Time to read: 18 minutes(s)

Bryansk, a quiet provincial town, despite the war going on right next door, tries to pretend that nothing is happening.

Since the very beginning of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the Bryansk region has been repeatedly shelled by the Ukrainian Armed Forces. On March 2, 2023, troops from a foreign state crossed its border for the first time since World War II. The regional capital was also shelled. On November 19, 2024, an ATACMS ballistic missile struck a military facility in Karachev, located just 45 kilometers from Bryansk, for the first time in the war. However, everyday life in the city, despite the war being so close, continues as usual.

Located two hundred kilometers from the Ukrainian border, Bryansk is a quiet provincial town nestled on steep hills along the banks of the Desna River. Bryansk's landmarks include two giant ravines, Bolshoi and Maly Sudok, which cut through the city center, the cult of the partisans of the Great Patriotic War, and the monk Peresvet, a Bryansk native who died on the Battle of Kulikovo. The partisan past is recalled by the name of one of the squares and murals with their portraits on the walls of buildings. A street, an ice palace, a shopping center, a shooting range, and a football club are named after Peresvet, and an equestrian statue of the monk stands on the highest point in Bryansk, Pokrovskaya Mountain.

A reminder of the war nearby in the city is the presence of arrows on the walls of buildings with the word "Shelter." If you follow the arrows, you'll find a bomb shelter—a simple basement with a padlocked door. Sometimes, on the wall or front door of the building, a note is posted nearby informing residents that the keys "are with the management company" or "all residents have duplicate keys." However, in city public groups, locals complain that they don't know where the shelter keys are, and some buildings simply don't have basements, leaving residents unsure what to do in case of danger. Everyone agrees that, despite the regional government spending 102 million rubles in 2023 on shelter maintenance, they have little effect.

“I haven’t been to the shelter. What haven’t I seen there? A basement is just a basement: dust, dirt, a real mess. Maybe in Belgorod they build them properly, but here we just have a basement,” says Sergei, a man of about sixty, lighting a cigarette next to the shelter in the courtyard of his house. “And why should we hide? I saw that drone once. A little thing, rattling around at the height of the fifth floor. It flew by and disappeared behind those buildings. Then I heard a bang. They shot it all down, I thought. What can those drones do? They can’t penetrate the wall of a house. What’s the point of hiding? And if something more serious happens, it’s better to die right away than to slowly suffocate under the rubble in the basement, where mice will then eat your body.”

In addition to drone attacks, the threat of missiles has recently been added. The first missile alert was issued on November 5, 2024, interrupting television broadcasts with an emergency message. Residents were urged to stay home or take to basements and shelters. Subsequently, missile alerts were issued repeatedly, sometimes several times a day, and could last up to twenty minutes. And each time, Bryansk residents complain of chaos during the alert: sirens are not heard in all areas, shopping mall visitors are sent outside during missile alerts, and students are pulled out of classes and simply sent home from school. Residents have a particular complaint against Bryansk Region Governor Alexander Bogomaz and Bryansk Mayor Alexander Makarov, who have failed to explain to residents why the missile alerts were issued and what exactly they entailed.

"The first time was really scary. I asked my husband, 'What are we going to do?' And he said, 'Just lie there, everything will be fine,'" says Anna, a middle-aged woman with glasses, the administrator of the Tourist Hotel. "If you're scared, I just recommend staying away from the windows, or I can show you the entrance to our basement. I don't go around to anyone else's house at night during an alarm. We have men living here who came from the region to work in the factories. If I wake them up at night, they'll kill me faster than a missile."

Bryansk has not been shelled as intensely as, for example, Belgorod. The most high-profile incidents were the drone attacks on the Kremniy El plant building on the night of October 19 and on November 1, when, for the first time since the war began, a drone struck a nine-story residential building at 169 Fokina Street in Bryansk. The drone crashed into the window of an apartment on the top floor at 1:30 a.m. The apartment's owner, a 35-year-old man, "got off with just a fright," according to the city administration's press service. Twelve more apartments were damaged, and their residents were temporarily housed in a hotel.

