The New 1920s, Kernesance, and Away from Moscow: How Kharkiv lives 30 kilometers from Russia

Kharkiv is OSB boards on hundreds of thousands of windows, the smell of menthol cigarettes in bars frequented by bohemians, fancy coffee and scrambles in the morning after a night of loud explosions. It's Derzhprom, benches, trash cans, "kernesans" and the meme "Misha, you have a boring face, no one will give you money!" These are the military, volunteers, students, artists and scientists, the Slovo House, and the same call "Get away from Moscow!" proclaimed 90 years ago, which has found new life in the daily resistance of a million of its residents. We visited Kharkiv and talked to writers, poets, architects, and volunteers to find out how it lives today.

The scene. The audience. Literature. In Every Word – Kharkiv.

They had their first date near the Slovo House. Wine, rain, and the atmosphere of literary bohemia – this is where the most famous poets and prose writers of the "Executed Renaissance" wrote and lived (and sometimes died, like Mykola Khvylovyi) 100 years ago.

This is a five-story building with five entrances and 66 apartments, built in the 1920s for Ukrainian writers. The C-shaped building later became the place where they were persecuted and killed during Stalin's repressions.

"We took a bottle and met up. We planned to just sit and chat. But it was raining," recalls a young, smiling girl named Tetiana, as the smoke from her cigarette rises in the atmosphere of Kharkiv's Shevchenko Garden.

"Well, as a 'bottle,' I took three. Otherwise, they'll make up one. It was raining!" laughs Artem, who is also documenting and shivering from the cool wind.

Artem Elf, poet, writer, and curator of the Kharkiv literary slam LitSoul UA. He and Tetiana, who works at Kharkiv's Radio Nakypilo, met because of their love of literature. And also the bars that the local bohemians like to visit.

"Imagine, right there, on those streets, those same poets walked. And it was in this very city," the lovers tell me now. "In Kharkiv, I think, it's the new 1920s," adds Tetiana Khoronzhuk .

We met with her and her boyfriend near the Derzhprom is one of Kharkiv's most famous architectural sites and a well-known symbol of constructivism in Ukraine and the world, built in the 1920s. It was once the industrial control center of the Ukrainian Socialist Soviet Republic and became one of the world's first skyscrapers built of reinforced concrete. It is from this that the famously known since the beginning of the full-scale Russian invasion started: "Kharkiv – reinforced concrete".

"In Kharkiv, there is this environment – free and lively, Ukrainian. Only here in Ukraine could literary slam be born. It's like stand-up, but instead of jokes, it's poetry," says Artem .

Tetyana Khoronzhuk moved to Kharkiv from Lviv during the full-scale invasion in 2023. She says that with each visit she slowly fell in love with the city and realized that she wanted to stay, despite the Russian aggression being felt very keenly in this city. Kharkiv is 30 kilometers away from Russia, and since February 24, 2022, there have rarely been quiet days here when the "neighbors" do not send KABs or "chekers".

"I lived in Lviv for 10 years," says Tetiana, "and I was looking for a literary community like this, but I didn't find it. The first time I came to Kharkiv after the full-scale began, I was simply amazed. There is bar culture, poetry, and theater here. Every third person here is either a poet, a friend of a poet, a writer, or an artist.".

The three of us are walking from Derzhprom through the central streets of Kharkiv; the weather is sunny but windy; in May, the city is full of greenery. The first thing that catches your eye is the whitewashed trees, many windows covered with OSB boards (the consequences of Russian shelling), and anti-tank hedgehogs scattered in some places.

"This park used to be a cemetery," says Artem. He is originally from Horlivka, Donetsk Oblast, but moved to Kharkiv many years ago. "This church (of the former Moscow Patriarchate) used to be one of the first in the city to be demolished by the Soviets. And then Kernes built a new one. They joked that he was buried there. Although, in my opinion, it was true.".

