It was the morning of February 24. It was not quite dawn yet, but there was an unusual activity in the village of Kopyshche, which borders Belarus. Almost every house was bustling with preparations: people started up tractors, tillers, attached trailers, harnessed horses to wagons, and warmed up their cars.
They hastily loaded warm clothes, took out canned food, cereals, and lard from the cellars. They took tents, blankets, tarpaulins, boards, and firewood prepared for stoves. Everything was done as quickly as possible, without fuss.
Women are the first to succumb to the nervous tension and start whispering quietly. The children are hushed. The men are focused. They try not to turn on the lights unnecessarily — it’s better to navigate in semi-darkness by touch. Women with children huddle on trailers and wagons — they’re ready to depart. Families leave their homes and make their way towards the forest.
What happened? War.
The residents of the village of Kopyshche are fleeing to the forest in large numbers. They don’t yet know exactly where or for how long, but they know for certain that they need to go to the forest. The forest will save them — it is deeply ingrained in the collective consciousness of the people of Kopyshche. It has been ingrained since July 13, 1943, when the Germans, during a punitive operation, destroyed the majority of the village’s inhabitants — only those who escaped to the forest survived.
During the Soviet era, Ukrainians and Belarusians were referred to as “fraternal nations” or “brotherly peoples.” This propagandistic metaphor had a certain meaning, especially in the immediate border regions. Back then, the borders between the union republics were somewhat arbitrary, and the cultural and linguistic closeness indeed fostered close interactions.
However, now the fact that the Belarusian ruling regime has supported Russian aggression in Ukraine has become a high wall between the two nations. In the northern region, we currently have a constant source of tension: will the Russians cross this border again, will Lukashenko send his army into battle, or will he deploy Russian nuclear weapons on his country’s territory?
We set off to the border Ukrainian villages to find out how the invasion on February 24, 2022, changed the lives of their residents. How did people receive the “Russian world” from Belarusian territory? And how do they now communicate with their relatives on the other side of history?
We visited three border communities in the Zhytomyr and Rivne regions. Three stories emerged, each with its own uniqueness.
What is missing from this text is a focus on the Ukrainian army, which is undoubtedly present at the border. Checkpoints, document inspections, minefield markings, fortified positions, and engineering support — all of this exists but is well-hidden from prying eyes. Therefore, we will also remain silent on this topic.
See also: Maturity test: What will happen to Ukraine and Volodymyr Zelenskyy in the future?
“At noon, shots were fired from the football field”
Zhytomyr region, Narodychi united territorial community, a border village of Radcha (1.2 km from Belarus).
The Radcha administrative district of the Narodychi territorial community consists of approximately 400 people residing in seven villages. It borders the exclusion zone from which residents were evacuated after the Chornobyl nuclear power plant accident.
It was 37 years ago. Since then, time has destroyed abandoned villages, the forest has hidden traces of former human presence, and the resettled people return to their native places once a year on memorial days to clean the graves. Ultimately, in the evacuated Chornobyl settlements, the cemeteries are the “most lively” places.
Raisa Dmytrivna Kulak, a 74-year-old resident of Radcha, is one of the resettled individuals. She knows well what radiation is, so we asked her about her attitude towards the threats of Putin and Lukashenko to deploy nuclear weapons on Belarusian territory.
“We have already seen how the Russians ‘know how’ to wage war,” Raisa Dmytrivna remarks ironically. “Their missiles fall on their own cities because their hands grow in the wrong place. But what if it’s nuclear missiles in Belarus, and they also immediately start falling and exploding? Of course, this worries us — we don’t need radiation again.”
Last year, Radcha experienced Russian occupation.
At 4:30 a.m., the war began, and we came under fire. By 9:00 a.m., it became clear to everyone that it was impossible to leave the village or enter it. Russian checkpoints were set up on the roads, recalls Irina Nevmerzhytska, a clerk from Radcha. During a month of occupation, three residents from our village were killed, and three others were injured. It was terrifying, especially when a Russian soldier approached you. We didn’t know what to expect from them. It was also frightening to see the rockets flying across the border into Ukraine.
Not far from Radcha, there is a road leading to the Belarusian village of Aleksandrovka. Russian forces passed through it during their movement towards Ivankiv, a city in the northern part of the Kyiv region, and further towards Kyiv.
