Alcohol in wartime Ukraine

Wednesday 11 February 2026

To get drunk in a Ukrainian bar during wartime is not, in truth, chiefly about intoxication. Alcohol is present, certainly, but it is not the point. The bar becomes a place where the ordinary rules of time are suspended, where the war is both everywhere and nowhere, and where people practise, consciously or not, the difficult art of remaining human whilst history presses down upon them.

The evening usually begins quietly. There is no sense of rush. Curfews and air raid schedules have trained people to pace themselves. A bar in wartime Ukraine is often dimmer than it once was, partly for atmosphere, partly for prudence. Candles are common, as much for electricity outages as for romance. The hum of a generator may bleed faintly through the walls, a mechanical reminder that normality is being improvised rather than assumed.

The first drinks are taken with deliberation. A beer, a glass of local horilka, perhaps something herbal or home infused. Toasts are exchanged, but they are rarely frivolous. They are for people absent from the table. Friends at the front. Relatives abroad. Those who will not return. These toasts are spoken plainly, without performance, and then swallowed with the drink itself, as though alcohol might assist in the digestion of grief.

Conversation in a Ukrainian bar during the war has a particular cadence. At first, the talk avoids the conflict, circling around work, music, trivial irritations and gossip. This is not denial. It is defence. But after the second or third drink, the perimeter weakens. Someone mentions a mobilisation notice. Someone else talks about a phone call that did not come. The war enters the room not as a headline but as an anecdote, intimate and unadorned.

Drunkenness arrives differently under these conditions. It is not boisterous, at least not usually. Laughter does happen, and when it does it can be startling in its force, as though the body has briefly remembered a forgotten reflex. Yet there is little recklessness. People watch their phones instinctively. An air raid alert cuts through the room and is met with a collective pause rather than panic. Drinks are finished quickly. A decision is made, almost without words, about whether to move to a shelter or to stay put and accept the risk.

As the night deepens, the bar becomes a confessional. Strangers talk to one another with an intimacy that would once have seemed inappropriate. The shared knowledge that tomorrow is uncertain strips away social caution. Alcohol lubricates this process, but it does not create it. What it does is permit honesty without embarrassment. People admit fear. They admit exhaustion. They admit that they are sometimes bored of being brave.

There is also, unexpectedly, joy. It is not naive or defiant, but it is real. Music is played, often too loudly for the room. Someone sings along badly. Someone else dances for a moment and then stops, suddenly self conscious, before being urged on again. These small acts are not resistance in any formal sense. They are proof of life.

Closing time arrives earlier than it used to. Outside, the streets are quieter, darker. People part quickly, hugging without apology. Walking home slightly drunk during wartime sharpens rather than dulls awareness. The cold air, the silence, the distance to the nearest shelter all feel more pronounced. Yet there is also a peculiar steadiness. For a few hours, fear has been shared rather than borne alone.

To get drunk in a Ukrainian bar during wartime is therefore an act of quiet solidarity. It is neither escapism nor indulgence. It is a way of marking time, of reminding oneself and others that life, though narrowed, has not been extinguished. In the morning, the hangover will be unremarkable. The war will still be there. But for one evening, in low light and borrowed electricity, people will have asserted something fragile and essential: that they are still capable of gathering, speaking, laughing and remembering who they were before the sirens learned their names.