On the night of Saturday, May 24, Ukraine endured one of the most intense bombing campaigns of the entire large-scale invasion. Four people were killed, including two in Kyiv, the main target of the Russian attack, and some 100 others were injured. In the morning, the capital’s mayor, Vitali Klitschko, reported damage across all neighborhoods of the city. A look back at that hellish night and a glimpse of the situation near a building hit by a missile in the historic Podil district.
Around 1 a.m., sirens wailed, and apps and Telegram channels alerting users to airstrikes went into a frenzy. Imminent bombardment, a combined attack: Shahed-type drones, missiles. A sad classic. In Kyiv’s apartments, the dilemma begins: should one go down to the shelters and sacrifice one’s night’s sleep, or can one afford—as is often the case—to take a chance that one won’t be hit? The capital’s air defense is, after all, the densest in Ukraine, so as long as you live in a neighborhood that isn’t generally too exposed, you can take a chance on falling back asleep in your own bed. The bombings are daily; after the night comes work, family life, responsibilities. In short, you can’t afford to doze off in a basement or bunker surrounded by your neighbors every time the Russian army attacks the city. Otherwise, within a few days, exhaustion will get the better of you.
That night, however, is not like any other. Hour after hour, waves of bombardments follow one another. Roughly 600 Shahed-type drones and 90 missiles are fired at Ukraine, as reported by the Kyiv Independent. Those who head to the shelters have made the right choice.
The clamor of hope versus the thunder of death
The activation of the air defense system signals the start of the dance of death, in a crescendo of sound that one would do well to learn to decipher. Hidden here and there, the interceptor missile batteries spring into action. A hellish explosion, followed by the blare of car alarms from vehicles parked nearby. The American systems, on which Ukraine relies almost entirely, often have to fire two missiles to take down their target—due to the odds of success. While the ear grows accustomed to distinguishing the sound of a missile launch from that of an impact, the fact remains that both yank you abruptly from the arms of Morpheus and plunge you into a nightmare that is, in itself, very real.
This is followed by salvos from anti-aircraft guns that slice through the sky with their tracer rounds, before lighting it up with sparks. Finally, the bursts of automatic weapons, the last resort in an attempt to intercept the drones that have managed to escape this deluge of fire. When you hear the firing of assault rifles, it’s a bad sign: these are the least suitable weapons with the shortest range. The drones arrive, with a whirring sound reminiscent of a scooter. That’s actually the emoji associated with them on Telegram groups. And then the rumbling of impacts, extinguishing lives as easily as blowing out a candle. Lucky are the residents of the lower floors, protected by the trees surrounding the buildings, whose branches sometimes cause the drones to explode before they reach the facades.
That night, all hell breaks loose—or rather, the Russian army does. Until around six in the morning. A lull. A moment’s respite. A lull. A half-sleep. The sky lit up by a ball of flames a few dozen meters from an apartment building, signaling that a drone has just been shot down at the last minute. A cigarette for some. A whistling sound. No time to react. In a fraction of a second, a projectile streaks at indescribable speed over the rooftops: a missile; something we’ll only understand in hindsight. A notification on the screen: the Ukrainian Air Force, flying American-designed F-16s and Mirage 2000s sent by France, is taking part in the city’s defense. The cavalry is on its way. Outside, a voice rings out, “Debris… Fire…” Who shouted? Where? A mystery. In the morning, the streets are nearly empty and faces are weary. On this sunny day, the tally of victims begins, rising by the hour. The vast majority of drones were intercepted; but some of the missiles hit their targets.
Missiles in the heart of a residential neighborhood—again
Among the sites hit in Kyiv is a building in Podil, a boho neighborhood known for its nightlife, where an entire section has been reduced to rubble. Guarded by police, the adjacent streets are all cordoned off with police tape. Earlier that morning, President Zelenskyy himself came to assess the damage. The area around the building is teeming with people, emergency vehicles, and construction equipment of all kinds. Windows, storefronts, windshields, doors, roof sections… everything has been blown hundreds of meters away. The ground is littered with shards of glass, the air thick with dust. Many residents are in shock; but some find the strength to speak out, like Nadia, 17, whom I met on a street corner with her mother. Her makeup is flawless, her ponytail holding every strand of her long black hair in place. Behind her long lashes, she displays impressive composure. She and her family live about a hundred meters from the affected building.
“When I was in the basement with my mother, my sister, and my grandmother, the windows exploded inward,” she explains in a voice hoarse with emotion. “The first few minutes were the scariest: everything started shaking, part of the ceiling collapsed. And the most terrifying thing was not knowing whether the building itself had been hit and whether everything was going to collapse on top of us; or if it had fallen somewhere nearby.” The uncertainty, she says, was all the more anxiety-inducing. “My dad and my cat were still in the apartment.” Her father, she explains calmly, made this decision “so he could tell the rescue workers where we were if the shelter had collapsed on us.To show them where to dig,” adds the interpreter. “And to determine if there was a risk of the building collapsing and, if so, try to warn us in time.” Fortunately, none of that happened; and the entire family, including the cat, was able to find refuge with relatives.
