Articles

The World of the GROZ: How a miner's character is tempered.

Article published in 2016

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“My friend and another miner were working in the tunnel. Suddenly, the roof started to collapse, and the miner’s hand got trapped so badly that it couldn’t be pulled out. ‘Grab the axe, chop off the hand,’ he shouted to my friend. He refused. So, the miner took the axe and chopped off his own hand.”

(from the story of Nikolai, a veteran miner)

About half of the people fighting in the Donetsk and Lugansk republics are locals. The backbone consists of miners and those working in related industries.
The attempt to earn a living during unemployment is one of the reasons for joining the militia.
Before the war, a miner working in the toughest part of the mine, the tunnels, could expect to earn, at best, 6,000-6,500 gryvnias "gross". With the start of the war, most mines were shut down (in Donetsk region, for example, less than half of the mining operations are still running), and the gryvnia exchange rate collapsed.
At the same time, many residents of Donbass joined the militia out of ideological reasons, not seeing any other way to defend their rights.
The determination with which they went to war is likely hard for most residents of prosperous capitals to understand, who, if they go underground at all, do so to ride the subway. About the roots of this determination – in this report. The author went to the southeast of Ukraine in early April, saw how they celebrated the Red Hill holiday, went down into the mines, and spoke with the workers.

Journey to the Center of the Earth

“Shcheglovskaya-Glubokaya,” one of the 18 operational mines in Donetsk region. The maximum depth is 1,200 meters.
At the bathhouse, they provide underwear, a work uniform, bandages, rubber boots, and a helmet. I get a respirator, a headlamp, and a self-rescuer — a portable oxygen supply device, similar to a thermos — an essential piece of equipment that must always be kept nearby. At the very least, within arm's reach.
At the entrance to the cage (the transport platform where people descend and ascend), the duty shift has gathered. To pass the time, they chat leisurely about everyday matters — home, salary, holidays. So many people are getting into the cage that the last one barely squeezes through the door. It resembles a minibus during rush hour. We begin our descent. The cage slides downward. The longer we ride, the more the pressure increases, and, unaccustomed to it, I start to feel a headache. The workers don’t notice it anymore, but I have to pinch my nose and exhale sharply through my ears. Just like during a plane’s takeoff, but without the candies.
A few minutes later, the cage stops. A fresh, cold wind hits my face. We pass several ventilation doors. They regulate air flows through the mine workings, but at Shcheglovskaya-Glubokaya, they are decorated with beautiful colorful graffiti. There are maps and symbols of the football club Shakhtyor.
Most of the way to the tunnel, I travel on a conveyor belt. A signal sounds, and the belt starts moving. The jolt is sharp, and my body slides from the sudden motion. The miner accompanying me warns: “Don’t raise your head and don’t grab the edges — your fingers will be cut off in an instant.”
The closer I get to the tunnel where the coal is mined, the louder the noise becomes. Here, miners working in the excavation face (GROZ), also known as coal miners, earn the highest wages in the mine but also take the greatest risks. In the tunnel, high temperatures combine with a lack of air and the deafening noise of the combine. The coal dust is so thick that I can barely make out my outstretched hand. I squeeze through the props of the mine supports and immediately hit my head — the height of the tunnel is such that you can only move through it on all fours or bent over. Ahead, in the dusty haze, I notice some movement.
At a depth of 1,200 meters, a miner, kneeling, works with a shovel. His face is covered with a thick layer of coal dust, his mouth is covered by a respirator. The GROZ worker waves at me for a moment and continues his work.
A few minutes later, the cage brings me back to the surface. I step out into the fresh air, and a sigh of relief involuntarily escapes my chest. The people standing nearby laugh, and someone remarks: “They say, if you haven't been in the mine, you haven't seen the sun..."
A few days later, I find myself at the Maloivanovskaya mine in the Lugansk region. According to one of the workers, production never stopped during the military actions, despite the shells flying over the mine.
The mine is not large (200 people work here, producing up to 300 tons of coal daily), and it is not impressive in size, but the miners here work extremely hard. The exhausted shift trudges through the mud left by the rain. Nearby, in the open air, another worker sorts coal on a conveyor belt. The coal comes onto the belt from a hopper, and the hopper is filled from the bed of a truck. When the heavy vehicle unloads a new batch, everything around is covered in a cloud of black dust.

