The day before I travelled by bus from Warsaw to Lviv in mid-November 2022, Russia launched a mass-missile attack on Ukraine. A friend in Lviv contacted me and asked whether I was sure I really wanted to come? She had taken refuge in a shelter when the air raid siren had sounded, but she had heard the explosions when the missiles struck. Since the previous month, Ukraine had faced regular such missile attacks targeting its energy infrastructure every week or so in an obscene attempt by Russia to make Ukrainians freeze that winter. I had realised that such attacks were likely to occur during my stay. But I didn’t know quite what to expect. During my stay in Odessa that summer, people had largely ignored the air raid sirens. Would it be different now? Ukraine had not yet been provided with the kind of modern air defence systems that could more or less reliably shoot down Russian missiles. And even though they did shoot down many of them, the debris still had to fall to earth. Central Kyiv had been struck a short while before, and there had been victims, ordinary people going about their business, walking or driving in the city.
I arrived in Lviv on an autumnal evening just after the electricity had been restored. Meeting my friend for dinner, it was striking how normal things seemed, at least on the surface. The pizzeria we went to was packed with people out enjoying themselves. But of course, the situation was far from normal. The first snow of winter fell while I was in Lviv. Whether Ukraine could cope with the repeated missile attacks, whether the energy supply could be maintained, whether the heating could be kept on and the water kept flowing, these were all questions with uncertain answers that autumn. There was even talk of Kyiv potentially having to be evacuated if the city became uninhabitable.
Arriving in Kyiv after an overnight train journey, I took the metro and went straight to one of my favourite cafés, close to the Golden Gate. I drank coffee and ate an excellent almond croissant. It seemed extraordinary to be back. Having freshened up in my hotel, the same hotel where I had stayed many times before, I met a friend for lunch in an excellent nearby Georgian restaurant. Unlike Odessa during my visit in the summer, with its half-empty streets and closed shops and cafes, Kyiv seemed much more alive. Most of the cafes and restaurants I had previously frequented were still working normally. A city-centre shopping mall was bustling with people. The spirit of the city seemed undimmed.
But of course, all was not normal. Many streets around key government and administrative buildings were closed off. Statues were covered up for their protection: Bohdan Khmelnytsky, the leader of a 17th century Cossack revolt against Polish rule; Princess Olha, who as regent in the 10th century was the first ruler of Kyivan Rus to be baptised as a Christian; the author Mikhail Bulgakov, who was born in Kyiv. The glass bridge connecting two hills in the city centre was closed, having been damaged by a missile strike the previous month. The Soviet-era monument to Ukrainian-Russian friendship at one end of the bridge had been dismantled. The monumental arch that rose above it, which had been constructed un 1982 to commemorate Ukraine’s union with Russia, had been renamed the Peoples’ Friendship Arch after Ukraine’s independence, but after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine it had been renamed again, the Arch of Freedom of the Ukrainian People.
Concrete blocks and iron-girder tank traps had been pushed to the sides of the road by Independence Square, the Maidan Nezalezhnosti. An artwork attributed to Banksy, painted on one of the concrete blocks, appeared to show a girl and a boy using one of the tank traps as a seesaw.
On the square in front of St Michael’s monastery, by Princess Olha’s covered statue, a selection of wrecked tanks, armoured personnel carriers and other military vehicles had been lined up as trophies of Russia’s defeats before Kyiv in the spring. People walked around them, clambered over them, and posed in front of them. President Zelensky had brought various visiting foreign dignitaries here. On some of the vehicles people had written graffiti, “for Bakhmut”, “for Severodonetsk”, “for Mykolaiv”, towns that had been subjected to Russian destruction. And alongside the wall surrounding the monastery, the lines of photos of fallen soldiers grew ever longer. Mostly young men, and some women, some of them posing formally in their uniforms, others smiling happily for the camera, lives cut short by Russia’s brutal aggression. On Independence Square, an impromptu memorial consisted of hundreds of little Ukrainian flags commemorating, according to placards, foreigners and Ukrainians killed by Putin.
The day before I left Kyiv, there was another mass-missile attack. I later heard that this was one of the most devastating strikes. Electricity and water were knocked out in much of the city. Somehow, although the streets around were without power, in my hotel the lights remained on, although we were without water. Many restaurants and cafes had generators and were still able to operate, although some of them, which had not prepared, were unable to provide tea or coffee, or anything that required water. Eating my lunch in a large basement self-service canteen, there were many people who had not come to eat, but were rather taking shelter, and using the opportunity to charge their phones and use the wifi. The shopping mall which had seemed so busy when I arrived a few days earlier was now quiet, with few shoppers.
That evening, before catching the overnight train back to Lviv, I ate in a burger restaurant. Generators were still whirring up and down the pitch-dark street. The restaurant was full of people, and, as at the self-service canteen earlier, many of them were not eating or drinking. Here was a place where they could sit in warmth, with electricity to charge their phones. As I had seen in other cafes and restaurants, no one objected to people sitting without ordering anything. This was the solidarity among the people of Kyiv. Facing the horror of Russia’s aggression, people pulled together and looked after each other. The government was establishing “invincibility centres” where people could go for warmth, a hot drink and a wifi connection. But the atmosphere that evening felt more subdued. Despite the resilience and determination that was so impressive, after several weeks of such attacks, people were weary. There was snow on the ground, the weather was getting cold. How would the city fare under these repeated Russian attacks?
As I pulled my suitcase up to the railway station, I felt sad to be leaving. The assistance the world had provided Ukraine was significant, but it was not enough. Ukrainians were being left to face the Russian missiles and drones without adequate protection, without the means to strike back at the places from which they were being fired with impunity, far away. The West had modern military aircraft and missile-defence systems far superior to those employed by Russia, but they were not being supplied to Ukraine. The suffering of the Ukrainian people would be on our consciences, as we could have done more to help. I was leaving, going back to a home where I had electricity and no one was trying to make me freeze. As Ukrainians anxiously faced winter under Russian attack, our slowness to provide the help they needed shamed us all.
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