Day 1,156 of the invasion; 24 April 2025. Thirty hours after the end of Russia’s fake “Easter ceasefire”. It is 6.21am: feeling anxious, I call my father. He is travelling by train from the western part of Ukraine to Kyiv, due to arrive in 40 minutes. He picks up the phone, and from his cheerful tone I gather that he has not yet heard the news. I ask if the train is running late. My father says everything is fine, he can already spot familiar places in the Kyiv region. He wants to know why I doubt the arrival time. I tell him that sadly Russia has been shelling the country all night long. In Kyiv, I say, we have lived through one of the worst nights. “I’m jumping in a taxi,” I add. “I’ll see you soon.”

Those who survive shelling often imitate the sounds of explosions when they talk about the experience. I instantly think of this when an early morning roll call of “how are you?” starts in the friends’ group chat. Whoosh. Whiz. Boom. Bang. The only thing I can write is the sounds of what came flying at us the during the night. Like a child learning to talk. Or a person who has lost the ability to speak.

The air-raid siren in Kyiv began at 12.36am. And from then until morning, my consciousness was being torn apart by the flapping of the wings of doves of peace. The piercing whistle of something Russian-North Korean flying over our house – then the explosion. The threatening rattle of Russian-Iranian Shahed drones above us – and the explosion. Machine-gun bursts and the noisy activity of our air defence. Two explosions make our house jump, set off the sickening screeching of the car alarms and shatter the balcony windowpane. Explosions, and then the screaming starts outside.

We hide in the bathroom – myself, my partner, Dasha, and our old chihuahua. There’s an........

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