It was New Year's Eve and I was standing in the middle of Kyiv, with my friends V, L, L's child and her mother. Suddenly, we heard loud explosions. My first thought was "those are firecrackers." I quickly realised that it couldn't be firecrackers, because Ukraine is at war and pyrotechnics are banned. It was either Russian bombs dropping on Kyiv, or the Ukrainian air defence shooting down the Russian bombs. We took the fastest drive of my life to a shelter, all the while making silly jokes to try and keep everyone in the car calm.

Our friend T and her family didn't make it to a proper shelter when the air alarm went off, ending up in a café downstairs when a bomb hit the hotel next door. The buildings around them shook and crumbled. It was such an intense shelling that T told me she was sure they were going to die. They didn't die that day, but other people did, as have thousands of Ukrainians since February 24th, 2022.

Another friend, M, was sitting on the stairs in her house as the windows shook with each explosion. A few weeks earlier, during another shelling in Kyiv, M rushed to a secure location, slipped, hit her head on a metal grid and was taken to hospital to be stitched up without electricity and running water. Now, as the walls of her home shook around her, M took to scrolling Instagram, when she saw a DJ posting videos of the fireworks he launched from his balcony in Berlin.

M asked the DJ if they could be more mindful of firing explosives in a city now home to so many Ukrainian refugees. The DJ—who was a frequent visitor to Ukraine before the war—responded defensively. There aren't only refugees in Berlin, they retorted.

Not everyone can understand or relate to the terrors of war. But, as my friend D—who grew up between Ukraine and Syria and whose dad would quiver hearing New Year's fireworks—said, if you've had no choice but to flee a war, there's nothing joyous about fireworks.

These accounts might not seem related to electronic music but in fact all of these people—T, M, L and D—work within Ukraine's club culture. Today, in 2023, there's no music scene in the country without terrorism, struggle or danger.

Russian missile strikes have targeted much of Ukraine's infrastructure, resulting in the destruction and damage of 4,040 gas pipelines, water pipelines and electricity networks, forcing blackouts and depriving millions of civilians of light, water, heat and communication. Such conditions are just the starting point when assessing the current state of the electronic music scene in Ukraine.

Kyiv's CXEMA rave in June 2017.

Ukraine has a population of more than 40 million, but only a handful of clubs are able to host events, and they're all held in the daytime. These parties are run by teams of volunteers or people receiving minimal payment, with most of the events dedicated to raising money for military units and people living in the most active areas of conflict. The venues currently active are ∄, Closer, Keller, Arsenal XXII, HVLV, Kureni, Collider and Otel' in Kyiv. There are also occasional fundraising events in the city of Kharkiv, like Kharkiv Nezlamnyi, which means "Kharkiv unbreakable," and in Odessa at the clubs PORT and Hvylia.

At each event, there's palpable gratitude and respect for the people in the clubbing community—DJs, producers, security, queer rights activists—who have enlisted in the Ukrainian army. In places where Russian forces have robbed people of their homes, lives and joy, coming together in a space filled with music is an embodiment of the desire to be alive and to be free.

∄ has become one of the central hubs for raising awareness and funds within the club industry. In recent years, ∄, AKA K41, has become one of the best nightlife attractions in the city, drawing ravers and tourists to Kyiv. The team established a strong network with artists and clubs across Europe, notably in Berlin, and launched an in-house label Standard Deviation. The club has a strong ethos dedicated to self-expression, diversity and creating safer spaces.

Since the beginning of the invasion, ∄ set up a fund in support of volunteer initiatives launched alongside members of the club's community. Today, thanks to international support, it's one of the few spaces that can still run events, with donations coming in specifically for electricity and heating. ∄ organised day parties throughout the winter, collecting donations for trusted military units on the frontlines and grassroots volunteer groups, including Kyiv Angels, Livyj Bereh, Repair Together, Hugs, Kyiv Volunteer and Hospitaliers medical battalion. The programming, which used to be a mix of established international artists, newcomers to the global club scene and local DJs, now features almost entirely Ukrainian names, offering space to new talent which reflects the need for self-expression in such challenging circumstances.

∄ is where my friends and I met after a night of listening to the Ukrainian defence forces shoot down air targets over Kyiv. We listened to music, laughed, swore and talked about the reality of being in a bombed city. Hearing explosions and feeling the ground shake beneath you doesn't feel like being in a blockbuster movie—it feels like physical abuse. A violent, ugly force intrudes your body and creeps under your skin. The feeling of intentional harm stays with you long after the bombing is over. I can't imagine any of us setting off fireworks anytime soon.

