The music surges across the grounds of Kyiv’s historic Oleksandr Dovzhenko film studios as hundreds of young people dance beneath the summer sky. For a few hours, laughter replaces the sound of air raid sirens, and festivalgoers embrace a sense of freedom that has become increasingly precious since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Yet the setting itself bears fresh scars from war. Less than two weeks earlier, on June 15, the same complex was struck during one of Russia’s latest large-scale attacks on the Ukrainian capital.
Reporting by El País captures this striking contrast at the heart of Kyiv, where ordinary life persists alongside the constant threat of bombardment. The city has become a place where celebration and destruction exist within the same streets, often within sight of one another, creating a daily reality in which moments of joy unfold against the backdrop of loss.
Among those dancing is 18-year-old Dasha, surrounded by friends as Belgian DJ Matthias Geerts performs at the Veselka festival. Her energy reflects the atmosphere of the event, but her story reveals the deeper weight carried by many young Ukrainians. During a brief pause from the music, she explains that her father, a soldier, was killed three years earlier after stepping on a landmine in the village of Vodyane in the Donetsk region. Her presence at the festival, she says, is part of continuing to live despite the war.
That determination echoes across Kyiv as residents resume routines that have become inseparable from the conflict. After enduring a harsh winter marked by electricity outages caused by Russian attacks, many civilians have adapted to a rhythm that alternates between work, social gatherings, and nights interrupted by missiles and drones.
Karina Romanchenko, 24, describes that routine in simple terms. After surviving attacks involving drones and missiles, she says, people get up, go to work, and later meet friends. Romanchenko works within the historic Kyiv Pechersk Lavra, or Monastery of the Caves, a UNESCO World Heritage site that also came under attack from Russian Shahed drones during the June 15 assault.
The contradiction is visible throughout the capital. Children enjoy their summer holidays while families gather along the banks of the Dnipro River. Cafés, restaurants, theatres, concerts, and exhibitions continue to attract visitors. At the same time, every evening carries uncertainty as residents wait through another night of possible attacks while worrying about relatives and friends serving on the front lines.
The destruction remains impossible to ignore. Only a short distance from the festival, the remains of a completely destroyed building still stand nearly two weeks after the strike. It had housed Ukraine’s largest collection of film costumes, containing around 100,000 pieces accumulated over decades. The loss represents not only physical destruction but also damage to a significant part of the country’s cinematic heritage.
Even so, organisers chose to proceed with the Veselka festival. The venue had hosted another music event the night before the June 15 attack, ending at 10 p.m. because of Kyiv’s midnight-to-5 a.m. curfew. Only hours later, missiles struck the complex. Despite extensive damage to several buildings, including the costume department, the festival returned, reflecting an effort to preserve spaces where people can gather.
For 36-year-old police officer Serguei, the festival provides what he calls a refuge. Shirtless in the summer heat, wearing a chain shaped like a cross over his tattoos, he reflects on the life he once imagined. He had hoped to become an actor and singer before Ukraine’s 2013 Maidan movement redirected his path toward public service. Today, among his responsibilities is recording the deaths of fellow police officers killed in combat. Standing among festivalgoers, he describes Kyiv as existing in “two worlds,” where the demands of war coexist with moments of ordinary human life.
The same tension is evident at the Monastery of the Caves, Ukraine’s oldest monastery. The June 15 attack damaged the Cathedral of the Dormition, yet emergency crews quickly installed a temporary wooden and plastic roof after extinguishing the fire. Within days, much of the complex had reopened to visitors, although the cathedral itself remained closed.
Historian Kostiantyn Krainii, deputy director of the monastery complex, points to evidence of the attack displayed beside the damaged cathedral. Twisted fragments of roofing lie alongside what are identified as parts of the Shahed drones used during the strike. He says firefighters prevented the flames from spreading into the cathedral’s interior, preserving its wooden decorations, gilded surfaces, and large religious icons. Workers continue restoration efforts while industrial fans reduce moisture left behind by firefighting operations.
Having worked at the monastery for 37 years, Krainii recalls residents and emergency personnel rushing to rescue relics and valuable objects immediately after the attack. He says the damage could have been far worse had the fire reached deeper into the building.
Outside, visitors have gradually returned. Schoolchildren wearing brightly coloured identification vests walk through the monastery gardens during an excursion. Marion, a 39-year-old French humanitarian worker visiting Kyiv for the first time to stay with a friend, says she does not feel afraid despite working in conflict environments. Observing the city, she remarks that life continues despite the cost imposed by the war.
Nearby stands the smaller Monastery of St. Theodosius, where Father Makarios again meets the El País correspondent more than four years after their first encounter early in the invasion. Not far from the monastery entrance, another building bears the impact of a separate Russian drone strike linked to the June attack on the monastery complex.
The priest says bombardments occur frequently and sometimes leave residents unable to sleep for days. Nevertheless, he expresses confidence rooted in his religious faith as services continue within the church despite the repeated attacks affecting the surrounding neighbourhood.
Romanchenko’s own connection to the war extends beyond Kyiv. Originally from the area around Melitopol in the Zaporizhzhia region, she has lived in the capital since 2019. Her hometown has remained under Russian occupation since 2022. She tries to speak with her mother every day, although communication is often disrupted by electricity outages. Even so, she says constant despair offers no solution, adding that while life has not become easier, people have gradually adapted to circumstances they never expected to face.
Across Kyiv, that adaptation defines daily existence. Festivals return to bomb-damaged venues, historic landmarks reopen after emergency repairs, families continue routines between air raid alerts, and residents carry personal stories of grief while insisting on preserving moments of normal life. As documented by El País, the Ukrainian capital continues to embody two realities at once, where the rhythms of everyday life unfold alongside the enduring presence of war.
