“Those who abandoned us won’t come to the rescue”: Kursk residents go to the polls amid Ukraine’s ongoing offensive

RU

The names have been changed to protect identities.

“The remote class continued during the air raid — the children were told to hide in bathrooms with their phones”

An air defense missile takes off from the roof of a three-story building in Kursk and stays visible for a few seconds before leaving behind a nearly vertical smoke trail, like that of an airplane. Mere seconds later, we hear the explosion, muffled and somewhat muted. Passers-by do not even react. Some thirty seconds later, the air raid siren finally goes off.

“It’ll go quiet soon. The alerts are usually short,” a young woman with a stroller says to me, smiling as she walks by. We are in the city center, not far from Gymnasium 25, the public school that hit the news on the first day of voting, Sep. 6. The school walls have been covered with sandbags, and several concrete blocks are protecting the entrance.

In Russia, schools are traditionally used as polling stations during elections. However, other educational institutions cannot boast such fortifications — some have only had their windows sealed with impact-resistant film to prevent injuries from glass shards in the event of an explosion. The chair of the polling station commission cannot explain why this particular school is lucky enough to have such serious defenses. “We as commission members had nothing to do with it. It was probably done for safety.”

At this polling station, the turnout on the first day is higher than in the days of early voting, the chair says. Unlike other regions, where regional elections were held on Sep. 6-8, in Kursk Region early voting opened on Aug. 28, bringing the total period to 12 days. The decision was motivated by the need to accommodate the thousands of refugees who left the border region after the Armed Forces of Ukraine (AFU) incursion began on Aug. 6. As a result, Kursk Region is among the turnout leaders nationwide — even if enthusiasm on the ground is not exactly apparent. One or two voters walk in every minute or so.

“I don't expect anything from the election. What's the point if you expect one thing but get something entirely different?” a man in his 60s reasons on his way out of the station. “I always vote Communist. I don't particularly believe anything will change.”

As the siren wails, the voting continues. No one descends to the shelter on the underground level — unlike in Belgorod, where during the presidential election in March all electoral commission members, police, EMERCOM, and voters rushed to safety when warnings sounded.

“We are getting far fewer sirens than in mid-August, and the blasts are also less frequent,” says Elena, the owner of the apartment on the outskirts of Kursk where I’m staying. She is not going to vote. “It’s scary, like the calm before the storm. We were nervous, waiting for them to pummel us more during the election. What's it for, anyway? People are in the middle of a disaster. All that money would be better spent on helping them. Otherwise, they can only hope for some 400,000-500,000 rubles [$4,400-5,500], which is barely enough for a good fence, certainly not a house.”

There are only a handful of vacant apartments in Kursk, as the city has been flooded with refugees from the border areas.

“You be careful in the evenings, there are a lot of strangers in the city right now. It feels like more and more refugees are coming. There are all sorts of people, you know,” Elena warns me before taking off to her place next door, where two young children are waiting. “During air raid alerts, they are supposed to interrupt classes. But this time, the class continued during the air raid — the children were told to hide in bathrooms with their phones. He is sitting in his English class right now in the bathroom,” she says. Daycare centers in Kursk are mostly closed. “The kids sit in a basement or some kind of shelter virtually all the time. But I'm scared to leave my kid there.”

That evening, and on the days that follow, I join the tenants of the building to watch Ka-52 and Mi-28 helicopters fly by in the distance. With the windows facing the military airfield, we get a front-row view of the ‘air show.’ Helicopters no longer fly over Kursk itself, as they did in August. Instead, they keep moving from one base to another at very low altitudes.

In the streets, election campaign advertisements remain despite a ban on displaying such materials during the vote. A huge billboard for the systemic opposition Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR) still hangs in the very center of Kursk. The last time I visited, the LDPR made a splash by distributing humanitarian aid in branded blue-and-yellow bags at a humanitarian service point on Belinskogo Street.

However, it did little to help their election results: LDPR’s Alexei Tomanov officially gained 11.81%, Communist Alexei Bobovnikov 13.5%, and Gennady Baev of A Just Russia 6.72% of the vote.

“Nobody turned out to care about us. How can I vote for them after this?”

The Armed Forces of Ukraine seized the border areas of Russia’s Kursk Region just over a month ago, but refugees continue to line up outside humanitarian service points. Locals are donating old clothes, dropping them off at an around-the-clock aid center that was set up in the Kursk Circus. Unlike other centers, where clothes are displayed on hangers or given out individually, this one features large cardboard boxes, standing in disarray on a patch of grass and filled with garments. Two women are sorting through.