When we arrived at the club around noon, the DJ (and RA city manager) human margareeta was dropping fierce breakbeat. After a day and night of bombing, there was a sense that we were responsible for our own lives. If another bombing started, we'd need to make it to the nearest metro station for shelter. That day, the respectful and inclusive atmosphere at ∄ wasn't about partying like there was no tomorrow, but about enjoying each other's company in the hope that there would be a tomorrow.

The DJ human margareeta moved from her home in Kyiv to Berlin at the beginning of the war.

Later, I spoke to human margareeta, who moved to Berlin at the beginning of the war but now spends most of her time in Kyiv playing at various events and raising money for the army. She also started a new femme-led bass-oriented collective called Cutiecore.

"Kyiv is my home and my community," she told me. "I come back here when I have the chance, even with the fear of missile strikes and the stress. It's difficult for the culture in Ukraine to develop now, but it shines brightly despite the war with Russia. People here choose to live, create and act while they can. I'm inspired by the opportunity to be among these wonderful, active people and to contribute to the emergence of a new era for Ukrainian culture. I'm also convinced that it's important to form bridges and strengthen ties between the cultural communities of Ukraine and the EU."

Those international ties that existed before the war have now been either deepened or severed, and have proven crucial for Ukrainian artists who moved to cities like Berlin, London or Warsaw to try and build a new life. What's most important is that this support isn't a one-off charity function, but a sustainable sharing of resources and connections. Collaboration and networking are the most effective tools for artists who are building a new life and livelihood in a new city.

At first, many clubs and parties invited Ukrainian artists to play or donated part of their revenue to humanitarian efforts. But throughout the year, the support has faded, as so often happens when the media interest shifts. But in reality, the tragedy has only grown bigger.

Veselka's residency at RSO.BERLIN exemplifies the continued support we need. The residents of Ukraine's biggest queer—Tweeman, Vani Vachi, Nastya Muravyova and Ruslan Mays—teamed up with Bjarki and Thomas P. Heckmann, among others, for a party at RSO on February 17th. With the tagline "there is no rainbow without yellow and blue" (veselka translates to "rainbow"), the party raised money for the military division that DJ Detcom is part of, having joined the Ukrainian army in the very first days of the invasion.

Several festivals in Europe, like Unsound, CTM, Institut für Zukunft and European Lab, have also made efforts in the last year to provide space for Ukrainian creatives and activists. But the biggest challenge, it seems, is to hold the attention of non-Ukrainian audiences. It's crucial to organise programming that features artists of mixed backgrounds in order to welcome the varied crowds who come to listen to them. For example, the Berlin-based collective TYME, founded by German and Ukrainian creatives, highlights the need for ongoing intercultural exchange and integration of displaced artists in the electronic music scene. Their events, which invite both Ukrainian and German artists, connect various audiences as well as educate and fundraise.

Some international clubs and promoters showed their support by ceasing to work with anyone connected to Russia, such as Nina Kraviz. Take Kraviz's label showcase in London, which some culture activists are trying to boycott. It's been months now since the Ukrainians have stopped asking Russians for solidarity or waiting for signs of resistance.

The Berlin-based collective TYME, founded by German and Ukrainian creatives, highlights the need for ongoing intercultural exchange and integration of displaced artists in the electronic music scene.

Tomorrow, February 25th, a Ukrainian contemporary art festival called Art – Weapon! will take place at Alte Münze in Berlin. Organised by a group of Kyiv-based artists, promoters and the activist group Vitsche, the festival, which launched in Kyiv in the summer of 2022, will host performances by many Ukrainian artists, many of whom are still based back home. Each of the performances will act as a statement about how art can be used as a weapon, reflecting on the reality of the people resisting the fascist invasion and its devastating consequences.

As martial law in Ukraine becomes more stringent, the Art – Weapon! organisers are concerned about the ability of male artists to cross the border. Cofounder Pledov, a Kyiv-based DJ and promoter, told me that for this Berlin edition of the festival, the team wanted to invite as many artists who otherwise wouldn't have the opportunity to travel abroad. Strictly speaking, men aren't allowed to leave Ukraine, but an exception can be made for artists via the Ministry of Culture. This opportunity has been jeopardised by artists who have failed to return to Ukraine after their permits have expired.

