THE CONDUCTOR OFFERS a selection of teas, and the women choose the pricier option, knowing the proceeds go to Ukraine’s Armed Forces. I say I’ll probably have some later, and the conductor jokes, “Any time of the night.” No one finds the remark inappropriate – Slavic women, after all, like to be appreciated. It feels like stepping into our cultural space.
Meanwhile, customs officers check the carriage as we near the border. They tease my neighbour, who’s busy rearranging her bag: “What are you beauties trying to hide here?” They laugh and move on, leaving our compartment untouched.
We feel at ease. We feel at home. We’re heading to celebrate Christmas.
Metaphors turn back, symbolic threads unravel like braids, and the fabric of life comes alive again. I am back in Kyiv.
I am back at my crossroads. It, which over three years of forced emigration had gradually faded, had become ethereal, lost its clarity in memory and replaced sharp outlines with hazy sfumato. I, crucified by war along with my nation, had already gotten used to the fact that it had turned into a memory when, suddenly, it became tangible and real again.
Through the silhouette of St. Andrew’s Church – one of Kyiv’s symbols – ancient history pierces the fog. Mist envelops time and space, revealing what often seems like emptiness. The roads are embroidered with markings like traditional vyshyvankas. Spires on buildings stand frozen, like barrels ready to shoot down passing drones or missiles.
Kyiv’s streets have increasingly become one-way since the war, as if declaring there’s no longer room for compromise. Navigation systems confuse their tracks like hares in a snowy forest (to mislead enemy drones). Generators hum their roll call when the lights go out. Emotionless faces (for the third year now) are part of a visual and sensory code that is intuitively understandable only to Ukrainians. A Ukrainian people forced to walk in circles and wander the world as if cursed, as if serving a sentence simply for being born Ukrainian.
As 2024 gives way to 2025, time feels frozen. Survival has demanded we live entirely in the present. What spiritual leaders and meditation guides preach – living in the moment – has become a wartime necessity.
Last year, we compared Christmas tree designs from years past. This year, no one even mentions them, though Kyiv’s tree was once among the largest and most beautiful in Europe. It’s not that decorations don’t matter – everything feels suspended as if time itself has stopped.
“I’ve stopped feeling emotions,” says Svitlana, a teacher. “They seem to have disappeared. Neither positive nor negative, nothing. I’m just dragging myself through the day.”
“Our dad was taken away to fight, and all the responsibility for our child fell on me,” says Marina, an English teacher from Kyiv. “I’m juggling work, being a mother and relying on my grandmother. For the first time in three years of war, I feel there’s no way out. I’ve even thought of moving to my daughter in the Czech Republic, where I could finally sleep and not live in constant fear for my child’s safety or my health.”
Pensioner Nina Veryzenko shares a similar sentiment: “In the first year of the war, many were against putting up Christmas trees. Now, there are fewer objections – people are tired and crave some sense of celebration, especially for the children. But constant sirens, shelling, and living without light or heat take their toll. Prices keep rising, and surviving gets harder every day. Many people are leaving Ukraine in search of a better life abroad. None of this feels festive, but we carry on. We’re pensioners and can’t travel far, even for the holidays. So, we stay home. We love our Kyiv, our country, and still hope for a peaceful, normal old age.
“Compared to 2022, when the war just began,” she continues, “we’ve adapted somewhat to this hard life, but I still don’t sleep during air raids. Chronic stress keeps sending me to doctors. What’s most exhausting is that our family is torn apart. My daughter and granddaughter moved abroad and are volunteering. They help us by sending lanterns, warm clothes, power banks – small things that make life a little easier because you can’t survive on a small pension. Our plans for 2025 are simple: to live in peace, with our family, on our land. We want victory as soon as possible! And to make dumplings, borscht, and aspic for the whole family – so that there’s someone to eat it.”
For refugees, Christmas offers little reprieve. “Christmas abroad is completely different than in Ukraine,” shares Nataliya Gabrilchuk. “Locals stroll through festive markets, eating, drinking, meeting friends, enjoying themselves. Ukrainians try to relax, but it’s hard – there’s always that feed of bad news in the background.
“Many, even after several years abroad, have never gone to a Christmas market to celebrate or even see how Europeans do it. The mood just isn’t there. In 2022, we didn’t go anywhere because we were volunteering, sending aid to Ukraine. In 2023, we visited a few markets, accompanying soldiers who came for treatment and needed some cheering up. This year, my daughter and I invited friends from Ukraine to stay with us. They were able to rest, feel safe, and take a break from the constant stress. Together, we walked around the holiday markets a little and tried to entertain ourselves.
“Beautifully decorated, peaceful cities abroad should create a festive mood, but the sadness for home lingers. You miss your family, gathered at one table. That’s what’s hardest to replace. This year, our friends brought a piece of home with them, and it warmed us more than any mulled wine at the market.”
“This year, my life has improved,” says 14-year-old Anastasia. “The first year of the war was much harder. I lost many relatives and close people. Because of that, I can’t make big plans for the future. But I’ve adapted and am trying to continue a productive life for my future.
“As for Christmas, it’s important to celebrate – just to keep the spirit of the holiday alive. Even if there’s war, a Christmas tree adds a bit of festive cheer. And that’s already something good.”
But despite the apparent calm, no Ukrainian can fully relax over the holidays. Lurking between the lines is anxiety and the constant expectation of missile and drone attacks, along with the realisation that, for someone, this Christmas will be their last.
As a child, my New Year’s holidays were accompanied by Hoffmann’s The Nutcracker. Now, another kind of nut dominates the season – Putin’s Hazel Rocket (Oreshnik – Russian for hazelnut, nut).
Polina Bashkina is a Ukrainian writer and journalist. Her book 12 Months. A Year
of Sense was published at the end of 2021.
To embed this post, copy the code below on your site
have your say