Almost a month later, the apartment damaged by the attack is still visible as a black hole on the building's pink and white façade.

"The explosion was loud. Glass shattered, and sirens on cars parked near the building went off. The fire department, I remember, arrived immediately and quickly put it out. The building was cordoned off, and the water and power were cut off. The residents were offered a hotel. At first, about fifty people wanted to go, but then they looked around, the shock wore off, and about ten people left, and they returned that same afternoon, after lunch," says Svetlana, a young woman walking with her child in a stroller near building 169. "At first, we jumped at every sound. When the first missile alarm sounded, the residents ran in panic to the basement, where they'd take shelter. And there was a lock on it. This was only five days after the drone's arrival. The authorities don't want to do anything. But now everyone has calmed down. Whatever happens, happens. Nothing scares us. We have nowhere to go anyway."

Patriotic propaganda on the streets of Bryansk is roughly the same as everywhere else. Banners calling for "joining YOURS" are no more common than in other cities across the country. Cars with the Z-symbol are almost nonexistent. Banners at public transport stops proclaiming "For Peace. For Russia. For the President" are faded and covered in dirt. A mural depicting a "grandmother with a red banner" is painted on an abandoned building and attracts little attention. One recent "patriotic" event was an exhibition of Ukrainian drones shot down over the Bryansk region, titled "Who, If Not Us," which opened at the Bryansk Museum of Local History. In the empty hall on the third floor, after exhibits on World War II, the Afghan War, and the Chechen War, three small stands were set up, titled respectively: "Donbass 1897-1991," "Russian Spring," and "We Don't Abandon Our Own." Displayed behind display cases are fragments of drones, shells, spent cartridges, and documents related to the seizure of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. All of this was donated to the museum by the Bryansk National Guard.

"These aren't just artifacts; they're moving objects that convey a sense of patriotism, that evoke the patriotic fervor that our defenders possess today," says Marina, a museum guide. "The exhibition is currently wrapping up with the end of 22, the construction of defensive structures on the border, but we'll continue to work to reflect all periods of the SVO."

There are practically no people in military uniforms on the streets of Bryansk. Police officers are also rare. My only interaction with law enforcement was when I was trying to document the damage caused by a drone landing on the Kremniy El plant building. I was turning my head, trying to pinpoint the landing site, when a white-and-blue UAZ Patriot patrol car pulled onto the sidewalk about fifty meters away. The officer sitting next to the driver turned and looked at me through the rear window, explaining something to his partner.

I don't know what came over me, but I walked straight up to the "patriot." The police, apparently deciding that only a completely law-abiding citizen would voluntarily approach them on the street, pulled over to the side of the road, making way for me. I calmly walked past the car, and the officers and I pretended nothing had happened. Which is, in fact, exactly what Bryansk itself does with regard to war.

"I think this alternative city coat of arms better captures the essence of Bryansk than the official one with the cannon. And I like the motto," says Ekaterina, a young, dark-haired woman, showing me a piece of paper with a pencil drawing of a snail on a shield created by local artist Anna. Below is the slogan: "Slowly but surely!"

We meet Ekaterina (name changed at the heroine's request), an architect and city expert, at Vetka, one of Bryansk's most fashionable establishments. It's a cozy café with quiet, relaxing music and art on the walls. Here, landings and missile alerts seem like something happening on another planet.

"Bryansk is, of course, a quiet provincial town. There are no significant events, no major exhibitions, no world-class celebrities, and no noticeable economic growth," Ekaterina reasons. "The city was once considered an industrial hub. The famous Arsenal factory produced weapons for the Tsarist army; for example, every fourth cannon fired at Borodino was cast in Bryansk. Now the factory produces road construction equipment. Despite the city's ancient history, almost no historical monuments remain—everything was destroyed during the German occupation."

