"The Flood": A Love Story About the Kherson Disaster

With this publication,Intentcontinues its seriesof reviews dedicated to contemporary Ukrainian publications. The reviews for Intent within this project are written by Maria Galina—a Ukrainian writer, poet, and literary critic, and winner of several literary awards. 

 This time, we’ll be discussing Yevhen Lir’s novel *The Flood*—a work of artistic and documentary prose about the disaster in Kherson, based on the testimonies of real people. The book was first published in 2025 in English by the publishing house “Ukraїner” under the title *The Flood: A Clockwork Story* and was primarily intended for an international audience.

Kherson is currently one of the most important cities in Ukraine—because of its capture in the early days of the war, the courageous resistance of its residents, its liberation, and the Catastrophe. And, in recent years, because of Russian drone attacks and shelling. Kherson’s fate, in general, is perhaps one of the most harrowing stories of our time, so it’s no surprise that several powerful projects have been dedicated to it—American journalist Zarina Zabriskie, who is almost constantly there, made the film“Kherson: Human Safari,” and Odessa-based art historian Olena Balaba and Kyiv-based artist Matviy Vaisberg presented the project “NOT/Stolen” this year, notably in Odessa: studies and homages created by contemporary Ukrainian artists based on paintings stolen by the Russians from the Kherson Art Museum. But the world doesn’t know as much about Kherson as we’d like. So we have to keep shouting and shouting. Yevhen Lir’s book is yet another attempt to draw the international community’s attention to the fate of Kherson’s residents—and the city itself.

Yevhen Lir, a writer and translator, focuses on “dark literature”—whatever that may mean to us—horror, gothic, suspense, and the like (he is the author of the Southern horror novel *The Steppe God*). It’s no surprise, then, that he turned to what is commonly referred to as “artistic documentary.” After all, we’ve had more than enough horror, gothic, and suspense in real time over the past five years. It’s also no surprise that *The Flood* (2026, Kyiv) was originally published in 2025 by a publisher with a name that’s tricky for a reviewer—*Ukraїner*—in an English-language version titled *The Flood. A Clockwork Story.” As the author himself explains here: “It just so happens that English is my second language, because my mother teaches English at the university. And I’ve been studying English since I was four. From my experience as a translator—it’s impossible to translate a book well while fully preserving everything the author intended to convey. And since I’m now in the author’s position and am fluent in the target language, why shouldn’t I write this book in English from the start?”

The language itself dictates the potential audience—this is a book for foreigners. “…we need to tell this story specifically for our European and American readers, and for readers from the rest of the world in general.” The goal is also clear. 

In fact, I myself witnessed how a distinguished lady with a British passport—one of those commonly referred to as “good Russians” and very popular among “good Russians,” a former BBC employee— wrote on her blog almost immediately after the disaster began, saying that a friend had just contacted her, so happy, she said, that the Ukrainians had blown up the dam. “Is that really true?” the former journalist asks gently. There’s probably no need to explain how this works, nor is there a need to explain the methods and skills of those who have ever worked in the media. There were a great many disinformation campaigns, the author says; everyone who could was involved—all the agents of influence.

I also remember how trees and rooftops were floating across the Gulf of Odesa, and the sparkling morning sea was dotted with black specks—all the way to the horizon.

But let’s get back to the book and its author. Yevhen is originally from Melitopol, yet another city that has suffered—and continues to suffer—from Russian aggression. He knows the South very well; moreover, he went there with a team of volunteers to Kherson immediately after the Catastrophe, so he knows what he’s writing about. The people and situations are not fictional. To a certain extent.

It’s worth noting here that the original version, according to the author’s presentation at the “Port” literary festival in Odesa, was much broader and much harsher, more documentary in nature. But the average international reader demands a different narrative—one with artistic license, poignancy, and emotional depth. So, in addition to real characters, the author had to introduce fictional ones (three characters and one event, as he writes in the preface), specifically the narrator, through whose eyes we see everything around us. “The Clocksmith” moves to Kherson because a friend advised him to rent a workshop there cheaply, so he walks around Kherson, gets to know people, and listens to their stories. In fact, in my opinion, the situation feels contrived for a Ukrainian reader; no one would go to Kherson right now to start a business, but a European reader might not be familiar with such nuances.

And it all begins with something that, to an outsider’s eye, might seem exotic: Ukrzaliznytsia. And a female conductor who forces a passenger to carry out what, again to an outsider’s eye, seem like perfectly reasonable duties—making the bed. The protagonist—the Watchmaker—a relatively young man from Poltava, displays a touching naivety: he asks why the streets are dark in the evening (a blackout, they explain to him, even though there’s light in the houses, and, it seems, no, not because of generators)—and generally behaves like a foreigner; as if he knew nothing about Kherson, had never read about it, and had never even used Google Maps (if he had known, he would probably have thought twice—or even three times—before opening a workshop there to repair electronic watches). But this—this detached perspective—allows the Western reader to identify with the protagonist. In fact, the author himself says as much: “This character was created precisely to show the effect of a stranger’s immersion into a space that is specific, perhaps even peculiar.”

This perspective—which I’d call “complete ignorance”—allows the protagonist to ask his interlocutors questions that an experienced person would find either jarring or naive, and the watchmaker’s profession (which, to me, is a bit strange— since who, besides me, even owns a wristwatch these days? But in reality, in Kherson, he repairs just about anything, from smartphones to light bulbs and generators)—to encounter a variety of characters, most of whom are based on real people. It’s no coincidence that the author himself calls his book a tapestry—that is, a single piece of fabric woven from multicolored threads.

Yes, Texas, a soldier on leave who was summoned by his commander (Gentlemen, his commander says, once everyone had gathered and lined up, the Russians blew up the Kakhovka Dam), was among those who rescued civilians in the first hours of the flood. Oleg, a co-founder of the “Spravzhni” foundation, helped people escape during the occupation of Kherson—he pretended to be a priest, hoping that the Russians, whom he believed to be Orthodox Christians as well, would not be so furious in the presence of a holy father. A young woman, a waitress at a café, with whom the protagonist falls in love and whom he calls Soloveiko—a sort of female Virgil—guides the protagonist through the city’s iconic locations, sharing her stories. A woman, a former employee of the Kherson Art Museum, talks about the collection looted by the Russians. Oleg, the boatman, recounts how he rescued soldiers and civilians from the flood. Anna, a mother of four, describes her horrific experience of the occupation. All, or almost all, of the characters are based on real people, who are named in the afterword. This is because the book was written right in Kherson, and the author—as I’ve already mentioned here—volunteered there with a team immediately after the Catastrophe.

Let’s not forget that all of this is intended for people who know very little about us, so we shouldn’t be surprised that some of the stories the protagonist hears from his new acquaintances bear a slight resemblance to media reports (they are, in fact, entirely documentary in nature, with only a fictional framework added) or a textbook on the region’s history and contemporary affairs. “I’m from Melitopol, near the Sea of Azov,” says one of the heroines, and then she gives the narrator a popular lecture on Nogai culture, the Great Meadow, the construction of the Kakhovka Reservoir in 1950, ecology, and so on. So, let’s not be surprised, but let’s hope that English-speaking readers will read it and understand—if not everything, then at least something important. Because an information war is a war, too.

Incidentally, city clocks appear throughout the book—as a symbol of time that has stopped or broken down; and it is precisely our narrator who is destined to fix that time—through her love for the city and its residents, and through romance. 

The first page states that this is a book about love. And that is exactly what it is.

Марія Галіна