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How this New Year was celebrated in frontline Belgorod and Shebekino

Our correspondent spent the New Year holidays where the front line is very close and talked to people

"We didn't start this war."

There are few pedestrians on the snowless, pre-New Year's streets of Shebekino. But lines of vehicles whiz by on the roads. Every third one is a military vehicle. These are typically UAZ minibuses, colloquially known as "loafs," with electronic warfare antennas (which interfere with drones) mounted on the roof like upside-down stools, and green camouflage nets hanging from the sides. Jeeps with anti-drone grilles on their roofs and huge Ural trucks also cruise the roads.

You can see old domestic cars, splattered with a thick layer of mud up to the roof. The military buys these "beat-up" vehicles cheaply. Their only purpose is to get from the front lines to Shebekino and back: they see no point in washing or maintaining them—it's easier to buy a new one.

I watch the Ural truck with its "Cargo 200" sign on the windshield. At that moment, a rumble rumbles nearby. A slight vibration runs through my body, and I involuntarily hunker down.

"It's 'exit,' meaning Russian artillery fired nearby. 'Arrival' sounds different from that direction," explains Marina (name changed), who agreed to give me a tour of the city. "The artillery installations are practically within the city limits. We hear 'exits' day and night. Once, in early 2022, a friend told me that the Ukrainians were deliberately placing military equipment next to residential buildings so that Russian troops, when firing at the Ukrainian Armed Forces, would hit civilians. A couple of years later, a Russian installation appeared in the courtyard of that friend's house. I asked her, 'What do you say now?'"

We decide to stroll down the city's main street. As in many provincial towns, it's Lenin Street. The "world's first country of workers and peasants" ceased to exist more than three decades ago; its fragments have been at war with each other for almost three years now, but in the local toponymy, Lenin lives on as if nothing had happened. Marina shows me the scars left by air strikes on the facades of buildings, windows with crisscrossing strips of tape on the glass, a concrete shelter with walls pockmarked by shrapnel, an Ozon dispensary with a handwritten notice apologizing for shortened opening hours "due to the current situation." We pass the administration building, where the nearby fir trees are decorated with festive New Year's baubles, and a military-patriotic park with memorial plaques to Shebekino residents who died in the war with Ukraine. The street leads us to a sandy beach on the banks of the narrow Nezhegol River. There are gazebos, sun loungers, changing cabins and two concrete shelter boxes installed here.

"It's a very popular summer vacation spot; the whole town comes here. But there aren't enough shelters for everyone. In the event of an alarm, some vacationers stay outside," explains Marina. "The military comes to the beach, too. One time, they even brought weapons. The locals were indignant: 'Are you nuts? You've come with machine guns, and we have children here!' And the military responded: 'But we're not bothering them!'"

To warm up after a walk (even though it's late December, snowless), we stop at a small shopping center. Every store here, whether it sells clothing or household goods, has a display case or even an entire section dedicated to camouflage uniforms, backpacks, balaclavas, knives, flashlights, and gas burners.

"A lot in Shebekino is tied to serving the military. They have a lot of money, and they part with it easily. Local residents rent them out by the day, and taxi drivers ferry food and alcohol to the front lines for exorbitant prices," says Marina. "Shebekino women also make ends meet. The more stupid ones simply sell themselves to the soldiers. One such woman was brought back from the front in an ambulance and fucked half to death. The smarter ones try to marry a soldier and have a child. We often have weddings here. And if the husband is killed, the widow gets seven or eight million in compensation and is set for life."

Almost all of this "service" to the military is in a "gray zone." In Shebekino, military personnel are not allowed to carry weapons, rent apartments, buy or drive private cars, and alcohol is sold strictly from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Formally, all these restrictions are easily circumvented.

"The locals have a rule: if you see a drunk soldier on the street, it's best to give him a wide berth. Of course, conflicts with the military do happen. In such cases, you just call 112, but it's the military, not the regular police, that will respond," Marina explains. "Chechens from Akhmat also maintain order; you can immediately recognize them by their long beards and clean, new uniforms. They're generally quite disciplined, but they treat women terribly."

