Polesie is a land teeming with extraordinary, pristine beauty: a sea of marshes, shallow lakes and floodplains. It’s surrounded by dense oak and pine forests, through which the Pripyat River winds its slow, meandering course. In autumn, Polesie shimmers in shades of gold and brown, oak leaves rustle underfoot, and the water in the floodplains takes on a warm, coppery color. Above the wetlands, flocks of birds circle in the sky, preparing for their departure.
The Polesie region stretches across both sides of the Ukrainian-Belarusian border, a borderland where languages, cultures and faiths have intertwined for centuries. Its southern part lies within the Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, while the northern part belongs to the Belarusian Radioecological Reserve. Before the disaster, the area was mainly inhabited by peasants and fishermen, people deeply connected to the land and the Orthodox faith, whose lives followed the rhythm of nature, divided between the church, the fields and the water.
After the disaster and forced evacuation, everything fell silent. The villages were abandoned and the roads overgrown with grass. The few who dared to return lived in harsh conditions and, over time, quietly passed away — weary of solitude, fading into silence and oblivion.
LADIZHICHI
For many years now, the last inhabitant of this border zone has been Igor Rudenia, a painter and poet. When he settled in the village of Ladizhichi (Ладижичі), there were still dozens of people living nearby. As the years passed, he watched his neighbors leave — some moved away, others died. Now he remains alone in a place that is slowly reclaimed by nature.
Today, however, the silence in which he lives is deceptive. In the distance, one can hear the echoes of war; drones pass above his home, and beyond the forest stretch the minefields. Despite this, Igor has stayed: he paints, repairs his old wooden house and remains in a world that many consider lost.
We also bring him aid, mainly food, small tools and materials needed to repair his house. Reaching him is not easy, as his village lies on the left bank of the Pripyat River, cut off from the world by war, by the nearness of the Belarusian border, by minefields, military checkpoints, and a ruined bridge.
After the bridge was destroyed, the only way to deliver aid to the areas on the left bank of the Pripyat River is by boat
Polesie is a land of marshes, lakes, and floodplains. Even an off-road vehicle can’t reach every place here — beyond that, you can only go on foot.
The charred remains of old cottages are all that’s left after the fires that recently swept through this area
An abandoned shop in the village of Ladyzhychi — one of the last traces of former life in this area
Igor is an artist who sees painting not only as an art, but also as a spiritual process and a form of dialogue with nature. He began his artistic journey in 2006, creating paintings to which he always added his own poems. Over time, his work evolved and deepened in meaning. He came to feel that each piece carries its own energy, purpose, and fragment of his life. Igor believes that paintings have a soul, a destiny, and choose their owner themselves. He divides his works into three types: the admiration of nature and life, the dark realm of mysteries beyond reality, and the small world of magic. Igor does not seek fame or wealth; instead, he hopes that those who look at his paintings might pause for a moment, feel harmony with nature, and rediscover themselves. For him, art is a way to unite man with eternity.
In the heart of Polesie, far from civilization, among the marshes, forests, and floodplains, stands Igor’s cottage — a place no road leads to anymore.
Igor’s cottage is surrounded by vast forests — a mix of birch, oak, and poplar trees that form a natural barrier separating it from the outside world
Around his cottage, Igor has created a small vegetable garden where he grows tomatoes, potatoes, and other fruits and vegetables
Fresh radishes
At the edge of the marshes stands Igor, clad in a wolf’s pelt — as if he himself had become part of this land, a guardian of Polesie’s silence and nature
Late into the night we talk about his paintings. Igor explains their meanings, the hidden elements, the symbols that often escape the casual observer. Drawing inspiration from Polesie — a land of swamps, forests and floodplains — he tells me about a world that has not disappeared, but has hidden itself in forgotten places, in empty houses and overgrown roads, waiting for humankind to once again understand nature.
The interior of Igor’s cottage — a place where he lives and creates, surrounded by his paintings inspired by the nature of Polesie
Igor lights a fire in the old stove to prepare a meal
A simple, home-cooked meal becomes a moment of respite and reflection in a solitary life amid the wetlands of Polesie
Late into the night, we talk about Igor’s paintings. He explains their meaning, the hidden symbols and details that often escape the casual observer.
Surrounded by Igor’s art, I lie down at last but find it hard to fall asleep. Each wall and each painting seems to tell its own story — not about radiation, but about nature’s ability to be reborn after even the greatest disaster. It is a story of solitude, perseverance, and the quiet strength of a man who remains faithful to his passion, despite the dangers that encircle his world.
KRASNE
Another remarkable place on the left bank of the Pripyat River, about forty kilometers from Chernobyl and barely two kilometers from the Belarusian border, is the abandoned village of Krasne — once a well-kept, thriving Polesian settlement. I visit it a few days later. Its jewel is the wooden Church of the Archangel Michael, built around 1800. It is one of only two churches that have survived within the Exclusion Zone; the other — the Church of St. Elijah — stands in Chornobyl itself.
The history of the Church of the Archangel Michael was turbulent. After the establishment of Soviet rule in 1926, it was closed, and its priest was exiled to Siberia. Two attempts were made to burn it down, but the villagers defended it and saved it from destruction. In the 1980s, the church was restored and was scheduled to reopen in early May 1986, but the disaster at the nuclear power plant prevented this from happening.
