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.
Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has announced his resignation.
The 53-year-old said he will step down as leader of the country’s ruling Liberal Party, which he has led since 2013.
He says it will allow his party to choose a new leader as he suspends parliament until March due to political deadlock.
Chrystia Freeland, seen on the day she quit as finance minister and deputy prime minister in December. Pic: Spencer Colby/The Canadian Press via AP
Follow live: Justin Trudeau announces resignation
Speaking to reporters in front of his residence at Rideau Cottage, in the country’s capital, Ottawa, he said “internal battles” mean that he “cannot be the best option” in the next election.
“I don’t easily back down faced with a fight, especially a very important one for our party and the country. But I do this job because the interests of Canadians and the well-being of democracy is something that I hold dear.
“A new prime minister and leader of the Liberal Party will carry its values and ideals into that next election. I am excited to see that process unfold in the months ahead.”
Mr Trudeau, who has been prime minister since 2015, faced calls to quit from a chorus of his MPs amid poor showings in opinion polls.
He came under further pressure after his finance minister, Chrystia Freeland, resigned in December over clashes on policy.
The disagreements included how to handle possible US tariffs imposed by Donald Trump‘s incoming administration.
Justin Trudeau and Donald Trump in Italy in 2017. Pic: AP
Mr Trudeau’s resignation comes as the polls show his party is likely to suffer a heavy defeat to the official opposition Conservatives in an election that must be held by late October.
The Liberals must now name an interim leader to take over as prime minister ahead of a special leadership convention.
Mr Trudeau came to power 10 years ago following a decade of Conservative Party rule and was initially praised for returning the country to its liberal past.
But he has become deeply unpopular with voters in recent years over a range of issues, including the soaring cost of food and housing and surging immigration.
He is the eldest son of Pierre Trudeau, one of Canada’s most famous prime ministers, who led the country from 1968 to 1979 and from 1980 to 1984.
The political upheaval comes at a difficult moment for Canada internationally.
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US President-elect Donald Trump has threatened to impose 25% tariffs on all Canadian goods if Ottawa does not stem what Mr Trump calls a flow of migrants and drugs into the US.
Many fewer of each cross into the US from Canada than from Mexico, which Mr Trump has also threatened.
In a social media post on Christmas Day, Mr Trump even suggested the US could take control of Canada, as well as Greenland and the Panama Canal.
Canada is a major exporter of oil and natural gas to the US, which also relies on its northern neighbour for steel, aluminium and autos.
Few one-time golden boys manage to retain their lustre long into political office.
Barack Obama just about held on to his, leaving the US presidency with his approval rating high despite his party’s 2016 loss to Donald Trump.
But Emmanuel Macron is faltering in France and Justin Trudeau steps down as head of Canada’s liberal party with his popularity in shreds. So much for Western liberal values.
In the high tides of inflation and immigration, those who were their supposed flag-bearers are no longer what electorates want.
Follow live: Justin Trudeau announces resignation
For Mr Trudeau, it is a dramatic reckoning. His approval ratings have dropped from 65% at their highest in September 2016 to 22% now, according to the “Trudeau Tracker” from Canada’s non-profit Angus Reid Institute.
The sudden departure of his finance minister and key political ally Chrystia Freeland last month dealt his leadership a body blow, just as Canada readies itself for a potential trade war with the US which, she argued in a bracing resignation letter, his government was not taking seriously enough.
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“Parliament has been paralysed for months,” Trudeau says
The man Mr Trump recently trolled as “Governor of the ‘Great State of Canada’ or ’51st (US) state'”, Mr Trudeau was as close to Canadian political royalty as it gets.
The son of the country’s 15th prime minister, Pierre Trudeau, he was famously toasted by US president Richard Nixon as “the future prime minister of Canada” when he joined his father on a state visit as a toddler.
Aged five, he met the late Queen for the first time. “Thank you for making me feel so old”, she remarked drily at a re-meet in Malta almost 40 years later.
He has led Canada’s liberal party since 2013 and served as the country’s 23rd prime minister for almost a decade.
Mr Trudeau won a resounding electoral victory in 2015 and secured the premiership through two subsequent elections, though as head of a minority government.
Mr Trudeau, his wife and children celebrate after he won the Federal Liberal leadership in 2013 in Ottawa. Pic: AP/The Canadian Press/Adrian Wyld
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He made significant inroads against poverty in Canada, worked hard on nation to nation reconciliation with Canada’s indigenous communities, secured an effective trade deal with the US and Mexico in 2016 and managed to keep the public mostly on-side through the COVID-19 pandemic.
But he was a polarising figure. Holidays in exotic climes like a trip to the Bahamas in 2016 to an island belonging to the Aga Khan made him seem elitist and out of touch.
There was embarrassment when blackface images surfaced from his early years as a teacher, for which he apologised profusely.
His supposed liberal credentials smacked of double standards when he invoked emergency powers to crush truckers’ protests in 2022.
But it was the economic aftermath of the pandemic, with Canada suffering an acute housing shortage, immigration leaping under his premiership and the cost of living hitting households across the board which really piled on the pressure.
In those, Canada is not unique. But the opposition conservatives and the public at large clearly want change, and Mr Trudeau has responded.
