When the shooting starts, it means the drones have surpassed the electronic interception barriers. The first burst was heard at 4:28 p.m. Still distant. The second much closer. It's time to run. For months, the residents of Kherson have come across signs like the one hanging from a local hospital. "Grenade-launching drone attacks, how to protect yourself". The leaflets recommend running in a "snake" formation, changing direction every 7 or 10 meters. Fortunately, the series of shots ends with a loud explosion. The drone has been destroyed by one of the shots.
In recent days, the UAVs (Unmanned Aerial Vehicles) have targeted the center of the Ukrainian city. Just passing -hurriedly, of course- through the so-called Liberty Square reveals the charred shells of at least two cars. Both actions resulted in one death and several injuries. The charred metal skeletons of the cars in the heart of the city are a reminder of the "surreal" situation -expression of the head of the Kherson Jin Roh Circus, Roman Vashchenko- witnessed in the Ukrainian town.
A few meters from one of the destroyed cars, behind a defensive barrier filled with dirt, and hidden behind walls boarded up with wood, visitors discover dozens of local residents shopping in a supermarket crowded with products. Some of the customers smoke a cigarette in front of the scene of the recent attack.
The constant threat of Russian drones has altered the appearance of Kherson, where shelters, metal nets designed to trap these flying objects, and a bizarre routine of repeated shots and explosions are now common.
The southern Ukrainian town has faced numerous setbacks in recent years. From the Russian occupation -which did not end until it was liberated in November 2022- to the floods it faced after Moscow's troops blew up the Kakhovka dam in June 2023.
Now it's the turn of terror. For several months, Russian military stationed just five kilometers away, on the other side of the Dnieper River, have intensified deliberate UAV attacks on civilians in what the military head of the region, Oleksandr Prokudin, describes as a "hunt." Their targets are cars, buses, ambulances, or simple pedestrians.
"They themselves use that word and call them safaris. Then they post the images on their Telegram channels, laughing at the victims. There are areas where we can no longer retrieve the bodies and have to wait up to five days," notes Prokudin, who meets with visitors in an underground shelter.
A van protected against drones, in Kherson.Javier Espinosa
The Ukrainian representative explains that Kherson has established an "electronic wall" that intercepts "80%" of these devices, but the Russians continue to send new swarms.
"We are installing metal nets, we have developed drones loaded with pellets to shoot down other drones... Yes, it seems like a Spider-Man movie or Star Wars, but it's real," he adds. His advisor, Oleksandz Tonokonnikov, shows a photo of a UAV trapped in one of the nets as if it were a fly caught in a spider's web.
According to Prokudin's figures, in just the first 4 months of this year, Russian devices have ended the lives of more than 50 civilians and injured hundreds. We are talking about thousands of attacks. More than 10,000 drones in that same period.
Under this perpetual danger, moving around Kherson has become a kind of roulette. Many prefer to walk. They know that UAVs target vehicles.
"It's scary. You have to walk among the trees, and we try not to go out much. We are always listening for any buzzing," asserts Leonid Zelensky, a 65-year-old veteran, who wanders through a second-hand clothing store that, like everything in Kherson, either operates underground or under the protection of walls.
A few meters away, a quartet enjoys an alcoholic drink, also semi-hidden by the trees. When asked the reason, although it is obvious, they reply: "An hour ago, another drone fell nearby."
A building destroyed by a missile.Albert Lores
The threat has forced the population still residing in the town -around 60 to 65,000 people, down from 280,000 before- to become familiar with new drone detectors, which are becoming popular among taxi drivers, delivery drivers, rescuers, or even businesses like a well-known local café.
Adorned with a hipster style that wouldn't be out of place in New York, its manager, Aleksei Meldinenko, 37, displays the small gadget with antennas next to the carrot cakes and brownies he sells.
Both Meldinenko and the establishment itself are a perfect allegory of the symbiosis between death and life that coexist in Kherson. The interior of the venue is adorned with Buddha statues, although one of them holds a piece of shrapnel. "It's from the rocket that hit the street and shattered the windows in August 2023. Look, the hole is still there, in the middle of the asphalt," points out Meldineko, who only interrupts his speech to continue carefully serving a couple of cappuccinos, decorated with heart-shaped foam.
