读到报纸上报道的，在那些被基辅收复的乌克兰领地上，在俄罗斯临时统治下配合工作过的人们。有感，写下这些文字和做了这个视频----11/1/2022 小k
干涸什么过错/绿草如花一朵/支裂什么过错/都是痛的结果
你或许知道/所有的朋友/躲不过风去的萧索
你或许知道/没有的希望/不会在近身处沉默
唯有枪弹/在黑暗和光明里/不停地穿梭
有的选择/来源于/没有选择的生活
世界上/最冰冷的阳光/是不可信任的魂魄
升腾于熄灭的战火
人世间/最可怕的归来/是曾经熟悉的脸庞
燃烧着仇恨的复活
乌克兰和俄罗斯的战争僵持一段时间，在一般世界其他地方的和平民众心里，除了能源费用和生活费用高涨，或许很多时候大家已早都疲了。远处的战争又怎么样呢？我们自己的生活还这样忙碌和平凡，我们自己还要为日益高涨的账单们操心和缩水的退休金无奈承担。自从几个月前厌烦了每天看免费新闻和各样社媒的小道消息的习惯以后，我开始花钱买报纸来读。花这个钱，我不图别的，就图我如果被人忽悠，也是我心甘情愿地被我大致清楚的专业作者们忽悠。
昨天我在游泳馆里等娃游泳的时候，翻电子版的报纸，就读到了这一篇关于基辅收复失地重新治理的报道。彼时游泳馆里声音嘈杂，其他父母大声聊天的声音和教练们扯着嗓子咆哮的声音完美地混在一起，在空空的大屋顶下不停地回荡。入秋而来的游泳池蒸腾的潮气比夏天时要厚重和油腻得多，让人很不舒服。然而，让人更加不舒服的是，是读到那些成为俄罗斯的"合作者"的平凡的人未来可能的遭遇。我突然觉得满眼都是充满了消毒水味道蒸腾而来的水汽，眼皮有点沉重到抬不起来。
这里简单总结，不做评论。俄罗斯部队来时，对于老百姓来说，有路子的人跑了，更多人留下来。有些人热爱俄罗斯，有些人愿意为俄罗斯工作，有些人中立地为俄罗斯工作，但成为外宣的资料。学校继续开着，老师们都如何工作(让我想起了以前小学时学的课文，讲普鲁士入侵时的《最后一课》) ;医院继续开着，医生们怎样工作。报道中提到归来的乌克兰政府决意立法惩罚和俄罗斯合作过的人。
总而言之，站着说话不腰疼地在远处和未来歌颂英雄爱国主义是简单的，如我此时灌水舒怀一样。但情怀有啥用呢，它连大家都知道要涨的联邦储蓄的利息真的涨了，而带来的震撼都比不过。现实的生活是真残酷的，只求我们每一个平凡的人不需要接受这样的挑战。
我有一个不良习惯，就是看到有意思的文章或书，就会去八卦作者（吃到一个好鸡蛋还要看鸡跑么？）。当时我一读，发现这篇文章开篇使用了轻骑兵般的煽情手法和一步一步的层层推进写法, 阅读时我几乎不能停下来。而且推进写法有退有进，是新闻报道里面不多的能反复吸引人的手法，对战争中被卷进来的双方都有适当的笔墨和深度的不着痕迹的人文关怀，作者应该在WSJ专栏作者里面也算是高手，我立马就follow了他。我再继续八卦，发现他果然下笔不凡。Yaroslavl Trofimov, 乌克兰裔意大利籍的WSJ chief foreign-affairs correspondent。因他对阿富汗的报道《Faith at War》成为2022年普利策奖的最后候选人，以及其他关于亚洲和非洲报道获得其他奖项。另外一本著作是《The Seige of Mecca》，他主要专注于那些战乱和纠纷不断的地区的报道。也值得一提的是，我还八卦到了CSPAN的非官方油管频道上，他关于麦加禁市围困一书的录音演讲，有人在视频下回复说他的成书方式依然是固有的批判恐怖分子的固有手法，需要去听阿拉伯人自己的报道。然而一般人能去哪里听呢？
读者如果有兴趣，报道原英文全文如下，有点长，我个人觉得非常值得一读。煽情照片就恕小k不转载了:
When Russian armored columns drove into this rural community of 20,000 people on the first day of the invasion, Mayor Valeriy Prykhodko tried to count the tanks, artillery pieces and fighting vehicles that rolled past his windows.
