Shortly before 7AM: awoken by a powerful explosion. Not near, but from the sound, you already know it’s bad.

Briefly checking the news.

It was in Saltivka, again.

Getting up to make coffee.

For the second day in a row, spitting it out: for the second day in a row, I bought a bottle of curdled milk. It was already curdled when I bought it, I just didn’t notice in the shop. Supermarket warehouses were bombed by Russia - some chains of cold must have been broken.

There is a smell of smoke that lingers in the living room. It comes from the box full of burnt books I collected at the site where 8 million of them burned on August 1

Taking the phone again, looking at OSINT, finding out where in Saltivka.

First instinct: go there.

Second instinct: don’t go just yet, because of double taps.

The feeling of guilt, for not being there.

I message the newsrooms: is there space for Ukraine this morning? I can go on site, Russia killed two people already, there are a dozen injured.

No thank you, not now.

I’m not obligated to go.

I should go to bear witness.

Later that day, I’m about to go out for a report.

From the stairwell, I see three young adults and a dog in the streets.

They look anxiously at the sky, they look for cover and run under a tree.

I know why: they are hearing a drone. It’s not a Shahed, this one sounds like ours, like an interceptor drone. But it could also be a Russian FPV, who knows.

I rush downstairs to open the main door for them, so they can shelter in the building.

They’re already far when I reach the ground floor.

I also look up, no sound anymore. The sky is blue, and seems void of threats.

I go out and try to pretend that everything is fine.

Prior to this umpteenth attack, I had been asleep for two hours after a week of insomnia. As I received notifications about more incoming missiles, I decided to put my phone on silent mode, and somehow I fell asleep again for another three hours, amid further explosions. I just really, really wanted to sleep, my body could not take this stress anymore, and my brain simply shut down.

I woke up at 5 a.m. to a flurry of worried messages from my loved ones. I apologised for the silence, called my newsrooms, and started looking for the addresses that had been hit. Outside, there was smoke and the smell of numerous fires started across Kyiv’s districts. The day was otherwise gorgeous, the sun in total disconnect with the grim reality of the aftermath of a strike. I made my way to Darnytskyi district, on the left bank of the Dnipro River, the area worst affected by the overnight strikes. Early in the morning, the streets were eerily empty. As if even inanimate objects were frozen in shock.

Zdolbunivska Street looked like the apocalypse more than a street: dangling advertisement boards, dark puddles on the road, a crater left by a missile as well as impact marks from cluster munitions on the ground and on charred cars still parked in front of residential buildings. The road was also completely littered with debris and vegetation torn apart by the explosion. Here, people had been killed in the streets at the very moment they had left their homes to head to the nearest shelter.

A few hours after the strikes, rescuers were still here, working on-site. Tents had been erected by the police, and residents were queuing to register their losses. Some people were hugging family members and neighbours alike.

A couple held tightly onto each other as the woman struggled to walk. She had sustained a leg injury, and her wound was still bleeding; the dressing was soaked through and red. They simply seemed elated to have survived. Not everyone did that night.

I walked over shards of glass and branches torn from the nearby trees. I saw a white curtain stained crimson. I noticed it first, then the puddle of bright red blood next to it. It took me a second to realise that the soil hadn’t absorbed all the blood that had been spilled there. Seven people had died here. I knew at that moment that this particular scene had been etched into my mind.

I talked to survivors. Some were angry: “We simply have nowhere to hide!” Others were still shell-shocked and devastated, but all were relieved to be alive.

I did live TV reports from the scene in French, English and Spanish. In between, sleep-deprived, I went to get a coffee about a hundred metres away, where there was still a sense of normalcy and no glass on the ground. A regular coffee, on a regular terrace, in total contrast with the nearby scene of destruction.

I went home, showered to get rid of the dust—the remnants of the scene—edited radio pieces, then headed out again, this time to Solom’yanskyi district.

When I arrived, I realised I had already reported from that very street during another strike last year. Even the humanitarian hub was in the same place. Only the building that had been hit was different.

A destroyed red car lay upside down in the street in front of a charred building, whose ground floor had been reduced to a gaping hole at one corner. I wondered how the upper floors were still standing. Colleagues from another channel had come here wearing vests, earning amused and annoyed looks from passers-by (you’re not supposed to wear a vest when not in an active war zone, out of common sense and respect for locals, but it might help in case of a double-tap to fend off some of the shrapnel).

Countless people were clearing debris well into the late afternoon and evening. Yulia, a mother of two, was watching over her three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Sviatislava, who was playing on the swing in the children’s playground facing the building. She was laughing, waiting for her father to come down—he was helping the neighbours.

I went up, met Pavlo, Sviatislava’s father—in the flat of a woman whose life had been shattered by a missile. She was crying in the bathroom, while her brother and a few neighbours were clearing the dust and trying to make her flat liveable again. I didn’t ask her anything—in her shoes, I would not want to talk to a journalist.