By the way, the former mayor of Kharkiv, Hennadii Kernes, is mentioned here quite often. There are urban legends about him: allegedly, there was his favorite restaurant near the historical museum in the center, and when the mayor was having lunch, no one else was allowed in. Together with Artem and Tetiana, we passed that favorite restaurant, near which there is a monument to the Greek goddess of victory Nika covered in sacks.

"Although Kernes had some strange preferences and political views, it turns out that he was one of the first decommunizers of Kharkiv," says Artem, "because there used to be a monument on this site with the popular name 'Four Carrying a Refrigerator' – a monument commemorating the proclamation of Soviet power in Ukraine. Under Kernes, it was demolished back in 2012 and replaced with a statue of Nick. It says on the back that it was "with the assistance of Kernes, Dobkin (former mayor of Kharkiv. – LIGA.net. )." Recalling the two former Kharkiv mayors, Tetiana confirms that the meme "Misha, you have a boring face" is still alive and well among the townspeople.

The literary group LitSoul UA, in which both Artem and Tetiana participate, has been holding slams in Kharkiv since 2016. It all started with intimate apartment slams. Now it is a large artistic movement. The stages are mostly bars, alternative theaters, and coffee shops, such as Pakufuda, Seventh Warehouse, or Theater Nafta .

"People from all over the country come to our slams. Literally, to read their lyrics and be among their own," adds Artem.

After February 24, 2022, the slam went silent for six months. The community dispersed – some went to Kyiv, some to Europe, some went to war. But soon new faces began to appear.

"Young people come. They are 18, 19 years old. A year ago they were children. And now they say: "I'm a poet," "I'm a photographer," "I'm a director." This is something incredible. There's an energy in the air that hasn't been in Kharkiv for a long time," says Artem Elf .

The new generation formed the Creative Undead, an underground art group with its own gallery. Bohemian life began to grow not around the old poetry community, but from artists and those who combine words and images.

I ask them to say something in Kharkiv, and Artem and Tetiana start spouting off words: trempel – a coat rack, Barabashov market, Steklyashka – the exit from the Universytet metro station, square pizza from the Buffet – it existed "back when Artem had hair," the legendary club Zhyvot and Kefir Pub, and Kulinichi – local bakery stalls, and surzhyk. Surzhyk is gradually becoming less of a taboo here after the popularity of the Kurgan i Agregat band, which also hails from Kharkiv.

"Kharkiv is alive. Just look closely"

I am walking with Kharkiv resident Meriam Yol through the "quiet center" of Kharkiv. Sumska Street is the main street, and we are walking parallel to it. "Now, on the right, Svobody Street will start, it will lead to the Freedom Square," says Meriam. We take coffee in a small place opened by a classmate of hers. She has just moved back to live in Saltivka, the neighborhood that has probably been hit hardest by the shelling .

"I remember how in the first month of the full-scale war, there was no bread in the city," Meryam recalls .

The next day, while walking around the city, I saw a picture of bread on an OSB board. It was very symbolic. For a hundred days, part of the Volunteer team lived in the basement of the bakery: an oven, flour, everything they had. "Only one of us knew how to bake, but everyone quickly learned.".

Maryam is 31 and has lived in Kharkiv all her life.

"I'm comfortable here, it's great, it's wonderful. And then Russia appeared," he shrugs.

Before the full-scale war, she was a producer.

Now Maryam is the Operations Director at the Volunteer Foundation. They are a small team of Kharkiv residents who decided to stay in the city more than three years ago. "I used to look for a complicated costume for a shoot. Now I'm looking for a drone for the military," says Meryam. "At first, Volunteer helped civilians in Kharkiv, and then started looking for generators for villages after the de-occupation, electric stoves for Vovchansk, where there was no gas. Since 2023, the foundation has been engaged in reconstruction: roofs and windows in 175 houses around Izyum have been repaired. They also equipped shelters.

"In Kharkiv, there were no bomb shelters as such," says Meryam. "The basements were filled with junk. We rebuilt 165 shelters, did everything with our own hands.".

