I had again (after 139 episodes!) the great pleasure of talking to Danish-Canadian urbanist Mikael Colville-Andersen, known for coining the term Copenhagenize and for the acclaimed TV series on urbanism The Life-Sized City.

This time, three years after our last podcast together, we discussed Mikael’s growing involvement in Ukraine — and especially in Kyiv’s urbanism.

We unpacked Mikael’s strong remark that, in the context of war:

“Urbanism is not only a tool — it is a medicine.”

A turning point: from Copenhagen to Ukraine

The full-scale invasion of Ukraine started in February 2022. On April 25, 2022, as Mikael recalls, at 10:06 a.m., he received an email from urban planning colleagues in Lviv. The city, comparable in size to Copenhagen, had been overwhelmed by an influx of 200,000 internally displaced people almost overnight. Infrastructure was paralyzed—roads clogged with cars and public transport got overcrowded.

The planners in Lviv asked a question: could bicycles be part of the solution? With limited bike infrastructure but a clear need for alternatives, they reached out to the “Copenhagen guy” known for making cities bicycle-friendly.

Mikael didn’t hesitate. The very next day, he met with them over Zoom, and soon after founded the nonprofit Bikes for Ukraine (bikes4Ukraine.org). Denmark, with its surplus of abandoned bicycles—over 100,000 each year, 30,000 in Copenhagen alone—offered a ready supply.

The first deliveries: joy and dignity on two wheels

By July 2022, the first truckload of donated bicycles departed from Frederiksberg Hall Square, filled with contributions from private citizens, the police, and other organizations.

When the bikes arrived in Lviv, they were distributed to displaced families who had fled their homes with little more than a suitcase. The reactions were powerful: children raced around on their new bikes, while adults expressed gratitude for a gesture that carried both practical and emotional value.

Mikael was struck by the joy radiating from people who suddenly regained mobility and a sense of normalcy. Something as simple as a used bicycle, once destined for scrap, became a symbol of solidarity and resilience.

From mobility to humanitarian aid

As the initiative grew, the role of bicycles evolved. Beyond helping displaced families, the bikes became essential tools for social workers and volunteers delivering food, medicine, and water to vulnerable populations across Ukraine.

With roads destroyed, fuel prices high, and cars scarce, bicycles emerged as a uniquely effective form of humanitarian logistics. Registered as humanitarian aid, the bicycles themselves began facilitating the delivery of humanitarian aid—a form of “poetry,” as Mikael put it. The impact was measurable: in one year, a single bicycle could cover 11,000 kilometers and carry up to 18,000 kilograms of essential goods.

Tactical urbanism under fire

Then a question appeared: Could citizens engage with their streets and neighborhoods in meaningful ways even during wartime?

Mikael argued that urbanism operates on every scale—from grand citywide planning down to the square meters outside one’s own front door. A home opens onto a street, and that street is a domain that residents know intimately. People are, in fact, the leading experts on their own streets.

In many cities, decisions about local spaces are made by officials far removed from everyday realities. This disconnect, Mikael insisted, undermines genuine ownership. True urbanism empowers citizens to shape their immediate environments—whether through small-scale tactical projects like adding benches and plants, or larger neighborhood-level initiatives.

He emphasized that meaningful change begins small: street by street, neighborhood by neighborhood, city by city. Even in sprawling metropolises like Mexico City, which can feel overwhelming, reframing the city as a collection of neighborhoods makes transformation tangible. One successful initiative often inspires others, setting off a ripple effect of citizen-led improvements.

Mikael presenting his work in Ukraine House in Copenhagen | Daria Sivirin

Daily life in a SNAFU world

Life in Kyiv today is a study in paradox. On one hand, the capital is heavily defended, yet many Shahed drones—sometimes in the hundreds—arrive at night to strain air defenses. On the other, daily life persists. People go to yoga. They meet for a glass of wine. They date, fall in love, and dream of a better world—fully aware that the night could bring sirens, missiles, or worse.

