Ukrainian author and literary critic Bogdana Romantsova was recently at the book fair in Zaporizhzhia. Between air-raid alarms, she still found time to meet lots of people. This is the story of a strange weekend in the southern city, caught somewhere between Shaheds and literature.
I’m at the Zaporizhzhia railway station, built on the site of the city’s first southern station, erected in 1873 and standing until the Second World War. The renovated hall, with its massive square columns, feels surprisingly fragile: the glass doors look as if they might crack at any moment, and even the sign reading “Zaporizhzhia 1” does little to inspire confidence. My phone registers my movement, pinging local alerts, while the taxi service asks, “Are you really in Zaporizhzhia?” Yes, I really am.
We’ve come with our publishing house to take part in the Tchytay Forum — “Read” in Ukrainian. Thinking of cities like Sumy, Zaporizhzhia, or Chernihiv, the first thing that comes to mind is solidarity. Sure, it’s lovely to visit Lviv or wander through Ivano-Frankivsk, but here in Zaporizhzhia, I feel not just a connection with the readers, but a real sense of purpose in what we do.
We usually travel to cities we know well, accustomed to familiar presentations and public discussions. But perhaps it’s time to look elsewhere on the map — east, south, north — to the places where people are waiting for us, where events like these are not just welcome, but urgently needed.
On the way, we pass the Aurora shopping centre, where the Multiplex cinema once stood. Once — because in the spring of 2022, a Russian rocket struck Aurora, and the mall has never been rebuilt. We drive along Soborna Avenue (formerly Lenin Avenue), long and straight as an arrow. Nearly 11 kilometres of unbroken line — it’s a feature that really defines Zaporizhzhia.
Here, the view stretches wide. Skyscrapers are rare in the city centre, the streets form a neat grid, and the boulevards are long and broad. Cafés, cafeterias, and pubs spill out onto every corner. One café looks as if it has been plucked straight from a Miyazaki film. In the pub next door, the walls are covered with city flags and thank-you notes from Ukrainian army brigades. Almost everywhere, you can sip fresh watermelon juice, tuck into an aubergine salad, or enjoy simply grilled vegetables. Everything tells you: this is the south — where the tomatoes are at their best, the melons the freshest, and the people tanned and sincere. In the parks, the leaves are already turning yellow and falling early. Autumn has arrived, but the sun still warms the streets, so we seek out shade.
The next day, we wander through the city, still a little sleepy. Closer to the Orbita Centre, where the book fair is taking place, I spot a few familiar faces. This cultural cluster is home to one of Ukraine’s many “Invincibility Centres” and the “Voice of the City” residency. Five artists are given the chance to spend a month in Zaporizhzhia, culminating in an exhibition at the Contemporary Art Centre. Hennadii Kozub, the project’s curator, writes on the residency’s page: “Art, especially in times of war, is not only a means of expression, but also a means of healing and reconstruction.” In today’s Ukraine, healing and reconstruction may indeed be the most vital role of art.
We have a stand and three events at the forum, talking about the city in literature, wartime writing, and publishing strategies in these difficult times. The rooms are small but packed, with people standing at the back and spilling into the aisles. I find myself thinking of Edward Said’s Orientalism during the Great War. Would I have imagined a moment like this fifteen years ago, when I first read the book? Isn’t the scene almost too cinematic? Shouldn’t the pathos be dialled down a little?
What sets our contemporary literature apart is its stark contrasts — more black and white than shades of grey, with red lines all too visible. One of the forum discussions focuses on how we have changed during the war: how we see ourselves, and who we are in the mirror of the Other. This discussion is about (mis)understanding and the search for common ground, about walls and bridges, and above all, about the importance of building communities within Ukraine at a time when the threat to our very existence is all too real.
That evening, we head to Khortytsia, the largest river island in Europe, as one of our authors tells us. She’s from Zaporizhzhia, and for her, paddling on the Dnipro carries a very different weight than it does for me. I’m captivated by the breadth and force of the current, while Ulyana points out how the water has receded, revealing crystalline rocks and yellow sand. “The Maldives of Zaporizhzhia,” the taxi driver remarks. Dune, I think. The landscapes are almost otherworldly, yet I feel no threat—at least not from beneath the earth, as in Herbert’s world. Here, all danger comes from above.
The dam, once lit in the colours of the national flag, now stands as a grey block, scarred by rocket strikes. In the distance, the open-hearth furnaces slow their rhythm, and lights begin to glow on the horizon. Power lines stretch along the Taras trail, which we follow up the hill. Local legend has it that this is where Shevchenko began writing his famous poem Haidamaky: “My sons, haidamaky! The world is vast, freedom is great; Go, my sons, wander; Seek your destiny.” Standing there, it’s impossible not to feel the vastness of the world around you.