We’ll Meet at the Red Hill

In early April, Red Hill was celebrated in Donbass. This day is an occasion to meet, even if it's at the cemetery, with relatives, to have a drink or two and remember the deceased, most of whom worked in the mines.
According to statistics, mines kill and injure between 8,000 and 11,000 people worldwide every year. Before the war, each million tons of coal cost the lives of two workers. In Yuzhnaya Lomovatka, a mining village in the Lugansk region, a little over a thousand people lived last year. No one can say how many remain now. But those who stayed came to the quiet cemetery on this day. They wept at the graves of their loved ones, then brought out some vodka and simple snacks to honor their relatives. They left an egg, a paschal cake, a few candies (the poor will take them later), and lit cigarettes on the graves.
Early in the morning, local militia members arrived at the cemetery to conduct a check (the day before, there had been information that saboteurs were planting mines at the graves). They didn’t find anything hazardous. One woman handed the militia members a bag with a small bottle of homemade wine: “Sons, please pray for him properly.”
Another woman stopped at a modest monument. She said something to the man in the photo and kissed the cold stone. She placed an egg and a candy on the granite, gave a final glance, and left.
A third woman wandered among the graves, pausing to leave some simple food: “My relative is buried over there, and here’s my neighbor. He worked his whole life in the mine, and his wife got paralyzed, so I have to come and visit.”
Nearby, a mother and son, dressed in camouflage with patches, were busy. On a small table, there was a bottle of vodka and a shot glass, into which the man was pouring the alcohol. A very young man looked out from the granite slab: "This is my brother, they killed him." He silently poured the vodka at the base of the monument, filled the glass again, and handed it to his mother, who sprinkled the other graves with the drink.
Soon, the cemetery was filled with people. Lively conversations could be heard, occasionally muffled laughter. The local priest appeared, accompanied by cantors. The memorial prayer began.
Those who were leaving the cemetery cleaned their shoes from the wet cemetery soil stuck to them. It washed off best in a puddle. Nearby, a large cross stood tall. From a distance, it seemed as though people were bowing to the cross.

The Gob Piles Are Almost Invisible

I was returning home through the customs checkpoint in Izvarino. On the Ukrainian side, there was a significant queue of cars, buses, and trucks. “Today, everyone is being searched,” the driver who was giving me a lift remarked. “They say they found a box of grenades in a bus with tourists.”
On the Russian side, there was an interview waiting for me. In a small corridor, a tired soldier with an assault rifle was idly standing. Next to the door of the office I was about to enter, a red light flickered steadily, and muffled male voices could be heard from inside: “stronghold… January… special…” Finally, the door opened, and I stepped inside. At the table sat an unremarkable man in civilian clothes: “Tell us, what were you doing in Ukraine?”
He asked me to open the laptop and carefully examined the contents. He spent a long time looking at the photos from the mines, and was noticeably surprised: "Is this how they work?!"
And then he wished me a safe journey.
A few minutes later, the taxi driver was already taking me to the nearest train station in the Rostov region. On the horizon, the gob piles loomed, gradually melting away and turning into small mounds. Soon, they disappeared entirely.

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P.S.

“My grandfather worked in the mine his whole life. In his last days, the doctors prescribed morphine to relieve the attacks. When he slipped into delirium, he felt like he was still on shift. That’s how he stayed underground until his last moments.”

(From the story of Zoya, the granddaughter of a miner)

2025-02-03 17:25 All Chronicles Archive