There’s a World War II acronym that captures the mood: SNAFU—Situation Normal, All F*cked Up. It’s the irony of walking to a class with a yoga mat peeking from your backpack moments after a blast rattles the neighborhood. Mikael recalls filming a massive strike roughly two kilometers from his apartment—an explosion that killed 30 people. In one window, police sip coffee, glance down the road, and mutter, “That was a big one”.

But humans aren’t built to live in constant fear. Whether in Kyiv, Kharkiv, Kherson, or far worse-off like Gaza, people must find food, keep families together, and seek small seams of normalcy. In Kharkiv, many schools have moved underground; not ideal, but carefully made hospitable so children can learn in safety. The habit of life continues—work, errands, friendships—after nights of drone attacks and lack of sleep.

Toloka: volunteerism as social glue

Enter toloka—a Ukrainian word for a volunteer gathering to tackle a shared task. The tradition predates the full-scale invasion but has surged since. Mikael has joined tolokas sewing camouflage nets for the front, packing rations, and countless other acts of collective care. Early on, these efforts filled a vacuum amid chaos; today, as systems professionalize, they remain a cultural reflex for getting things done.

When Mikael shifted from bike logistics to broader urban projects, he saw how acute the mental-health crisis had become. Constant bombardments, fear for loved ones, and the ambient threat of death exact a heavy toll. He looked to a Scandinavian model that “hacks” nature for healing: the Nordic therapy garden. The concept builds on millennia-old wisdom—Romans wrote about gardens as essential to a healthy villa—but recent Danish and Swedish research goes further, showing how carefully designed forest spaces can help treat trauma and PTSD.

So he tried it in Kyiv: 5,000 square meters of woodland next to a psychiatric hospital, launched with little more than seed funding and stubborn conviction. He announced a toloka on Instagram to clear dead wood and trash before design work. Expecting fifty helpers, he got five hundred in one weekend. Since then, across therapy gardens, community gardens, and small urban repairs, he estimates around 2,000 volunteers have pitched in—mostly Ukrainians, with more internationals joining this year.

The ethos is simple: do what needs doing, because it matters. And people come. Mikael jokes that Poles would show up and work hard; Danes might be more likely to ask whether the municipality shouldn’t handle it because “we pay taxes.” In Ukraine, the volunteer spirit is an engine pulling the country a little further out of the mire—neighbors calling neighbors, then showing up with gloves, shovels, and time.

Tactical urbanism as mental-health infrastructure

The “why now?” is mental health. A bench under shade, a path through trees, a tended corner of the city—these aren’t luxuries in wartime; they are interventions. Nature reduces stress. Thoughtful design—views, textures, seating, sensory edges—amplifies that effect and can help people process trauma.

Just as the bikes became humanitarian logistics tools, these small projects become psychological logistics—moving people, day by day, from raw fear to bearable normalcy. A garden does not end the war. But it can make another day possible.

The municipal backbone: normalcy by design

Despite the war, Ukrainian municipal services insist on normal life. In November 2022 in Lviv—the season for planting—Mikael walked past a fresh row of young trees. “There’s a war,” he thought. City staff shrugged: it’s the planting window; it’s in the budget; therefore we plant. Sidewalks are plowed in winter so people can walk safely, even as missiles threaten. Roads are paved, parks landscaped—because everyday urban needs don’t stop.

That routine reliability matters. You may dislike the mayor, but if the sidewalks are clear and the trees go in on time, the city is still holding its end of the social contract. And that, too, is a mental-health intervention: the reassuring hum of ordinary competence amid extraordinary peril.

Star architects vs. everyday urbanism

People interested in urban planning and not only, might heard in the early months of the war, that Western architects were quick to propose grand visions for Ukraine’s urban future. Norman Foster, for example, announced plans to design a new master plan for Kharkiv. This feels patronizing and opportunistic—an attempt to secure a legacy project rather than respond to urgent needs.

Other “starchitects” followed the lead. But all these plans were after-the-war projects—distant promises, irrelevant to Ukrainians needing windows replaced before winter or sidewalks cleared after a snowfall.

