the silence of the streets of Pokrovsk. Inside the store where Anna works, the hum of the coffee machine envelops the room. Russian troops are less than 10 kilometers away, but the Ukrainian woman, unperturbed, serves a frothy cappuccino.
Two weeks ago, the owner wanted to close the store because of the advance of the Russian army towards this eastern city, important for Ukrainian military logistics and one of the hottest points on the front.
“We told him, ‘Please let us work!’” says Anna, 35, with coppery hair, standing in front of a window displaying candy-pink doughnuts that she promises are delicious.
“Our defenders need us,” she adds, referring to the many soldiers in the city. “They want a good hot coffee and a hot dog, too.”
“The guys come and say, ‘Oh, thank God you’re open!’” she says.
It was so full of life. [Now,] it's really scary.
— Anna
In the Donetsk region, the Ukrainian military, outnumbered, fails to stop the enemy.
Pokrovsk’s population has shrunk from about 60,000 before the February 2022 invasion to 12,000 by mid-October, with many having fled since the summer, when Russian attacks on the city intensified.
Photo: Roman Pilipey Agence France-Presse Pokrovsk is gradually turning into a ghost town as Russia’s invasion of Ukraine continues.
The cafe offers a bubble of normalcy for those who refuse to leave. Customers come and go during the short period of time when the curfew is not in effect, from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.
“Thank you to them for continuing to work,” says Yevgen, 52, tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“At least you can come, socialize, even see your friends here,” he adds, judging that everyone “needs” this kind of place.
Pokrovsk doesn’t have many left. When Anna talks about all these closed shops, her blue eyes fill with tears. “It used to be so full of life,” she says. Now, “it’s really scary.”
Anna has already sent her family away from the front. Her time in Pokrovsk is limited: she thinks there are only two weeks left before the situation becomes untenable.
Photo: Roman Pilipey Agence France-Presse A motorist was passing by a building partly destroyed by shelling.
Precarious conditions
Pokrovsk already looks like a ghost town. Public transport is no longer running and most of its residents do not linger outside.
Not far from Anna's café, one of the last remaining restaurants still open promises customers, with photos to back it up, pizzas dripping with cheese.
The establishment unfortunately had to give up this dish, explains Svitlana, 39, who is in the kitchen and serving. Electricity has become a rare commodity, we can no longer turn on the pizza oven. “And also, all our pizza chefs have left,” she sighs.
Apart from that, “we have everything,” she announces proudly. “Meats, starters, main courses…”
The restaurant, however, no longer has running water, like almost everything else in Pokrovsk. Employees use a private well and buy bottled water.
It is also these precarious conditions that prevent Svitlana from giving up.
Photo: Roman Pilipey Agence France-Presse An elderly woman from Pokrovsk. For many Ukrainians in the region, leaving the city seems the only option. But departure is often postponed.
“Veterans”
For the neighborhood's residents, many of whom no longer have electricity at all, this place equipped with a generator allows them to “have a hot meal,” she says.
Under the light of a white neon, dishes in sauce await customers. In the refrigerator, sodas and a few beers – but without alcohol, the sale of which is prohibited in several regions near the front.
At a table, Igor, 60, has just finished his soup. He used to eat at his mine’s canteen, but it was destroyed by a Russian missile, he says.
Continuing to go to restaurants, despite the risks, makes you feel “like a normal person,” he says.
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At the checkout, Valery Vinyk, a regular, waits for his order.
“We won't let them go,” says the 71-year-old retiree with the gold teeth, giving Svitlana a knowing look. At this point, the waitresses deserve “their veteran badges,” he jokes.
But this Ukrainian, a native of Pokrovsk, knows that this can't last. He plans to leave, but keeps putting it off.
“I don't want to go anywhere, I don't want to leave everything,” Valery says. “But there's no way out, guys.”