Ukraine war: ‘There is only us and them – enemies’ – Ukrainians dug in trenches on Belarus and Russia frontline
They tell us to run, and so we run. Through the scrub, the mud and the undergrowth until we stop under the shelter of trees. Out of breath, out of sight and, for now, out of danger.
This is a place of mud, weapons and nervous energy. We are in the area where the borders of Ukraine, Belarus and Russia converge. What was once a novelty on a map is now a tangible military pinch point and Russia’s next assault on Ukraine might well come through this terrain.
We are with the Ukrainian Border Force, who monitor and guard the frontier. A year ago, these people worried about customs checks on the hundreds of lorries that came through every day, en route between Turkey and Russia. It was, says a smiling, broad-shouldered man guard called Barack, “good work – interesting, not too hard”.
Now, there are no lorries and the guards have become the first line of defence. If Russian troops do pour through this border once more – and there is a growing feeling that they will – then these men and women will be the ones to greet them; to try to repel the Russian army. And so, the border guards have adapted to a new and vastly more perilous world.
“I don’t want to do this,” one of them says to me. “But I do it because I love my land and my country. If I need to fight, I will do this without thinking. It’s just work.”
But of course, it isn’t really “just work”. Through the sights of a heavy machine gun, you can see Belarus, just a few kilometres away. The Russian border is not much further away, and shells are fired over regularly. We can hear the regular booms as they land.
Many people around here have left. Those who remain have become accustomed to violence raining down on them – they use bicycles instead of cars, because bikes don’t attract drones.
Barack is a border guard stationed at the triple frontier between Russia, Belarus and Ukraine
Bonhomie, determination and adrenaline
Not far away is a small village that stands right on the border, cut off from the world. It was once home to 100 people but has been almost completely demolished. Maybe ten people remain, and they are almost unreachable.
We are the first foreign journalists to come here and spend time with these guards. What we find is a blend of bonhomie, determination and adrenaline. They’ve already seen one Russian invasion here and they fear another.
Thousands of newly mobilised Russian troops have been sent to Belarus this month to create a so-called “regional force” to defend the border.
A man in a balaclava readies a British-made NLAW missile launcher
In theory, it is a collaboration between the two countries, but few, beyond the Kremlin or Minsk, take that at face value. Just about everyone else sees it as a device for strengthening the Russian presence ahead of a possible attack, designed to stretch Ukrainian resources by opening up another offensive.
There is a precedent, of course. Back in February, Russian troops came over this border and took over the area. They formed a long convoy of vehicles that set off in the direction of Kyiv, before eventually withdrawing in April.
Since then, the border guards have been preparing. They have dug long trenches, where you walk through mud in near darkness with thoughts of World War One in your mind. And yet, in one of these underground rooms, we see computer terminals linked to the Starlink satellite systems.
Oleksander and Olga’s ceiling fell in on them after an explosion rocked their home
I talk to Barack in a room carved out from the trench. There are wooden boards on the floor and a crude bunk bed in the corner. He laughs when I say it feels like we’ve gone back a century, but agrees. I ask him about the Russian troop build-up a short distance away.
“They are becoming more aggressive, but our Ukrainian forces give them a bloody nose!” he laughs again.
‘We need more weapons’
They have a variety of weaponry – heavy machine guns, anti-tank missiles, rifles, ammunition and so on. There are minefields around us and a variety of concealed look-out posts. The job of preparing to resist a huge invading army is an intimidating one. It’s not one that they’re really trained for, but it’s one they’ve embraced.
The trouble is that while the spirit is boundless, the resources are not.
“We need more weapons because we don’t know the intensity of the possible attack. We do not know how long we will need to maintain the defence on the border,” says Halyna, the spokesperson for the Chernihiv border guard unit.
“We are reacting to the raising of the risk by the invasion with more preparation, more fortification – we want to stop them at the border.
“We need heavy weapons. If they send infantry, you can use assault rifles and machine guns and it will all be contained. The problem begins when tanks and their armoured personnel carriers come from their side.”
What, I ask, were the lessons they learned from the February attack?
“That they are unpredictable. This is the first lesson. And they are not our friends.”
Much of the infrastructure around Horodnia hasn’t been repaired since the last assault by Russian troops
It is a lesson that came as a brutal shock to many people in this region, where Ukrainians, Belarusians and Russians have mixed for so many years. The nearest town to this border is Horodnia, which was the first to be taken by the Russians and the last to be relinquished.
They have rebuilt and repainted, but you can still see scars. A little out of town, we came down a rough road and found burnt out trucks, craters, shell casing and even an unexplored rocket lying in the woods.
‘No more brotherly Belarus, no more good Russia’
The houses bear witness to the violence. Oleksander and Olga remember it well. An explosion shook their house so violently that the ceiling fell in on their heads. “There are relatives of ours in Russia and everywhere but now the situation is such that we cheer exclusively for our country,” says Oleksander.
“There is no longer a friendly, brotherly Belarus, or a good Russia. There is only us and them – enemies. This is it.”
It is tempting to be intoxicated by this bravado. Certainly, Ukraine is a nation where resilience is armoured by a sense of grievance and the support of so much of the world. But it is also a nation whose heart has broken.
Nadia lives not far from the triple frontier between Belarus-Russia-Ukraine. She is Belarusian but lives in Ukraine
There is a house at the end of the street that is burnt out. It was bombed, caught fire and was remorselessly wrecked. Nadia watched all this happen from over the road, terrified. She raised the alarm, brought as much water as she could and then cried.
