Ivan Antypenko is a Ukrainian journalist, photographer, and videographer who primarily covers the Russian–Ukrainian war in southern Ukraine. On 24 February 2022, Russians came to his home—his native city of Kherson. He returned home on 13 November, yet under shelling and in water he continues his work. We talk with Ivan Antypenko about his favorite destroyed places in Kherson; about the occupation and liberation; about flooding and shelling; and about bans and permits for filming.
A freelance journalist from Kherson
I shoot photos and video, and I also write. But lately, it’s mostly photography that brings me the most satisfaction—if I can put it that way—because the subject of the work is, in truth, sad. In photography I try to look for inspiration and at least some kind of positivity. If we’re talking about photos — I work with Radio Svoboda (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty) and also Reuters. I prepare texts, photos, and video for the media outlet “Grunt,” sometimes for hromadske or “BBC Ukraine,” and I collaborate with the regional outlet “MOST.” Right now I’m a freelance journalist. I was born in Kherson, grew up in Kherson Oblast, not in the city itself. But after finishing school I enrolled at Kherson State University, and since then I’ve lived in Kherson. I started working in journalism around 2011. Since 2019, I also managed to work on a national media literacy project. But during Russia’s invasion I returned to the media field—freelancing. I haven’t regretted choosing journalism and this path even once.
24 February 2022 in Kherson
During the first hours, everyone was calling me—and I was calling everyone, too. We understood that it had started and that things were developing very fast. A significant part of the region was occupied in the first hours. But at that moment I didn’t believe the war would be on such a large scale. I thought that most likely there would be some escalation in Donbas and, perhaps, the Russians would want to reach the borders of Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts. But I could not imagine that almost all of Kherson Oblast would be occupied so quickly.
On the first day, my colleagues and I saw how quickly the Russians were advancing towards Kakhovka. Acquaintances of law enforcement agencies said that the situation is very unfavorable and it is quite possible that already on February 24 Russian troops will be in Kherson. We were advised to leave the city. Until the last time I thought that I would stay in Kherson and work with the camera. To be honest, I reproached myself a lot for deciding not to be in the occupation. Because our people, as you remember, showed incredible heroism, fearlessness and resistance, going to rallies, to these great Maidanas. Almost every day. I was very upset that I was not there and was not with them, did not record it. Then my journalist friend Oleha Baturinafrom Kakhovka the Russians held captive and used physical force against him. On the first day, my colleagues and I saw how quickly the Russians were advancing toward Kakhovka. Friends in law enforcement said the situation was very unfavorable and that it was quite possible that already on 24 February Russian troops would be in Kherson. They advised us to leave the city. Until the very last moment I thought I would stay in Kherson and work with a camera. To be honest, I blamed myself a lot for the decision not to be in the occupation. Because our people—as you remember—showed incredible heroism, fearlessness, and resistance, going out to rallies, to these large squares. Almost every day. I was very upset that I wasn’t there with them, that I didn’t document it. Later, my journalist friend Oleh Baturin from Kakhovka was held captive by the Russians and subjected to physical violence.Portrait of a Kherson Territorial Defense fighter who was killed on 1 March 2022 in Lilac Park during a battle with Russian troops. According to confirmed data, at least 13 Ukrainian defenders were killed here that day. April 2024. Photo by Ivan Antypenko
All because he continued his journalistic work—he wrote about what was happening under occupation. Then we all learned that in Kyiv Oblast the Russians had killed media workers. I realized that Russian troops don’t care about “PRESS” markings; they violate all the rules and customs of war. At that time I did what I could: I began collaborating with different media outlets and writing about what was happening in Kherson, getting information from people who remained under occupation. In May, I received accreditation and began working in Mykolaiv. I really wanted to cover events specifically in the South. I wanted to go home.
The liberation of Kherson
In September–October 2022, we started traveling to the first liberated villages while our counteroffensive was still ongoing. We were among the first to enter villages along the Dnipro: Zolota Balka, Mykhailivka, Biliaivka, Khreshchenivka. Right before the liberation of Kherson we had submitted all our texts and materials. And then I realized that our Defense Forces were already pushing the Russians onto the left bank of the Dnipro. And around 9–10 November I clearly understood that tomorrow or the day after something like that would happen. I clearly remember 11 November—the liberation of Muzykivka, Chornobaivka, Kherson. Those first frames! I had a smile on my face all day. It was incredible happiness—happiness and tears. But the greatest euphoria came when I drove into Kherson.
