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The stuck Christmas garlands are the only source of light in some Kiev apartment blocks.
Samuel Schumacherforeign reporter
In the bunker there is tea and Mandarinli. Anyway. Shortly after 9 a.m. we are sitting close together in a basement in downtown Kiev. Dozens of complete strangers, some in suits and laptops open, others in pajamas and sleepy eyes. An instructor speaks to a group of young adults. A man in a waiter’s uniform paces nervously up and down.
After almost an hour the sirens fell silent. The spook is over. But only for a short time: Their howls will roar over the snow-covered roofs of Kyiv five more times that day. The last time, just after midnight, I just stayed in bed, resigned. I crawl under the blanket, which offers security but no protection. Deadly projectiles can rain down at any time.
Russia fired 20 rockets and a dozen kamikaze drones at the Ukrainian capital within 24 hours. The air defenses were able to intercept most of them. But not all. There were deaths. And it hit a power supply center again. This is everyday life for the people of Kyiv. Elsewhere, this is acknowledged with a shrug of the shoulders. The world should be foaming with anger every day. Imagine if Russian terror hit another city in Europe: rockets on Barcelona, bombs in Paris, kamikaze drones over Basel…
No red light, no 4G, just darkness
Since the Russians began bombing Ukraine’s energy infrastructure in late autumn, electricity has been heavily rationed in the metropolis. Entire neighborhoods are plunged into total darkness after sunset. In some places only the last Christmas garlands are still blinking in front of black facades. Emergency power generators rattle in the alleys like combine harvesters. The 4G mobile network has collapsed. We drink an after-work beer at a friend’s house in front of the open fridge, the only source of light in the apartment.
It’s the worst in traffic, says Dina Didenko (45) and steers her Suzuki carefully through the rush hour after work. “It’s gotten really dangerous since they switched off the traffic lights,” complains the German teacher. Outside, dark silhouettes pass by. The Vyguryshchyna district lies lifeless like a ghost town. We continue slowly over a black bridge, over a black river. “Whenever I cross the Dnepr, I’m afraid,” says Didenko. “What happens if they bomb the bridge now and I can’t get across?”
Almost three million people in Kyiv grapple with such questions every day. At least the Russian troops who were still stationed in the outskirts in the spring are gone. What remains is the destruction, concrete blocks and iron crosses for road blockades. They are stacked neatly on the side of the road like the salt containers in wintry Switzerland that are used to fight the black ice.
Where have all the children gone?
But salt doesn’t help against rockets. The feeling of being at the mercy weighs heavily on Kyiv. Where do I sit in the restaurant? Which room do I book in the hotel? How long do I stay in this place? “Stay safe,” take care of yourself, says the receptionist at the hotel when I leave in the morning. Lots of people say that here. Maybe it’s the last time we’re seeing each other.
With the knowledge that it could all end at any time, a strange intensity rushes through the city. There is still a curfew in the evening from 11 p.m. Loud music can often be heard from the restaurant kitchens or in the taxis in the afternoon. Maksim, the Uber driver, has been cruising around in his pompous techno gear since morning. The nightlife has shifted into the day, the end of the work day nestles in the bright light of everyday life.
But where are the children? Nowhere to be seen. The war drove them away. They are in the west of the country, hundreds of thousands abroad. No shouting, no loud laughter, no carefree play. No place can be happy without children.
From Othmarsingen to the Eastern Front
The sticky January chill reinforces the feeling that everything is somehow frozen here. She lies down on the faces, damp and heavy. I think of the hundreds of thousands of people who stand out in the open on some front for days to keep the invaders from advancing. I think how cold they must be. It comforts me that our defense department is now sending you 170,000 pairs of Swiss army gloves and 40,000 pairs of soldier’s socks from Othmarsingen AG directly to the eastern front.
The people of Kyiv have little escapes in the generator heat of the hip big city cafes with their fruity and sour espressos. Oleksander Bornyakov (40), Deputy Minister of the newly created Ministry for Digital Transformation, is sitting in a black hooded sweater at one of the tables: “The rockets messed everything up today,” he says. But he had so much to do.
Bornyakov and his ministry want to have all government services digitized by the end of 2024. Ukraine should become the most pleasant country in the world for its citizens, despite all the current adversities. Marrying and registering newborns and filling out tax returns: everything can be done in a few minutes with a single app (“Diia”). And the e-passport is already available today.
Since the beginning of the war, however, priorities have also shifted in Bornyakov’s ministry. His people are now using their know-how to support hacker collectives and drone troops fighting against Russia. “We have to win this war, we have to mobilize all means for it, otherwise all our efforts will have been in vain,” says Bornyakov. Otherwise Kyiv will never wake up from its sad paralysis.