“I don't know when you'll get this message,” my friend writes to me. ‘You're always on time,’ I reply. Photo with a story by Olena Huseynova
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On March 22, Russian missiles flew toward Kharkiv. There were 15 missile strikes on the city. Fires broke out at power stations. Kharkiv was completely without electricity.
On the evening of March 21, my friend in Kharkiv and I planned to meet online. But it turned out that her camera wasn't working. I could hear her voice, but all I could see was a black screen.
“This isn't going to work,” she said and called me on my phone.
I could see her smiling. And she could see that I could see her. And that I was smiling too. We talked about why we had stopped pausing before saying something that might scare the other person. And about why we talk so much but have so few stories to tell. We talked for a long time. She moved around the apartment. She turned on the light in the kitchen. She turned off the light in the kitchen. And turned it on in the living room. And then her phone died.
On March 22, I wrote to my friend. The message hung unread for a long time, but closer to evening she replied: “It's the apocalypse here.” I offered to come to Kyiv. “I want to be in Kharkiv,” she replied.
In Oleksandra Osipova's photo, the center of Kharkiv, the descent from the university hill, the darkness cut by the light of car headlights. I recognize the flagpole and the flag lowered in mourning and the outlines of the Blagoveshchensk Cathedral. My friend calls it “Pryanik.” I recognize it because of all the details on the polychrome facade, the horizontal rows of red brick and light plaster that are not visible in this photo. “Pryanik” stands black. It is there, but seems to be lost in the darkness. It fuels my desire to see at least a hint of gingerbread decoration.
Osipov captioned this photo “Blackout in Kharkiv.” Two years ago, “blackout” meant only curtains in hotels that plunged the room into complete darkness. The last time I saw such curtains was on the windows of a hotel in Kharkiv:
“Did you close the curtains?” my colleague asked me.
“No, I don't like it when the room is dark in the morning,“ I said.
“Close them, they'll keep out the splinters,” and I closed them.
I can cook dinner when there is no electricity or gas, I can reply to work emails when there is no internet, I can dry my hair by the fireplace and make coffee in it. I can tell stories about headlamps and canned tuna with wine at international literary festivals. I can make the darkness witty, swallowing gingerbread cathedrals and the possibility of calling a friend. But I can't hide my own darkness, nor my doubts that blackout curtains will save us during a rocket attack.
I stare at Osipov's photo and fixate on every source of light, fixing it as a lack and an absence. But also as an illusion of his closeness. And I think about how nice it would have been to “catch” the car on the left half a second earlier.
“I don't know when you'll get this message,” my friend writes to me.
“You're always on time,” I reply.
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Oleksandr Osipov is a Ukrainian photographer who, since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, has been photographing Kharkiv residents resisting Russian troops, creating art under shelling, painting in the metro, and playing concerts in basements. Thanks to his work, the world has learned about the indomitable Kharkiv, which preserves its beauty in the darkest times.
Olena Huseynova is a Ukrainian writer, radio host, and radio producer. She has been working at Radio Culture (Suspilne) since 2016. She is currently the editor-in-chief of the radio theater and literary programs department. Since February 26, 2022, Olena has been working as a live host of a round-the-clock news radio marathon on Ukrainian Radio (Suspilne). She is the author of two poetry books, “Open Rider” (2012) and “Superheroes” (2016). She writes essays and short prose.
Read also: “One life is enough for a drone”: Olena Huseynova and photo of the week
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