Recently, I found myself in front of a secured basement door in a nearby building, chuckling as Ukrainian air defenses intercepted drones overhead. I had dashed into the first residential structure I encountered, capturing a photo of the locked shelter door to remember the moment. My initial intention was to purchase some new curtains.
Before leaving home, I hadn’t checked for any alerts. I simply set off on a 20-minute walk through my neighborhood towards the store. However, as I walked, explosions erupted in the sky above, and I suddenly found myself navigating a city under siege, all because I wanted new window treatments. It was absurd, and while I felt fear, I also found humor in the situation—I still wanted those curtains.
Upon arrival at the curtain store, I discovered it was closed due to the raid—this international chain halts operations when sirens sound, unlike many local Ukrainian businesses. I returned the following day and bought the curtains, which were an improvement over the old ones and fit my windows perfectly. After hanging them, I realized they shielded me from the war outside my window: the bursts of air defense, the smoke, and the chaos. While I hadn’t made my environment any less dangerous, I had at least obscured my view of it.
Having been away from Kyiv for a month, I noticed a shift in the war’s tempo—a new pattern of daytime attacks and alerts that could dominate half the day, with explosions and drones becoming a part of the daily soundscape. In response, I found myself purchasing curtains.
Back in January 2022, while in Mariupol and anticipating a Russian invasion, my husband invested in an expensive coffee machine. I thought it was a foolish buy, but he expressed his desire to live in the moment, regardless of how long the machine might last. Since the full-scale invasion began, he has acquired several large items, including a television, an electronic piano, and a washing machine—each capable of being destroyed in an instant.
We avoid major renovations; our flooring needs work, and our apartment, which we moved into after fleeing Mariupol, remains in disrepair. The thought of putting significant resources into a home that could be obliterated by a missile feels irrational. Yet, the little things continue to accumulate.
I left my entire book collection behind in Mariupol. When we evacuated, they weren’t a priority, and later, they were lost when our rented apartment was struck during the airstrike on the Drama Theatre. In Kyiv, I began to replace my books, acquiring them one by one until my bookcase was again filled. We also welcomed plants and adopted four cats—two from Mariupol and two during the ongoing war. One of them is particularly vulnerable, having limited sight and hearing, and we chose to adopt him in 2023, perhaps in a subconscious effort to nurture another fragile life.
Logically, one would think that in wartime, the best strategy is to minimize possessions and emotional attachments. We have evacuated twice, each time with only what we could carry, so we understand the cost of attachment all too well.
We are acutely aware of the risks. Just last week, my husband’s workplace was struck by a missile. He was in a different building at the time, but it could have easily been him there, and expressing that fear is challenging. I tend to keep my social media focused on lighter topics like cats and hobbies because I prefer not to dwell on the war, yet the updates still seep through.
Recently, a post from a soldier at the front showed footage of the site of the strike on the building: a charred parking lot with burnt-out vehicles, and the tragic news that my husband’s colleague had lost her life there. The images captured moments of their life together, including their new home and the car they had purchased just ten days earlier, now destroyed. She had been inside when the strike occurred. It’s hard to find words for such loss.
During air raids, we have developed our own hierarchy of urgency: a ballistic missile requires immediate shelter in the bathroom, while a cruise missile allows for a moment to finish a drink. Drones provide the most time, so you can usually carry on for a bit longer.
As I write this column, I am currently in the bathroom, the safest spot in our apartment, due to an air-raid alert. I can hear the air defense systems operating outside, and my four cats are with me. People on Telegram share live updates from across Kyiv, often before official reports come in. Presently, the National Academy of Sciences building in central Kyiv is ablaze, with one confirmed fatality. Residents are escaping from upper floors using fire ladders. Meanwhile, I sit in the bathtub, watching events unfold on my phone while contemplating curtains.
During another prolonged alert, we visited friends for a Sunday barbecue. We sat outdoors while something burned or was intercepted above us, and amidst the grilling, my friend’s mother discussed her garden’s new flowers. I distinctly recalled the thought that something could crash onto my plate at any moment, yet I quickly refocused on the flowers.
This paradox highlights my struggle with the term “resilience,” often attributed to people living in conflict zones. It seems to suggest a strength that, while admirable, fails to capture the complex realities of our lives.
