“Every bomb in my city is a bomb in my heart,” says 20-year-old Alina, who is sitting beside me on the bus to Kyiv.
It’s my second trip to Ukraine. Drizzle is turning the checkpoint tyre barricades a liquorice black and Ukrainian flags are beginning to unravel in the autumn winds. I’m here because I want to gauge for myself the fluctuations of the war and the mood of the people.
If I question why I’m drawn to a war zone it’s because the women writers I most admire – Martha Gellhorn, Mary McCarthy and Susan Sontag – wrote fearless testaments about war. Others, such as Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas, served as ambulance drivers in the first World War. For me, being a writer is not just about writing; it’s about witnessing our time.
Russians accept their lack of free speech, but we Ukrainians can say anything we like
Alina is returning to her home city of Kharkiv in the beleaguered east for the first time after fleeing it in early March for Germany. She needs to retrieve her winter clothes and more importantly her guitar, which she left behind in the bunker of her student block in Saltivka. The very day she escaped, the block was bombed but her belongings were untouched.
She shows me some YouTube videos where she sings in Ukrainian and Russian.
When I ask her if there’s any pushback over her Russian folk songs, she replies: “I feel Ukrainian in my heart, so why can’t I speak Russian? People in Kyiv are always trying to divide east and west, making a big deal of it. Some people tell me, ‘You speaking Russian is the reason Russia invaded,’ but it’s not true.” While she shares a language with Russians, there is a huge cultural difference – “Russians accept their lack of free speech, but we Ukrainians can say anything we like.”
[ Ukraine’s ‘band of brothers’: The war stories of five friends from LvivOpens in new window ]
Like other Ukrainians I speak to, she won’t entertain any discussion of ceding territory for the sake of a peace deal. She believes the Russians will come back for more land if any quarter is given.
“Scheisse,” she says under her breath, angry at my question.
Kharkiv is only 40km from Russia, but she’s not scared of returning. Her attitude reminds me of Sontag’s dictum that courage is as contagious as fear.
We pass a bombed petrol station, and the nihilism of the war seems inscribed in the huge price sign that says ‘0 0 0′. Some of the buildings resemble opened tin cans. Strips of roof tile are burned and curled like chocolate tuiles on a cake. However, there are signs of recovery and reconstruction since I last visited in June. Roofs are being mended everywhere – it strikes me as a great time to be a roofer in Ukraine.
At my hotel in Kyiv I’m glad to be allotted a room facing west instead of east. I’ve only just arrived when the hotel intercom broadcasts its polite warning on a loop: “Dear guests, attention please! The air raid warning is issued. Please seek shelter.” The guests ignore it.
The next day I’m on the intercity train to Kharkiv. We shuttle past fields of rust-coloured sunflower stalks, wheat and maize and past kilometres of newly sowed acres and autumnal trees. Clouds are trayed up in the sky like fresh baked baps, the sun struggling to break through.
The curfew lasts from 10pm until 6am and the mattresses mean the bar can have an all-night lock-in. It’s like being in an Irish shebeen
I arrive at lunchtime. The hotel receptionists don’t speak English but shriek in delight over the exoticism of my Irish passport. No sooner have I left my hotel than I come across a cratered building covered defiantly in ‘F**k Putin’ stickers. I keep thinking of the words of Mark Twain, who visited Ukraine shortly after the Crimean war and wrote that “your eye encounters scarcely any thing but ruin, ruin, ruin!”. As I walk along vast boulevards towards the city centre, there are copious damaged buildings with splintered windows. It’s broken-glass city. Chipboard city. All the foreign businesses are boarded up; McDonald’s and KFCs lie abandoned. Local fast food chains like Bufet seem to be doing a steady trade in their absence.
Freedom Square is surrounded by shelled administrative buildings and is deserted but for a military tent. On a board there is a photo of Putin with blood pouring from his lips. A woman soldier walks past, nonchalantly carrying her helmet by its straps like she’s carrying a handbag.
I’m heading to Switch Bar, but it’s difficult to find and there are very few people around to ask. A Ukrainian who leads me there tells me he’s not afraid of bombs as Kharkiv is large enough to absorb them. When we say goodbye, he adds: “Thank you for coming to our city.”
At Switch Bar I meet 25-year-old Alisa, a blonde, hippyish force of nature, who has been an aid volunteer since the beginning of the war. She shows me the large cellar full of mattresses which the volunteers slept in until August, when they began to move back to their own apartments. She still sleeps there from time to time – the curfew lasts from 10pm until 6am and the mattresses mean the bar can have an all-night lock-in. It’s like being in an Irish shebeen.
Some of the drivers delivering aid didn’t even have driving licences, but in the anarchy of war no one cared
In spite of its liberation back in May, Kharkiv is still subject to shells fired from the Russian city of Belgorod. Alisa is somewhat ashamed of speaking about the shelling when she doesn’t even know the difference between a rocket or a bomb.
“I don’t have the words for war,” she admits. “You’re alive, you don’t need to know.”
She heard a rocket two days ago and whistles through her teeth to mimic it. She may not have the words for war, but she certainly has the sounds. As we speak, the siren app issues an alert on her phone, but she says it’s too late anyway; the Russian border is so close, bombs have already struck by the time the sirens are activated.
