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More than a year after her mother died, Alla Kotliarova buried her for the third \u2014 and she hopes final \u2014 time.<\/p>\n
There was no priest, no tearful neighbors, no ceremonial procession to the cemetery sitting among thin pine trees at the end of town. But there was at least some measure of closure for Ms. Kotliarova, 62, who laid her mother, Tamara Kotliarova, to rest in the family plot.<\/p>\n
No official cause of death was listed, though her mother had long grappled with diabetes, but Ms. Kotliarova is convinced that the stress of the Russian invasion<\/a> and occupation hastened her demise.<\/p>\n \u201cIf it weren\u2019t for this war, she wouldn\u2019t have died,\u201d said Ms. Kotliarova, as she wiped tears from her eyes with a small handkerchief and placed flowers and snacks on the sandy funeral mound.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n \u201cBut now she can finally rest in peace in her rightful place.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n The elder Ms. Kotliarova was first buried in her courtyard by her relatives, then reburied during the Russian occupation in an improvised graveyard on the edge of a forest. Once Izium was retaken, the forest graveyard and the 440 bodies<\/a> buried there, including hers, were dug up by the Ukrainian authorities for DNA analysis and autopsies, which in some cases took months.<\/p>\n The final burial ceremony was emblematic of the many ways in which the people of Izium, in northeastern Ukraine, are still struggling to overcome the devastation of Russian occupation, which lasted from March to September 2022. Though the Ukrainian authorities have vowed to rebuild ravaged cities, a recent visit to Izium showed that the fallout from Russian brutality<\/a> still feels fresh, as if it could have happened last week.<\/p>\n The deputy mayor, Volodymyr Matsokin, said Izium was among the most bombed cities in Ukraine, citing what he said were statistics from the country\u2019s National Security and Defense Council. He was sitting in a temporary office because City Hall is still in ruins, though the flowers on the square out front were well tended.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n \u201cEighty percent of multistory buildings and nonresidential buildings are damaged, along with 30 percent of private buildings,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n As a gateway to the Donbas region, Izium held outsize military importance. It was badly destroyed even before Russian forces took it, leaving residents without electricity<\/a>, water, internet or food for months. The months under occupation deepened the hardships<\/a>.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n The destruction left surrounding villages empty<\/a> and dozens of residences in the city reduced to rubble. Many of the ones still habitable lack basic services. Schools are in disrepair. Most stalls in the market remain shuttered.<\/p>\n In addition, mistrust among the community grew: Numerous signs are spray-painted with messages asking people to call the S.B.U., the Ukrainian security services, with any information about collaborators.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n The fraction of its prewar population of about 40,000 who have returned are struggling to repair the homes, lives and social bonds broken by the war.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n \u201cMy son is very tired, and very, very nervous,\u201d said Iryna Zhukova, 45, who worked at a bread factory in the city before it was destroyed. \u201cAny loud sound and he\u2019s already running to the basement.\u201d<\/p>\n During the occupation, she and her husband and children sheltered in a basement for two and a half months, she said, and it took an emotional toll on them, especially the children. They are unnerved by loud sounds, she said, and still experiencing trauma from those 10 weeks in the basement.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n But while they survived, other family members did not, perishing in a different basement during an aerial bomb attack<\/a> in March 2022. Her brother and his wife, their three children and two of the children\u2019s grandparents were all killed.<\/p>\n Almost 50 people had been sheltering inside, she said, but no emergency service was available to dig them out.<\/p>\n She recounted how her daughter-in-law\u2019s father, who survived because he had left the building in search of tea, heard the moaning of people trapped inside for several days. But no one could save them.<\/p>\n Ms. Zhukova\u2019s 10-year-old son is taking his classes online this year because most of Izium\u2019s schools are ruined and will not open before next year. Many are also missing students. Inna Marchenko, 42, a math teacher, said that one-third of the families of her 30 students had returned to Izium but that two families had \u201cgone completely silent.\u201d She worries that they died.