Two huge teddy bears are nestled next to the new windows. A tray filled with more projectile remnants and a drone antenna can be seen a few meters away. "Another drone fell nearby a couple of days ago", he adds.
His customers enjoy their coffee cups at small tables placed on the sidewalk, a few hundred meters from the river that marks the "border" with the territory controlled by Russia. "Here, we have the best coffee. An atmosphere where war is not on our minds," reads one of the dedications in the visitor book they have in the business.
But it's hard to ignore the conflict. The Telegram page dedicated to alerting about UAV movements in the city keeps updating. "9:22 Enemy FPV in the Slavy Park area. 9:31 Liberty Square, enemy drone. Riverside area, mavic activity (surveillance UAV). 10:10 Enemy drone activity, B. Khmelnytskyi Street." And so on throughout the day.
Initially, the drones only operated in neighborhoods near the river. They call it the "red zone." Since last December, the UAVs have expanded their range to the entire central area of the town. "You could say that all of Kherson is a red zone," Prokudin points out.
Ludmila and Natalia, who were recently evacuated due to unmanned aerial vehicle attacks.Albert Lores
"Yes, it's a bizarre situation, but we have to accept life as it is. I want to continue enjoying my coffee," says a 43-year-old soldier, who identifies himself as "Grom." Another explosion resonates nearby as he finishes his drink, something the Ukrainian greets with a laugh. Common sense doesn't seem to have a special place in this enclave.
The logic that most of Kherson's inhabitants cling to is as illogical as that which inspires the Jin Roh Circus. No one would expect to find eight young people attending a class in Roman Vashchenko's gymnasium, doing acrobatics and hanging from "aerial ropes" in a town besieged by drones.
"Today there are fewer children because there are many drones," observes Anastasia with the strange naturalness granted to a challenge that can be deadly.
Jin Roh was founded in 2007 and once had up to 300 students, many of whom became circus artists. Even today, the Circus organizes shows in countries like Italy and in other Ukrainian cities like Lviv or Kyiv.
Roman acknowledges that before each rehearsal - he has three weekly appointments - he is forced to check the channels that warn about the activity of the UAVs to decide whether it is possible for the children to come to the gym or not. "We cannot allow these children to lose their childhood. At least here they have an island of normality," he argues.
For the youth, circus acrobatics classes are an escape from the reality that awaits them beyond the walls. This is evident through the windows, which allow seeing the destroyed facade of the nearby shopping center or the playground surrounded by explosion protection barriers. "God protect this place!" proclaims Anastasia with a smile. Roman is not deceived. "Here we live under a sense of false security that is not real," he says.
The oldest of all students, Anton Dudnik, 18 years old, is one of those who go to the Jin Roh venue with the aim of dedicating himself "professionally" to the circus in the future. His current specialty is performing handstand somersaults. Dudnik talks about acrobatic techniques and then returns to reality. "Yesterday, for example, I had to wait a while (to come to practice) because there was a hidden drone near my house looking for something to target," he points out. The young Vasilisa Kiseliyova, only 12 years old, has taken a more extreme stance. For her, war does not exist. "I don't think about it," she states. "We have lost our survival instinct," echoes Marina Yakovenko, a 58-year-old music teacher turned comedic actress, who moves around in pajamas on the street to film a commercial. Another of her clown troupe colleagues has dressed up as Spiderman. "The people ask us for humor." They had planned to film in the central area of Jersón, but recent events have deterred them. "People ask us for a bit of humor these days," justifies Gregory Maalov, the director of the unique group, in the face of the inconsistency of seeing clowns on the streets of a town plagued by UAVs. Despite the resilience of many, the recurrent action of unmanned aerial vehicles has caused a significant exodus of the population, especially in the villages north of Jersón, which have been practically isolated. Buses no longer reach there, and the food supply is scarce, only occasionally distributed by volunteer groups embarked on missions of extreme risk.
