Three days before the invasion of Ukraine
Pavel Mirny, February 21, 2026
The war has been going on for four years now. The final days before Russia’s full‑scale invasion of Ukraine keep coming back to me. How do I remember them?
Two weeks before the war began, I was still working in Ukraine, collecting stories about women veterans who had served in Donbas and about military‑training courses for young men and women organized by volunteers with combat experience. The armed conflict in eastern Ukraine had already dragged on for eight years, yet at the time, no one took the possibility of a full‑scale Russian invasion seriously. Headlines kept warning that Russia was ready to attack “tomorrow,” and various scenarios were discussed—even a strike through the Chernobyl zone. For any sane person, such a scenario seemed like madness. In Ukraine, and especially in Kyiv, these warnings were met with skepticism, dismissed as yet another wave of clickbait.
At the same time, my journalist colleagues in Russia reported significant troop movements in the Rostov region toward the Ukrainian border. The official explanations from Russian authorities were always the same: these were supposedly routine military exercises, and, of course, Russia had no intention of attacking its neighbour.
In Kyiv, the atmosphere was calm—no sensational news. I decided to return to Russia and see what was happening in the Rostov region. Arriving in Moscow, I took the next available flight to Rostov. For me, the countdown of the last three peaceful days had begun. Together with my colleagues, we set out in search of stories worth filming. But where, across such a vast region, could we even start?
By that time, a new law was already in effect in Russia, making it illegal—and criminally punishable—to photograph any movements of Russian troops. For a foreign citizen, such filming was considered espionage. Yet we still drove along the regional roads, hoping to come across something worth documenting. Perhaps we still couldn’t truly believe that the war would begin so soon.
Day One: February 21, 2022
The first day began with the sound of military transport planes and helicopters flying low over the city. From the hotel window, I managed only a few unsuccessful shots. After that, we set out to explore the outskirts. On the roads, we often encountered columns of buses heading toward us, escorted by police vehicles. These were refugees from Ukraine.
On February 8, 2022, the new authorities of the then‑occupied Luhansk and Donetsk People’s Republics (LPR and DPR) accused Ukraine of preparing a “deep incursion” into their territory and announced the start of a mass “temporary” evacuation of the population to Russia. Priority was given to women, children, and the elderly. In addition to the organized bus convoys, regular passenger services ran between Donetsk and Rostov, also packed with people fleeing the escalating shelling and uncertainty.
We returned to the city and decided to stop by the central bus station. The first minibus that arrived a few minutes after our arrival was full of women with children and elderly people. At that time, all men who wanted to leave the eastern regions with their families were prohibited from leaving.
I entered the bus station building and wanted to take a few wide‑angle shots from the second floor. On the stairs, a police officer stopped me. Seeing my camera, he warned that this was a restricted and strategic facility; if I took even one photo, he would detain me. This wasn’t the first warning of this kind I had received, but I didn’t want to get into trouble right away. So I turned around and left. We drove around the city, looking for any signs of the approaching storm, but everywhere was calm. Only the presence of large numbers of people in military uniforms served as a subtle warning. We decided to head out of the city again and drive through the region.
The day was quite sunny, and along the road, like beacons of memory from the past of these places, we constantly passed World War II memorials. I still felt that this history somehow protected us from the start of a new war. But in many spots near the highway, we saw military fuel trucks standing in the tree lines, ready to refuel equipment. On the road, we came across vehicles carrying military personnel, mobile command posts, and armored personnel carriers (APCs) moving under their own power.
What caught our attention most, however, were army tractors with specialized flatbed platforms carrying infantry fighting vehicles (IFVs) and 122mm self‑propelled howitzers (SPHs), their registration numbers smeared with mud to make them unidentifiable. Large clumps of fresh mud were wrapped around their tracks. Several tractors carried tanks on their platforms, covered with tarps. Military equipment was being gathered at a temporary assembly point.