Within Ukraine's creative community, there's tension between the men who leave Ukraine using this permit and don't return, and those who don't have the option to leave Ukraine at all.

"I don't feel there's strong criticism towards people who don't come back, because you can't judge [someone for] fleeing war," Pledov said. "But this abuse of the permit from the Ministry of Culture has caused mistrust among the customs officers towards artists. And many artists aren't allowed to leave anymore, even with an official permit, which is unfair to those who intend to tour and return."

What's more pressing is how vital it is for Ukrainian artists to be able to perform abroad. In Ukraine right now, an artist with years of experience and a live show can expect to receive about €50, said Dmytro Avksentiev, AKA Koloah. He has been living abroad for some time now, with permission granted due to an extended permit he's been issued to stay in Berlin.

"I am aware of my privilege, performing, travelling and getting paid outside of Ukraine," he added. "Though people don't tell me this directly, I sense the attitude towards me has changed. I do everything I can as an artist to raise awareness and earn my living so I can also support people in Ukraine, but I feel a growing gap between myself and the community because I know their reality is very disadvantageous."

Portraits of partygoers at CXEMA from June 2017.

Very few non-Ukrainian artists travelled to Ukraine in 2022, though I hope this will change in 2023, as they will be very welcome. Kyiv club Closer published a letter of gratitude on Instagram, inviting international artists to play the upcoming spring events and encouraging them to get in touch if they're willing to come and might need assistance with travel arrangements.

M.E.S.H. is one of the few international artists who travelled to Ukraine last year. The Berlin-based US artist has been one of the Ukrainian scene's most devoted friends for years, since he first played at the early editions of the CXEMA raves.

In November 2022, when K41 invited M.E.S.H. to play, he felt unsure and wanted to decide at the last minute. "In November, the missile and drone attacks on civilian targets were heavy and it seemed to me to be an attempt to cause another wave of refugees at the beginning of winter," he said. "But we knew that they followed a schedule happening roughly every week because it takes some time to reload. A massive missile attack happened the day before my train. Ironically, it was the safest time to go, so I went, along with Diana Azzuz."

For M.E.S.H., the trip was also a chance to visit the de-occupied areas around Kyiv with his friends. They run a group called Livyj Bereh who work to rebuild homes around Kyiv, Kherson and Kharkiv, as well as deliver aid to Bakhmut.

"[My] main impression was seeing all the devastated houses and knowing it's less than 1 percent of everything happening in the East, and trying to fathom all the loss experienced by people from those areas that will take decades to be rebuilt and repopulated," he reflected.

When M.E.S.H. first came to Kyiv in the years following the Maidan Revolution, he confronted an unclear political situation. "I remember waiting for my flight home in Boryspil airport and seeing photographs of soldiers dying on the front line—something that was barely being reported on the news in Western Europe," he explained. "The information space at that time was even murkier than it is now and it was difficult for a foreigner to understand what was happening. But going to Kyiv repeatedly and meeting people from all over Ukraine made things clear for me. So when February 24th [2022] came, I experienced it through the perspectives of those I have met."

Today, the complexities of Ukraine's historical context and identity are clearer to the world thanks to Ukrainian writers, speakers and activists as well as the academic Timothy Snyder.

Art—Weapon Festival in Kyiv, May 2022. Over 1,500 people from Kyiv's creative community gathered in the grounds of a former ribbon factory to raise money for the Ukrainian army and volunteer organisations.

Over the last year, Ukrainian activists have shown exceptional perseverance and determination, and I'm proud of them for digging deep and staying the course. Yet I also wish that more international peers would assume responsibility for understanding the truth and dismantling the corrupt systems, thereby strengthening each other's voices in the struggle against fascism. True solidarity is more than just a phrase on a party flyer.

Last summer, I started working on a new issue of Borshch magazine, of which I am the cofounder. Letters to Kyiv will feature contributions from the people in our community who fled when the war broke out. At first, my plan was to curate a compilation of writing addressed to Kyiv, as if the city was an old friend. However, after visiting, I realised that the city doesn't need letters penned from abroad. What Kyiv needs are heavy weapons. But I also see a pressing need for the world to witness the incredible creativity, resilience and fervour that is emanating, against all odds, from Ukraine's youth and underground culture.