I am once again woken up by the unpleasant buzzing of Russian drones

New Statesman​

2 days ago

Photo by Sergey Bobok / AFP via Getty Images
W hen I am staying at our house in the country, the feel of each day depends on the first sound I hear – the sound that wakes me up. Two turtle doves are nesting in our garden and the most beautiful thing is to wake up to their gentle call. Sometimes other birds beat the doves and it is their songs which greet my ears as I open my eyes. They also reassure me that the new day will be calm, not dangerous. Too often, however, the morning begins with other sounds.
Two days ago I woke up at 3am and listened. I always follow the same procedure when I find myself awake in the middle of the night. First, I check the time, then look on the internet to see what is happening in the sky above Ukraine. Each night sees an invasion of Russian drones and I was not surprised to learn that five minutes prior one had flown over our house, moving in the direction of Korostyshiv, a town located 30km from our village. That night, Russia launched more than 400 drones at Ukraine. They all fell somewhere – either hitting their target or tumbling out of the sky having been shot down by air-defence systems. But as the one that woke me up flew on towards Korostyshiv, I fell asleep again. After all, it was still dark outside and the birds in my garden were silent.
I was woken up again by another drone at around 7am. I heard the familiar, unpleasant buzzing of an engine in the sky and I went out into the yard. The drone had already flown on. I could not see it, but the noise of its engine was still audible.
Twenty minutes later I took a cup of coffee out into the yard and heard and saw the next one flying over our village school towards the nearest town. Strangely, visual contact with it calmed me. I saw it, but it did not see me. At that moment it was not moving towards me but flying away.
The anti-tyranny playbook
On Friday I went to Kyiv's largest literary festival, Book Arsenal. Security guards carefully checked the contents of bags and made everyone walk through metal detectors. No one was indignant. It's wartime. Every now and then, in cities far from the front line, grenades explode – often thoughtlessly brought home by soldiers on leave.
Later it became clear that the thorough security check at the festival entrance was prompted by the visit of President Volodymyr Zelensky and his wife. Surrounded by numerous security guards, they walked around the publishers' stands and picked up the book To Kill a Tyrant by the Italian writer and lawyer Aldo Andrea Cassi, which had just been released in Ukrainian. Publisher Anetta Antonenko, an old friend of mine, experienced one of the best moments of her professional life. No, I'm not talking about meeting Zelensky – his purchasing the book instantly turned it into a festival bestseller, and Antonenko twice had to order urgent deliveries of additional copies from the warehouse.
The next day, the speaker of the Ukrainian parliament, Ruslan Stefanchuk, attended Book Arsenal. In his comments to journalists he said he bought 50 books, but did not mention any titles so that his visit did not affect the commercial success of the Ukrainian publishers present.
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The hive mind
On Sunday, I read the news about the operation against Russian strategic aviation in which Ukraine secretly planted a swarm of drones in Russia before unleashing them in a surprise attack on airfields across the country. I could not help thinking that beekeepers must have had something to do with the development of this plan! The comings and goings involved reminded me of how beekeepers move their hives, seeking territories for them to collect pollen that are remote from civilisation.
Darkest before dawn
This year, Ukrainian school graduates were again unable to experience the most romantic part of the traditional graduation celebration: greeting the dawn. Before the war, having received their school leaving certificates, graduates would dance a farewell waltz with their classmates and enjoy raucous parties until the small hours. They would then walk around their cities and towns waiting for daybreak, which they would greet at a location chosen for its beauty. This 'graduation dawn' witnessed in the company of classmates was the starting point of a new, already adult and independent life. Dawn at the end of May begins around 4am, but curfew is lifted only at five. So, for the fourth year running, there is no dawn for Ukrainian graduates. Alas.
'The Stolen Heart' by Andrey Kurkov is out now (Quercus)
[See also: It's the nuance, stupid]
Related
This article appears in the 04 Jun 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Housing Trap