A week before the second anniversary of the Russian invasion of his country, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy issued a sombre warning that Ukraine would fall without more long-range weapons, drones and air support. The February 24 anniversary is one that neither side will relish: for Russian President Vladimir Putin, a “special operation” that was meant to be over in weeks has cost the lives of more than 300,000 soldiers, according to a US intelligence report. The capture of the strategic eastern town of Avdiivka on February 17 provides a timely boost for Putin on the eve of presidential elections.
Ukraine has lost an estimated 70,000 soldiers and at least 11,000 civilians – although estimates of both sides’ casualties are open to dispute. According to the UN, 40% of Ukraine’s current population of about 37 million (more than 6 million have fled abroad) need humanitarian assistance. With the absence of a realistic diplomatic solution, 2024 is proving to be a race for both sides to replenish and resupply their reserves, both using increasingly aggressive measures.
But Zelenskyy is finding it difficult to extract weapons and other support from Western allies distracted by the Middle East and their own economic and political circumstances. The US Congress’s delay to a vote on a US$60 billion military aid package is the latest blow. Zelenskyy has warned that the drip-feed of arms is playing into Putin’s hands, allowing him time to rebuild and replenish.
Spring
In April 2023, I visit Kyiv for the first time. Curfew has been relaxed until midnight, the spring sun is returning, students are gathering in Taras Shevchenko Park to picnic. People are returning to the city. I wander into a bookstore to be told proudly that it opened only a week previously. My partner, Romana, a theatremaker who grew up between the US and Ukraine, was in the process of setting up a theatre company.
Like other city dwellers, she has hope for the future of the city. “Kyiv is a city of broken renaissances,” she observes over coffee in the historic Zoloti Vorota district. She sees this as just one of many ruptures over the city’s 1500-year-long history, which always seemed to come when the city was flourishing. She wants her theatre company not only to offer an outlet for many whose mental space and imaginative capacity are consumed by the war, but also to attempt to find a distinctly Ukrainian voice for the theatre.
It is hard not to respect this ambition, considering the Kremlin’s rhetoric of “reunification” is based on the idea that Ukraine possesses no culture independent of Russia. Romana’s parents, both part of the Ukrainian diaspora, had returned to the country from Rome during Glasnost, just months before the Soviet Union collapsed. They were both deeply committed to raising the country back up from the most recent iteration of the shapeshifting Russian imperial project. Neither Romana nor her parents are prepared to leave the city unless things take a serious turn for the worse. Romana speaks about the fact that among the multiple fronts of the war, one of the most calculated is the attempt to wear down civilians.
“They want to terrify us. They want to wear us down until we capitulate, so that everyone puts pressure on the leadership for a diplomatic resolution. To not be terrified is an act of resistance.”
To remain in Kyiv is an act of resistance. To dance, to continue making art, to continue going about one’s life in the performance of normalcy: all of these are acts of resistance. It helps that residential buildings in Kyiv haven’t been hit for some time; instead, the city’s energy infrastructure is being targeted – to freeze civilians in winter, to prevent the sick and old from leaving their homes once the lifts lose power.
With the amount of land reclaimed the previous year, many seem convinced of the success of the coming spring counteroffensive. There is more and more information starting to emerge about partisan groups inside Russia sabotaging railways and military infrastructure. Many hope this is the last chapter of the Russian Empire, before Ukraine can achieve lasting sovereignty and peace. There is even talk of swimming in the Black Sea in a year’s time and of dancing in the streets when Crimea is retaken.
On the Left Bank, east of the Dnipro River that runs through the city, we wander past a woman smartly dressed in crisp yellow trackpants and a polka-dot jacket. Striking a pose in a bed of sunflowers, she stretches out her arms for her friend to take a snap. She breaks into laughter. “I’m sending a photo to my daughter. She moved to Switzerland when this all started – can you believe it? Switzerland! I’m telling her to come home.”
She brushes pollen from her waist. “Isn’t this the most beautiful place?” Taking her friend by the arm, she continues to stroll by the river.
