Were they afraid of death?

You know, the fear of death, of course, is present. I watched how my soldiers reacted during the current war. Sometimes a person falls into a stupor, freezes, and you have to bring them to their senses. There was such a case at the Donetsk airport, during the penultimate rotation – the guys who had replaced us were killed, blown up, and buried under the rubble. Whether they wanted to time the capture of the airport to coincide with the New Year or had some other objective, the fighting then went on day and night. It only quieted down at 1 PM, when they would switch – one brigade, which had been pounding us for 24 hours, would leave to rest, and a fresh one would take its place. But we were here constantly. The airport did not want to fall. Everything around was roaring, shells were exploding, yet it stood.

​

I watched through binoculars as a mortar shell flew onto the runway – it fell, exploded, left a black mark, but not a single chip anywhere. Such concrete! There was a special underlay there: to drive onto the runway, you had to climb about 10 meters up. Clear the debris, and planes could land. That’s why they held onto that airport [1]!

​

And so, a medic from the 80th brigade came to me, a young guy – may he rest in peace – he died later. Young, talented, simply an incredible boy… He says, "You’re a doctor, can you take a look at a soldier?" – "What happened?" – "Looks like poisoning." – "Poisoning? In winter, with frosts reaching 30 degrees? How can that be?" – "Come take a look. He’s been vomiting constantly."

I went to that post, because the airport as such no longer existed; we were only holding blockposts inside. And from the airport to the center of Donetsk, it’s just 3 km in a straight line. As long as the airport was holding, they couldn’t advance on Debaltseve...

 

He brings me to the checkpoint called "Tishyna" (Silence). To enter, you had to shout the password. Only after hearing the correct response could you open the door; otherwise, you’d be cut down by a burst of automatic gunfire without warning. That’s where I had my so-called "lyozhka" – a place where I slept. It was an outer wall of the airport, completely shot through, because drywall stops neither bullets nor shrapnel. I covered the holes so it wasn’t so visible and to keep the snow from piling up on me. I had a sleeping bag and even a tent for cover. In the inner area, the guys would stand guard and live, and I’d sometimes go to them for water or tea. Among them was this young guy – Denys, 25 years old. That’s where I first met him.

​

The medic brings me to him. I look at Denys – he’s so thin. “What did you get poisoned with?” I ask. He replies, “I ate an American MRE.” My first thought: the airport had been changing hands, so maybe something had been planted. But he adds, “My brother sent it to me.” We checked the labels; the food wasn’t expired. I conducted an exam. No signs of an acute abdomen. We measured his temperature – normal. I tell him, “Kid, this isn’t poisoning. You’ve developed what’s called post-traumatic stress syndrome.” He suddenly grabs me by the shoulders – I was wearing my hunting coat, but I could feel his fingers trembling even through the heavy fabric – and he says, “Take me out of here! If you don’t, I’ll shoot myself.”

​

We called the battalion commander. I told him, “Pull him off post, take away his weapon.” He replied, “I don’t have anyone to guard him.” – “You don’t need to guard him…”

​

As an experienced doctor, I had the right pills and a hunter’s flask of cognac – just for emergencies. I gave him two pills and a sip of cognac. He immediately passed out, and the guys wrapped him up in a sleeping bag. We woke him up after 24 hours. I told him, “Drink some water and go to the toilet to clear your kidneys.” He drank a mug of warm water and went back into the sleeping bag. That’s how I kept him until they pulled us out.

​

We were taken to Pisky. As I was gathering my rucksacks one day, I heard: “Kep, kep!” I ignored it at first. Then I heard: “Doc!” My call sign was “Hunter” – I was an old hunter. When I’d go out on assignments, the radio operators would relay: “Hunter passed the first checkpoint!” or “Hunter, prepare for departure!” Let them think some fierce hunter was heading out to a point. After all, they listened to us just like we listened to them.

​

Suddenly, a young guy runs up to me, hugs me, kisses me: “Thank you, Doc, thank you!” It was Denys…

​

In the summer of 2015, I came to Kyiv for surgery at the hospital. I got out of the metro and noticed a young man in military uniform buying cigarettes at a kiosk. I approached too – clean-shaven (I had a thick beard while on duty), wearing a civilian shirt and jeans. I asked the soldier how to get to the hospital. He turned his head, looked at me intently, and said: “Weren’t you the one sleeping at the sixth checkpoint? At ‘Tishyna’?” I replied, “Yes, that was me.”

