“Home is no longer an option”. Residents of Sudzha describe their escape as Ukrainian forces attack Russian border town

The fighting around Sudzha, which Ukrainian forces entered on the night of August 6, continues unabated. Reliable information from the area is scarce, but it’s clear that many locals are desperately trying to leave the combat zone. Pro-war Russian Telegram channels claim that Ukrainian troops have seized control of a critical gas metering station that regulates the flow of Russian gas to Europe.

Russian authorities reported that, as of the morning of August 8, four civilians in the Kursk region had been killed in the fighting, including an ambulance driver and paramedic whose vehicle was struck by a drone, according to Deputy Acting Governor Andrey Belostotsky. Journalists from 7×7 also reported that a 28-year-old pregnant woman died during the evacuation while attempting to flee with her husband and two-year-old son.

Officials state that around 3,000 people have been evacuated, with 1,500 of them housed in temporary accommodation centres. Regional head Alexey Smirnov spoke with President Vladimir Putin via video link, after which Putin announced that those who had fled their homes would receive 10,000 rubles ($115) each.

Despite the Kursk region authorities’ claims of an organised evacuation, many residents say they had to escape on their own, posting videos of their bullet-ridden cars as proof of their perilous journey. They shared their stories of fleeing the war-torn town with Mediazona.

Oleg, 34. “My aunt and brother stayed in Sudzha. They’re hiding in the cellar.”

I live there; I have a house near the butter factory. It all started on the night of the 5th to the 6th, around three in the morning. The shelling began. As is habitual by now, we went into our corridor, thinking it was the usual thing—we’ve already gotten used to it. It turned out to be much more. It went on for three hours straight, without stopping. They were shooting all over Sudzha: I saw smoke coming from here and there, various explosions, both muffled ones and from Grad rocket launchers. At six in the morning, there was some lull—it was still rumbling, but not as intensely. I took my wife and child, gathered our documents, and we left to go to my parents’, 30 kilometers away in the Bolshesoldatsky district [of the Kursk region].

I didn’t think it was so serious. Then I went to work in a neighboring region. As I was approaching, I started reading about what was happening there, that [Ukrainian troops] had already advanced and pushed through the border. I turned around and went back to pick up my family. My parents, of course, stayed in the Bolshesoldatsky district. Is it a safe place? I don’t know. It seems to me that there’s nothing safe for a hundred kilometers to Kursk.

We left Sudzha calmly, God helped us. Of course, it’s a matter of chance. I somehow instinctively understood all this and left in time before the rush. All our belongings are still there. I saw a video of the house next to mine—and only the foundation remains of it. I don’t know what’s happened to my house; it wasn’t captured in the video.

My aunt and brother stayed in Sudzha. As far as I know, they’re hiding in the cellar, but there’s no contact with them. Even when I was still there, our electricity went out immediately, and then the water and gas. So there’s no communication; you can’t reach anyone.

And that’s me, I have a car. I jumped in and left. But if a person doesn’t have a car, where will they go, where will they run? There’s no information at all from the administration: what’s happening, where to flee, in which direction. Or should they just sit in the cellar? It just happened that way for me. Bam, I jumped in and drove off. Later, I was driving through the Bolshoye Soldatskoye–Kursk tunnel, and there was a woman standing on the road, hitchhiking. I stopped for her, and she said, “Everyone’s driving in packs; there’s no room to get in the car. I don’t have a car, so I’m barely getting by.” That’s how it is for my relatives too; they didn’t have a car.

At that point, there was no evacuation. What evacuation? Was anything organised? No! No one understood what was happening. And no one understands anything now. They report that Sudzha has been completely captured, half an hour later they write that no, Sudzha hasn’t been captured. So many troops. Is it really possible that no one saw anything? Or was it impossible to find out in advance? In short, there are no words, only emotions.

Ivan, 44. “They’ll sit in basements until our valiant Russian army comes and wipes the town off the face of the earth.”

My brother and mother are in Sudzha. My nephew left from there yesterday around two in the afternoon—there are two cars at home; he got in one, the others didn’t want to leave. He says [the relatives] didn’t want to let him go. I don’t know if my brother decided to wait it out—but they stayed there. I know that many have left the town. But who stayed there… there’s no communication, no way to find out. And going there is like [going on] a suicide mission.

You can’t leave from there—the town is under fire. No one is evacuating anyone—that’s the information. You can see in the videos that there are already a bunch of shot-up civilian cars, and it seems like there are no military in the town. In general, it’s as if the town has been left to fend for itself—live as you want. But there’s still no communication.

Let’s hope that everything will be all right—we have a cellar. I think they’ll be able to survive, well, I hope so. I hope that there will simply be an occupation and [the Ukrainian soldiers] won’t touch the civilians. They’ll sit in basements, not going anywhere—that’s it, until our valiant Russian army comes and wipes the town off the face of the earth.

Lyubov, 33 years old. “Home is no longer an option. We left all our belongings behind. We left our pets.”

I am in the Kursk region. My family and I have left the zone of active hostilities. It’s impossible to be there without risking your life, it is literally a meat grinder. According to all the data, the enemy has penetrated deep into the region, so it isn’t safe anywhere here.

There was no organised evacuation, there weren’t any notifications. The approach was very hands-off. The residents were completely responsible for themselves, there were no official warnings to leave the city and no help with evacuation in the first 24 hours. Everyone who could, seeing the situation, left by themselves.

Massive shelling started at 3 a.m. on August 6. Some buildings were seriously damaged. After 9 am, information about the border breakthrough appeared, which was not officially announced anywhere, it was all passed by word of mouth between local residents. It became clear that something was coming. But we didn't expect it to would be such a big deal. That’s why we left lightly, without our belongings, without anything, expecting that at least by the evening the situation would be resolved and we would be able to return home. As a result, we left home at about 11 a.m. on August 6.

