For me, the war probably began about three months after February 24, when I voluntarily decided to join the army. I enlisted because I have a daughter, she's five years old. After what happened in the Kyiv region—in Bucha, in Irpin—I realized that such tragedy could come to my home as well. So I voluntarily joined the army. To be honest, I chose the toughest unit I could imagine.

Traveling across half of Ukraine, I saw that war is, how to put it, not something anyone should have to witness. I would rather my children, my parents, who have already lived their lives, and even I myself, never had to see it. When you're with someone for six months—walking together, sitting together, bathing together, sleeping, even embracing in your sleep—and then they're gone... Words can't convey that pain. We cried, screamed, hit ourselves, did everything just to dull it. But life goes on, and you have to keep moving forward somehow. Still, I have a child, and I do everything I can for her.

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During combat, I suffered one concussion, then another. Everyone who has held a weapon, seen the dead, seen comrades injured, has issues—it's indescribable. At times, I even wanted to shoot myself just to stop seeing it, to be honest. But everyone has their own motivation: for some, it’s family; for others, it’s parents or home. Everyone has a different reason. There were those defending their homes that were already occupied and those who joined for financial reasons, to pay off debts and improve their situation. Before I came here, I thought war was just profitable for someone. But here, I saw that people genuinely care about you, that they worry for you, that they help you. And that surprised me deeply.

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But after staying in one hospital in Ukraine, then another—though the buildings were beautiful, the treatment wasn’t great. They keep you for a week or two, you tell them the problem persists, and they respond, 'We didn’t find anything; you’ll have to treat yourself…'

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During my last mission, I was running from an AGS and fell into a dugout, hitting my knee on a shovel. My meniscus tore, and I’ve been in treatment for half a year now. I had the first surgery, then came here for rehabilitation, which went very well—everyone was very supportive, even when I cried at night. I used to sit by the river, staring at nothing. But then another issue came up—I needed a second surgery, and I’m still in rehab.

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I’m glad I ended up here because, in other facilities, rehabilitation lasts a month, maybe two, while here, I’ve been for six months, with two surgeries. I can already do small tasks now—fix the car if it breaks down, handle minor repairs. You know how hard it is to sit idle—I just want to do something. I’m still figuring out my limits. The guys here help me, with massages or just talking. The doctors too—Dmitrievna, Yuryevich—you can talk to them about family issues like you would with a psychologist, and it really helps.

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At first, I thought I’d ended up in some kind of concentration camp… Meals, activities, sleep, everything was on a strict schedule. But after a week, I started to understand. One night, after what I think was the first surgery, I couldn’t sleep. I called a doctor in the middle of the night—they came, gave me an IV, and I was finally able to rest.

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I’ve realized that, on one hand, you have to trust people you’ve never met before, but on the other, I know it’s better not to get too close, so you don’t end up with another emotional scar when that person isn’t around anymore. When you get attached to someone, you’re just making things harder for yourself.

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It really feels like a family here. You’ve probably heard stories about Andriy. With Andriy, we could laugh, go outside and shout, or just fool around. A soldier understands another soldier. Talking with a civilian is much harder. Why? Because they don’t know the little nuances that don’t need to be explained to a fellow soldier. When both of you understand these things instinctively, it’s enough to take a step toward each other and open up.

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Yes, the problems remain. You come home and sleep for two or three hours a night. The dog barks, and you immediately wake up: who is it barking at, why? Here, there are other peculiarities: in the middle of the night, someone screams. You approach, hug them, and say, ‘Buddy, it’s okay. We’re here, you’re not there anymore.’ And that’s the scariest thing—when you’re psychologically lost in space. You’re home, but you’re constantly waiting for something bad to happen. Rehabilitation here helps deal with that. But this will be a huge issue after the war because there are many guys like this.

