by Elizabeth Ducie

Created on: May 24, 2009

Independence Day

Independence Day celebrations in Kiev start with parades. From my vantage point on a hilly side street, I can't recognise faces, but the crowd's roar tells me when the president drives by. Then there's the fly-past of Antonov aircraft. As the massive transport planes appear, the sun dims and speech is drowned by the throb of engines.

Formalities over, everyone spills into the road. Stages are set up along Khreshchatik for everything from traditional dancing and mini-dramas to rock music. Balloon sellers jostle for space with buskers. A tiny girl plays the violin and people pause, entranced by Tchaikovsky and Borodin. When she switches to a well-loved folk tune, old men clap to the beat and youngsters twirl around her. Many drop a few kopeks in her hat before moving on. Every few yards there are marquees for hot, tired spectators to quench their thirst.

As darkness falls, I join the migration towards Independence Square for the grand finale. The Square, filled with monuments, fountains and the glass domes of the underground shopping centre, is surrounded by imposing, pre-Soviet buildings. Exquisite friezes of stone lace bridge the gap between nineteenth and twenty-first centuries. For exactly fifteen minutes, the sky is alive with rainbows of colour, starbursts of brilliance and gardens of fire. Then it is over and everyone heads home at the same time.

The normally wide pavements are restricted by drinks marquees and stalls selling sweets and ice-creams. It would be tight for three people walking abreast. Now there are hundreds trying to occupy the same space. The crowd surges, bodies forced together, air sucked out. I am pulled along, as though caught in a river, swollen by the rain. Images flash by. An old man calling for his wife, struggling to keep his feet. Children looking for parents. A couple holding a pushchair at shoulder height.

I am pushed from behind by people who can not see what is happening in front. Strangers clutch at one another for support. There is no time for reticence or discretion. The air smells of sweat, beer and unmistakable fear. As I struggle to stay upright in the crush, it seems like hours. It's probably only a few minutes.

The edge of the road is lined with benches, used to watch the morning's parades. They look reassuringly safe, like rocks rising out of the swell. As the flow takes me close, I fling out an arm and a stout, middle-aged Ukrainian woman grabs me and pulls me clear of the crush. Shielded by her, I take time to catch my breath.

Looking over my shoulder, I see the roadway. Still full of people, but not dangerously so. I twist around, using shoulders and backs to steady myself. Stepping across the next couple of benches and forcing my way between the last bodies, I find myself in relative tranquillity. I am safe. Strolling home, I reflect on my own brief struggle for independence and understand why people are celebrating.

Learn more about this author, Elizabeth Ducie.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.