Now that we’ve come to terms with the long-term reality of war, it’s time for repairs. The crucial task ahead of us is identifying what we can mend on our own.
As summer began, I finally took my winter boots in for repairs. Winter boots—though what winter boots exist in Portugal where I bought them? It turned out to be more of a “spring-war” season, as it was in these boots that I journeyed through explosions from Kyiv in February 2022. Now, amidst the bustling streets of Lviv in June, I ponder what this winter will hold when I wear them again. Where will I tread, or will I tread at all? I try not to dwell on it.
This is the reality we grapple with now—struggling not to envision it. Yet sometimes, it resurfaces, through seemingly trivial matters like footwear. Nevertheless, it’s not simply shoes; they give us the feeling of standing our ground.
The last item I packed in my backpack back then was a pair of boots—brand-name, elegant, the object of my winter hunt. What did I know of war then? Just that boots were a good barter for bread. I shared this tale later at poetry readings, relishing the comfort of my shoes amidst wartime’s pervasive uncertainty. They became a fragment of normality I clung to. Instead of stories about trading boots for bread, now I recount many tales of Ukrainians’ mutual support and humanity, which shone with unprecedented strength in those early war days and continues unabated.
Then there were the sandals. I’ll never forget the dust on our friend’s delicate pink flip-flops after a Russian rocket struck their apartment, leaving them the sole survivors on their floor. They had descended in time to the basement, barely escaping the blast’s fury. The basement dust clung to her sandals, bringing to mind the brand slogan etched into the insoles: “Relax, you’re in Braska.” That morning, it echoed in my mind like a grim joke, darkened by the grey powder of Russian rockets.
And now our Ukrainian fashion boasts a different mantra: “Don’t relax; your neighbour is Russia.”
“Nature is on our side,” I used to say during those two winters spent in cosy cities far from the front lines. My winter boots saw about a week of use over those years. Yet, friends returning briefly from the front shared chilling tales of freezing toes turning black amidst the Donetsk steppes’ trenches. Their salvation came in the form of invaluable Norwegian tactical footwear sent by volunteers.
In his book Ground Zero, Artem Chekh recounts how, during the ATO, simple trainers from a renowned brand proved more comfortable and effective than any military-issue boots available at the time. No one foresaw the footwear they would endure the war in. Sandals were never designed for comfortable escapes from rocket attacks. No one will take down the advertisement claiming our shoes will be your choice when you suddenly have to flee your home forever.
There is a sense that when it all finally ends, the aftermath will be even more challenging—akin to emerging from anaesthesia.
Every day, scrolling through my friends’ updates, I learn of another life lost in the war. Remarkable individuals perish—each a universe of strength, support, hope, and love for someone. Faced with this, everything else I do feels trivial and inadequate, every word I write seems meaningless, even though these feelings don’t logically connect. Living through war is like being trapped in a state of perpetual death. Yet strangely, amidst all this tragedy, the desire to live burns brighter. It’s a paradox—so much pain, yet so much love.
Near the municipal square with a weathered stone tank not far from my home, there once hung a sign in twisted Soviet-style cursive: “Shoe Repair,” but it could just as easily have been read as “Life Repair.” I noticed this irony during a period of unemployment, spending weeks at home—a makeshift attempt at repairing my own life, rediscovering my city, its history, and myself with a newfound passion. Back then, the future felt uncertain. Now, it’s slowly coming into focus.
As we grapple with the reality of enduring a prolonged war, it’s time for repairs. What can we fix and improve now? Only what lies within our control. And indeed, there are aspects we can influence.
Last summer, driven by a strong desire to fix something, I dared to undergo laser eye surgery. It turned out it wasn’t painful at all. The result—a real miracle: I can see clearly. I joked afterwards that now it’s so convenient to run and hide in the hallway during nighttime missile shelling—no need to search for glasses.
Recently, I finally took care of the most troublesome tooth in my mouth. This time, a childhood fear came to life. The tooth decided to stage a stubborn rebellion just as I was travelling abroad and couldn’t see a dentist in time. It felt like a true practical joke — that first drink in Paris turned out to be a shot of pain. The last filling I had done was back in autumn 2022 when missile strikes on the power grid were starting. Getting an appointment was a challenge due to frequent blackouts. Only one clinic was operational, offering to 3D print an exclusive filling for me at a whopping 25,000 hryvnias (approx. £490). I opted for something simpler.
