Insights: to listen is to care
A reflection from us, and an essay that feels especially needed right now
Playground readers,
Sometimes, working with creativity, strategy, play and curiosity can feel like being inside a bubble. But truthfully, the world outside that bubble hasn’t been easy lately. The news has been really heavy at most times – devastating, unjust, and overwhelmingly sad.
Playground was born from the belief that creativity and play can offer a way forward – that they can spark optimism, fresh ideas and better ways of seeing and doing things. But the best ideas don’t come in isolation – they’re shaped in response to what’s happening around us.
We don’t want to close our eyes or ears. We must stay open, and listen.
As a small gesture, we’ve donated 5,000 Swedish kronas (around 450€/525$) – split equally between United24 for Ukraine and Unicef’s ‘help the children in Gaza’ – from our studio and one of our contributors (thank you!). It’s not a big sum, but we hope it’s a reminder that even small actions can matter.
Alongside, we’re sharing an essay from Playground Issue 1, To listen is to care by Andrii Ushytskyi who kindly agreed us to re-publish his work. It felt right to bring this piece beyond print, even if it means breaking our usual rule. Issue 1 is sold out, and this work deserves to be heard by more people.
Take your time this summer.
Tune in to the sounds, stories and surroundings around you.
Step outside your bubble.
The best play – and the best creativity – is born from care and response.
“Empathy is remembering that everybody has a story. Multiple stories. And remembering to make space to hear someone else’s story before immediately telling your own.” - Kae Tempest
Until the next time,
Auste & Playground team
To listen is to care by Andrii Ushytskyi
I used to live in a spacious, newly-built tower block located in the north of Kyiv, where I rented a flat on the eighth floor. The twenty-four-floor building was built of grey bricks with sporadic splashes of pink paint, lending the scene an optimistic hue. My windows overlooked the city centre, which was quite far away, yet close enough to allow me and my guests to identify the historical monuments one usually sees when they Google 'Kyiv.'
I came to recognise a beam of light that danced on my kitchen wall every sunny morning, a reflection that travelled the distance from the metallic crest on the hills next to the Dnipro River, famously known as the Arch of Ukraine's Unity. If you were to look through my window, spot the Arch and then shift your gaze slightly to the right, you would see St. Andrew's Church with its blue cupola. Between the Arch and the Church, you could just about make out a scarcely-visible structure, impossible to notice if you did not know that it was there. This was a well-known pedestrian bridge made of steel and glass. It is the same bridge that was hit by a Russian missile on October 10, 2022. On that day, the picturesque landscape from my window was marred by a dark cloud of smoke from the explosion.
A good aspect of those Kyiv tower blocks, often built post-2000s, is that there are similar buildings nearby, creating the sense of a 'small town within the city.' In Ukrainian, this is known as a 'residential accommodation' (or 'zhytlovyi kompleks' in transliteration, if you're curious). In essence, this concept means that the urban planning of these housing complexes is designed to provide residents with easy access to important facilities nearby, usually including a cafe, a small supermarket, a pharmacy, a clothing atelier, a vet clinic, if you're fortunate (as I certainly was), a spa and—most importantly as I later understood—an underground parking lot. With the war coming to my country, the underground parking became my frequent refuge during Russian missile attacks. And as I sat there, surrounded by the familiar faces of my neighbours, I did what I knew best — I wrote down everything I saw using my iPhone Notes application.
On the morning of October 10, 2022, when the entire city awoke to explosions, I sat in a shelter next to a young boy who was completing his English homework. 'I have tutoring classes in the evening. I really want to learn English, and I want to be prepared,' he told me. I smiled and complimented him for his dedication, making a brief note of it on my phone. I had to remember this; I must not forget. I had to share this story with others. Writing became my way of asserting my presence and reassuring myself that I was indeed there before my memory erased those situations. On that sunny morning of October 10, 2022, I truly was sitting in a shelter, holding back my tears as my neighbours laughed at jokes cracked by the parking security guard.
I've since found that many Ukrainian writers choose the Notes application on their phones as a means to transform their pain into creativity. As these thoughts form into words, often emerging from a place of deep grief stemming from one's own helplessness, writers carefully refine their work, scrutinising every word to avoid using language that might violate Instagram’s (or any other social media platform’s) community guidelines. They usually don’t, although their voices are still drowned out behind a wall of algorithms, preventing others from hearing them. This is when they ask for 'likes' under their posts to boost their account's visibility. They request reactions to their work in the form of at least one emoji under the post’s comments section, so that the algorithm considers it 'worthy content for others to see.’ Ultimately, by being a Ukrainian writer today, at some point or another, you begin to realise that your work lies in the act of disrupting the comfort of others, simply because this comfort fosters indifference. That is why the universal question ‘What can I say as a writer?', in the Ukrainian context, has evolved into 'How can I lead this uncomfortable conversation while also ensuring that others see and participate in it?’ And to be honest, I am still looking for an answer.
Even those who were never interested in writing have started sharing their stories on social media. When the context is this urgent, with the war constantly dominating the news, personal stories gain even more value. Sometimes, you might be the only person who can tell that particular story. So, all that's left is to sit down and write, even if it's your first attempt — even if you think it won't turn out well. This notion is especially helpful for those who do not engage in any other creative practice on a daily basis but still seek the words to talk about their new wartime reality. No one was prepared for this, but as we collectively try to interpret our experience through art, music and creativity in general — and by ‘collectively,’ I mean not only as Ukrainians but also as the global community — we suddenly discover new ways to understand each other.
I recall a conversation with my friend, whose friend is a photographer. In September 2022, he returned to Kyiv from the recently liberated Kharkiv region. “You know,” he said to my friend, “after I talked to those people who had survived the most gut-wrenching situations, I felt that the most important thing I could do, both as a photographer and as a human being, was to be there and listen to all the stories they wanted to share with me. They poured their hearts out to me. And as we said goodbye, all they asked for was that I share their stories with others. That was all that they asked for.”
‘To listen is to care,’ — I later thought.
To listen is to care.
I had to move out of my flat in the north of Kyiv in August 2023. It was put up for sale by its owner, which means that the reader will now never be able to see the sunbeam from the Arch of Ukraine’s Unity on my kitchen wall. Or St. Andrew’s Church as I saw it from my window. Or the pedestrian bridge. As I began the exhausting and time-consuming process of finding somewhere to live, I made sure that my new flat had a cafe nearby with a generator in case Russians bombed our critical infrastructure again, a gas stove (better than electric because it doesn't rely on electricity), a water boiler for instances when the centralised hot water supply isn't working, a safe place in my flat with at least two walls I could hide behind in case danger suddenly erupted, and an underground parking lot.
Looking through my window now, I do not see the historical centre of Kyiv but a beautiful park and a lonely poplar tree next to my balcony. I no longer have that underground parking lot with the diligent young man doing his English homework, but every time an air raid siren sounds, I run to the nearby metro station. I am happy with this change. It is safer there.
Andrii Ushytskyi is a Ukrainian writer and editor based in Kyiv. When Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, Andrii launched the Ukrainian-German magazine ‘Solomiya’ together with friends. The magazine is dedicated to exploring and showcasing the remarkable cultural and artistic resistance of Ukraine during the ongoing war.
You can stay updated with their impactful work and find recommendations on how to support Ukraine by visiting @solomiyamag's Instagram page or through their website at solomiyamag.com.
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