Techno & Lust In Wartime Kyiv: No Photos. No Prejudice. - Techno Pedia

Prior to Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Kiev had a thriving techno scene that rivaled Berlin in hedonism and sexual positivity. Underground raves brought together queer and LGBT youth, creating inclusive spaces where orientation and gender didn't matter. In the spring of this year, as tanks approached Kiev, civilians fled en masse and many clubs became refugee shelters. More than six months later, techno is booming again as daytime parties raise money for the military.

Berlin is often referred to as the techno capital of Europe. However, some European ravers believed that rampant tourism had taken the city away from the post-Soviet arenas that made it exciting in the 1990s. One reister said: "Kiev has the advantage of Berlin".

This burgeoning underground scene quickly attracted the attention of the creative team at Berlin's Berghain nightclub, considered one of the best party venues in the world. Berghain is known for its secrecy, hedonism and exclusivity. With a strict no-camera policy, patrons often party Friday night through Sunday - no mirrors or reflective surfaces are allowed inside, preventing everyone from seeing your mess. In 2019, the owners of Berghain expanded to Kiev and opened a megaclub they called "∄" (the mathematical symbol for "does not exist"). Local residents sometimes refer to it as "K41" or "Kirilavskaya", referring to the club's address, 41 Kirilavskaya Street.

I first heard about Kirilovskaya in April, in connection with District No. 1, a group of volunteers who repair damaged houses in the liberated areas of northern Kiev. Before volunteering during the war, Ward # 1 was a trade association representing Reitarskaya Street, Kiev's hipster mecca. Andrei and Masha were among the leaders of the organization. Andrei owned a clothing line, worked in marketing, and often talked about his desire to please people. Masha, a bisexual makeup artist and model, was persistent and tirelessly productive. I have often found her busy with the paperwork related to the renovation. She admitted she wanted the world to know she was "more than just a girl".

One afternoon in April I was taken back to Kiev after a long day of clearing the rubble of a kindergarten in the village, which was destroyed by the Russian occupiers. They complained that the visitors of the war did not see the city in all its glory and called Kyrilovskaya, which then served as a refuge, Edenskaya. "You have to come to Kirillovskaya when it opens. Tamaka, everyone is so full of love," said Masha, showing me her phone case, which was covered with torn rainbow stickers that had been pasted onto her phone's camera as a condition to enter. . during previous visits to the club. I asked him if he was gay friendly. Andrew, who seemed to have lived a thousand nights, laughed. "I'd say I'm straight."

Most of the gays I met in Kiev saw Kirillova as the driving force behind Ukrainian LGBT life. It was the largest and brightest gay-friendly space in Ukraine, a hub for artists and bohemians. Some believed that the club, by facilitating mass contact between people of all orientations and genders, promoted LGBTQ acceptance more than local civil society organizations. However, Kirillova's overwhelming success came with unexpected costs: John, a Nigerian gay in his twenties, said he had a hard time fitting into the Kiev gay scene due to his incestuous relationship with the techno crowd. He preferred quieter nights playing board games.

After the first two months of the war, Ukraine was divided into two worlds: at the front and everywhere. Life is hell on the front line. Water, food and electricity are in short supply, and the bombings often kill people. However, many cities outside these areas have returned to relative normalcy, preserving the country's economy and dignity.

Ukrainians living in peaceful areas have mixed feelings: the guilt for not having suffered like their fellow citizens, the relief for not being bombed, the gratitude for the soldiers whose sacrifices keep the war going, and the stubborn joy of protest against the misfortunes that are upon them. the mall. like a guillotine. Russian attacks on energy infrastructure have recently blurred the boundary between these two worlds, as missiles rain down on cities far from the front, plunging them into darkness.

However, such a split allowed Kiev to recover quickly after the Russians were expelled from this area in April. "Even during the war, Kiev is the best city in the world!" says a young man at a spring barbecue. But the recovery was also cautious for obvious reasons. It was only in October that Kirilavskaya finally opened. His first party during the war was advertised as a fundraiser for the army, open from 2pm to 10pm (one hour before the military curfew).

