Ukraine dealt a crippling blow to the Black Sea Fleet leadership, reportedly killing many officers at their HQ.

“President Joe Biden has made a statement about the situation in Bakhmut”: If anyone had said this sentence to me two years ago, I would have laughed. Back then, most Ukrainians couldn’t have found Bakhmut on a map.

Now, when I tell people that I come from Bakhmut and permanently left it in February 2022, on the first day of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, their faces change. They start talking to me as though we are standing at a graveside. The name of my home city suffices for this.

I carry my town inside me and mark it on Google Maps with a heart and the word home. Russia has physically erased it from the face of the Earth and made its name a byword for destruction, for street battles of a ferocity hardly seen since World War II.

[Phillips Payson O’Brien and Mykola Bielieskov: What the battle in Bakhmut has done for Ukraine]

Sometimes, I stare for hours at new photos of ruins published in local chat groups. I’m looking for the city I remember: I’ve walked this street hundreds of times on my way to school; my classmate lived in that building; my dentist worked in the neighboring one, where I had an appointment on February 24, 2022, that I never made. When I identify the neighborhood, I feel relief: I haven’t forgotten everything. My town is imprinted in me.

In peacetime, I gave tours of Bakhmut when friends visited from other cities. But I’ve never tried to do this virtually, to walk someone through a city that effectively no longer exists. Few buildings survive here, only ashes, and tons of broken concrete that people once considered their homes. No life remains, or almost none: Visible in drone footage are chestnut, apricot, and cherry trees that miraculously withstood the Russian onslaught, although Bakhmut itself did not.

Let me take you to my Bakhmut.

Bakhmut is small, roughly 40 square kilometers, and just a little more than an hour by bicycle from end to end. In the summer, the steppe gets hot, no matter the time of day. But by October, the leaves have turned and fallen in the light wind.

Stupkey, to the city’s north, sits on massive salt deposits that made Bakhmut a mining town for hundreds of years. Once, I came here with Mark van den Meizenberg, the scion of a Dutch family that established a salt mine called “Peter the Great” 140 years ago. We walked through tall grass until we came to a ravine and a salt lake, near the site of the old mine. Mark’s family lived here until the beginning of the First World War and the revolution, burying their dead in the local Dutch cemetery.

The Bolsheviks put an end to “Peter the Great,” and salt extraction soon moved to richer deposits in Soledar, just 10 kilometers away. I’ve ventured into those industrial salt mines about a dozen times, always finding new marvels: a subterranean church; intricate salt sculptures; galleries with ceilings soaring up to 30 meters, where symphony orchestras have played; a grand tree festooned with garlands; a therapeutic sanatorium; even a football pitch. I brought my friends to see these things—and to feel beneath our feet a seabed from 250 million years ago, whose salts have seasoned the meals of every Ukrainian household.

Once I went with a group that included a local artist, Masha Vyshedska, who brought her ukulele. We nestled into a secluded corner of an expansive gallery, under the soft glow of the lights we’d carried. Masha strummed, and I captured the moment on video. The salt walls reflected her towering shadow and returned echoes of her ukulele as the sound traveled through the underground caverns. So engrossed were we in the moment that we lost track of our group and nearly found ourselves stranded in the mine overnight. Now that enchanted space has slipped behind the front line, inaccessible.

Starting in April 2014, when Russia made its earlier play for eastern Ukraine, militants stormed a military base near Tsvetmet, an industrial area just south of Stupkey, five times, hoping to capture the 280 Ukrainian tanks there. The Russian-backed militants brought guns, grenade launchers, and tanks. Local activists smuggled supplies and essentials over the fence to the Ukrainian soldiers. The militants occupied parts of Bakhmut that spring, but by July, our special forces had repelled them.

I lived near the base at the time. Tsvetmet is mostly factories and private houses, but not long before the war, a much-loved recreational area had sprung up here, called the Alley of Roses for the hundreds of different-colored rose varieties that bloomed from spring to late fall. The park bordered on a lake where we picnicked and fed the ducks and swans.

I remember sitting in the hallway of my apartment building, listening to the rumble of tanks on the asphalt under my window and waiting for the sound of automatic fire to subside. My husband and I were expecting a child. When the streets quieted, I ventured out, just to make sure that the Ukrainian flag still flew over the base. It did, though the base lay in ruins, and when the sun rose, we took our cameras and set out to report. A Ukrainian soldier defending the post saw my look of despair and embraced me, assuring me that, thank God, everyone was alive and everything would be okay.

