I survived a thing

May 24th russian attack on Kyiv

Most of the windows in my building were blown out early this morning. In a series of firsts of this war, this is the first super close call for me.

A ballistic missile struck the building next block, destroying the Museum of Chornobyl. It could have been this building.

I sheltered, as I always do during mass attacks, for we were warned. We were warned that the Oreshnik intercontinental ballistic missile was coming. So I went down to the metro platform as soon as the air alert siren started wailing.

The metro platform was more populated than ever. People sat down on escalator stairs, sat in chairs, lay down on mats and in their sleeping bags, forming neat parallel lines. I found a spot to sprawl in my sleeping bag just in time before the first ballistic missile hit. Then another, then another, then an entire barrage of explosions were reported in the messenger channels. Explosions were felt underground - some more so, others just faintly.

A very loud boom shook the metro platform just as I dozed off. The reverberation through the metro platform caused a commotion. It was a hard hit, someplace nearby, everyone knew.

Leaving the metro platform at about 6 in the morning when the trains start running is typically the ‘better’ part of the usually horrible night spent in a sleeping bag. There’s the hope that morning would bring relief, the cortisol rush of being spared. Mornings after mass attacks, I go get coffee, I try to get my shit together, I treat myself to a bun from Zavertailo bakery. But when I packed my sleeping bag and passed the metro entrance on my way out this time, I realized a piece of glass had broken off it. That was a bad sign.

The sight I witnessed on the sidewalk next to my building was apocalyptic. I have no better word for it for now than ‘apocalyptic’. I’ll maybe have better words someday. Not today.

Glass, shards of various sizes, glistening in the sun and crunching under my footsteps. Broken glass, so rare and concerning when in a small contained quantity - say, a broken jar in the kitchen, a small threat that comes with the imperative to clean up all the little shards carefully, so as not to step on one. Now, broken glass was ubiquitous and banal and walkable, for there was no way to walk home other than by stepping on glass, then again, again.

Birds chirped as usual. Firefighter cars lined up. I looked up at the window of the apartment I’m renting, and it appeared to be blown out too, or so I thought. Shit.

By some miracle, my windows didn’t break to shards; the blast was most impactful one floor below me, at ground level. I rent an apartment on the second floor to make it easier during power outages; no elevator, no problem. The second-floor apartment windows stayed in, more or less. My windows were spared. The window screens were blown out far onto the sidewalk. As I walked past them, I didn’t even realize they were mine.

The blast was so forceful that my windows opened wide, pushing my plants onto the floor, breaking them. But that was just about the extent of the damage, at least damage measured in ‘property’. My neighbors had it much worse. My neighbors’ windows broke and flew like knives into their apartments. A couple of people got cut, but nothing too serious, thank gods.

Instead of coffee and a bun, coffee and cleanup. Emergency services and their machines clearing the streets and recording the damage. Municipal services, bringing thin wooden panels to cover up the gaping hollows where windows used to be. The block’s little community, sweeping the broken glass out of stairwells, out of apartments, out of sight.

Reports say 16 missiles and 51 drones successfully hit targets across Kyiv and its surrounding region. No point in explaining Kyiv districts to you this time; every district was harmed.

But Kyiv has to flaunt its unbroken brand. The nearby bakery, Zavertailo, opened at noon, only a few hours later than usual, despite all its windows being blown. By midday, the bakery was full of visitors, as the machines clattered just several feet away, excavating the glass, and humans wielded their brooms.

This one man with a tiny broom was the first to emerge, catching my attention just as I was heading home from the metro. He was sweeping with determination against a mayhem clearly surpassing his broom’s capabilities. A sheath of glass and debris covered the street; there were hours of cleanup ahead for all of us. But the man chipped away at it, sweeping back against the wreckage, one small patch at a time.

That small act felt bigger than the costly, wasteful, useless, needless destruction around us.

Thanks for being here! This is a reader-supported wartime journal. Patreon is what lets me keep writing these notes, so if you want to support my hustle and my life here in Kyiv - you can do so by signing up for a paid subscription here. (Substack’s own paid subscription service does not work within Ukraine, hence Patreon).

Get access to exclusive cat content. Yes, I repeat: exclusive Ukrainian cat content for my paid subscribers.