The city's conventional founding year is considered to be 985. Since the 60th century, the independent Bryansk Principality has existed, later becoming part of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Bryansk was long the subject of disputes between Lithuania and Moscow and was finally annexed to Rus' in 1500 by Ivan III. The city began to develop in the eighteenth century, when, by decree of Peter the Great, the Bryansk shipyard was founded on the Desna River, where ships were built for the war against Turkey. In 1783, the Bryansk Arsenal for the manufacture of artillery was founded. Until 2022, the most significant event in the city's history was the occupation of the city by German troops in October 1941. At that time, partisan detachments numbering up to 000 operated in the famous Bryansk forests. At the same time, part of the Bryansk region was home to the collaborationist "Lokot Republic." The city was liberated by the Red Army on September 17, 1943. This date is celebrated as City Day.

"I often wonder, what is Bryansk really about? Probably, in many ways, about Moscow. We're such an unobvious part of the Moscow metropolitan area. The thing is, it's only four and a half hours by comfortable train from here to the capital. Many Bryansk residents split their time between the two cities; for example, they work in Moscow and come back on weekends. Some locals simply go to the capital for a couple of days of fun. Of course, there's a constant outflow of Bryansk's population, and that's sad. I'd like them to develop their own city, not the 'No Rubber City,'" Ekaterina reasons. "At the same time, local patriotism certainly exists. Bryansk residents tell everyone in Moscow how wonderful their hometown is. Basically, they haven't forgotten their beloved Bryansk and praise it in every way. The band 'Prygay Kiska' has a song that's become a meme here. It's called 'Kiyevskaya,' named after the train station from which trains to our city depart." The text contains the following words: “I don’t need anything, just a bus to Bryansk.”

Another geographical feature of the Bryansk region is that it borders two independent states—Ukraine and Belarus. The proximity of these countries has always influenced the region. However, currently, only one of them has a visible influence on the region. Bryansk has many shops selling food and clothing from Belarus. Flags and other symbols of the neighboring state are often seen on houses. In border villages, residents speak surzhyk, and Bryansk residents themselves often pronounce the "g" sound as an "kh."

"My first trip abroad was to Gomel, Belarus. Back then, it seemed larger and cleaner than Bryansk. It's actually quite common for us to go to Belarus, say, for a weekend. People come from Gomel too. They especially like our Aeropark shopping center, a local landmark," says Ekaterina. "Until 2014, we could travel to Ukraine freely. You could take the Moscow-Chisinau train and get off in Kyiv the next day. Or take the commuter train to Suzemka, near the border, transfer there to another train to Sumy, and from there to Kyiv. It was all very cheap. Almost everyone from Bryansk has relatives in Ukraine. Whether they'll ever see each other again, of course, no one knows."

Cultural life in provincial Bryansk isn't exactly vibrant, but it does exist: local artists hold exhibitions, and musicians come not only from other Russian cities but also from abroad.

"Brya," as the young people call our city, has its own trendy spots. For example, the famous bar "Can," whose owner hosts concerts by local and visiting bands. Techno parties are held in abandoned buildings, one of which featured musicians from France," explains Ekaterina. "And my friends and I give lectures where we talk about the city through its architecture. These events are quite popular with locals. Bryansk residents want to understand themselves and identify themselves, and that's important to them. For my part, I want to spread the word about our city."

In early 2022, Ekaterina moved to Poland with her husband, but returned this year. Like most Bryansk residents, she remains stoic about the dangers of shelling.

"I came back because Bryansk is the best city on Earth. My profession allows me to work remotely anywhere in the world; architectural projects are now being done online. But when I learned about the increasing number of air strikes, I decided to return to be closer to my family. Of course, I won't be able to save them if something happens, but it's better to be close than to go crazy with fear abroad," she explains. "When I returned to Bryansk, despite the alarming situation, I experienced genuine euphoria. I decided to myself that no matter what happens, even if they order an evacuation, I will stay. I'll spread my legs like an old woman and scream, 'I'm not going anywhere! This is my home! I was born here, and I'll die here!'"