​

It turned out he had been on guard duty there. One night I had arrived when it was pitch black – so dark you couldn’t see your own hand in front of your face. I called out, “Sentry! Guide me!” He held onto my shoulder and directed me to the door. Later, I learned to navigate by counting steps: five steps from the door, turn 45 degrees, another fifteen steps, then turn 90 degrees – that’s how I found my way to my checkpoint. And there, at the kiosk in Kyiv, he recognized me by my voice…

​

At first, volunteers were gathered for missions, but later official orders were issued. Our commander warned me: “Listen, Petrovych! If you see a guy getting nervous or fidgeting, don’t send him… Find some excuse, because he’s too ashamed to admit to his comrades that he feels he might not come back from this fight.”

​

That’s how it was done. It was incredible – no one was sent to certain death. We would leave knowing exactly where we were going and that the road might be one-way… I’d look at their faces, at their eyes. The faint light from the vehicle’s lamp above flickered, and each man was lost in his own thoughts. And I would pray: “Lord, let everyone come back, please let them come back…”

In the battalion, I was the only one who spoke Ukrainian – it was a matter of principle for me. To my left sat a Jewish guy, call sign “Moysha”, a wonderful man, and the rest were all Russian-speaking. Simple people – no mansions, no wealth – but they all went to fight, knowing exactly what they were fighting for…

​

What is the fear of death? I know what a sense of danger is. It’s when you feel cold at heart. Literally cold… The first time you find yourself in a fight and have to, for instance, pick up a machine gun, expose yourself, and start shooting to cover the guys – that’s an incredible feeling. You know that as soon as you start... A machine gunner is such a juicy target for a sniper; everyone starts targeting you – tanks, BMPs, mortars… The coordinates they receive immediately focus on you. But you understand that you must force yourself to climb out of the trench, stand up, and fire. I don’t know what the fear of death is – I’ve never felt it. But forcing yourself to stand and shoot while fully aware of the danger to your life – that feeling, I know. And when you start shooting, scattering bullets, you realize that you are bringing death as well – that they are also hiding and ducking their heads...

​

One time, a large-caliber bullet shattered a guy’s helmet. It grazed it and deflected slightly; otherwise, it would have hit his neck. But the bleeding was severe, so we bandaged him up and evacuated him. He returned to the battalion and came to me saying: “Petrovych, my ear is bothering me.” I examined it and saw tiny plastic fragments – his Kevlar helmet had shredded his ear, and now those fragments were festering. I had to periodically pick out the pieces. He was tormented by that ear, poor guy, but he was lucky it wasn’t worse – it had barely grazed his carotid artery… And yet, he went back to the airport.

​

I had a fighter who was wounded twice at the airport, and you couldn’t hold him back. I told him, “Zhenya, I’m the only one left in the battalion. You’ll stay with me. I’m not letting you go.” He replied, “You have no right to keep me here! I’m going on a mission with the group.” I insisted, “The group can manage without you. That’s my order!” It escalated into a scandal.

​

When they received orders not from the sector headquarters but directly from the Main Intelligence Directorate, they were given the passwords to reach their destination. Zhenya was taken to the sector headquarters, where they found General Naiev. And there, a private soldier complained to the general about his captain, his direct superior, for not allowing him on a mission.

​

The general summoned the battalion commander and ordered him to sort things out – both with the captain and the insubordinate soldier skipping the chain of command. The commander, furious, called me: “Petrovych, control your war dog!” I said, *“I don’t have a fighter with the call sign ‘War Dog’.” – “Well, control your Zhenya then!” He told me the whole story. I confronted Zhenya: “Have you lost your mind? Write a report against me, and I’ll pass it to the commander. You’re in the army, and here we follow the chain of command.” But he just kept repeating, “I volunteered to be here, and you have no right to keep me in the rear.” Fearless…

The fear came later. After 2015, he went for a medical exam, and they did a brain scan. His brain was covered in glowing spots – evidence of past strokes. After minor hemorrhages, calcification occurs, and that calcium glows on the scan. Those strokes were moments of fear. This fear could manifest in his constant pursuit of danger – he craved it.