They also went to the villages: to find out what the locals need. The most pressing issue was work. "Most people worked in the agricultural sector. And the fields were mined. Then Volunteer began to buy greenhouses, equipment, and helped with logistics. According to locals, Demianivka village, which changed hands 18 times, has not a single building left standing.".

In Demianivka, the volunteers met Lyudmyla. It was a hot summer, and she was growing corn in her garden. Some of the ears were overripe and were just plucked off by the hot temperature. The woman cleared the field of mines by hand. "She treated us to some corn. We tasted it and it was wow. We bought the crop and started selling it to Kharkiv restaurants," says Meryam. This is how the De-occupation Shop project was born (a volunteer project in Kharkiv that helps farmers from the de-occupied territories sell their products and rebuild their farms.).

Meryam and I walk through Shevchenko's evening garden. The monument to Kobzar is wrapped in sacks. There have been several waves of renaming in the city. "There are new streets in honor of fallen soldiers. But in general, there are very few in honor of women. The media outlet Luke even did a study.".

Kharkiv, in her opinion, has always been a city of culture and theaters, with the largest number of independent stages in Ukraine. Now they are surviving: salaries have been cut, stages are closed – the military administration bans them from performing. But culture is not disappearing. "There are Some People (a Kharkiv-based cultural organization that creates spaces for art, music, and education, including the Center for New Culture – Ed.) – they bring DJs from Europe and play sets during the war. Now they are building a 1600-square-meter space for performances and concerts.".

"When Kharkiv residents don't like something, we talk about it," says Meryam. Mass rallies are prohibited, but this does not stop them. Instead, they hold "picnics.".

"There is also the Giant building, an architectural monument. They want to rebuild it into a cafe. Again, activists are at the door." There are no sculptures near the fountain, which Meryam calls "our famous fountain with monkeys." There is only water. "We have a term called 'kernesans'. If it's something big, unecological, strange, made out of everything and for a lot of money, that's it.".

We say goodbye to Maryam around nine at Some people. All the establishments close early. "If someone thinks that Kharkiv is dead, don't think so," says Meryam. There is light. There are people. There is coffee. Children are being born. We are doing our best to make the city alive. And we want to be seen alive.".

"We do not agree that we should give up everything because of Russia"

A dinosaur is painted on the gate of the Kharkiv alternative theater Nafta. The director of the theater, Tatiana Golubova, meets me, hurriedly getting out of a taxi and smiling. We go up to her office, the walls covered with posters. The building smells like old libraries.

In the late nineteenth century, the building was a monastery. Later it was a factory for Christmas tree decorations and giant Pinocchios, and in the 1990s it was a sewing shop. Today it is the independent Nafta Theater, one of about 15 theaters out of 50 that "survived" and returned to Kharkiv from Lviv during the war. During the war, this theater became phenomenally popular-their Orgy of Cyborgs has been seen in Lviv, Kyiv, Dnipro, and even abroad. The door to the office opens and a young dark-haired woman with a short haircut enters.

- How is everything at home, is everything okay?" Tetiana asks her.

"The door is jammed, but my dad has already fixed it," answers the woman, her name is Olena Bazhenova, and she is an actress in Nafta. "However, everything is covered in dust, the shutters have fallen from the windows. But the windows are intact. The barn took the whole wave, we were lucky.".

Yesterday, a Russian "shahed" flew near the house where the actress lives with her father. Olena's husband, also an actor, is at war, and she is afraid to live alone in the apartment.

"What never ceases to amaze me," Olena continues, "is that we arrived at night, around 11 p.m., and at 6 a.m., there was OSB everywhere where it was knocked out. It was as if nothing had happened.".

In the summer of 2023, the Nafta restarted. Now they don't have a single performance from the pre-war repertoire, they started from scratch. They also renewed the team, as some of them left, others went to serve. Olena, a theater actress, has three jobs: at Nafta, in a children's group at the Palace of Culture, and at the Imagination teenage hub. This is a typical story for many people working in the cultural sector, as some state theaters, for example, now pay 3000-4000 UAH in salaries. And people still go to work .