Summer
I return to Ukraine and Romana in July, in early summer. This time we meet in Lviv, near the Polish border, which has become a refuge for many coming from further east. It is strikingly green, one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. Lilac plaster crumbles to reveal 18th-century brickwork. This far from the frontline, if it weren’t for the anti-tank “hedgehogs” at intersections and sandbags draped over statues and to block street-level windows, one could almost fool oneself into thinking that the country is not at war.
We are arm in arm, skipping down a boulevard in the Old Town, playing the game where you try to break the sync of each other’s step. The air-raid siren suddenly starts rising. Our canter slows to a halt. It’s a haunting sound – the same alarms that were installed during World War II. Most people continue about their day, no visible signs of stress.
“So – here’s how it goes,” says Romana. “Most people are not going to take shelter – the chances of this area being hit are close to nothing. But, of course, I’m just desensitised to this now, so it’s your call.”
We find a good compromise and drop into a bar with a basement that doubles as a shelter. A stone-faced hipster placidly takes us through various pairings of cider and the local vodka, horilka, rolling his eyes when he has to raise his voice above the automated message blaring from outside: “This is an air alert. Please proceed to the shelter.” We cut him off before he can continue waxing lyrical, grab two pints of cider and retreat to the shelter.
In spite of the calmness visible in the city, the confidence I had seen in Kyiv in April seems to have somehow been cracked. Turn on a TV and you see a sizzle reel of military triumphs: Russian tanks exploding, aircraft being downed, Ukrainian artillery pounding targets. But the counteroffensive is beginning to grind to a halt.
Many of my friends from elsewhere in Europe express confusion as to why territory can’t be ceded – why a diplomatic resolution is not on the cards. The general response a Ukrainian will give you is that unless there is a huge systemic change within Russia, calling for a diplomatic end to the war now only delays a future assault on Ukraine. It gives Russia the time to replenish its equipment, reconsider its strategy, and remobilise its significantly larger population. President Vladimir Putin has shown no interest in being content with the territories currently under Russian control; he seems set on Kyiv, which he sees as the spiritual heartland of Russia, and everything east of the Dnipro River – at the very least.
Then, naturally, the question is who might take up the presidency after Putin? Most candidates have always been in support of the annexation of Ukraine. Most Ukrainians are deeply sceptical of Russian opposition figures such as Alexi Navalny, who, after the annexation of Crimea in 2014, stated it would be impossible for the region to be returned to Ukraine. (Many would feel uncomfortable with the way commentaries on Navalny’s death in an Arctic Circle penal colony, announced on February 16, have glossed over the far right rhetoric with which he built his initial following.)
US Secretary of State Antony Blinken once simplistically boiled the situation down to: “If Russia stops fighting, the war ends. If Ukraine stops fighting, Ukraine ends.” But for reasons difficult to grasp, this is not the perspective many Russians have on the matter.
The dissident Russian platform Meduza polled its pro-war readership on the reasons they supported the campaign in Ukraine. One reader stated, “Starting the war was an insane mistake, but now we have to win it; otherwise we’ll be in the position of vae victis [the vanquished].” Losing the war seems to equally spell the end of Russia for many, and hence no way to back out for either side. A recent poll suggests 77% of Russian citizens inside the country still support the war.
Winter
The impression is very different when Romana and I return to Kyiv for Christmas. The days are short, getting dark at 4pm. Black ice seems permanently on our doorstep, at -9°C. With the failure to achieve a meaningful breakthrough in the spring counter-offensive, a new theatre of war opening throughout the Middle East, and the spectre of a Trump re-election, US military assistance looks like it could very easily dry up. President Zelenskyy is looking increasingly haggard in press briefings and there are bizarre lapses in communication between the president’s office and head of the armed forces, Valerii Zaluzhnyi. [On February 8, Zaluzhnyi is replaced with General Oleksandr Syrskyi.]
The main point of contention is a proposed mass mobilisation order, lowering the age of conscription to 25, and the state’s intention to mobilise 500,000 troops. The president’s office and Zaluzhnyi publicly disagree over where this figure has come from, and how practical it will prove. Regardless of the figure, block posts (akin to checkpoints) run by soldiers in fatigues have begun to pop up all over the city, on the streets and in metro stations.