We leave the shopping center and walk down a small street lined with panel buildings. Two cars with broken windows are parked at the curb, one of them a training car from the local driving school. Plastic windows are stacked in front of every building entrance—glass breaks out all the time in Shebekino. According to Marina, there's a waiting list for window replacements in the city. The problem is unscrupulous contractors who take money from the administration but don't do the work.

Near one of the houses we meet two locals who agree to talk to us.

"I have a private house, and the metal roof broke back in October. The contractor came, looked, and said, 'You're not on the list. Belgorod Housing Construction did yours, so contact them,'" says Yura, a short man of about fifty, clutching grocery bags. "Governor Gladkov came to visit us on the 22nd. I went to meet him and asked, 'I called your secretary, and she told me we don't handle personal matters.' The governor replied, 'I didn't give such an order,' and instructed Mayor Shevchenko to look into it. Well, now I'm waiting to see what happens after the New Year. This corps de ballet has been going on for three months now. Nobody needs us!"

"Climb up on the roof and fill the hole yourself, you're still young," says an elderly woman with glasses named Svetlana, leaning on a cane. "My windows were knocked out, but the frame is still intact. Two idiots came here, filled the glazing bead, and haven't been back since. I have shards of glass lying around the apartment, and I tell these brats, 'Take them out, I'm old, it's hard for me,' and they say, 'We can't take them out.' Well, I'm also waiting to see what happens after the New Year. The main thing is, I don't know if I'll wake up the next day; it flies every night. There are bags in the hallway at the start, with clothes and documents, in case I need to leave quickly. Everyone in the city has bags like that."

We say goodbye to Yuri and Svetlana and continue down the street. We pass an empty sports complex and a small stadium, and then I notice: I haven't seen a single child in Shebekino all day.

"The children, those who remain, are staying at home. They spend everything online now—school and socializing with their peers," Marina explains. "And it's also easier for the parents. My son, for example, is a fourth-grader. I'll give him a ball, for example. He'll go outside to play with it, kick it into the bushes or onto the grass, and there might be a petal mine there. They're cleared off the roads where they can be seen, but they might miss it in the thick grass."

We enter Marina's apartment and go into the kitchen. The woman brings a box and places it on the table. Inside are jagged and curved pieces of metal, fragments of ammunition. The "exit" rumbles outside the window.

"Many children in Shebekino have a collection like this. The war certainly affects them, but not in the same way as adults; children are still interested. Remember that boy named Alyosha who used to meet the armored vehicle columns? At the beginning of the war, every yard had an 'Alyosha' like this," says Marina. "The military gave my son a vest made to fit him, and he even slept in it."

There's a buzzing sound coming from the street. Marina and I listen. There's no explosion. It doesn't sound like a drone.

"When you leave Shebekino, even for neighboring Belgorod, you feel like there's no war there. Everything is lit up there, the shops and restaurants are open. The people of Belgorod only experienced what we did during the shelling on December 30, 2023. Afterwards, they started setting up concrete shelters here, too; before that, we'd been making our own, like using sandbags. When drones reached Moscow, no one here sympathized. Many in Shebekino think we've been forgotten, that we're somewhere far away, practically in Ukraine itself, and our problems are incomprehensible," says Marina, adding bitterly, "Our town is right on the border. Before the war, everyone went to Vovchansk, which is now a ruin, and then on to Kharkiv. Often just to buy groceries: everything was cheaper there than here. When the war started, the people of Shebekino supported the army. Every store had a basket for the soldiers." Women cooked soup, and their husbands drove them to the front. And now all that has come to an end. How much longer can this go on? How long will it last? We didn't start this war. You walk the streets of this beautiful city like the corridors of a hospice, the air thick with the anticipation of death. In the evenings, everyone locks themselves in their homes; there's nowhere to go anyway, and it's dangerous. So everyone sits in their apartments, and drinks, of course. They'll celebrate New Year's here the same way, without street parties, without visiting friends. We've gotten used to it; everyone now has only one wish—for this to end, somehow, at least.

I say goodbye to Marina and head out onto Lenin Street again. A man dressed as Father Frost rides past on a scooter with a tricolor flag attached to the trunk. A nearby exit rumbles.

