Sources on the ground confirm that seven civilians were killed today when a drone struck a bus in the Russian-occupied region of Donetsk, eastern Ukraine. The attack, which occurred near the town of Volnovakha, adds to a growing tally of atrocities in a conflict where accountability is as elusive as the truth.
Witnesses described a scene of carnage: the bus, a common minibus used for local transport, was torn apart by what appears to be a loitering munition, a drone designed to hover and then strike. The victims included women and at least one child, their bodies recovered from the twisted wreckage by emergency workers who risked their own lives under the shadow of further strikes.
No group has claimed responsibility, but the pattern is familiar. Russian forces have used drones extensively in this war, targeting both military and civilian infrastructure. The Kremlin, predictably, will blame Ukrainian ‘saboteurs’ or deny involvement altogether. Meanwhile, Ukrainian officials are calling it a war crime, a charge that will be lost in the fog of denial and propaganda.
This is not an isolated incident. Since the full-scale invasion began in February 2022, documented strikes on civilian vehicles have become a grim feature of this conflict. The UN has recorded thousands of civilian deaths, but the real number is likely far higher. In occupied territories, journalists like myself rely on fragmented sources: WhatsApp messages from locals, grainy videos, and the testimony of the traumatised.
The drone used in today’s attack is believed to be a Lancet, a Russian loitering munition known for its precision. But precision does not discriminate. When a bus full of civilians is the target, the distinction between military necessity and slaughter collapses.
I have spent years following the money in conflicts. In Ukraine, the money flows to arms manufacturers in Moscow and Tehran, whose drones have turned the sky into a lethal canopy. The international response has been piecemeal: sanctions that bite slowly, aid that trickles in, and words that evaporate like morning mist.
What happened today in Volnovakha is a microcosm of a larger brutality. The bus was not a military asset. Its passengers were not soldiers. They were people trying to survive in a war zone, a simple journey that ended in fire and metal.
As the sun sets on another day of bloodshed, the questions remain: Who will be held to account? And how many more buses must be destroyed before the world acts? The answers, like the truth, are buried in the rubble.
