In the Shadow of War

The yawning crater, carved by a Russian missile strike and flooded with water, cuts a jagged path through a city street. A clique of teenagers passing by finds it funny.

“Look, it’s our local pond,” says Denys, 15. “We could dive in for a swim.”

With backpacks looped over their shoulders, the teens walk the streets
of Sloviansk, a frontline town in eastern Ukraine. They slip past soldiers in full combat gear, headed to the trenches about 20 miles away. Military trucks rumble past.

The kids are living their teenage years in a holding pattern because of the war that rages around them. They have nothing to do. No prom, graduation ceremonies, movie theaters, or parties. They mostly handle the hardships of war, and the terror of Russian attacks, with humor. They make fun of everything around them, including one another.

A group of teens pass by a large crater in the street. It was caused by a Russian missile strike and is filled with water. They find it funny.

“Look, it’s our local pond,” says Denys, 15. “We could dive in for a swim.”

The teens are walking the streets of Sloviansk, a town in eastern Ukraine that’s on the front lines of the war. They pass soldiers in full combat gear, headed to the trenches about 20 miles away. Military trucks rumble past.

The kids’ teenage years are in a holding pattern because of the war. They have nothing to do. No prom, graduation ceremonies, movie theaters, or parties. They use humor to handle the hardships of war and the fear of Russian attacks. They make fun of everything around them. This includes one another.

Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has reached its two-year mark, with no end in sight (see “Will the U.S. Continue to Support Ukraine?,” below). The war has killed tens of thousands of people and forced millions of Ukrainians from their homes. And it has claimed another casualty: the normal experiences of young people like those in Sloviansk who live near combat zones, in ravaged cities where rockets fly in regularly.

“I wish I had an ordinary life,” says 16-year-old Mykyta, whose days have boiled down to walks with friends and playing video games in his room. “We studied this whole city; we know every corner. It’s not so fun anymore.”

Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has reached its two-year mark. And there’s no end in sight (see “Will the U.S. Continue to Support Ukraine?,” below). The war has killed tens of thousands of people and forced millions of Ukrainians from their homes. It has greatly affected the daily life of young people who live near war zones, like Sloviansk. Rockets fly in regularly.

“I wish I had an ordinary life,” says 16-year-old Mykyta, whose days have boiled down to walks with friends and playing video games in his room. “We studied this whole city; we know every corner. It’s not so fun anymore.”

Sloviansk is a small city in the crosshairs. In February, Russian missiles hit a school there, killing a security guard. Yet many teens remain in the city, their parents held there by jobs or a reluctance to abandon home and live as refugees.

They haven’t been in school themselves since Feb. 23, 2022, the day before Russia invaded. The authorities have canceled all organized activities for young people, lest a rocket hit a gathering.

Russia bombards Sloviansk often, possibly aiming for the thousands of soldiers garrisoned there. Residents are regularly killed. When explosions echo through the streets, the teenagers fall to the ground for safety, fearing that a strike could land close and send shrapnel whistling toward them.

Then the horsing around starts. “Just don’t hit us!” they joke, covering their heads with their hands.

“It’s just easier to handle this way,” says Kristina, 15. “It’s really scary.”

Denys, nicknamed Guitarist for his music skills, says he sometimes gets up after a strike and does a little dance, to lighten the mood.

Sloviansk is a small city in the middle of the conflict. In February, Russian missiles hit a school there. A security guard was killed. Still, many teens remain, for various reasons. Their parents stay because of jobs or a reluctance to abandon home and live as refugees.

The kids haven’t been in school since Russia invaded on Feb. 23, 2022. The authorities have canceled all organized activities for young people, lest a rocket hit a gathering.

Russia bombs Sloviansk often, possibly aiming for the thousands of soldiers stationed there. Residents are regularly killed. When explosions echo through the streets, the teenagers fall to the ground for safety. They fear that a strike could send shrapnel flying toward them.

Then the horsing around starts. “Just don’t hit us!” they joke, covering their heads with their hands.

“It’s just easier to handle this way,” says Kristina, 15. “It’s really scary.”

Denys, nicknamed Guitarist for his music skills, says he sometimes tries to lighten the mood by doing a little dance after a strike.

The city’s central square is an expanse of asphalt rimmed by hedges and flower beds. The teens gather into groups, trade gossip, then go their separate ways.

“Why didn’t he want to walk with us?” one girl says as she walks away. “We’re the same age.”

Mykyta, who has gray-green eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, hasn’t been in a classroom for more than a year. He wants to be a chef and enjoys making meals for his mother, who works for the state railroad company. He hopes the war will be over by the time he graduates next year, after finishing online classes. His teachers sometimes provide instruction from abroad.

Mykyta says he still has affection for the city.

