Freed, but still fearful, Kherson residents weigh evacuation

An icy wind whips the platform at Kherson station as Nadiia Kostyliova and her 11-year-old son, Sasha, make their way to their carriage. She carries most of their heavy bags, including his Paw Patrol backpack. He insists on keeping one, though, because he wants to show her he is a man.

They board and find their compartment: two bunks, no door. Next door is another family, whose baby begins to cry. Ms. Kostyliova sits next to her son and looks out the window. Sasha watches his mother.

The train, heading for western Ukraine, leaves in about four hours. It’s the first time Ms. Kostyliova has ever left the area around Kherson, and she doesn’t want to go.

“I’ve never been so far in my life,” she says. “So I’m scared.”

Ms. Kostyliova is one of thousands of residents for whom Kherson can no longer be home, though. The city has been in Ukrainian hands since Kyiv’s troops recaptured it from the Russians last month. But Kherson and its surrounding villages have come under heavy artillery fire, and living conditions have deteriorated as Russian strikes knock out electricity and water supplies.

Her own home has been spared, but her neighborhood has been damaged and her son has grown petrified of incoming artillery. It is “no longer possible to stay,” she says.

Still, it took her weeks to decide to evacuate her hometown, before her sister, who moved to western Ukraine before the invasion, finally convinced her to leave. Ms. Kostyliova knows only that she and her son will stay with her sister; she doesn’t know how big her apartment is, or where Sasha will go to school, or where – or whether – she will find a job.

Voluntary evacuation – for now

In late November, Ukraine’s government began a voluntary evacuation of Kherson, just weeks after it was liberated. Around 200 people leave by train or bus each day, volunteers say, and more go by car.

For the tens of thousands of Ukrainians who survived nine months of occupation, evacuating the city is one of the war’s great cruelties. “They’re leaving just because of necessity,” says Natalia Yefymeko, a volunteer helping evacuate people at the train station. “There are bombardments every day.”

Between the yellow columns in the station’s main hall, about 100 evacuees form a line. They carry pets, children, toys, coats, and always heavy bags, as Ms. Yefymeko guides them through the process. “Someone has to do this, and it’s distracting me from the fear I feel when I’m just sitting at home,” she says. Her district regularly comes under artillery fire, but she and her husband are staying to look after their parents, who refuse to leave.

The people in line have either bought their own tickets or registered with the government in Kyiv to receive a free seat. One by one they are shown into a large glass room where Ukrainian soldiers and police, on the lookout for Russian collaborators, check their papers, take their photos, and ask how they spent the occupation.

The process takes about five minutes. The train, some of its carriages decorated with bright murals to identify them as free for evacuees, is waiting. 

Since liberation, at least 3,000 people have left Kherson according to the official count, says Oleksandr Tolokinnikov, chief spokesperson for the Kherson Regional Military Administration. Many others leave without informing the authorities. Tens of thousands fled the city while it was under Russian occupation: Its population has dropped from 300,000 before the war to 70,000-80,000 today, Mr. Tolokinnikov says.

Although the evacuation is voluntary now, he says, it could become mandatory were the temperature to dip permanently below freezing before Ukrainians can repair water pipes and other infrastructure. People would be required to leave or sign a form explicitly consenting to remain.

For the time being, says Ms. Yefymeko, “most people, even despite the bombings and the lack of electricity, are just deciding to stay.”

A handful of stones

Some of Kherson’s residents, however, don’t feel as if they have a choice. Tetiana Dzykan is one of them. An exploding shell blew out all the windows of her apartment in early December, and her home has no heat, electricity, or water. “I was keeping with it until the very end,” says Ms. Dzykan, “but I’m worried.”

So, at a registration center housed in a gray tent not far from the station, she has, reluctantly, signed up to leave with her son. Her husband is staying to care for his mother. Ms. Dzykan will join relatives in Odesa.

It was a difficult choice. Under Russian occupation, Kherson’s residents had been “going through such hard times that when the Russians left, they started to breathe more easily,” says a volunteer helping evacuees in the registration tent. “People are happy that there is Ukraine here now, and they don’t want to leave.”

But some, like Ms. Dzykan, feel they must do so. Registration is open to would-be evacuees from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. each day. They are often in tears, the volunteer says, explaining why they are going as though they need an excuse. “They all say that they are leaving for a short time,” she says. “They are just waiting until the Russians are pushed further back,” out of artillery range.

That is Ms. Kostyliova’s plan, at any rate. She will wait in western Ukraine for the government to say it’s safe to return. Her mother, meanwhile, will watch their home. Though nervous, Ms. Kostyliova says she feels better about going now that her city has been liberated.

She and her son have packed only what is necessary; her sister says there won’t be much space for bags. Her nephews and nieces, though, who like to fish, did ask her for one thing. So just before leaving, she walked down to the estuary of the Dnieper River, and gathered a handful of stones. They are her only memento of home.

Oleksandr Naselenko supported the reporting of this article.