Living in Kharkiv: A War Diary
Living in Kharkiv: A War Diary
Kharkiv, scarred by war yet standing tall with rebuilt structures. Beneath its surface lies a community enduring the constant threat of danger and conflict.
Kharkiv, Ukraine—The 1st of August, 2024, marked the beginning of what I now call my War Diaries. As the sun rose over Kyiv, I found myself enveloped in the final preparations for my journey, meticulously arranged by my friend Vova. By early afternoon, I embarked on the drive to Kharkiv. The journey, a nearly twelve-hour odyssey, brought me to the city's threshold at precisely 5:59 PM Ukraine time.
Upon entering the Kharkiv region, a sign greeted me: "Kharkovska." As I ventured closer, another welcomed me to the city itself. A few hundred metres onward, a checkpoint emerged—a roadblock manned by soldiers and policemen. Cement blocks arranged in a tic-tac-toe pattern forced vehicles to slow down, allowing the guards to scrutinise every entrant. This was not merely a precaution; it was a palpable reminder of the precariousness that had seeped into daily life.
This checkpoint felt like the gates to a fortress. Beyond it, the city unfolded slowly, revealing its skeletal skyline—buildings and skyscrapers interspersed with petrol stations. The six-lane road, three lanes in each direction, was lined with Ukrainian flags fluttering in the breeze. Their presence was a stark contrast to the serene yet foreboding atmosphere that enveloped the city. Perhaps it was the recent history of bombings that cast this pall over Kharkiv. In my 17 years of reporting from war zones, I had often encountered this sixth sense—an uncanny awareness of a place's hidden scars, even before they became evident.
At a traffic light, I found myself behind a BMW 745i, an old Lada Samara and some other never-seen car by my eye “Tavarina”, and a Volkswagen. To my right stood a building that epitomised the clash of eras: Soviet and modern architecture melded into a single edifice. The top floors boasted contemporary windows and doors, while the lower levels clung to their Soviet past. On my left, another building, initially appearing modern, betrayed its age through rusted satellite dishes.
Driving further, I passed a public transport station bustling with green and yellow buses. The roads, though aged, were well-maintained, and navigating them felt oddly reassuring. A church loomed ahead, its silhouette aligning with my path. Fewer people crossed the streets than I remembered from two years ago. Back then, the populace moved with a frenetic urgency. Today, they waited patiently for the traffic lights to change, embodying a quiet resilience.
Kharkiv exuded a sense of emptiness. Many shops, including one named Pulse Gym, were boarded up. Indicating left, I noticed a police patrol stopping a sleek black BMW. I was on a hill, descending into the heart of the city. Ukrainian flags dotted the landscape, their presence more pronounced near a church with a golden dome that glistened in the sunlight. Despite the cold, eerie atmosphere, the city's resilience was undeniable. Buildings once reduced to rubble had been meticulously reconstructed, a testament to the indomitable spirit of Kharkiv's residents.
As the traffic light turned green, I continued my journey. A tram, brimming with passengers, crossed my path. The driver, clad in a work vest, underscored the city's reliance on public transport. My destination was the military hospital, where a colleague, a Ukrainian journalist injured on the front lines, awaited discharge. Her injuries, though severe, no longer necessitated round-the-clock care. I hoped to see her, exchange greetings, and hear her story—a narrative I intended to share with a broader audience to highlight the perils faced by journalists.
Facing the Unknown: Ukrainian Volunteers' Journey Amid Drone Warnings and Conflict
On August 3rd, I joined volunteers heading to Prykolotne to pick up a family. An alert from Saharok (air detective device) indicated a Russian surveillance drone, prompting us to don our gear.
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