About 30 km from the Ukrainian border, we unexpectedly came across a column of Russian military equipment parked in the middle of a field. It was a large convoy, and judging by the fresh tracks, it had just recently assembled there. It included a variety of military vehicles: APCs, IFVs, self‑propelled howitzers, and heavy artillery. I managed to take a few decent shots through the tinted windows of our car. After driving a couple of kilometers, we turned back to take another look and get more photos of the convoy. It was a fortunate find.
We decided to get as close as possible to the Ukrainian border and observe what was happening there. According to our colleagues, many vehicles with license plates from other regions were stopped tens of kilometers before the checkpoint. But we were apparently lucky—we were able to reach the border directly. Columns of buses carrying refugees continued to arrive. Immediately after crossing the border, the buses went to the nearest parking area, where everyone was registered. By that time, the Ministry of Emergency Situations had set up temporary tents and registration points. Access to them was restricted and guarded by police. From the look of it, it resembled more of a filtration camp.
After registration, buses took people either to hotels or directly to the nearest major city’s railway station, Taganrog. At the station, the authorities hastily formed a train and sent people to various regions. Often, they did not even know where exactly they were going.
In the spontaneously organized hotels for refugees, people waited for hours for a place. At the request of the Rostov region administration, hotels accommodated evacuees from Donbas free of charge. Many people were placed in sports halls or temporary shelters.
To begin with, we followed the refugees to the train station. At the entrance to the platform, a police cordon was set up, and no journalists were allowed close, neither to the arriving buses with refugees nor to the train itself. The entire perimeter was guarded by the police.
The Taganrog Hotel, where we arrived after dark, was overcrowded with people. Some sat in groups in the lobby, waiting for hours for a room or a place to sleep, while others searched for the nearest grocery store to buy a bit of food.
On the evening of February 21, Vladimir Putin signed two decrees—“On the Recognition by Russia of the Independence of the Donetsk and Luhansk People’s Republics”—as well as two treaties—“On Friendship and Mutual Assistance between the DPR and LPR.”
Day Two: February 22, 2022
On the second day, we decided to head toward the border right away. Along the way, we continued to encounter columns of Ukrainian refugees. We came across the same column of military equipment, still in the same location. Turning off the main highway leading to the border, we this time drove parallel to the border line.
Almost immediately, in the first settlement, we encountered a patrolling military armored vehicle, a “Tiger.” For a while, it followed us, but then fell behind. Soon after, we saw fresh tracks of military vehicles crossing the paved road perpendicularly. The entire road was covered in large clumps of mud—it seemed that a military convoy had crossed the road right there.
We stopped to take a closer look. On both sides of the road, in the agricultural fields, fresh tracks of military vehicles were visible. The mud left on the road had not even had a chance to dry. It was clear that the convoy had been here very recently, most likely during the night. Next to the tracks, on the asphalt, lay a spent 7.62mm rifle cartridge. For me, it became a clear sign of the approaching storm.
We returned to the main highway and, on the way back, again came across the now‑familiar army column. This time, however, there was noticeable activity. New equipment was being brought to the column, while other vehicles were being transported on specialized flatbed platforms in unknown directions. It was impossible to track exactly where the equipment was being taken.
Due to the open and highly visible terrain, we could not stop to observe the column without drawing attention to ourselves. The only option was to drive past the convoy roughly once an hour and note any changes—which is exactly what we did for the rest of the day.
Day Three: February 23, 2022
On the third day, we set out along our usual route toward the Russian army column. As we left the city, we passed the monument‑stele “To the Soldiers‑Liberators of Rostov‑on‑Don from the Nazi Invaders.” On the highway, near Taganrog, we saw the towering “Glory Memorial on the Sambek Heights,” created in memory of the bloody battles of the Great Patriotic War.
I couldn’t help but think again—how is it possible to start a war anew, given such a horrific historical experience? Perhaps, however, by building numerous military memorials, the state pursued entirely different goals—not preserving the memory of the war’s victims, but glorifying a terrifying past to mobilize people for participation in new wars.
