On recent mornings, instead of physical exercise, I have taken to doing mental exercise. No, I don’t solve puzzles or logic riddles before breakfast. I read reports about the number of Russian drones that attacked Ukraine the previous night and calculate how many hit their targets. For example, on 22 February, 267 drones attacked my country, of which 138 were shot down, while 119 were “jammed” by electronic defence systems. I assume the remaining ten, about which there is no official information, hit civilian or military infrastructure.
These attack drones fly very low to avoid being picked up by radar systems, and the military is largely dependent on sightings by ordinary Ukrainians to detect them. Many of us have two “military” applications on our phones: one warns about an expected attack, the other application has a “button” that we can press to send a signal about a drone’s location to the air defence coordination centre.
In the evenings I play Sudoku. Lately, I’ve been losing. Probably because I choose a level that is too difficult for me. But playing at a lower level feels like cheating and winning brings no joy. There is nothing easy in Ukrainian life today. We must remain realistic.
The four Ukraines
This morning, a friend from Germany sympathetically told me: “I understand that Ukrainians are now all depressed.” I almost got indignant when I heard these words, and she, noticing my expression, began to apologise. No, she is partly right. There are more pessimists now. But there is no despair or depression. It has been clear to me for two years that attributing this or that quality or mood to Ukrainians makes no sense. We have four Ukraines, which have a lot in common, but a lot that makes them different from each other.
The first Ukraine is those “lucky ones”, like me, who still live in their home. These “lucky ones” are not necessarily really happy, but a rocket or a drone has not made them homeless –yet. (This could happen at any moment.) The second Ukraine is 4 million internally displaced persons. They do not have enough money to rent housing, they have difficulty finding work. The third Ukraine is 7 million refugees abroad. They are unsure of the future, of their status; they are pessimistic about the future of Ukraine because they are preparing themselves for the possibility of not returning home. And the last, fourth Ukraine is almost a million Ukrainian soldiers at the front. They are tired; they know that there is no one to replace them. They are angry but not pessimistic. Only thanks to them, I do not become a pessimist myself. Although there is not much optimism left in me these days.
A bitter pill
Ukrainian customs officers have recently become much friendlier to their fellow citizens leaving the country. At the Ukrainian-Polish border, they persistently remind Ukrainians entering the EU that they are not allowed to take any food products with them. If Polish customs officers find lard or vegetables in your luggage, the fine can be 200 euros or more. They can even remove you from the train and send you back. But last time I heard something new: “If you are carrying medicines in your luggage, you may have problems!” said the customs officer. And indeed, the first question I heard from the Polish customs officer concerned medicines. “Alcohol, tobacco, medicines?” he asked and stared into my eyes.
Later, I understood why. Millions of Ukrainian refugees in Europe and the US were used to pills and antibiotics that can be bought in Ukraine without a prescription, while abroad these drugs are either not sold at all or are only available with a prescription. Therefore, many Ukrainian refugees, having visited Ukraine, return to their new home with suitcases of pills. For some of them, this has become an additional illegal business; for others, it is helping friends.
On a scale of one to Kafka
When a Russian drone hit the protective shield built over the defunct Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, causing a fire that burned for several days, Ukrainians had cause to remember the units in which radiation is measured. Kyiv’s residents asked themselves: “Is it dangerous to go outside?”
The answer is yes, but not only because of radiation. Toxic elements have been accumulating in our air since 2014. But you have to live, you have to go to work in the morning and stop by the supermarket on your way home in the evening.
We all need a unit of measurement to calculate the level of surrealism in social and political life. I suggest the “Kafka” and the “Orwell”. Absurdity that most people can adapt to – like that experienced in ordinary Soviet life – could be measured in Kafkas, while Orwells could be used to measure social surrealism that drives people crazy, provoking irreversible processes in the brain. For example, from the point of view of normality, on a ten-point scale, the socio-political situation in Ukraine today is equal to six or seven Kafkas, while in Europe, the level is two or three Kafkas.
The situation in Russia must be measured in Orwells and has probably already reached level ten. Thanks to Donald Trump and his team, the US is probably around level four or five on the Orwell scale.
People who, in their life, have adapted to a high level of Orwells tend to congregate, thus aggravating the situation in the wider community and the world.
“The Stolen Heart” by Andrey Kurkov is out now (Quercus). Andrey will be at the Cambridge Literary Festival on 25 April
[See also: The AfD’s rise is the centre left’s final warning]
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This article appears in the 26 Feb 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Britain in Trump’s World