He has announced his intention to resign as party leader and prime minister after the Liberals selects their next leader.
Mr Trudeau’s legacy may shine brighter with a little hindsight. But now is not that moment.
The question is whether his conservative opposition will fare any better in an increasingly combative geopolitical environment if, as seems likely, a candidate of their choosing wins a federal election due at some point this year.
Donkey karts loaded with wrapped parcels of unknown goods weave around the large puddles of water left in the dried riverbed.
Young men quickly hop over laid bricks to bridge the puddles followed by women treading carefully with babies on their backs.
The Limpopo River’s seasonal dryness is a natural pathway for those moving into South Africa from Zimbabwe illegally.
A sandy narrow beach undisturbed by border patrols with crossers chatting peacefully under trees on both banks as men furiously load and unload smuggled goods on the roadside.
Against the anti-immigration rage and xenophobia boiling over in South Africa’s urban centres, the tranquillity and ease of the border jumping is astonishingly calm.
People crossing the dried Limpopo River to get from Zimbabwe to South Africa
“You can’t stop someone who is suffering. They have to find any means to come find food,” one man tells us anonymously as he crosses illegally.
At 55 years old, he remembers the 3,500-volt electric fence called the “snake of fire” installed here by the Apartheid regime.
Hundreds of women and children escaping conflict in the late 1980s and early 1990s were electrocuted.
A woman near the border
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Today, people fleeing drought and economic strife are smuggled across or walking through border blindspots like this one.
“Now, it’s easy,” he says. “There is no border authority here.”
He crosses regularly and always illegally. While he laughs at the lack of border agents, he says he has been stopped by soldiers in the past.
“They send us back but then the next day you try to come back and it is fine.”
Part of the dilapidated border fence that separates South Africa with Zimbabwe
We find a few soldiers on our way back to the main road. They look confused by our presence but unphased. It is hard to believe they are unaware of the streams of people and goods moving across the dried riverbed just a few hundred metres away.
Border ‘fence’ trampled and full of holes
We drive along the border fence to get to the official border post into Zimbabwe, Beitbridge.
“Fence” is a generous term for the knee-height barbed wire laid across 25 miles of South Africa’s northern edges in 2020. Some sections are completely trampled, and others are gaping with holes.
The concrete fortress is a drastic change to the soft, sandy riverbed. Queues dismantle and reassemble as eager crowds rush from one building to another as instructions change.
Zimbabweans can live, work and study in South Africa on a Zimbabwean exemption permit, but many like Precious, a mother-of-three, cannot even afford a passport.
Precious, a mother-of-three, staying at a shelter in Musina, South Africa
Shelters for women and trafficked children in Musina
When we meet her at a women’s shelter in the border town of Musina, she says she only has $30 (£23.90) to find work in South Africa and that a passport costs $50 (£39.80).
“My husband is disabled and can’t work or do anything. I’m the only one doing everything – school, food, everything. I’m the one who has to take care of the kids and that situation makes me come here to find something,” she says tearfully before breaking down.
The shelter next door is home to trafficked children that were rescued. Other shelters are full of men looking for work.
Musina is a stagnant sanctuary for Zimbabweans searching for a better life who become paralysed here – a sign of the declining state of Zimbabwe and the growing hostility deeper in South Africa.
In Johannesburg, South Africa’s economic centre, illegal immigrants are facing raids and deportations organised by the Ministry of Home Affairs at the behest of popular discontent.
The heavy-handed escalation in the interior sits in stark contrast to the lax border control.
Derelict buildings in Johannesburg where migrants are living
“I wonder how serious our government is about dealing with immigration,” says Nomzamo Zondo, human rights attorney and executive director of the Socio-Economic Rights Institute of South Africa (SERI), as we walk through Johannesburg’s derelict inner city.
“I think part of it is that the South Africa we want to build is one that wants to welcome its neighbours and doesn’t forget the people that welcomed us when we didn’t have a home – and that is why I think they are so poor at maintaining the borders.”
She adds: “But then the call has to be one that says once you are here, how do we make sure you are regularised here, that you know who you are, and contribute to the economy at this point in time.”
More makeshift migrant accommodation in Johannesburg
Climate of anti-migrant hate
In 1994 as South Africa’s first democratically elected president, Nelson Mandela ordered that all electric fences be taken down.
His dream for South Africa to become a pan-African haven for civilians of neighbouring countries that provided sanctuary for fighters in the anti-Apartheid movement was criticised by local constituents back then.
Sky correspondent Yousra Elbagir speaks to migrants inside a government van
Now in a climate of increasing anti-migrant hate, that vision is rejected outright.
“I think that is the highest level of sell-out. When South Africans were in exile, they were in camps and they were restricted to go to other parts of those countries,” says Bungani Thusi, a member of anti-immigrant movement Operation Dudula, at a protest in Soweto.
Anti-immigrant protesters from the group Operation Dudula at a demonstration in Soweto
He is wearing faux military fatigues and has the upright position of an officer heading into battle.
“Why do you allow foreigners to go all over South Africa and run businesses and make girlfriends?” he adds, with all the seriousness of protest.
“South Africans can’t even have their own girlfriends because the foreigners have taken over the girlfriend space.”
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