In the days following the explosion, the church was looted – its old icons and liturgical objects disappeared. The village was evacuated, and the temple stood empty. None of the former residents ever returned, and the church still stands to this day, one of the last spiritual symbols of the Chornobyl Exclusion Zone.
After the outbreak of the war, Krasne was cut off from the world, and for a long time the fate of the church remained a mystery to me. I didn’t know whether it still stood or had been destroyed, looted, or consumed by the wildfires that have ravaged the surrounding forests in recent years. I couldn’t check myself, as most of the land, roads and bridges leading to the village have been destroyed, rendered impassable, or were mined.
I tried many times to learn something — asking, searching for information, for recent photos — all in vain. Until at last, an opportunity came to reach the site and see for myself. It was the first time since the war began. It was not an easy task, but that’s a story for another report, one I will write when the war is over. What mattered most was that the church had survived — something far from certain.
The roads on the left bank of the river are often covered with nets, providing protection against drone attacks
I breathe a sigh of relief when, in the distance, I see the two reddish-brown domes of the church emerging from the greenery and the dense forest. With every step closer, I feel a mix of unease and emotion. When I enter, memories of my previous visits before the war return at once. I have photographed and filmed this church many times at different times of the year and day. It has a special place in both my film Alone in the Zone, and my photo album Half-Life: from Chernobyl to Fukushima.
The borderland village of Krasne, surrounded by vast forests. In its very heart, amid the trees, stands an abandoned church — the only visible trace of human presence in this remote place.
Hidden among the autumn trees, the church in Krasne stands silent and forgotten, gently embraced by nature
The wooden Church of Archangel Michael
The wooden Church of Archangel Michael
Inside, the familiar scent of old wood and dampness greets me. Streaks of light stream through the windows, which once illuminated the iconostasis standing in the center. In the quiet, I light a few candles — a gesture of gratitude and remembrance for the people who once lived, prayed, and passed away here.
The wooden doors lead into the church — a place that, despite the passage of time, still bears traces of past prayers and human presence
A sign of remembrance for the people who once lived, prayed, and passed away here.
The interior of the abandoned church in Krasne
The preserved iconostasis with images of saints serves as a reminder of the village’s former glory and spiritual life
The silence creates an extraordinary atmosphere of the sacred
The frescoes on the church ceiling depict Christ Pantocrator surrounded by angels and apostles. Despite the damage, they have retained their remarkable beauty and serenity.
The church has survived three-and-a-half years of war relatively well. No new damage is visible, only traces of the passage of time here and there: peeling paint, cracked wood, and the effects of water and damp on the structure. I also notice signs of human interference, likely from looters. Behind the iconostasis, in the place where the altar once stood, a hole gapes in the floor — someone apparently tried to get underneath, perhaps searching for valuable liturgical objects. Apart from that, the church remains in silence, untouched by the spirit of war. Though time and dampness slowly take their toll, it still preserves an extraordinary sense of harmony and peace — as if it continues to watch over the abandoned village and those who once called it home.
Behind the iconostasis, a hole is visible in the floor — someone likely tried to get underneath in search of liturgical relics
Leaving Krasne, and earlier Igor, I feel as though time has stopped somewhere between the past and the present. I think about how easily people forget about places where life once unfolded. Only after crossing the river and returning to Chornobyl do I feel somewhat safer – though I know the war reaches here too. Krasne remains like a sign – a small point on the map where the past still breathes, waiting for someone to light a candle in the abandoned church once more.
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Previous reports from Chernobyl and Fukushima:
2025 – CHERNOBYL IN WARTIME 2025
2024 – CHERNOBYL IN WARTIME 2024
2023 – FUKUSHIMA DAIICHI TOUR
2023 – CHERNOBYL DURING THE WAR
2022 – HELPING THOSE CUT OFF FROM THE WORLD
2021 – THE SARCOPHAGUS’S LABYRINTH
2020 – LOST HERITAGE
2020 – REMNANTS OF THE CHERNOBYL DISASTER
2019 – OVER THE HORIZON
2019 – SARCOPHAGUS AND OTHER MOST RADIOACTIVE PLACES IN CHERNOBYL
2019 – FUKUSHIMA 8 YEARS ON
2017 – ZAPOVEDNIK – BELARUSIAN EXCLUSION ZONE
2016 – FUKUSHIMA: A SECOND CHERNOBYL?
2015 – FUKUSHIMA
2015 – THE ZONE IN 4K II
2015 – WINTER IN THE ZONE
2014 – THE ZONE IN 4K
2014 – OFF THE BEATEN TRACK 2
2013 – OFF THE BEATEN TRACK 1
2013 – ALONE IN THE ZONE 2 – BEHIND THE SCENES
2013 – ALONE IN THE ZONE 2 – PREMIERE
2013 – LONG WEEKEND IN THE ZONE
2012 – HEROES OF A NON-EXISTANT COUNTRY
2011 – REACTOR 4
2011 – LITTLE REACTORS
2011 – ALONE IN THE ZONE 1 BEHIND THE SCENES
2011 – ALONE IN THE ZONE 1 – FILM
2010 – ALONE IN THE ZONE 1
2010 – VICTORY DAY
2010 – CHERNOBYL 3RD EXPEDITION
2009 – CHERNOBYL 2ND EXPEDITION
2008 – CHERNOBYL 1ST EXPEDITION