On the drone detector screen appears the exact image of the road traveled by the armored van of Proliska. These devices are capable of hacking the camera of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) and allow the pilot to see in real time what it observes.
The driver urges his companion, Philip, to confirm if the blue logo of the NGO is visible in the video. "When the emblem is seen, it will be too late (meaning the drone is seconds away from hitting its target)," the young man replies.
The extreme tension lasts for a fraction of time until the UAV signal dissipates as the van turns through the narrow streets of the Bilenko neighborhood.
"We are heading to the suburbs on the outskirts of Kramatorsk. People say it is a dead zone but there are still people there," Philip had indicated minutes before.
The route to the outskirts is marked by barbed wire, dragon's teeth, and anti-drone net tunnels. Kramatorsk is preparing for the final assault by the Russians. The charred shells of several cars confirm that Bilenko is within the range of action of the Russian UAVs, as do the multiple homes destroyed by shrapnel.
"Evacuation! Evacuation!" In an environment that seems completely empty and pressed by the presence of Russian devices in the sky, Sergey, the driver of the humanitarian group, tries to announce the arrival of the van with a loudspeaker.
The maneuver worked. From one of the houses emerges Liena, gesturing with her hands. The NGO team must move her mother, Senia Luchanska, 92 years old, to a safer place. "We have been without water, electricity for two months. Weeks without internet. There are explosions all the time," the Ukrainian woman says as the two activists hurry to gather the elderly woman's bags. Her daughter's words are punctuated by a huge roar echoing nearby.
The Telegram channels that serve as a reference for the local population have once again filled with alerts: "Cabs (hundreds of kilos bombs) heading towards Kramatorsk. To the shelters!".
The warnings are accompanied by another round of explosions a few kilometers away. For weeks, attacks with these devastating devices - capable of crushing a building - have become routine.
"I am also leaving in a few days. This is not life," adds Liena.
This is not the first displacement of the day for the Proliska team. "We are evacuating about 15 people per day," comments Yevhen Tkachev, one of the NGO's coordinators.
"Everyone is leaving"
One hour earlier, Tkachev had gone to the home of Igor Zagorochnink to pick up his entire family: his three children, his wife, Caterina, and a cat. The 39-year-old Ukrainian had never left his hometown. Not when it was occupied in 2014 at the start of the war sponsored by Moscow, nor during the general invasion in 2022, when a similar movement of inhabitants was recorded.
"We are leaving because we have three children. Look around you. You will see the large number of burned or damaged buildings. This is not like in 2022 (when many who left returned after a few months). Businesses are closing, and everyone is leaving," he explains.
His wife breaks down in tears as she looks at their home. "We have lived here all our lives," she says, holding onto their 15-month-old son, Artem. The little boy does not understand that his family is saying goodbye to Kramatorsk. Perhaps forever.
During the journey to the complex where evacuees converge, the devastated sites of the Russian bombings can be seen: the former headquarters of the Nova Poshta postal company, schools, blackened or partially collapsed apartment blocks, supermarkets like Epicentr, or the shopping center located next to the town hall square. Quite ironically, that place is called Ploshcha Myru (the Plaza of Peace). Almost no one dares to drive through it anymore. It is one of the favorite areas of action for Russian drones.
"The city is like a wounded person trying to cling to the last breath of life," Caterina comments.
The Proliska van parks in the compound, a former nursery school converted into a reference point for humanitarian groups, where half a dozen similar vehicles are lined up. Different groups of civilians emerge from them. The area witnesses a frenzy. Families descend from the vehicles dragging huge suitcases and plastic bags, the belongings they managed to take from their homes before heading westward.
Some wait seated on benches next to their luggage. Many carry small plastic cages with their pets. A team of nurses helps an elderly disabled woman into a medical vehicle. "The sick have the right to travel in ambulances," explains one of the healthcare workers.
The scene observed last Friday at the main evacuation center in Kramatorsk is part of the monumental daily exodus witnessed in the "capital" of Donetsk province, still controlled by Ukraine - Russia occupies about 80% - following the advance of Russian troops, who are now positioned 10 kilometers from the town.
