Can you believe people used to live here?

I’d been trudging through the charred rubble of Saltivka in Kharkiv when a reporter thrust a microphone at me and asked, “Can you believe hundreds of thousands of people used to live here?” 

I paused, glancing at the deserted blocks. Towers once teeming with life were now hollowed-out husks. Broken glass crunched under my boots, and wind whistled through the shattered windows. Honestly, it felt like stepping into some post-apocalyptic film set. But this was real. This had been home for countless families, whose voices, laughter, and everyday complaints once spilled out into courtyards. And yet, I answered with sadness and hesitation: “Yes, I do, unfortunately.”

A part of me almost resented the question. The notion of devastation on a massive scale isn’t shocking in Ukraine—it’s tragically familiar. I’ve seen the photographs of Chernobyl’s once-thriving city, Pripyat, now as silent as the grave. I’ve read the harrowing accounts of Jewish families torn from their homes during the Holocaust. Scrolling forward in history, we find the battered faces of civilians in Mariupol, the ghosts of Borodianka, and the flattened neighborhoods of Kharkiv itself. So, no, I’m not surprised that hundreds of thousands used to live in a place now reduced to mere rubble. When you grow up with tales of repeated disasters, there’s a haunting sense of inevitability about watching it happen again.

Walking these empty streets is like walking through Pripyat—but alive, if you can call it that. In some corners, the buildings still stand, half-crumpled but with enough structural bones to remind you people once laughed here, once had dinner arguments or teased their kids for skipping homework. My imagination fills the eerie silence with everyday murmurs—an old woman hollering at the neighbor’s dog, a teenager blasting music behind closed doors, a couple dancing in their living room when they thought no one was looking. It used to be that real, that mundane, and now it’s gone.

Then there’s the weight of history. Chernobyl, the Holocaust—huge chapters of tragedy that taught us about radiation and genocide, about mass graves and ghost towns. But did we truly learn? Ukraine has been fighting for its life for generations, each time under a different name or guise. Each time, the world vows “never again,” but the bombs keep falling, the sirens keep wailing, the population keeps scattering. 

I’m not an idealist with illusions that human tragedy can be cured with a single act of goodwill. But I do believe in our responsibility to care, to try. Even if that effort feels microscopic against the relentless tides of history. Because if we don’t, what happens to the next city turned to concrete dust? What hope do the next generation’s children have, the ones who might grow up thinking it’s normal to hear mortar shells in the background of their lullabies?

So yes, I can believe that hundreds of thousands lived, breathed, and made their messy human mistakes right here. It’s heartbreakingly plausible for a land so steeped in tragedy. Yet, acknowledging that truth should galvanize us, make us realize that we—all of us—bear a responsibility. Whether it’s sending medical supplies, speaking out against atrocities, or showing up to treat the wounded, we can’t keep letting these cycles repeat unchallenged. 

As I left Saltivka that day, the reporter’s question echoed in my head. “Can you believe hundreds of thousands of people used to live here?” Under any sane circumstances, it would be the saddest, most unfathomable question in the world. But in a place like Ukraine—where heartbreak repeats itself with grim regularity—it’s only too easy to believe. And that’s precisely why we must confront it with compassion, outrage, and a vow that one day, this land might be known for something other than a never-ending cycle of tragedy.