Air-raid alerts and frontline memoirs: Kyiv hosts literary festival amid war
Air-raid alerts and frontline memoirs: Kyiv hosts literary festival amid war
Air raid alerts and frontline memoirs - Kyiv’s Book Arsenal hosted a literary festival, yet it felt worlds apart from its counterparts in Hay-on-Wye, Edinburgh, or Melbourne. The event, held in June 2026, unfolded in a city still under the shadow of war, where the air-raid sirens had become an almost daily soundtrack. Despite the tension, the festival retained its essence as a celebration of words and creativity, though the setting and participants bore the unmistakable marks of a nation at war.
The Festival in the Shadows of Conflict
Unlike the bustling, sunlit venues of other literary festivals, Kyiv’s event took place in the heart of a historic military fortress, its cavernous halls echoing with the footsteps of attendees who had long since adapted to the rhythms of survival. The audience, predominantly young and dressed with a mix of practicality and flair, carried books purchased directly from publisher stalls, a gesture that underscored their commitment to the written word. Yet, the festival’s atmosphere was tinged with an undercurrent of urgency. The city’s recent skirmishes had left many wary, and the frequent air-raid warnings cast a pall over the proceedings.
On Friday, the festival’s first day, the venue was evacuated multiple times as participants braced for potential Russian attacks. The deputy minister for culture, Bohdana Laiuk, had to contend with the sound of sirens while presenting the prize for the best foreign translation of a Ukrainian book. The winner, Nina Murray, was honored for her English adaptation of Lesia Ukrainka’s feminist verse drama, Cassandra, a work that had emerged from the early 20th century and now resonated with contemporary struggles for autonomy. “This festival is a testament to the resilience of Ukrainian culture,” Laiuk remarked, her words blending with the hum of conversations and the clinking of coffee cups.
Military Presence and Cultural Resistance
Amid the literary discussions, military uniforms were a constant presence. The 8th Air Assault Force, known for its quick response and strategic prowess, operated the most popular coffee stand at the event, distributing bookmarks with the slogan “If you love reading, we like you” and a link to donate books. These donations were directed to an ammo box set up by the cultural forces of the army, which aimed to send literature to the frontline. Among the offerings were Ukrainian translations of classic works like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, alongside contemporary titles such as Please Don’t Be Afraid by Pavlo “Pashtet” Belyanskiy, a memoir detailing life at the war’s edge.
For many attendees, the sight of soldiers mingling with writers on stage was a powerful symbol of the nation’s transformation. The war had not only militarized Kyiv but also reshaped its creative output. “Writers who had become soldiers, and soldiers who had become writers,” one observer noted, capturing the dual identity that had emerged in the four years since the full-scale invasion began. This shift reflected a broader evolution in Ukrainian literature, moving from the immediate, poetic responses of the early war years to more reflective, narrative-driven accounts of survival and sacrifice.
The Burden of Freedom
One of the central themes of the festival was the tension between freedom and responsibility. Maksym Butkevych, a human rights defender and festival programmer, had proposed the tagline “bear your freedom” for the event, a phrase that carried profound weight given his personal experience. Volunteering for the army in 2022, he was captured, tortured, and held for two years—a period during which reading was both a luxury and a weapon of resistance. “Freedom is something I was denied in captivity,” he said in a
“Reading is a symbol of freedom—something that during most of my time in captivity I was forbidden from doing. It is the place where you have an inner world that cannot be invaded by the captors.”
This sentiment echoed across the festival, where writers grappled with the role of their craft in a nation perpetually under threat.
In a session titled “The Fragility of the Hero,” Butkevych and other contributors explored how the war had reshaped storytelling. Artur Dron’, a young poet and essayist whose work Hemingway Knows Nothing has become a bestseller, spoke about the evolution of literature in wartime. “The earliest books were filled with raw emotion and poetic expression,” he said, “but now we’re seeing memoirs that reflect a deeper understanding of the cost of conflict.” Dron’ noted that the war had created a new genre of writing—frontline memoirs—that captured the personal transformations of those who had left civilian life behind.
The festival also served as a platform for discussing the moral obligations of writers in a war-torn society. With the government no longer censoring the truth, authors faced a unique challenge: to balance honesty with the need to inspire hope. “We’re not just recording events; we’re shaping how the war is remembered,” said one of the session’s moderators. This responsibility was felt keenly by the participants, many of whom had witnessed the horrors of battle firsthand. “It’s not about forbidding yourself something,” Dron’ added, “but about feeling responsible for what you do. The words we choose carry the weight of our choices.”
A Resilient Cultural Landscape
Despite the disruptions, the festival remained a beacon of cultural endurance. The Book Arsenal, a historic 18th-century military building, had been repurposed into a space for artistic expression, its halls echoing with the voices of those who refused to let the war silence their stories. The choice of venue itself was symbolic, a reminder that even in the face of destruction, creativity could flourish. “This place has witnessed both war and peace,” said one of the event’s organizers, “but today it’s a place where the past and present collide in the most powerful way.”
The festival’s program also highlighted the role of literature in preserving national identity. As the war dragged on, entire publishing cycles had shifted. What began as a flood of poetry—quick to capture the immediacy of conflict—had given way to memoirs that chronicled the long-term impact of war on individuals and communities. This change was evident in the works being discussed, which ranged from historical texts to contemporary accounts of life on the frontline. “The war has forced us to think differently about our stories,” said a writer who had joined the army shortly after the invasion. “We’re no longer just telling the war; we’re telling ourselves how we’ve changed because of it.”
As the festival concluded on Monday night, the threat of another Russian attack loomed. The previous week had seen a barrage of 60 missiles and 600 drones, many targeting Kyiv. Though the attack came after the event had ended, its presence lingered in the minds of attendees. The Book Arsenal, with its mix of books and military preparedness, stood as a reminder of the dual nature of existence in wartime: a balance between the pursuit of knowledge and the need for vigilance. For the Ukrainian people, this festival was more than a cultural event—it was a declaration of their unwavering commitment to freedom, even in the face of constant danger.
As the sun set over Kyiv, the festival’s participants dispersed, some returning to their posts, others to their families. The books they carried were not just items of comfort but symbols of resistance. In a world where the air-raid siren could interrupt any moment, the act of reading and writing had become an assertion of humanity. “We are writing not just for the present,” said Butkevych, “but for the future. For those who will one day look back and understand what it meant to endure.”