Authorities declared on August 21 that both this enclave and Sloviansk are now "active hostility zones," certifying the beginning of what could be the climax of the war for control of Donbass that Russia unleashed in 2014.
The Kherson model
Moscow seems determined to apply the Kherson model - the sadly nicknamed "human safaris" - in the heart of Kramatorsk. On the 12th, at least three cars were set on fire, resulting in the deaths of the same number of passengers. "Civil cars, ordinary ones, of people who were going about their lives or went to buy food," the city council stated that day.
In this "hunt," the Russians seem willing to "cross all red lines," comments Yevhen Tkachev. He speaks after the headquarters of the Kramatorsk evacuations was bombed by Moscow's aviation on Sunday.
The bombs hit the building at 11:20 in the morning. Sunday is the only day when NGOs do not operate. "That prevented a massacre. At that time, on any day of the week, there are dozens of people there," Tkachev added.
The incident left the building in flames, creating a huge column of smoke visible for kilometers. Despite the efforts of the firefighters, the fire continued to consume parts of the building hours later. The main reception hall was marked by a large bloodstain on the floor.
"We have been pulling out people covered in blood and putting them in vans. Everything was filled with smoke. Why attack a humanitarian center?," wondered Australian activist Scott Webster, present at the scene.
For Tkachev, the Russian offensive against the last urban centers in Donbass under Ukrainian control closes a kind of historical and - in his case - vital circle.
The 57-year-old humanitarian activist, a native of the town of Chasiv Char - not far from Kramatorsk - witnessed the first hostilities sponsored by Russia in 2014. That was when he began evacuating those who wanted to flee the war. Tkachev has now resumed exactly the same routes he used to evacuate his neighbors from Donbass 12 years ago.
Kramatorsk and Sloviansk were captured in April of that year but were recaptured by Kiev in July. Since then, Ukraine turned these places and their surroundings into what they call "Fortress Donbass": their main defense stronghold in the east of the country.
Moscow-backed forces eventually imprisoned Tkachev around that time. "They accused me of being a spy because I had a Bible—I'm a member of a Protestant church—and sentenced me to execution by firing squad," he recalls while sitting in his organization's van.
Proliska's vehicles, like those of many other associations dedicated to rescuing civilians, have repeatedly come under attack by Russian drones in recent years. On March 20, one of their vans was struck by a UAV, killing two of the people they were evacuating from the area. "We've lost three vehicles—completely destroyed. Many others have been damaged," he says.
The exodus of residents from Kramatorsk and neighboring Sloviansk has become the defining image of daily life in these towns. Social media is flooded with photos of trucks loaded with the furniture and belongings of displaced people. In just two weeks, the Kharkiv Animal Rescue NGO reported evacuating nearly 300 dogs and cats from Kramatorsk. Activist groups have even evacuated an iguana, parrots, and chinchillas from a preschool.
"It is being strangled"
Official statistics show a massive population drain, with numbers dropping by more than 33% in a single year. Although the city was still home to nearly 40,000 people in late August, that figure was far lower than the number of displaced persons who have settled in other regions of the country.
As New Zealand humanitarian activist Tenby Powell wrote in *The Kyiv Post*, "Kramatorsk has not fallen in a single assault; it is being strangled [by the Russians]."
"It is not collateral damage. It is a method. The city is being emptied on purpose," he added.
The city is literally moving away—both its inhabitants and its facilities. Local authorities announced the relocation of the best-known monuments starting in May. All that remains of the statue honoring the memory of Taras Shevchenko—a pivotal figure in Ukrainian culture—is the pedestal. Its bust has been moved to the west of the country, like many other such monuments.
Every day, the dwindling population receives news of businesses or services ceasing operations. "Two more bus lines will be suspended starting September 18," read a municipal notice from that date. "Four post office branches will suspend operations," stated another announcement in August.
The town literally goes dark as daylight fades. Electricity and phone signals have become luxuries enjoyed by very few. The noise of generators competes with the buzzing of the dreaded FPV drones. As in Kherson, many prefer walking to driving, given these devices' fixation on four-wheeled vehicles. Yet this does not prevent the frantic dashes—a constant occurrence—whenever that sound is heard.
