AVDIYIVKA, Ukraine -- Following Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, the population of the small eastern Donbas city of Avdiyivka dropped from 30,000 to roughly 1,600 residents.
Many of those who have chosen to stay behind tend to be elderly residents who refuse to evacuate.
Living amid a wasteland of shattered buildings and enduring the near-constant threat of shelling, they rely on their gardens -- and each other -- for survival.
Leonid
"My bees have become aggressive. They were not like this before. The explosions make the ground shake, and they don’t like it," said Leonid Tarasov, 70, who tends to his apiary in an orchard behind his house.
The occasional sound of a drone blends with the buzzing of the bees, but neither the drones nor the thud of Ukrainian artillery firing round after round from a nearby garden seem to bother Leonid. He is fully concentrated on his work. One by one, he pulls the frames from one of his 14 beehives. Carefully, he shakes off the bees from the honeycombs and examines them.
"It's a bad year for honey," he says. "Well, the last one wasn't good either. It's the war. I can't bring the beehives into the fields as I used to. Here, they don't have enough flowers to fly to, but it's safer for my bees."
He looks at a beehive that still has a bullet stuck in its roof. His lips narrow into a thin, bitter line as he added, "At least, that's what I would like to think."
The house where Tarasov and his wife Nadia live is only 2 kilometers from Russian positions. The remains of rockets are scattered around the orchard, along with bullets, shrapnel, and cartridges from burned-out incendiary ammunition. All are reminders of the fighting that never seems to end.
The elderly couple were told to evacuate, but declined.
"We are not going anywhere. The way I see it, war kills life, and we have to stay here to preserve it. Where would my bees go if I were to leave?" Tarasov said as he brings the hive frames inside to his extractor, a half-century-old machine.
"I was lucky to find this hand-crank extractor. The ones I had all needed electricity to run, and they are useless now," he said.
The residents of Avdiyivka have been living without electricity, running water, or gas for over a year.
"Life is hard, but we get used to it. We help each other here. There are not enough people for me to sell my honey to, but I collect it anyway. If I can’t sell it, I will give it to my neighbors in the winter," he said. "I am a beekeeper, and I am here to care for my bees. They also take care of me. They sweeten my life with honey, and I’ll be here with them until the end."
Valeriy
Two weeks ago, a shell landed in front of his home, causing shrapnel to fly through a window and into his bedroom. It was not the only time he had a close call. The scars of war are seen all around his house, with walls pockmarked with shrapnel.
Pronin has a small fruit orchard and garden where he grows vegetables. He also keeps chickens and ducks. On this day, he slaughters a chicken for his neighbor, Kava.
"There are very few of us left, but we are here for each other. That's how we keep this town alive," he said.
Birds chirp in the background amid the thud of exploding shells.
"In summer, it's not that bad here," he said. "Sometimes, the birds can drown out the artillery fire. But even the birds will leave in the winter, and we need to prepare for it."
While food is a concern for the remaining residents, the upcoming winter without heat is terrifying, so everyone does their best to prepare.
"Last winter, the temperature dropped to -20 [degrees Celsius]. It was awful," he said.
Pronin used to work in a mine. As he shovels coal in his driveway, he admits it is not as easy as it once was.
"I wish there were someone younger who could help with the work, but all of the young people have left," he said.
Tetyana
"Kolya, they are fighting. Maybe we should wait," she said to her husband.
"They are always fighting," he grumbled as he continues walking deeper into the field to bring the cows in from their pasture.
"Sometimes, Russian rockets fall into this field," Ishinko said, pointing toward a crater overgrown with grass. "And sometimes Ukrainian artillery fires from here," she said, pointing toward a pile of scattered shells. "We got used to it, but for the cows, it is hard. The taste of the milk is not what it used to be."
The shed's small windows rattle when a shell lands nearby, causing ripples to form on the milk that she is collecting in a pail. For a moment, Ishinko stops milking Askja as she places her right hand over her heart. As her breathing increases, her face muscles tighten as she is gripped by chest pain she says is caused by stress. She wipes away tears and, without a word, resumes milking.
"When people left Avdiyivka, they left their animals behind, and lots of them died. As far as I know, there are only two other cows in our town. I can't imagine leaving our cows," she said as she carries a bucket of milk out of the shed.
The milk she sells helps her buy medicine for her and her husband, some additional food, and the hay needed for her cows to ensure that they survive the winter months.
"I am tired. I am tired of this life, but we need to do this to survive. I wish we could one day be buried peacefully in our town, not because of this war," she said.
