A local resident carries water jugs past a destroyed building in Lysychansk, Ukraine, on Wednesday, June 15, 2022. (Tyler Hicks/The New York Times)
LYSYCHANSK, Ukraine — Maksym Katerynyn angrily gestured and pointed at the artillery shell in the ground and a missile sticking out of the wall. That was Ukrainian ammunition, he shouted. And it was Ukrainian artillery that hit his house the day before, killing his mother and stepfather.
“The Russians won’t hit us!” Katerynyn barked. “Ukraine is shooting at us!”
But that was next to impossible: there were no Russian soldiers to shell the Ukrainians in the eastern city of Lysychansk, and it was clear that the projectiles had come from the direction of Sievierodonetsk, a neighboring town, much of which was confiscated Russian Armed Forces.
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The fact that Katerynyn believed this, and that his neighbors nodded in agreement as he sped through his neighborhood condemning their country, was a clear sign: the Russians clearly had a foothold here already – a psychological one.
“I’m going to ask Uncle Putin to launch a rocket where these creatures launched their rockets,” said Katerynyn, standing next to his mother and stepfather’s backyard graves, referring to President Vladimir Putin of Russia. He wanted the Ukrainian military to come out, he said heatedly with an expletive.
This wasn’t always the case in Lysychansk, an industrial city of 100,000 before the war. Now it’s isolated from most parts of the world, with no cell phone service, no pension payments, and increased Russian shelling. But some residents have become receptive audiences to Russian propaganda — or have started spreading it themselves.
They can listen to the radio, both in their hands and in their cars, and watch pro-Russian TV channels when generator power allows. Given Lysychansk’s proximity to Russia, these canals seem to have more importance in some parts of the city than their Ukrainian counterparts.
“If you get hit over the head with the same message, you just drown in it,” said Nina Khrushchev, a professor of international affairs at the New School in New York, who teaches a course on propaganda politics. “After a while you don’t know what the truth is anymore. The message takes over your reality.”
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The notion of Ukraine’s military shelling its own people has been a oft-repeated message on pro-Russian disinformation channels on radio, television and the internet since the Moscow invasion began in February. Aside from sowing doubts among Ukrainians about their own government and military, this was a way for the Kremlin to evade responsibility when it comes to civilian casualties caused by Russian attacks.
During a recent outing to distribute aid, several police officers were approached by an elderly woman who they said asked “guys, when are you going to stop shooting at us?” – leaving the officers incredulous.
Propaganda has been a weapon of war in Ukraine since 2014, when Russian-backed separatists formed two breakaway republics in the Donbass region.
TV and radio towers that had been hijacked there were constantly broadcasting anti-Ukrainian propaganda and Russian disinformation. Those in range were inundated with an alternate reality that was slowly catching on despite Ukrainian countermeasures.
“First they cut off all Ukrainian content and then fill that gap with Russian misinformation,” said Yevhen Fedchenko, editor-in-chief of StopFake, a nonprofit that debunks Russian disinformation, and director of the Mohyla School of Journalism in Kyiv, capital of Ukraine. “It’s been their approach for years, and they haven’t changed the textbook.”
But now, as the frontlines of the war shift as Russia advances into the Donbass, propaganda in cities and towns like Lysychansk has taken on a new intensity and relevance. Very few residents have access to satellite internet, leaving many people glued to battery-powered two-way radios or the radio in their cars when they can afford the fuel.
“You just have to turn on the radio or your phone to hear the Russian radio broadcast here,” said Sergiy Kozachenko, a police officer from Sievierodonetsk who relocated to Lysychansk because of the fighting. “You will listen to it; What else could they do?” FM radio in the area is available without a data connection or cellular network.
As soon as such a broadcast from the pro-Russian broadcaster Radio Victory is available on VHF radio for the Ukrainian armed forces and civilians in Lysychansk and for the troops at the front. His monotonous female voice is almost soothing, despite the ominous messages it conveys.
“The circle will close very soon in the Siwersk area,” the voice emphasizes, referring to the closing pocket around Lysychansk and Sievierodonetsk as the Russians advance from the north and south-east. “Your staff is destroyed. Their commanders ran away, abandoning their subordinates. Zelenskyy also betrayed you,” citing the name of President of Ukraine Volodymyr Zelenskyy.
“Help will not come,” the message continues. “Your death is destined if you resist further. The only way to survive is to run away or surrender. Save your life.”
The broadcast, which was clearly aimed at Ukrainian forces at the front, seems to have entered the lexicon of Lysychansk civilians as well. “Your Kiev government has given up on us,” an elderly woman shouted to a group of volunteers who delivered supplies to an animal shelter last week. The locals didn’t let the volunteers in.
That residents in this area have pro-Russian leanings is not illogical. Many people have family members in Russia, and the towns themselves are close to the Russian border and mostly speak Russian.
They stand in contrast to the millions of Ukrainians in most regions of the country who are outraged by Putin’s invasion and angry at civilians in Russia, including some family members, who are turning a blind eye to the chaos.
Local authorities in Lysychansk estimate that around 30,000 to 40,000 residents will remain in the city. In Sievierodonetsk, which had a population of 160,000 before the war, around 10,000 people have remained, according to the local authorities, despite the brutal street fighting that is taking place.
Ukrainian city workers informally call those who chose to stay “zhduny” or the “waiting ones”.
“These are the ones who are waiting for the Russians there,” Kozachenko said. “They hug them and say to them, ‘Dear ones, we’ve been waiting for you. We were abused here.’”
Although some residents welcome the Russians, many people are unable to evacuate due to lack of money, elderly or disabled family members who are not very mobile, or simply fear of losing their homes.
Galyna Gubarieva, 63, has refused to leave Lysychansk despite the incessant shelling and the approaching Russians, both of whom she openly despises.
Short and spirited, Gubarieva now takes care of her neighbor’s farm in addition to her own homestead. But she refuses to tolerate dealings with her compatriots who have subscribed to Russian propaganda, she said.
“Sometimes an old woman tells some lies and I can’t take it,” Gubarieva said. “‘Oh,’ she says, ‘Russian troops are coming here from the Lysychansk glass factory. Oh let her come sooner!’ And I say, ‘Are you crazy?’”
“There are a lot of people like that among my neighbors,” she said.
Some residents of Lysychansk no longer represent either side, angered by the behavior of the militants, even those who are supposed to be defending them. Instead, they wait for the war to end, no matter who wins.
“This is a war of attrition of any kind,” Khrushchev said. “Not just militarily, but the Kremlin is betting on exhaustion, including among Ukrainians who are war-weary.”
Such was the case with Mykhailo, who had served in the Soviet military decades earlier and whose car he says was stolen by five Ukrainian soldiers who had recently left Sievierodonetsk. Both city and military police officers confirmed to the New York Times that some Ukrainian troops had looted garages in Lysychansk and confiscated private vehicles to be used as front-line personnel carriers.
“They broke into the yard, broke the deadbolt, ripped open the locks, and then pulled the car out by the ropes. And that’s it,” said Mykhailo, who declined to give his last name to discuss sensitive matters. The car, he said, was used to help his ailing 87-year-old mother around town.
“I don’t remember there ever having been a war like this in my life,” he said. “We used to fight the enemy, but not the civilian population.”
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