​

I remember when I first returned home from the field. I had lived in trenches for two months, bathing in rivers – even as late as September, October, November – and washing clothes in freezing water was incredibly uncomfortable. There were no proper conditions. And then I came home, bathed in hot water, and fell asleep in the tub. When I woke up, I thought: “Oh, how I don’t want to go back there.” But after a little while, I felt drawn back – I couldn’t sit still at home, I needed to be with the guys…

​

When I left the army, I wanted to howl. I would take a tent, a sleeping bag, and some food in the winter, head to the forest, and live there. That’s how I rehabilitated myself – there was no other help. Some people turned to drinking; I did too because I couldn’t sleep otherwise. When I got my first 15-day leave after the airport, I drank three bottles of cognac in two days. And besides alcohol, I needed noise – I’d turn on the TV and fall asleep to it. I was afraid of silence because silence, for me, meant danger. I’d wake up shaking, cold at heart, searching for my rifle…

​

After leaving the hospital, I returned to the battalion to hand over my position. I was standing there with a crutch while the guys were heading out on a mission, climbing on top of the BTRs and shouting: “Kep, come with us! Drop that crutch – we’ll find you something better!” And I had tears in my eyes. It was so hard that I almost threw everything away and went with them. I tried, but they wouldn’t take me – I was a bit too old. You know you could die, but at that moment, it didn’t matter.

​

Zhenya was the same. His brain glowed like a Christmas tree – I saw it on the scan. He was a young doctor, talented, brilliant. I don’t know what happened to him afterward. When I joined the brigade again in 2022, he was still trying to get to the front, but the commission looked at his scans and wouldn’t take him. I called him and said: “Zhenya, I got into the brigade from the territorial defense” [2]. And he replied, “No, I’ll go to the Armed Forces.” Later, his phone stopped responding to my calls...

​

It was November or early December 2014. A group was being formed to head to the airport. Before the trip, I was checking the guys’ blood pressure and temperature. One of them had a slight fever—37.2°C. I knew there would be no one to treat him there, that he’d be out in the freezing cold the entire time, and that he’d likely return with double pneumonia—if he made it back at all. So, I didn’t let him go.

​

Then his buddy came running in—it was Oleg, someone I’d seen around the battalion but whose callsign I didn’t even know. “Katastrofa!” He came rushing in, practically grabbing me by the throat. It turned out they were from the same city—Dniprodyma, as they called it (the former Dniprodzerzhynsk, now Kamianske). They lived in the same building, on the same landing, and had promised their mothers they wouldn’t go anywhere without each other. So, he said, “Let him go, because I won’t go without him.”

I offered, “Do you want me to go with you?”

​

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “Why not?” “Because I never went on recon missions with you.” I thought about it and finally said, “Under your responsibility.” I gave him some medicine and instructions on what and how to take, and off they went.

​

By New Year’s, a new group was being assembled. There weren’t enough fighters, so it didn’t matter if you were a captain or not—you were a soldier first, and being a medic in a reconnaissance battalion was just your second specialty. So, I joined the rotation.

This was the second-to-last deployment to the airport. The exchange happened under fire: we were being shelled as we unloaded, and the outgoing group was under the same fire while loading up to leave. I rushed to the block post, and there was “Katastrofa,” staring at me in surprise.

​

“Of all people, you’re the last one I expected to see here,” he said. I replied, “Oleg, we’re short on people. Let’s go, move, move…”

​

We were supposed to be replaced in seven days. A week passed, and they told us, "Hold out for another three days." We did, but the replacement didn’t come. The guys sat around, trying to decide what to do next. One of them suggested dropping everything and leaving. I joked, "Well, I’m definitely not running back down the runway. And you guys probably wouldn’t make it very far either."

Then one of the guys, a skinny, short fellow with the callsign "Kuzmych," a miner from Pavlohrad, said, "You can all leave, but I’ll stay." The others asked, "Kuzmych, why are you separating from the group?" He answered seriously, "Because if we all leave, the defense won’t hold. Without us, they won’t manage. You can go, but I’ll stay." I can’t even put into words how deeply that struck me.

 

Another three days passed, and they finally replaced us. We quickly packed up under fire, and again, I saw "Katastrofa" and his buddy. I said, "What, once wasn’t enough for you?" He replied, "There aren’t enough people. Our battalion is small now, and the guys are going back for a second rotation. We’ve made that choice too."

​

They went, and I went on leave. Then I heard the airport had been overrun. I called, "Where are our guys?" They told me that in the first explosion, "Katastrofa" lost both legs. They dragged him to the headquarters, where there was a small infirmary, and the battle continued.

​

My driver, a 27- or 28-year-old guy named Lekha, ran into the infirmary, saw "Katastrofa," and asked, "What are you doing lying here?" "Katastrofa" pointed to his legs. "But you can shoot, right?" "I can." "Then let’s get him to the front!" They grabbed him—one guy with a wound in his right arm, the other in his left—and dragged him to the front line. "Load his magazines and hand them to him!" Lekha commanded. So there they were, one-armed men loading magazines while "Katastrofa" kept shooting.

