A Letter to Kharkiv

The weather is lovely and there is a leisurely crowd in the park, the rare sight owed to a low rate of air strikes in the past week. The wind ripples softly through the trees and there are smiles in every direction.

In the evening, the alarms begin and sound all night as the largest air raid offensive of the war is launched against Ukraine. Kharkiv is struck three times in the night.

The next morning, I sit and read in a garden terrace with an espresso tonic; a cat appears from the entrance and announces itself until the cafe owner steps out with breakfast.

There is simply no communicating the extreme range of Kharkiv, a beautiful city on a hill between two rivers, beaten and torn by the Russian occupation and attacks. Walking down the poplar-lined streets of the central Shevchenkivskyi District, the sights at ground level are of wholesale damage from blasts and bullets. Untouched buildings are a rarity, while some have been ripped out entirely by air attacks that killed civilians and ruined families rather than offer any military advantage. Raised eyes will view the complete range of centuries of Ukrainian architecture, from the baroque, to the constructivist, to the many red bricked town houses not unlike those of Brooklyn.

The food is excellent, as is the drink and service. The coffee is a significant level higher: each of these many cafes, with its own loyal clientele, offers its own selection of beans and sweets; bitter slop in a well-branded paper cup with a line out the door would have no place here. If the clientele isn’t in uniform, they at least sport the waist packs containing their first aid materials.

There may not be warmth at all times from a population used to explosions and ephemeral aid, but there is always welcome no matter who you are or what you wear. You are here, and you matter. I walk down these streets with my head held high, the most American of idiots.

The Soviet legacy expresses in the form of the occasional preserved mural, plaque, or architectural flair – well-maintained Ladas still buzz down the street every so often – but there is nothing backwards in vision or behavior to be observed. A vibrant art and academic scene meets in bomb shelters, basement galleries, and coffee shop terraces on sunny days like this one. Even the hollows carved by three years of war and neglect serve as canvasses as one finds beauty in even the saddest voids visible from Kharkiv’s hallowed cathedrals to its opulent shopping mall.

Kharkiv: I did not know you last week, and I may not know you tomorrow; I hope the Kharkiv I met lasts long, rebuilds, and prospers.

I take the train to Kyiv tonight. I miss you already.