A pillar is all that remains of the bridge’s steel structure. It stands in the calm waters of the Seversky Donets river. The bridge was destroyed by two shells, falling in quick succession, during the fighting last winter. Since then the Ukrainian army and separatist troops backed by Russia have left Jeltoe alone. The front has quietly morphed into a border without a name.

Jeltoe, a village with a few dozen homes, has been split in two by the conflict in east Ukraine, which has raged for a year and cost more than 8,000 lives. The northern half belongs to the Luhansk oblast (region) in Ukraine, the other half to the breakaway Luhansk People’s Republic. One boat remains to connect separated families. The rickety vessel enables southern residents to buy goods at the shop in the north, as well as to ferry local children to the school in the south.

Recent talks between Russia, Ukraine, France and Germany in Paris have raised hopes of a negotiated end to the conflict, but on both shores the absurdity of its legacy is all too apparent. Antonina, 66, is struggling to clamber on to dry land, cursing the “idiots” on both sides and herself, for leaving her keys behind. Olga, 27, has moved to the south with her son to spare him the daily crossings. Meanwhile, her husband, a former contractor, has stayed on the Ukrainian side, getting by with odd jobs of the sort that have vanished in the economically devastated separatist territories. Olga has come over to do some shopping. In the areas under rebel control, prices are now much the same as in neighbouring Russia, two or three times more than in Ukraine. For meat and spirits they can be as much as four times higher.

This crossing is the only one in the Luhansk area. None of the roads are open. The few bridges that survived the fighting were blown up by the Ukrainian army, dug in on the northern shore. Civilians wanting to travel from one side to the other must go via Russia, or take one of the three bridges open to civilians in neighbouring Donetsk oblast. Predictably these crossing points are overloaded. Trucks often wait there for several days; car drivers, who have obtained the precious permit, several hours. Crossing on a country path is dangerous, leaving travellers exposed to crossfire and vulnerable to stepping on a mine.

The wrecked bridges around Luhansk and the endless queues at Donetsk are the result of the strict blockade Kiev has imposed on separatist-held areas. The rules have been slowly tightened up, making it increasingly difficult to access and supply these areas. Since mid-June only trucks belonging to humanitarian convoys have been allowed to take in food and medical supplies.

People crossing the front on foot or by car can carry up to 50kg of goods, although alcohol, cigarettes and supplies that could have a military use, such as petrol, are banned.

Even finding essential provisions is a struggle for those in the divided Luhansk region. Photograph: Maria Turchenkova/Guardian

Officially, the aim is to prevent the separatist warlords from feeding their troops or earning money by importing food from the other side. The military leaders in the people’s republics of Luhansk and Donetsk now control the distribution networks for food and energy, even sidelining some of the food aid from Russia or private charities. In practice Kiev wants to put pressure on the population of the occupied territories and force Moscow to shoulder the economic burden for a war it allegedly started. However, many policymakers and army officers admit in private that they disapprove of this “punitive” strategy, which is accentuating the rift between the Donbass and the rest of Ukraine.

The blockade and price differences between the two territories have also encouraged smuggling. The scale of trafficking far exceeds anything that might make it across in the little ferry at Jeltoe. In July, Ukrainian president Petro Poroshenko approved the setting up of seven mobile anti-smuggling units to patrol paths and monitor border crossings.

The makeup of these units is testimony to how little credibility individual state bodies enjoy. They comprise customs and tax officials, border guards, members of the security forces and civil society “volunteers”.

“Our role is both to reassure public opinion about the work of the mobile units and to keep an eye on other members of the group,” says Rodion Shovkoshitny, a former journalist and Maidan activist now serving as a volunteer in a unit based at Avdiivka, in Donetsk oblast.

We’ve already caught soldiers, border guards and secret-service agents but never police officers Anti-smuggling unit volunteer

It’s dangerous work. Three men from the unit were killed a few kilometres north of Jeltoe at the beginning of September. Initially it was assumed that they had been attacked by a rebel unit from the other side of the “border”. But then the regional governor blamed the army, which in response made allegations about the governor’s entourage.

When Le Monde joined the unit, Shovkoshitny and his fellows made a sizeable catch. They intercepted a convoy near a place named Veterok. It was made up of a truck transporting 10 tonnes of meat escorted by a minivan carrying five armed interior ministry personnel. Sitting on the side of the track, their heads between their knees, the suspected smugglers looked deeply unhappy. They were due to be demobbed that evening and had hoped to pull off a lucrative smuggling run before returning to the rear.

Their plan seemed straightforward. Playing on their authority as police officers, they hoped to pass the various army checkpoints, then leave the truck to carry on alone as far as Luhansk in rebel territory. As well as papers certifying that the meat was to be delivered to the front, the smugglers had cash to ease their way if necessary.

“We’ve already caught soldiers, border guards and secret-service agents but never police officers,” says Shovkoshitny with a laugh. “We just hope that the courts will do their job now.”

The sudden arrival of a senior ministry official, determined to defend his men, did not seem encouraging. According to several different sources, the going rate for bribing frontline soldiers ranges from one to two hryvnias (five to 10 cents) a kilo, depending on how close the front is. Rates at this level suggest other parties of higher rank are also taking a cut.

“This is a dirty war and the trade it generates is dirty too,” Shovkoshitny admits. “When it’s all over we’ll see who comes back with a new flat or a car ... Provided, of course, they come back.”

This article appeared in Guardian Weekly, which incorporates material from Le Monde