The rave had been planned for weeks. The space had been booked, and the DJs, drinks, invites and security were all organized.
But when a recent missile strike far from the front lines killed more than 25 people, including children, in central Ukraine, rocking the country deeply, organizers of the rave came together to make a last-minute decision. Would it be better to postpone the party?
Under no circumstances did they decide. “That’s exactly what the Russians want,” said Dmitro Vasilkov, one of the organizers.
So they set up huge speakers, turned on the air conditioning, and covered the windows of a cavernous space with thick black curtains. And they opened the doors of an old silk factory in the industrial district of Kiev.
As if on command, the space filled with shirtless boys and young women wearing tight black dresses. Everyone moved as if in a trance, looking straight ahead, almost as if they were in a church where the DJ was the altar.
It was dark and sweaty and noisy and wonderful. The country is immersed in a war that affected every person present in the room, but even so they danced until they couldn’t anymore.
“This is the cure, if you know how to use it,” commented Oleksii Pidhoretskii, a young man who lives with his grandmother and has not left the house for months.
After a prolonged silence, the Kiev night is vibrating again. Many people are venturing out for the first time since the war began. To drink by the river, to meet a friend, to sit in a bar and have a drink. Or to do all three things.
Kiev is a city full of young people who have been stuck indoors for two years, first because of Covid and then because of the war with Russia. They crave human contact. War makes that urge even stronger — especially this war, where a Russian cruise missile could end your life anytime, anywhere.
And now that summer is in full swing and heavy fighting is concentrated mainly in eastern Ukraine, hundreds of kilometers away, Kiev’s youth are finally feeling less guilty when they leave their homes.
“It was a big question for me: is it okay to work during the war? Is it okay to serve a cocktail during the war?” commented a bartender, Bohdan Chehorka. “But the first shift was enough for me to have the answer. I could see it in people’s eyes. This is psychotherapy for them.”
In a city that already had a reputation for being cool, with each passing weekend it becomes easier to find a party. A hip-hop event the other night turned a sea of ​​heads in motion. The party took place outdoors. It rained some of the time, but that made no difference. The party continued on. The dance floor was packed.
Across the city, sidewalk cafe tables were packed. Inside the bars there were fewer empty benches than a few weeks ago. On the banks of the Dnieper River, which flows through Kiev, hundreds of people sat on the walls, with friends and in many cases with drinks, their silhouettes highlighted against the backdrop of the long twilight and a silky blue sky, enjoying the wonders of a summer night in a country with its own northern climate.
But the curfew weighs heavily on the city. The parties may be going on, but so is the war.
At 11 pm, by municipal decree, no one else can be on the street. Anyone caught violating the curfew faces a fine or, in the case of young men, a potentially much heavier consequence: an order to report for military service. That means bars close at 10pm, to give employees time to head home. Last order needs to be placed by 9pm. That’s why the parties start early.
Example: the rave at the old silk factory started at 2:30 pm. But with the techno beat and some other help, people said they managed to forget about the war, even at this bizarre time. They entered the rhythm of the double bass vibrations, closed their eyes and managed to “dissolve” and “escape”, they said. Momentarily.
War is not just a menacing shadow, it is also a force that directs everyone’s lives, dominates everyone’s thoughts, colors everyone’s mood, even if people are really trying to do the things they used to enjoy.
The hip-hop and rave party organizers donated their proceeds to the war effort or humanitarian causes, part of the reason the parties were promoted in the first place.
And war always comes up in casual conversation, like the one at the Pink Freud bar. An informal chat between a girl and the bartender Chehorka, who is also a psychotherapist, led to a conversation about hobbies, which in turn led to a discussion about books, which inevitably led to the Russians.
Chehorka told the girl that he was putting up his large collection of Russian books for sale because he never wants to read Russian again. “This is my own war,” she explained.
He feels that the entire psyche of the city has changed. “Kiev is different now,” he commented. “People are more polite, more friendly. They’re drinking less.”
Now, when we arrive at 10pm, the city radiates nervous energy. People who are drinking on the street or by the river check their watches. They cap the cider bottles they were drinking, get up and walk away at a brisk pace.
Cars start to go faster. More of them cross the yellow lighthouse. Clock is ticking. Uber prices triple, that is if you can find an Uber.
Seeing the impossibility of getting a ride, some young people say goodbye to their friends and run home, desperate not to violate the curfew. At exactly 23:00, the city stops. Nothing else moves. The sidewalks are empty.
All that energy that was building, building up, suddenly sinks into an appalling silence, which covers the entire city.