For three days, the continuous rumbling of heavy military equipment could be heard. In Radcha and the neighboring village of Grezlya, the Russians left a garrison that engaged in positional battles throughout March, mainly artillery duels with the Ukrainian Armed Forces took place. Cannons thundered, shells landed in the villages, and houses were on fire.
But this was, so to speak, the early period of the war when the Russians actively relied on propaganda clichés like “we bring peace — we have come to protect you.” The world will later speak about the atrocities in Bucha and Mariupol.
Raisa Dmytrivna kept a diary. In the 12 pages of a student’s notebook, using a concise telegraphic style, she managed to capture all 36 days of the occupation of Radcha and the war in the Ukrainian Polissia — how it could be seen and heard in the village. Here are a few excerpts from the diary:
“March 5th. Planes were flying in the morning. At 10:30, tanks entered the village, shelling began, and then they launched Grad rockets. Lena Stepurenko’s barn was shelled, a pig was killed, and the cow survived. Then, the barn was extinguished. Abramykha’s house burned down. Shells were falling all around.”
“March 14th. They were shooting from tanks at the crossroads. Many people left the village during the day and at night.”
“March 26th. The shooting was sporadic. Tanya was buried. I found out that Lyuda and Yura Budulaiiv were killed. They were buried separately in Radcha, and no one knew what happened.”
“March 30th. From early in the morning, they started shelling heavily. Then they fired about 20 rockets towards Korosten, and helicopters were flying and shooting, and there was gunfire and tanks. Everything was in motion, there was a short lull, and in the evening, they struck Grads three times again and tanks fired towards Narodychi. There was a fire.”
Many residents of Radcha have relatives in Belarus. How did they react to the war? It varied. Some had zombie-like responses in the style of “you’re having a civil war in Ukraine, fighting among yourselves, while Putin is a saint.” Others expressed desperate sentiments like “we will pray for you on our knees” and “better to be in prison than with a weapon against our Ukrainian brothers.”
“My sister lives in Belarus, and we had a fight because of the war,” says Galyna Butkovska, a paramedic in Radcha. “She called me a ‘Bandera’ supporter and said that anyone against Putin is a ‘Bandera’ supporter. And she, my own sister, who was born in Ukraine, believes the television more than she believes me! But my Belarusian friends, on the other hand, support us. They called us on the first day, and apologized for not being able to do anything for us.”
We also spoke with two men from Radcha — Volodymyr and Oleksandr. They recalled how the war started, how they sheltered from the shelling, and how they had no idea what was happening in the world except for “reading” about the war in the sky when they saw planes, helicopters, and white trails from rockets heading towards Ukraine.
They also mentioned that the flood this spring was significant — there hadn’t been such high water levels in about ten years. The rivers overflowed, flooding meadows and submerging fields and gardens.
“When the water recedes, I’ll finish the dugout at the end of the garden,” Volodymyr said almost in a whisper for some reason.
“A dugout? Why do you need it?” we ask.
“Well, it’s war, isn’t it? What if they come back again? What if they burn down the house?” he replied.
And Oleksandr added, “a major flood is actually good. The swamps will fill up, and the Russians won’t dare to come at us through Belarus. That is if, of course, they’re not complete idiots.”
A striking detail: there are slightly over 200 people living in Radcha today. Before the occupation, the village had four cows and almost every household had pigs. Now, only one cow remains, and there is a significant decrease in the number of pigs. The pre-war ones were either slaughtered or perished. However, due to the occupation, displacement, and the state of shock, people neglected the time when they needed to buy young piglets for fattening.
The war has disrupted the village’s normal way of life. How soon will it return to its former routine? Will it ever return?
Those who fled to the forest survived
Zhytomyr region, Olevsk territorial community, the border village of Kopyshche (0.5 km from Belarus).
The village of Kopyshche is surrounded by Belarus from three sides. With the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the establishment of border checkpoints, patrols, and customs control, residents were allowed to cross and travel to the neighboring country under a simplified regime, with registration and the obligation to return by the end of the day.
Any border region always thrives on mutual benefit in trade, where one can buy something cheaper or of higher quality in the neighboring country. For example, Ukrainians appreciated Belarusian dairy products, while Belarusians enjoyed Ukrainian confectionery, stationery, and school supplies, as they were cheaper in Ukraine. They also say that our school uniforms, especially colorful jackets and cute skirts for girls, were in high demand because, in Belarus, they were producing outdated school uniforms at that time.