“Bombs are happening every day in Kharkiv,” she assures me, “but we’re told by the army not to say when and where as it only encourages the Russians.”
The manager of Switch Bar, Serafim, died on the frontline early in the war. Alisa recalls that 40 or 50 people were living in the cellar and, once one person cried about Serafim, it prompted a flood. By day, Alisa and the volunteers brought food to people sheltering in the metro stations. Some of the drivers delivering aid didn’t even have driving licences, but in the anarchy of war no one cared. Alisa says that everyone in her group was asked this one question: “Are you prepared to defend Kharkiv with your bare hands?” Those who answered no were given assistance to leave the region.
When a rocket is a familiar, almost comforting sound, but a garbage truck sounds strange, that’s PTSD
While we’re chatting, a goth metal band called Conan arrives. The confidence in Kharkiv is so high now, bands can be booked a whole month in advance.
“Parties are good for PTSD,” explains Alisa. “You need alcohol to rest, to clear the mind.”
She freely admits she has PTSD as she has no fear of the sound of rockets. At the same time she is anxious during periods of peace, convinced that the Russians are merely moving positions.
“When a rocket is a familiar, almost comforting sound,” Alisa clarifies, ‘but a garbage truck sounds strange, that’s PTSD.”
At the same time the war has given her a huge purpose in life, an understanding of “where they need me, where I should be, who I am.” She sees a further positive to war in that “people are kinder now”.
Do you see that hail outside, Alisa? Don’t worry, it’s our hail
While parties are her saviour, another salve to her soul is the Ukrainian black humour. The footage of a Ukrainian tractor pulling a Russian tank away by night while Russian soldiers drunkenly slumbered went viral. A granny famously felled a drone with a jar of pickled cucumbers. There are local jokes about Ukrainians who boast about buying a satellite for the war effort when they only donated five hryvnia (14 cent).
Alisa, like so many in this country, is estranged from her parents because of the war. She comes from Crimea, where her pro-Russian parents have remained. They sent her a text about Russian rockets that said, “Do you see that hail outside, Alisa? Don’t worry, it’s our hail.” On this occasion, Alisa found the black humour too cruel.
Her phone suddenly beeps. “I should work,” she says, “but it will keep to tomorrow.”
Alisa works as a computer programmer, but her company is sympathetic when it comes to devoting time to the war effort and, in particular, speaking to journalists.
“Everyone who spoke English fluently left Kharkiv, so it’s my job to do the talking,” she says, smiling.
Journalists aren’t always helpful to the cause. A Greek reporter filmed one of the volunteers’ wild parties, which diminished the seriousness of their aid work. However, Kharkiv has always been a party city, and “We will rave on Putin’s grave” is now a Ukrainian saying.
I meet Oleksandr, who is in his late 20s and bespectacled in a geek-chic way. He has designed a new kind of silent fastener for military jackets, belts, pouches and gun bags, and is excitedly waiting to hear back from the patent office if the design can be used for the whole army. Like Alisa, he sees the positive side of the war. He feels more mentally alive now that his daily routine has disappeared.
I use the torch from my phone, but paradoxically I feel more vulnerable as its beam draws attention to me
When Oleksandr asks why I’m in Ukraine, I tell him it’s because it’s important to support the people and to witness the biggest European war since 1945. Northern Ireland is part of it whether we like it or not. We contribute to the war between the west and Russia through construction of lightweight anti-tank missiles and Starstreaks short-range surface-to-air missiles in an east Belfast factory. The majority of Belfast seems to support Ukraine, but some of my Irish republican friends support the Russians, in part to oppose the British but also because the derussification in Ukraine reminds them of the degaelicisation of Ireland. The culture wars that are happening in Ukraine are very similar to those in Belfast.
Conan are doing a sound check, the decibels amped to the max in spite of the paltry audience. I speak to Maxim, the lead singer, who is bedecked in black. He has chosen not to fight, as his brother was killed in the war, and he’s promised his wife to stay and look after their two children. Currently, he has plenty of gigs as there are only three or four bands left in Kharkiv.
At 8.30pm I leave, turning down Alisa’s kind offer of a bed in the cellar (frankly, my cheap hotel bed is more inviting), but it’s only when I go outside that I realise there’s a blackout. The traffic lights still work, but the street lights are switched off and, as nearly every shop is shut, the city is plunged into darkness, with only the headlights of the rare passing car to illuminate my way. My hotel is nearly an hour’s walk away, and I barely encounter a single passerby. I use the torch from my phone, but paradoxically I feel more vulnerable as its beam draws attention to me. I can’t make out the street names and realise I’m hopelessly lost. With the 10pm curfew looming, I stumble towards a bright bar sign.
The bar is nearly empty, and the bartender won’t help me, but I throw myself on the mercy of three girls sitting at a table. Fortunately, they speak English and are kind enough to book me a taxi. They’ve returned to their home city for Gay Pride on Sunday, which is taking place in the metro station and is by invitation only. They reveal that war in Ukraine has encouraged a greater rise in conservative views. It strikes me as brutally symbolic that Pride is such an underground movement it has to meet in the underground.
