Sloviansk, Ukraine —
Along Sloviansk's small salt lake beaches, where the healing waters offer a glimpse of respite from the spinning chaos of the eastern frontlines just a few miles distant, discussion of a Ukraine land agreement at Friday's Alaska summit feels dark and unreal.
"I feel like I just drift away from this world," said local reporter Mykhailo, between dips into the lake, on the lake's beaches beneath a massive concrete bomb shelter. Shelling is a regular part of life here, and Mykhailo jokingly calls it “the Salt Lake City of Sloviansk.”
But the Kremlin's offer to US special envoy Steve Witkoff to swap a ceasefire for the remaining regions of Donbas under Russian control means this town, and towns surrounding it, might overnight find themselves part of Moscow's territory. And even on this peaceful beach, it's generated what Mykhailo describes as "panic.
"Numerous of my friends wish to remain here and we all shall have to depart," he added. "But to be honest I do not think it shall happen." There is also defiance, and acknowledgement the high stakes diplomacy US President Donald Trump has embarked on with Russian President Vladimir Putin is likely to fall as flat in delivery as it has been rushed in preparation.
"Trump made a mistake by pulling him out of isolation—he reached out and said, 'Vladimir, I want to talk to you. I like you,'" Mykailo explained. "He didn’t seem to care that Ukrainians were dying every day."
For Ludmila, rolling herself to the lake waters in an arm-powered wheelchair, the salt lake is a fleeting moment of weightlessness that brings respite from injuries sustained by stepping on a land mine two years ago. It is one of the daily aches that renders her unsympathetic to diplomacy.
"Over there, they are lying," she said, sweeping her hand aside. "For them it is a show. They determine one thing, say another, do another. That's always been politics."
Throughout the region of Donetsk, news of Witkoff's developing agreement with the Kremlin, muddled in its details, and promptly rebuffed by Kyiv, has placed lives already devastated by war further in a whirl.
The Sloviansk town was initially captured by Moscow's proxy "separatists" in 2014 before Ukrainian forces regained control. Fresh ditches have been quickly dug to its west as a prelude to the threat that Russia's current offensive could pose to the town itself again. But few could have thought their principal ally, the United States, could have entertained thoughts of surrendering their home.
At the town's maternity ward, the sole operating hospital of its sort for miles, Taisiya caresses Assol, Sunday's born daughter into a world where, all of a sudden, the dangers of Sloviansk's presence have increased.
"I watched the news," she said. "That would be quite awful. But we have no say over that. It's not going to be our choice. People will simply sell their homes."
'The war caught them there'
Births and deaths go on, that of Sofia Lamekhova being especially tragic. Her parents, Natalia and Sviatoslav, had been relieved when she and her husband, Mykyta, decided to settle with their newborn son Lev in Kyiv. Sviatoslav explained, “We just wanted them to be farther from the front lines. Here in Sloviansk, there are drone strikes and shelling almost every day.”But the family of three were discovered among the ruins of the July 31 bombing of an apartment building in Kyiv, killed along with each other by the collapse of the building. Sofia was pregnant at three months and was due a few days hence in Sloviansk to share the news of her pregnancy with her friends.
"They departed from the war, and there was silence there, but the war found them there," Natalia said. Sviatoslav went on, “As a human being, you can’t come to terms with that. You just can’t accept the death of children.”
They had talked the previous night Sofia was killed. "She wanted very much to go to Sloviansk," Natalia said. "To inform everyone of the news, share the happiness. But they did not come back. They returned together, in a different way."
Sofia's mother is macabrely talking about the family's burial on the edge of town. A Ukrainian fighter jet thunders above as she and her husband care for the dusty flowers on their graves. The pair can't get out of Sloviansk – their home, yet also where they distribute food and water aid to many of the townspeople, much of whom are elderly and alone, living off handouts.
The closest station is Kramatorsk, which is the de facto capital of Ukrainian held Donetsk, a busy town, where civilian life exists alongside the military based there. A massive airstrike knocked out a main building – ripping through its four storeys and into its basement. Russian drone raids are routine. But the city overflows with war's business of surviving, and the war itself.
The Kyiv train pulls in to air raid alarms on Monday. Dozens wait on the platform to welcome and replace those coming from the capital. Sobbing is Tetyana, whose Serhiy, has been battling since the second day of Russia's total invasion and has been granted two days off from his tank company outside Kostiantynivka to mark his birthday.
As Tetyana cries, the soldier mildly scolds her agitation. "It would have been better if she hadn't come," he said. "Calm down." Tetyana is not particularly concerned with the larger intrigues of Trump's diplomacy. "Do you know what my dream is? Just for my husband to come back home. I don't care about those lands. I just want him to be alive and return."
The train stops to head back to the capital, men putting their palms to its rolling glass windows, and a girl scratching a heart on a closing door. The sirens persist.
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