The artificial hill of Khortytsia is built from the soil excavated during the construction of the museum. The climb is slow, the path winding around the hill like a quiet yellow serpent. At the top, the largest flag of Zaporizhzhia flutters beside the art installation Circle of Unity — a perfect frame for photographs. Our guide, Oksana, points out buildings in the distance; from here, you can see for dozens of kilometres in every direction.
On the way down, I notice the power line humming softly. Listening closely, I realise it’s actually the sound of crickets singing. Here, nature and humanity are so entwined that it’s impossible to tell them apart. But the moment people step aside, nature reclaims its space.
Near the cycle paths, large concrete sculptures with smooth, gentle lines stand like tired animals. I approach and feel that the surfaces are still warm — the sun set only ten minutes ago. In Kyiv, it would still be shining for another twelve, but here, night has already fallen. In moments like this, you grasp just how vast our country is. “What I miss most in this city is the Milky Way. I used to see it all the time in the village where I grew up,” says Ulyana. As for me, I often miss the presence of a great river in almost every city — but here, there is one. It’s even wider than in Kyiv.
The fair runs all weekend. It’s small but warm and welcoming. In the nearby, very modern library, you can listen to poetry readings and book presentations. From time to time, visitors drift over to our stand. Ukrainian prose is far more sought after than translations, and most people want to buy books by the authors present, so they can have them signed on the spot.
I step outside for some fresh air. Four elderly women and a man sit in the lobby. One of them introduces the others to a friend who has just arrived: “Liudochka, Nastochka, Oleg,” she says, nodding at each in turn. Liudochka, it seems, adds: “We meet here to go and sing, because we have to channel this energy somewhere! It’s impossible to live with all these explosions otherwise.” Overnight, the Russians have again launched drones over Zaporizhzhia.
At the hotel, I meet Nastia Yevdokymova, a literature specialist and teacher. She is full of enthusiasm, talking about her reading habits, favourite characters, and presenting her own book on Ukrainian literature. One of my new habits is reading on my phone during air-raid alerts, if they’re so loud that I even step into the corridor. Usually, I manage only a few pages, but it’s better than nothing. Even those pages have their own value.
On Saturday, the Akademiya publishing house hosts an event focused on comforting science fiction. It feels oddly surreal, in wartime, to sit and read reassuring texts and gentle novels. Today, I even find myself thinking of horror books as a kind of comfort: it’s a strange relief to be scared of clowns or ghosts when Shaheds are buzzing overhead every day. And there’s something reassuring about living in a world where you can learn the rules and sidestep danger at the very last moment.
In the evening, the Small Theatre of Kyiv, also invited to the Book Forum, presents Cold Mint, a play inspired by Tiutiunnyk’s short stories. They manage to stage almost four out of five of the tales. Tiutiunnyk’s writing is built on subtle tones, delicate allusions, and quiet gestures — but all this literary lace is torn apart by the unrelenting, insistent vibration of the phone alarm. The performance comes to a halt. The message is standard: if the alarm lasts less than 40 minutes, the show will resume. But such brief alarms are rare.
We head to a pub in Zaporizhzhia, moving through the hum of drones and the occasional distant explosion. Our guide, Oksana, keeps a close eye on her phone, occasionally calling out updates: “Again the suburbs,” “They’re flying over Khortytsia,” “It’s in the Kichkasy district, far away,” “Half a kilometre, not close yet.”
People stand beneath the arch of a large building — one of many massive Stalin-era structures now lined with plastic balconies. We all know the arch would offer no protection in the event of a real strike. Nearby, near a hair salon, beautiful young people seem oblivious to the explosions. We follow a group of teenagers, who don’t even glance back as the noise grows louder. And then it’s over as quickly as it began. “Only four left,” Oksana says. Four kamikazes for such a vast city — not many in our times.
On Sunday morning, over breakfast, I spot the writers Irena Karpa and Katia Mikhalitsina, and near Orbita, the psychologist Volodymyr Stanchyshyn. During a discussion with him, a local reader asks why he writes books: to make money, pursue ambitions, or for personal growth? Stanchyshyn doesn’t choose, then adds that if more than 200,000 copies have been sold, it must be necessary. “I tell what I would tell you in my office. Through books, we can talk about mental health in very simple language,” he explains. He goes on to discuss the punitive role of psychiatry in the USSR and the lingering stigma that still stops people in distress from seeking help today. “We simply talk about what concerns us. Very simple, down-to-earth things, nothing abstract,” he says.
The Russians attack Zaporizhzhia almost every day. The city recovers, puts out fires, pulls itself together, prepares. Recently, fragments of Shaheds were found on the right bank of the Dnipro, opposite Khortytsia Island — as if the place itself had intercepted the attack. Zaporizhzhia has it all: craft breweries, cafés of every kind, parks, playgrounds, fountains with or without lights. There are bookstores and cultural centres, cinemas, museums, narrow streets and broad avenues. And now, Zaporizhzhia has us too. And in a way, it is ours.
