Harold Ponce
At the base of a block of flats in Bucha, the sound of sawing echoes around the deserted communal garden.
In one of the doorways a blackened kettle boils on an open fire, blowing clouds of steam into the bitter air. This place should be buzzing with life and sound, with the chatter of children playing and clambering over the climbing frame that dominates the square.
But since the Russians came, everything has changed here. Most people fled, and they’re yet to return. There’s just one small, hardy group who are trying to pave the way for others to come back.
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