I did more live TV reports, and Sviatislava, still playing outside, offered me an apple juice from her pram. Yulia and I chatted for a good hour about how difficult it was to seek shelter. There, just like in Darnytskyi, the nearest underground metro station was a 30-minute walk away. Underground parking was scarce. Overground concrete shelters were non-existent.

While there is a sense of indomitable spirit here, the situation has never been so difficult in the Ukrainian capital. People here are not just shell-shocked. They are also angry, and they have questions. Why is it taking Kyiv city authorities so long to install the much-needed shelters for those who need them most?

The question is all the more pressing because Ukraine suffers from a severe shortage of air-defence systems capable of intercepting Russian missiles. Moscow is exploiting that weakness by striking industrial and residential sites alike, hoping to wear Ukrainians down and bring them to their knees by exploiting the fact that many have nowhere to hide.

So the main reason why Fedorov seems to have been pushed to quit was the fact that he didn’t get along with Commander in Chief Oleksandr Syrskyi.

Usually, the army sides with its commander. Especially at such a critical time as a full scale war. Also because of loyalty, discipline...And to be fair, Oleksandr Syrskyi is still trusted by half of the civilian population, despite being controversial.

But within the army, this support is polarized. Many in the military don’t approve of his centralized command style, his reluctance to adapt warfare to new, modern realities (drone warfare), and his resisting necessary reforms. For those reasons, and now because it led to Mykhailo Fedorov’s resignation, his leadership, still backed by Zelensky, is criticised at the highest level.

Pavlo Yelizarov, Deputy Commander of the Ukrainian Air Force, announced his resignation in protest, arguing that Fedorov’s removal would cause “great harm to the country’s defense capabilities.” He added that, under the circumstances, he no longer wished to continue serving in the Armed Forces.

General Mykhailo Drapatyi, Commander of the Joint Forces, also publicly expressed his support for the former defense minister. Rather than directly challenging the political decision, he emphasized the need for deep institutional reform within the military, stating: “When the right decision has to be pushed through despite the system, rather than because of the system, it means the system itself must be changed.” Drapatyi further argued that the Armed Forces require new rules so that sound decisions no longer depend on the personal courage of individual commanders or the backing of influential officials, but instead become the institutional norm. In his view, the transformation of Ukraine’s defense forces must continue regardless of who serves as minister or which team is in office.

For his part, Mykhailo Fedorov maintained that his dismissal was not the result of poor performance but of a deep rift with Commander-in-Chief General Oleksandr Syrskyi. According to Fedorov, he had even urged President Volodymyr Zelenskyy to replace Syrskyi, believing that the commander-in-chief had become an obstacle to reform. Fedorov accused Syrskyi of having “systematically blocked” his ministry’s initiatives: “We reached a point where every initiative we proposed was blocked,” he said, before adding: “Syrskyi is not prepared to look me in the eye and openly discuss the problems.”

Finally, let’s remember that ordinary soldiers took part to the protests, wearing civilian clothes, in Kharkiv several told me they considered the decision to remove Fedorov a mistake, at a time when Ukraine has gained momentum, has a chance to win the war on its terms, and at a time when chabge was finally tangible within the army

Before moving to Ukraine, I lived in the German capital for 13 years. Pride there draws anywhere between 500,000 and one million people. The entire city center becomes a parade ground, car traffic is diverted, and it’s a joyful, very noisy mess. Dozens of groups and organizations take part in the march, and people are incredibly inventive with their attire—whether that’s elaborate costumes, everyday clothes, or very little clothing at all. It feels good to see so many people coming together in support of equality. In Kyiv, according to the organizers, the Pride gathered around 5000 people, coming from all over the country, in what is Ukraine’s biggest Pride to date.

This may sound obvious, but it’s worth repeating: Pride is not just about a colorful parade. It is about advocating for basic human rights—rights that, in every society around the world, can be denied to some people because of who they are or who they love.

When those rights are denied, LGBTQ+ people become vulnerable to violence, discrimination, and harassment. They can face verbal and physical attacks, and unequal treatment in every aspect of life: at work, in healthcare, in public, and even within their own families.

I have to be honest: moving from Berlin to Kyiv and adjusting to a much more conservative society—quite an understatement—was one of the hardest things for me to adapt to

.

I love Ukrainian society very much. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have turned my life upside down to come and live here. In many ways, I actually find everyday interactions easier here than I did in Berlin. Maybe that’s because the constant threat of death posed by Russia’s war of aggression creates a greater sense of urgency to live. But I am also very aware of how conservative values can prevent a lot of people from living their lives as they wish and from benefiting from the same rights as everyone else.

And I can’t stress this enough: how someone chooses to live their private life, or who they love, has no impact whatsoever on anyone else’s freedom to live theirs.

Everyone should have the right to visit the person they love in hospital. Everyone should have the right to marry the person they love, if they so wish. This is no less true for LGBTQ+ members of the Armed Forces. They risk their lives defending Ukraine, just like every other soldier. They should enjoy the same rights they are fighting to protect. These are not special privileges. They are basic human rights.

