The wind cut across the ruined fields like a blade. Snow drifted against blasted walls and shattered windows of once-busy homes in the Donetsk frontline town of Zarichne. It was late January 2026, and the war had already entered its fourth bitter winter.
Sergeant Olena Mykhailenko stood beside a battered armored truck, handing out stacks of solid fuel briquettes and emergency rations to residents queuing in threadbare coats. Ukrainian engineers had rigged the truck with extra storage and a small generator allowing it to idly hum as people shuffled forward. They needed wood and coal desperately — electricity and gas lines had been knocked out months ago.
“We don’t know if the rumors are true,” Olena said to Bohdan, an elderly man bundled under layers of scarves. “But there are whispers that some locals who fled east got kerosene from Russian authorities in occupied areas.” She paused, scanning the grey horizon where artillery flashes lingered even in daylight.
What she did know for certain was that fuel shortages were real and tightening across Ukraine. In the past year, repeated strikes by Russian forces on electrical and heating infrastructure had cut Ukraine’s energy production drastically. Some regions lost half of their gas output and faced rolling power cuts in sub-zero temperatures.
Meanwhile, Kyiv warned that Russia’s own fuel supply was strained by Ukrainian long-range strikes against refineries beyond the border — hitting up to around a fifth of Russian fuel capacity and contributing to bottlenecks and high civilian prices even inside Russia itself.
Olena watched Bohdan accept the ration pack: tins of preserved meat, packets of grain, high-calorie bars and a small stash of wood pellets. She remembered how, just months ago, volunteer groups and the UN winter response plan had aided more than two million Ukrainianswith similar relief efforts, delivering blankets, fuel, and winter clothes in hardest-hit areas.
But those programs were stretched thin. By late 2025, only about two-thirds of the funding needed to keep them going had been received, forcing cuts to vital support like heating cash assistance.
Across the queue, Kateryna, a schoolteacher, looked hollow-eyed. “At first,” she confessed, “we welcomed the soldiers. They were our shield. But now… every day is cold, every night is fear, and our children ask why the heaters don’t work anymore.” Her voice faltered. What had once been cooperation now too often slipped into resentment. Rumors on the street, stress and desperation bred open hostility toward even those wearing the blue and yellow of Ukraine’s defenders.
Olena felt the weight of it. Senior officers often said civilian morale could be a greater challenge than any battery of artillery.
Beyond the town, the landscape told its own story. Nearby Kherson oblast had seen power plant damage disrupt heating for tens of thousands. Sustained humanitarian response plans aimed to assist over four million people with shelter, fuel, and essential winter supplies — but the needs were growing even faster than the money.
A gust of snow slapped Olena’s face. “We stand,” she said, more to herself than to Bohdan. Around her, a few dozen people huddled with slurred breaths and tight shoulders, grateful for the warmth of a handful of wood pellets, yet wary of tomorrow’s uncertainties.
In Zarichne — like so many frontline towns — the war had become more than bullets and blasts. It had seeped into every hearth, every ration line, and the fragile hearts of people holding on through an endless winter.
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All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
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