We didn’t get any special permit—we entered as volunteers. By hook or by crook through Chornobaivka, through the airport. But in fact we were bringing humanitarian aid from Serhii Prytula’s foundation. Thanks to that, and thanks to acquaintances in the military who were there, we were able to pass the checkpoints, see the legendary airport in Chornobaivka and the Russian equipment destroyed there. In the city we saw an incredible scene: people in the streets with Ukrainian flags, guys tearing down Russian billboards, and a celebration on Freedom Square. I met acquaintances and friends, but there was absolutely no mobile connection or internet. People were running around with Starlinks and generators. There was no heating in the city either. It was very cold. In that mode I spent the first night at a friend’s place, and the second night already in my own home.
Getting my lost home back
I met up with a friend who had been under occupation the entire time. Together we went into my home, where there was no electricity, water, or heating. I brought Pepsi-Cola and a bottle of Kakhovka cognac, and also a Snickers. That was our modest meal. And it was very moving, because I had come back home.
My apartment. My bed, which I made on the morning of the 24th and then left. And everything remained exactly as it was. This is probably one of the most vivid impressions of my life —coming home. And from the very beginning, when I covered the full-scale invasion and spoke specifically about the South, it was always something deeply personal. No words can describe the feeling of regaining such a great loss as home. And if you look at what I write and how I write it, then probably the photographs themselves speak to how much I miss it, how much it hurts to see what is happening now to Kherson and the region. To the left bank, which is under occupation and where we cannot go. It hurts for the right bank, which is constantly under fire. It hurts for the people who live there.
Favorite destroyed places
There are many such places—mostly near the water. Now it’s already scary and dangerous to go there, but we still went and filmed. For example, the city embankment. There are several exits to the Dnipro there. Near the “Fregat” hotel there is a bus riddled with bullets that was hit during a Russian attack. It’s a very painful place that I had to photograph. Different small festivals used to take place there. We always walked there. It’s a place full of memories. When things are bad and when things are good — you go to the Dnipro. Just to look at the water, to see what vessels come into Kherson, what countries they are from, and what is happening there in general.
Another special place for me that was damaged by the Russians and I had to shoot it, ---- this Kherson Regional Universal Scientific Library named after Oles Honchar. It is located above the Dnieper itself. Literally on the shore. Such a large building. There are large panoramic windows and incredible views overlooking the left bank. Wide, beautiful Dnieper and view of Oleshky. The Dnieper flows right under you. And in August last year, I filmed there after the Russian attacks on the library. There were already several holes in the walls and, accordingly, these all these huge glass shoAnother place that is special to me, which suffered because of the Russians and which I had to photograph, — is the Oles Honchar Kherson Regional Universal Scientific Library. It is located right above the Dnipro—literally on the riverbank. It’s a large building with big panoramic windows and an incredible view of the left bank: a wide, beautiful Dnipro and a view of Oleshky. The river flows right beneath you. In August last year, I photographed the library after Russian strikes. There were already several holes in the walls and, accordingly, all those huge glass windows shattered.
This shoot stirred up a lot of nostalgia in me, because in my student years I often went there for various events. The Oles Honchar Library is an iconic, landmark place. And I’m also from the generation for whom the internet was in the library. It was a kind of way out into the world. During the shoot, we walked around with the director and looked at everything; she showed me how the staff had rescued the books. It’s a very touching story about the library. We took photos for a project by UNESCO and IMI about cultural heritage, and this site was on the list—I photographed it. During the shoot there were explosions too, and then a thick column of smoke on the other bank. A few months after the shoot, the Russians launched a missile strike there and the building burned badly.
And recently I photographed my alma mater, Kherson State University, after another Russian shelling. This time the main building was hit. Destroyed walls, shattered windows, smashed classrooms, and learning materials. I studied here for five years. Seeing it all in ruins is very painful.
The big water: 6 June 2023
Traditionally, it all began with calls. At 7 a.m. I woke up in a train in Odesa and saw my phone blowing up. Everyone was asking something. I read the news: “The Russians blew up the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant.” At first I didn’t realize how serious it was. We arrived and started working non-stop throughout June and into early July. At first we documented the flooding—people in boats, evacuations, the rescue of animals. And then we filmed the aftermath of the flooding.
When everyone had already left and the water receded, people were left one-on-one with this disaster. We saw the real scale of the catastrophe. Thousands of families were left without homes. People told us: “The Russians didn’t finish us off—so they flooded us.” But at such a crucial moment, they often told me: “We will get through this anyway, as long as they don’t come back here. Because under occupation it was worse.” People wanted to live in Ukraine, to work their land. The value of freedom for these people—for all of us—is vital.