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I’ll tell you about myself. The first time I had surgery in 2023—it was a minor one, and I was discharged in three or four days—I honestly wanted to kill half the people I saw in front of me. Someone spoke too loudly, said something inappropriate, or a man shouted at his wife in a way I couldn’t tolerate. Even if he just raised his voice…

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A soldier who’s been on the front line won’t come home and start mowing the lawn or going to work after two days. I still have nightmares; I’m still there. And no one knows how to deal with this. It’s not a switch you can just turn off. It takes time to transition from war back to this world. Just because someone is walking around doesn’t mean they’re okay. Most people don’t understand why the smallest misunderstanding in the family, irritation caused by a child, a dog, or a stranger cutting in line, can lead to a huge conflict. And this is something we need to focus on: civilians need to be prepared for the behavior of those returning from war.

I also think there will be another issue—soldiers will not tolerate injustice from the authorities. They won’t accept corruption and will try to intervene.

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In my opinion, this government needs to go. I haven’t seen the state genuinely help its soldiers. Sure, it provides weapons and clothing, but there are questions about the quality and usability. We received a combat vehicle that broke down during training. We offered to improve it at our expense, but they refused. Yes, they provide clothing, but it’s often the wrong size—too big for some, too small for others—or they hand out winter gear in March, when winter is already over. I bought my own personal weapon and all my gear. Why? Because what they issued didn’t suit me; it wasn’t functional. I’ve gone through three bulletproof vests and probably have about five sleeping bags at home—all purchased out of my own pocket.

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Another issue is the work of our medical institutions. When the soldiers are taken out of action for two months, why not focus on their rehabilitation, even involve private clinics? Soldiers just need someone to talk to, to give them moral support. They also need to maintain their physical condition—whether it’s table tennis, running, or weights. The fact that someone can walk doesn’t mean they’re healthy. Unfortunately, our Soviet-style approach will linger for a very long time until real changes occur.

I was in Britain for training. After World War II, they changed everything. But what they teach there, unfortunately, doesn’t fully apply to the conditions of our current war. The training was excellent, but when you return to the real battlefield, you only use a few recommendations that might save your life. And that’s the sad truth.

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About the guys I fought with, I can say they were the best of the best. Some are no longer with us. Some lost a leg, and others have wounds that haven’t healed for a year, like an open abdomen. But those who are gone—they truly were the best of the best. They knew their job and understood what they were giving their lives for.

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In the army, many are angry with our government. And it’s not just in my unit; imagine how many feel this way across Ukraine! But we need to understand: if we lay down our weapons now and turn against the government, it won’t solve anything. We need to reclaim our country from the enemy first. Yes, more often now, people say we can’t keep fighting, that maybe it’s better to give up those territories and save the lives of our soldiers. If someone had told me this a year ago, I would have asked, ‘Then why did I go to war?’ Back then, I would have fought on because we knew what we were fighting for. But today, maybe it would be the better decision. Many people live by the principle: “It’s not my problem.” Sadly…

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Again, I’m speaking for myself. I would give up those territories, wait for 2030 or 2040, hold a referendum, and everything would sort itself out. We’d already be rebuilding our country, pulling it up from its knees. That’s my opinion. But someone else might ask: “Then why did the guys die? What did they die for? Who are we giving our land to now, and what will happen in 2040?” No one knows. Maybe it will turn out that some clever guy in a village invents an atomic bomb—and that’s the end of it…

I’m from the Mykolaiv region, where people mostly speak Russian. But that’s not an issue for me—I can communicate in both Ukrainian and Russian. With my child, I try to speak Ukrainian because he lives in Ukraine and should know the language. We’ve been living in the Kyiv region for six years now.

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After my first concussion, I was sitting in a trench trying to remember my child’s name and birth year, but I couldn’t. When we were pulled back from the front, I was allowed to go to the city, and the first thing I did was get a tattoo with my child’s name and birth year. Let’s just say my child is my stimulus. For him, I’m ready to do anything because I want him to live and not see or hear the horrors of war, or hear that his father is gone. Even if I’m not there, my child must have a future, and I must work toward that. I want my daughter to have children, and for my mother and grandmother to see grandchildren and great-grandchildren. That’s what drives me. That’s what pushed me to join the army. Of course, I’d like my family to grow—it’s lonely for a child to be an only one. It should be more fun with siblings.