As Anastasiia Syradoieva awoke to the sound of air raid sirens and missile strikes in Kyiv on 24 February 2022, the first place she thought to seek shelter was ∄, the techno club housed in a former brewery she has run since its opening in 2019. “This building has survived two world wars,” the 28-year-old says over two years later almost proudly, pointing to the half-metre thick walls of the 19th century factory. Before Russia’s full-scale invasion, Kyiv was well on its way to becoming a major clubbing destination to rival Berlin or Tbilisi, with venues such as ∄ putting it on the map. The club’s name is an unpronounceable mathematical symbol that stands for a value that doesn’t exist, Syradoieva explains. Locals just call it Kyrylivska 41, after the street in Kyiv’s alternative Podil neighbourhood in which it resides, or K41 for short. “The main concept behind the name is that this place, this club does not exist. And if you want to explore it, you need to come here and see it for yourself”, she continues. The club operates a strict no photos policy, with bouncers covering phone cameras with smiley stickers at the door. Once inside, it’s easy to see what has earned ∄ its reputation within the international scene. The sprawling space – renovated by Berghain architects Studio Karhard – is a brick and metal maze of dancefloors, darkrooms and toilet cubicles, with a meaty sound system to boot. But since opening in 2019, ∄ has faced one crisis after another. “We never had calm times”, Syradoieva laughs. “In total, we’ve probably only had a year in which we could function as a normal club,” she says. In March 2020, just months after opening, the Covid pandemic hit – without government support, Ukrainian clubs were left to fend for themselves. Along with other queer-friendly electronic music venues in Kyiv, ∄ was targeted in 2021 by far-right activists who blockaded the entrance, preventing guests from entering. “We usually called the police, expecting them to protect us or create a safe corridor to the club entrance,” she says. “But they did nothing. We often had to wait several hours for the far-right thugs to go home.” And then came Putin’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. As Russian troops advanced towards Kyiv, Syradoieva and the rest of the team stockpiled groceries and assembled at 41 Kyrylivska Street. Up to 200 staff members, friends and their families sought refuge behind the club’s walls in the first months of the attack. After Russian forces retreated from the neighbouring towns and villages, Syradoieva and her team decided to organise a first “community gathering” in May 2022. “We weren’t sure how people would react to a dance party, so we played ambient music. But people danced anyway, so we gave them what they wanted.” By October 2022, weekly daytime techno parties – dubbed “community events” – were back on the programme, with guests asked to make a donation to the Ukrainian army at the door instead of paying an entry fee. “It was the only way we could proceed with events,” Syradoieva explains. “People are fighting for us to continue living our lives. Our aim is to support them, and they need money to buy equipment.” Many Kyiv clubs have since followed suit. Since re-opening, ∄ has raised the equivalent of £250,000, which it uses to buy gear for various brigades and units in the army. The exact donations are listed in detail on the club’s website, among them drones, generators, chainsaws, bulletproof vests and vehicles. £100,000 worth of donations has gone to the 72nd separate mechanised brigade of Viktor Pylypenko, a well-known gay combat medic who founded the organisation LGBT Military in 2018. “But war isn’t just a shopping list,” Syradoieva stresses. She sees community building as a vital aspect of ∄’s work, which hires soldiers returning from the front and plans to organise hubs for them to socialise and readjust to civilian life. The club also continues to be an important space for Kyiv’s queer community. “It’s a very conservative society. And the club is their safe space.” At a community event on a brisk Saturday afternoon in early May, an energetic, scantily clad crowd on the outside dancefloor in the club’s back yard cheers and whistles to bassy breaks with euphoric piano stabs. Two young women in see-through lace bodysuits dance on a concrete pedestal, while a grey-bearded man donning a harness and leather hot pants plays with a crystal ball. When asked, most guests all the say the same thing: the club is their home – and the community their family. “It’s a space where I can feel safe and be myself for a few hours,” says Maxim, a 32-year-old regular with earrings and a heart necklace. “It means a lot to the queer community here. We can kiss and hug openly.” Today’s headliner, closing the back yard before the wartime curfew kicks in at midnight, is the Berlin-based Alinka. “The club means everything to me, it’s my utopia,” the 43-year-old house DJ says. Alinka was born in Ukraine but grew up in Chicago, before moving to the German capital. She first played at ∄ within months of it opening in 2019. Today’s set marks her fourth visit since September 2023. “I try to come and play every three months now.” In recent months, international DJs such as Interstellar Funk, Bjarki and Phase Fatale have all played at ∄. But booking big names isn’t easy. In fact, ∄ doesn’t approach foreign artists at all any more, Syradoieva says. “Kyiv just isn’t 100% safe.” Instead, the club relies on DJs approaching the club and expressing interest in playing. “We try to organise additional events with them while they’re here, such as workshops and industry talks”, she continues. “We want to provide young Ukrainians, especially men who cannot leave the country, with some direction in order to develop their careers.” But with a new mobilisation law coming into force, the next crisis for ∄ could be just around the corner. “It’s a big challenge. We don’t know how many of our team members might be sent to the front,” Syradoieva says. A former sound technician at ∄, who left to pursue a DJ career, was fighting in Donbas but is now presumed dead, pending DNA analysis. “We’re fighting and dying for European values,” she says. “I don’t want people in Europe to forget about this war, and that includes the electronic music scene.”