Iron & Soil: Journey Through the Battle for Ukraine
Part 7

1,254 words

All parts here.

The road winds through beautiful pine forests, following the banks of the Oskil River. The trees are tall and old, but their trunks bear fresh, black wounds where fire and shrapnel have torn through them. The wind whispers through the needles.

Rusting signs still invite travelers to resorts, lodges, and beaches, but beside them, fresh red warning boards stand, skull-and-crossbones, symbols warning of minefields.

As we enter Izium, pines grow densely along the road. They look peaceful, but every local knows…this place is cursed.

Here, the occupiers buried their victims. Those who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those who were too weak, too sick, too old. They weren’t given graves, only holes in the earth. Some were wrapped in bags. Others were simply thrown into pits. The gravediggers marked the crosses with only numbers. No names, no words.

When the city was liberated, families came. They dug through the earth with their bare hands, searching for the missing. Some were found, taken away, and buried with dignity. Others remained unknown.

Now, the forest stands silent. The ground is still dangerous, still filled with hidden mines and forgotten bones. The war moves on but it never truly leaves. It remains in the air, in the soil, in the trees that have seen too much.

Izium stands quiet, trapped between its past and an uncertain future. The scars of occupation run deep, not just in the destroyed buildings, but in the eyes of its people. Nearly a thousand civilians killed out of a population of thirteen thousand. A number too high, a wound too deep.

Izium was once the gateway to Donbas, a center of trade and metallurgy, standing high on the bluffs of the Siverskyi Donets River. Now, it is just a shadow of itself. The streets are silent, life uncertain. Two years later, Izium is still searching for itself. It tries to grasp the thread of its own history, though that thread is burned, shattered, and buried.

We drive through the city, past ruins and small shops selling only the bare necessities. The road stretches forward, cutting across fields that have seen too many wars. These are the same plains where, once, the Estonian Waffen-SS volunteer battalion Narva fought.

In July 1943, they held out for three days, repelling overwhelming Soviet attacks. They were outnumbered, but they fought on. On the rapeseed fields, where tanks once plowed deep tracks, today, drones fly. Once, this place echoed with the sound of machine guns and the shouted orders in Estonian, German, and Russian.

Eighty years have passed, but little has changed. The same endless sky. The same hard ground. The same fight. Wars change. Uniforms change. But the struggle never ends.

Ahead of us rises Kharkiv, a city of red brick and iron will. It is a city built in layers: Cossack fortresses, the grandeur of the Empire, Soviet ambition, and modern resistance, all stacked together like the walls of its factories and palaces.

Wide avenues stretch forward, lined with the ghosts of the past. 19th-century two-story buildings stand beside grim Soviet monuments. Constructivist towers loom like silent sentinels, carrying within them a century of dreams and failures. Before the war, Kharkiv was a city of students. A place where young people came to study, not just from Ukraine, but from all over the world. Now, many lecture halls stand empty.

Kharkiv has long been a city on the frontier, a place between two worlds. In 2014, when war first reached Donbas, Kharkiv stood firm, refusing to be swallowed by chaos. But in February 2022, the bloodshed arrived in full force. A barrage of rockets and bombs carved scars into Kharkiv’s streets, tore apart homes, and struck theatres, churches, and hospitals. Yet the grand heart of Ukraine’s former capital still beats. More than a million people still live here, enduring daily attacks.

We drive through the city. The air is heavy with dust – and with something deeper – the weight of history, demanding to be remembered. Then, the wail of air raid sirens. No one flinches. No one rushes. The city moves to its own rhythm, accustomed to sounds that once meant panic. We don’t even look up anymore.

On the outskirts of Kharkiv, we meet two soldiers. Their unit is fighting in Russia’s Kursk region. They were pulled back just days ago for a short rest before the next battle. We sit with them in a small, dimly lit café, drinking bitter tea and asking questions. They answer plainly.

In Kursk, Ukrainian troops now face North Korean soldiers. “The Koreans are good soldiers,” one of them says. He sips his tea and looks at us, his face lined with exhaustion. They are small in stature, they say, but skilled. Dangerous. They must not be underestimated.

It’s not like many think, back in the rear. The Koreans are disciplined, well-trained, and highly motivated. They manoeuvre well, moving in small squads of 3–4 men, using infantry tactics they’ve studied their entire lives. In North Korea, you don’t just join the army. You are raised for war from birth. And they have nowhere to retreat – not in Russia, not in Korea.

Their greatest advantage is their fighting spirit. They are ready to die. This is a huge problem for Ukrainian forces. They don’t surrender, even if their entire unit is wiped out. If they are wounded, they try to kill themselves, often with a grenade, so they can’t be identified. Some blow themselves up along with the Ukrainian soldier they pretend to surrender to.

They are excellent marksmen. Their desperation and shooting skills make them effective even against drones. They have learned to adapt. One soldier baits a drone, while others try to shoot it down. They improvise. When ammo runs out, they charge with knives. They attack armed enemies with blades.

Their standard infantry weapons are the usual: rifles, machine guns, grenades. Heavier weapons, drones, and artillery support come from the Russians. The Koreans have their own officers, but likely have Russian commanders as well.

Technologically, their training is outdated. Their methods feel Soviet-era. But their insane motivation, willingness to die, and sharpshooting ability make them a very dangerous enemy. And there are more coming. If their numbers grow, this could become a serious problem.

The situation in Kursk Oblast is dire. Pressure on the frontline is growing relentlessly. Even deep behind Ukrainian lines, the sky is filled with drones and artillery fire. The moment you cross the border, you become a target. FPV drones circle like flies. Artillery rumbles. Glide bombs tear positions apart. Shaheds, rockets – everything imaginable.

Yet, Russian losses remain much higher than Ukraine’s. That seems to be the Ukrainian commanders’ calculation. They are trading losses, believing they can outlast the enemy.

We had considered crossing into Russia without a visa. Crossing the border into Kursk Oblast. The plan to support Ukrainian units there had existed for a while. The territory Ukraine had seized by pushing the front forward needed supplies and reinforcements. But the Ukrainians just smirk. “Not a good idea,” they say.

Border roads are under constant Russian fire. The moment you cross the frontier, Russian drones lock onto you. If they spot you, they call in mortar fire. Anyone who makes it through is just lucky. Even Ukrainian forces race through those zones like it’s hell on earth. But they have no choice. It’s the only way to resupply their troops.

We decide not to go. Instead, we head south – through Odessa, then Kyiv. And back home.