6. Alarms
The first air-raid siren of my life finds me in Café Central on Derybasivska. It’s a gloomy January day in early 2023, and I’m having breakfast with a friend’s wife. “What should we do now?” I ask when we are both convinced that the sound, resonating through the gentle classical piano playing in the café, is indeed an air-raid siren. “I don’t know,” the lady shrugs. “As you can see, nobody’s doing anything.”
This is true. Nobody’s really doing anything. In the sense that, yes, everyone is just going about their business as usual, and no one is rushing into the shelter or showing any signs of distress.
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“Listen, maybe we should sit away from the window,” suggests a colleague. But as there is nothing more to be heard apart from the deafening wail of sirens, and Telegram - we all immediately reach for our phones to get an overview of the situation - announces that the explosion we heard hit somewhere very far away from us, either in the Kyiv region or the city or even in Tairova (18 kilometers from downtown), and that there are no new rockets in the air, we continue eating in peace.
But the sound of sirens continues. At first, it can be heard every two weeks, mostly at night, occasionally during the day. Usually they are nationwide alarms, announced every time a MiG-31 capable of carrying a Kinzhal ballistic missile takes off in Russia or Belarus. As the Ukrainian air defense has serious problems with downing this missile, a nationwide alarm is given. But nine times out of ten, nothing happens. And if it does, it will not inevitably happen in Odesa.
In May 2023, the situation changes. Attacks increase. So do the alarms. Some evenings and nights, there are two or even three. They are almost always accompanied by attacks. It goes always like this: the sirens go off all over the city, lasting from two or three to five minutes, followed by a few minutes of silence. Then the first anti-aircraft gun barks somewhere, then the anti-air machine guns open fire, then the bangs indicating the launch of one or more S-300s. Smaller or larger, quieter or louder explosions are often heard. Sometimes the houses shake, and the windows clink; sometimes not. Sometimes I can really hear the sound of Iranian drone engines - it really does sound like a moped.
But sometimes nothing follows the alarm. Or very little - a few rocket launches, a lone cannonshot. Then nothing. And then it can happen again in an hour, two, or three.
Telegram channels publish cartoons of sleepy citizens going to work in the morning. And the sleepy citizens themselves also comment on the situation. Conversation between a hairdresser and a waiting customer in a hairdressing salon:
“How did you sleep?”
“Normal.”
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Yeah, our cats couldn’t sleep either.”
“Yes, cats, of course, horror!”
Of course - cats, holy animals of the Odesites...
As the summer progresses, I’m beginning to feel that the air alarms, which have become a little less frequent in the meantime, are starting to eat away at my nerves. Already in the evenings, before I go to bed, I ask myself how many hours of sleep I get before the alarm starts. An hour? Two? And then it begins - the sirens start wailing. First somewhere far away, then closer, finally all over the city. In between them, a metal-sounding male voice can be heard, urging everyone to go to the shelter. Nothing of the sort is happening here in Odesa, of course. But occasionally I can hear the rattle of a neighbor’s lock and the sound of a door opening and closing. Perhaps the neighbor - who is also supposed to be a foreigner - is going to the basement of the house? Maybe.
In any case, I lie in bed listening to the siren and waiting, what happens next. Most of the time, however, I fall asleep again fairly quickly. Sometimes something happens. Sometimes not. And in the morning, I read in the news how many Shaheds have been shot down by air defense. Exactly where is not reported, and so it may be that I can’t hear in my bedroom everything that’s going on. After all, Odesa is a big city, and the Russians’ favorite destinations, some military installations, and the airport, are far from the center. Apart from the harbor downtown. Depending on the flight path of the missiles and drones, the sounds might not reach me.
Sometimes they do. Once in early June 2023, there is a real air battle taking place over the harbor area of the city center, which I watch from my window, unable to convince myself of the reality of what is happening just a few hundred meters away above my head. Instead, I am strangely mesmerized by the spectacular interplay of light and sound: the beams of the searchlights in the sky, the shrill, metallic commands being yelled from the loudspeakers, the intense vibration of machine-gun fire, accompanied by lines of glow worms that rip lines into the darkness, the ghastly red glow of signal rockets hanging in the air, the ominous bark of cannons, the monotonous whine of drone engines, the rumbling launches of anti-aircraft missiles and the explosions that shake the walls of houses. On the same night, missile debris crashes into a house in Odesa, killing a few people...
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This is probably one of the many strange occurrences in the ongoing war, as it is not without its beauty and aesthetics... But this aesthetics is deadly. Indiscriminately and randomly. But what gnaws at the soul and overwhelms above all is what happens during the day: nothing.