"Bryansk itself is like a village. Simple, naive people live here and believe what they hear on television. The locals come to life twice a year—on May 9th and during the New Year holidays," says Vyacheslav, a thirty-four-year-old former activist at Navalny's headquarters in Bryansk, now living abroad. "There's a high level of trust and support for the government in the city. When we campaigned on the streets, we talked to people, and they nodded and agreed with our arguments, but it was clear that these citizens would come home, turn on the TV, and believe the propaganda again."

Bryansk isn't known as a protest city, but its residents joined nationwide protests against the rigged State Duma elections in 2011-2012, mass anti-corruption rallies following the release of Alexei Navalny's film "He's Not Dimon to You!" in 2017, and the 2018 protests against raising the retirement age. Vyacheslav participated in most of them.

"I was born in Bryansk and lived there my whole life, with only brief breaks. After all, Moscow is close by, and we could always go there for a while. But Bryansk has always been a special city for me," Vyacheslav explains. "I never had a period of sympathy for Putin, maybe only when I was very young, when, at ten, I took my mother by the hand in 2000 to vote for him. Then there were Kursk and Nord-Ost, and the terrorist attack in Beslan had a particularly strong impact on me. I remember the crackdown on NTV, how nothing remained of journalism in the country. I remember waiting for Saturdays to watch the show Nedelya with Marianna Maksimovskaya; at the time, it was the last independent program on Russian television. I remember the song by the band Lumen: 'How much more pain will there be? How much?' I really loved them back then."

Vyacheslav's first protests were the 2011 rallies. On December 10, about a thousand people gathered at Lenin Square for an unauthorized rally. The picket was initiated by citizens who did not represent any political party. The slogans included: "Give the people their votes back!", "Give them fair elections!", and "We are not cattle!" After the rally had concluded and the citizens began to disperse, twelve people were detained by police. They were released after administrative reports were filed. Rallies continued several more times, attracting increasingly fewer people, and soon, as was the case throughout the country, they ceased.

"At the first rallies, I was incredibly inspired: I thought it was possible to shout 'Putin is a thief!'—words they deserved—and express my position. I listened to, so to speak, protest music, a lot of punk rock. Maybe that's what left me with a sense of freedom and justice," Vyacheslav recalls. "During the protests on Bolotnaya Square, I watched the live broadcast and went out into the neighborhood to talk to neighbors. I lived on the outskirts of Bryansk, and my neighborhood was called 'Drunk.' The only thing people did there was drink. I buried many friends because of that. Back then, I'd tell them, 'How can you drink peacefully when people are being beaten up in the streets of Moscow?' They laughed at me. I was always the odd one out in the neighborhood, even defending the LGBT community. I think the only reason I wasn't beaten up for it was because I was 'one of them.'"

In 2014-2015, Bryansk hosted pro-government rallies in support of the "reunification of Crimea with Russia" and "solidarity with Ukrainians protesting against the illegitimate government." But in March 2017, residents, outraged by the film "He's Not Dimon to You!", protested again. Solo pickets were held in Lenin Square, several rubber duckies were placed on the pedestal of the "Leader of the Revolution," and approximately two hundred protesters danced in a circle around the BMZ Cultural Center and marched several blocks. That summer, Navalny's headquarters opened in Bryansk.

"When the headquarters opened, I started going there every day until the guys asked me to work with them. I met my best friends and like-minded people there. Together, we worked as Navalny's campaign headquarters, setting up campaign cubes, distributing leaflets, organizing protests and rallies, and conducting investigations," the activist explains, adding, "Bryansk is a tough city; we didn't have many volunteers, and people weren't very active on the streets. As the Bryansk band Tapok sang: 'This city is a dream killer.'"

Vyacheslav's activities, like those of other activists, have repeatedly attracted the attention of law enforcement: he has been detained, and his apartment has been searched. Threats of persecution have often forced him to flee to Moscow to stay with friends to "sit out" the dangerous times.

