Putin thought he could take this city in three days. Now they wait to toast his demise with champagne

Sydney Morning Herald

7 hours ago

But Kyiv didn't fall. It fought. And it hasn't stopped fighting since.
Today, it's the beating heart of a country that refuses to be broken – and the home of a man who became an icon. Volodymyr Zelensky, the comedian-turned-president, was told to flee in the early days of the invasion. Instead, he stayed. 'I need ammunition, not a ride,' he said.
Tony Abbott recently called Zelensky 'the greatest freedom fighter' of our times. It's hard to disagree. Around the world, his leadership has become a symbol of resistance. But here in Kyiv, he's no demigod, he's simply another Ukrainian fighting.
The city itself is a contradiction – part defiant metropolis, part bruised monument. It has been called 'the new Berlin', a nod to its gritty charm and creative energy. The food is brilliant, the bars are packed, the streets hum with life – even as sirens sound above.
But while this surreal, magnetic city sits hours from the front, it is far from safe. The war doesn't respect geography.
A day before I arrived, Russia launched one of the biggest air assaults Kyiv has seen in months – a 3½-hour barrage of drones and missiles. Explosions were heard across eight of the city's 10 districts. Nine people were killed, including four children; 33 more were injured.
The next day, as I headed towards Dnipro, news came through that a Russian missile had struck a passenger train and civilian infrastructure there. Seventeen people died. Nearly 280 were wounded – among them 27 children.
My trip so far has avoided the worst. But the trauma lingers everywhere. The night is filled with the buzz of drones and the thunder of anti-aircraft batteries. Some sleep in corridors, basement carparks and metro stations. Yet somehow, life goes on.
Kyiv's endurance didn't begin in 2022. This city has been surviving invasions for more than 1500 years.
Founded in 482 AD (or so the legend goes), Kyiv was once the capital of Kievan Rus – a medieval state that laid the foundations for modern Ukraine, Belarus and Russia. In the 10th and 11th centuries, it rivalled Constantinople. The domes of Saint Sophia Cathedral and the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra monastery still rise above the skyline, reminders of a deep and complex history – stretching back to long before Moscow was little more than a forest clearing.
Kyiv has been invaded by Mongols, ruled by Poles and Tsars, occupied by Nazis. It has burned and been rebuilt more times than seems fair. It has never stayed down for long.
At its heart lies Maidan Nezalezhnosti – Independence Square. The site of student protests in the '90s, the Orange Revolution in 2004, and the bloody Euromaidan uprising in 2014 that ousted a Kremlin-backed president and sparked this long war. Today the square is lined with flags and photographs of the fallen – soldiers, civilians, children.
And yet, just around the corner, a bar promises free champagne the day Putin dies. Kyiv's defiance is often laced with wit.
Culture has become a front line. Theatres perform through blackouts. Museums preserve war artefacts. Comedians still take the stage. One official put it simply: 'It's culture that helps us resist. It keeps our soul alive.'
Because this isn't just a war for land. It's a war over identity, memory and truth. Russia wants to erase Ukrainian language and culture. But what I see here is a nation redrawing its future – sometimes with spray paint, sometimes with blood.
This one final visit, alongside a World Vision Australia crew, in my last week as Europe correspondent, is not enough – but it's something. And to everyone I meet, I say the same thing: We won't forget you. We can't afford to.