At the end of November, Kherson was rainy and cold. The city in the south of Ukraine had been occupied by the Russian army from the earliest days of the war until it was abandoned in the face of Ukraine’s autumn offensive. The joy that followed its liberation was starting to fade. There was still no electricity, water or internet, and the Russians had begun to shell the city. Inside one of the few cafés open in the centre of town, the lights, powered by a small generator, shone dimly. 

Vova, the blond-haired owner, sat down with a wan smile. “We were the resistance,” he told me. “It was here in our café.” Throughout the occupation and at great personal risk, Vova, a genial man in his 30s, had reported on Russian movements to the Ukrainian armed forces.

Like everyone I met who had lived through the occupation of Kherson, Vova’s face was hollowed-out and pale. There were purple shadows under his eyes. Incoming fire nearby rattled the windows. I could see that Vova still felt the Russians breathing down his neck.