Paweł Pieniążek: Greetings from Novorossiya: Eyewitness to the War in Ukraine

The “prime minister” of the unrecognized Donetsk People’s Republic, Alexander Borodai, a Russian, instantly accused the Ukrainians of the attack. Using his Twitter account he stated that the “volunteers” didn’t have the proper equipment to shoot down a plane at ten thousand meters. The residents of Torez have a different view. They have seen a BUK missile system there with the capacity to down a plane. They recorded everything with videos and photos.

When the media announce the airplane was shot down, two Western journalists, their fixer, and I are in Artemivsk. In a split second we make the decision that next day we will go to Hrabove, which is the site of the plane debris. Traveling in the evening is not a good idea because you can easily be fired at. At night the conflict areas are completely dead.

Initially, we were flabbergasted by this horrific information.

“Let’s wait for confirmation,” said one of the journalists. We couldn’t believe that anyone would have had the idea of downing a civilian plane. But the information was quickly validated, although no one knew why it happened. The phones were ringing nonstop. In the restaurant where we get together, we were running around like crazy. We were sharing information, making phone calls, and preparing our reports.

We gathered after eight in the morning, so we could have some hotel breakfast. We anticipated a long day. We decided to go through Debaltseve. It is connected to Artemivsk by a highway. From there it is only a dozen kilometers to Hrabove, where the plane debris has been found. However, this route turned out to be impossible because separatists had blown up the bridge. We diverted from the main road and drove through some fields. We came across a checkpoint manned by militants. They looked as if they had never seen a journalist. They decided to search us.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“From Russia,” answers one of them. But his manner is so slow and strange that I am not sure whether he really means he is from over there, or if he wishes Russia were over here. After a few questions the conversation falls apart. In the end, they let us go.

In Debaltseve we come across yet another checkpoint. We see a few people in uniform and with guns. They stop our car.

“Journalists? Documents!” says a man in a very stern voice. It doesn’t herald a pleasant conversation.

We have accreditations issued by the Donetsk People’s Republic. We show them immediately when he wants our passports.

“What is that?” he asks.

“The accreditation,” I respond.

“I’ve never heard of it.” He looks at the laminated piece of paper. It says that it was issued by the Donetsk People’s Republic. The document has all the necessary stamps and signatures.

“We can call the Press Secretary,” says the fixer when the separatist starts to sniff at it.

“I don’t know her.”

“We can call the Minister of Information.”

“I don’t know him, either.”

There is a short pause. We don’t know how to convince him that we have all the documents we need to continue our trip. Finally, he finds the answer.

“You have to stay here until I get permission from my commander. You are detained.”

He is not willing to answer any questions. He tells us to get in the car and to remain visible. We are not supposed to use our phones or talk. Simply, we have to sit there and wait.

Every now and then they look at us. I am sitting in the back, blocked out by the driver’s seat. Slowly, I pull out a phone from my pocket and send a text message to a friend in Kiev.

“If you don’t hear from me for a long time, that means that I have been arrested.” We spoke on the phone earlier, so he knows where we are, more or less.

After twenty minutes we are permitted to drive further.

“You can go. The ataman gave his consent,” says a separatist. “But pull over near the gas station and pick up some luggage,” he insists.

“What luggage?” one of the journalists asks, petrified.

“From the plane,” replies the militant.

Supposedly, the luggage was brought over by the local residents. The plane exploded in the air, so its fragments and everything else onboard were scattered across a wide area, as far as a dozen kilometers from where it happened.

“But what do we need these things for?”

“You can take them. We don’t want them.”

“What are we supposed to do with them? Shall we hand them over to someone?”

“We don’t know.”

“There might be a passport in one of the suitcases,” interrupts another militant, encouragingly.

We are not interested in the luggage contents, and we are not going to look inside. We are given a suitcase, a backpack, and a box. The fixer puts them into the trunk right away because he wants to drive off as soon as possible. Neither he nor we are going to discuss this. We have no idea what to do with them, either. In the end, we decide to return the luggage when we reach our destination. After all, there must be someone who will take care of them.

Further on, driving is very simple. We pass a few checkpoints, but the militants already know that they have to let journalists proceed. They glance at the Donetsk People’s Republic accreditation and off we go. They must have received an order from above to let journalists access the site.

We bring our unusual present to the crash site. We want to return it to someone, maybe to the rescue workers or to other people in charge. No one is especially interested in what we have brought. I immediately understand why. A few pieces of luggage are the least of the problems. Piles of suitcases are strewn all over, for a dozen kilometers. So are plane fragments and partly charred bodies, or what was left of them, often without limbs. You have to be careful where you place your foot because you can step on a corpse.

A cameraman from one of the TV stations took a step backward. He felt something soft. He was turned toward me. Suddenly a terrible grimace appeared on his face. Slowly, he turned his head to look at his foot, fearing the worst. It turned out to be only mud. He glanced at me again, this time with great relief.

On one of the fields where much of the luggage could be found nothing has been done with the bodies. They are still there, uncovered. Rescue workers, firefighters, and medics walk around aimlessly. Then they start fixing a damaged power line. Only after a few hours do they gather a group of coal miners who most likely will look for bodies. Others place white flags to label corpses and remains. No one knows what is going on. The rescue workers don’t want to answer any questions. They tell us to call a press spokesperson, but he doesn’t want to talk to us, either.

Other than flags and some tape nothing secures the area. In principle, anyone can get to the crash site. The remains of plane, passengers, and belongings are not protected in any way. Dozens of residents from local towns and villages stand on the road, next to the plane wreck. Many of them cry or have tears in their eyes.

The remains of the fuselage can be found a few hundred meters further on. In the Russian media footage that was shown yesterday you could see some bodies. Today they are gone. Only the wreck has remained. What happened to them? According to the most popular theory they have been taken by militants. The cadavers had shrapnel in them so it would be possible to conjecture that the fuselage was hit by a missile.

Pavel Gubarev, one of the separatist representatives of the Donetsk People’s Republic, has come to the site. He is with his bodyguards, but probably his only purpose here is to appear in the media.

To most of the journalists’ questions he responds: “I can’t comment on this.”

He maintains, however, that the plane was not shot down by separatists but by Ukrainians from the Dnipropetrovsk region. This is almost 190 kilometers from the crash site. Gubarev wants to find out more and pass the information to the reporters. So he calls the “prime minister” of the Donetsk People’s Republic, a Russian PR man, Alexander Borodai. Borodai doesn’t pick up.