"On that day we were born again"

"Today, we join in prayer with those who innocently perished under the brutal shelling of the barbaric bombardment on December 30, when children and parents were peacefully relaxing in the square, joyfully celebrating the New Year. And at that very moment, when no one wished harm on anyone, especially children, a bloody, cassette-like death descended, taking the lives of children and adults, maiming those who remained alive, and leaving a deep wound in our hearts," says the gray-bearded Metropolitan John of Belgorod and Stary Oskol into the microphone.

On December 30, 2023, in response to the massive shelling of Ukrainian cities by Russian forces on December 29, the Ukrainian Armed Forces struck the center of Belgorod at 3:00 PM. The shells hit the Dynamo Sports Complex, the Belgorod Department Store, Ostrovskaya Street, and 50-letiya Belgorodskoy Oblast Street, and one hit the skating rink on Sobornaya Square. Twenty-five people were killed and 109 wounded. On the eve of the anniversary of the shelling, Belgorod Region Governor Vyacheslav Gladkov refused to designate December 30 as a day of remembrance for the victims due to its proximity to New Year's. "We will discuss the dates, because December 30 is an extremely difficult date, but, on the other hand, it is a New Year's holiday, and we cannot afford to make a mistake—'Either a funeral or a wedding,' as the saying goes," the governor said during a live broadcast on his VK page. Nevertheless, on December 30, 2024, a memorial service was held at the impromptu memorial site located beneath the "Heart of Belgorod" installation. Both Gladkov himself and Belgorod Mayor Valentin Demidov were present.

The base of a red plastic installation with the word "Belgorod" written in white letters, installed on Belgorod Arbat, serves as a makeshift memorial to the victims of the December 30th shelling. Residents bring flowers and toys. The installation itself has also been hit. The scars from the shelling were not repaired, and a bouquet of flowers was inserted into one of the cracks that day.

It was here that the memorial service was held at 12 noon. City officials, police officers, priests, journalists, and ordinary citizens were present to remember their fellow townspeople. A soldier from the territorial defense, wearing full combat gear and a mask but unarmed, observed the service off to the side.

"That day, my fifteen-year-old daughter and I went into the Mayak shopping center to get her phone screen replaced. Around three o'clock, I heard pops. At first, I thought something had fallen, cracked, or shorted out, but I couldn't imagine it was explosions," recalls Olga (name changed), a middle-aged woman wearing glasses. "A girl came up to us, a mall employee, her name was Angelina, I'll never forget her. She said, 'Let's go, let's go!' and led us to the basement. There were already a lot of people there, everyone was standing, listening. And you could hear everything ripping, ripping, ripping, exploding. The children started crying, and so did my daughter. Then they brought a child covered in blood into the basement. One woman said she was a doctor and came over to help the child. About fifteen minutes after the explosions stopped, I and a few others decided to leave Mayak through the back door. The street was full of emergency services personnel and paramedics, rushing from one bloodied man to another. I wanted to go to my car, parked nearby, but the police wouldn't let me in, warning me there might be an explosion. But my car burned anyway: a shell hit the car next to me, and the fire spread from there to mine. I took my daughter out of the mall—by then some of the bodies had been taken away, others were covered—and sent her home to her father... That day, we were born again. Since then, I've been treated in neurology twice, and my daughter is seeing a psychologist. But I don't plan on going anywhere—I'm a fatalist.

The pedestrian street named after 50th Anniversary in the Belgorod region is considered a "bar district." It is indeed home to numerous drinking establishments, restaurants, cafes, and shops. On December 30, many of these establishments came under fire.

"I lived in the village of Belyaevka, and we were under heavy shelling from Ukraine; it was incredibly scary. In the spring of 2023, I decided to move to Belgorod. I got a job as a cook at The Cock Pub. On December 30th, I was on shift starting at 12 noon. Just after 3:00 a.m., I heard loud bangs, immediately realized they were explosions, and hid in the kitchen," recalls Maria, a twenty-year-old brunette with a short haircut. "I started to panic. Pub patrons started running into the kitchen. One of our employees tried to calm everyone down, offering water. The door of our establishment was blown in, and shrapnel hit the refrigerator, but no one inside was injured. After the shelling, people from the pub management came to pick us up and took us home. I didn't see anyone injured on the street; they'd probably all been taken away by now. And so the next day, we finally got together to celebrate the New Year; a lot of people came with their families." I continue to work at this pub now. For some reason, I believe that this won't happen again this year. I have an inner faith that everything will be fine.

