When Hryhorii Skovoroda, a seminal figure shaping the Ukrainian mindset, composed a prayer for Kharkiv, he couldn’t have imagined that centuries later, his compatriots would peer at the sky with the bitterness of fatalists. Russian rockets plummet onto the Hero City daily, and even the elderly, sitting near the entrances to their houses, have learned to distinguish between ‘Iskanders’ and the usual S-300s and aerial bombs by the sound of explosions.
Today, Kharkiv resembles a weary yet resilient dog, wounded but still eager for life. It’s fatigued, yet its tail wags defiantly, ready to fiercely confront any provocations. Despite the metropolis’ noticeably slowed the pace of life due to the constant threat, it has swiftly adapted to the ever-changing circumstances. Since the full-scale Russian invasion, the city has experienced at least four distinct phases: from the initial stupor of the first months and the era of ‘Ferroconcrete’ [a term used to describe resilience – ed.], (when the successful Kharkiv operation pushed back enemy forces from Ukraine’s state borders) to the period of blackouts with billboards proclaiming ‘The city lives and works,’ and now, a state of resilient acceptance of reality. As the new Russian offensive commenced in mid-May hits year, residents once again felt the familiar atmosphere of anxious uncertainty reminiscent of the end of February 2022.
The breach of the first line of defence, rumours swirling about potential evacuations of businesses, even hypothetical occupations, the psychological warfare waged by enemy propaganda, calls flooding in from anxious friends across the globe, and the mere mention of emergency grab-and-go bags — all of this has cast a sobering effect on the populace.
Those who’ve weathered over two years of war without leaving the city have grown accustomed to their psychological scars. Remaining in Kharkiv has, at some juncture, become a deliberate choice, a quiet expression of patriotism, and a defiance against despair. Surprisingly, the historic Cossack spirit of Slobozhanshchyna, a historical region in northeastern Ukraine, blended with the adaptable nature of Soviet conformity, has emerged as an unexpectedly fitting philosophy for navigating these times on the military frontier.
From Skovoroda to Zhadan, adopting a pessimistic outlook here hasn’t just implied unconsciously aligning with the enemy; it’s also taken a dangerous toll on the mental well-being of the local residents. Today, Kharkiv resembles sprouts of grass pushing through the asphalt. The city inherently grasps that mere survival won’t cut it. It yearns to forge new meanings despite the overwhelmingly adverse external circumstances. Regrettably, as we press on, resources and resilience dwindle. Yet, it’s also true that ‘despair is a malevolent force.’ Consequently, many who once flaunted Kharkiv’s status as the ‘first capital’ now find solace in associating with ‘reinforced concrete,’ a stance that seemingly eases the burden of enduring present horrors.
In the civilian population of the frontline city on the 50th parallel, post-traumatic stress disorder manifests in various ways. It primarily breeds apathy, excessive inertia, and signs of subdued depression. These effects are plainly visible on people’s faces, in their behaviour, and in their reactions to rapidly changing situations. While it might appear that everyone has grown accustomed to the ruthless daily Russian shelling, the body’s fear occasionally betrays its coping mechanisms under stress. Kharkiv residents scarcely react to air raid sirens, which typically blare for more than half of the day in total [there was recently a record of 18 consecutive hours of air raid siren – ed.). The ‘Points of Invincibility’ and bomb shelters are vestiges of a bygone reflex. They have long been abandoned, and I believe they never truly provided reliable protection.
Merely simulating life underground serves as a façade to conceal the local authorities’ unpreparedness for the challenges of a major war. Instead, at the first explosion, residents instinctively turn to Telegram channels for alerts about incoming missiles.
Experience has taught them that these strikes are rarely isolated incidents. Then, everything becomes second nature: the two-wall rule, a silent prayer, and tending to the children. Moments later, the sounds of new impacts mingle with curses and social media notifications from anxious loved ones. However, in no time, life returns to the streets: men fire up generators, children dash to playgrounds, students log into Zoom for remote learning, and women resume their household chores.
It’s like we’ve just tuned into another episode of a gripping TV series, leaving us pondering: where did the missile strike, and what are the repercussions? As night falls, theatres host performances in semi-legal venues, literary gatherings convene, and the timeless melodies of ‘KharkivMusicFest’ fill the air while art exhibitions unveil their treasures. Everyone plays their role: utility workers by day, artists by night, and air defence during the dark hours. With no streetlights and the metro shuttering at 21:30, navigating the city’s darkened streets requires careful consideration of transport logistics. By the time the curfew approaches at 23:00, the city lies eerily deserted. The provincial layout of the country’s second-largest city, staunchly refusing to accept its historical fate and geographical predicament, stands as a unique phenomenon in this post-colonial era.
In recent times, Kharkiv has undergone significant demographic shifts. The city council reports that approximately 200,000 internally displaced persons (IDPs) have resettled here, mainly from areas recently liberated from occupation, and notably, many of them are not from affluent backgrounds. Unofficially, city authorities estimate the IDP count to be around half a million, roughly a third of Kharkiv’s pre-war population. This demographic change is evident in the language heard on the streets, the behaviour of the younger generation, and discussions in public transport. Overall, there’s a noticeable decrease in the city’s population. With uncertainties looming over electricity and heating supplies for the upcoming winter, it’s likely we’ll witness another wave of departures after the school year concludes.
Unfortunately, the frequency of ‘Shaheds’ and rocket attacks on this Unbreakable City has surged towards the end of spring. It’s understandable, given the intense battles just 30 kilometres from Kharkiv. Despite the occupiers’ attempts, they’ve failed to breach the city’s second and third lines of defence or encircle it. The Armed Forces of Ukraine have once again demonstrated their unwavering resilience, but civilians keenly feel the vengeful Russia’s reprisal. KABs launched from planes in neighbouring Belgorod can strike any part of the city. While the President discusses Patriot systems, armchair strategists debate the effectiveness of the Iron Dome, and the military seeks Western approval to target terrorist launchers on Russian soil, Kharkiv residents understand—one cannot find safety amidst such chaos.
The Russians’ strikes lack rationale, aiming solely to instil fear in civilians: parks, cemeteries, cafes, the children’s railway, residential buildings, and educational institutions are all targeted.
The business sector bears the brunt of the impact. Lately, we’ve witnessed the bombardment of the region’s most robust meat processing plant and a printing press responsible for 40% of Ukraine’s printed materials. While critical infrastructure holds on, the losses are substantial and mounting by the day. Just recently, the city council floated the idea of constructing a multifaceted underground city with funding from investors, but such ambitious plans demand significant resources and time. This reality is acknowledged at the highest echelons, with pledges of extensive support for the region. As we brace for the summer-autumn military campaign on the outskirts of Ukraine’s eastern stronghold, we await to see what the next chapter of the frontline, dubbed ‘Zakharpolis’ by Skovoroda, will bring. For now, Kharkiv boldly positions itself as ‘The Fifth Kharkiv,’ echoing the sentiments of Ukrainian linguist, essayist, and literary critic Yuriy Shevelov. Whether one embraces this narrative or not, together with its environs, it remains the epicentre of the continent, where the destiny of Europe hangs in the balance.
