Mariupol
KhersonKharkiv
Severo-
donetskBakhmutLysychanskLy m a nKryvyi RihBlack
SeaSea of
AzovDnieperDonetsUKRAINE
RUSSIA
CrimeaUkrainian territory annexed
by Russia in 2014LuhanskDonetskArea controlled by
Russian-backed
separatists before
Feb 24thDon
basUnit movements
Russian Ukrainian
Claimed as Russian-controlled
Assessed Russian advances*Assessed as Russian-controlledClaimed Ukrainian counter-attacksJune 1st 2022 *Russia operated in
or attacked, but
does not control
Sources: Institute for the
Study of War; AEI’s Critical
Threats Projectmatch in firepower also seems to have let
Russia reverse at least some of Ukraine’s
recent counteroffensives farther north
near the city of Kharkiv. A forward spotter
in a Ukrainian reconnaissance team there
says that marines from the Russian Baltic
Fleet and other elite units are now rein-
forcing their defensive positions with con-
crete. “They are in for the long haul and
won’t be easy to move,” he said.
But this second phase of war has not
been cheap for Russia. On May 30th British
defence intelligence reported “devastating
losses” among Russia's mid- and junior-
ranking officers, who had been pushed for-
ward by senior officers desperate for good
news to report up the chain of command.
“Our soldiers tell me they don't understand
what is happening,” says Mr Haidai;
“Twenty men go on the offensive; we
shoot, they fall. Ten of them get up; we
shoot, and they fall. And then [they] send
in another 20 men.” Mykhailo Samus, a
military analyst based in Kyiv, says that the
intense fighting in Donbas will eventually
favour Ukraine. Military science suggests
losses will fall disproportionally on the ad-
vancing side, he notes. “Add in foliage,
woodlands, water and defensive construc-
tions built over eight years of war, and you
understand every metre Russia moves for-
ward comes at a massive loss to its men
and equipment.”
There are no reliable numbers on the
level of Russian losses in Donbas, but tele-
phone intercepts released by Ukraine this
week also purport to show one Russian un-
it on the edge of mutiny. In one expletive-
laden exchange with a friend, a young sol-
dier is heard to say that just 215 men remain
from a unit that once numbered 600. “Our
brigade can't take shit because there's
nothing of it left. We have one full-time
gun commander, two artillery pieces left
from 12, and only three of 12 vehicles actu-
ally move.”
Ukraine, meanwhile, is taking advan-
tage of Russia's focus on Donbas to launch
counter-attacks in Kherson province, in
the south of the country and adjacent to
Crimea. Its units are advancing with some
success in two directions towards the vil-
lages of Snihurivka and Davydiv Brid. Its
aim appears to be not to push Russian forc-
es out of the region, but to deter them from
attacking farther north towards the mining
city of Kryviyi Rih, the hometown of Mr Ze-
lensky. Mr Arestovych said that Western
heavy-artillery systems had joined that
battle just in time. “We had nothing to
shoot for a week, but then suddenly we
were able to hit the Russians hard, precise-
ly, and they weren't happy.”
After some debate, America now seems
set to deliver more-powerful rocket sys-
tems that would allow Ukraine to attack
Russian guns and break up its supply lines
(see article on next page). The new weap-onry is unlikely to arrive soon enough to
stop Severodonetsk from falling. But it
could be used to stop the Russian advance,
and even, in time, to offer Ukraine an op-
portunity to retake the town and others
like it in the east and the south. Mr Bahirov
certainly hasn't given up hope of return-
ing. “I left the bike in storage in Bakhmut.
It's going to be my big performance, my
victory lap—riding back to Severodonetsk
the very way I left.” 26 Europe The Economist June 4th 2022
KharkivTragedy on
Shakespeare Street
Q
uick thinkingsaved Yulia Rebenko
from probable death. She ran from her
kitchen to the bathroom as soon as she
heard the first thuds. By the time the artil-
lery reached her flat on Shakespeare Street
on the afternoon of May 26th, slicing
through the chestnut trees to land outside
her window, Ms Rebenko was two walls
away from the impact. She walked away
with minor cuts. At least nine others ended
up in the morgue.
Ukraine’s second city, a proud, gutsy,
working-class centre, faces a most uncer-
tain future. Because it is only 40km from
Russia, few thought Kharkiv stood any
chance of withstanding an invasion. In the
event, enemy armour was inside the
sprawling city boundaries within the first
three days. But a combination of spirited
resistance and a reluctance by Moscow to
commit the kind of forces needed to encir-cle the city meant Kharkiv somehow sur-
vived. In mid-May Ukraine counter-at-
tacked and retook several villages to the
north and north-east. Many people began
to hope normal life was possible; some
even began to return home. The reality has
proven more sobering. The northern parts
of the city remain within range of Russia’s
long-range artillery, as the Shakespeare
Street attack demonstrated. The Russians
are digging in, reinforcing their positions
in a way that will make pushing them back
again very difficult.
Governor Oleh Synyehubov says the
battle for Kharkiv does not look as though
it will end soon. “We understand it isn’t a
one-month story, and we will need to live
within this new reality,” he says. He has
been without an office since a Russian
cruise missile took out his headquarters in
March. Just over half of Kharkiv’s 1.5m peo-
ple have left. Everyone who remains is vul-
nerable to Russian jets, rockets and, in
places, artillery; he wants them to stay at
home unless they have an urgent need to
be on the streets. Some appear to be heed-
ing his advice. But others defiantly ignore
it. The Ditch, a cocktail bar 2km from
Shakespeare Street, continued with its
plans to re-open after three months de-
spite the renewed missile strikes. “Artillery
doesn’t faze us any more,” said Daria Taran,
barman and co-owner. “We know a missile
might have our name on it. But that’s fate.”
Over at the city’s gigantic Barabashova
market, once the beating heart of Kharkiv
trade but now mostly reduced to scorched
rubble, a couple of shopkeepers are daring
to set up again. Iryna Petrovna has re-
turned to sell flasks and metal pans. Her
inventory is Chinese, and with Ukraine’s
ports under Russian blockade, she knows
she is unlikely to get new stocks. “We’re
scared as hell, but what else can we do? We
need to work.”
The market lies at one end of the
sprawling Saltivka district—a tough, Sovi-
et-built prefab jungle that owing to its po-
sition in the north of Kharkiv has borne the
brunt of Russian violence. It used to be
called the Moscow district, but like many
other Russian-themed names, that has
changed. In safer parts of the city, people
are returning, but here the traffic is one-
way. Residents are returning to pick up
whatever possessions they can before scar-
pering: paintings, televisions, fridges, air-
conditioning units, toilet fittings. Alla Ya-
roslavtseva, 57, emerges from the charred
ruins of 80 Natalii Uzhvii Street clutching a
handful of memories. She doubts that she
will ever return. She worked all her life to
buy her flat outright in the hope that she
could pass it on to her children, she says.
“Now I have to start again because the fuck-
ing Russian World decided to come and
liberate me. From what? From my apart-
ment? From my home?” KHARKIV
How war has changed Ukraine’s
second city