At one point, on the road toward the Ukrainian border, a deep, rolling sound of low‑flying rotor blades suddenly grew on our right. A few seconds later, an Mi‑28 anti‑tank attack helicopter flew over us, and a few minutes after that, a Ka‑52 “Alligator” attack helicopter with its side numbers painted over. We quickly pulled over to the roadside, and I managed to take a few shots through the open window. I remember telling my colleagues at the time that this was definitely a bad sign.
We returned to the road and headed toward the spot where the convoy had been yesterday. It was still in the same location, but there was noticeably less equipment. After photographing the convoy once more, we went back to Rostov. The atmosphere in the city struck me again with its calm. At that point, we decided to return to the location where the military column had been.
The sun was setting, blinding the driver with its bright orange light. But when we arrived, we couldn’t believe our eyes—the convoy had simply vanished. I got out of the car and walked to the spot where the military equipment had stood just a few hours earlier. The entire field was churned up by tracks. Around us lay debris: plastic juice packets, torn army rations, and a couple of wooden army crates. It was impossible to believe that such a large convoy had moved somewhere so quickly.
We began looking at the map and noticed that on the other side of the road, a few kilometers away, there was a small village divided by a railway line.
We went there and began asking locals if they had seen any soldiers. Everyone was cautious and replied that they hadn’t seen anything unusual. Only one elderly woman advised us to go to the freight railway terminal, then quickly walked away.
As soon as we crossed the railway and entered the other half of the village, we saw a train of flatbed railway cars, fully loaded with military equipment and waiting for a locomotive. Here was all the equipment from the convoy we had seen, along with a lot of other vehicles, most likely brought from other assembly points. Next to the platforms, on the ground, lay a pile of army crates filled with ammunition. Driving along the train, I managed to take a few shots of the equipment, barely visible behind the fence.
When the fence ended and dense shrubs began, I thought I could get a good shot from there and asked the driver to stop. I approached as closely as possible and managed to take just a couple of shots of the military equipment, which was guarded by armed soldiers. Through the camera viewfinder, I saw a soldier rapidly approaching me. He began shouting something, but at that moment I was already jumping into the back seat of our car and told the driver to leave immediately.
Once we had driven a safe distance away, we stopped. Catching our breath, I decided it was no longer worth attracting attention or risking the material I had already captured. Setting the camera to maximum sensitivity, I began taking photos through the tinted windows of the car.
It was getting dark. The road was dimly lit by street lamps and the signs of grocery stores lining both sides. From time to time, people in military uniform crossed the road, running from one shop to another. One might have thought it was just the usual pre‑holiday bustle for Defender of the Fatherland Day. However, judging by the size of the bags and the amount of food, it was clear that everyone was stocking up for a long journey.
One soldier, standing in line at a kiosk, was speaking intently to someone on a smartphone, holding it close to his mouth so that no one nearby could hear. In his other hand, he held a second, simple and cheap phone. These are often issued to Russian soldiers on deployments so that they don’t use smartphones and reveal their location. He bought several packs of cigarettes and stepped aside, probably letting his family know that they would be setting out soon. I’m not sure if he even knew where they were being sent…
We returned to the hotel around midnight, and almost immediately I received a call urging me to leave while I still could. I had already begun to sense the urgency, so I called my brother in Ukraine and asked him to go to the gas station immediately and fill up the tank, so that if necessary, we could leave the city. I sat for a few more minutes, frozen in my chair, with that strange feeling you get when you know something terrible is about to happen, but you cannot share your thoughts with anyone—and, most frighteningly, cannot influence the course of events. It is hard to remain a mere observer, knowing that the last minutes before the tragedy of a new war are ticking away before your eyes.
I boarded a train to Moscow around three in the morning at the half‑empty railway station. Its interior was decorated with faded murals on the walls depicting the heroic deeds of the Soviet people during the Great Patriotic War. Two hours later, the full‑scale invasion of Ukraine by the Russian army began.
This material was produced with the support of the Center for Independent Social Research (CISR Berlin) and was published on February 21, 2025, on Republic (recognized as a foreign agent).