Opinion / Anastacia Galouchka
City of hope
I could fill page after page with a love letter to Kyiv, the city where I worked and lived for the past three years. Two weeks before 24 February, when the invasion began, I was listening to Ukrainian music, walking down the street on my usual grocery run. Fears of war hadn’t quite gripped the city but the threat of an impending invasion was in the air and had started to wear me down. I would feel pangs of doubt about my conviction that there was no chance – really, none – that my country would be subjected to the horrors that are currently unfolding. I left Ukraine on 13 February with a calm heart. When my good friend Serhii dropped me off at Boryspil International Airport, we said jokingly, “See you soon, unless the Russians bomb us all into the ground!”
I returned to Ukraine shortly after the invasion and have travelled much of the country in the weeks since. The next time I saw Kyiv and Serhii was on 26 March. We weren’t laughing any more. Driving back into this fortified, sombre city that was once home to more than seven million Ukrainians, I realised just how foreign it had become to me. Just like us, the city had transformed into something else.
Kyiv’s loud, exuberant friendliness had been replaced by stressed and stern-faced soldiers at checkpoints. Its lively streets had emptied – people were either cowering in their apartments or had fled west, hoping that the sound of explosions wouldn’t follow them. Monuments and buildings were still standing but they lacked beauty without the creativity and soul that once surrounded them.
I was devastated. And yet, driving out of the city again today on my way to Lviv, I noticed something else that gave me hope: cars filled with people as far as the eye could see were on the outskirts of Kyiv, trying to pass the checkpoints to head home. Life, despite everything, will return to this city I love.
Anastacia Galouchka is an expert on foreign policy and international law at the International Centre for Policy Studies in Kyiv.