War Reverberations: Sound Stories From Kyiv

It’s 5:20 p.m., and I am boarding the train to Kyiv. I don’t yet know what to expect. Two weeks earlier, I accepted – without hesitation – an invitation to a study visit organised by the Mieroszewski Centre and the Ukrainian Institute. I checked the news before leaving: Kyiv is considered relatively safe, but the country is at war. Russian forces have been attacking the Sumy and Kharkiv regions, with reports of destruction and casualties appearing day after day, the number of attacks having almost doubled in early April.

I brought earplugs, but after crossing the border I decide not to use them. I listen

A stormy meeting between Trump and Zelensky at the White House has just taken place. It strikes me that although I know something about the war, I have no clear sense of how the attacks actually unfold. Could something happen to me on the train? Probably not – certainly not – there have been no such reports so far. But who knows…?

I spend the night tossing and turning on my couchette. I brought earplugs, but after crossing the border I decide not to use them. I listen. Every knock heightens my alertness, and my whole body tenses involuntarily. There are plenty of such sounds, as there always are on a train: braking, creaking, wheels rumbling along the tracks. We stop for extended periods three times – two passport checks and a change of wheelsets. Standard European tracks are 1,435 mm wide, while Ukrainian tracks measure 1,520 mm. We have to wait for the exchange. I can’t see anything, and taking pictures is impossible, but I pull out my recorder. I don’t care about the quality; I just want to listen.

It is the imagined sounds that torment me – the potential of what I might hear in a war-torn place. Explosions, gunfire, screams, the swish of rockets? What does a drone sound like? I have no idea. Fortunately, I will not hear any of this during my visit. Instead, I decide to ask those who live with this reality every day.

The main obstacle in talking about sound memories is that my interviewees immediately associate the word »sound« with »music« – perhaps because I introduce myself as a music journalist. My questions initially provoke surprise and uncertainty, but after a moment’s reflection they open up chains of associations that unlock forgotten memories of the war. More than three years have passed since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion, and many people have grown accustomed to repeating their personal stories to successive listeners. Some memories have faded; others have been pushed out of consciousness. Some seem insignificant compared to more alarming experiences.

»I’ve missed a lot of sounds, because when I get home I just want to watch a TV series or listen to music on headphones«

The study of war sounds is not merely the study of an audiosphere; it is also the study of trauma, and it requires great care. The soldiers and veterans I speak to do not always pay attention to sound – or perhaps they have simply forgotten. One of them worked with sound before the war, but as he tells me:
»I’ve missed a lot of sounds, because when I get home I just want to watch a TV series or listen to music on headphones. I can’t get back to the projects I was interested in before. I don’t have the headspace. I need a break from everything.«

Artillery is the drumbeat of war

When I think of veterans, my first association is an older man seated at patriotic events, reminiscing about his youth – a youth so distant it resembles a fairy tale. When a 35-year-old man stands in front of me, it doesn’t immediately occur to me that he has already spent ten years at the front. Time seems warped – how can someone experience such horror and still be so young?

He joined the Azov group in 2015, a year after Russia’s annexation of Crimea. After the defence of Mariupol in 2022, he was taken prisoner by Russian forces. Sitting next to him is an even younger woman, a former paramedic now working with the Veterans Foundation, which supports women returning from the war. They speak about their experiences, and despite my embarrassment, I decide to ask about sound.

Stanislav Dutov looks at me with surprise, but also with amusement. He explains that he served in the infantry, so sound was not something he reflected on: artillery, he says, is the drumbeat of this war. There was no time for such considerations – life unfolded differently, and sound cannot be separated from context. When bullets are flying toward you, you don’t think about how they whistle; you think about surviving.

When I persist and ask about the POW camp where he was held for two and a half years, his expression changes. He mentions women who were forced to sing old Russian songs repeatedly – a form of torture. Speaking Ukrainian was forbidden. In the camp, Dutov encountered an acquaintance who had lived in Poland for four years and spoke Polish. Its sound, close enough to Ukrainian, brought a sense of solace.

Young children no longer know what aeroplanes sound like, as air traffic in Ukraine has been halted

Sound as torture is also described by Shaun Pinner in an interview with Michał Bruszewski:

S.P.: I ended up in a cell with CCTV – Big Brother was watching all the time. Music was played at full volume.
M.B.: What were they playing?
S.P.: If it was ABBA, it was bad (laughter). When they played Slipknot – who I was a fan of – I sang quietly to myself and tapped the rhythm. Then the beating started again, because the guards were drinking a lot.

Young children no longer know what aeroplanes sound like, as air traffic in Ukraine has been halted. Instead, they know how to distinguish explosions from thunderstorms or the rumbling of water pipes. Evening blasts resemble fireworks or the heavy footsteps of animals—perhaps an elephant. Yet they cannot understand why bursting balloons frighten them, when they already know what real danger sounds like. They are afraid even of slamming doors.

Adults also seek familiar sonic associations. At the Bohdan and Varvara Khanenko Museum of Art, where the original collection has been evacuated after part of the building was destroyed by an explosion, an exhibition of war photography now hangs alongside testimonies. One plaque contains notes by soldiers now living in the United States:

The rumble of artillery was so constant that we became indifferent to it. It reminded me of musicians playing double bass in an orchestra – except that it never ended.

Another testimony reads:

I am terrified of thunder as a typical Midwestern storm begins. As I drift off to sleep, I hear thunder and suddenly don’t know where I am. Am I at home or somewhere between Stupchky and Chasiv Yar in Donetsk? Is it thunder or artillery? My mind plays tricks on me. When a particularly loud crash surprises me, I jump up, feeling for a moment as if a missile has struck the ground. Then the dogs start barking and I realise I’m home in Illinois. I should feel relieved, but I don’t.