Natalia Privutkievic, 72, and her friend Ludmila Kavchenko, 70, had to be evacuated from their village - about 12 kilometers from Jersón - a few days ago. They describe the operation as "terrifying." It had to be carried out at night and in the dark, under the assumption that drones with night vision are not as common as those that operate during the day. Ludmila can't stop crying as she remembers how a UAV grenade "blew off half of her neighbor's head." Or when she recalls "Andrey," another resident of the same village, who died in a similar way while fixing an electricity cable. "The cars (with humanitarian aid) stopped coming a month ago. We couldn't leave the house. I don't want anyone to go through what we have been through," she says. The two women are part of the dozen civilians who have had to flee the riverside villages in the last month and have ended up in a camp of prefabricated houses built near Jersón.
The Russian aerial offensive - which began last summer and has escalated since then - has created a displaced community exceeding 200 people, according to the complex's manager, Sergey Protsenko. The number does not increase because now only the "kamikazes" undertake trips to the north of Jersón, a term given by Lyubov Minko, one of the local leaders. Routes like the T-0403 highway, which runs north along the Dnipro, or the Perekopska road, one of the most famous avenues in Jersón, have been banned for civilian vehicles. "The drones are mining those routes and are extremely dangerous," clarifies Oleksandr Prokudin. The volunteer group led by Igor Chornikh, 36, has managed to rescue almost fifty people trapped in those enclaves in the last month but admits they have received many more requests they could not attend to. "There are places we cannot go to. The last rescue was on April 5. The next day we sent another vehicle, and a mine blew up one of its tires. It had to return using the other three," he narrates. Igor speaks in a local restaurant following the disturbed script that governs life in this town. The drone detector he has placed on the table activates repeatedly. Each beep announces the presence of a UAV. It is one of the most modern models, costing about 200 euros. If the device is very close, it can display the UAV image on a small screen. "That means it's almost overhead, and we have to speed up or escape from the car," he reasons.
According to his experience, the ones currently marked by the gadget are "circling the area but not very close." At the same time, the diners continue to enjoy the sushi platter. "Two weeks ago, one of our colleagues even saw his own car on the screen. He managed to maneuver, and the drone exploded on the ground. The shrapnel destroyed the roof and passed a meter away from his head. But he survived."
Most workers who travel in public service vehicles such as those of the electric company, water distribution, or even hospital ambulances now have these alert devices. Air fresheners or dashboard ornaments in cars from other European countries have been replaced here by these gadgets that warn of imminent danger. "We knew we were the target of drones. The television and authorities told us. But I believed it when a grenade was thrown at us three weeks ago in the city center. Miraculously, it only shattered the windshield," says Valesiy Ovtsin, a 65-year-old driver of a local hospital ambulance, one of the 23 ambulances that have suffered similar attacks in recent months.
Some suburbs of Jersón, like Antonivka, have also become almost deserted. About 13,000 people used to live there before 2022. Now only a few hundred remain. The head of that district, Serhii Ivashchenko, moves around with a helmet, bulletproof vest, and a shotgun, which is increasingly used to shoot down the flying devices. In Antonivka, only the resolute like Elena Derfusheva, 61, remain.
She lies in a bed in the underground hospital where she has been hospitalized since April 3. She was returning home with two of her dogs when the UAV threw a grenade at her. "It tore off my buttocks and broke my leg. I could have lost it. The doctors saved it," she states. The defiant tone of the engineer, now retired, increases when she mentions that this is not the first incident she has experienced at her home. "The drones have attacked me four times. Last August, I helped rescue a 93-year-old neighbor who was injured by artillery shelling. We were near a tree, and I was comforting her. I thought the branches protected us. The drone threw a grenade and injured my leg. My neighbor died. A piece of shrapnel broke an artery, and she bled out." Since the end of last year, public transportation - which continues to operate in Jersón despite several deadly bus attacks - no longer approaches her location. "On my street, people don't even dare to hang clothes outside to dry to avoid revealing that there are people living in that house," she comments.
The Ukrainian, however, surprises foreigners when they ask where she plans to move once she recovers, assuming that returning home after the repeated incidents seems absurd. "I will return home. Of course. Where else would I go? I have 10 dogs and cats, and a goat," she almost indignantly exclaims. "People have normalized the risk," admits Igor Chornikh.