"Before the war, there were about 60 people in the theater. Now there are 22. Some left, some went to war, some stayed. We volunteered: the headquarters of Culture Shock was here. And now it's a theater again," says the director .

"We don't agree that because of Russia's military aggression, we should somehow leave our home, that we should somehow abandon what we have developed here over the years," says theater director Tetiana Holubova. "I think we have become ourselves during a full-scale war. This building used to be a sewing shop. Now there is a stage for 50 spectators. Previously, chamber performances were held here. Now, because of the danger, we perform in the Some People space on Klochkivska Street.".

There are few safe venues for performances in the city. Actors have almost nowhere to perform. "High rent, low salaries, small repertoire. You have to fight for every viewer. This is a different logic than, for example, in Kyiv. Most of the people who come to Nafta are young people from creative professions," says Tetiana .

The favorite places in Kharkiv for women working at Nafta are Strelka Square, Kontorska Square, and the embankment where the Lopan River meets the Kharkiv River. Derzhprom is also a place of power. "It seems to me that I take pictures of it every time. I probably already have a whole calendar on my phone: at least one photo a month. It's like a reminder that we are here, and the city is here too," says Tetiana .

"When people ask me if there is anyone left in Kharkiv, I say, 'Yes, we also perform plays,'" says Tetiana, "because Kharkiv is alive. It's just not the same as it used to be." Here is a third-wave cafe with a match, and next door is a house filled with OSB. IT people are on calls with American customers. And suddenly, the plane arrives. And if it's not too close, everyone continues to work. This is our life. This abnormal normality.".

"I think we all went a little crazy"

In the Pakufuda coffee shop and bakery near the State Industrial Complex and the zoo, creative people find everything they need. First of all, other creative people. "Everyone I talked to told me to come here," says Lilia Muntyan, the co-founder of the place. Today, they serve fresh pastries from a craft bakery and offer to play board games – there are more than 300 of them.

"It just so happened that the cultural community was drawn here," says Liliia. "If you need to meet someone or solve a problem, everyone comes here. And somehow it all comes together. Luke's journalists used to work here, holding meetings. Before they had their own space, they almost lived here.".

On January 2, 2023, an airplane hit the cafe, smashing the windows and damaging the hall. After the attack, the coffee shop was closed for ten days to recover. Pakufuda was one of the favorite places of Kharkiv journalist Dmytro Kuzubov. He liked to come here, choose a table on the second floor, where he could see the sunsets, and work. Now Dmytro is serving in the National Guard.

"I was born and raised in Kharkiv. It is my native and favorite city. i worked as a journalist for 10 years, and until 2023, I headed the editorial office of Luke for three years," says Dima. He left Kharkiv for the first time for a long time on March 3, 2022, two days after the air strike on the regional state administration building.

"I left with my family for two months, when it was impossible to stand the whistle of fighter jets – at eleven in the morning, like clockwork," says Dmytro. "Then I returned. "It feels like home, I don't sleep well anywhere, although the explosions have not decreased much.".

In 2022, Kharkiv was a complete surrealism for Dima: the center, which had always been full of noise and frantic traffic, crowds of people and students, was now empty. It felt like the only people left in the city were volunteers, the military, and foreign journalists. On one of the main streets, you could stand on the roadway for a couple of minutes without seeing a single car. All distant acquaintances became friends and hugged each other when they met. In the spring of 2023, people started coming back .

"The coffee shops are the main witnesses of Kharkiv's resilience. When the Russians were still standing behind the ring road, you could drink latte or alternatives, some kind of trendy coffee drinks in a coffee shop in the city center. At night, the city would be attacked by ballistic missiles or KABs, and in the morning everyone would just drink coffee as if nothing had happened and discuss the news. After three years of living like this, I think we all went a little crazy.".