So, the anticipation and the nerves - what will happen tonight? When will it happen? How dangerous is it? It robs you of your sleep, which in turn robs you of your day, and makes you want to just escape. Escape where to? To sweet oblivion, of course. Because there’s nothing more pleasant than sitting in the shade of lush southern trees, chatting with friends who are equally growing more apathetic and yet disturbingly nervous about what’s going on, watching the local beauties strolling down the street, and having another beer. And then another. And another. Until 10 o’clock, but sometimes longer, because not all pubs observe the official alcohol curfew very strictly.
And once you’ve had your fill, you don’t notice the anti-aircraft sirens or the noise of battle. When you wake up in the morning, you can only admit that this time it went well. Until next time.
This is true. Nobody’s really doing anything. In the sense that, yes, everyone is just going about their business as usual, and no one is rushing into the shelter or showing any signs of distress.
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That’s the last and only time I hear an air-raid siren in winter. In March-April, they occur again occasionally - every couple of weeks. Also, the counter-actions of the Ukrainian air defense - the roaring, explosive-like launches of S-300 missiles - can sometimes be heard. Only once, sitting in a restaurant with my workmates, we hear something being hit - a terribly loud explosion that makes the restaurant windows clang and briefly blinds our conversation.
“Listen, maybe we should sit away from the window,” suggests a colleague. But as there is nothing more to be heard apart from the deafening wail of sirens, and Telegram - we all immediately reach for our phones to get an overview of the situation - announces that the explosion we heard hit somewhere very far away from us, either in the Kyiv region or the city or even in Tairova (18 kilometers from downtown), and that there are no new rockets in the air, we continue eating in peace.
But the sound of sirens continues. At first, it can be heard every two weeks, mostly at night, occasionally during the day. Usually they are nationwide alarms, announced every time a MiG-31 capable of carrying a Kinzhal ballistic missile takes off in Russia or Belarus. As the Ukrainian air defense has serious problems with downing this missile, a nationwide alarm is given. But nine times out of ten, nothing happens. And if it does, it will not inevitably happen in Odesa.
In May 2023, the situation changes. Attacks increase. So do the alarms. Some evenings and nights, there are two or even three. They are almost always accompanied by attacks. It goes always like this: the sirens go off all over the city, lasting from two or three to five minutes, followed by a few minutes of silence. Then the first anti-aircraft gun barks somewhere, then the anti-air machine guns open fire, then the bangs indicating the launch of one or more S-300s. Smaller or larger, quieter or louder explosions are often heard. Sometimes the houses shake, and the windows clink; sometimes not. Sometimes I can really hear the sound of Iranian drone engines - it really does sound like a moped.
But sometimes nothing follows the alarm. Or very little - a few rocket launches, a lone cannonshot. Then nothing. And then it can happen again in an hour, two, or three.
Telegram channels publish cartoons of sleepy citizens going to work in the morning. And the sleepy citizens themselves also comment on the situation. Conversation between a hairdresser and a waiting customer in a hairdressing salon:
“How did you sleep?”
“Normal.”
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Yeah, our cats couldn’t sleep either.”
“Yes, cats, of course, horror!”
Of course - cats, holy animals of the Odesites...
In any case, I lie in bed listening to the siren and waiting, what happens next. Most of the time, however, I fall asleep again fairly quickly. Sometimes something happens. Sometimes not. And in the morning, I read in the news how many Shaheds have been shot down by air defense. Exactly where is not reported, and so it may be that I can’t hear in my bedroom everything that’s going on. After all, Odesa is a big city, and the Russians’ favorite destinations, some military installations, and the airport, are far from the center. Apart from the harbor downtown. Depending on the flight path of the missiles and drones, the sounds might not reach me.
Sometimes they do. Once in early June 2023, there is a real air battle taking place over the harbor area of the city center, which I watch from my window, unable to convince myself of the reality of what is happening just a few hundred meters away above my head. Instead, I am strangely mesmerized by the spectacular interplay of light and sound: the beams of the searchlights in the sky, the shrill, metallic commands being yelled from the loudspeakers, the intense vibration of machine-gun fire, accompanied by lines of glow worms that rip lines into the darkness, the ghastly red glow of signal rockets hanging in the air, the ominous bark of cannons, the monotonous whine of drone engines, the rumbling launches of anti-aircraft missiles and the explosions that shake the walls of houses. On the same night, missile debris crashes into a house in Odesa, killing a few people...
.jpg)
So, the anticipation and the nerves - what will happen tonight? When will it happen? How dangerous is it? It robs you of your sleep, which in turn robs you of your day, and makes you want to just escape. Escape where to? To sweet oblivion, of course. Because there’s nothing more pleasant than sitting in the shade of lush southern trees, chatting with friends who are equally growing more apathetic and yet disturbingly nervous about what’s going on, watching the local beauties strolling down the street, and having another beer. And then another. And another. Until 10 o’clock, but sometimes longer, because not all pubs observe the official alcohol curfew very strictly.
And once you’ve had your fill, you don’t notice the anti-aircraft sirens or the noise of battle. When you wake up in the morning, you can only admit that this time it went well. Until next time.
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