“It's all very humiliating, of course,” sighs pensioner Tatiana from the town of Sudzha. She is here for warm clothes, as temperatures in Kursk have dropped to 8℃ (46℉) at night. “How did I get out? I cycled. I was too busy to be scared. August 7 was a hot day, but I donned my windbreaker jacket anyway. I thought it might protect me from shrapnel in an explosion. Silly me, right?” Her best friend stayed in Sudzha, and Tatiana has not heard from her since Aug. 7.

“Word has it, some of the locals have been taken to Sumy [in Ukraine]. I call her every day, hoping she will finally pick up the phone. No luck so far.”

Tatiana says she wanted to vote but couldn’t find any instructions because she does not use the Internet: “It's too much trouble to figure out all the details when all you do every day is try to survive. I thought our authorities would tell us what to do, but they told us nothing.”

A younger woman joins in. “I logged onto [the public services portal] Gosuslugi, but all I could find was the list of candidates — nothing on the procedure for refugees. It’s all very confusing.” The young woman turns out to be Tatiana's daughter, a native of Sudzha who lives in Kursk. “I waited for my ‘cyclist’ here,” she jokes, nodding in her mother's direction.

Both women say they do not expect the elections to change anything. “It's naive to think that any of the candidates will save us after they abandoned us like that. This is our life now, picking through old clothes at the circus.”

Sergei, 25, also a refugee from the Sudzha District, is more knowledgeable. He left with his mother in mid-August and says they were “real lucky,” getting out on the day before the bridge over the Seym River was blown up.

“One can vote remotely or at a polling station in Kursk. I applied to vote in Kursk. My mom and grandma applied on Magistralnaya Street, even though we’re all registered in the border zone. The elections were discussed even before the capture, so those who were interested followed the developments.”

A guy in his early twenties comes up to me, introduсing himself as Vitaly, the volunteer coordinator. He asks whether I need help, but learning I am a reporter covering the election, he scoffs, saying he has not given a damn about elections ever since he failed to evacuate his relatives.

“We made trips, two other guys and I, helping evacuate people from Bolshoye Soldatskoye [a village 20 kilometers away from Sudzha], but [the authorities] did not let us go further, saying there were Nazis there. We wanted to fetch my great aunt — my nana’s sister. We asked them to provide us with at least some sort of equipment or troops to accompany us. I know for a fact that evacuation continued at that point. But nobody turned out to care about us. How can I vote for them after this? I don't believe they are going to save us at all.”

Locals appear to have accepted the fact that the authorities left them behind — and failed to warn them about the AFU offensive or organize their evacuation. While a couple of weeks ago evacuation was the hottest topic at any humanitarian service point, today hardly anyone is talking about how they got out. Emotional debates, often with harsh criticism of local and federal officials, have given way to apathetic chit-chat about housing and pharmacy vouchers for those eligible.

“The governor was supposed to build a defensive line, but there is none, much to Ukrainians' delight”

Outside the Russian Red Cross humanitarian point on Radishcheva Street, I run into the acting governor, United Russia party member Alexei Smirnov. (By the time of publication, Smirnov had already been elected as governor of the Kursk Region.) Surrounded by his bodyguards, he is visiting the humanitarian services point to speak with volunteers. They are addressing the challenge of combining voluntary work with studies, as many of the volunteers are school students. Minors in Red Cross uniforms explain that they would like to be allowed to leave school early, as some of the classes continue until 7 p.m. and there is a need for volunteers in the mornings and afternoons too. The governor promises to work out a solution.

Smirnov is hard to approach, especially with his security guards blocking off the narrow pavement. The acting governor is taking photos with young volunteers when one of the refugees spots him.

“I have a question, please. We’re standing in line for certificates, but the volunteers have told us that not everyone is eligible. We're from Rylsk, for one,” the woman says. A girl attempts to film the conversation, but Smirnov’s press secretary grabs her by the arm. Commotion ensues. Smirnov's entourage prohibits any media coverage, appealing to Russia’s counter-terrorism operation regime and the “unofficial” nature of the acting governor's visit. Meanwhile, the security guards ignore Red Cross volunteers who are also filming the scene.

The Red Cross point on Radishcheva Street offers medical check-ups: a medical bus is parked outside, and the doctor offers free advice, medical tests, and ECGs from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. The Red Cross also gives out pharmacy vouchers, but refugees are more interested in receiving housing certificates as compensation for their homes that were destroyed during the hostilities.

“Housing certificates are a no-go for us because no one knows what happened to our home in Sudzha,” a refugee sighs. “They are issued to those who are known to have lost their homes, but we have no idea what happened to ours. And there is no telling when we will know it.” To the question about elections, the woman sighs again, waves her hand, and turns away.