Did they envy each other? Yes, it couldn’t be avoided, as there is always something in your neighbor’s possession that seems better than what you have.
“We always noticed the well-maintained roads in Belarusians’ villages. They, in turn, envied our free economic relations,” recalls the village elder of Kopyshche, Mykhailo Mykhalets. “Essentially, they still have a Soviet-style collective farm system: they have to fulfill state-imposed plans for sowing and deliver a certain amount of product to the government. In our village, we have private farming, which they don’t have.”
In Kopyshche, there are over a hundred tractors in private farms, something they can only dream of. Meanwhile, in their village, just two kilometers away from us, they have built a magnificent House of Culture using state funds — something we can only dream of.
About ten years ago, the residents of Kopyshche started noticing a sense of oppression and fear among Belarusians during their interactions.
“Once, while fishing with my childhood friend, a Belarusian, he remained silent for a while, and then suddenly took both his and my phone, walked back to the car, came down to the river again, and only then did he start talking and became more open. I laughed and asked, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ But he replied seriously, ‘What if we are being listened to by the KGB (Russian Committee for State Security)? They can do it even through a turned-off phone,'” recalls Oleksandr Adamovych, a resident of the neighboring village of Khochyne, whom I met in Kopyshche.
The pandemic abruptly severed the already weakened contacts in the close border areas. Local crossing points were closed. And then, instead of COVID-19, a massive invasion occurred, with Ukrainian cities being shelled by Russian planes taking off from Belarusian airfields, and nuclear blackmail.
“Why don’t Belarusians speak out against nuclear missiles on their territory?” we ask.
“They don’t speak out against anything anymore,” asserts Oleksandr Adamovych. “They tried in 2020, but ‘Luka’ (referring to President Alexander Lukashenko) suppressed the desire to protest, and they became quiet. But they don’t want nuclear missiles, just like us. They understand that Ukraine is already angry with them for allowing Russian troops to pass through. They fear that while we remain silent, there will come a time when we will respond. And we won’t differentiate between Russians and Belarusians.”
An interesting historical detail from the time of World War II: In 1943, during a punitive operation, the Nazis burned alive 2,887 people in Kopyshche, including 1,347 children, out of the village’s population of around four thousand at that time. Most of the survivors were those who had been warned by partisans.
In 2022, Kopyshche faced aggression with a population of around a thousand people. Border guards warned the village residents about the impending invasion of Russian forces from Belarus just an hour before it began, as they received orders to evacuate away from the border.
Upon seeing the border guards leaving, the residents wasted no time. They quickly packed everything they deemed necessary and fled with their families into the forest. Into the forest, where they know all the paths, clearings, and swamps: it feeds them, and it will shelter them.
There was no clear plan — the goal was simply to escape as far away from the roads as possible, as they become the most dangerous during an attack. They thought they would stay in the forest for a few days — they brought firewood, shovels, tents, and warm clothing. They didn’t form large camps — they gathered in small groups, made campfires, slept, and kept watch. The phone communication became unreliable, so they relied on the “gypsy post” to receive information about the course of the war. And… they counted Russian planes and missiles flying overhead.
Some stayed in the forest for three days, while others stayed for four. And when they realized that there wouldn’t be a direct assault on the village, as the main enemy forces were focused on Kyiv, they returned to their homes. Kopyshche did not experience occupation; it did not hear the sound of cannons and machine guns.
How can we explain the collective behavior of the residents of Kopyshche, and their swift escape to the forest? The village elder agrees with our assumption: we should speak of the “genetic memory” of the community. Because during the Second World War, those who fled to the forest were the ones who survived. Everyone knew this, and… almost everyone gravitated towards the forest once again this time.
We had the opportunity to speak with an elderly couple, Fedir and Maria Bovkun.
Fedir, born in 1937, and Maria, born in 1940, both experienced the tragedy of 1943. Fedir Gerasymovych was only six years old at the time and remembers how his uncle, a partisan from Saburov’s detachment, rode up on a horse. He shouted, “Gather your things and run!” and then turned back towards the forest. Maria Yurkivna was not yet three years old then; she only knows from her parents’ stories that her aunt — her mother’s younger sister carried her in her arms as they fled to the forest.