​

Then came a second explosion, and everything fell silent. His buddy, the one he had made that oath with to their mothers, searched for him. They dug through the rubble and found his lifeless body. The buddy grabbed him and started dragging him toward the evacuation vehicle. They told him, "Why are you hauling a corpse? We don’t even have room for the living!" But he said, "I’m not leaving him here. I’ll give up my spot."

​

The group that was supposed to provide support ended up being captured. They overshot the airport and fell right into the hands of the Russians. As a result, there wasn’t enough transport to evacuate everyone. That young man, whose name I unfortunately can’t recall, decided to stay behind to ensure his friend’s body was evacuated. They attached the body to the back doors of a tracked vehicle, tied it with straps, and dragged it through the snow—thankfully, there was plenty of snow then—towards Vodiane and Opytne. They handed it over to the hospital there.

​

Time passed, and I left the army. I returned to turn in the equipment of my unit, as I was responsible for it. While I had been hospitalized, it was left unattended, and anything missing had to be paid for at ten times its cost. If a body armor vest cost 4,000 hryvnias, for example, I’d now owe 40,000 for it. So, I ran around buying and sourcing what was missing to return everything.

I was standing at the headquarters when the door behind me opened, and I heard an unfamiliar voice stammering a question. I instinctively turned my head and saw… "Katastrofa."

​

"Alive!" "Alive." We hugged. "And your friend?" I asked. "He didn’t make it…"

That was our unexpected and incredible reunion.

​

These are ordinary people, Russian-speaking, raised in Soviet families. What fuels their patriotism? Take me, for instance—I was born into a different kind of family and raised with different values. I had other examples to look up to. But them? They tasted freedom, that liberty granted to us from above. We didn’t fight for it; our predecessors did. Perhaps they even prayed for it and secured it from God for us in 1991. Our task was to hold onto this divine gift. But we failed. We failed… We had to endure Maidan, disillusionment, this cursed war, and these devastating losses.

​

Look at our cemeteries, blanketed with yellow and blue, with fields now dotted with flags. It’s a matter of choice. People chose Yanukovych—not during wartime, without much thought—and then war came. Even that wasn’t enough for us…

​

I told my relatives, "Your ‘ticks’ on the ballots have turned into crosses in cemeteries." When I learned who my nephew voted for, I said, "Don’t you think that terrible trouble might come here, to this very house—where I was born, where you were born?" He laughed, "Oh, uncle, what nonsense are you saying? Who would need the villages of the Kherson steppes?"

​

Now he knows who needs them. They had to flee. Thankfully, he managed to get his family out in time. At one point, the car they’d arranged to leave in left without them—something delayed his wife, and they even argued about it. That very car came under fire, and everyone inside was killed, except for the driver. They left later and made it to Kryvyi Rih. My nephew joined the fight and went missing during an assault near Staromaiorske [3]. They were hit by mortars, and the troops had to retreat.

​

I have two sons myself. I can’t say anything about the elder—it’s not allowed. The younger one served in the 77th Air Assault Brigade near Bakhmut, then was transferred near Kyiv. He doesn’t tell me what he’s doing now, and I don’t pry. Why didn’t I try to shield them from the war? When my youngest was getting married, I told him many things, including this: a man’s fate is to be a son to his parents, a father to his children, and a defender of his homeland. We have no other.

​

Before the great war, as we call it, I was in a hospital near Kyiv. On the 24th, I woke up and saw no one around. I asked, "Where are all the guys?" They told me, "The war has started. They were called up during the night." I was on my way to Kyiv and saw the columns heading in the opposite direction, vehicle after vehicle. The road to Kyiv was empty.

​

I went down into the metro. People were sitting there—a boy about 14 years old was standing, and behind him sat a little girl on a mat, his sister. At her feet was a basket with a cat inside. When the train approached, she covered the cat’s ears so it wouldn’t get scared by the noise. Her eyes were so big, staring in confusion, as if wondering why she wasn’t sleeping in her bed at home but sitting here instead. I asked, "Are you refugees?" The boy replied, "No, we’re from Kyiv."

​

A boiling anger rose within me. "Where are the volunteer battalions recruiting?" I asked. Someone answered, "You won’t make it there; transport on the surface has already stopped, only the metro is running. But Poroshenko is recruiting a battalion." I knew his office was across from the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra.

​

I hobbled over there, and people were lined up, signing up. I skipped the line, introduced myself, and said I had combat experience. They replied, "Oh, we need people like you." I signed the contract, completed all the paperwork, and they sent me to the basement, where the chief of staff was issuing weapons.

​

He took my papers, wrote something down, then looked at me and asked, "How old are you?"

"Sixty-two." "No, no, we’re only taking people up to 57."

