He has lost his mind. Is it possible that all those missiles are being used now?
In the early hours of July 16th, four rockets fell on Chuhuiv, a Ukrainian town barely six kilometers from Russian lines, killing three civilians and wounding three more. The missiles did not find barracks or depots — they found a school, a shop, and the homes where people slept. As an eighty-three-year-old woman sat among the ruins and spoke plainly of what she had witnessed, the war once again posed its most enduring question: when the pattern of destruction is this consistent, at what point does denial become its own kind of evidence.
- Four rockets fired from Russian territory struck Chuhuiv at 3:30 in the morning, when residents had no warning and nowhere to run.
- A residential building, a school, and a shop were hit — not military installations, but the ordinary architecture of civilian life.
- An 83-year-old woman watched her neighbors die: a couple fleeing their home, a man from the flat next door — all killed in moments.
- Ukraine's defense ministry reports that 70% of Russian strikes are landing on civilian infrastructure, a pattern visible in town after town across the country.
- Russia continues to insist it does not target civilians, even as the rubble of homes and schools accumulates as a counter-argument no statement can easily dismiss.
Chuhuiv sits close enough to the Russian lines that artillery fire is a constant presence. On the night of July 15th, that proximity turned fatal. Four rockets arrived around 3:30 in the morning, killing three civilians and wounding three others, according to regional governor Oleh Synehubov and local police.
The strikes did not hit military targets. A two-story residential building took a direct hit. So did a school. A shop was damaged. These were the ordinary places of ordinary life — where people slept, where children learned, where neighbors bought bread.
Eighty-three-year-old Raisa Shapoval sat in the rubble and described what she had seen: a couple who ran from their home when the rockets hit, both killed; a neighbor from the flat beside hers, also dead. She directed her words toward Moscow with the bluntness of someone who had lost everything, saying Putin had lost his mind to choose this in the twenty-first century.
Mayor Halyna Minaeva confirmed that families were now homeless and the town's already strained infrastructure had been further damaged. The day before the strike, Ukraine's defense ministry had released figures suggesting that only 30% of Russian strikes across the country were hitting military targets — the remaining 70% landing on civilian sites. The claim could not be independently verified, but the scene in Chuhuiv was consistent with the pattern.
Russia maintained its position: it was not targeting civilians. The gap between that language and the reality of dead residents in a residential building continued to widen, raising a question the war keeps returning to — whether the destruction of schools and homes is incidental, or whether, repeated often enough, the distinction ceases to matter.
Chuhuiv sits six kilometers from the Russian lines, close enough that the sound of artillery carries across the fields. On the night of July 15th, that proximity became fatal. Four rockets fired from the direction of Belgorod, Russia's western city, arrived around 3:30 in the morning. When the strikes landed, they killed three people and left three others wounded, according to regional governor Oleh Synehubov and local police.
The missiles found their marks in the civilian heart of the town. A two-story residential building took a direct hit. So did a school. A shop was damaged. These were not military installations. They were the ordinary infrastructure of ordinary life—the places where people slept, where children learned, where neighbors bought bread.
Raisa Shapoval, eighty-three years old, sat on the rubble of what had been her home and tried to make sense of it. She had watched her neighbors die. A couple ran from their house when the strike came; both were killed. A man from the flat next to hers was killed too. She spoke with the raw clarity of someone who had nothing left to lose, addressing her words toward Moscow: Putin had lost his mind, she said. In the twenty-first century, with all the missiles and bombs and rockets at his disposal, this is what he chose to do.
Chuhuiv's mayor, Halyna Minaeva, confirmed what the rubble already showed: the strikes had torn through civilian areas. Families were now homeless. The town's infrastructure, already strained by proximity to the front, had been further degraded. The human cost was immediate and visible.
Ukraine's defense ministry had released figures the day before that contextualized what was happening across the country. Of all Russian strikes being conducted, only thirty percent were hitting military targets. The other seventy percent were landing on civilian sites—homes, schools, shops, the places where people actually lived. The assertion could not be independently verified, but the pattern was consistent with what was visible on the ground in towns like Chuhuiv.
Russia's official position remained unchanged. The Kremlin denied that it was targeting civilians. What it was conducting, according to Moscow, was a special military operation. The distinction between that language and the reality of dead civilians in residential buildings was a gap that had only widened as the war continued. Each strike on a school or a home or a shop added another data point to the question of whether such targeting was incidental or deliberate—and whether, in a war fought this way, the distinction still mattered.
Notable Quotes
He has gone crazy. He has lost his mind. Is it possible that all those missiles, bombs and rockets are being used, now in the 21st century?— Raisa Shapoval, 83-year-old resident of Chuhuiv
Today, there are many families that lost a roof over their heads.— Halyna Minaeva, mayor of Chuhuiv
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the distance matter—that Chuhuiv is six kilometers from Russian positions?
Because it means the town is in constant range. It's not a rear area where civilians might reasonably expect safety. It's a place where the war is always present, always close enough to reach.
The mayor said families lost their roofs. Is that just a figure of speech?
No. It means their homes are destroyed or uninhabitable. In the middle of a war, that's not a minor problem. It's displacement, it's loss of shelter, it's everything you own gone.
Why does Shapoval address Putin directly? Why not just describe what happened?
Because she's trying to make him understand what he's done. She's speaking to power as if power might listen. It's a kind of plea dressed up as accusation.
The thirty percent figure—why does Reuters note it couldn't be verified?
Because in war, numbers are claims. Ukraine has every reason to emphasize civilian casualties; Russia has every reason to deny them. The truth is probably somewhere in the pattern of what's actually being hit, not in any single statistic.
Does Russia's denial matter if the evidence is visible?
It matters politically. It matters for how the war is understood internationally. But for the people in Chuhuiv, the denial is almost insulting—they're living in the rubble of the denial.