“There’s nothing here,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

He and his friends don’t talk much about the war.

“There are themes that are much more interesting than war,” Mykyta says, such as movies and music.

The city’s central square is a large asphalt area surrounded by hedges and flower beds. The teens gather into groups and trade gossip. Then they go their separate ways.

“Why didn’t he want to walk with us?” one girl says as she walks away. “We’re the same age.”

Mykyta, who has gray-green eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, hasn’t been in a classroom for more than a year. He wants to be a chef and makes meals for his mother, who works for the state railroad company. He hopes the war will be over by the time he graduates next year, after finishing online classes. His teachers sometimes provide instruction from other countries.

Mykyta says he still has affection for the city.

“There’s nothing here,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

He and his friends don’t talk much about the war.

“There are themes that are much more interesting than war,” Mykyta says. Such as movies and music.

The Russian invasion has changed everything. The normal angst of the teen years, the first ventures of independence—all that now takes place amid the ruins of a mostly deserted city. With danger ever-present, 9 p.m. curfews are enforced not by parents, but by soldiers at checkpoints. Parents feel they have no option but to let their children out for walks after endless time indoors.

The teenagers stop at a favorite hangout, the steps of a shuttered movie theater. Or they gravitate to the empty bleachers of a soccer stadium, where no games are held because of possible rocket strikes.

“There used to be more people, more shops, more cafes, concerts, cool holidays,” laments Daria, 15, looking at the empty field.

“I miss my city without damage,” Denys says. “I miss my calm life. I miss security.” The friends laugh, he adds, but without joy.

“What else can we do, cry?” says Daniil, 16.

Before the war, Daniil used to attend out-of-town barbecues. He used to spend time with a far larger group of friends, around 20 in all, he says. Now only five or six remain. The others have left the city.

The Russian invasion has changed everything. The normal milestones of the teen years now take place amid the ruins of a mostly empty city. Curfew is 9 p.m. It is enforced by soldiers at checkpoints because of the ever-present danger. Parents feel they have to let their children out for walks after spending endless hours indoors.

The teenagers stop at a favorite hangout. They go to the steps of a closed movie theater or to the empty bleachers of a soccer stadium. No games are played there because of possible rocket strikes.

“There used to be more people, more shops, more cafes, concerts, cool holidays,” laments Daria, 15, looking at the empty field.

“I miss my city without damage,” Denys says. “I miss my calm life. I miss security.” The friends laugh, he adds, but without joy.

“What else can we do, cry?” says Daniil, 16.

Before the war, Daniil used to go to barbecues. He used to spend time with a far larger group of friends, around 20 in all, he says. Now only five or six remain. The others have left the city.

Sonia, 14, whose mother owns a beauty salon in Sloviansk, also misses the time before the invasion.

“There was no need to be scared for my life,” she says. Many of her friends, seeking safety, have left the city with their families. “I get attached to people very fast,” she says, “and it’s very painful to let them go.”

“Once I went for a walk with my friend and the shelling started,” Sonia says. “I was in a panic and started stopping passing cars and crying and asking them to bring me back to the center of the city. Basically, if there are many bombs falling, then it’s scary. But if just one, then it’s fine.”

One particular strike rattled Rostyslav, 15. He was playing a video game in his room at about 1 a.m. when a nearby explosion shook the building.

Sonia, 14, whose mother owns a beauty salon, also misses the time before the invasion.

“There was no need to be scared for my life,” she says.

Many of her friends, seeking safety, have left the city with their families. “I get attached to people very fast,” she says, “and it’s very painful to let them go.”

“Once I went for a walk with my friend and the shelling started,” she adds. “I was in a panic and started stopping passing cars and crying and asking them to bring me back to the center of the city. Basically, if there are many bombs falling, then it’s scary. But if just one, then it’s fine.”

One strike scared Rostyslav, 15. He was playing a video game in his room at 1 a.m. when the building shook because of a nearby explosion.

 “My parents told me to be ready to leave, if needed.” He says he tries to prepare himself for the attacks. “I live halfway between normal and this situation.”

After passing the flooded missile crater, Denys spots a bed of tulips in a front yard. He picks one, walks up to a group of girls and gives one of them a bloom.

“You are very cute,” he says.

 “My parents told me to be ready to leave, if needed,” he says. He tries to prepare himself for the attacks. “I live halfway between normal and this situation.”

After passing the flooded missile crater, Denys spots tulips in a front yard. He picks one. He walks up to a group of girls and gives one of them a bloom.

“You are very cute,” he says.

Andrew E. Kramer is The New York Times bureau chief in Kyiv, Ukraine.

Andrew E. Kramer is The New York Times bureau chief in Kyiv, Ukraine.