"I was often followed, especially before protests. Over time, you get used to being cautious, making sure no one's following you. The city is small, there are few activists, and you're always under surveillance. I think I knew every cop in Bryansk—I'd be out walking, say hello to someone in uniform, and they'd be on to you," Vyacheslav recalls. "Some of the local cops were incredibly stupid, especially one 'eshnik' who was digging into us. He created a VK page under a woman's name and posted music, usually something like 'top dance hits,' interspersed with posts about how complete the Navalnyuks were. He often tried to threaten us, but it always looked ridiculous. One time, the 'eshnik' showed up with a local police officer and started spouting some nonsense about how we were even being watched 'from above.' Even the local police officer couldn't stand it and started laughing." They wrote ridiculous posts about us in city public groups like: “The Navalnyuks held another rally and went for beer.”

In November 2020, Navalny's headquarters in Bryansk closed.

One of the turning points in Vyacheslav's life was the unauthorized rally against the arrest of Alexei Navalny, which took place in Bryansk on January 23, 2021. The day before, authorities had cordoned off the entire city center with police vans. The protesters—about a hundred people—gathered at Lenin Square and then planned to march to Partizan Square, but were prevented by a police cordon. As a result, the protesters were forced to take the only available route to the Mound of Immortality. There, the protesters stood for about half an hour, after which mass arrests began. In total, 39 people were arrested.

"After the rally, they opened a criminal case for blocking the road, and I was a witness. I was summoned for questioning. My lawyers said they could arrest me, but everything went smoothly. I cited Article 51 of the Constitution in answering all the questions, and as soon as I got out, I immediately bought a ticket to Moscow and left, not even knowing where I'd be staying," Vyacheslav recalls. "On the train, I posted a story about needing a place to stay for a while. A friend responded—I ended up staying in her apartment. I also worked on Marina Litvinovich's election campaigns there and then went to St. Petersburg for Irina Fatyanova's campaign, with whom I became very close. It was a truly unique campaign with wonderful people. I'm still friends with many of them.

Vyacheslav met the outbreak of the war in Bryansk. On February 25, 2022, he held a solo picket with a sign reading "No to War!" He stood there for only about five minutes before being detained by police.

"I served a few days, and when I got out, I started helping Ukrainian refugees who were leaving for Russia or passing through it on their way to Europe. I found them a place to stay, clothes, suitcases, maybe even money. I wrote to friends and acquaintances like crazy, persistently asking them to register people," Vyacheslav says. "I did this throughout 2022, completely immersed in this work. I met so many people, heard their terrible stories—how they were bombed, how they lost loved ones. It was a very important experience for me (I can't talk about it in detail). A couple of dozen people showed up at a protest against the war in the city at the time. Some were persecuted and forced to leave."

Life was scary during the war. Neighbors said people regularly came to them asking about me or kept watch outside their front door. I was afraid to walk around the city or even speak loudly. But I also became a little aggressive toward those who remained silent and did nothing. Every day I saw refugees who had survived horrific events, while the city went on with its normal life.

In the last year before his departure, Vyacheslav felt the threat to his freedom was becoming increasingly serious. The pressure from security forces was growing ever stronger.

"I didn't want to leave. I always wanted to stay home, only in Russia. But one day, the cops started coming to my mother and threatening that if she didn't tell me where I was, 'it would be worse.' They said I needed to report to the police station, claiming I'd stolen a phone from some girl in the neighborhood. Everyone had been telling me for a long time that I needed to leave. I spent several days in jail, my place was searched, I was threatened, but I still thought about staying," Vyacheslav explains. "That was the last straw: I was about to let more than just myself down. And they helped me leave. Activism never made money. I did it simply because I wanted to make my country a better place, my city a better and more beautiful place."

Abroad, the activist maintains an interest in Bryansk. He maintains relationships with many of his fellow townspeople and posts about Bryansk on his social media.