After the first few hundred, he gave up. “It was too big for counting,” Mr. Prykhodko said. “The horror.”
Located some 35 miles from the Russian border, Shevchenkove fell without a fight the afternoon of Feb. 24. In the six months of Russian rule that followed, many locals came to believe that Moscow, with its awe-inspiring military might, would stay here forever.
Unwilling to work under Russian authority, Mr. Prykhodko tried for a time to resist orders, then fled to Ukrainian-controlled territories. But the municipality’s second-in-command, Executive Secretary Nadiya Sheluh, stayed on the job even once the Russians raised their red-blue-white flag over the building.
Mr. Prykhodko, who is now back in office, recalls being surprised and outraged. But he also acknowledged that many in Shevchenkove think his former colleague did the right thing by helping keep basic services functioning through the occupation. “Our people are split about her,” he said. “Old ladies here say they are thankful to her, that she helped them and fed them.”
Ukrainian forces came back to Shevchenkove in September, as part of their rapid offensive in the eastern Kharkiv region. Now, like other towns and villages in recently liberated parts of Ukraine, Shevchenkove is torn from within by tensions between those who escaped or opposed the Russians—and those who are viewed as having accommodated the enemy.
The delicate task of sorting out one from the other falls on investigators from the Security Service of Ukraine, or SBU, and the National Police, who are collecting evidence in recently retaken territories and in large parts of the country that remain under Moscow’s rule.
In Shevchenkove, a few citizens tried to resist the occupation, scribbling anti-Russian graffiti on walls and passing intelligence to Ukrainian troops. Some others enthusiastically embraced the invaders, taking government positions and joining the Russian-created security forces. The majority in Shevchenkove, as in other occupied areas, tried to survive. As time went by, they were increasingly forced to make compromises with the occupiers, accepting Russian humanitarian aid, pensions or jobs.
At the outset of the war, Ukraine sought to undermine Russia’s hold over occupied areas with strict anti-collaboration laws. Voluntarily joining Russia’s education system on occupied territories can be punished with up to three years’ imprisonment. Taking a managerial role in the Russian-created administrations can mean up to 10 years in prison. Participation in Russian-created law-enforcement and security structures can be punished with up to 15 years behind bars—life imprisonment if it caused the death of a Ukrainian citizen.
Dozens of presumed collaborators have been gunned down by unknown assailants in occupied areas in recent months, mostly in the south of the country. Now that many of the formerly Russian-occupied areas are back under Kyiv’s control here in the east, Ukrainian authorities say they are taking a measured approach.
“We don’t work like the Russians. We don’t keep people in torture chambers,” said Serhiy Bolvinov, head of the investigations department of Ukraine’s National Police in the Kharkiv region. “It’s not enough that someone comes to us and points a finger at someone else to say, ‘This is a collaborator.’ We need to investigate according to the law and to look for solid evidence that will stand up in court.”
In the first month since the Ukrainian offensive reclaimed occupied parts of Kharkiv, he said, law-enforcement agencies opened a total of 132 criminal investigations, with 21 people formally notified of suspicions against them and four others indicted and sent to court.
An SBU investigator in Kharkiv added that rounding up everyone who collaborated with the Russians one way or another would be impossible because of the sheer number of people who broke the Ukrainian law to survive. “In every village here, they tell us that everyone in their own village resisted, but that the next village over is full of collaborators,” the investigator said.