Again, I experienced all of this very personally. Also, when the water had already gone down everywhere else, in the Kalynivska community in the north of the oblast there was still water. There the Inhulets River overflowed its banks—this was also a consequence of the HPP explosion. And almost no one wrote or filmed about it. People ended up with artificial large ponds in their vegetable gardens. We went and filmed. Because, in the end, it’s one of my tasks: to go and show places and people where it seems like nothing is happening, although in fact there are strong stories and important events hidden there.
Shooting forbidden, cannot delete
Previously, in Kherson and the oblast there were no problems at all with civilian topics—no approvals were needed. Then so-called zoning was introduced. At that time Nataliia Humeniuk headed the press center for Operational Command “South.” Media workers began to have difficulties covering civilian and military topics. After the HPP was blown up, all these zones were flooded with water from the Dnipro. We needed to show the scale of this catastrophe, and at that moment the press center really didn’t help—mostly it hindered. When we tried to arrange things simply so we could work in Kherson, and were in constant contact with press officers, the press center kept talking about certain restrictions: “You can’t go there, you can’t go here. There is shelling there, and there is something else there,” they would constantly tell us. We understand that as journalists and as professionals. We consciously take that risk. But there were certain places I still went to—having simply agreed with locals, or volunteers, or anyone.
We wanted to go and show what was happening there. That, in fact, is the function of the media: to show reality, to show facts. So, probably in spite of—rather than thanks to—the work of official structures, we managed to film and show something here and there, piece by piece. People responsible for access need to understand that journalists are not enemies. They need to communicate with us and facilitate our work. Because we documented Russian war crimes and the scale of a huge tragedy in the center of Europe.
If Associated Press journalists had not stayed in besieged Mariupol in March 2022—risking their lives alongside medics, the military, the police, and others—the world would not have received reliable evidence of the Russian army’s atrocities in that city. Or there would have been far less evidence, and it would not have resonated so loudly. Whether we like it or not, people and states that support us trust not only official statements but also living, real stories prepared by reporters in the field. And in the end, they trust the latter more.
(Un)known Krynky
The military say that sometimes it feels to them as if there is no war in the South. Everyone only knows about the battles in the East. We see only shelled cities and villages. But who is defending us here—the faces of these people, these real heroes of our time, who are fighting in Krynky and on other difficult directions in Kherson Oblast—no one knows about them.
My colleagues and I were demanding that we be given permission to work properly in the South. Every reasonable journalist who has worked with military topics for more than a year, I believe, has a sufficient level of awareness of the situation—no one wants to cause harm. In my opinion, fully closing off an entire direction is wrong. For example, Ukrainians often heard about Krynky from Kremlin statements and propaganda channels, not from Ukrainian media. If there is no communication, there is a vacuum—and then it will be filled with fabrications, enemy information-psychological operations, and messages torn out of context.
On 25 February this year, after President Zelenskyy’s press conference, I wrote a post that went somewhat viral online and was shared by colleagues from different outlets: “Why do we learn about Krynky from TikTok and Shoigu’s briefings? How is this direction different from Avdiivka, Kupʼiansk, Robotyne in the sense that we are forbidden even to mention the left bank? How is the fight of the Marines and Territorial Defense in Kherson Oblast different from the fight of other brigades on other directions?” I was told that this message did reach the Ministry of Defense, and certain conversations were held with those responsible.
Has the ice broken?
After media workers urged the country’s military leadership to replace the spokesperson of Operational Command “South,” and Dmytro Pletenchuk was appointed in her place, the situation with access to Kherson Oblast improved somewhat, Ivan says. Now requests for working on civilian topics will be reviewed in an expedited manner.
“If there is a need to create material without the participation of the military, requests are processed under a shortened scheme: only by agreeing the route (and strictly adhering to it on your side) with the relevant press officer on the direction,” reported the head of the Strategic Communications Center of the Southern Defense Forces, Captain 3rd Rank Dmytro Pletenchuk.
Ivan Antypenko is a Ukrainian journalist, photographer, and videographer who covers the Russian–Ukrainian war in southern Ukraine. He collaborates with Ukrainian and international media outlets: Radio Svoboda (Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty), “Grunt,” Reuters, Hromadske, “MOST,” “BBC Ukraine,” and others.
Credits:
Researcher and author: Vira Labych
Photo editor: Ivan Antypenko
Literary editor: Yuliia Futei
