As Russian Missiles Fly Over Kyiv, Ukrainians' Survival Continues Underground

Oct 08, 2026 17:09 Updated Oct 08, 2026 17:24

9 min read

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Authors

Louis Beaudemont

News Editor

Amira Barkhush

Reporter

Survival requires a certain expertise—ranging from choosing the best sleeping bag for taking shelter in the subway to varied technical knowledge about military and pyrotechnic equipment. 

How fast and at what altitude does a Shahed drone fly if it is a Type 2, 4, or 5? Where is the safest place to hide in an apartment? The hallway? A stairwell equipped with a central elevator? An uncertified underground parking lot? What is the probability of an attack if Russian strategic bombers leave their Far East bases to deploy to those in Saratov or Arkhangelsk? Is it better to bring a folding chair made by a Chinese or German brand? How many missiles can each Russian aircraft launch? What time should they reach my city if the launch took place at 3:00 a.m.?

This routine has become so ingrained that one can open their phone, gather a bit of information, and go back to sleep, knowing there are still two or three hours of rest left before explosions might sound.

Kyiv is a city of several million residents, and while tens of thousands take shelter in the metro on high-risk nights, the vast majority stay at home. Going down into the subway and spending the night there is no simple task. It is an ordeal, and everyone prepares for it differently.

Its massive escalators descend, in some cases, tens of meters deep through a succession of moving stairs that seem to have been running continuously since the year they were built. While these escalators run downward all night, going back up can only be done on foot between midnight and 5:00 a.m., when the city freezes under curfew.

Some stations were constructed with atomic warfare in mind—a theme that has become relevant again following new threats from Russia and its North Korean ally. Taking shelter in the metro means preparing for any eventuality. It is the safest place in the city, especially since Kyiv became an aerial battleground, much like London during World War II.

For the past few weeks, Russian forces have been launching successive waves of jet-powered attack drones—the Geran-4 and Geran-5—from morning until night. While the former is based on the well-known single-wing design of the Iranian Shahed, the latter resembles a cruise missile, measuring over 6 meters long with a warhead-shaped fuselage that allows it to exceed 500 km/h (310 mph). 

These attack drones strike civilian infrastructure, residential buildings, and, recently, bridges during peak traffic hours in broad daylight. This strategy of terror is still far from breaking the residents' resolve or causing a massive exodus, but it weighs heavily on the morale of families—especially those with children.

“After a Shahed hit our building, we had a panic attack,” said Yuliia, a young mother from Kyiv sheltering for the night with her son at the Shuliavska station in central Kyiv. “We decided to start going to the metro.” 

She and her son Illia found a small spot near another family's tent. A few pillows, games, and homework are scattered across a large duvet spread directly on the floor, which is relatively clean compared to other European subways. Just before evening, cleaners work busily, mopping the floor and wiping away dust.

As Yuliia tells her story, alternating between smiles and tears, her son hides under a small blanket, occasionally poking his head out before pulling it right back in. 

“He chooses to come to the shelter because he’s scared at home,” she said. “[Ever since the Shahed crashed into our building] he starts thinking about death—that the building could collapse, that he could die.”

That evening, the risk of Russia’s massive attack was very real. Specialized Telegram channels had begun warning of a combined strike. Numerous strategic bombers, armed with Kh-101 missiles, were flying west from their Siberian bases—a sign that a combined night attack was more than likely. Allied intelligence services, particularly from the US, help Ukraine monitor Russian aviation movements. Without this support, there would be little way to prepare for the terrifying nights of Russian bombardment, and civilian casualties would undoubtedly be much higher.

Looking at this temporary underground community, one notices many children, highlighting that protecting innocent lives is one of the primary reasons people spend the night here.

Dania, a 12-year-old boy wandering between the tents who took an interest in my camera, put it simply: “My mom and I came down because the Telegram channels said Russia is going to attack.” 

Education during wartime in the 21st century involves this reality: a mix of the virtual and the real, and the absolute necessity of constantly navigating between the partial truth of social media and the reinforced concrete that protects against death.

That night, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy himself warned Ukrainians—and Kyiv residents in particular—that an attack was imminent. 

“There are a lot of people tonight, yes,” confirmed a metro employee, turning toward the escalator where groups continued to descend, loaded down with bags, duvets, and yoga mats. “More are still arriving.”

Spending the night in the metro means agreeing to share the intimacy of sleep in a public space with strangers of different ages and backgrounds. The overcrowding is such that commuters using the station for its usual purpose must weave through yoga mats and tents to reach their train or exit onto the street.

Between 11:00 p.m. and midnight, late arrivals search for spots. Some places are certainly better than others, and those with the most experience know where to look. Every square foot of floor space is taken, whether in the center of the stations or on the platforms, right in front of trains that arrive less and less frequently as midnight approaches.

Oleksandra and her cat Pupa—a tiny black kitten that fits in her hand—chose to set up their tent in the middle of the station. “When we’re at home, she gets scared by the explosions. You can see she’s frightened—she tries to hide.”

To pass the time, she sews a blanket. “I’m cross-stitching a rushnyk for my wedding. My boyfriend is serving in the military.”

Oleksandra is not the only one who descended into the metro with a pet. Dogs and cats stay alongside their owners in bags and crates, on laps, or resting on small blankets.

By 11:30 p.m., many are already asleep. Some have their faces bundled inside sleeping bags to block out the light or to try to imagine they are at home—rather than forced to shelter underground to avoid being traumatized by the sound of explosions, the strikes themselves, or worse.

Others do what they would normally do at home: scroll through social media (even underground, mobile network coverage in Kyiv is exceptionally good), take their blood pressure, or draw. Still others appear lost in thought, staring blankly ahead.

At 11:38 p.m., we catch the last train home, leaving behind those who will soon have no choice but to spend the night in the station—at least until the upward escalators restart around 5:30 a.m.

That night, on October 7th, the Telegram channels, President Zelenskyy, and the rumors were all correct: Russia launched dozens of cruise and ballistic missiles at Ukraine, killing two people in the Ukrainian capital and 22 in the Chernihiv region, including four children. While those sleeping in the subway overnight may not have heard the explosions, they certainlly felt the aftermath upon returning to daylight: until early morning, the city of Kyiv was shrouded in thick, acrid smoke.

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