Not long after, her mother died.
Nadia is Belarusian but came here many years ago. Now she is fragile and scared, prepared to hide from another Russian invasion in the outside cellar where she keeps potatoes for the winter. But she fears it would simply collapse and seal her in.
“There is no rest for us here. My nerves are completely gone. What has Ukraine done to them? We have such great people here. They are peaceful people.
“So many people were killed. So many kids. So much grief.” And she weeps.
It’s a year since the US put Donald Trump back in the White House and I’ve spent this anniversary week in Florida and in Pennsylvania – two worlds in one country where I found two such contrasting snapshots of Trump’s America.
There are many ways to reflect on the successes and failures of the past year. Different issues matter to different people. But the thing which matters to all Americans is money.
The cost of living was a key factor in Donald Trump’s victory. He promised to make the country more affordable again. So: how’s he done?
On Wednesday, exactly a year since Americans went to the polls, the president was in Miami. He had picked this city and a particular crowd for his anniversary speech.
I was in the audience at the America Business Forum as he told wealthy entrepreneurs and investors how great life is now.
“One year ago we were a dead country, now we’re considered the hottest country in the world.” he told them to cheers. “Record high, record high, record high…”
The vibe was glitzy and wealthy. These days, these are his voters; his crowd.
“After just one year since that glorious election, I’m thrilled to say that America is back, America is back bigger, better, stronger than ever.” he said.
“We’ve done really well. I think it’s the best nine months, they say, of any president. And I really believe that if we can have a few more nine months like this, you’d be very happy. You’d be very satisfied.”
There was little question here that people are happy.
Liz Ciborowski says Trump has been good for the economy
“Trump’s been a good thing?” I asked one attendee, Liz Ciborowski.
“Yes. He has really pushed for a lot of issues that are really important for our economy,” she said.
“I’m an investor,” said another, Andrea.
“I’m a happy girl. I’m doing good,” she said with a laugh.
Andrea says she’s happy with how the economy is faring
A year on from his historic victory, the president was, notably, not with the grassroots folk in the places that propelled him back to the White House.
He had chosen to be among business leaders in Miami. Safe crowd, safe state, safe space.
But there was just one hint in his speech which seemed to acknowledge the reality that should be a concern for him.
“We have the greatest economy right now,” he said, adding: “A lot of people don’t see that.”
That is the crux of it: many people beyond the fortunate here don’t feel the “greatest economy” he talks about. And many of those people are in the places that delivered Trump his victory.
That’s the untold story of the past year.
A thousand miles to the north of Miami is another America – another world.
Steelton, Pennsylvania sits in one of Donald Trump’s heartlands. But it is not feeling the beat of his greatest economy. Not at all.
At the local steel union, I was invited to attend a meeting of a group of steel workers. It was an intimate glimpse into a hard, life-changing moment for the men.
The steel plant is shutting down and they were listening to their union representative explaining what happens next.
David Myers used to be employed at the steelworks
The conversation was punctuated with all the words no one wants to hear: laid off, severance, redundancy.
“For over 100 years, my family has been here working. And I was planning on possibly one day having my son join me, but I don’t know if that’s a possibility now,” former employee David Myers tells me.
“And…” he pauses. “Sorry I’m getting a little emotional about it. We’ve been supplying America with railroad tracks for over a century and a half, and it feels weird for it to be coming to an end.”
Cleveland Cliffs Steelton plant is closing because of weakening demand, according to its owners. Their stock price has since surged. Good news for the Miami crowd, probably. It is the irony between the two Americas.
Read more US news:
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Steelton in Pennsylvania
Down at the shuttered plant, it’s empty, eerie and depressing. It is certainly not the image or the vision that Donald Trump imagined for his America.
Pennsylvania, remember, was key to propelling Trump back to the White House. In this swing state, they swung to his promises – factories reopened and life more affordable.
Up the road, conversations outside the town’s government-subsidised homes frame the challenges here so starkly.
“How much help does the community need?” I asked a man running the local food bank.
Elder Melvin Watts is a community organiser
“As much as they can get. I mean, help is a four-letter word but it has a big meaning. So help!” community organiser Elder Melvin Watts said.
I asked if he thought things were worse than a year ago.
“Yes sir. I believe they needed it then and they need it that much more now. You know it’s not hard to figure that out. The cost of living is high.”
Nearby, I met a woman called Sandra.
Sandra says it’s getting harder to make ends meet
“It’s been harder, and I’m a hard-working woman.” she told me. “I don’t get no food stamps, I don’t get none of that. You’ve got to take care of them bills, eat a little bit or don’t have the lights on. Then you have people like Mr Melvin, he’s been out here for years, serving the community.”
Inside Mr Melvin’s food bank, a moment then unfolded that cut to the heart of the need here.
A woman called Geraldine Santiago arrived, distressed, emotional and then overwhelmed by the boxes of food available to her.
“We’ll help you…” Mr Melvin said as she sobbed.
Geraldine’s welfare has been affected by the shutdown
Geraldine is one of 40 million Americans now not receiving the full nutritional assistance programme, known as SNAP, and usually provided by the federal government.
SNAP benefits have stopped because the government remains shut down amid political deadlock.
I watched Geraldine’s rollercoaster emotions spilling out – from desperation to gratitude at this moment of respite. She left with a car boot full of food.
A year on from his victory, Donald Trump continues to frame himself as the “America First” president and now with an economy transformed. But parts of America feel far, far away.
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