The last church in Dobropillia
The church in Dobropillia, a town in Eastern Ukraine, was never grand. It stood behind the town square, tucked between a row of low houses and an overgrown fence. No bell. No stained glass. Just a white-painted chapel, plain and peaceful. For three years, through shellings and blackouts and the long, quiet dread of a creeping war, it remained open. It was symbolic for locals.
A friend of mine visited the priest each month since the full scale invasion began. She would ask him why he hadn’t left. He always said he’d only close it when he had to, but there was still time left.
The regional commission of Donetsk region has initiated the mandatory evacuation of nearly a thousand children from Dobropillia on July 24.
Yet many civilians refuse to leave their homes despite constant shelling. The city is not abandoned, as Russian media claims, and has never been occupied.
During the latest drone strike on August 1, Russian forces injured civilians living in Dobropillia.
A Ukrainian army officer Tsekhotsky told FREEDOM TV that they are aware of Russia’s plan to capture Dobropillia, but the situation remains under control. Reserve units have been deployed to secure the road leading to the town. The enemy is failing in its attempts.
I arrived in Dobropillia just after a Russian glide bomb struck the town square. It was the kind of weapon designed to terrorise…heavy, fast, and dropped from a great distance. It landed near the center of town, not far from the church. When I reached it, the doors were shut. The priest was gone. There was no sign. No message. No farewell. Just silence.
Outside, on the stone steps, a pile of donated clothes had been left behind. Baby shoes. A teddy bear. A scarf, neatly folded. Things meant for people who had already gone. Or maybe people who never made it. The church, like the town, had emptied.
I had been here before. In 2023, passing through on my way east. It was never a destination, just a place people lived, and others passed through. Volunteers stopped for petrol. Journalists got coffee. You could buy hot pizza on the corner. There was music in the square and a woman who sold sunflower seeds in glass jars. It wasn’t a war zone. It was just a place people called home.
Even three months ago, things felt very different. I remember walking into an electronics shop looking for a piece of camera equipment, a small bracket for the dashboard. The woman behind the counter didn’t have it, but she called the shop next door. Then another shopkeeper joined the search. They walked with me down the street, checking shelves, refusing to let me leave empty handed.
That same street is now shattered. Windows blown in. Shops closed. Doors hanging off their hinges. The pizza place is gone. So are the people.
I passed one man, sitting alone on a bench outside his store. His head in his hands. Nothing to open for. No one to sell to. It felt like walking through the memory of a place. Like something had once lived here but no longer did. Above us, a drone buzzed. It circled low, slowly, then moved off. Minutes later, we heard it had struck somewhere nearby.
Russia says these towns are military targets. But they strike the places where people gather. Where children play. Where women stand in line for bread. Where an old man opens his shop in the morning, knowing he may have no customers.
They target life. Then they say they didn’t.
This weekend, Russia Today broadcast a ten-minute segment about me. They called me a liar. Said Dobropillia was not a town. Said the church never mattered. Said it was all part of some deception. But I was there. I stood in front of that closed door. I saw the priest’s empty chair. I saw the clothes left outside for no one.
And I realised something. It is not just that Russia destroys. It is that wherever they go, something deeper begins to rot. Towns go quiet. Lights dim. Hope thins out like mist.
The priest had stayed for as long as he could. Through air raids. Through power outages. Through funerals. He was the kind of man who believed in holding the line, not with weapons, but with open doors and simple kindness. And then one day, it was too much. He packed what he could and left. No sermon. No final prayer.
The church still stands. But it no longer welcomes anyone in. Dobropillia is not gone. But it has become something else.
The cloud is moving. And beneath it, towns disappear.
Dobropillia, often called the “Pearl of Donbas,” holds deep symbolic and strategic importance for Ukraine. Its mines produce thermal coal that powers plants across the country and supports the national grid during wartime disruptions and attacks on infrastructure.
The city is home to Dobropillia Coal, operated by DTEK Energy, Ukraine’s largest private energy company. Despite Russia’s war since 2014, Dobropillia has remained under Ukrainian control. Its continued operation is both an energy lifeline and a symbol of resilience in a heavily targeted region.