“Smirnov is up and about, pretending he’s in control. I don't like him, to be honest. He was always number two. He’s out of his depth now. He might be trying to do something good, to help, but personally, I think he's out of his depth,” says Boris, a pensioner from Kursk. He has arrived at the Red Cross humanitarian point with two boxes of warm clothes for refugees. “I haven't heard a single good word about Smirnov,” Boris adds.

Alexei, the driver who takes us to the next polling station, also disapproves of the acting governor. Alexei is from the village of Ponyr. His daughter is a student at Kursk Medical University, so he moved the entire family to the city to help her settle in. In the elections, he voted with a paper ballot. When I venture to suggest that Smirnov has not yet had the chance to demonstrate his capacity to govern, as he has only been in office since Jul. 1, Alexei scoffs:

“He already proved himself as the deputy of former governor Starovoyt, who got caught embezzling. Smirnov is from the same clique. He was supposed to build a defensive line, but there is none, much to the Ukrainians’ delight.”

According to Alexei, Starovoyt and his cronies “had spread their tentacles everywhere. A friend of mine works for a large federal company recycling scrap metal. They tried to set up a drop-off station here, and I was helping them. But the authorities kept meddling. First, it was one thing, then another. They started hinting they wanted their cut. But my friend wasn't having it. He said they would do everything they had to: build a fence, get a fire extinguisher, you name it. They couldn't launch for a year, getting pressured for all sorts of things. They only opened very recently.”

Alexei, along with other Kursk Region residents interviewed by The Insider, does not believe the elections can change life in the region for the better. “There might be some positive momentum for a short while, but it will soon become history. The authorities aren’t going out of their way as it is. Refugees are only getting help from the federal center and volunteers — mostly from volunteers. If everything had stayed on the municipal level, it would have failed completely.”

However, Smirnov is credited with fixing the roads, which were in a disastrous state this past spring. “He fixed them even where I was sure no one would be bothered to do anything. But that’s elections for you,” Alexei says before noting that the builders neglected to add storm drains. As we drive along Mayakovskogo Street, he demonstrates the results of Starovoyt and Smirnov’s efforts.

“Look what they did under the bridge. I didn’t expect it. But it only looked good until the first downpour, because there is no drain where there used to be one. Instead of cleaning it, they just put asphalt all over it — cheap and quick. Our Russian cars are done for,” the driver concludes. “But if truth be told, our roads were the worst they’ve ever been this spring before Starovoyt fixed them.”

“Imagine how much you have to steal to trigger an investigation!”

On Klykova Avenue, I hear talk of Starovoyt's embezzlement again. People are standing in a short line to get water, which is distributed for free because the pipes feeding the northwestern part of the city have been accidentally cut during road works.

“[Governor Starovoyt] opened up asphalt plants and squeezed out third-party stakeholders. All of these plants were acquired by Starovoyt's wife, even though they were technically divorced. I’ve spoken to many businessmen, and they were all pressured on all accounts,” a tenant from a nearby apartment block complains. “Every day people get a new problem. There is no end in sight. So who needs these elections in the first place? Why even bother to conduct them in such a setting?”

Another man chimes in: “They should cancel [the elections]. We have an acting governor, so let him man his desk, and that should be the end of it. Does he have to wear the governor's badge? To what end? Let him rule. Who cares? Let's wait for two or three months until the dust settles down, so to speak. Then you can have your elections. But they want them here and now. They’ll do anything as long as it distracts them from actual problems.”

An old Russian car pulls over across the street, and five soldiers with cans of energy drinks get out. The car has civilian license plates, but military personnel frequently use such vehicles to get around, both in Kursk and in the wider region. One can also see soldiers from the so-called “people’s republics” of Donetsk and Luhansk in the streets. There are even more police and troops in the city than there were in mid-August, when the Ukrainian incursion began. At the same time, security is less tight: baggage is no longer scanned at the exit from the railway station, and passengers are not rushed into the train during boarding — one can load one’s baggage onto the rack and then wait on the platform for departure.

“Probably the best governor we ever had was Rutskoy,” another local resident, waiting for his turn to get water, says — a reference to Alexander Rutskoy, who went on to serve as governor of the Kursk region (1996-2000) after playing a key role in the political turmoil that roiled Moscow in 1993. “He did a lot for our city. He built a triumphal arch, and pensioners could use public transport for free. His coup put him at odds with the president, of course. He wasn't allowed to become governor for a second term. As for Mikhaylov, his successor, may he rest in peace, he was a drunk, if truth be told... Still, the city was much better under him than Starovoyt.”

According to the interviewee, Starovoyt as the governor simply waited for an opportunity to leave for Moscow.