The night is dominated by the thunderous blasts of terrifying KAB bombs. The building where this journalist was staying would shudder, as if shaken by an earthquake, during repeated strikes on a nearby bridge.
At that hour, the town becomes a sort of ghost town—almost entirely shrouded in darkness—where pedestrians are a rarity and the few cars on the streets speed recklessly to avoid attracting the attention of drones.
Many residents have adopted a kind of deranged schedule in an attempt to make sense of the impossible. "The guided aerial bombs (CABs) fall between 9:30 and 11:00 a.m., from 3:00 to 4:30 p.m., and from 2:00 to 4:00 a.m. FPV drones operate between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m.," explains Natalie, a 56-year-old resident, with total seriousness; her account competes with the versions other residents are quick to offer.
Natalie is one of those steadfast individuals who have decided to internalize the horror and mask it with a veneer of normality, despite the inherent contradiction.
"Everything is normal. Yes, it's true that several cars get burned every day, but that's what happens in a frontline city. We still have restaurants serving sushi here, and girlfriends still come to visit the soldiers (Kramatorsk used to be known as the 'city of romance' because of these kinds of encounters)," she repeats.
Natalie's view is an outlier. The vast majority of Ukrainians spoken to during the five days this newspaper spent in Kramatorsk agreed—as Alleh, a young man of Chechen descent, put it—that "it's time to leave." The 24-year-old was wounded two weeks ago by a "dormant" drone. "They park them on the side of the road or on rooftops, and when they see a car, they attack," he recounts, showing a photo of the gash a piece of shrapnel tore in his leg, which is still bandaged.
Many of those fleeing pass through the reception center in Lozova, in the neighboring Kharkiv region. Since opening a year ago, it has received nearly 60,000 people, according to their own figures. Each day, another group of between 200 and 300 people arrives.
"The surge began in the spring," notes Olesia Chechykova, the manager of the humanitarian center.
Like the evacuation point in Kramatorsk, the facility sees a constant stream of travelers. The United Nations and other organizations assist them in filling out the forms required for this forced relocation.
Relocation of factories
Some rooms have been converted into makeshift dormitories, where privacy screens separate the cots used by travelers like 84-year-old Maria Gavrinshenko. She arrived from Kramatorsk and has spent two nights here, but is departing this afternoon.
The elderly woman points to the three bags beside her cot. "That is all I have left in life."
For Maria, the gradual destruction of the city is particularly painful. She worked in construction in Kramatorsk until she was 70. "All those buildings I helped put up are now being crushed."
Local historians recall that Kramatorsk was founded in the 19th century as a center for heavy machinery and metallurgy—a tradition it maintained under the tsars, the Soviet Union, and later, following Ukraine's independence in 1991.
Consequently, locals realized months ago that the town's future was in jeopardy—even more so than due to the current mass relocation of residents—when the factories that had long defined the city began moving to other regions of the country.
One such company is Ukraine Wind Parks, which physically relocated to the town of Perechyn in the western province of Zakarpattia.
"A miniature Kramatorsk is being built there," the local newspaper *Kramatorsk Post* wrote in March.
The small town has filled up with cranes, trucks, construction sites, modern apartment complexes, and a brand-new industrial park. "When the full-scale invasion began in 2022, Perechyn was the first municipality to offer to host the factories from Donetsk," recounts Halina Haievska, the municipality's deputy head.
According to Vladyslav Yeremen, CEO of Ukraine Wind Parks, "the relocation process was massive. We moved over 15,000 tons of equipment. Nearly 1,000 employees relocated along with the facilities. Today, we can manufacture up to 40 wind turbines a year."
The symbolism of physically relocating local industries is not lost on those familiar with history. It is exactly what the Soviet Union did in the face of the German army's advance during World War II.
The migration of factories and a portion of the population is being accompanied by the relocation of schools and medical facilities.
Dr. Valeria Zolotukhina arrived at this location—1,000 kilometers from Kramatorsk—last May. The specialist plays with her young son, Serhiy, who is a year and a half old, in the park of the new housing development where displaced people from her hometown now live.
The 32-year-old was among those who fled Kramatorsk in 2022 but returned. She does not believe that will happen again. "This is the end of the city," she concludes pessimistically.