By contrast, grassroots initiatives were delivering results immediately. The Polish Foundation BRDA organized trucks full of old windows to people who might not lost their homes — but windows as a result of an explosion.

The world’s largest tactical urbanism project

For Mikael, the most inspiring lesson from Ukraine is that urban development doesn’t stop during war. One of his proudest accomplishments is what he calls the world’s largest tactical urbanism project. On Kyiv’s Kontraktova Square—11,000 square meters of asphalt left neglected for decades—he and volunteers created a vibrant public space with benches, trees, plants, and activities.

For context, Times Square’s 2008 tactical urbanism experiment in New York covered 10,000 square meters. Kyiv’s project is larger, built with fewer resources, and carried out in wartime conditions. The community response has been overwhelming: a dead space was reborn into a place of life and connection.

Building for the return

Mikael also highlighted inspiring leadership from Ukrainian mayors. The mayor of Mykolaiv, for instance—young, fluent in English, charismatic, and determined—told him in 2022: “Half my population is gone. When they come back, I want to have a better city waiting for them.” This vision goes beyond rebuilding destroyed schools and homes. It means improving urban life now, so that returning citizens find not just survival but dignity, livability, and pride in their city.

Tactical urbanism in action at Kontraktova Square - Torv | MCA.

Urbanism as medicine

After more than three years working in Ukraine, Mikael’s greatest realization is that urbanism is not only a tool—it is a medicine.

Planting trees, building benches, clearing deadwood, or laying out a community garden are not just acts of beautification. They are acts of therapy. For volunteers, the work itself provides relief: watering the plants you placed last week, or seeing someone rest in the shade you created, offers meaning and distraction from the surrounding chaos. For users, these spaces offer mental respite—moments of calm, joy, and normalcy amid uncertainty.

Urban interventions in Ukraine are not abstract design exercises. They are tangible, immediate responses to trauma, fear, and loss. They remind citizens that life persists, that community exists, and that even in war, cities can be places of healing.

Mikael admits he entered Ukraine as someone already recognized for urbanism and cycling infrastructure, but his time in this country reshaped his understanding of the profession itself. In his mid-50s, he discovered anew that the simplest urban interventions—a bench, a tree, a cleared path—are as vital as any medicine.

Lessons for Europe and beyond

Mikael’s experiences in Ukraine elevate the profession of urbanism in his mind. What he once saw primarily as a tool for shaping better cities, he now also sees as a form of therapy in times of disaster. Whether after a hurricane in the United States, an earthquake in Japan, or a war in Eastern Europe, the same principle holds true: urbanism heals.

The sense of urgency in Ukraine—where war presses daily on people’s lives—creates a powerful drive to act, collaborate, and build together. Elsewhere in Europe, citizens may feel more complacent, expecting municipalities to handle everything. Yet activism is growing worldwide. From Tokyo to Buenos Aires, neighborhoods are reclaiming agency through small acts of urban repair.

Resilience and ‘sisu’

Despite inspiring projects, Ukrainians are exhausted. The resilience admired across Europe comes at a heavy price. One friend confided to Mikael: “I’m so tired of waking up every morning and having to be a resilient Ukrainian. I just want to wake up and be a woman, go to work, and think about what to cook for dinner.”

Mikael found resonance in the Finnish word sisu—the determination to continue when there seems no hope left. Ukrainians, he says, are now more sisu than resilient: tired, but still moving forward because they must. What they need most are victories—good news, reclaimed territory, symbolic wins to reignite hope.

Three and a half years into the war, much has been achieved, but the needs remain enormous. Forty percent of Ukrainians still require regular humanitarian aid. More bikes are needed. More windows must be replaced. More gardens must be planted.

Mikael emphasizes that support today is more vital than ever:

“Not everybody has to come to Ukraine. But remember, you can do stuff. Whatever you can give to any project or organization you support—it’s still very much needed.”

Can urbanism heal a country at war?

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