Devastated, I stepped outside for a smoke when a guy approached me and asked, "Hey, are you the doc?"
"Well, yes." "I need you. Let’s go back."

​

He led me back to the chief of staff and said, "I have no experience at all. I don’t even know where to start—I just signed up. Let him be my assistant." But the chief of staff stood his ground: "I don’t want to be held criminally responsible for him."

​

I went outside again—it was already dark—and noticed some guys standing by the machine guns, good ones too, covered with ponchos. Then Poroshenko himself came by. I gathered my courage and pushed through the crowd—there were so many people in the yard—and rushed toward him: "Mr. President, may I have a word? You awarded me the Order of Khmelnytskyi, let me speak to you." He turned and said, "In a moment, in a moment..."

​

And right at that moment, a security guard, a huge guy, appeared in front of me. I told him, "Step aside..." but he wouldn’t let me pass. I noticed Poroshenko had finished whatever he was doing—maybe even signing papers for those machine guns—and was looking for me. But the guard wouldn’t let me near him. I guess he thought I was hiding something under my large jacket. I started taking it off to prove him wrong, but he pinned me down and wouldn’t let me move.

​

I stayed for a while longer, then headed to the train station. I ended up spending three nights there, unable to leave. I bought tickets twice, but no trains came. Eventually, I made it to Dnipro through a patchwork of rides. Once I got home, I slept, washed up, and went outside. That’s when I ran into a friend. "Where are you off to?" I asked.

"There’s a Territorial Defense Brigade forming," he replied. "I’m heading to sign up."  "Let’s go together!" I said.

​

So, we signed up. Turns out that while I was traveling to Dnipro and resting, the laws had changed, allowing recruits up to age 60. They overlooked the fact that I was already 62. And that’s how I joined the brigade.

​

…Unfortunately, this is an inevitable process in the development of our nation. We could have avoided it, like the Baltic states did. It was possible for us too, but people made their choice, and now we’re all paying the price. God gave us opportunities, but we tried to take shortcuts. Now we’re paying in human lives.

​

Moses led the Israelites through the desert for 40 years until every last slave died. How many years do we have left? Six? Maybe we’ll be at war for those six years. God, I don’t want that.

​

My friend, a Jewish man, once told me, "Vasyl, you’re great with your hands but lack a king in your head." I told him, "Yura, what are you doing here? Pack your things and emigrate to Israel, then call me over." Laughing, he replied, "Adopt me, and we’ll go together."

​

People often asked me, "Why do you need that Rukh?" When I was applying for retirement, they calculated that I only worked 65 days in 1993—the rest was all "leave without pay." I remember the first time I went to the director. He knew I was the head of the local Rukh branch and was very supportive, a good, decent man with a wonderful family and an exemplary son. When I came to him and submitted a resignation letter citing "participation in the picketing of the Verkhovna Rada," he paused, scratched his head, and said, "Vasyl Petrovych, why don’t you write ‘for family reasons’ or ‘unpaid leave’ or something like that?" I agreed. And so, I traveled on unpaid leave.

​

Then Kravchuk was elected, inflation skyrocketed, and I was stunned that people could vote for those same Communists who lied to us for 74 years, promising a bright future. Seventy-four years in which we could have built anything we wanted, with enormous potential—such a vast, resource-rich country—and they ruined it. I remember those terrifyingly long lines, when even money wasn’t worth anything anymore, only coupons. They drove us to the brink, and yet people voted for a Communist again: "This time, he’ll build us paradise!" Well, he turned us all into millionaires. Only that "million" eventually became worth just 10 hryvnias.

​

In the next elections, we stepped on the same rake again: they elected Kuchma, another Communist. And that’s when it started—an oligarchic system like no other. We all know about Gongadze [4], whose headless body was "accidentally" found. And I still remember Mykhailo Boichyshyn, the head of the Rukh secretariat, who also disappeared and hasn’t been found to this day. They watched him, followed him, just like the rest of us.

​

To be honest, even the creation of Rukh wasn’t without oversight from the KGB. At one time, the head of our Rukh secretariat was, as it turned out, a KGB general who later went on to hold a general’s position in the SBU.

​

Will Ukraine become a monoethnic state, as many fear? It is already a multinational country. Yes, there are calls that only Ukrainians should come to power. But I believe that in a democracy, the question is entirely different: it’s about evaluating a person’s intellectual abilities. To feel like a Ukrainian, a patriot of this country, it’s not necessary to be born into a Ukrainian family. I think that even if I were born Black, I would still consider myself Ukrainian.