Some of my friends from abroad want to visit me. Some are understandably afraid because of the war. Others are also afraid that they could be beaten up in the street because of their sexual orientation—simply because someone might assume who they are from the way they look. I would like them to be able to walk the streets of Kyiv, Kharkiv, Lviv, or anywhere else in Ukraine without the fear of being attacked for who they are.

I want my friends—those who come to visit, and those who already live here but still feel they have to hide who they are—to feel safe in the country I now call home.

Subscribe now

Being in Kharkiv, I was just writing a first post here about how everything in Ukraine seems very temporary, due to war.

What is probably the hardest thing to convey to foreigners/outsiders about Ukraine is that contrast between our daily reality, which feels entirely absurd, and the moments of normalcy, happiness, and the every day life we sometimes get to enjoy in spite of everything. All at once, all within the same day, sometimes within the same hour sometimes.

There is a sense of urgency to appreciate what is around us, because there is no guarantee that it will still exist the next moment, the next hour, the next day.

That is why I spend a lot of time walking through the cities I visit or live in for some time. Sometimes I am lost in thoughts for most of the day, wandering through familiar and unfamiliar places, I want to absorb every aspect of them, I want to record with my ears as much as with my eyes and camera every detail of every wall and every sign of life I detect. I want to memorize faces and words and facades that I know might not be the same for much longer. I want to document it all, and I don’t want to forget any of it.

That’s what I was doing yesterday afternoon in Kharkiv: contemplating plump cherries and appreciating the cool wind rustling through the branches, shortly before the air raid alert prompted me to look for shelter. I hadn’t reached a safe place when the first kamikaze drones began to loom over the city.

A life skill I never thought I would develop is the ability to recognize what is flying above me: a regular drone, a jet-propelled one, an interceptor, a missile, and other such niceties.

My heart sank when I heard air defense working, very loudly, near me. I was looking for shelter still, when I heard another sound, that of a hit. It was a mile away, and it was on the Kharkiv Museum of Arts.

The absurdity of that cloud of unnatural cloud of smoke in the sky.

The birds that immediately resumed singing.

By then, I had reached safety, thinking to myself that I had been dumb to be out at all. I tried to breathe slowly, and to remain calm. Although in over four years I got used to living under bombs, since this dreadful winter, I have developed strong anxiety at all times, and after such events I often stare blankly for a long time before I manage to pull myself together.

As a journalist, I could have gone on site immediately. Instead, I sat there scrolling on my phone. I didn’t go there quickly, because there was a risk of double tap. Russia loves killing rescuers. It loves killing those who save lives. In not going, I told myself I was a bad journalist, and also: “but I want to live”.

I went on site later that day, towards the end of the alert. Even if I hadn’t had the address, I could have followed the smoke. When I said life here is unreal, you have to imagine that along the firefighter trucks, passers-by were walking their dogs, some of them not even looking at the building still burning. Three teenagers raced next to me on their bikes, laughing. I followed the water hose, signaled myself to police, so they don’t think I’m an informant coming on site to revel. They tell me to be careful, the place is unsafe, debris are falling off the building and the roof is still burning.

Rescuers had been able to resume their work, after having had to shelter in the nearest metro station for fear of double-taps. I took pictures, bad ones, because I didn’t want to be in their way. I didn’t want to enter the building, which other journalists, especially photographers, had done, and thanks to them we could see the sorry sight of a museum damaged by Russia, by fire and by water.

I spoke to Yevhen Vasylenko, the Kharkiv State Emergency Services press officer, for my report. He explained that this was a strike on Ukraine’s and Kharkiv’s cultural heritage, and said it was home to the works of a lot of Ukrainian artists. Prior to the war, some 26000 paintings were stored in the museum. The curator said that while the most precious had been evacuated since 2022, the sheer quantity of them had made it impossible to evacuate all, therefore a substantial amount of them were stored in the museum’s reserves. Even Ihor Terekhov, the Kharkiv Mayor, could be seen carrying a few paintings to safety before heading for cover when the risk of double-tap became too great.

Like the Mayor, Vasylenko reported that a lot of volunteers came in to help rescuers evacuate the art pieces right after the strike:

He also explained why the fire spread throughout the building: the risk of double-tap made it impossible for rescuers to work in the aftermath of the initial strike:

It was almost dark when I went home. My hair and clothes carried the strong smell of smoke. I had wanted to write about cherry season and the temporary aspect of things. Instead, I wrote about Ukrainian cultural heritage in flames, and I didn’t sleep, as ballistic missiles hit Kharkiv late at night. When they exploded, the walls shook, my heart sank again. It seemed it would never stop. Last night, five rescuers were killed in a double-tap, and scrolling on my phone, I watched the Dormition Cathedral of Kyiv’s Pechersk- Lavra burn after a drone strike. Relentlessly, methodically, Russia continued to destroy Ukraine’s heritage through the night.