April 2, 2024, marks the second anniversary of Bucha’s liberation from Russian occupation forces. The day is filled with official visits and memorial events. In the brightly lit Church of St. Andrew the First-Called (the same church where Russians created a mass grave during the occupation), a concert-requiem takes place. Some people attend to honour the fallen victims and reflect on the events of February-March 2022, listening to music performed by the Liatoshynskyi capella and offering prayers. Others opt to avoid such gatherings. After the concert, a listener turns to her friend and remarks: “And Valya wasn’t here. She lived through the entire occupation; her son died here. What more does she need to hear now?”
Ultimately, many people harbour scepticism or frustration toward any official events following the accusations against the authorities, whether at the state or local levels. Local residents criticise the authorities for failing to warn the Bucha residents about the impending danger, the failure to protect, the lack of prepared defences, and the delayed evacuation efforts. The prevailing sentiment is that the city was left abandoned and helpless.
People bring flowers to the monument installation—a wall adorned with plaques bearing the names of the deceased—as well as to the displays in the city centre. These displays feature portraits, names, and brief biographies of those who perished defending Bucha, alongside Bucha residents who fell on other fronts of the Russian-Ukrainian war.
In such days, many conversations circle back to the year 2022. This is often used to argue about details, dates, and places of events. The number of versions is growing steadily, and historians will have a hard time sorting them all out.
Views also gravitate in a special way. Right in this courtyard, a mother was forced to bury her slain daughter. Here is the house where the activist and ATO veteran did not have time to finish building his home. In February 2022, he joined the territorial self-defence, took part in the famous battle for Bucha on February 27, fought in Irpin and near Hostomel airport, engaged in reconnaissance, and in March, the Russians captured him and executed him…
But in the span of two years, Bucha has transformed into more than just a symbol of Russian war crimes or tragedy—it has also become a symbol of revival. Holding onto the memories of what was endured and the uncertainty about tomorrow, the city has managed to bounce back to life. Many residents have returned to their homes. The city didn’t suffer as much significant damage (like in Irpin or Borodianka, for example), and much of it has already been restored. Amidst the familiar scenes, the psyche adjusts to the new realities. So even amid the memories, it’s not just horror.
I recall the first time I stepped into my apartment after it was liberated. During the occupation, Russian soldiers had taken up residence there for a time. To fend off the cold of March 2022, they scavenged blankets from neighbours, along with dishes, clothing, and other essentials. Eventually, some of them slept under a blanket… in the colours of the American flag. There was also a souvenir wreath left on the bed, leaving plenty of room for speculation about the possible pastimes of the invaders. Other Russian “liberators” left more practical items behind in the bed: a half-eaten sausage and a disinfectant napkins. They even left a small onion patch growing in my washbasin as a memento. I, along with some friends, spent several days cleaning up the remnants of the ‘Russian world’ that came to our homes. Not everyone was as fortunate. Some found their furniture destroyed, explosives left behind, and even dead bodies.
In the spring of 2022, you’d often find distinct inscriptions adorning the walls and fences of liberated Bucha. “Cleared of mines, kisses)))” – read a cheeky hello from Ukrainian sappers. “Children”, “Deti” [Russian for “Children” –ed.], and “Peaceful Residents” – these were all attempts by civilians to shield themselves from the occupant’s advances. There was also a veritable palimpsest: Ukrainian and Russian inscriptions overlapping, each vying for space. “Ukraine”, “Russia Forward”, and the customary quips about Putin floated through the mind. In a friend’s flat, a note with cryptic coordinates clung to the wall. Nowadays, these “written testimonies” are becoming rarer. Yet, there’s been a recent surge in unexpected activism – new inscriptions have started popping up on fences in the city centre: “People Live Here”.
People are definitely living their life. Through a bit of trial and error, we’ve figured it out: life keeps on rolling even during wartime. The Bucha Park is bustling with crowds, laughter fills the air, scooters buzz and clatter – folks are soaking up the springtime vibes. That famous battered stretch of Vokzalna Street? It’s been fixed up. Reconstruction efforts are underway, slowly wrapping up those abandoned 2022 projects. Kids are back in schools and kindergartens, frolicking on playgrounds. And there on the train platform, waiting for her ride, a woman vents her frustration into her phone: “He’s refusing to do it because of the war? But it’s been two whole years since there was any war!”
But then, a taxi rolls up to the station, riddled with bullet holes (you can guess the kind of journey that car has been on). And at the sound of the air raid siren, folks whip out their smartphones, checking to see if there’s anything coming our way.