Home is no longer an option. We left all our belongings behind. We left our pets, thinking we would return. Now, artillery and tank shelling continues; enemy troops sit in the forest belts, firing at incoming cars; roads and fields are mined. Locals who, like us, dropped everything and fled are trying to return to retrieve at least something, or maybe to evacuate remaining relatives, as there are still residents there. Videos show vehicles under fire at all entrances to the town, wrecked cars—it’s impossible to return and get anything.

We went a bit deeper into the region, away from the border. Relatives called and offered to let us wait out the dangerous period with them. We may move even further because things are not good or calm.

This isn’t the first shelling; it’s always been a matter of enduring the attack, then dispersing and moving on with life. We’ve been living this way for over a year and didn’t expect this. So we left completely unprepared.

We have cats—an adult and an adolescent kitten—plus I’m caring for cats belonging to acquaintances who went on vacation at the start of summer. I was looking after them, and now no one will feed them because we left. In general, with rare exceptions, all animals in the town are abandoned, either because people didn’t anticipate such a turn of events or simply aren’t very attached to them. In terms of animal welfare, it’s a catastrophe there.

We currently have no information about what survived or was destroyed. We don’t know if our house is still standing. We still have our jobs for now, assuming the town is recaptured. Whether we’ll have anywhere to return to or if nothing at all awaits us there, we don’t know, because the military isn’t disclosing information. Few locals remained, and those who did have no communication, as electricity went out back at night when the shelling began. So we don’t know; we know nothing.

We have an apartment there and construction that was started but will likely never be finished now.

There are no targeted notifications about compensation. So far, I haven’t found any statements with concrete information on compensation. No one knows anything specific. Everything spreads as rumors from person to person—someone heard something somewhere, read something, someone has relatives in the administration or other government bodies. In short, it’s all very indirect; something was supposedly said. How much this corresponds to reality is impossible to imagine.

There is major destruction in the town. The organisations where we worked may no longer exist. There may be nothing to restore, or the cost of restoration will be incommensurate with the income those organisations generated. Plus, again, all we have is hearsay, no official information. Looting is still a factor. Someone stayed behind, someone unscrupulous, you know... It’s unknown if the town will even be recaptured, and if so, whether it will be rebuilt. The future is hazy. We don’t know anything; it’s all at the level of hearsay.

Employers also left; they too abandoned their homes and businesses. It’s unknown who will want to return and who won’t, who will have the reason and ability to come back.

No one knows for certain what awaits us. They’re offering accommodation in temporary accommodation points. While schools are on vacation, there are bunk beds stacked up in gyms. Some sanatorium buildings and camps are being used, but again, their capacity is limited; they’re offering to house 400 people, maybe up to 600. Considering that around 20,000 people were forced to leave their homes, it’s incommensurate with what’s being offered. Some are staying with relatives; some had apartments in Kursk, at least farther from the line of combat, and had somewhere to go. Some are in these accommodation points; some are renting housing. Due to these events, rental prices for houses and apartments have risen noticeably. Some are still trying to make money off of this.

We see what’s being reported in the official media—it corresponds to reality by zero percent. We watch TV and listen to stories about how everything is fine with us, all while sitting a hundred kilometers from our home, unable to return to retrieve even basic necessities or our animals, to find out if we still have a home. And we’re being told how wonderful everything is for us and that there was no incursion, and if there was, it was successfully repelled. But at the same time, considerable enemy forces are concentrated on the town’s territory, and there’s no way to get there... You can get in, but returning alive is very doubtful.

Yana, 31. “There was boom after boom after boom, and under these booms we left with two children”

We managed to drive out, so I can’t really say what’s happening there now. Barely got out the same day in our car.

It started just past 3 a.m. in the morning—and went on all night. One window in our nursery had already been blown out by the time we left. It didn’t quiet down at all. At 10 a.m. they were still pounding with Grads and rockets. There was boom after boom after boom, and under these booms we left with two children. Everyone was scared.

We left for Kursk, we were completely on our own. We don’t have any relatives left in Sudzha, we don’t know what is going on there. There is no communication there.

Maxim. “They said that there would be no evacuation today, and maybe even tomorrow—they are waiting for the military to authorise it, because it’s a mess there”

The day before yesterday [6 August] it was pounding, we were at home. Everyone we knew had already left, but we were still in Sudzha. Drones and missiles were flying, rockets were hitting somewhere near the railway station, behind the station. We brought a generator. Then I went to bed: it was supposed to work for about eight hours, we had about five litres of petrol. I fell asleep, woke up at nine in the evening. My parents said that the generator lasted for something like two or three hours.

In the end we went to the railway station by ten o’clock, caught a signal: during the day it was still there, but by the evening there was no connection, no internet. My father also thought of going to work: like, he would come [to the bus stop] by the appointed time, and if the bus came, he said, he would go [to work]. It’s moronic.

I tried to talk my parents into leaving, but they ended up staying. In the end, I left [by car] at about 10 p.m. yesterday [7 August], and by about 12 p.m. I was already in Kursk. They stayed, they said they couldn’t leave this granny, a bedbound senior in their building.

My father was supposed to call me around midnight to see if I had made it. In the end he never called me. He told me: ‘‘If anything happens, we will wait until morning and then we will go.” Well, I haven’t heard from them on the second day either.

Just a couple of hours ago, they sent me a video: the road is shattered, shrapnel, broken windows, mines lying around... I already called emergency services and left a request for evacuation. Yesterday they said that today at 10 a.m. there will be lists of names. Today they called and said that there will be no evacuation today, and maybe even tomorrow. They are waiting for the military’s permission, because it’s a mess.

Editor: Yegor Skovoroda