Real Stories from the Front Lines: A Photographer’s Journey in Ukraine
Photographing in conflict zones is a journey into the heart of human resilience and fragility. I get many questions about my work and what it really entails, especially when it involves conflict zones. Questions like, “What do you actually do?” or “How do you manage in these places?” are common. Each day brings a new story, etched with the intensity of genuine lived experiences. I want to take you on a journey through one such day during my recent assignment with the NGO – Children New Generation (CNG) based in Dnipro, Ukraine. I hope this gives you a sense of connection to life in Ukraine as well as a deeper understanding of what a workday on location looks like for me.
The day begins in the pre-dawn quiet of Dnipro. The city, cloaked in the first light of day, seems to hold its breath. It’s an unsettling feeling here, hope and fear combine as a new day begins in a city regularly attacked by Russia. Just yesterday, two people died in a missile attack on railway infrastructure, not five kilometres from my apartment. We gather as a team, planning our route and structuring the day. For a group of people who regularly undertake this trip, the early morning air is heavy with anticipation. I wonder if this ever becomes normal. We have a long drive ahead, two and a half to three hours, depending on traffic and the roadblocks we pass through as we head towards the frontline in Donetsk.
As we leave the relative calm of Dnipro behind, we begin to encounter more signs of the realities of war. The first thing that stands out to me is the number of ambulances on the road. In both directions, they race back and forth, carrying the injured to better equipped medical care away from the front lines and then heading back for more. Probably two-thirds of the vehicles on the road are military, rumbling along on some mission or another, their increased presence a reminder of how close we are getting to the conflict.
We pass through fortified checkpoints, where each stop involves a short interrogation from armed military personnel. Our vehicles, clearly marked as “Humanitarian Aid,” and our team, consisting of locals who travel this road regularly, help us move through without much hassle. We are travelling in a convoy of three vehicles and ten people. The Children New Generation distribution team has become well-versed in navigating this journey. Their experience and calm demeanour are reassuring.
We cross into the Donetsk region, an area that has known war for over a decade, since well before the full-scale invasion in 2022. Here, Ukraine has been fighting for survival since Russia first illegally invaded and occupied parts of this territory in 2014. Our destination is the villages of Selydove, Ukrainsk, and Hirnyk in Donetsk Oblast, an area only kilometres from the front lines. As we arrive, the signs of war are unmistakable. Buildings scarred by missile strikes, military presence on the streets, and the ever-present sound of distant explosions create an eerie backdrop.
Heading into these uncertain territories without a translator adds an extra layer of difficulty. I rely solely on my Ukrainian and Russian language skills, which, while passable, are far from fluent. This language barrier introduces an added mental drain to the day, as I constantly struggle to piece together the full depth of stories and conversations around me. The uncertainty of not understanding everything adds to the already overwhelming environment, making each interaction a challenge. Yet, through broken phrases and the patience and grace of those around me, the essence of the stories shines through.
In the quiet village of Hirnyk, we visit two remarkable sisters, Pasha and Proskovya, who welcome us into their weathered home – a sanctuary that has witnessed decades of beautiful life and now devastating conflict. The house, built by their parents many years before, stands as the only home they have known, resilient against the relentless march of years and still standing strong amidst the turmoil of war. Proskovya, bedridden, shares her memories with us, connecting the past to the present.
Meanwhile, Pasha, slightly more mobile, looks after the house and starts packing away the essential supplies we have brought with us as part of the distribution from Samaritan’s Purse, this should help them through the next few weeks. They have moved from the main part of the house to a smaller summer kitchen, a cosier single room where they sleep and cook. It is a practical choice, easier to heat and a place they will always be together.
Despite their hardships, they greet us with warmth, offering tea and food. Their generosity, though they can barely afford it, speaks volumes about their character and Ukrainian hospitality. As I capture their story through my lens, I marvel at their strength. Both sisters are camera-shy, yet they accept my presence. It is the bond they share with CNG director Alina that eases their reservations. It reinforces the importance of local connections – relationships nurtured over time. To be welcomed into someone’s home with a camera requires trust, and that trust has been earned through countless visits, care, and heartfelt conversations by this dedicated team.