While the Russian-appointed mayor and a few other senior collaborators fled Shevchenkove alongside Russian forces, many others who worked in the occupation administration and education systems, such as Ms. Sheluh, remain here, free to roam the streets after their initial questioning by Ukrainian authorities.
Ms. Sheluh, a former radio broadcaster who speaks flawless literary Ukrainian in a town where most speak either Russian or a mixed dialect known as surzhyk, once unsuccessfully ran for the district legislature on a pro-Western list and showed no pro-Russian inclinations before the war, according to villagers.
Interviewed in her home, Ms. Sheluh said she never accepted pay from the occupiers and worked with the Russians only because she sought to help Shevchenkove’s people in their darkest hour. “I was defending the interests of our local citizens,” she said. “Mostly old people and children stayed here, and they needed the baby formula, the diapers,” she said.
Some in Shevchenkove defend her; others are furious, demanding swift punishment for Ms. Sheluh and anyone else who helped the Russian occupation machine. “Why are our boys dying out there? Why has my grandson not seen his father for seven months? So that we forgive all these people as if nothing had happened?” asked Olha Usyk, a director of one of Shevchenkove’s schools whose son-in-law serves in the Ukrainian military.
Ms. Usyk was especially angry that Ms. Sheluh ordered schools to reopen under Russian authority. Russia has sought to erase Ukrainian identity by teaching in Russian and implementing that country’s curriculum, part of Moscow’s plan to annex the conquered areas.
Speaking at an improvised gathering on Shevchenkove’s leafy main square, Ms. Usyk and other educators complained that the returning Ukrainian authorities were slow to weed out Russian collaborators. “What’s scary is that, on the front line, it’s clear who is the enemy. But here, it’s murky, a real swamp,” said Maria Danylova, a teacher. “Everyone who collaborated with the Russians here was making their own choices. Nobody put guns to their heads.”
In the first days of Russian occupation, Shevchenkove—named after Ukraine’s national poet who spent a decade in penal exile for his opposition to Russian imperial rule—was largely left alone.
Still, residents faced wrenching decisions. Serhiy Kovshar, a former police lieutenant whose son was killed fighting Russian proxies in the Donbas region in 2015, quietly removed a commemorative plaque on the front of his house. By May, he had joined the new occupation police force, say local residents who saw him at checkpoints and on patrols.
At the community’s 73-bed hospital, Russian soldiers arrived with one of their men, with an inflamed appendix, and demanded at gunpoint that doctors operate on him, said Natalia Nesvoyeva, who served as acting director. The surgery was successful, she said.
Over the course of the occupation, more than 100 Russian soldiers ended up at the Shevchenkove hospital, usually for conditions that weren’t life-threatening, according to Ms. Nesvoyeva. “They had shot themselves in the foot, or had hypertension crises after an overdose of something, or frostbite,” she said.
Ukrainian officials say that providing urgent medical care to Russian soldiers is protected under international humanitarian law and thus isn’t considered collaboration.
Meanwhile, Mayor Prykhodko and other local officials worked on their own to try to secure supplies, bake bread, and keep basic services running.
On March 5, agitated Russian soldiers arrived at Mr. Prykhodko’s office in the two-story government headquarters on Shevchenkove’s main square, he said. As soldiers pointed guns at the mayor, their commander demanded that he hand over lists of locals who served in the military, particularly the Donbas, that he take down the Ukrainian flag that still flew over the municipality, and that he write a letter to Vladimir Putin welcoming the Russian takeover.
“I will throw a hand grenade if you don’t,” the Russian officer threatened. Mr. Prykhodko, surrounded by some 15 staff members, decided the threat was empty and stood his ground. The Russians ended up driving away and the Ukrainian flag kept flying.
