The stroller always remains in the hallway, next to the front door. When the siren sounds in Kyiv – on average twice a night this winter – Sasha and Dima get out of bed, carefully lift Marian out of his crib and put him in the baby carriage in case they need to leave, fast. Their infant almost never wakes up. The parents sit beside him with blankets and cushions, waiting for the alert to end. Hoping Russian drones and missiles fall elsewhere or be intercepted by Ukrainian air protection. Hoping the MIG jets, the ones carrying ballistic missiles, cease their frightening flight and return to their base in Russia.

In the hallway of their small apartment, they feel somewhat protected: two walls are separating them from the windows. In the distance, explosions can often be heard, and the walls have shaken during attacks. The nearest shelter is in the basement of a school around the corner, but it's cold and unfinished. Dima visited it before the birth: it's unthinkable to go down there every night with a baby. So, during air alerts, next to the stroller, Sasha Kurovska and Dima (who, as a precaution, does not wish to give his surname) follow the news in real time on Telegram chats, chat a little, doze. Until, after several hours, a notification on their phones announces the end of the danger. A routine.

Since the birth of their little boy on October 17, 2024, peaceful nights have been rarer than restless ones. In the capital, as in the rest of the country, Russian weapons criss-cross the skies, ruining sleep, drip-feeding anxiety. The recent worsening of relations between Donald Trump and Volodymyr Zelensky only worries them more.

Anger and happiness

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