160 Ukrainian energy workers have been killed as Russia pummels the power system

KYIV, Ukraine (AP) 鈥� Friends often ask Mykhailo whether the Ukrainian power plant worker hides in a shelter when Russia

鈥淚f all the turbine operators hid during attacks, there鈥檇 be no energy left,鈥� he said, standing inside the machine hall of a thermal power plant. 鈥淲e have to stay at our posts. Who else would do the job?鈥�

Almost four years into keeping Ukraine鈥檚 lights on has become a battle of its own 鈥� fought along a moving front line. Engineers repeatedly repair transformers, switchyards, and power lines that Russia strikes again and again while using bomb-laden drones to hunt workers鈥� trucks near the border. And that work repairing damage from Russian attacks is happening at the state-owned nuclear power company has put top officials under scrutiny.

Since the war began at least 160 energy workers have been killed, including a colleague of Mykhailo’s. More than 300 others have been wounded. Yet tens of thousands still head out each day 鈥� sometimes fearful, sometimes resigned, often driven by a quiet mission to bring light

Mykhailo has worked in the energy sector for 23 years and never imagined his daily reality could be so perilous. Mykhailo spoke on condition that his surname 鈥� and that of his former colleague, Dmytro 鈥� not be used because of heightened security concerns about his location.

Mykhailo was just a few meters away when Dmytro was killed. 鈥淚 was simply luckier,鈥� Mykhailo said quietly.

The AP had met Dmytro in 2024, after an earlier strike on the plant. At the time, Dmytro said he would 鈥渨ork as long as I can.鈥� He died seven months later.

Energy workers became targets

In the northern city of Chernihiv, Andrii Dzhuma, 58, has spent more than three decades replacing and repairing the same power lines he helped build 鈥� when old wooden poles were swapped for new concrete ones and Ukraine was still

Since the war began, Dzhuma has patched nearly 100 kilometers (65 miles) of damaged wires 鈥� not to modernize, but to restore what鈥檚 been shattered.

鈥淪omehow, but we still give people light,鈥� he said. He is proud of his work, even though it makes him a potential target.

For many energy workers, that realization changes little in their routine. They keep showing up.

鈥淏etter I become a target for Russia than civilians or soldiers,鈥� said 24-year-old Bohdan Bilous, dressed in his work uniform while repairing power lines in the northern town of Shostka, which was last month after heavy strikes.

Bilous said his shifts often stretch more than 12 hours, sometimes under the .

鈥淚f one hits me, of course, it鈥檒l be sad for everyone. But I鈥檒l be glad it wasn鈥檛 a child, or a residential building. In a way, it鈥檚 a kind of self-sacrifice.鈥�

On Oct. 10, crane operator Anatoliy Savchenko, 47, was struck by a drone while driving home from a substation in the Chernihiv region. While he survived that initial strike, a second drone hit after colleagues gathered together to help him. Savchenko and worker Ruslan Deynega, 45, were both killed.

鈥淣obody thought that this would happen,鈥� said Liudmyla Savchenko, Anatoliy鈥檚 widow. 鈥淓specially since they were already returning home.鈥�

Energy workers know people depend on them

For Oleksandr Adamchuk, a repair and maintenance supervisor for substations in the Kyiv region, his work has become a mission.

鈥淭he main thing is that our soldiers hold the front so the Russians don鈥檛 come here,鈥� Adamchuk said. We鈥檒l do everything to make sure people don鈥檛 freeze this winter.鈥�

Called in the middle of the night, he gathers his team within a half hour and rushes to a drone-damaged substation. Their job is as urgent as that of rescuers, says Adamchuk, who lived through the Russian occupation of his village early in the war.

鈥淭heir heat, comfort and quality of life depend on us.鈥�

Electrical equipment the West provides for repairs is vital, he said.

鈥淭hey give us the resources to keep repairing. We鈥檒l keep restoring and restoring, no matter if we fixed it yesterday and it鈥檚 hit again today. That鈥檚 our fate, our mission.鈥�

鈥淭here鈥檚 no such thing as tiredness,鈥� he added, sitting at home after a long day as his three children swirl around him. His youngest son, born during the war, clings to his arm.

鈥淲hat tiredness? He has three kids!鈥� his wife, Olena Adamchuk, interjects with a laugh. 鈥淗e rests at work.鈥�

They both laugh, but they know the risks are real.

鈥淥f course, we understand the danger,鈥� Oleksandr Adamchuk said. His work allows him to be away from substations during air raids, but not every energy worker is that lucky.

鈥楲ight doesn鈥檛 come from machines鈥�

The danger often weighs on workers’ morale, Mykhailo said, but most hide their fear, and they joke and support each other.

Returning after Dmytro’s death was not easy.

鈥淣o one chained me here. I could leave anytime,鈥� Mykhailo said. 鈥淏ut if I quit, I lose my specialty 鈥� and most likely, I鈥檇 have to go to the front line.鈥�

He sees no good options.

鈥淚t鈥檚 scary and hard mentally,鈥� Mykhailo said. 鈥淵ou go to work knowing that maybe (you can be killed) 鈥� and you just do it through effort and willpower.鈥�

Dmytro began working in energy in 1995. After , he fled his hometown in southern Ukraine after it was occupied. His safety was at risk because he refused to sign a contract with Moscow-installed authorities at the energy facility where he worked. Dmytro鈥檚 wife, Tetiana, described him as 鈥渞eliable, loving, kind and bright鈥� and said he knew the risks with his job.

鈥淚 often saw fear in his eyes when he went to work,鈥� she said. That day, as he was leaving, he noted that Russian missiles had entered Ukraine鈥檚 airspace, she said.

鈥淟ight doesn鈥檛 come from machines. It comes from people who risk their lives to bring it,鈥� Tetiana said. 鈥淚f they stop going to work, there will be no gas, no heat, no light.鈥�

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This story has been updated to correct the family name of a worker and his wife from Tomchuk to Adamchuk.