The Donbas is bracing for another storm. Russian troops are gathering, and the UK warns that a strategic city could fall within weeks. But what does this mean for the people who still call the Donbas home?
Last week, I spoke with Olena, a teacher from Kramatorsk who has spent the past year sleeping in her basement. 'We hear the rumble of tanks and think, is this it?' she told me. Olena is one of an estimated 350,000 civilians remaining in Ukrainian-controlled parts of the Donetsk region. She has watched her neighbours leave, their cars packed with photo albums and pets. She stays because she says 'the earth holds me here.'
This is the human cost of the predicted offensive. The Donbas has already seen some of the war’s fiercest fighting. Now, with Russia reportedly regrouping after setbacks in Kharkiv, the psychology on the ground is shifting from hope to grim resignation. In cafes that still open, the conversation has turned to evacuation routes. In shelters, families debate whether to flee or to stay and defend their basements.
The cultural shift is palpable: a region once defined by its industrial grit is now defined by its resilience under fire. Social media feeds are filled with farewell posts, testaments to lives interrupted. Meanwhile, the Ukrainian government is urging civilians to leave, offering trains to safer cities. But for many, leaving means losing everything.
Class dynamics also play a role. Those with resources have already gone. The ones left behind are often the elderly, the poor, or those who refuse to abandon the homes their families have occupied for generations. 'I am not a hero,' Olena said. 'I am just too tired to run.' As the world watches the build-up of tanks and troops, it is the quiet stories of people like Olena that show the real cost of this coming assault.