During this war, Fedir and Maria did not go into the forest. They say they are already old, lacking strength and agility — they shelter in the cellar.
Polissya is a region known for its large families
Berezivka territorial community in the Rivne region, a border village of Poznan (located right on the border with Belarus).
It is 7 kilometers in a straight line from the farthest Ukrainian village within the territory of the Berezivka territorial community to the nearest Belarusian village. There is an interesting play on the names of these two settlements: the Ukrainian village shares its name with the Polish city of Poznan, while the Belarusian village shares its name with the 200,000-strong city of Dzerzhinsk in Russia. It’s a kind of hint in fable-like language: one connected with Europe, the other with Russia.
Both villages are the two extreme settlements of border territories belonging to different countries.
Today, the Belarusian Dzerzhinsk is in decline, with many abandoned houses and an ageing population. Meanwhile, Ukrainian Poznan is developing. The competition for the old small log cabins comes from new, atypical for rural areas, cottages that are increasing in number year after year.
Almost the entire population of Poznan consists of large families. On average, there are 6-8 children per family. However, there are also record holders: three families in Poznan have 17 children each.
There may be 5-7 or more children with the same last name in the classrooms of the school built in 2010. Additionally, there are several complete namesakes, for example, two Ivan Petrovych Kolodych. In such cases, the teacher would say, “Vanya Kolodich the first, come to the board,” or “Vanya the second.”
We were told by the local administration that Poznan and the neighboring village of Hlynnе are considered record holders in terms of population growth rates due to high birth rates. Hlynnе is currently home to 3,816 people, while Poznan has a population of 2,380. For comparison, according to the 2001 census data, Hlynnе had a population of 2,257, and Poznan had 1,375 residents.
What explains this phenomenon? It is likely attributed to religion: the majority of people are believers. In addition to Orthodox Christians, there are Evangelical Christian communities that encourage large families based on their traditions.
In the village itself, there are few job opportunities, and most people earn their living through seasonal work, primarily in construction. Previously, they used to travel to Russia and Belarus, but now they go to Europe. Many work in family teams.
According to the locals, on the Belarusian side, “only pensioners and rundown houses are found in the villages.” However, there is more forest and pastureland there. Therefore, even during Soviet times, Ukrainians had the opportunity to enter Belarusian territory for mushroom and berry picking, grazing livestock, and setting up beehives for summer honey collection.
But with the establishment of the state border and customs control, all of this became a thing of the past. Personally collected honey, carried across the border, became subject to export regulations and customs duties. The same applied to milk from Ukrainian cows grazing on Belarusian lands.
For a long time, gathering and selling mushrooms and forest berries remained a profitable business for the residents of Poznan on “the other side.” A license for this activity cost $130 per season, and it quickly paid for itself. An experienced family brigade of gatherers, consisting of several individuals, could earn up to $4,000 during the mushroom and berry season.
However, this came to an end after February 24, 2022.
As one of the employees of the Hlynne Starostynsky District, which includes Poznan, told, last year when battles were already raging in Ukraine, the Belarusian authorities offered our villagers to come for berry picking as before. However, no one agreed — people are afraid of provocations. For example, if you come for berries, you will be seized and called a saboteur.
Between the border guards of both states, there were normal relations, often even friendly, before the full-scale invasion. If two patrols were on duty and encountered each other, they would walk parallel on either side of the border, talking and sharing news. But now, they say that if patrols cross paths, they don’t greet each other and turn in different directions. No contact whatsoever.
Poznan, like Kopyshche, did not experience occupation and only heard about the war from a distance. Of course, it also “read” the dreadful Moscow “autographs” — white streaks of rockets across the gray sky.
Currently, the border is closed from both sides. I was told that a man from Dzerzhinsk, Belarus, recently arrived in Poznan. He is a local Ukrainian, but many years ago, he moved to Belarus to live with his wife. And now he came for memorial days.
His journey was long — through the entire Brest region of Belarus to Poland, through Poland to the Volyn region of Ukraine, from there to the neighboring Rivne region, and finally to his hometown of Poznan. The road across two national borders took two days. But in 2018, in the previous year, for a similar trip to his homeland during the memorial week, he spent no more than an hour — simply riding a bicycle.
Originally posted by Vadym Petrasyuk on Ukrainska Pravda. Translated and edited by the UaPosition – Ukrainian news and analytics website