Initially, Russia’s presence in Shevchenkove mostly consisted of ill-equipped troops from the Russian-controlled statelets of Donbas. They demanded that Mr. Prykhodko allocate them housing. When he refused, he said, they settled in vacant homes and started looting. “They said they have been ordered to operate in a self-reliant fashion,” Mr. Prykhodko said. “They were dirty and stinky. We knew they just drank all night, and didn’t do much else.”
By April 18, a new batch of disheveled, shellshocked Russian troops arrived here, redeployed after the Russian withdrawal from Kyiv. “If you had forgotten about Irpin and Bucha, we will remind you,” they shouted, referring to the massacre of Ukrainian civilians in those suburbs of Kyiv. There were no massacres in Shevchenkove, however.
Ms. Danylova, a teacher of Ukrainian and one of the most passionate pro-Ukrainian activists in Shevchenkove, had spent the previous four decades collecting artifacts for the museum of Ukrainian traditional culture that was housed in the local high school.
Having heard about how the Russians burned a museum containing the paintings of naïve-style folk artist Maria Prymachenko near Kyiv, she decided to rescue the century-old embroidered towels, shirts and wedding dresses and hid them in her cellar and in friends’ homes. To do so, Ms. Danylova and her son, Ruslan Shokirov, had to brave Russian checkpoints.
“There is no doubt that they would have destroyed these items if they had caught us—they were burning everything Ukrainian. The only question is what they would have done to us,” Mr. Shokirov said. All the artifacts survived.
On April 27, a different kind of Russian security force, well-equipped and in modern vehicles, arrived at the Shevchenkove municipality. “Run away, they are hunting for you,” Mr. Prykhodko said he was told by colleagues. He jumped on his bicycle and waited out the night in the dark behind the outhouse at his brother’s home. The Russians spread word they wanted him to start working under their authority.
“All they want is for you to open the doors of the municipality and distribute their humanitarian aid. What’s wrong with that? They won’t do anything to you,” Mr. Prykhodko said he was told by a local woman who spoke with the Russians. “Are you crazy? I am a Ukrainian village mayor, not a Russian one,” he said he retorted. Unwilling to collaborate, Mr. Prykhodko fled Shevchenkove the following day and made his way through the front lines to Ukrainian government-controlled territory.
In his place, the Russians installed a local horse breeder, Andrey Stryzhko, who never hid his sympathies for Moscow. Usually dressed in black and wearing the papakha woolen hat of Russian Cossacks, Mr. Stryzhko used to hang the red Soviet flag outside his home even before the war. One of his first steps was to have himself filmed stripping away the Ukrainian coat of arms on Shevchenkove’s main square. He also ordered the removal of a monument to Ukrainian veterans of the war in Donbas.
Unlike Mr. Prykhodko, Ms. Sheluh, the community’s second-in-command, remained on her job. She played down her contact with the Russians. “I was in my office downstairs and they and their authority was upstairs,” she said. “I just worked in my own place.”
Ms. Sheluh sat in on meetings with the new Russian authorities. Some were filmed for Russian propaganda channels. Mr. Prykhodko said he terminated Ms. Sheluh’s employment and stopped her Ukrainian salary payments once he learned about her work with the Russians.
While most Shevchenkove police withdrew to government-held areas in February, some officers joined the new Russian-run force that detained curfew breakers and put them to work sweeping streets and picking weeds. The villagers learned a new verb—“to kadyrov”—which meant beating inmates with a large wooden pole, a practice introduced by troops loyal to Chechen strongman Ramzan Kadyrov, a key Putin ally.
“It was a bad time. I was afraid to walk on the street alone,” said Yana Holoboyko, a high-school student. “The Russians were very aggressive, especially when they got drunk, driving around and picking up women.”
On Ukraine’s constitution day in late June, block-length graffiti appeared on one of Shevchenkove’s streets. “Shevchenkove is Ukraine. Death to occupiers. Stryzhko—you’ll kick the bucket,” it said. Nobody bothered to paint it over.
