You enter a building with no windows or roof. Around you — walls blackened by fire. The old wooden floor has burned down, turning to charcoal and crumbling beneath your boots. Overhead — an iron-gray winter sky. Not a single person in sight. Only the wind creaks a child’s swing in the nearby playground. 

This is not a scene from a horror movie. This is the House of Culture in the village of Ivanivka, just ten minutes from Chernihiv, burned down in the first week of the Russian occupation. The Russians thought Ukrainian soldiers were hiding inside. So, they shelled the building with artillery, and when it caught fire, they did not allow it to be extinguished. Among other things, the library inside burned down. The local librarian could only silently watch the red glow in the sky. Not a single one of the 14,000 books survived. And this has happened everywhere the Russian army has been or even approached. 

Last year, my colleagues and I documented destroyed cultural heritage along the entire frontline — from Kyiv oblast to Odesa oblast. Hundreds and hundreds of buildings: churches, museums, schools, libraries. Damaged, shattered, sometimes burned to the point that only the foundation and metal bookshelves remained. I am not exaggerating — this is what the Russian army does every day. And it’s hard to grasp unless you see it for yourself. 

Yet even liberation does not bring safety. There are no safe places in Ukraine. Russian kamikaze drones and missiles fly overhead every day — day and night. In border cities like Chernihiv, air raid alerts last for hours. What’s worse, the drones are being upgraded. They now carry thermobaric and cluster munitions. And you never know exactly what is flying over your head. You have to adapt because these attacks have become a part of daily life.

So, after waiting out an air raid alert, you take your child outside, grab a large cappuccino at a café, and head to a free English class at the local library, hoping you have two or three hours before the next siren. Because if it wails again, the lesson will be canceled — the library’s shelter is too small, making classes impossible. And the child must learn something. Constant air raid alerts disrupt school lessons. 

If you’re heading to your own English class, the group takes a vote: should they meet today and hope the killer drones fly past, or is it safer to wait it out in a basement? And people take the risk. Because, first of all, the teacher is already there — she works at the library. Second, she has spent time preparing the lesson, choosing books for you to study, and selecting videos for discussion. Third, you cannot live in a constant state of terror. If you sink into that fear, it means the Russians have won. Like Dementors, they have sucked away all your joy, happiness, and desire to live. 

And books help. Books allow you to break free from the darkness of war. To see at least a glimmer of hope, to believe that justice exists, and that good will prevail despite everything, no matter how brutal or merciless it may seem.

Imagine: the small town of Makariv in Kyiv region, April 2022. A few weeks have passed since its liberation from Russian forces. Burned-out cars and armoured vehicles have been cleared from the roads, but electricity and water have not yet been restored. And people who survived the occupation walk to the library. Because they want to see something beyond ruins and horror. They want to see adventure and hope. 

It is interesting that in every library I have visited, whether in the Kyiv region, Chernihiv region, or Kharkiv region, people mention Harry Potter. It is one of the most popular and well-worn books, both in Ukrainian and English. People have told that they can read it several times a year, discovering something new each time. Because this book resonates somewhere deep inside. Especially its later parts. Perhaps because many Ukrainians, like Rowling’s characters, spent the first weeks of the full-scale war listening to the radio, hoping not to hear the names. 

It may seem strange, but part of Ukrainian society began reading in Ukrainian after the start of the full-scale war. It is the legacy left behind by Russian and later Soviet occupation, which lasted for over 300 years. It sought to create the image of the Ukrainian language as something secondary and not particularly important. Soviet propaganda subtly but systematically conveyed the idea that Ukrainian was suitable only for writing about villages, that it was unfit for high literature. Reading Dostoevsky was considered a mark of education, even though Ukrainians had their own Khvylovy and Kotsiubynsky — remarkable Ukrainian writers. Not to mention contemporary poets and prose writers. In fact, much more could be written about this — about how Russia imposed its culture through money and propaganda — but then this column would turn into a monograph, and that is not my goal.  

At the same time, there was almost no English-language literature in libraries. Especially in small village libraries, where transport from big cities arrives only a few times a week. So, at best, one could find an outdated dictionary and a few phrasebooks for tourists.

But now people want to read more. And they want something different. They want to see classic literature in the original. They want modern authors in the original. They want to read in English about how to care for houseplants, how to photograph at night, and how feminism can change their lives! The situation has improved now, thanks in no small part to donors who have provided thousands of English-language books.

Some libraries have started sharing their English-language collections with colleagues and even making lists for readers — when and which book will become available so that they have a chance to borrow it. 

Now, knowing all this, imagine that some of these libraries no longer have buildings. Because the Russians destroyed them. Shelled them with artillery. Dropped bombs on them. In the end, fragments of downed killer drones fell on these buildings. Libraries lost their roofs over their heads. And yet, they continue to operate! For example, the regional Chernihiv library, whose building was destroyed by Russian aviation in March 2022, rents a small room in another library for a symbolic fee. Kind people have given them shelves and books, equipment, and even suitcases in which they can transport books from the surviving storage facility. 

Or imagine this: a large old building, heavily damaged during the battles for the Kyiv region. Partially without a roof. Now with windows, but without heating and electricity, because at night the Russians have damaged something again. And there you are, in the evening, in this old building, among hundreds of books, in complete darkness. The door opens, and a teenager walks in, wanting to borrow something to read. And together with the librarian, using flashlights, they walk along the shelves, searching for THE book. Then, sitting at a table in the reading hall, they decide: which one to take. 

How do libraries survive under these conditions? I have no idea. Probably thanks to kind people. Thanks to those who care about their work and their readers. Thanks to those who, despite Shaheds and missiles, go to work every day to open the doors for visitors. Thanks to those who care about libraries and try to help them — with equipment, generators, flashlights… books. 

There are stories of people bringing something from their own personal libraries to replace the books that were died. Strangely enough, this is the exact word librarians used when talking about destroyed collections — died books. 

Thanks to donations. From large international foundations and small Ukrainian ones. From the contributions of kind-hearted individuals. Because, as the war in Ukraine has shown — there is no such thing as a small donation. Even 20 hryvnias (£0.40 or $0.50) can make a difference. 

In the end, libraries are still alive thanks to those who care, those who do whatever they can, wherever they can. 

So I ask you: support the libraries. Especially the small ones, in villages far away. Because perhaps, in some distant village, someone will read a book — and find hope. 

Find more about PEN Ukraine’s Unbreakable Libraries programme. All images (c) SKozliuk2024