‘The whole country is like this now’

There are 100 kilometres of highway between St. Petersburg and Primorsk. After passing the Lakhta Centre skyscraper, Gazprom’s headquarters, you enter the resort area of St. Petersburg with its pristine highways, cottages, hotels, restaurants, and billboards with real advertisements. The first military recruitment ad appears only after 70 kilometres, promoting contracts with the Unmanned Systems Forces. The next one is in Primorsk itself, close to the border with Finland.

Located on the Baltic Sea, Primorsk was once a Finnish fishing village known as Koivisto. Finland ceded it to the USSR along with other border territories as a result of the 1939-1940 Winter War. A former church in the town centre houses the local history museum, which built its collection with the help of tourists from Finland. The museum’s courtyard once featured memorial plaques with the names of Finns killed in the Winter War. 

But in recent years, both the plaques and the tourists have disappeared. The museum staff, who by some miracle managed to preserve the main exhibition, are now working on an exhibit about Primorsk’s “cosmic past”. (The rocket engine manufacturer Energomash “built Primorsk”, a museum worker explains.) 

Today, the town’s economic engine is the Primorsk Oil Terminal, an oil-loading port connected to the Baltic Pipeline System. Constructed in 2000 to replace the Soviet-built Baltic Sea oil terminal in Ventspils, Latvia, the Primorsk port’s cargo turnover peaked in 2009 before entering a decline. By that point, however, Russia had opened another major Baltic Sea port with oil terminals in Ust-Luga. 

Ukrainian drones struck the ports of Primorsk and Ust-Luga in late March and early April 2026. The resulting “damage to infrastructure” reportedly led to a drop in oil exports. However, official figures later claimed “unprecedented” growth compared to the previous year, even though these ports weren’t facing attacks then. 

“The whole country is like this now,” the museum worker says. “A drone flew right by here last night. But the church has survived two wars, and I hope it will hold up now, too. We aren’t a strategic target, so they won’t shoot.”

I would hear this again and again in both Primorsk and Ust-Luga: “We aren’t a strategic target, there’s just homes here. We’re just a village, there’s a school here — they won’t hit us.” Such is the cloudless faith of Russians that the Ukrainians, at least, don’t strike civilians. 

Primorsk: ‘What does the war have to do with any of this?’

Ukrainian drones attacked the port of Primorsk on 23 March. At 3:47 a.m., Leningrad Region Governor Alexander Drozdenko laconically reported that a “fuel tank was damaged at the port of Primorsk, causing a fire”. He provided no further details about the extent of the damage. 

“It was loud,” recalls a young mother named Katya. “We heard the sound of the drones flying, and then the pops when they were shot down.”

At 10:00 a.m., Drozdenko reassured the public that firefighting efforts at the port were ongoing. But in Primorsk and neighbouring villages, no one could read the governor’s message — he had posted it on Telegram, which Russia has effectively blocked, and mobile Internet was down throughout the Leningrad region.

Located a kilometre from the oil terminals, the village of Yermilovo is even closer to the port than the town of Primorsk itself. The road leading to the port is decorated with festive banners reading, “25 Years Of Transneft, A Quarter Century Of Reliability”. Soldiers in camouflage uniforms man the approaches to the Transneft base, their vehicles equipped with anti-aircraft guns. When they shoot down drones, the debris falls on Yermilovo. So far, they’ve only damaged power lines. 

“It’s difficult,” sighs an elderly resident when asked how locals are coping with the drones. Her neighbour interrupts: “Actually, there’s a criminal statute that says not to disclose, film, or talk about [the drone strikes].”

I try to reassure them that there’s no such law, but the neighbour insists. “Governor Drozdenko said so on Ma-k-s,” she says, pronouncing the name of the new state-backed messaging app, Max, phoneme by phoneme. 

“We saw everything,” the first woman continues.

“We have air defences and electronic warfare systems here. We have everything,” her neighbour chimes in. “The port is of global importance, which means it has the appropriate security.” 

Olesya, another local, is waiting at a bus stop. (She commutes to the town of Vyborg every day for work.) “It was frightening, but interesting,” Olesya says of the attack. “I was watching from the balcony. I saw the explosions, how they [the drones] were shot down, and how they flew over the buildings.” Olesya adds that she sees no reason to leave Yermilovo. Drones are “flying all over Russia”, she says. 

According to Olesya, Yermilovo’s air raid alert system doesn’t always work. “Or rather, it was set up to make announcements over a megaphone, but it’s not connected,” she clarifies. Instead, locals rely on Lokator, a channel on Telegram and Max that crowdsources reports of drone sightings across the country. “When we see them flying towards the Pskov region, that means they’ll be here soon,” she explains. 

On 23 March, however, the Max messaging app was down amid a power outage. 

That night, Lidiya Semyonovna was fast asleep, and all she heard was “loud banging”. When she got up the next morning, the oil terminal was on fire. “It didn’t burn for an hour or two but for a day or two,” she recalls. “I went out into the yard, and you could see the smoke billowing right over our houses from here.”

The dock workers are the first to know about impending attacks on the port. They receive warnings and are then evacuated to Yermilovo. That’s when residents get word of the threat. According to Lidiya Semyonovna, the evacuated dock workers get dropped off outside the Pyaterochka supermarket near her home. “When there’s an air raid alert in the Leningrad region, they all rush out of the port and come here,” she explains.

Other dock workers are evacuated to the local community centre, spreading word of the drone threat even further afield. “There are no alerts, so I keep an eye on the port,” says Oksana, who lives nearby. “Once the evacuation has started and the vehicles start to arrive, that’s when you can start being afraid.”