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n School-age children said they missed extracurricular activities like taekwondo (the trainer left the city) and swimming in the Siversky Donets River (because of the risk of mines). They also missed the friends who fled and had not returned home.<\/p>\n There are very few places for children to play anymore. On one summer afternoon, some played dress-up in the city\u2019s once-grand theater with the few stage costumes that had not been destroyed, stomping through layers of trash, ammunition boxes and old film rolls.<\/p>\n Lyceum No. 2, the school where Ms. Kotliarova worked, still bears the signs of the occupation, when Russian soldiers used it as a base.<\/p>\n Inside, letters sent to the occupying soldiers from Russian schoolchildren hang on the walls. Stacks of Red Star, a Russian military newspaper, are piled up in the hallways, along with other propaganda pamphlets. The cafeteria, like most of the classrooms, is completely gutted: When the occupiers left, they took anything of possible value, including every hot water heater and even the small sinks in each classroom, according to a custodian who was protecting the school.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n The school\u2019s director was among the residents of Izium who has been accused of collaborating with the occupying authorities<\/a> and is on trial in the regional capital of Kharkiv.<\/p>\n The building where Polina Zolotarova, 70, lives has three gaping holes in it. It is still standing after three missile strikes. But of the 60 apartments in her building, hers is one of only three that are inhabited now. She has to climb down five flights of stairs to get water so she can flush the toilet, wash dishes and shower, she said.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n She has to carry her water alone because her daughter, son-in-law and his mother were killed in the same strike on their own apartment that killed Ms. Zhukova\u2019s relatives, across the river in March of last year.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n \u201cWhen they finally got her from the rubble, her head was broken,\u201d Ms. Zolotarova said of her daughter. \u201cShe didn\u2019t have a face anymore. But I recognized her.\u201d<\/p>\n On a recent afternoon, she joined 100 or so other people, including Ms. Zhukova and her mother, in front of the apartment building. An improvised memorial was set up showing pictures of some of the deceased. War crime investigators were examining the site, measuring metal fragments found nearby while people waited for a humanitarian aid distribution of dried fruit.<\/p>\n Missiles and drones were not the only ways that mayhem arrived in Izium. Last month, Mariia Kurhuzova, 73, was feeding cats in the city center when her right leg was blown off by a mine. The area around the city was heavily mined by the time Russian forces fled, and Izium\u2019s hospital is treating around three serious mine injuries per month, said Dr. Bohdan Berezhnyi, an anesthesiologist.<\/p>\n In the bed next to Ms. Kurhuzova sat Lidiia Borova, 70, who had been picking mushrooms<\/a> when she stepped on a mine and lost her right leg. Her jars of preserved mushrooms had been raided by Russian soldiers living in her house and she had wanted to start replenishing it for winter.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n Ms. Borova is determined to learn to walk again \u2014 so well that she will strut \u201clike an American businessman\u201d on her new prosthetic leg, she said. She will continue to plant strawberries and tend bees, just as she did before the war.<\/p>\n \u201cI will not sit around. I will work,\u201d she said. \u201cWe Ukrainians are unbreakable.\u201d<\/p>\n The hospital itself bears war scars. Its modern anesthesiology wing was damaged in a missile strike in March, and what remains is covered in rubble. The building\u2019s internal walls are still cracked. A small, dank room in the basement has been set up to handle urgent surgeries \u201cin case of another Shahed drone attack,\u201d Dr. Berezhnyi said, referring to Iranian-made drones<\/a> that Russian forces have used in the war.<\/p>\n Indeed, the fear of more destruction hangs over all of Izium.<\/p>\n \u201cDuring the occupation, people were afraid of everything, even to go outside their house,\u201d said Maksym Maksymov, 51, a businessman who said he was imprisoned and tortured with electric shocks during the final weeks of Russian control.<\/p>\n \u201cPeople still haven\u2019t recovered from this psychological trauma,\u201d he said. \u201cThis feeling of total fear that came with the occupation \u2014 it hasn\u2019t disappeared.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n In the meantime, the war rages on. Ms. Zhukova\u2019s eldest daughter recently turned 18, making her husband ineligible for military exemption because he no longer has three or more children who are minors. The day after her birthday, his draft papers arrived.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n Evelina Riabenko contributed reporting.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n