Three years after liberation, Ukraine’s Kherson faces another kind of siege

In the shadow of war, Kherson’s resilience endures three years after Russian occupation ended. The southern Ukrainian port city that once erupted in jubilation now exists in a state of wary stillness, with daily life largely unfolding behind walls or underground.

November 11, 2022 marked a momentous day as residents flooded the main square, waving Ukrainian flags and embracing soldiers who had liberated them after nine months under Russian control. The celebration, however, was short-lived. The war simply transformed rather than ended, with Russian troops now launching regular attacks from across the Dnipro River while surveillance drones constantly patrol the skies above a city characterized by broken windows and deserted courtyards.

Despite these hardships, residents who chose to remain insist that life in a largely empty, shuttered city is preferable to Russian occupation. A recent visit by Hollywood actress Angelina Jolie provided a welcome morale boost, highlighting the daily survival challenges faced by citizens who now navigate streets protected by overhead mesh designed to shield them from drone surveillance.

Once home to nearly 280,000 people, Kherson has become a forgotten section of the front line. Daily explosions echo beneath billboards that still proudly proclaim it a “City of strength, freedom and resilience.”

Olha Komanytska’s small flower kiosk stands as a defiant splash of color against the bomb-scarred center of Kherson. At 55, she displays red and white roses in tall buckets on a corner that once bustled with customers but now sees few patrons.

“Hardly anyone buys flowers,” she says quietly. “We’re just trying to make it through.”

For nearly three decades, Komanytska and her husband cultivated flowers in Kherson’s countryside. The kiosk represents all that remains after their greenhouses were destroyed. Wearing a black headscarf in mourning for her husband, who died of a heart condition she believes was exacerbated by the war, Komanytska can’t stay at his grave for more than five minutes due to the constant drone danger.

Like many residents, she has adapted to the city’s new survival rules. She can identify every weapon by sound—artillery, rockets, bombs—but considers drones the most threatening. She closes early and walks home pressing herself against buildings, sometimes hiding under trees to evade drone detection.

“They’re always searching,” she says, mimicking their low, screeching whine. “At night I walk home, and they’re above me. You just run. Before, you could hide under trees. Now… I don’t know where to hide.”

Her somber expression transforms only when recalling the liberation. “That day was amazing,” she repeats, as if trying to recapture the moment.

Throughout Kherson, municipal workers stretch plastic construction mesh above streets—repurposed to shield civilians from drone surveillance. One hospital entrance is entirely wrapped in protective netting, with only a narrow passage remaining for staff and patients. Officials prioritize such public gathering sites, which are frequently targeted.

Despite the constant tension, Kherson persists. Post offices continue operations, though their entrances are fortified with concrete blast barriers. Bus stops feature small cement bunkers—stark reminders that shelling can occur without warning.

An invisible electronic shield protects the city from above. Max, 28, who declined to provide his full name for security reasons, serves with the 310th Separate Marine Electronic Warfare Battalion responsible for this critical defense. His front-line post resembles a programmer’s workspace—computer screens displaying maps and data feeds while communication from neighboring units fills the room.

“Our job is to detect targets and ensure they fail their missions,” Max explains, whether they’re “drones hunting civilians, infrastructure, vehicles or even humanitarian convoys.”

He reveals that up to 250 FPV drones can approach Kherson in just half a day, but his unit intercepts more than 90% from his gamer-style workstation. They can even access live feeds from Russian drones to monitor enemy operations in real time.

“When you see a strike hit a soldier or a civilian, it hurts you—it weighs on your soul. You want to do everything possible to make sure it never happens,” he says. “I think they simply want to destroy us as a nation—not just the military, but everyone—so that we cease to exist.”

To maintain some semblance of normality, many activities—particularly those involving children—have relocated underground. Former apartment basements have been transformed into cozy spaces with carpets and colorful decorations.

Once weekly, a children’s club gathers to play chess and checkers. Chess coach Oksana Khoroshavyna notes that while training would normally be more rigorous, for the past two years the club has primarily served as a social outlet where Kherson’s children can interact face-to-face.

“These kids stay home all the time,” she explains. “They study online; everything in their lives is remote.”

Until recently, the children could travel to tournaments in Mykolaiv, spending every available moment outdoors—a freedom no longer possible in Kherson. Even these trips have now ceased as the connecting road has become too dangerous.

In another basement, 16-year-old Artem Tsilynko, who hopes to study dentistry after graduation, practices boxing with peers. “For me, this place is about unity,” he says. “Even though life in Kherson is so limited—social life, sports life—we still have a chance to train.”

Having spent nearly a quarter of his life in wartime conditions, Tsilynko admits his fear has diminished over time—but returns during nighttime shelling. “When you’re sitting in the basement, your heart races,” he confesses. “After that, it’s hard to fall asleep.”

In Kherson, adaptation has become synonymous with survival as residents continue to forge lives amid uncertainty, demonstrating remarkable resilience in the face of ongoing threats.