​

Here’s a fact. Many have heard about Valeriy Marchenko [5], who died in the camps. When Azerbaijan gained independence, one of the greatest patriots of that country was named as the Ukrainian Valeriy Marchenko. His mother, whom I knew personally, remarried a man who had a daughter from his first marriage. This daughter married an African American, moved to live with him abroad, and had a child. However, her life didn’t work out, and she returned to Kyiv, moving in with her father. Not long after, she remarried and left the country again, leaving her Afro-American son behind with the family. The boy’s grandfather passed away soon after, and Valeriy’s mother was left to care for the child.

​

You should’ve seen them: standing together, with the dark-skinned boy in an embroidered Ukrainian shirt—what I’d call a true chornobryvets (a Black-eyed Susan)—speaking pure Ukrainian with sincerity and pride.

 

Being Ukrainian isn’t about genes. It’s about what, then?

​

The first time I went abroad was to Germany in 1992. I celebrated Ukraine's Independence Day in Bonn, at the Ukrainian Embassy, which at that time was still located on the premises of the former Soviet Embassy. A part of the building had been allocated for Ukraine’s embassy in Germany. We were hosted royally: staying in beautiful accommodations, dining in restaurants, and trying a different cuisine every day.

​

On our way back, as the plane crossed the border from Poland into Ukraine, the flight attendant announced it—and the whole plane erupted into cheers of "Hurrah!" spontaneously, as if everyone felt it at the same time. When we landed in Kyiv and entered the airport, it was a different story—trash everywhere, disorder, an old government vehicle barely running, dust, dirt… But still, we were home.

​

I remember coming back from the army. I had been gone for over two years, and I just wanted to run home. It’s something in the genetics of this land, perhaps the water, the grass, or the milk from cows grazing on this grass. I don’t know—maybe it’s the land, fertilized with blood.

​

Travel through our steppes, and you’ll see the graves—Cossack graves, some even Scythian, but mostly Cossack. Our land is soaked with blood—first theirs, and now that of my generation and my sons’. Blood isn’t water; it carries something within it, something that passes down genetically, and there’s no escaping it.

​

During my first deployment in what was then called the ATO [6], I traveled to Irpin for surgery. Volunteers provided a car and driver. After the surgery, I, being someone who had stood on the Maidan, felt compelled to visit it again. This was already 2015. On crutches, I went there to breathe in that air and remember.

​

I recalled how, right after the victory of the Maidan, some acquaintances asked me to show them the places where the main events had occurred. We walked up to Hrushevskyi Street, but then they refused to go further. I told them, "There’s no one here now. We’ve already won." But they still wouldn’t go. They were afraid.

​

After that surgery, something very important happened to me. Before being discharged, I asked to be taken to the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra. While making my way down, I had to stop four or five times. I would sit for a bit to ease the pain in my leg, then stand up and limp further. I finally reached the caves and began to pray.

​

At the time, I had a problem with my head—it’s hard to describe. I was in a fog. There was a mild concussion, but I didn’t pay attention to it because it felt shameful to even mention it. When others are dying, how can you talk about your injury, especially one so minor? But it turned out to be deceptively insidious.

​

I stood there praying at the relics of the saints. I walked around once, then a second time, and noticed it was time to head back—the car was waiting. Slowly, I began climbing back up. I made it out, walked a bit further, and suddenly realized my leg had stopped hurting. It had actually stopped hurting! I only needed to sit down once to rest.

​

But something even bigger happened—I felt a profound change within me. I can’t say I was in tears, but it felt like something descended upon me, like a weight lifting. My mind cleared, and that wild rage, hatred, and anger I had been carrying—it all seemed to fade away.

​

The soldiers will come back, but they won’t be the same as when they left for the war. Their psychology changes out there. You pull the trigger, and that’s it. Yes, he was the enemy, and you killed him. You did something you had never done before.

At first, you hesitate: should I shoot or not? But then that hesitation disappears. You shoot first... or throw a grenade, and only afterward ask, “Is anyone still alive?” It’s either you or them.

​

That doesn’t go away—it stays with you. It will come back to you at night. That’s why some turn to drugs (a puff of weed to forget) or alcohol—to escape those images, to push them away, to make them disappear somehow.

​

Leaving the Lavra, I felt immense relief—I left that place a better person than when I entered. It’s an incredible feeling. Since then, I’ve made it a habit to visit the Lavra whenever I get the chance, and it has helped me more than any medication I’ve ever taken. Sure, you take a pill, and maybe it lets you sleep, but the thing that gnaws at you doesn’t leave your mind, your thoughts, or your memory. It stays inside you.