On our way out of town, we meet the local policemen Sasha and Kostya. As they talk with the team, they share their experiences, detailing the dramatic shift from peacetime policing to responding to Russian strikes and becoming first responders to devastating missile attacks. Kostya later sends me body cam footage of a few of their recent responses – disturbing scenes of chaos and bravery that underscore the harsh realities they face daily. Naturally, I find myself in the dirt, trying to capture the perfect angle of these men and the police station behind them. In the grand scheme of things however, a bit of dirt on my pants seems insignificant.
Being so close to the front lines carries inherent risks. The frequent sounds of explosions and the heavy military presence are constant reminders of the danger. As we spend time in the town of Selydove, an airstrike hits the edge of town, about 300 metres from us, causing an explosion and filling the air with thick black smoke. Not knowing if more strikes are inbound, we leave the area with the lingering smoke slowly dispersing behind us and our hearts racing noticeably faster then moments ago. It is hard for me to comprehend the way change happens so rapidly here, from having a quiet coffee one moment to experiencing the explosive realities of war in an instant. It’s a startling reminder of the perilous environment around us.
Throughout this region, the damage from past missile strikes is painfully evident. Schools, kindergartens, and hospitals have borne the brunt of these attacks, the ruins are evidence of the inhumane nature of the conflict. The very clear targeting of civilian places protected under International Humanitarian Law has been a trademark of Russia’s war and highlights their desire to destroy Ukrainian society and culture.
The locals who remain here, most of them elderly and without resources, are incredibly thankful for the aid the CNG team brings. Food and essentials like toilet paper, soap, and sanitary napkins are lifelines in these areas where local stores struggle to keep shelves stocked and people have little money to purchase what is available. The Children New Generation team has built strong relationships in these communities, and with the help of the World Food Programme, distribute over 83,000 packages of food per month – a literal lifeline to so many.
Capturing these moments, I feel a profound sense of responsibility. Each photograph is more than an image; it’s a story, a testament to the strength and courage of these people. A visual documentation of this time and place in history. These stories are needed to give a weary world a reminder that humanity’s darkest hours demand our unwavering aid, support, and compassion.
As the shadows grow longer, we start the long journey back to Dnipro. We stop at a small kitchen along the way, a haven for military personnel and volunteer workers alike. These volunteer kitchen staff have been providing free hot meals since the early days of the war. They serve traditional Ukrainian dishes like borscht and sala, offering a place of respite and sustenance on the road to the front lines. The place itself is as much a living museum as a dining room, adorned with military patches, flags, and war memorabilia – gifts of gratitude that grow daily from the many soldiers and volunteers who pass through this place. It feels like a small sanctuary, a place where the warmth of home can be felt amidst the cold realities of war.
Arriving back in Dnipro, my work is far from over. I begin the meticulous process of downloading and backing up images, transcribing interviews, and typing up notes and memories from the day. It will be several hours before I finally get to sleep, but capturing the details from the day while they are still fresh in my mind is essential. It has been 18 hours since the day started, and tomorrow will bring a new chapter. We will be visiting a local Autism Kindergarten run by Children New Generation. No two days here are the same, with each presenting its unique challenges and stories. I look forward to photographing these children, their smiling faces, and playful spirits. From frontlines to playgrounds in 24 hours – this is the diverse and ever-changing landscape of my work.
The people of Ukraine, with their strength and spirit, have been a huge part of my life for many years now. This most recent experience has left an even deeper mark on me. This is the closest I have been to the front lines so far, and seeing the resilience and determination of the Ukrainian people is inspiring. Their stories, captured through my lens, serve as a powerful reminder of the very human cost of conflict, about the ‘everyday’ person – always the biggest victim of war, and the spirit that shines through even in the darkest of times.