January 31, 6 p.m.
I come out of Maidan Nezalezhnosti metro station into the underground pedestrian mall beneath Khreshchatyk Street. It reminds me of Dundas Station back home, but instead of opening up into the faux Times Square that emerged in the centre of Toronto over the past quarter century, Maidan Nezalezhnosti’s exits lead directly into the heart of the Revolution of Dignity— the nation-wide protest against the corrupt Yanukovych regime. The nation’s efforts converge here at the protestor-erected stage with its barricade arteries and green canvas lungs pouring wood-oven smoke into frozen sky.
It’s warm here under all the action; activists and free-loaders take their gloves off and slurp hot soup doled out by volunteers. The hall is lined with sleeping homeless people. At any other time, they would be asked to leave or forcefully removed by the police. But there are no police.
In their midst, a man wearing a linen shirt embroidered with bright red poppies is singing traditional folk songs and playing violin. His face is clean shaven except for a neat moustache that barely grazes his upper lip. He saws away at the strings like an experienced lumberjack— calmly, consistently, forcefully. In his case, alms from a few grateful passersby and a stack of CDs with his band’s name in bold block letters: Buttya—”being.”
The Cossacks rode home from the Don river
Deceived Halya, took her away with them
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
Deceived young Halya, took her away with them
“He’s like a marionette,” a woman in a fur hat says to her companion as she walks by. “Getting rid of him won’t stop the oppression.” Buttya’s ringleader keeps sawing, activists keep slurping, the homeless keep sleeping. The woman’s companion doesn’t respond, tosses a few coins into the violin case.
I’m on my way to meet H at a cafe on Prorizna Street. She’s a musician, sings Russian-language chansons à la Edith Piaf. She grew up in Kyiv, the oldest of three siblings. Her mother is from Lviv, her father from Moscow. They both moved to Kyiv to work at the water-treatment facility, found each other and stayed. H was recommended to me by a friend as a reliable session musician who “won’t stick out” and will “get the job done.”
Ride with us Cossacks
It will be better for you, like with your very own mother
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
It will be better for you, like with your very own mother
After coffee, we decide to go to Hrushevskoho Street. Hrushevskoho is the main administrative hub of the Ukrainian government. It runs along Mariinsky Park from Khreshchatyk Street all the way to the Ukrainian Parliament and beyond. The barricade at the bottom of Mariinsky Park is the main conflict point between protestors and riot police.
H tells me her favourite thing about the Maidan: “Every day—something new. You have no idea what’s waiting for you, how it will smell when you come out of the metro.”
As we walk by the trinket stands, a man in a full-body tiger suit hops over to us like a bunny, as if he forgot which animal skin he was wearing today.
“Take a picture with me!”
“It’s okay, we’re just going over there to…”
He lunges at us: “Give me a hug! Hugs for everyone!”
We laugh and hug him like a stuffed toy, his teeth soft against our frosty brows.
“Yummy!” His tone suddenly more suggestive, he starts to loosen his grip on me and lean into H. “YUMMY!”
Halya agreed, went with them
They rode with Halya into the dark forest
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
They rode with Halya into the dark forest
We round the corner onto Hrushevskoho, pass the Ukrajinskyj Dim cultural centre, seized from riot police less than a week ago.
“On Sunday, there were hundreds of people here busting up ice, cleaning the street,” H recalled. “I decided I wanted to help, walked up and down the street looking for a spare shovel or pick—nothing. I thought, ‘okay, I’ll grab a bag and at least hold it for them to make ice bags for the barricades.’ There wasn’t a single free bag. Even when a man came with a stack of them, people attacked them like they were… tigers! I ended up sharing a bag with another woman. We each held a side with one arm as a young man shovelled ice in. She even picked up her cell on the job. Without letting go of the bag: ‘What? Where are you? I’m outside Ukrajinskyj Dim. Yes. Come help! We’re shovelling snow!’ “
They carried, carried Halya into the dark forest
Tied her to, to a pine tree by her braids
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
Tied her to, to a pine tree by her braids
This was the ground zero for Automaidan, a convoy of vehicles initially amassed to block the residences of politicians—including the president—deemed responsible for violence against protesters. Then they started to patrol the outer perimeter of the Maidan, defending citizens from titushky—plain-clothes agents hired by the Yanuokyvch regime to hamper the efforts of the protestors—and to provide the Maidan with tires and kielbasa (and other necessary supplies).
