26.05.2025 / This is war

Kyiv, May 26, 2025

Thank you, friends, for writing to check in these past few days. It’s good to be reminded that you care. You’ve also helped me see that I should be the one to speak first if I don’t want Russia to speak for me. The Ukrainian diaspora where I grew up worked so hard to keep our culture, language, and identity alive so that Russia wouldn’t drown out our history and song. I want to be associated with something other than being the target of Russia’s genocidal attacks.

It’s true that over the past three nights Russia has launched 903 drones and 92 missiles into Ukraine. Breaking it down:

May 24 (Friday night) — 250 drones, 14 missiles

May 25 (Saturday night) — 298 drones, 69 missiles

May 26 (Sunday night) — 355 drones, 9 missiles

I know these figures because the Air Force Command of the Armed Forces of Ukraine publishes them each day.

The memories of my own visceral experience are muddled at best. Every night my sleep is punctured by explosions, volleys of sound, which I sometimes register before drifting off again. In the morning I remember hearing a distinct boom — was it last night or the night before? Sunday night I fell asleep to the reassuring rat-a-tat-tat of anti-drone guns, like a lullaby. Although Friday night there were so many strikes at once that they made a dense block of sound. No discrete explosions, just a low and constant rumble, like thunder. No, Larissa, not thunder. The novelty left an impression.

I’ve been living with explosions outside my window for over three years now. When friends tell me they were up all night from 6 hours of steady attack, I admire their robust survival instinct. I tend toward sleep. My work is intellectually demanding (though so is that of my friends). Missiles or no missiles, there is no future into which to postpone it. But this sleep is not refreshing.

Saturday morning it’s still early when I go out for my second cup of coffee. A young woman I know is at the neighborhood cafe. She’s already talking excitedly as I hand my cup to the barista. She was out walking the dog. They were outside when the drone was intercepted. Right across the street. It was stupid to go out so late. Usually she’s indoors. There were sounds. She should’ve gone home. The explosion. So bright. Terrifying. Struck down. Right before her eyes. Heart racing. I turn away for a moment to pay for my coffee. She’s still talking, excited. I can’t remember where I was then, what I heard. Did I hear anything?

Sunday evening I go for a walk with a friend. It’s the second day after the second night of the most massive Russian airstrikes on Ukraine to date. A slow and stuttering day. Though I thrive on adrenaline. I need a bit of panic to function normally.

Leaving the house provides affirmation of what we’ve all just survived. Our bodies may respond to stress in drastically different ways but the explosions are what we have in common.

Today everyone I meet has a shadow across their face. The waitress at the cafe smiles supportively when I order an extra espresso shot in my large cappuccino. “Yes, three espressos,” I say sheepishly. “I understand you,” she says, and she does.

We talk about the war every day.

It’s only when I’m alone, focused on intellectual labors (editing, translating, logistics) that I disconnect from the world around me. I’m editing essays for the upcoming London Ukrainian Review issue on Childhood and scouring the Internet to learn the number of children killed by Russian strikes (April 2025 has been the deadliest month for children since June 2022). I’m translating poems by the fallen warrior-poet Maksym Kryvtsov, written from the frontlines before he was killed in 2024. Or courses for drone pilots — there is a growing number of foreigners joining the AFU.

My doctor has prescribed a panoply of supplements and I suspect that neither one of us knows for sure to what extent my ailments are the natural result of being an aging woman and to what extent they’ve sprung from over three years of full-scale war, nights peppered with explosions, and working 6–7 days per week. We are still at war, defending our lives, country, and world from russia’s relentless assault.

This war is transforming us and we do not know yet how we will turn out. The challenge and ethical imperative is to speak from this place. With our own voices. Rather than let Russia do the speaking.

Below are two opportunities to listen to people speaking from deep inside Ukraine’s trials, loss, and resistance, whose intelligence, sensitivity, and spirit help us to see a future where we will put an end to Russia’s mission of destruction and where justice is possible.

Writing War and Trauma, Episode 4 of The Ukraine Shelf podcast, hosted by the sharp and eloquent Olesya Khromeychuk and Uilleam Blacker, with poet Yuliya Musakovska and writer Maria Tumarkin as guests. You will be stirred by Yuliya’s verse and deep, life-affirming reflections. You’ll find support and inspiration in Maria’s courageous engagement with places and people who have lived through devastating war and not lost themselves.

On Justice: Holding Russia Accountable for its Crimes* is the panel Sasha Dovzhyk (director of INDEX: Institute for Documentation and Exchange) organized for the Kyiv Security Forum, featuring Charlotte Higgins (giving voice to the late Victoria Amelina), Maksym Butkevych, Svitlana Tolmach, Richard Stupart, Laurynas Kasciunas, and Oleksandra Matviichuk. These 45 charged minutes of concentrated experience and pithy remarks put us in direct contact with living testimony of Russia's war crimes, situate the present atrocities in a historical context, and point us toward breaking the cycle of continuous Russian atrocity. “[Testimony] takes your innocence away. . . . When the world’s media has images of what happened in places like Bucha, suddenly the decision to say ‘Oh, I don’t want to get involved’ or ‘I want to remain neutral’ moves from a kind of innocent non-involvement to one of complicity,” states panelist Richard Stupart.

*The panel begins at 05:04:46.

PS I recently had the joy of seeing my friends Illia and Svitlana, who are serving in the AFU and also managing the activities of Hero of Ukraine. This charitable foundation supports the Birds of Fury (Zli Ptakhy) combat drone team, and also assists veterans in Mykolaiv. As the future of international support for Ukraine’s security remains uncertain, helping Ukrainians enhance their own security by supporting the advances in the military and domestic defense production, along with veterans reintegrating into civilian social life, is an investment in a more secure world. For details on specific projects see: https://heroofukraine.org/en/#prujectua