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Even your children can’t save you the way this sense of renewal does. People who haven’t experienced this just don’t understand. Sometimes, you meet up with a comrade—share a drink, sit quietly together, maybe smoke a cigarette without saying a word. It makes things easier for both of you. These are incredibly complicated feelings…

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Once, I was invited to speak to the district administration. I told them what I had witnessed with my own eyes back in 2014–2015. I talked about the killings, the rapes, the atrocities we found evidence of at the scenes of those crimes. “Thank God,” I said, “we didn’t let them get here.”

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Do you think they believed me? Some even smirked. I couldn’t take it and called them out. I myself graduated from the Academy of Public Administration—I had plans to become a civil servant. But thank God I didn’t, because I couldn’t stomach what goes on in those government offices.

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Perhaps this great war was sent to us for one reason: so that those who laughed could see Bucha [7]…

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My son once asked, “Why did you even bother studying?” And I told him, “Son, I’ve tried to live in a way that lets me respect myself and my actions. I want to continue living that way until my last day.”

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I can’t sit idly by and watch people humiliate those who sacrificed their health, survived by some miracle, and now find themselves in the role of beggars. They shouldn’t have to ask—what they need should be given to them. The state promised them that. And you’re sitting here deciding whether to give it or not?

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There have even been cases where grenades were detonated over this. And you know what the soldiers say? They say, “Why did he blow himself up along with them? He should’ve just tossed the grenade and locked the door behind him…”

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When will those bureaucrats finally understand that this person sees your laws through an entirely different lens, through the prism of a reality that you have never experienced and, God forbid, you ever do? You won’t convince him with your clumsy explanations, and your bureaucratic responses mean nothing to him. He has his own truth for all your laws, his own sense of justice!

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When I was awarded my order, the district administration gathered quite an audience. I gave a speech and laid everything out for them. Later, the military commissar called me and said, “Thank you, Vasyl Petrovych, for your speech. I had unresolved issues, and now they’re all taken care of.”

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I have my own view of the authorities. After Chornovil’s death, I distanced myself from Rukh. Then Yushchenko ran for president for the first time. I wasn’t planning to participate in the election campaign when someone I couldn’t refuse called me. He said, “Our election commission head has sold out. We’ve found out he’s been bribed, so we need to replace him. Your candidacy has been selected for this polling station.” This was four days before the election.

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I went to the district election commission, found the candidate's representative, and said, “Let’s go to the commission so you can introduce me.” He replied, “I don’t have time; go on your own.”

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“How do you imagine that?” I asked. “You’ll figure out what to say,” he replied.

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There was no way out—I went. I arrived during a commission meeting. I opened the door, and the head of the commission looked at me: “Who are you?” “And who are you?” I replied. “I’m the head of the commission,” he said.

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“Well, now you have a new head,” I told him. Chaos erupted. He had prepared the commission for himself, selecting the right people. They started shouting, “We’re quitting and leaving!”

I sat at the head of the table and said, “If you don’t want to be here, then get out. No one’s holding you back. We’ll run the election without you. Off you go!”

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It was tough for me... I had to change my approach—starting with warnings and then escalating to threats. During the first round of elections, I caught a woman advising others on where to put their "checkmarks." I stopped the voting process, called the police, observers, the SBU, and prosecutors, locked the doors, and told her, "You, my dear, will go to prison after the elections, not home."

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When the election ended, during the first commission meeting, we reviewed protocols of violations and comments. I saw that the protocol about that woman had been incorrectly drafted, but I thought, let it be. She didn’t deserve to be jailed just for trying to give her acquaintances some advice—especially since we stopped the violation. Compared to the ballot-stuffing happening at other polling stations, this was minor. The protocol was noted, and the woman even thanked me. A psychologist on our team later said, "I thought I was clever, but now I see there are even cleverer people."

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It turns out, if you don’t scare them, you won’t make them work honestly. It’s sad... That’s why I didn’t pursue a career in administration—I knew they would force me to take bribes. Force me! If I refused, they’d set me up and throw me in jail. And then comes the reckoning for it all. Those "checkmarks" and bribes are paid for with the lives of young men.

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How do we escape this?

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It was once believed that the most terrible punishment was to be cursed unto the seventh generation. I told them: "You will die, your children will die, and your grandchildren will die, but your great-grandchildren will still suffer for your crimes. They won’t even know who you were, but they will suffer because of you." That’s what we’re enduring now, and it all boils down to a single "checkmark."