Romana’s flatmates, Valerii, Lesia and Yaroslav, are laughing over breakfast. Politicians have recently suggested a fee could be officially paid to exempt one from military service. It seems a way to institutionalise the commonplace bribery taking place to falsify medical records, or for conscription officers to turn a blind eye. The rich would be able to pay their way out of service. It fails to gain approval.
For Christmas dinner with Romana’s family, we eat the traditional 12 courses, each imbued with specific symbolism. The final course is bread and honey. Bread represents life, death and resurrection. Honey is meant to bring sweetness into the coming year. It is inauspicious to throw away any bread that might fall to the ground. Instead, one must pick the bread up and kiss it before eating it.
We leave the dinner in separate taxis; Romana and me in one, Valerii, Lesia and Yaroslav in the other. On the way, we approach a territorial defence checkpoint and are beckoned to pull over. A soldier lowers herself beside the rear window and we hand over our passports. She slowly flicks through our documents and interrogates Romana about her citizenship status. She returns to our driver, takes his ID, pauses and hands it to a police officer.
The driver is asked to leave the vehicle, shoulders tense. Steam rises from their mouths. The soldier’s nails tap her semi-automatic. Fresh manicure, lilac gel tips. The conversation raises in pitch. The man drops back into the driver’s seat, swivels back round to the two of us.
“This is bullshit. They can see I’ve already served. I’ve done my time. They could at least show a bit more respect.”
Our car swerves back onto the highway. This is how it goes: age, qualifications, line of work, family. These will all be taken into consideration, and you wait to hear whether or not you have been called up. The others are waved past. Back home, we laugh at the fact that it was the “foreigner” who was pulled over.
In central Kyiv, the process remains fairly civil, but a friend from Ivano-Frankivsk in Western Ukraine tells a very different story. From his apartment, he has seen people stopped at a block post being loaded straight on to a bus; he presumes all are being shipped to the registration office to be served their draft papers before heading to basic training. Rumour has it that some are now receiving only two weeks’ training before being sent to the front.
On the morning of December 29, I am woken by a flash of light. The sound of the explosion comes seconds later; the building shivers on its foundations. I slide to the window to watch the next round of explosions. The whole sky is gold. Valerii comes running up the stairs. “Guys, seriously – it’s not safe to stay up here. Come downstairs.”
Romana’s mother is on the phone soon after: “They’re hypersonic missiles, baby. Please be safe.” We head downstairs. Valerii brings his german shepherd inside, and it nestles by the couch. An apartment building in the central city has been badly hit. The death toll continues to climb through the day, eventually reaching 33.
A friend of Valerii’s comes to visit. He is back from the front, having lost an eye to shrapnel when retrieving a wounded colleague. He had been flown to the UK for half a year for specific training in reconnaissance. Upon arriving at the front, the commanding officer had no interest in those with specialist training. “We don’t need specialists here,” he said. “We need people for Sturm [assault].” He shakes his head. He has not been discharged yet; his missing eye is not enough of an injury to be exempted from potentially being sent back to fight.
Romana’s father led a prayer for the coming year before we ate Christmas dinner. The first course was kutia, a sweetened mixture of wheat grains, poppy seeds, nuts, and dried fruit. The dish symbolises the unity of the living with the dead, and with generations to come.
Although the depth of nationalism was alien to me, as I ate the kutia, I thought about the perceived unity of generations – about why the resolve of so many Ukrainians remains firm under the circumstances. Many feel that to capitulate now would only pass on a greater burden to the next generation.
Ukraine has been perpetually colonised by surrounding empires. The period of independence that came after the dissolution of the Soviet Union marked the first period of true sovereignty since the 17th century. People my grandmother’s age in many parts of the country were born under Soviet occupation, which gave way to the Nazis, then the Soviets again. They enjoyed two decades of independence before the Russians appeared on their doorstep once again. To them, staying put and refusing to be terrified is an act of resistance they have practised their entire lives, as did those who came before them.
Master of global studies student Andrew Gunn is a New Zealander based in Europe.
