As Russia continues striking Ukraine’s energy system in subzero temperatures, photographs from Kyiv capture life in the freezing capital
Russian strikes on civilian infrastructure have left thousands of homes across Ukraine without electricity or heat this winter. Attacks on February 12 left roughly a quarter of Kyiv’s high-rise apartment buildings in the cold; as of February 16, about 500 buildings in the capital were still without heat, Mayor Vitali Klitschko said. Although Russia’s war continues to make headlines internationally, few people outside the country truly understand what it takes to survive in subzero temperatures without modern amenities. Meduza shares excerpts from letters from our Ukrainian readers, accompanied by a photo series shot in Kyiv in late January. Together, they capture not only the harsh conditions Ukrainians face but also their feelings of exhaustion, despair, and fragile hope as the full-scale war enters its fifth year.
The following photographs were taken by a photographer from Hans Lucas, a French photo agency.
Maryna, Kyiv
It’s -22° [-7.6° Fahrenheit] outside, and 12° [53.6° Fahrenheit] inside the apartment — for now. Our [Soviet-era] Khrushchevka building loses heat quickly. It’s a small, aging apartment — the only place my mother and I were able to scrape together enough money for in 2014, when we fled occupied Horlivka.
When people asked me whether I was afraid of death, I used to say I planned to live at least one day longer than that mad old man. That I’d sing and dance, hug strangers, and celebrate! Now I’m not sure I will.
Anna, Kyiv
During the freeze, it was 6° [42.8° Fahrenheit] in my apartment in a concrete high-rise — with an electric stove and no electricity. The cold sank into my bones, into my brain, into despair. But we carried on. […]
It’s sad that the final chord of my life falls at such a difficult time. I’ll never see my loved ones again, never experience a carefree old age. I want to die quietly, peacefully, without suffering — and, if possible, without burdening anyone.
Oksana, Kyiv
Silence is no longer comforting — it’s tense anticipation. Night is no longer rest — it’s a fragile line between fear and hope. And the war feels endless. It isn’t only outside; it’s already inside us. It has woven itself into our thoughts, into smells and sounds, into the air itself. It has displaced time, erasing the difference between yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Now the past is the only place left to take shelter.
Yevheniia, Kremenchuk
A week ago, someone sent me a video of men cutting the power at the mine in our town [Bilozerske] for good. Anyone who grew up in a coal town knows a mine never truly stops; the pumps keep running to keep it from flooding. If the power is shut off, it means it’s been de-energized, which, in reality, means the mine is finished.
Our town is small and easy to overlook, just past Dobropillia. Few people, even in the Donetsk region, know it exists. The front used to be far away. Now it’s so close they’re shutting down the mine, and it will never operate again — it will be flooded. It was terrifying to watch that video. Yesterday people were going to work; today they aren’t. It reminds me of last year, when workers never made it to their shift at another mine in Pishchane because the Russians had taken their village.
Ihor, location not specified
News of yet another round of negotiations feels like background noise. […] It looks as though the negotiating team bought an unbelievably cheap world tour and is busy sightseeing.
Albert, Kharkiv
My own brother is serving in the armed forces now, and every day he asks the same question: Why? There’s emptiness inside, and bitterness at realizing how powerless you are in the face of hell. Will there be peace? I don’t know. Someday, yes. But who will bring back the dead? Who will return what we’ve lost? No one.
Maksym, Kryvyi Rih
Survival — there’s no other word for it. People are holding on, but barely. Generators, charging stations, inverters… That’s what’s on the ground. And overhead — endless air raid sirens, Shahed [drones] and missiles, and attempts to shoot them down. And I sit in my cold, dark house, waiting for the electricity to come back so I can wash the dishes and recharge the power station. If a drone doesn’t hit my home before then.
And again that hateful thought creeps in. Right now, at this very moment, while I’m hiding like a rat in the dark and cold from drones, somewhere on the other side of the world — say, in New Zealand — an ordinary guy finishes work and goes surfing in the ocean. He’ll surf, then go home and go to bed. And I’m sitting in this apocalypse wondering how the hell I ended up being born and living in this country, at this time.
Hlib, Kyiv
I’m in Kyiv now. It’s cold, it’s dark, and there’s no heating. But when I see my neighbors climbing 20 flights of stairs and still finding the strength to say, “Good evening,” when I see people throwing outdoor discos in -15° [5° Fahrenheit] (which is very cold for Kyiv), when I see shop owners letting stray dogs and cats come inside to warm up, I feel that there are living, breathing people around me. Their warmth is more than enough to carry me through to spring.
Maksym, Kyiv
We’re about to enter the fifth year of the war’s active phase. A lot has changed over that time. Not long ago, I caught myself thinking that I’ve gone through all five stages of acceptance — from denial and anger to resignation. Even resignation to the idea that someone decided a war can be won by destroying civilian infrastructure — electricity, heating, water supply.
It would be extremely interesting to see how all of this will be interpreted 50 years from now — how Russian history will present this war against “fascists,” in which “Kholodomor” was used against the civilian population to achieve victory.
And yet, against this backdrop of total resignation and indifference that has settled over me, I find myself feeling sorry for Russians — paradoxical as that may sound. Ukrainians probably have it easier in some ways — physically harder, of course, but mentally clearer. You [people living in Russia] are prisoners of your own conscience, separated from one another by an enormous wall built by the regime.
Maybe you could try having a “day without lights”? Just pick any evening and don’t turn on the lights in your home. Perhaps one day, walking through Moscow at night, you’ll see that you’re not alone — that in some apartment buildings, at least 20 percent fewer windows are lit.
