KYIV — The rave had been planned for weeks, the space was secured, and the DJs, drinks, invites, and security were all lined up.
But after a recent rocket attack far from the front lines that killed more than 25 people, including children, in central Ukraine, an attack that deeply upset all of Ukraine, the organizers of the rave gathered to make a hard, last-minute decision. to take. Should they postpone the party?
They decided: really not.
“That’s exactly what the Russians want,” said Dmytro Vasylkov, one of the organizers.
So they rigged up huge speakers, blew up the air conditioning, and covered the windows of a cavernous room with thick black curtains. Then they threw open the doors of an old silk factory in the industrial district of Kiev.
And as if on command, the room filled with young men with their shirts stripped off and young women in tight black dresses, everyone moved as if in a trance, facing forward, almost like in a church, the DJ the altar.
It was dark, sweaty, loud and beautiful. Here was a country locked in a war that hit everyone in the room, yet they danced their hearts out.
“If you know how to use it, this is the cure,” said one raver, Oleksii Pidhoretskii, a young man who lives with his grandmother and hasn’t been away for months.
After a prolonged silence, Kiev’s nightlife is buzzing again.
Many people are venturing out for the first time since the beginning of the war. Drink by the river. To meet a friend. To sit at a bar and have a cocktail. Or three.
Understanding the war between Russia and Ukraine better
This is a city full of young people who have been locked up for two years, first because of Covid and then the war with Russia. They crave contact. War makes that urge even greater, especially this war, where a Russian cruise missile can take you out anywhere, anytime.
And now that summer is in full swing and fierce fighting is concentrated in eastern Ukraine, hundreds of miles away, Kiev is finally feeling a little less guilty about going out.
“This was a big question for me: is it okay to work during the war? Can you pour a cocktail during the war?” said Bohdan Chehorka, a bartender. “But the first shift was the answer. I saw it in the eyes of the customers. It was psychotherapy for them.”
Every weekend that goes by, in a city that already had a reputation for being cool, it gets easier to find a party. A hip-hop event recently turned into a sea of bobbing heads. The party was held outside. For a moment it started to rain. But that didn’t matter. The party was over. The bodies collided on the dance floor.
All over the city people poured out of terraces. Inside the bars there were fewer empty crutches than a few weeks ago. Along the Dnipro River, which flows through Kiev, hundreds of people sat on the walled banks, with friends, and often drinks, marked by the astonishingly long twilight and a silky blue sky, taking in the wonders of a northern climate in the grip of a summer evening.
But the curfew hangs like a hammer over this city. The party may be on, but so is the war.
At 11 p.m. everyone has to leave the street by municipal decree. Anyone caught doing this risks a fine or, for young men, a potentially more severe consequence: an order to report for military service. Working backwards means the bars close at 10am so the workers can go home. Last call is at 9am. So people go out early.
The rave in the old silk factory, for example, started at half past one in the afternoon.
But even at that odd hour, the folks at the rave said they had managed, with the help of the pounding techno and some other aids, to forget the war. They synchronized with the bass vibrations, closed their eyes and were able to “dissolve” and “escape,” they said. Temporary.
The war is not just a looming shadow, but a force that directs everyone’s life, dominates everyone’s thoughts, darkens everyone’s mood, even when they try very hard to do the things they used to enjoy.
Both the hip-hop party and the rave donated the proceeds to the war effort or humanitarian causes, part of the reason the parties were held in the first place.
And in casual conversations, such as in Pink Freud, a bar, the war comes up again and again. A chat between a young woman and Mr. Chehorka, the bartender, who also works as a psychotherapist, sparked a conversation about hobbies that led to a discussion about books that inexorably led to the Russians.
Mr. Chehorka told the young woman that he was selling his large collection of Russian-language books because he never wanted to read Russian again.
“This is my own war,” he explained.
He added that he felt the whole psyche of the city had changed. “Kiev is different now,” he said. “People are more polite, friendlier. They don’t drink that hard.”
A longing for a close bond, for something meaningful in the midst of a seismic, terrifying event that won’t end is what brought two dozen people to a recent “cuddle party.”
Cuddle parties started before the war, but the people who came two Sundays ago—a mix of men and women in their early 20s to mid-60s—said they really needed them now.
The huggers gathered in a large tent-like structure by the river, and as New Age music played, they lay on floor cushions in a large warm heap. Some stroked their neighbor’s hair. Others clutched tightly, eyes closed, as if it were the last hug they’d ever share with anyone. After about 15 to 20 minutes, the hope woke up.
The huggers opened their eyes, broke free, got up and smoothed their pants. The whole idea is to seek physical comfort by curling up with a stranger. They found new cuddle partners and new positions.
The instructor was clear that none of this was sexual or romantic. Still, it looked like a G-rated orgy.
This hugging is currently another dimension of Kiev’s party scene: many social gatherings are specially designed to provide comfort.
Maksym Yasnyi, a graphic designer, just had a 24-hour yoga party, which he said was “really cool,” but it wasn’t like going out before the war.
“Before the war, Kiev’s nightlife was buzzing with different colors,” he said. “You could go from party to party all night long. If I allow myself to think about this, I really upset myself.”
Now, when it hits 10, Kiev exudes a nervous energy. People drinking on the street or by the river look at their watch. They seal the clear plastic bottles of cider they slurp on, get up and walk fast.
Cars drive faster. More walking yellow lights. The clock is ticking.
Uber prices triple, if you can find one.
Some young people, seeing the impossibility of holding an elevator, say goodbye to their friends, bow their heads and run home, desperate to get around the curfew.
At the stroke of 11 o’clock Kiev stops. Nothing moves. The sidewalks are empty.
All that energy that was building, building, building suddenly plunges into a stunning, citywide silence.
Oleksandra Mykolyshyn reported.