The cruel human cost of the ‘land swap' idea for Ukraine

Washington Post

3 days ago

Anna Husarska is a journalist and policy analyst.
On Monday, President Donald Trump elaborated on what kind of deal might emerge from his meeting with Russian President Vladimir Putin in Anchorage this week. 'There'll be some land swapping going on. To the good, for the good of Ukraine. Good stuff, not bad stuff.'
'Also, some bad stuff for both,' Trump conceded.
Let us imagine a different kind of swap. Suppose Cuba invaded the United States, occupied most of Florida (claiming there are many Cubans living there) and three-quarters of Texas — and then agreed to withdraw from Texas if the United States gave it the whole of Florida. Would this qualify as a swap? And would it be 'to the good' of the United States?
It is unjust to reward territorial aggression with territorial concessions. And such concessions would certainly set evil precedents in an increasingly chaotic world. But while these big questions are important, we must also not lose sight of the human costs such a 'swap' would put on the Ukrainian people. Immediately ceding whatever territory Ukraine still holds in Donetsk region, as Russia is reportedly demanding, would be disastrous for the hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians still trying to live in a war zone.
I first visited Donetsk in 2015. And since the full-scale Russian invasion, I have frequently traveled to the parts still held by Ukraine, delivering medical supplies and cars alongside the humanitarian group Assist Ukraine. This week, I am making my 32nd car delivery.
The towns of Slovyansk, Kramatorsk, Druzhkivka and the now completely devastated Konstantinovka were briefly occupied by pro-Russian proxies in 2014, before Ukrainian forces drove them out. Here, the people know what Russian occupation means, and they do not want to experience it again. If the summit were to lead to a deal requiring Ukraine to withdraw from the region, most of the local people would flee to other parts of Ukraine — or even abroad.
There are still some — known as 'the waiting ones,' zhduny — who might welcome the Russian army. But most such sympathizers fled a long time ago, either to Russia proper or to what Ukraine calls its 'temporarily occupied territories' held by Russian troops. The situation in occupied areas is desperate, and those who moved there probably regret it. In Donetsk, the once-flourishing city that hosted the European football championship in 2012, water is available for only hours every few days, and what is available is undrinkable.
Then there are the mostly ambivalent older people, known to say things like, 'What do I care in which currency I do my shopping?' They are generally more nostalgic for the Soviet Union of their youth than enthusiastic about Russian annexation. After enduring endless Russian shelling and drone attacks, they too might prefer to flee.
And then there are those who simply will not be able to remain. From what I have seen as I traveled these parts over the past three years, most civilians in the unoccupied parts of Donetsk region interact with — and make a living from — Ukraine's armed forces. Ukrainians who rent their houses to soldiers or give them discounts at their chicken-and-borscht shops would be treated by the incoming Russian regime as collaborators 'materially' supporting the 'enemy.' They would be harassed — or worse.
Should a withdrawal be imposed, Ukraine would find itself coping with a wave of human misery roughly a quarter million strong. The population transfer would be comparable to the one that followed the full-scale invasion in February 2022. Except now it would be inflicted on a country exhausted by more than 1,267 days of grinding, merciless war.
Those who already left, such as my friend Olga Alexandrovna from Konstantinovka (who so hoped to see her tulips blossom), could at least pack their suitcases, find wheelchairs for their aging parents and cages for their pets. Those asked to leave today would have to scramble to manage daunting logistics. Since autumn and winter are coming, they could not survive in tents. But given the damage the war has inflicted on infrastructure and housing — especially from the recently intensified nightly waves of drones and missiles pounding the country — it's not clear what the alternatives could be.
Over the past year, I have twice visited Finland, NATO's newest member. I talked with locals, activists involved in helping Ukraine and those living close to the Russian border who are following news of the war. Every person I met mentioned the Winter War, during which the Soviet Union invaded Finland, supposedly to create a buffer zone around Leningrad (modern-day St. Petersburg). Everyone I spoke with knew someone from the Karelia region, part of the roughly 12 percent of Finnish territory that Finland had to cede to maintain its independence.
The Winter War took the lives of some 25,000 Finns and perhaps 10 times more Soviet soldiers. Over 400,000 inhabitants of Karelia became refugees and had to migrate to other parts of Finland. Finns who visited the Soviet (and now Russian) region of Karelia told me that it is in very bad shape. A Russian opposition Telegram channel put it more bluntly: '[The Soviets] turned the once prosperous Finnish region into a miserable, stinking garbage dump.'
Perhaps in the end, Ukraine will have to cede some land to appease Russia. Ukrainians tell themselves that maybe after Putin dies, diplomacy might right these obvious wrongs. But the human cost of such a decision would be incredibly high. For those who flee, of course, but also for those who stay.
With all due respect to Trump, 'some bad stuff' perhaps doesn't fully capture it.