Around the same time, Aleksandr Sidyakin, head of the executive committee of Russia’s ruling party, came to nearby Kupyansk to announce that locals could now start receiving Russian passports. “Russia is here for eternity!” he proclaimed to applause.
In the Shevchenkove hospital, doctors and nurses did what they could, treating civilians and Russian soldiers alike. “The Russians always came here with guns. We were afraid of them, and they were afraid of us. You never knew what they could do,” said the head nurse, Olha Kokhan.
Unlike in Kupyansk, where most hospital staff quickly switched to a Russian contract with its significantly higher pay, the doctors and nurses in Shevchenkove continued to receive Ukrainian salaries in their bank accounts.
With no Ukrainian banks functioning in occupied areas, they could only withdraw cash, at a commission of as high as 35%, via entrepreneurial middlemen from the Donbas who arrived with an internet hot spot that allowed online bank transfers.
Gradually, pressure to work with the Russians became hard to resist. A few of the female staff started dating Russian soldiers and officers. Vitaliy Ganchev, head of the Russian-created interim administration of the Kharkiv region, and other officials came to Shevchenkove on Aug. 23 to meet with the hospital staff, telling them that there was no point in holding out.
“You still hope the Ukrainians will come back? No, they will never come back,” Ms. Kokhan, the nurse, said Mr. Ganchev told them.
Russia paid more attention to schools. The occupation administration’s building in Kupyansk is still packed to the brim with Russian textbooks, teaching aids and educational posters. Ukrainian books and materials were removed and destroyed.
In August, Ms. Sheluh, the Shevchenkove executive secretary, called schoolteachers and directors, as well as the staff of the local kindergarten, demanding they reopen their institutions on Sept. 1. While all the school directors refused, Oksana Simutina, the local kindergarten director, agreed.
The kindergarten staff spent two weeks cleaning up the facility that was closed since February, washing curtains and sheets, sweeping the floors, and culling waist-high weeds, she said. Some 20 children showed up on Sept. 1. “There can be no politics in a kindergarten. We never communicated with the Russians,” said Ms. Simutina.
Out of the community’s 288 schoolteachers, only about one-tenth showed up as classes started on Sept. 1, according to Mr. Prykhodko, the mayor.
Teacher Ludmyla Zdorovko said Russian-appointed officials in Shevchenkove told her, “Go to work or you will remain jobless forever.” She added, “The people who went to work for them, it was not because they believed in the Russian world. Not many people did here. They were greedy and just wanted money.”
Ms. Sheluh said no Ukrainian books were destroyed in the community’s schools, and no Russian symbols displayed. Her decision was driven by patriotism, she said. “I asked our teachers to go to work and teach the Ukrainian language because I didn’t want them to bring outsiders to schools,” she said. “This is our land, we all grew up here, and nobody can educate better than our own people.”
On Sept. 5, senior staff of the Shevchenkove hospital were summoned to Kupyansk for a meeting with the occupation administration. “They asked that we collaborate and told us that we have no other choice,” Ms. Kokhan said. “And we almost agreed. Six months had gone by. It’s a very long time.”
If they had signed on to the Russian health system, as they planned to do days later, they would have been considered collaborators under Ukrainian law. But the following day, the Ukrainian offensive in the Kharkiv region began.
Russian soldiers disappeared from Shevchenkove’s hospital before dawn. Then, a few hours later, on Sept. 7, Ukrainian forces showed up on the street outside. “You can’t even imagine the joy, the euphoria we all felt when we walked out and suddenly saw that finally our boys are back here, with our flags, right outside,” said the acting hospital director, Ms. Nesvoyeva.
Unlike Kupyansk, severely damaged in fighting, Shevchenkove survived the occupation largely intact and with few casualties. Mr. Stryzhko, the Russian-appointed mayor, and a handful of other Russian-appointed officials escaped with the last Russian troops. Many other Russian sympathizers remain.
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