Dima believes that when you realize that you may not wake up in the morning, it is very strange from a psychological point of view to stay in this city. But there must be something in it, because there is a reason why a million people are staying here right now.

"We live a random life here. Or a random death."

The windows of Anna Gin's house in Kharkiv overlook the border with the Russian Federation – she lives in Saltovka. she remembers February 24 every minute of it. During the full-scale invasion, she buried both of her parents and parted ways with her daughter, who went abroad.

She has been working with words all her life: she was a journalist, PR specialist, and copywriter. Since the beginning of her career, she has been keeping a full-time diary of her life in Kharkiv and publishing it on her Facebook page. Two years ago, this diary was published as a book. We met near the entrance to Saltovka and went with her Doberman, Hector, to Kharkiv's Hydropark.

"The day before yesterday, we got into a ***** fight with the Shahedis," she says while driving. "Hector got scared and ran away, I'm running around looking for him, something explodes around me. I have no fear at all, my dog is gone! I lost my voice, but, thank God, I found him.".

Arrivals in Kharkiv are quite frequent, but it no longer causes anything but stress and hatred, Anna says. It becomes a habit when you can't grieve anymore. Now the writer has found something to do with her hands in such cases – she makes epoxy resin jewelry, sells it, and spends the money on volunteering. At first, she used to calm down with 50 grams of cognac or whiskey .

"At some point, I realized that this was happening too often, and I was going to get so fucking drunk," says Anna. We live a random life here. Or a random death.".

Since the beginning of the full-scale war, Anna has been volunteering. "A truck with medicines would come to the front, and I would sort them and sign them for the guys – 'for the ass,' 'for the fever,' and deliver them where they were needed," says Anna. One day, her subscribers from Kharkiv, who moved to Italy, wrote to her that they had raised 350 euros and wanted to help the hospital, and asked her to contact.

"The hospital shrugged their shoulders: for 350 euros, you can't do much for the wounded, but they told me: "Listen, buy us a TV for the hall. Soon there will be a soccer game, the boys will have something to watch," says Anna Hin. "I was so happy! But the girls moved out, it seemed like something frivolous to them. And I realized that I couldn't afford to buy the TV myself, so I wrote a post. That's how I raised the money to buy that TV.".

We are walking through the hydropark, and dusk is slowly descending on the city. It will be loud again tonight, but we don't know it yet. Hector begs for dog treats and only then agrees to be photographed.

Anna was born in this city, got married, gave birth and raised a child, got divorced, and still couldn't live anywhere else, although she went to Dnipro for a while. In 2022, there were empty shops in Kharkiv, with almost no beauty salons, banks, or craft shops open. There were no children.

"You know, children – they are so bright with their bows and scooters. When no one is laughing on a swing or in a sandbox, the city seems lifeless.".

In 2023, families with children began to return, and the city began to revive.

"I don't want to sound like a heroine," says Anna Gin. "Yes, I volunteer and communicate with Ukrainian and foreign journalists every day. Look, I'm not a young mother anymore, I have an adult child, but I'm not old either. So I can be useful and help. Sometimes my daughter writes to me: "Mom, what's going on?" She's watching the news feed, where there are explosions and arrivals, and we're sitting with Hector, sometimes we don't hear anything, we're drinking tea, you know?".

Kharkiv has changed over the past three years, says Anna Gin. Most noticeably, it has become much more Ukrainian-speaking.

"I have a neighbor, and we communicate with him orally in Russian – we're Kharkiv residents, sorry," says Anna. "But recently he wrote to me on Telegram: " I forgot to close the window in the car." It's interesting, isn't it? We still speak Russian, but write in Ukrainian.".

"There will be no more big factories". What will be the future of Kharkiv?

On a weekend, Kharkiv's Shevchenko Garden is extremely crowded. Whereas in Sarzhyn Yar people are fishing and listening to birds singing, here they are standing in lines for cappuccinos and feeding children ice cream. We met with Viktor Dvornikov, an architect and head of the NGO Urban Development Platform, nearby, on Svobody Square.