[From the June 2023 issue: The counteroffensive]

My son, Tymofiy, was born in February 2015. The very next day, we felt the vibrations of Russian shells exploding on the outskirts of Bakhmut. A nurse told me to take the baby to the maternity hospital’s basement: “They’re going to shell again,” she said. There we huddled, seven frightened mothers and their infants, as well as silent men and staff members. A girl who had just given birth a few hours earlier was brought down on a stretcher. I started to panic, calling relatives and friends to say that we were being evacuated. I imagined fleeing with my son in my arms. But the rumor of renewed shelling was false, and soon we returned to our rooms.

Being afraid eventually becomes tiring. You start to respond skeptically to warnings of possible shelling, but the tension doesn’t dissipate, even when weeks go by without the sound of cannons and without new rumors that feed on your fear. The Ukrainian flag flying over the tank base always comforted me.  

Yan Dobronosov / Global Images Ukraine / Getty

When Tymofiy was small, we would take him to the local supermarket for ice cream before riding our bikes to the promenade along the Bakhmutka River. The park was another new one: Before the riverbed was cleaned and its banks strengthened, this place was neglected, overgrown with reeds. Now local fishermen climbed over the fence and sat by the water waiting for a catch, and children gathered on playgrounds with swings and basketball courts. Adults hid in the shade of young trees and took photos with green sculptures of dinosaurs, elephants, and bears.

The Bakhmutka gave its name to our city. Around it, in the wild fields, a fortification against Tatar raids from Crimea appeared first, and later, the Cossack saltworks. The fortress of Bakhmut shows up on maps starting in 1701. It sat behind a wooden wall, with straight streets leading to gates, a church, houses, and the saltworks.

In our local museum, a model of the fortress had pride of place. I liked to look at it as a child: The houses were made of matches, and you could see the river that divided the fortress in half. After 500 years, speeches and songs in Ukrainian once again refer to Bakhmut as a fortress—a place whose function is to stop the enemy and to protect.

Bakhmut’s central square has the usual things: a town hall, a fountain, shops and restaurants. But I can’t help lingering on the empty pedestals—granite podiums of history on which no one stands.

One plinth used to hold a statue of Lenin, typical for any Ukrainian city: tall, gray, ugly, constantly soiled by pigeons that left their white traces. Under that statue in 2014, a crowd gathered with Russian flags, agitating against the Revolution of Dignity that had just driven Viktor Yanukovych’s Russian-backed government from Kyiv.

I was an editor for a local website at the time, and I brought my camera to the square. I saw buses parked nearby with Russian plates; they had carried demonstrators over the border. But many in the crowd were also locals, and their presence pained me. One protester told me I was forbidden to film, but I kept on. Little did my colleagues and I know that our fellow journalists in an occupied city nearby would be abducted and held hostage for doing the same.

Just 100 meters away from Lenin, on another granite pedestal, stood Artem, a Bolshevik revolutionary who did nothing especially beneficial for Bakhmut, yet for some reason, the town bore his name during the Soviet era. Only in 2016 did Artemivsk become Bakhmut again. That year, cranes lifted the stone replicas of Artem and Lenin and transported them to an industrial zone for storage. But the residents of our town couldn’t agree on who or what should replace them, so the spots remained vacant.

Tymofiy, 4 years old, posed on Artem’s pedestal for a photo in 2019. I compared him to the project “Inhabiting Shadows,” by the artist Cynthia Gutierrez: She installed stairs that allowed anyone to climb the pedestal of a toppled Lenin in Kyiv. There, one could experience the flux of historical symbols, from ascension to decline, and then oblivion.

On summer evenings, my family liked to gather for dinner on my parents’ veranda, at their house not far from the city center. My parents had come to Ukraine as refugees from Armenia in 1989, fleeing the Nagorno-Karabakh war to start anew in Donbas. In the 1990s, the four of us lived in a single room, my parents working tirelessly to raise my sister and me. Thirty years on, they envisioned spending their twilight years in the modest house with the veranda. Their grandson came to see them there and played in the yard, under a large cherry tree.

That house and its veranda are gone. Missile strikes first obliterated the roof, then the courtyard. We learned this from satellite images. Our family had taken nothing from the house except documents. Everything my parents had built was destroyed.

South of the city, past the landfill where the city failed to build its waste-recycling plant, are the gypsum mines that, along with salt, made Bakhmut attractive to industrialists. Mikhail Kulishov, a local historian, used to give tours here even for children, taking care to hand out yellow helmets in case the rock crumbled.