Eight days ago, the leader of the Automaidan stopped answering his phone. Today, he was found, apparently kidnapped, tortured, and dumped in the countryside near the suburb of Boryspil.
“They beat my hands, put holes in my hands… cut my ears, cut my face. On my body—there isn’t an unbeaten spot. You can see everything. But I’m alive, and thank God for that.”
“They kept asking the same question over and over: Who’s financing the protestors?”
They went into the forest to find kindling
Burned the pine tree down
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
Burned the pine tree down
There are four narrow openings in the penultimate barricade that lead to the frontline of blackened bus chassis and tires. There are guards armed with wooden baseball bats and steel rods standing at each.
We approach the western entrance, the one leading to Dynamo Stadium, home of soccer team FC Dynamo Kyiv. H tells the guard I am a journalist and that we want to pass to get to the park where the anti-Maidan protesters are stationed.
“Accreditation?”
“He left it at his hotel.”
He hesitates, looks me up and down, looks her up and down.
“Take the gate,” he finally says to another guard and escorts us to the next barricade, lighting a cigarette along the way.
“You won’t get through here,” says one of the eight guards at the next barricade, which has no openings.
”Why not?”
“It’s only titushky on the other side.”
This man, along with the others, isn’t part of any of the recently formed self-defence battalions—he’s a Dynamo Stadium worker who has taken it upon himself to stand guard. When the Berkut—the special-forces unit of Ukrainian police within the Ministry of Internal Affairs—attacked last week, right-wing nationalist group Pravij Sektor—one of the more active and contentious Maidan self-defence grups—built a barricade to protect themselves and other protestors from them. He’s been standing here ever since.
A medic in a white shirt and white helmet with sloppy red crosses painted on makes his rounds. He asks every single person individually if they need help.
“Do you need help? Do you need help? Do you…”
“Listen,” explains the loyal football fan, “they’ll steal you away, beat you, drive you into the woods, leave you there to freeze to death. They don’t care if you’re a journalist. Have you not been watching the news?”
The pine tree—it is burning, burning
Halya—she is screaming, screaming
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
Halya—she is screaming, screaming
Perched up on the hill amidst sporadic trees is Kyiv’s Puppet Theatre. This storybook castle overlooks the charred nexus of the Revolution.
“It’s a real fairytale up there—there’s a fountain, flower beds, sculptures of all the heroes of Ukrainian fables,” H tells me. “They say that at night they come alive and celebrate until dawn within the castle’s walls.”
Suddenly, cheerful bells chime from the idyllic fortress’ tower. They ring out over Hrushevskoho every 15 minutes, all day long, all night long.
“If I were a sniper,” says H, “I’d shoot from there.”
Whoever can hear me, may they save me
Whoever has daughters, may they teach them
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
Whoever has daughters, may they teach them
Since we’re already at the front, we decide to climb up, peer over the tire-edge. Approximately 30 metres away, 15 Berkut are standing in a line, shields resting on the cobblestones. In the thin woods beside the road, another line of them in the same stance, though it’s too dark to say how many. Behind them, hundreds more stretch back around the bend, huddled around flaming barrels just like the protesters. They’re blasting Russian pop music through loud speakers.
Whoever has daughters, may they teach them
Never let them out to walk in the dark night
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
Never let them out to walk in the dark night
Back around the corner we come to the Khreshchatyk barricade, which leads directly into the Maidan. When the crowds are thicker, the north opening serves as the exit, the south opening as the entrance. But it’s relatively quiet, so we don’t break our stride, walk right through the north exit.
“Hey!”
We stop. H grabs my arm.
A guard steps forward.
“Have some hot soup!”
The Cossack promises: I will sleep in the field
I will hear your voice from afar
Oh, Halya! Young Halya!
I will hear your voice from afar
Mark Marcyzk is the ring-leader of the Lemon Bucket Orkestra, an active supporter of the ongoing fight for Ukrainian independence, and a proponent of basic human rights for everyone, everywhere. He writes occasionally, mostly when the points above are brought into question. With his wife Marichka Marczyk, he co-wrote Counting Sheep, a Ukrainian folk opera about how they met and fell in love during the Revolution of Dignity.