Two years have passed since then, and here we are, gearing up for challenges like power outages. Hospitals and cafes have generators, and we’ve adopted the motto of “keeping Ukraine in our hearts and our power banks fully charged.” As for what winter may bring, we try not to dwell on it too much while simultaneously making preparations.
During my visit, the dentist mentioned that many of his patients are currently seeking dental treatment as they prepare for military service. The preparations vary widely. “By the way, when you go for a medical examination before conscription, down three espressos in a row,” I overheard a stranger sharing this so-called life wisdom with a friend over coffee. As I walked home, all I could hear from passersby were discussions about one thing: mobilisation.
It seems that life, death, and ‘The Good Soldier Švejk’ adventures are all happening simultaneously. New words are appearing in the language — ‘dodgers,’ ‘runners,’ ‘Tysoplavtsi’ (those men of a draft age who illegally cross the border, swimming across the Tysa (Tisza) River). The Tysa River has become Ukraine’s Styx. There are words like ‘busification’ — an unexpected street draft into the army. In contrast to the category of ‘limited fit” for service,’ now there is ‘unlimited fit’ — everyone who will fight to the end. Thanks to them, everything still holds true, really. “Grave pit” is a term dripping with irony, capturing the pessimistic outlook that pervades some forecasts. For instance, “lie down straight into the grave pit” is the rallying cry of the “mourning police.” Language preserves precise snapshots of this tragically historic era. It would be intriguing to see if some future Historical Grammar of the Ukrainian Language will document our epoch, where the word ‘Russia’ was officially written in lowercase. Perhaps one day, this word will vanish altogether, leaving behind only scattered syllables? In the midst of these times, even the jokes revolve around repairs: “No power? The generator hums. Power’s back? The drill drums.”
Some skyscrapers are hit by rockets, while others sprout like mushrooms. Two years ago, after the invasion, my neighbours shared a sage observation: “Despite the war, we’ve decided to proceed with renovations. It’ll cost us more later.” And they were spot on. A wise bunch. Also, you might come across news about Odessa, where they filled a siren with mounting foam for repairs—it was too noisy and causing a disturbance.
Summer lingers on. Mulberry trees are heavy with fruit, and generators purr. The scent of gasoline wafts along Kyiv’s Dnipro embankment where cafes bustle with life.
In the local social media chat groups, mowing lawns during air raids no longer sparks complaints—Kyiv residents and visitors alike have learned to discern the drone’s hum from the routine of city services by ear.
It’s a time when Ukrainian flags are now prominently displayed among daily essentials in local kiosks. Advertisements in the metro showcase laptops adorned with screensavers depicting the Kremlin ablaze—a small but satisfying detail. At the beach, elderly ladies exchange recipes and share geopolitical musings—each housewife armed with her own strategies for advising world leaders on matters of defence and economics. Yet, they remain puzzled by Russia’s actions: “With so much land at their disposal, why not cultivate it rather than invade ours?”
The circular economy comes alive in unexpected ways. Dressed in a sleek black dress, I bring shell casings for a charity auction to support our troops. Nestled in a perfume bag, they’re wrapped in a theatre play poster. I’m relieved society no longer dismisses theatre as “out of touch”; instead, it quietly buys tickets for Ukrainian performances. It’s all part of life’s repairs—a yearning to fill theatres, grasping every chance to experience something beyond death.
In my bag rests a new book by Ukrainian author Oleksandr Irvanets, “Emerald of Princess Nesvitska.” It’s a marvel, given the print run perished in Kharkiv during the Russian shelling of the Factor Druk printing house. Only a fraction made it out, surviving against all odds. The novella unfolds in my hometown, Rivne. Inside the princess’s ring lies a shard of antimatter. Eras collide as, after triumphs over Hitler and battles against zombies, our heroes now confront Putin, who rides a stone tank. This very tank once perched on a stone pedestal in the small square near our house, our childhood haven where we’d clamber — playgrounds back then. Removed in spring 2022, colourful swings and a wooden likeness of a Ukrainian philosopher, Hryhorii Skovoroda, now grace the square.
Russians shot at Irvanets’ book; Russians shot at Skovoroda’s museum in the Kharkiv region. They shoot at Ukrainian culture — deliberately. It’s a stark reminder that every creation counts. When Russians seek to obliterate our literature, our response must be to write and publish more. Culture becomes a tool for achieving victory — both in direct impact and through its symbolic power. Perhaps uniquely, Ukraine stands out as a country where libraries use 3D printers to manufacture drone components.