In these circumstances, the solidarity of the neighborhood residents is no exception, including toward shop owners, whose stores suffered serious damage. This is what Tymofiï, 24, a waiter at a café located a few dozen meters from the impact site, explains to us. “One of our customers paid for ten coffees in advance, in support of the café. Then we give them out for free, explaining that it’s a gesture of support, and that comforts people,” he says with a smile, showing a sheet of paper on which he has drawn a line for each coffee deducted from that advance. To his right, his colleague is busy replacing the glass in the pastry display case at the counter. Seated on benches arranged along a missing storefront, several people are sipping their drinks while, on the sidewalk, rubble and debris pile up as cleanup and safety operations continue.
Aid for Victims, or the Mechanics of Habit
In this chaotic atmosphere, what is most surprising is the calm of the hundreds of people present. Rescue workers are inspecting the damaged building. On the roof of the Chernobyl National Museum, whose walls are only a few meters away, firefighters are tearing off charred metal sheets that crash to the ground with a thunderous clatter. The museum building caught fire, and 40% of the exhibits are believed to have been destroyed, according to the Ukrainian Ministry of the Interior. Some of the exhausted men are resting or dozing on a sidewalk, a bench, or a dusty armchair salvaged from a damaged building. From time to time, the clanging of excavator buckets and dump trucks operated by emergency services causes them to jump in alarm; then their shoulders slump; and the work resumes.
A few dozen meters away, set up in a tent, the coordinators of Brave to Rebuild—a volunteer organization specializing in responding to buildings affected by bombing or combat—follow the procedure they know all too well: collecting the names, addresses, and phone numbers of residents who need help boarding up their broken windows; dispatch a team of volunteers to their homes to clear away the broken glass, remove damaged window frames and sashes if necessary, and take measurements of the openings to be boarded up; communicate these measurements to the residents and then direct them to a team cutting planks provided by the municipality; finally, send volunteers to install the wooden panels. It is then up to the homeowners to report the damage to the authorities in order to receive assistance with the restoration of their homes. For two days, the neighborhood echoes with the shrill sound of circular saws as the cutting of the boards continues. Here and there, the ground is covered with sawdust.
On the 24th, about 50 volunteers joined Brave to Rebuild at this single site in Podil; and about 25 the following day. Some of them work nine-hour shifts every day. In addition to Ukrainian volunteers, says Victoria, 22, coordinator of Brave to Rebuild’s emergency response team, “we have volunteers from Australia, the United States, France, the Netherlands, Romania, and Sweden”. When asked about the number of apartments they’ve worked on, she pauses. “More than 60; and also the [neighborhood] police station and a cultural center. We still have volunteers there; they need to board up about 40 windows […]. It’s a massive undertaking.”
In this kind of situation, Victoria explains, the civil and military administration in Kyiv contacts her to help direct her teams to the various sites. Fortunately, the logistics are in place; the volunteers arrive on site with everything they need: a tent, a folding table, all kinds of tools, battery chargers, bottles of water, meals, etc. It’s an organization running like clockwork, with contributions from other organizations. Just a stone’s throw from the Brave to Rebuild tent stand those of Food for Life and World Central Kitchen, two NGOs distributing meals and drinks to neighborhood residents, first responders, and volunteers. On May 24 alone in Kyiv, says Daria, a regional emergency response manager at World Central Kitchen, her organization served approximately 1,200 hot meals and distributed hundreds of sandwiches.
Policy of terror: a miscalculation?
Faced with the scale of the attack and the titanic effort required to deal with the fall of this single missile, reactions vary; yet despair does not seem to prevail, not even for Nadia, the 17-year-old girl who, nevertheless, openly acknowledges her fear. “I wish Russia were deprived of the resources that allow it to do this,” she says, before adding that, in her view, we must “remain human and help people in need.” A little further on, anger is the prevailing emotion this time. “When is Putin finally going to die? That’s the only thing I have to say,” says a man who has come to the scene to assess the damage. A friendly smile behind his white mustache, but he won’t say more. Other residents approach the events with more detachment.
This is the case for Bohdan, 20, whom we meet at the foot of his building as he laughs with a friend. The apartment he owns has been seriously damaged. Cracked walls, objects strewn on the floor, plasterboard torn off… The photos he shows us on his phone speak for themselves. It will take him “several weeks” to renovate the place. When asked how he felt after the strike, he responds with a shrug and a smile: “OK.” In his view, this policy of terror through constant bombing works only “in part.” But, he adds, still smiling, “with me, personally, not really!” While waiting for repairs to be done, he’ll stay with a friend.
The volunteers, too, refuse to lose heart. According to Nina, 29, who has been volunteering since January 2026 with an organization whose leaders do not wish to be named, the rescue workers she met that day were “tired, angry, dirty, but used to this kind of thing […]. [The Russians] are maniacs, they’re crazy, but I don’t think they’ll ever achieve their goal or make us give up.” Facing this kind of event, adds Nina’s supervisor, “just fuels my anger. It doesn’t even shock you anymore, because you know they embody pure evil. Our strength is our unity. We know our enemy, we know how to do our job; and everyone who isn’t on the front lines should support those who are.”
For Quentin Serrurier, an Australian volunteer who spent the day with the Brave to Rebuild teams, the fact that Russian bombing campaigns won’t break the population’s morale comes as no surprise. “I don’t think terror has ever changed the course of a war; but it’s the predictable reaction of a narcissist when he feels challenged.”
Antoine Laurent is a freelance journalist. A contributor to the Swiss bimonthly Echo Magazine, the Italian media Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso Transeuropa, and other publications on a more ad hoc basis (Le Courrier de Genève, Linkiesta, etc.).