The Siege

"Nothing new under the sun," the old saying goes. What Solomon meant, I think, is there are no universally strange experiences, only unfamiliar ones. Anything at all, even the most perverse situation, can become searingly familiar in a few days' time. Welcome to Kiev. My home looks dramatically different these days, but the ancient king's words ring true even when illumined by the hellfire of burning trash. An evil glow has been cast across the city, and this is its epicenter. Here I stand, bathing in the half-light of iniquity. The square is a vast battle-scarred tableau, a Dantesque landscape split by a winding river of fire, which separates us from the police. A greasy black cloud bellows upward, choking the night sky. In the distance I see volunteers feeding the inferno, tossing in anything they are given -- tires, bed frames, broken-down chairs. On the eastern end, the parliament building is in ruins. A massive Rolex advertisement that once covered the structure's facade is burnt through in spots and orange flames adorn some of the window cavities. Here and there, a random firework explodes, showering the square in dazzling sparks, briefly transforming the scene from night to day. A line of protestors are conveying cobblestones -- pried from the plaza via crowbar and sledgehammer -- to the front lines. Silhouetted against the wall of flame, ragtag bunches of anarchists are hurling the stones, hoping to hit the cops on the other side. Some have made Molotov cocktails; others aim bottle rockets through the fire. An impassioned voice is booming from nearby loudspeakers, stirring the crowd. The voice is of a man whom I can tell is from the countryside. His accent is a little thicker, a little more Slavic. The voice hoarsens with each passing hour, yet he continues on, shouting slogans, exhorting us to action. But we mostly just stand around, beneath the portable construction lights, huddling against the biting cold, nervously awaiting the latest casualty report. Occasionally the crowd parts, allowing the wounded to be rushed towards an improvised medic tent. Tolstoy said all men suffer equally. Another man, an American, once wrote, "Each man's struggle is huge in his own estimation. It occupies his entire world; it is more important than any other man's struggle he might encounter. Therefore, for each of us, it is significant, encompassing, total." If this is true, why are we here? Yanukovych's goons, our goons, we are all the same. Yet we must fight. Despite the flames licking at our very souls, we have endless time to contemplate such things. Twenty-three deaths tonight. From where, I have no idea, since from here it appears as if nothing is happening. So this is life inside the Maidan: equal parts dread, boredom and chaos. I realize this is how it must have been for the crusading armies of long ago -- endless days camped outside the castle walls while the inhabitants inside slowly starved. The smell of smoke surrounding you, a continuous muddy filth permeating everything, and, worst of all, the crushing weight of time.