The 468th day of the invasion. Downtown Kyiv. 2am. Over the past 35 days, my wife, Olena, and I have discovered a new way to sleep. Our bodies have become so accustomed to constant night-time air-raid alerts that now we balance on the edge of a deep sleep, which guarantees at least a little rest, and employ special listening techniques throughout the night. The whole body morphs into one big ear. And in a moment, the sound of an approaching rocket will pull us from a heavy slumber.
We don’t need words. As usual, we jump out of bed and in a few leaps fly from the bedroom to the corridor. The two-wall rule creates an illusion of safety. No walls could save us from a direct hit by an Iranian Shahed drone or a Russian missile. However, there is a placebo impression, that at least it will protect us against the blast wave and glass fragments.
Our dog, Lisa, is already hiding in the corridor. This month, she began to spend more time under the chairs and the dinner table, and in a new spot – at the front door. She is looking for a safe place, which cannot be found in this city.
In May 2023, 32 air raid alerts sounded in Kyiv; 23 of them during the night. The air defence forces shot down 85 missiles and 169 drones that were aimed at our city. I simply stopped counting the number of rattling Shaheds that Olena and I heard above us.
Just like the earlier blackouts, when the Russians shelled Ukrainian infrastructure and terrorised the civilian population, new habits are being formed. For every genocidal action, a new defence mechanism is developed.
Night-time shelling results in slowed-down reactions and a feeling of chronic fatigue. The response to loud sounds is exaggerated. We deal with the night-time stress from explosions by consuming something sweet. The resistance of mind is such that business communications and chat messages are now coming through, unceasing, to a nightly soundtrack of explosions.
Life does not stop during the genocide. However, life’s stream is being broken.
The Russian occupying troops blew up the dam of the Kakhovka hydroelectric power station. The scale of the disaster is unimaginable, and the consequences are impossible to estimate. Ecosystems have been destroyed. The global economy has taken a hit, and the hope for at least some harvest has been called into question. The unstoppable, wild water has already inundated dozens of settlements, and 16,000 local residents are under direct threat. Temporarily occupied Crimea might be left without a fresh-water supply. There is a threat of collapse at the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant, as it is being cooled down with water from the Kakhovka reservoir. The flood hides the traces of Russian war crimes and mass graves within the occupied territories of Kherson region.
What was behind the thinking of the Russian troops, other than a panicky attempt to somehow stop the possibility of a Ukrainian counteroffensive?
The concept of the future as such does not exist in the mindset of Putin’s Russia. Like any totalitarian regime, it is fuelled by resentment and relentless promises of a return to the golden age, which Russian fascists see as some kind of hybrid between the USSR and the Russian empire.
The Russian occupying forces have no strategy, only tactics based on two concepts.
The first one is untranslatable into any language of the world: авось (“avos”). “To take a risk in the hope that it will somehow work out”, “an unmotivated desire to get a favourable coincidence of circumstances, to get lucky”. Everything is based on this “just maybe somehow” – the idea of the full-scale invasion, the defence of Russian borders and holding on to occupied territories. Just maybe, it will work out somehow.
The second basis of their actions is a methodical, everyday genocide. If there is no future for them, why should we have one? They kidnap our children. They incinerate nature. They destroy the cities. Vast areas are being mined, and the demining will take decades. They want the whole world to be in awe of them.
Russian methods of warfare have been unchanged since Soviet times: human life has no value. It doesn’t matter whether it concerns the enemy or their own peaceful civilians. In 1941, Soviet Chekists blew up the dam of the Dnipro hydroelectric power station, trying to stop the advance of German troops. However, it was not only the enemy who ended up under the waves. According to various estimates, between 20,000 and 100,000 Soviet military personnel and civilians perished at that time.
Life does not stop during the genocide. Life is trying to survive.
As I write these lines, I still hope that the world community will somehow respond to this human-made disaster, which will soon cause a food crisis, have irreversible consequences for the ecosystem and affect the climate. Instead, the UN celebrates Russian Language Day. The date was not chosen by chance – it’s the birthday of Alexander Pushkin, a 19th-century poet, whose monuments are being dismantled throughout Ukraine as a symbol of Russian colonialism.
As I write these lines, my friends in the military, guarding the border in Kharkiv region, are ordered to have gas masks at the ready – a cloud of ammonia is approaching them, because during the night Russian troops damaged a pipeline.
As I write these lines, dozens of volunteers are organising caravans of cars to evacuate those who have lost their homes. We are all in the same evacuation ark of this invasion.
Genocide is when human-made catastrophes resemble biblical scenes of mass destruction. Everything everywhere all at once.
Western colleagues say that it will be almost impossible to classify Russia’s actions as the genocide of Ukrainians. I must reassure you. When genocide comes to your lands, it will be easily recognisable.
It’s when everything inside you freezes from what you’ve seen, your knees go weak and you become speechless. It’s when the realisation comes that the evil committed will have irreversible consequences.
It’s when the enemy daily changes the landscape of your consciousness, and your psyche – the essence of what you are – is forced to form new reactions, habits and broken patterns of behaviour.
It’s when the scale of the catastrophe doesn’t fit in the finite box of your imagination. It’s when it turns out that the previous day’s wrath isn’t sufficient. And you realise you are capable of feeling even stronger rage towards the enemy.
This is when all life is fighting for the future.
Oleksandr Mykhed is a writer and member of PEN Ukraine. His piece was translated by Maryna Gibson
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