I arrived in Kirillovskaya that night with a friend, passing through a dark city that kept electricity and hid strategic objectives. The club was a five-story building made of rotting brick. Only a small part has been opened. Inside, everything was dark, eerie, and industrial: a thick fog of people smoking. The black vinyl curtains fluttered in the vent breeze. The cloakroom tables were lit by candlelight: instead of tickets, employees handed out trinkets with engraved numbers. Nearby, a woman in a leather bikini and a net of chains tied her shoes to the step. An androgynous figure in line adjusted her clothing: a veil and shin guards decorated with loose plastic nails. Knitted, leather and oversized sweaters were ubiquitous. Many people were wonderful.

The dance floor was a desert of fog and blinding light: continuous hypersonic beats that made your bones tremble. Scattered in the crowd: shirtless men filled with gay lust. But more than that: a man and a woman kissed, eating each other with youthful passion. In this cathedral all wishes were allowed. Joy and laughter. Centers of self-awareness and self-loathing. A sweaty man with tattoos on his arms and the most spectacular mullet. Glasses and sunglasses. Pillars covered with chipped subway tiles. Another man in a pink kimono. More sweat. Another shirtless man in bulletproof armor decorated with the words "PRESS".

At the bar, a woman was serving drinks in a black balaclava. She looks like a supermodel, judging from what you've seen of her. Two naked women were tattooed on their backs, one licking the other's head. Some men looked me in the eye. "Sorry, I'm dating someone."

I saw a man I met in Lviv (a city near the Polish border) in April. At the time he was a refugee from Kiev expelled from the war, and on Grindr he wrote me: "Are you eating out?" We went to play, here an anti-aircraft siren rang and he showed me the catacombs under the cathedral, which once served as a museum, but has been converted into an air-raid shelter. That spring, women wept near this cathedral when dead soldiers were carried into coffins. The priests sang. The catacombs were deep. Now he was shirtless. We said goodbye, but the music drowned out our voices.

In the fog, I saw a direct military correspondent I knew on Instagram. He danced feverishly. Last week he traveled to Liman, a newly liberated eastern city, where he and his comrades stumbled upon the bodies of Russian soldiers. I remember the images: charred ribs and an elongated spine in a nest of wild ash. The bones begin their path of decomposition. And the horse's carcass too. But now there was techno and oblivion.

I saw Andrei and Masha, whose nascent project has become a full-fledged public organization. They always rebuilt the destroyed buildings one by one, relieving the pain of others. I asked them a few questions, but there was no need, now was not the time. We broke up and the crowd swallowed us.

In the dark smoking room, the women rest on a small pedestal illuminated by thin beams of light. One was stretched out like a statue, her head thrown back from exhaustion. Above, the shallow pits were filled with people talking and smoking. Hands and feet rub against each other. Relaxed intimacy. For a second, the mass graves flashed in my head. I shook my mind and filled it with music. It was easy. Not like that summer night in Toronto when, just back from Kharkiv, I pictured the car alarm going off after the bombing.

Night fell, then the lights came on with an antiseptic glow. Mass exodus in the changing rooms. The hands resting on the tables hanging from these beaded necklaces silently plead: “Choose me! Choose me! "My friend and I gathered our coats and went out into the night, which was dark just beyond the courtyard wall. There was no light at all. City asleep.

The next morning, suicide drones exploded near the station, suffocating the entire area with smoke. A few deaths, but don't panic. A young man on the scene said he was not afraid, he was used to these things. Calm also the woman who lived in the house next to the explosion. She left her apartment because it was filled with smoke that she feared would poison her. In the nearby streets, people jogged and went to work.

A few days later, five missiles were shot down before they could hit the city. The cafes close in the afternoon. Someone crowded into subway stations and someone lived their day as if they were walking into nothingness. I left Kiev in the east and the attacks on the power grids continued. On Twitter, acquaintances reported the blackout and talked about working by candlelight. The darkness has thickened.

During a group conversation, Kirilavskaya reported that the first military group raised several thousand dollars near the gate, money that will go to the soldiers of the Eastern Front. More matches have been announced. "No photos. No prejudices. At the end of the first month, $ 15,000 was raised, used, among other things, to buy a car for the piece in Bakhmut. the camera - echoed inside this building. Gay or straight. Regardless of gender. Memory of spring, voice: "Even during the war, Kyiv is the best city in the world.