"Freedom Square is actually the point of Kharkiv's restart in Soviet times," says the architect. The entire structure of the city was then rebuilt around this square. From here, the main streets – Sumska, Heroiv Kharkivu Avenue (formerly Moskovskyi), Poltavskyi Shlyakh – radiate out.".

For example, 14.5 thousand students are currently enrolled in V. N. Karazin Kharkiv National University. This was stated by Anatoliy Babichev, Vice-Rector for Academic Affairs. "Among them, a small number are foreigners. Back in 2021, for example, 23,000 students studied here, four of whom were foreigners. "Most of those who want to study psychology now are three hundred candidates for one place," says Anatolii. "The next most popular are the Faculty of Foreign Languages and International Relations.".

Although the university is online, something new is still emerging here, such as one of the first veteran development centers in Ukraine. These are short-term programs when military units apply to the university to gain some competencies: for example, in medical care or to learn the specifics of the work of the RAB.

"A few years ago, Freedom Square was, without exaggeration, the main city square. You and I wouldn't have just sat on a bench five years ago, it was always full of students. Now the university is offline, so everything is different.".

According to architect Viktor Dvornikov, Kharkiv has always been based on three pillars: students, industry, and logistics.

"There were over 300,000 students here every year before the full-scale war. Industry is a separate topic, most large factories were no longer competitive due to outdated technology. And logistics – Kharkiv has always developed thanks to its good logistical location at the intersection of the routes from Kyiv to Donbas and from Moscow to Crimea. This will also no longer be the case, because we are now in a logistical dead end," says Viktor .

Therefore, the architect believes that Kharkiv needs to change its focus.

"There will be no more big factories. But culture, science, and creativity are what can work here and now," says Viktor .

He tells about unobvious Kharkiv places: Zakharkivska Sloboda, not far from the center, is almost a nineteenth-century reserve. The buildings, the number of storeys, the geometry are all preserved. Back then, people settled in sloboda because there were no taxes and no serfdom. It was also possible to engage in distilling and sell alcohol without duty. This attracted people who were used to living freely: Cossacks and other adventurers. There is also Moskalivka, closer to the Pivdennyi Station, where there are also many old objects of the XIX century.

Another example of interesting architecture is the KhTZ area (which Zhadan and the Dogs sang about in the Malvy song). On the one hand, there are factories, then a green zone, then houses. And between all of this is a narrow lane of transportation. The houses had shared amenities, and there were no kitchens. The dining room, kindergarten, and school were all under one roof. People lived in the system. Like a small cog in the Soviet system. Dvornikov speaks briefly about modern construction: "Kernesans".

"I also think that the message that is being heard throughout Ukraine, the 'Fortress Kharkiv' as the local authorities like to say, is more of a PR thing," says Dvornikov. "Kharkiv has never been a fortress. In fact, the city operates as a network with many horizontal connections. And this is its strength. Not in the walls.".

***

"You are greeted by the hero city of Kharkiv," reads an inscription on a board at the entrance to the city . On billboards and in the subway: "I am proud to be a Kharkiv citizen". An adult woman quarrels with teenagers over matting at a bus stop, while everyone else stands modestly in line for the Bohdan trolleybus. GPS here is constantly going astray during air raids.

In Sarzhyn Yar, people enjoy fishing and the warm sunshine of spring on Saturday. The taxi driver who takes me to the train station says: "I perceive this city as a loved one." And he explains that this means seeing the flaws, but not paying attention to them .

At the train station, I hear two guys in military uniforms talking, one saying to the other: "This is my first time in Kharkiv, although I'm from Donbas. Can you tell me where the cinema is? I want to watch the movie "Rasha, go ahead.".

Kharkiv is like a specialty Kharkiv cake. It tastes different, and you may not like some flavors. But you won't go hungry for sure.