blackouts

Kyiv, Ukraine – Have you been on a plane during severe turbulence, fearing that the shaking aircraft is about to fall apart and tumble down? Brief moments of weightlessness stop your breath, perhaps you whisper prayers and remember everyone you love.

That’s the feeling you get during a Russian air raid in Kyiv, Ukraine, and there have been more than 1,800 of them since Russia’s full-scale invasion began in 2022.

These days, they are bigger, scarier and longer than ever, because each one involves hundreds of drones and dozens of missiles.

They begin after dark and sometimes last in waves until dawn. Whooshing missiles tear up the night sky in two. Drones buzz like horror movie chainsaws or giant mosquitoes out of childhood flu nightmares.

What’s really harrowing is to hear two or three drones at once – I sardonically call it “stereo” and “Dolby surround” – while the arrhythmia of bass drum-like air defence explosions coincides with your heartbeat.

Each boom and thud chokes your body with adrenaline, and some shake your house, but after a couple of hours, your brain gives up, and you fall asleep processing the booms into nightmares.

And in the morning, you fall awake – feeling hungover and disoriented – and read about the consequences. You’re glad when no one is killed, and still sad because several people are usually wounded, and several apartment buildings are damaged.

Sometimes, I think about the people who operate the drones and launch the missiles. How they come back to their families after the night shift, what they tell their children and, most importantly, themselves.

But I prefer the memory of a crowd of high school graduates who walked past my house in June, at dawn, after their prom night that coincided with an especially long and loud air raid.

Their laughter and happiness about the sunrise, the clouds of blossoming trees around them, the rugs of flowers and grass under their feet, and the future ahead of them made them sound immortal. It was a sound that defied Russian President Vladimir Putin.

In recent months, blackouts have been the most inevitable part of each air raid. It feels as though keeping millions awake and horrified during the raids is only part of Moscow’s strategy of terrorising Ukraine.

Moscow’s logic appears simple: if you do not want to surrender, you will freeze. It methodically destroys power stations, transmission and central heating lines to keep millions without electricity, light and heat.

And then there are “planned outages”. There are usually three a day, lasting between two and eight hours.

You can hear an outage because even the sounds in your ears barely register, such as the fridge’s purring or the flow of hot water in the heating system, are gone. You can see an outage because the neighbourhood lights go out, making the stars in the night sky closer and brighter.

How to survive darkness

What saves you from darkness and disconnection is gadgets.

Apart from smartphones with energy-saving modes, wi-fi hotspots and flashlights, there are laptops, tablets, wireless speakers and vacuum cleaners running on batteries.

There are also inexpensive rechargeable lamps – I have 10 of them. Three are pint-sized and bright enough for my mother to read. Three more are motion-activated, which means she can safely use the bathroom any time, and the cat is perpetually amazed.

There is a cap lamp that makes me look like a miner and helps me cook or find something in the basement, and two tiny lamps that can be stuck into a power bank and just glow in a corner.

And there is a Christmas garland in the kitchen that makes each outage feel festive.

But the most important device, the symbolic hearth of my powerless house, is a $1,200, 20kg (40lbs) battery that can keep us warm and energised for up to 12 hours.

I live on the outskirts of Kyiv in a remodelled summer house that has its own pump and a natural gas-powered heating system. Both need electricity, along with the two 50-litre (13-gallon) water heaters.

But boiling water and microwaving meals is too energy-consuming, so we stick to frying pans and an old-fashioned whistling kettle that scares the cat.

And when the power is back on, there is no room for procrastination.

You need to recharge all the lamps and devices, start a washing machine, wash dishes, and go out for groceries without risking your life while crossing the road with the traffic lights off.

The electricity’s comeback may be deceptive – sometimes, it’s too weak. I recently tried to microwave a bowl of soup, twice, but it remained cold.

And for extreme emergencies, I have a gasoline-fuelled generator.  It’s loud, shaky and stinky, and you need an entire canister of gas worth $30 for it to keep it going all night.

But such generators keep Ukraine running.

You can see them next to shops, offices and apartment buildings. Some are chained to trees or walls to prevent theft, and some are too huge and heavy to be carried away.

During a recent music festival celebrating Ukrainian composers, a giant diesel generator powered the concert hall.

My internet provider turns them on seconds after an outage begins, so I am online no matter what.

You also need to be prepared when you go out.

After covering the 2008 Russian war in Georgia, I used to drive everyone around me mad with my I-have-to-be-ready-for-any-emergency obsession.

Now, all of Ukraine feels the same obsession.

The phone has to be fully charged. There has to be a power bank in my backpack – along with a basic first aid kit, a lighter (I don’t smoke), extra batteries for the Dictaphone, pens and a pencil to take notes in subzero temperatures, when ballpen ink freezes.

A couple of months ago, I used the lighter at Kyiv’s Independence Square, dotted with hundreds of tiny Ukrainian flags next to photos of fallen soldiers.

I helped a man with a toddler light a tiny candle that he wanted to place next to the photo of his younger brother.

“He’s the toddler’s father,” the man said, and all I could utter was “God rest his soul” as I walked away, hiding tears and putting the lighter back.