Surviving the Russian 'human safari' in Kherson

A firefighter extinguishes a fire at the wreckage of a car in a residential district after Russian artillery fire on Sep. 26, 2025, in Kherson, Ukraine. (Olexandr Kornyakov/Suspilne Ukraine/JSC "UA:PBC"/Global Images Ukraine via Getty Images) Prefer on Google Yuriy Boyechko Olena Naumova is our partner from the Patriot Charity Foundation in Kherson. This southern Ukrainian city remains under constant monitoring of Russian drone operators looking for their next prey. On April 4, a shell hit a transport stop 50 meters (164 feet) from Olena. A 55-year-old nurse died on the spot. At least five more were wounded. Within the hour, ten artillery strikes landed in Olena's block. She sat in her hallway and prayed. "Prayed that it wouldn't hit the house, or if it did, that I would go straight to God," she told me. "I don't want pain, mutilation, or suffering! Better to go instantly." Since Kherson was liberated in late 2022, Russian forces have settled just across the Dnipro River. They don't need expensive missiles anymore. They send waves of cheap, off-the-shelf commercial drones to hunt civilians in the streets, in real-time. The locals have a name for it — the "human safari." What makes Kherson different from everything else we are seeing is how personal it is. A Russian operator sits across the river in safety, pulls up a person on a screen — maybe a woman at a bus stop, an old man walking a dog, or a family car driving home — and decides to kill them. They can see exactly who they're about to kill, and they do it anyway, while filming. This is the Russian strategy to erase the people keeping this city alive. Look at the Korabelny district of Kherson over just a few days. This area, consisting of a few neighborhoods, has always been a place full of people and life. Right now, it is a "hunting ground" for Russians. Sisters Iryna Snihur and Maryna Stupak, a teacher, were killed on the same day. The other day, a drone operator targeted a 10-year-old girl and her mother with a "Molniya" drone. That same night, another drone hit an 80-year-old woman's yard. Russian soldiers are bombing people at bus stops and leaving explosives on the roads for regular people just trying to survive. Kherson, Ukraine on Nov. 21, 2025. (Sasha Maslov / The Kyiv Independent) "Half of the city is a nearly dead 'red zone,' which the enemy pummels daily," Olena told me. "But the most terrifying thing is the drones. They don't care if a person is young or elderly. They destroy civilian homes, apartments, and any car that catches their eye." When our teams try to bring in bread and survival supplies, it becomes a magnet for these operators. Our volunteers have had to stand there and watch drones hover directly over them while they were trying to hand out basic aid to desperate people. Civilians who are starving are forced to decide if coming out of hiding to get a box of food is worth being hunted by a quadcopter on the way home. Oleksandr Kolotyk, another volunteer, told me what it takes just to drive through the city. "We drive 100–140 km/h (62–87 mph) through the city, holding onto a small hope that a drone won't be able to catch up." He is talking about driving at such high speeds through residential areas in his white cargo van without any military or police escort. People stay locked inside on clear days because good weather means good visibility for the operators. When they absolutely have to go out, they crack the door and listen. If they hear that high-pitched buzz of a quadcopter, they know what comes next. Natalia Serhiienko runs the public organization "Kherson: Strength of the South." She works right in the thick of it — under constant shelling, with explosions going off around her. "Every trip we take to deliver humanitarian aid is a risk," Natalia explained to me. "A real, daily risk, without exaggeration. We risk not only our own lives and the lives of our volunteers; we understand that during aid distributions, civilians who simply come to get the essentials for survival can also come under fire." Her team has worked through explosions more than once. The operators watch their targets in high-definition, choose to strike, and then post the footage online. They actually take videos of fleeing grandmothers and families and edit them to upbeat music to get likes and applause on social media. They're turning real-time murder into internet content, and they're getting away with it. A lot of volunteers have stopped going to Kherson because of this. But Natalia and her team keep showing up, because, in her words, "if not us, then who?" At Hope For Ukraine, we are grateful to everyone who hasn't forgotten us. But saying thank you doesn't stop drones. What's happening in Kherson is crystal clear — the Russian army hunts civilians in broad daylight, recording it, and the world is letting them get away with it. The footage is already out there. International prosecutors need to use it and start issuing arrest warrants. Western governments have to actually enforce the sanctions to stop these commercial drones and parts from getting into Russian hands in the first place. And at the very least, aid workers on the ground need drone detectors so they have a few seconds to run and hide when they hear that buzz. The people of this once-vibrant port city deserve more than survival, and they deserve to see their perpetrators face justice. Editor's note: The opinions expressed in the op-ed section are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect the views of the Kyiv Independent. Yuriy Boyechko is the CEO of Hope for Ukraine, a humanitarian organization overseeing relief operations across war-affected communities in Ukraine.