[From the October 2022 issue: Ukrainians are defending values Americans claim to hold]

The gypsum galleries are alive with bats, which are a protected species in Ukraine. Parts are flooded and attract extreme cave divers. The story of the mines begins at the end of the 19th century, when a German engineer named Edmund Farke contracted with the government of Bakhmut to extract gypsum for alabaster factories. His gypsum works created an extensive cave system, part of which was later used to mature the local sparkling wine. Tourists would go there for tastings.

But for me, the gypsum caves were more of a place for mourning. During World War II, the Nazis used the mines to wall up 3,000 Bakhmut Jews alive. People gathered there yearly to remember the victims. During the Russian occupation of Bakhmut in 2023, the Wagner Group set up its headquarters in the tunnels of the winery.

On the southern edge of Bakhmut, in the year 2023, you'll see nothing but the ruins of my city, the skeletal remains of its burned-out buildings and bombarded streets. There are no longer any people here. For my part, I began our tour with insomnia, nights in Kyiv punctured by air-raid sirens announcing Russian drone and missile attacks. My work for the Ukrainian press brought me to Sloviansk, just 20 kilometers away from Bakhmut, but I could get no closer: Artillery was (and is) still booming there.

Mostly, I offered you this tour from a fortress on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean in Portugal. I came here with Tymofiy, now 8 years old, for a retreat so that we could get some sleep—yes, Ukrainians travel now for sleep. The place is ideal, I think, because it is as far away from Russia as you can get in Europe. I climbed the walls of this ancient Portuguese fortress and raised my Ukrainian flag, with the name of my hometown, Bakhmut, written on it.

We are returning to Ukraine, my son and I. Our Bakhmut no longer exists, but one way or another, we’re still there.

Slowly but methodically, Ukraine is chipping away at Russia’s firepower in the peninsula

The Russian naval headquarters in Sevastopol is one of Moscow's most important bases.

Video verified by the BBC shows a Ukrainian missile hitting Russia's Black Sea fleet HQ in Crimea.

At least one person has been killed and a fire was sparked in Kyiv's assault on the annexed peninsula, Russia says.

Russia's Ministry of Defence did not release information regarding possible casualties or damage in the latest air raid.

Ukraine's forces also capture two towns in the east as they flank Bakhmut city, erode Russian defences in the south.

Russian S-400 'Triumf' surface-to-air missile defence system was reportedly destroyed in 'special operation' in Crimea.

This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.

Yesterday, officials from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommended that everyone above the age of six months should get a dose of the new, updated COVID-19 vaccine that the FDA just green-lighted. To learn more about the vaccine, and for guidance on how to approach COVID as cases rise, I called Katherine J. Wu, an Atlantic staff writer who covers science.

First, here are three new stories from The Atlantic:

Stress drinking has a gender divide. The conservative censorship campaign reaches its natural conclusion. Kevin McCarthy is a hostage.

For Everyone

Lora Kelley: Why is the CDC recommending that everyone get a COVID vaccine this fall?

Katherine J. Wu: Experts at yesterday’s CDC advisory panel were really making it clear that everyone stands to benefit in some way from this vaccine. COVID is very much still a real threat. People are still dying, and people are still being debilitated by long COVID. Even if risk is not equal across everyone in the population, this is a really important public-health intervention.

It’s also important to keep in mind the historical and cultural context here. Last year, uptake for the fall COVID vaccine was abysmal; less than 20 percent of people got it even though it was also widely recommended. And certainly, with uptake that low, the goal will be to raise uptake this year.

Lora: How does this shot differ from previous COVID shots and boosters?

Katherine: I would argue that this is not a booster. This is another move toward routinizing COVID-19 vaccines to be like the annual flu vaccine, a shot that is given to much of the population every fall in advance of respiratory-virus season. With the flu vaccine, there’s an expectation that the composition of the vaccine is going to change with some regularity: The main variants or strains the vaccines are targeting may change.

This COVID shot is different from last year’s: It no longer contains any ingredients targeting the original coronavirus variants that were in the very first vaccines that we got in 2020 and 2021. It targets just the XBB subvariants of Omicron.

Lora: In your article today, you wrote about an expert who believes vaccine recommendations should prioritize only vulnerable groups. What is motivating some experts not to offer full-throated endorsements of everyone getting a vaccine this fall?

Katherine: To be clear, there is really widespread consensus that everyone needs at least a couple doses of the vaccine. There’s no doubt in experts’ minds that going from zero vaccines to two or three is essential. The gains are going to be massive for everyone.

The disagreement here is not necessarily about the facts—it’s more about how they should be framed. There’s widespread consensus that certain groups are at higher risk than others, including people who are older, immunocompromised, pregnant, living with chronic health conditions, and living in congregate settings, to name a few. The question then is: Should we target the recommendations only to these groups, to really make sure that they are the ones going out to get this vaccine with no hesitation?