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And about responsibility... You are accountable for everything. God judges you for your actions, words, and thoughts. I’ve noticed that when I walk with a very negative mood, in silence, dogs bark and lunge at me because they sense my thoughts, my aura, that dark energy. But in the Lavra, I shed it. My sleep improved, and I no longer wake up in terror at night. It’s incredibly difficult to escape this state, especially on your own. It’s not simple… Sometimes it feels easier to blow yourself up than to keep living.

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"Without Ukraine, we are the last slaves.
Without a firm foundation, stone is just clay.
We are nothing! Only the clinking of chains...
And silent weeping—through the ages.
Without Ukraine, we don’t know who we are.
We wander—blindfolded,
Like beggars, weak and homeless,
Dying before finding the path." [8]

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Without a firm foundation, what can stone be? It becomes clay—malleable to any will, but you can’t turn clay back into stone. Such comparisons are not cries—they are something deeper, drawn from blood and spirit. And who told him about Ukraine? No one. It came from our rocky rapids.

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There was an old man, a Bandera supporter, who lived in Kamianske. During World War II, there was an OUN-UPA group there—just boys… He said, "When the Zaporizhzhia dam was blown up and the rapids were exposed, Vasyl, that was a symphony. The sound of the rapids—that’s a symphony!" And I’ve always dreamed of an independent Ukraine and of hearing the roar of the Dnipro rapids. I want to hear the roar of the rapids...​

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[1] The Battle for Donetsk International Airport (September 2014 - January 23, 2015) was one of the fiercest engagements in the war in eastern Ukraine. On January 20, pro-Russian forces blew up the new terminal. The surviving defenders evacuated the terminal, but many wounded and shell-shocked soldiers were captured. The battle for Donetsk Airport became a symbol of the resilience and fighting spirit of the Ukrainian military, with its defenders earning the name "Cyborgs."

 

[2] The Territorial Defense Forces (TDF) are a separate branch of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, responsible for organizing, preparing, and executing territorial defense tasks. The TDF structure includes 25 brigades (one brigade per region), which are composed of over 150 battalions (one battalion per district). Territorial defense, along with the resistance movement and the preparation of citizens for resistance, forms part of Ukraine's National Resistance framework.

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[3] Staromaiorske is a village in Ukraine, located in the Volnovakha district of the Donetsk region. Founded in the early 18th century as a Cossack settlement, it was part of the Kalmius Palanka of the Zaporizhian Sich. From early March 2022, it was under temporary occupation by Russian invaders. On July 27, 2023, the Armed Forces of Ukraine liberated the village from Russian occupation.

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[4] Georgiy (Giya) Ruslanovich Gongadze (1969–2000) was a Ukrainian public figure, opposition journalist, radio and television host, film director, and translator of Georgian origin, renowned for his critical anti-government stance. He was the founder and first editor-in-chief of the online newspaper Ukrayinska Pravda (Ukrainian Truth). Posthumously awarded the title of Hero of Ukraine in 2005, Gongadze's murder resonated widely in Ukraine and abroad. The case gained particular notoriety after the "cassette scandal" erupted in the fall of 2000, when audio recordings from the office of Ukrainian President Leonid Kuchma were made public, suggesting potential involvement by Kuchma and other high-ranking officials in the journalist's abduction and murder.

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[5] Valeriy Veniaminovych Marchenko (1947–1984) was a Ukrainian dissident, human rights activist, literary scholar, and translator, who became a victim of the Soviet regime. While studying at Kyiv University, he interned at a university in Baku, where he studied Azerbaijani language and literature. Marchenko translated works of Azerbaijani writers into Ukrainian and Ukrainian literary works into Azerbaijani. In 1973, he was arrested on charges of both Ukrainian and Azerbaijani bourgeois nationalism and sentenced to six years of imprisonment and two years of exile.

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[6] The Anti-Terrorist Operation in Eastern Ukraine (ATO) was aimed at countering illegal Russian and pro-Russian armed groups. It lasted from April 28, 2014, to April 30, 2018. Following the ATO, the Joint Forces Operation (JFO) was conducted in Eastern Ukraine until February 24, 2022.

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[7] Bucha is a city in Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine. During the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February–March 2022, Russian forces committed a mass killing of civilians in Bucha, known as the Bucha Massacre. The city was under temporary occupation for 28 days. On March 31, 2022, it was liberated from Russian forces. By a decree of the President of Ukraine, Bucha was awarded the honorary title of "Hero City of Ukraine."

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[8] Ivan Sokulskyi. Ivan Hryhorovych Sokulskyi (1940–1992) — Ukrainian poet, human rights activist, and public figure. He was arrested and sentenced twice (in 1969 and 1980) for anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda, spending a total of 13 years in high-security prisons and labor camps.​

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