Here, the deafening noise is a harmless force of nature; in Ukraine, it reminds me of hell on earth. As I lie awake, I think of my friends whose memories and reality are one and the same. They cannot wake up safe. The thunder never stops.

Just days after Easter – despite Putin’s announced but unobserved ceasefire – explosions and collapsing buildings are again heard in Kyiv. On the night of 23–24 April, an attack kills 13 people and injures at least 90. Friends message me on WhatsApp: it was very, very loud. John Object, a former Ukrainian music producer now serving as a soldier, posts phone recordings on Instagram with the caption: »This one rattled my windows too.«

The sound comes from three sources: a phone app, loudspeakers mounted on poles across the city, and a small hotel intercom

May the Force be with you

On the second night, I am woken by an alarm.
Uuuuueeeeee. Attention. Air raid alert. Proceed to the nearest shelter. Don’t be careless – your overconfidence is your weakness.

The sound comes from three sources: a phone app, loudspeakers mounted on poles across the city, and a small hotel intercom. Tired, I get out of bed and hide in the bathroom, following the rule that at least two walls should separate you from potential gunfire. Only then do I check the alert details: a single drone nearby. I know that most people don’t go to shelters in such situations – the chances of my hotel being hit are minimal. Still, I remain there for half an hour.

When I return to bed, sleep won’t come. Two hours later, I finally hear: Attention. The air alert is over. May the Force be with you – spoken in the voice of Luke Skywalker. I dream the alarm over and over again. Reality blurs; I don’t know whether the sound is real or just buzzing in my ears. For the rest of my stay, I hear that buzz whenever I cross the threshold of the room. And yet nothing has happened.

One Kyiv resident tells me she no longer pays attention to alarms. If she did, she would never sleep—and she has to get up for work and prepare her children for nursery. She has turned off in-app notifications. Others express similar resignation. As one soldier puts it: “It is what it is. You can’t predict anything. You can only stay optimistic.«

Some take warnings seriously and descend to the shelter beneath the Philharmonic; others insist on finishing a piece

Alarms have become a permanent feature of cultural institutions. Mykhailo Shved, director of the National Philharmonic of Ukraine, explains that if an alert lasts less than an hour, concerts are paused and then resumed; if it lasts longer, they are rescheduled. Musicians have grown so accustomed to the sound that during rehearsals it often signals a coffee break. A well-developed alert system provides real-time information via Telegram and the Air Alert app, including maps and predicted trajectories.

Guest conductors respond differently. Some take warnings seriously and descend to the shelter beneath the Philharmonic; others insist on finishing a piece. Shved is unequivocal:
»You may be strong, but the musicians are in danger. And if something happens, who is responsible? I am. That cannot be.«

Silence and resistance

From midnight to five a.m., Kyiv observes a curfew. I ask whether concerts take place secretly, as they did during early pandemic lockdowns. Alim Aliev, deputy director of the Ukrainian Institute, tells me this would be impossible – and dangerous. Events start around 5 p.m. and end by 10 or 11 p.m.

Some find the enforced silence restorative. Dmytro Khoroshun, director of Drum Island Fest, says that after her music classes, the quiet allows her to rest. The city has changed in other ways too: fewer residents, almost no tourists, quieter streets even by day. Oleksandra Tarasenko from the Ukrainian Institute says she now appreciates natural sounds more deeply—they soothe and contrast with constant alarms.

Ukrainian music has gained unprecedented visibility

Since 2022, Ukrainian soundscapes have transformed, varying with proximity to the front. Ada Wordsworth, writing about Kharkiv after the Russian retreat, highlights sound control and intentionality. Ordinary noises – like a neighbour’s loud music – can now be interrupted, while violent sounds cannot. Silence itself becomes ominous. Birds and small animals have died from shock caused by explosions, particularly early in the invasion. Silence may also signal a power outage. Over time, people adapt – a reality already visible during my visit in spring 2025.

Cultural life ceased entirely in March 2022. Philharmonics, opera houses, clubs fell silent. But after a month, music slowly returned. Shved emphasises that art during wartime is not entertainment but mental health work – allowing people to reconnect with pre-war life. Generators prevent blackouts from ending concerts; musicians continue playing by stand lights. Events resumed in the 50-seat Chamber Hall, which doubles as a shelter, and online recitals were streamed even during the official shutdown.

War has scattered musicians – some fled, others joined the front – but audiences are returning, including refugees from eastern Ukraine. Shved notes: »It’s a terrible time, but also a very productive one.« New works are emerging, some incorporating war sounds, such as compositions by Andrii Barsov. Ukrainian music has gained unprecedented visibility.

Sound artist Heinali (Oleh Shpudeiko), drawing on his own trauma, created Kyiv Eternal, blending electronics with field recordings. The Zvuky Mista project visualises city sounds through sculptures. The online exhibition Acoustic Experiences of War presents thematic segments – new sounds, animal perspectives, moments of respite. Its final recording, dated 19 November 2024, is a newborn’s heartbeat – a reminder that life persists.

Conscious listening becomes a form of resistance

Online debates question whether seeking normality during war is appropriate; others claim that if daily routines continue, there is no war at all. But sound permeates everyday life, reminding people that the invasion continues. Ukrainian artists reject passive silence, transforming sonic trauma into new forms.

Conscious listening becomes a form of resistance. Yet nights like 23–24 April return, when shattering glass and bodily vibrations are unavoidable. After such nights, the birds fall silent.

The article is part of the series Ukrainian Corridors, created in collaboration with the Polish magazine Glissando and the German journal Positionen.

English translation: Joanna Kwapień