There is worry among some experts that the universal recommendation does not adequately focus vaccination efforts on the people who most need it. And some experts feel that young, healthy people, who are at a lower risk of bad COVID outcomes, may be set with the vaccines that they’ve already got.

Lora: How would you recommend that people who aren’t in those high-risk categories approach vaccines this fall?

Katherine: I am all for enthusiastically recommending this vaccine to everyone. Some people are at higher risk, so I would even more strongly encourage those people to go get it.

When we think about any vaccine, especially COVID-19 vaccines, we think most about preventing severe disease. But there are secondary benefits of these vaccines too: For at least a time, you will have a lower risk of getting infected and spreading the virus. And if you do get sick, your symptoms may be shorter if you’ve been recently vaccinated. There may even be a lower risk of developing long COVID down the road, which is an important thing to keep in mind because we know that it can come out of even mild infections. Also, there’s really not a concern at this point of the vaccine running out.

Lora: When should people get this vaccine?

Katherine: There are a few things to keep in mind on timing: If you are lower risk, there is relatively less rush to get the shot. That said, COVID cases have been rising for weeks now. So I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone to not get a shot anytime soon.

The one exception is if you’ve recently been infected. If you have had COVID recently: First, I’m sorry. Second, there are a lot of immunologists who would argue it’s not a terrible idea to wait maybe two or three months after your infection before getting a shot, because you probably have some lingering immunity left behind from that infection. (Huge caveat here: This is not an endorsement of infection, but just a matter of fact.) You don’t want to hamper the ability of your body to form a good immune response to the vaccine if you get it too close to infection.

You totally can get the COVID shot at the same time as the flu shot. It’s convenient, and you only have to deal with possible side effects once.

Lora: What precautions can people take this fall, beyond just getting vaccinated?

Katherine: I am definitely getting a vaccine this fall. But a vaccine is not a silver bullet. It’s going to work best against severe disease, but the protections against infection and transmission are more porous and more temporary. So when I go into crowded settings, when I travel on planes, when I see people in my life who are more vulnerable than I am, I am going to be testing and masking.

We’ve already seen that cases have been rising even at the tail end of summer, which is atypical for most respiratory viruses. That’s another reminder that COVID has not yet settled into a super predictable pattern. I don’t want to hide in my house forever. I want to be able to enjoy the company of others. But I see vaccines, testing, and masking as tools that enable me to interact more safely in those settings.

Related:

This fall’s COVID vaccines are for everyone. How bad could BA.2.86 get?

Evening Read

Didier Viodé

I Never Called Her Momma

By Jenisha Watts

Ms. Brown didn’t tell me where we were going. I knew we would be visiting someone important, a literary figure, because we took a gypsy cab instead of the subway. It would probably be someone I should have known, but didn’t.

A brownstone in Harlem. It was immaculate—paintings of women in headscarves; a cherry-colored oriental rug; a dark, gleaming dining-room table. Ms. Brown led me toward a woman on the couch. She knew that I would recognize her, and I did, despite the plastic tube snaking from her nostrils to an oxygen tank. Maya Angelou’s back was straight. Her rose-pink eyeshadow sparkled.

My mind called up random bits of information from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Canned pineapples—she loved them. Bailey—her brother’s name. What she felt when she heard someone read Dickens aloud for the first time—the voice that “slid in and curved down through and over the words.” And that, like me, she had called her grandmother Momma.

Read our October cover story.

More From The Atlantic

Why has a useless cold medication been allowed on shelves for years? You should worry about the data retailers collect from you. Photos from Libya’s devastating floods

Today’s News

Danelo Cavalcante, a convicted murderer who escaped from Chester County Prison, has been captured after an extended manhunt. Ukraine launched a missile offensive on Crimea in one of its most significant attacks on Russia’s Black Sea Fleet. Tech leaders, including Sam Altman, Elon Musk, and Mark Zuckerberg, gathered in Washington for a bipartisan AI forum with lawmakers.

Dispatches

The Weekly Planet: You can transform your relationship to shopping with just a few basic sewing skills, Ann Friedman writes.

Explore all of our newsletters here.

Culture Break

Bob Berg / Getty

Read. “Rainbow Queen Encyclopedia,” a new poem by Sam Sax:

“my ex wanted a pet pig, so we imagined it. / even gave the thing a name, rubbed its invisible head / before bed—”

Listen. Smash Mouth’s 1999 album, Astro Lounge, is accessible yet weird—and the reason our staff writer Spencer Kornhaber became a music critic.

Play our daily crossword.

Katherine Hu contributed to this newsletter.

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