In the battered southern city of Kherson, where Russian drone strikes and artillery target civilians daily, residents cling to traditions for both a semblance of normality and as an act of defiance.
This year, just like every year before the start of the full-scale war, Kherson locals baked Easter bread, gathered with loved ones, and found ways to celebrate life amid the destruction caused by war. The wounds of Russian occupation still run deep, and so Easter offers a rare moment of solace amid lingering questions — like who resisted the Russian occupation and who may have collaborated with the occupiers.
Ukrainian photographer Stanislav Ostrous traveled to Kherson for this year's Easter celebrations — a rare occasion when both Orthodox and Catholic Easter fell on the same day — and spoke with locals about living through the Russian occupation, how the war has shaped their lives, and what it means to celebrate Easter in a city still under constant threat.
Pavlo Khomych, a 54-year-old entrepreneur, does his best to smile and stay positive — even after a Russian strike nearly killed him and his wife in their own home.
"The main thing is we survived," he told the Kyiv Independent.
During the occupation, the couple had packed their bags, ready to flee. But the moment they heard Kherson had been liberated, their decision was made: They would stay.
Khomych refused to accept Russian rubles, saying he "only accepted hryvnias" on the rare occasions he sold items during the occupation. He didn't return to selling items until the family savings ran out — and when they could, he and his wife brought food to neighborhoods in need.
Asked what he thought about the possibility of Russian forces returning to the city, he didn’t hesitate: "Kherson was never conquered! No, no way! That's not even up for discussion!"
Yuliia Korniienko, a 40-year-old café owner and dedicated volunteer in Kherson, has weathered the horrors of occupation with resilience and determination. Despite the ongoing dangers — including the ever-present threat of drone attacks — Korniienko remains focused on helping others, especially the military and civilians in need.
This Easter, her café sent 90 handmade Easter cakes to soldiers on the front lines.
"We received feedback and a photo report from the chaplain — it makes us happy," she shared, describing the process of decorating each cake herself. It's a small act of kindness in a city that's seen far too much violence.
Korniienko's motivation to stay in Kherson is clear: her husband serves in the military, and helping those around her is what keeps her going. Though drones have targeted her city and even come close to her own life, she continues to support her community, delivering aid to children, mothers, and those bedridden due to injuries.
And while she finds purpose in helping others, the danger never feels far. The worst, she said, are the drones. "With a glide bomb, you get a warning. You can hide. But drones — you only notice them when they're already there, when you hear them."
The Easter celebrations this year were a stark contrast to those during the occupation. Now, Kherson residents are able to attend church services and bless their Easter breads.
"The chaplain came, quickly read a prayer, blessed our cakes," Korniienko explained, "and told us that if we can't go to church, we should just say a prayer at home and bless the cakes ourselves."
Photographer Mykola Koshelyuk, 64, recounted how an innocent photo almost got him sent to a Russian torture chamber during the occupation. An FSB author approached him after he photographed some grapevines he noticed wrapped around wires, not knowing that the nearby building was being used by Russian occupation forces to torture civilians.
For Koshelyuk, the day Kherson was finally liberated felt like something out of a dream. Locals were gathered near a local spot where there was a generator, when suddenly Ukrainian soldiers appeared, a Ukrainian flag adorned on their car. Locals held their breaths, afraid it might be some provocation. "Then it started: cars honking non-stop! Girls on Freedom Square were shouting, 'Ours!' It was incredible!" he recalled.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of disbelief when, in a city plunged into total blackout, the first equipment brought in was for putting up a flagpole.
Viktor Fedyk, 62, wasn’t home when the Russians seized Kherson — he was at sea, on a voyage near Rostov. On November 11 of fall 2022, while riding a bus together with his wife, a message came through: Kherson is liberated.
"The whole bus erupted," he recalled. "Everyone was shouting."
But joy turned quickly to horror. Back in Kherson, their home in Kindiyka — a district along the Dnipro River now considered one of the city’s most dangerous — came under attack. A drone dropped a grenade right outside their window.
"I opened the window, and it exploded," he said. He was concussed. And that was just the beginning.
One night, an explosion rocked the neighborhood. A neighbor ran to their door, shouting for help. While they treated one wounded man inside, another lay outside in the freezing cold. The drone returned, buzzing overhead.
"I couldn't get to him," he said. "It hovered over him the whole time." When the drone finally flew off, he rushed out and applied a tourniquet — but the man bled out in the car before reaching safety.
"That was the moment I told my wife: 'That’s it, Sveta. We're done.'" They moved to the Tavriyskyi district, a little farther from the front lines.
Now, like so many others in Kherson, he keeps close watch on drone activity online, knowing how quickly the threat can return. Still, he refuses to accept the idea that Russia might reclaim the city.
"God forbid our government ever agrees to that. It would be a betrayal of the entire Ukrainian people," he said. "So many lives have been lost. Kherson is my favorite city. I've traveled a lot — but there's no place more dear to me."
Natalia Yermak