“Sometimes a threat warning is issued, but not always and not to everyone. Sometimes it doesn’t come at all. There are times when a threat is declared at six in the morning, and the warning doesn’t come through until eight. Some people only get the ‘all clear’. And sometimes, I only find out when I hear the explosions,” Oksana explains. 

Anton, who graduated from high school last year, stayed in bed during the drone attack on 23 March. “I heard the explosions in my sleep,” he says. The smoke from the fire at the port left a residue everywhere, Anton recalls. “It smelled bad here for about a week and a half,” he says. “Traces of burnt oil were left on your shoes, and the cars were all dirty from the residue.” 

Anton isn’t afraid of shelling (“Only little kids” are, he says), but he still wants to leave Yermilovo. “What else is there to do, dammit?” he asks, throwing up his hands. “I mean, there’s infrastructure right there, the port. And heck…Honestly, the best option is to leave the country completely.”

Oksana would also like to leave Yermilovo, but she doubts it will make a difference. “Where can we go?” she asks rhetorically. 

There is, in fact, at least one bomb shelter in Yermilovo. A sign that says “Shelter #9” hangs on one of the entrances to a five-storey brick building. Yet even the people at the shop inside didn’t know the building had a bomb shelter. Where the other eight are located is anyone’s guess. 

The fire at the port was reportedly extinguished after three days. Drones were still flying overhead, but locals were already preoccupied with other problems. “They’ve been flying around here for a month now,” Olesya says with a wave of her hand. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

Ust-Luga: ‘We have our riches’

You won’t find any resorts and restaurants on the drive from St. Petersburg to Ust-Luga. This isn’t a vacation spot, it’s a working-class fringe. Instead of commercial ads, the billboards lining the potholed highway promise seven million rubles to those who sign army contracts — a sum that already factors in future “death benefits”. 

The terminals in Ust-Luga were also built in the 2000s, after the USSR’s collapse left Russia without any major ports on the Baltic Sea. Today, it’s Russia’s second-largest seaport in terms of cargo turnover, after Novorossiysk. Together with enterprises linked to the port, Ust-Luga’s oil, coal, grain, and other terminals employ roughly 30,000 people. Though fewer than 2,000 currently live in the village itself, this is a significant increase since the port started working at full capacity. 

The attacks on the port of Ust-Luga began on 25 March. By that point, the port of Primorsk was already ablaze. More strikes followed and, on 29 March, another fire broke out at Ust-Luga. A day later, Governor Drozdenko reported that both ports were still operating. The actual damage remains unknown.

“How’s life? Like this!” Evgeniya says sarcastically, flashing a thumbs up. “This whole thing is Putin’s brainchild. Let him use his head and figure out what to do!” she continues. “Now, they’re going to start layoffs. They let two people go at the port yesterday, but where are they supposed to work? Everything’s burnt black. Can you imagine what it’s like to see oil burning? It’s horrific!” 

Kirill works at the port’s coal terminal and lives in an apartment building in the village. But he isn’t worried about his job or his home. “There are soldiers on duty at the port now,” he explains. “And what’s there to be afraid of at home? They don’t hit houses.” 

A fragment of a downed drone once hit a house in Ust-Luga, but the locals seem to think that’s not so bad. “The roof was slightly damaged, but the owners were paid compensation,” says Marina, who works at the Magnit supermarket. “The shelling doesn’t worry me,” she adds. “I know the air defences will take care of it.” 

The way Marina sees it, resolving the issue of the shelling is really up to Ukraine’s president. “Here’s what I think: that Zelensky…” Marina begins, glancing around to make sure no one else is listening. “He’s a good director, I like his TV series and his movies, funny comedies, that’s all wonderful. But in terms of a president, let’s just say… I think the wrong person was put in charge in Ukraine. It bothers him that we have our own wealth. We have oil, we have coal, and we have factories.”

The local authorities, Marina adds, ought to focus on another issue. “The ‘outsiders’ are crowding us out left and right,” she whispers. 

There are far more “outsiders” than locals in Ust-Luga. People come from all over Russia and from neighbouring countries to work at the port. Locals don’t like the migrant workers, though they can’t always say why. 

“There’s a Dagestani license plate, do you see it?” says Alexey, pointing to a white Lada. Now retired, Alexey was born in Ust-Luga and has lived here his whole life. “People come from Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan to work. There are also Indians and Serbs — you name it. There are more outsiders than locals now.” 

As Alexey explains, back in the Soviet period, the fish processing plant was Ust-Luga’s core enterprise. “I worked there for 15 years,” he recalls. “Everything here lived off the plant. They built housing and gave out apartments. They even built a community centre.”

In the centre of Ust-Luga, the community centre is still standing. It was recently bedecked with a massive military-themed mural, featuring medieval warriors, the Soviet flag, and the slogan, “We are Russians, God is with us.” 

“Everything fell apart in the 1990s,” Alexey sighs. “The factory was destroyed, and we were all deprived of our jobs.” 

The plant actually shut down in the 2000s, when construction began on the cargo port. The former headquarters now houses an array of shops, but a sign that says “Ust-Luga Fish Factory” still hangs on the doors. 

“There was a bomb shelter there, by the way,” Alexey notes. “Now, you don’t even know where to run if something happens. There are no other shelters. These drones — they’re flying everywhere. When the booming starts, we just go outside and watch.” 

“Whatever they decide over there, that’s how it will be,” he concludes.

“Over where?” I ask.

“Well, wherever Zelensky is sitting, probably. Where else?”