"I love Bryansk for the people who live there. The city is home to some truly amazing musicians, artists, architects, and designers. People are trying to discover interesting, unique places that you don't often find even in Moscow. They host parties, bring in performers, and give the city a face so it doesn't get lost among other small towns. And I'm very grateful to them for that. Thanks to them, Bryansk has so many places to go. And all of this is done with a great love for my homeland," Vyacheslav is convinced. "As they say, 'slowly but surely.' I often dream of my city. I dream of walking along my favorite streets. I love it so much, and even after emigrating, I got a tattoo of a reimagined coat of arms—a snail. I know this city; I know, it seems, every street in it. The great Bryansk band 'Kick Chill' has a track with the lyrics: 'I want to get lost in the best apartments, the best buildings, with the best view of Bryansk.'"

Karachev, with a population of nearly 17, is located just an hour's drive from Bryansk. According to chronicles, the city was founded in 1146, and is best known for the Jewish ghetto established by the Germans in October 1941 and destroyed in December. Karachev has recently attracted media attention twice in connection with the current war.

On the night of October 9, 2024, Ukrainian drones attacked the Karachev arsenal, located near the city limits. And on the night of November 19, Ukraine launched its first ATACMS missile strike on Russian territory, targeting a military base in Karachev.

In both cases, there is no detailed information, only official comments from the Russian Ministry of Defense. What exactly happened in the city and how local residents reacted was only revealed thanks to a Telegram channel. The Hum of the Bryansk ForestIts author, who wished to remain anonymous, was able to repost the Karachev residents' message in city public groups before they were deleted by administrators, and also obtained testimony from local residents.

The Karachevites reported the following about the attack on October 8:

"It's 3:02 a.m. The siren is wailing, but it's unclear what's going on. Besides the sirens, there's also the sound of thunder."

Local residents reported that the shells' detonations caused people to flee their homes in panic. Some residents were evacuated to the community center, while others went to Oryol. A massive traffic jam formed on the outskirts of the city. Those who couldn't fit into the community center remained on the streets all night, trying to call relatives. People in their cars left to visit loved ones.

A local resident describes the events of that day as follows:

"From two to six in the morning, there was a blaze, all the windows were shattered, people ran out onto their balconies, and panic set in. The entrance hall smelled of gunpowder, everyone was screaming, and a neighbor ran out and asked, 'What is this? Has the war started?' There was so much room on the buses. The driver said, 'Go where there's no war.' Some hitchhiked to their dachas to wait it out."

"The men are crying. There are almost no men left in the Bryansk region—they're all at war. Those who remain can't take it anymore either. One man, a grown man, strong, came out onto the balcony and started crying too. He said, 'The war has begun.' A neighbor heard him and screamed in panic, 'War?! That's it, I need to go to my old mother, I'm taking her, I'm packing everything!'" another message read. "People are in shock, crying, panic is all around. Some are falling, some are fainting, some are waving newspapers over their heads, unsure what to do. There's alarm in the air. The metallurgical plant, which is still intact, also seems about to come under attack. The situation is dire; nothing like this has ever happened here."

ATACAMS's evidence of the attack consists only of a few short videos of explosions filmed by Karachev residents from the balconies of their homes. The author of "The Roar of the Bryansk Forest" was only able to contact a woman whose aunt lives in Karachev. Her brief correspondence indicates that the building where her relative lives is empty, as the residents moved out after the first attack. The aunt herself sleeps in the hallway so she can quickly leave the apartment in case of further attacks. Subsequently, the woman declined to comment on the situation in the city, citing threats against her relatives.

In Karachev, there's nothing to indicate the recent attacks. I didn't see any houses with shattered windows or any other evidence of the blast wave. There are no signs directing people to shelters, unlike in neighboring Bryansk. People walk the streets calmly, and minibuses regularly pass along the roads. There are no soldiers or even police in sight. It feels like a different Karachev, not the one all the media has been talking about recently. The war is barely noticeable. Only passersby on the outskirts glanced at me, a stranger on these streets where everyone seems to know everyone else, sometimes with suspicion: am I a spy?

"Explosions? What explosions? There's popping sounds all over the place," says the saleswoman at the Zavodskoy Bar, located across from the Karachev bus station. "I don't know which direction it's heard most often. Are you going to order?"