Following the shelling in Belgorod, public transport stops were reinforced with concrete blocks, shelter modules were installed, and protective slabs were installed at the entrances to shopping centers and stores.

"In local informal media outlets like Blatgorod, there's a genre called 'Batya.' It's when a guy strolls down the street with a cigarette in his mouth, ignoring the missile alarm siren. It's a form of disdain for danger," says Alexander, a young man with long hair. "On December 30th, I witnessed something similar at the Dekabrist bar, where I was working as a waiter at the time. During the shelling, our windows and doors started shaking, but none of the patrons asked to go into the kitchen or look for the basement. Everyone stayed where they were, just started Doomscrolling on their phones. Some people's nerves started to fray when I played Black Sabbath's 'War Pigs' on the bar's stereo. The track begins with a siren, and people kept asking me: is it indoors or still outside? Generally, of course, such events take a toll on the psyche. You walk along familiar streets for years, and suddenly they transform into something you could only imagine in a nightmare." But I take it all this way: whatever will be, will be. I don't expect anything special from the New Year; I'll be working in a bar. I'm just glad they banned fireworks and firecrackers here. All that popping in Belgorod right now could be misinterpreted.

The litiya ends in half an hour. The officials depart, and the journalists disperse. Individuals and groups continue to approach the memorial and lay flowers, mostly red carnations. A young woman dressed in a black jacket, baseball cap, and camouflage pants approaches the "Heart." A bag with a red cross and the inscription "Cargo 200 – We Are Together" is slung over her shoulder. She kneels down and, bowing her head, pauses for a moment. Another middle-aged woman approaches and crosses herself. Her name is Elena, and she helped clean the streets the night after the shelling.

"I was at home during the shelling. I heard the gunshots, saw the smoke from the burning cars, but I learned everything else from the internet. And then, toward evening, I couldn't take it anymore and decided to go outside, to help out somehow," Elena recalls. "When I arrived, the fire had already been put out, the bodies had been removed. I saw people sweeping up the debris and decided to join in. They gave me a broom and a pair of gloves, but no dustpan or bucket. So I just swept up glass, slate, bits of siding—all that junk—into piles. I felt like I wasn't just sitting at home, like I was at least taking part in something, helping. It really helped with the feeling of fear and helplessness."

A young couple with their five-year-old daughter approaches the memorial. The girl places her stuffed animal at the base of the "Heart."

“I’ll miss my bunny,” the girl says, returning to her father.

"This is Silent Hill"

Belgorod on New Year's Eve resembles Shebekino; its streets are just as snowless and deserted. White concrete boxes with red "Shelter" signs are common. Some of these shelters are being used improperly, as evidenced by leaflets posted inside, urging Belgorod residents "not to be pigs" and "not to relieve themselves." First aid training videos are playing on monitors installed in buses. Concrete blocks protecting shopping mall entrances from shrapnel, with walls protected by anti-drone nets, are decorated with snowflakes, Christmas trees, and other New Year's paraphernalia. Numerous bars, cafes, and restaurants are bustling with customers. In one of these establishments, I meet Viktor (not his real name), who agrees to chat with me and share his thoughts on life in Belgorod and its possible future. He is twenty-six and works as a stockbroker.