The next day I hear three explosions in the distance. A symphony of overlapping sirens echo around the city. I walk to Gorky Park, where the Ferris wheel is stationary, exemplifying how life stands still. In every street there is the jingle of glass as the owners of ruined apartments start the clear-up. Sand bags are being jettisoned through the windows.
On Sumska Street I naively whip out my notebook and jot down an observation. This prompts some angry bellows from a soldier running across the street towards me.
“Russia or Ukraine?” he barks.
“I’m from Northern Ireland,” is all I can muster.
“Diary,” he demands.
I have a sudden panic that he’ll confiscate my notes, so I show him where I was writing about the glass.
“Phone. Passport,” he fires out, unassuaged.
Finally, he lets me go, content that I’m not some roving Mata Hari.
When we win, we’re going to open every single bottle and have a big street party
I go on my own literary pilgrimage to the Slovo Building on Kultury Street. It’s where writers used to live in the 1920s, only for many to be executed by the Soviet authorities a decade later. There are pock marks from a cluster bomb by the door, but at least the history has survived.
In the cellar of the Drunk Cherry Bar, Nina serves me cherry wine, ladling cherries in ritualistically as soon as I’ve taken my first slurp. Bars that exclusively sell cherry wine are a feature of cities in Ukraine. The ceiling is covered in wine bottles, their red light turning the bar into some louche cavern of decadence.
[ Kyiv – from Hell to HeavenOpens in new window ]
“4,576 bottles,” smiles Nina, revealing how the roof was damaged by a bomb, while amazingly not one bottle was broken. “When we win, we’re going to open every single bottle and have a big street party.”
She explains that “when we win” is almost a comic mantra now, as Ukrainians say it hoping it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy. The Drunk Cherry reopened six weeks ago and she’s glad to be back after seeking sanctuary in a safe village in the Sumy region. The villagers, she says, were paranoid, openly questioning if her family were Russian spies.
A customer on the hoof orders some hot wine to go. “Extreme coffee,” he jokes.
You’d have more chance of being hit by traffic in Kyiv than being injured by a bomb
On the train back to Kyiv, TV screens are playing constant infomercials about how to protect yourself during a bomb raid and survive chemical warfare. Finally, we see the misty high-rises and the Motherland
monument raising her sword and shield on the hill above the Dnieper.
In Kyiv, life is quiet and the only aerial assault comes from the soft grenades of falling chestnuts; hazelnuts and acorns lie like bullet cases on the ground. I return to Heaven, the nightclub turned aid hub run by film makers, that I visited in June. My friend Yasya is still working there, delivering food to refugees, and jokes: “You’d have more chance of being hit by traffic in Kyiv than being injured by a bomb.” As for Putin’s nuclear threat, she laughs it off, referring to a WhatsApp group who have agreed in any advanced warning of a nuclear bomb to meet up on Hora Shchekavytsya and have an orgy. The mordant humour is never far away.
But she’s concerned for her actor father on the frontline. She shows me photos of him wearing combats as he helped liberate Kupiansk and her eyes fill with tears.
“He’s 55. I told him not to volunteer for the frontline at his age, but he wouldn’t listen.”
At the same time, she’s excited that the film industry is starting to revive. She’s in talks to be an assistant director on a film set in Bucha about a house overrun by Russian soldiers. Her only worry is that audiences aren’t ready for a harrowing war film.
She still can’t believe how her dream to travel and meet other nationalities in 2022 has been flipped on its head into welcoming foreign volunteers at Heaven.
“There is an old Ukrainian saying: ‘Be afraid of your dreams,’” she says with a grin.
On my last night at the hotel I meet some English war-crimes investigators who are training local police. Peter turns his laptop away from the bar as he busily records images sent to him by the police in Izyum. It’s strange to think that right next to me in this pristine bar, photographs of tortured victims, some of them emasculated, are being downloaded. It strikes me that everyone in the hotel – from the UN and the Red Cross to private security firms – is part of this giant war industry.
The history books make war concise and leave out the dull bits, but here there are long periods where nothing happens
Leaving Ukraine feels different this time. Although our bus has to wait hours on the border, there are no more charity volunteers offering us hot drinks. One of the most poignant sights of the trip is the unchipped family dogs that have been abandoned at the border. Emaciated, they wag their tails at us and curl up at our feet.
One of my fellow travellers is 17-year-old student Dasha, on her way to Poland to sit an entrance exam for Harvard. She’s from Zhytomyr and says that there is great guilt in the west of Ukraine for not suffering as much as the east. Waiting on the border in the dead of night, the Ukrainians exchange dark stories. Dasha has a 60-year-old family friend who has two sons who went to war. One of his sons has been killed and the other has gone missing without trace in Kherson.
“It should have been me,” he texted Dasha.
“You can’t think like that,” she replied.
The war seems to have matured her beyond her years. There is a measured poise to her words, but suddenly the child in her makes an appearance.
“The history books make war concise and leave out the dull bits, but here there are long periods where nothing happens.” She breaks into a smile. “The war is just so boring! I can’t wait till we win.”
