The third siren, akin to the third bell toll, and the audience is already settled into their seats in the hall. Yet, no one bothers to silence their phones.
On these nights of Russian missile strikes, our country is bathed in the myriad lights of mobile phones – holding their breath, cursing, or yawning, whether in bed or the corridor, wrapped in blankets on metro platforms – we have assembled here for a special show: war unfolding in real-time.
And, as is our custom, the directors of this pathetic performance have once again barged in from Moscow. This means that the performance will be rushed and low-budget, regardless of the multimillion-dollar budgets thrown at it. The plot is familiar to all. Act One: Missiles breach Ukraine’s airspace. Brace yourselves, it’s going to be a cacophony.
This is an immersive production, interactive theatre, where at any moment, each of us Ukrainians can step into this role, finding ourselves on the main stage amidst the rubble caused by Russian missiles. Have you prepared your costumes in time? For such a role, we opt for our finest undergarments, the cosiest pyjamas, or even just underwear will suffice. I’m currently contemplating how to slip into winter shoes without socks.
Some find themselves on the train, others on the floor, and still others in distress. In this fatal performance, seating is unassigned. No one bought tickets for this show; tickets can only be purchased from within. But this doesn’t halt the performance.
Thousands of lights illuminate the country, marking countless viewing spots, hotels, burrows, basements, apartments with steel frameworks, vintage parquet floors, Scandinavian minimalism, heated flooring, aged linoleum, cold water from the well. Everything we come into contact with on these nights becomes a sanctuary. Everyone we correspond with, and who corresponds with us, becomes family.
Act Two unfolds as Ukrainians become a vast network of mobile lights, consisting of notifications and cries intertwined with words of affection and dashes of carefully selected expletives woven into the mix.
Some are on the move, some in distress, some on the floor — yet tonight we remain united. We’ve embraced within one shelter — forever the best refuge — our embrace.
This intricate tapestry of nightly messages, this interweaving of incomprehensible unity, this sensation that you are not alone. This aerial battle raging in the sky — will they hit their mark? Who is their target on this fateful night? How do you factor in the gravitational pull of the full moon, casting its glow over this deadly ballet? The floodlights of the mobile air defence units — the most professional lighting for this stage.
And, on the third night, the third consecutive Russian shelling, akin to the third act, we wonder — how much longer can we endure? Isn’t this play dragging on? Such is modern theatre — scenes like these will be omitted from the world’s social reviews, deemed too bloody, too unconventional, and too discomforting.
The ‘all-clear’ signal of the air raid siren rings. Prolonged, tumultuous applause. To forget, (not) to die, to sleep. This is the time to sleep. Sleeping is timely. The question “To be or not to be?” is untimely. To be—for us. Not to be—for them. Why is this so complicated?
Thousands of phone notifications pierce through our souls. Thousands of golden threads bind Ukrainians together in this dream, brief and restless. After such nights, even the dawns turn grey, and the sun rises with circles under its eyes. The sky heals from rockets. The earth prepares for spring.