"My parents are from the Far East. Residents of the Trans-Urals region always found the Belgorod region an attractive place to move: it's warm, clean, and inexpensive, and Kharkiv, a trade hub, is nearby. Of course, everything changed with the start of the Cold War. I spent those February days in St. Petersburg, where I was traveling on business. My mother called and said there was bombing. I didn't immediately realize she meant cannon fire; the border was very close, and the sounds of our artillery shelling Ukrainian territory were clearly audible in the city. I could even hear the gunfire on the phone while talking to my mother," Viktor says. "Back then, I thought it would all be over quickly, since Russian troops were stationed near Kiev. But I was wrong: the war, on the contrary, got closer to us. Refugees began arriving from the border villages, old women whose only belongings were a walking stick and a bag of clothes. People started arriving in Belgorod itself." But at first, these were isolated incidents, and we treated them like emergencies, like a gas explosion. Everything changed on December 30, 2023. It was a crushing blow, something no one expected. Then, I think, many realized that nothing good could be expected from the other side. Any sympathy they had for Ukrainian civilians vanished. I remember how people on Ukrainian Telegram channels celebrated the shelling. In Belgorod, for example, no one was celebrating the shelling of Kharkiv. Now, I believe the war must end on Russia's terms. Yes, we'll have to be patient; Belgorod may come under further shelling, but that's better than ending up on the losing side, where everyone is asking questions. Even if we have to celebrate the New Year with an "alarm bag."

Not everyone in Belgorod, as elsewhere in the country, subscribes to the "war to victory" stance. Those who understand who the aggressor is in this war are keeping their views private, but are willing to speak to a journalist on condition of anonymity.

"I was born in the Lviv region of Ukraine. So, I'm a true 'westerner.' My father was in the military and drank heavily. My mother divorced him. When I was eight, she found me a stepfather nearby from Belgorod, and we moved here," says Vladimir (not his real name), a young man with a long, bearded blond hair and long hair. "The fact that I'm from Ukraine and don't even have a Russian passport has never been a big problem for me. I can't vote or take out loans, but I was able to graduate from university here and find a job. The events in Ukraine since 2014 haven't really interested me. Firstly, I was still in school then, and secondly, my mother is a Jehovah's Witness. Before my crisis of faith, I naturally followed their teachings: I considered myself a citizen of the Kingdom of God, was a pacifist, and opposed any violence." But even later, when I left the church and embraced libertarian ideas, I still remained above the fray. Of course, I consider Russia the aggressor in this war. My father went missing near Donetsk in February of this year. And when missiles fly overhead, I experience a kind of eschatological rapture. But I can't yet imagine what would motivate me to take an active stance.

A few hours before New Year's, the streets of Belgorod are completely empty. The city is dark and silent. Locals enjoy themselves only in a few open establishments, like the bar "Smiris" (Resign Yourself). Every seat at the bar is taken, two patrons, clutching game consoles, are playing Mortal Kombat on the big screen attached to the wall, a female DJ dances at her decks, and multicolored strobe lights dazzle the eyes.

"Belgorod is Silent Hill. It's especially similar when, like these days, there's fog, sirens sound, and unintelligible announcements are being made over the loudspeakers on the rooftops. It's like you're in a game, you have to complete your mission and defeat demons," says Vera, a short, blonde journalist for a Belgorod publication. "But you get used to it; it becomes the new normal. Life without war seems abnormal. This March, I went to visit a friend in Serpukhov. And everything seemed strange to me: the crowds on the streets, the lack of shelter and the sound of sirens. It's like entering another dimension. Of course, this whole Silent Hill atmosphere is oppressive, and there can be no New Year's spirit here. But they'll still celebrate, however they're used to it. And they'll raise toasts at midnight. Belgorod residents don't drink to peace, but to a peaceful sky above. And those are two very different things."

After midnight, I leave the "Smiris" bar and head to Cathedral Square, where Belgorod's main Christmas tree stands. The roadway approaching the square is blocked by orange dump trucks from the local road service, parked opposite each other. The sidewalks are lined with metal barriers, and the only way to proceed is through a tent where a police officer and a soldier are inspecting citizens with hand-held metal detectors.

There are several fast food stands right next to the tree. There are a few Belgorod residents strolling around, but there are many more police officers and soldiers wandering in pairs around the square. There's no music, no songs, and the Belgorod residents aren't singing; everything looks depressing. I leave through the same security tent.

"And now you won't be leaving, you'll be staying here celebrating until the morning," the soldier declares, and seeing my expression, he laughs. "I'm just kidding! Happy New Year!"