“He embezzled the Kerch Bridge money too when he was working with [Deputy Prime Minister Marat] Khusnullin. So he was exiled here, to serve as Kursk Region governor and atone for his sins. But he started stealing here too! Have you heard the news? The General Prosecutor's Office took an interest in his affairs and found that he had siphoned off two billion [rubles, or $22 million] while building defensive lines. Imagine how much you have to steal to trigger an investigation!”

“The Constitution prohibits holding elections in emergencies. But who cares about the Constitution?”

A nine-story apartment block in Soyuznaya Street, damaged by a missile on the night of Aug. 11, has since spawned new balconies. The renovation of the facade is almost finished, timed to coincide with the elections — but shrapnel marks are still visible on the walls. Unlike in August, the police no longer guard the building. Children are playing in the playground, and tenants are sitting on benches. They are more preoccupied with finding money to repair their damaged apartments than they are with elections.

“It's been a month. All they did was replace the windows. Only the windows, not even the jambs — we’re supposed to fix them ourselves!” tenant Natalia complains. “They fixed the balconies from the outside, true. But how about fixing the interior? Everything’s been broken and burnt. We’re fixing everything out of our own pocket! No one counts that.”

Natalia voted on the last day of the elections, and her neighbor voted remotely. “The most important thing these politicians should do is to help people and take good care of them. Not like they do now! They recently reported on TV that they allocated money and fixed everything. But where’s the money? We’re entitled to 15,000 rubles [less than $170], although the renovation will cost us hundreds of thousands. But we can’t even get the 15,000! I only got a notification that my application has been ‘accepted for consideration’ yesterday, can you imagine? It wasn't until yesterday! But I applied almost a month ago!”

The building on Soyuznaya Street is located in Zheleznodorozhny District, right in the path of Ukrainian missiles targeting Russian ground force and air force bases to the east and northeast of Kursk. Despite the dangerous proximity, many locals have decided to stay in their apartments. A family is sitting at the table on a heavily damaged balcony on the fourth floor, and children are playing amidst the debris no one has cleaned up since the explosion. A worker with a mosquito net walks by.

“A mosquito net costs 1,200 rubles [$13],” Natalia says. “We have to buy everything ourselves. But when you look at the facade, it seems as though everything’s been fixed.”

Outside a nearby polling station, two men are having a heated conversation, exclaiming that the elections “are a sham, and Smirnov will get his 80% anyway, like Putin!” One of them turns out to be a former State Duma deputy. For safety reasons, The Insider will not disclose his name.

“Real elections ended seven years ago. When I ran for office, the state sponsored my campaign and offered me free air time, but once the law on state funding for political parties was passed, the elections were over,” the former member of parliament explains. “Besides, no one but the ruling party can ensure efficient observation even for three days in a row. This time, they stretched the regional elections for 12 days because of the emergency. The Constitution prohibits holding elections in an emergency in the first place! But who cares about the Constitution? As [fictional 19th-century philosopher] Kozma Prutkov wrote, ‘When arms rattle, all constitutions lose the battle!’”

As we speak, the siren goes off, but no one bats an eye. That will change soon, the ex-MP says.

“It’s mostly drones here. They are quickly downed. But once the Ukrainians [he uses the pejorative term ‘khokhly’] get permission to use long-range weapons against us, that’s when the fun will begin. [Air defenses] can catch one missile, sure, maybe two or three. But what if there are ten?”

Refugees appear to realize that none of the candidates can answer their most important questions: when will they be able to return home, and what will happen to the occupied territories? Another question that hangs in the air is: “How did the government allow a foreign army to capture its land at all?” The taxi driver who takes me to the station also reflects on the developments in August mostly by asking questions.

“I simply refuse to understand it. How can you miss a twelve-thousand-strong army at the border? Did you think the Ukrainians [the speaker also uses the slur ‘khokhly’] would not dare to cross? That they’d be afraid? Of what? Putin's name? They crossed, gained a foothold — they’re fine. What are we waiting for? That they’ll leave? Why would they leave? They haven't come here to leave! No. They’ll soon get long-range missiles and will start pummeling us like they're pummeling Belgorod!”

The driver recalls the day of the Ukrainian incursion into Kursk Region. He was in Lipetsk when the AFU hit the local airport. “All of the planes took off at once — the pilots probably got some kind of heads-up. The airport was razed to the ground. They also blew up some kind of military warehouse with weapons.”

If one were to find a single word for the public attitude in the city of Kursk, it would be “uncertainty” — uncertainty in every detail. It is true for everyone, except officials from the ruling party. “We look into the future with confidence,” wrote Alexei Smirnov on Telegram, commenting on his expected election as governor. Despite his official overwhelming victory at the polls he seems to be the only one.