We continue to share the documentary projects of the finalists within the framework of the grant support of documentary photographers from the UAFF, implemented with the support of the International Press Institute.
Igor Ishchuk explores the topic of social inequality, parallel communities and the consequences of urbanization of urban neighborhoods. He is currently covering the war in Ukraine.
I walk down Ushakov Avenue past the deserted Freedom Square. Today is exactly one year since Kherson was released. Exactly one year ago, the square was completely packed with people who went out to catch communication in the city, which was left without any communications. The humid air is permeated with tension, the city seems to be frozen in anticipation. Since December 2022, after Russian troops withdrew to the left bank of the Dnieper, the city has been under constant chaotic shelling, but today locals expect special greetings from that bank.
In the evening I meet Vadim, my first hero of the series, a thirteen-year-old guy from around Kherson. “So strange, today after a nap, I went out to the balcony to smoke, and there is no one on the street, not even a soul, only that grandfather who shot a cigarette at us yesterday. Everyone is worried about Liberation Day,” says the guy.
Vadim introduced me to his company. These are fourteen-year-old Zhurik and Vanya and thirteen-year-old Ponchik. And Anya and Angelina are sixteen and fifteen years old. They live on the outskirts of the city in a residential area, which has become a kind of hiding place for them - nothing has come here for quite a long time. They all came together relatively recently. “If it weren't for the war, this company wouldn't even exist,” Ponchik tells me. Each of them had friends, some from Ukraine and some abroad.
“I remember when the class teacher came up to us and said we were moving to the distance. Everyone was screaming with joy. No one then realized that this was our last meeting,” recalls Zhurik. After a short silence, he adds: “In general, it is very sad that everything happened like this, so many opportunities were taken away from us, and now I do not know what to do. I really want to see the friends who left, I am very sad.”
I ask the guys what the war has changed for them in the first place, and all but Vanya answer that they started smoking out of anxiety. And after a short pause, Ponchik discreetly adds: “Family... My grandfather was wounded by a splinter, we did not have time to save him.” With a deep, understanding look, Angelina says: “With the war came a kind of loneliness. Everyone left, and Dad was taken into the army. Everyone has had a lot of experience.”
It is difficult for them to think that in time they will have to leave their hometown, but they regret to admit that in the near future they do not see the future of Kherson, over which uncertainty has hung a heavy veil. When an enemy is a dozen kilometers away from you, making plans seems impossible.
Life in Kherson resembles a dream. Events are fragmented into a spiral of reality. I see children playing on the playground behind anti-shrapnel barriers, I see a mother carrying a small son across the road in a bulletproof vest, I see a waitress in the semi-basement of a cafe smoking vape and nervously flipping through the news feed while walking around our street arrow.
20 minutes later I drive the wheels of a car onto the broken wires of the power lines, a man is waiting for a trolleybus across the road at the stop.
In the late evening, heavy shelling is underway in the center. The next morning, someone will be left without a home.
In the half-empty Central Market, a funeral wreath vendor says locals are used to it, that he relies on the occasion. In Kherson, no one is one hundred percent sure that he will go to work tomorrow. Here even the silence reminds of the shelling.
Igor Ishchuk has been engaged in photography since 2018. In 2020, he began studying documentary photography and in 2021 shot his first documentary series, Baturinskaya 12, in which he explored the topic of social inequality, parallel society and the consequences of urbanization of urban neighborhoods. Since 2022, it has been covering the consequences of the full-scale invasion of the Russian Federation in Ukraine.
Read also: Documentary projects of 10 microgrant finalists from UAPP
We continue to share the documentary projects of the finalists within the framework of the grant support of documentary photographers from the UAFF, implemented with the support of the International Press Institute.
Igor Ishchuk explores the topic of social inequality, parallel communities and the consequences of urbanization of urban neighborhoods. He is currently covering the war in Ukraine.
I walk down Ushakov Avenue past the deserted Freedom Square. Today is exactly one year since Kherson was released. Exactly one year ago, the square was completely packed with people who went out to catch communication in the city, which was left without any communications. The humid air is permeated with tension, the city seems to be frozen in anticipation. Since December 2022, after Russian troops withdrew to the left bank of the Dnieper, the city has been under constant chaotic shelling, but today locals expect special greetings from that bank.
In the evening I meet Vadim, my first hero of the series, a thirteen-year-old guy from around Kherson. “So strange, today after a nap, I went out to the balcony to smoke, and there is no one on the street, not even a soul, only that grandfather who shot a cigarette at us yesterday. Everyone is worried about Liberation Day,” says the guy.
Vadim introduced me to his company. These are fourteen-year-old Zhurik and Vanya and thirteen-year-old Ponchik. And Anya and Angelina are sixteen and fifteen years old. They live on the outskirts of the city in a residential area, which has become a kind of hiding place for them - nothing has come here for quite a long time. They all came together relatively recently. “If it weren't for the war, this company wouldn't even exist,” Ponchik tells me. Each of them had friends, some from Ukraine and some abroad.
“I remember when the class teacher came up to us and said we were moving to the distance. Everyone was screaming with joy. No one then realized that this was our last meeting,” recalls Zhurik. After a short silence, he adds: “In general, it is very sad that everything happened like this, so many opportunities were taken away from us, and now I do not know what to do. I really want to see the friends who left, I am very sad.”
I ask the guys what the war has changed for them in the first place, and all but Vanya answer that they started smoking out of anxiety. And after a short pause, Ponchik discreetly adds: “Family... My grandfather was wounded by a splinter, we did not have time to save him.” With a deep, understanding look, Angelina says: “With the war came a kind of loneliness. Everyone left, and Dad was taken into the army. Everyone has had a lot of experience.”
It is difficult for them to think that in time they will have to leave their hometown, but they regret to admit that in the near future they do not see the future of Kherson, over which uncertainty has hung a heavy veil. When an enemy is a dozen kilometers away from you, making plans seems impossible.
Life in Kherson resembles a dream. Events are fragmented into a spiral of reality. I see children playing on the playground behind anti-shrapnel barriers, I see a mother carrying a small son across the road in a bulletproof vest, I see a waitress in the semi-basement of a cafe smoking vape and nervously flipping through the news feed while walking around our street arrow.
20 minutes later I drive the wheels of a car onto the broken wires of the power lines, a man is waiting for a trolleybus across the road at the stop.
In the late evening, heavy shelling is underway in the center. The next morning, someone will be left without a home.
In the half-empty Central Market, a funeral wreath vendor says locals are used to it, that he relies on the occasion. In Kherson, no one is one hundred percent sure that he will go to work tomorrow. Here even the silence reminds of the shelling.
Igor Ishchuk has been engaged in photography since 2018. In 2020, he began studying documentary photography and in 2021 shot his first documentary series, Baturinskaya 12, in which he explored the topic of social inequality, parallel society and the consequences of urbanization of urban neighborhoods. Since 2022, it has been covering the consequences of the full-scale invasion of the Russian Federation in Ukraine.
Read also: Documentary projects of 10 microgrant finalists from UAPP
UAPP is an independent association of professional Ukrainian photographers, designed to protect their interests, support, develop and promote Ukrainian photography as an important element of national culture.
UAPP's activities span educational, social, research and cultural initiatives, as well as book publishing.
UAPP represents Ukrainian professional photography in the international photographic community and is an official member of the Federation of European Photographers (FEP) — an international organization representing more than 50,000 professional photographers in Europe and other countries around the world.
