Ukrainian-American journalist David Kirichenko reports from the frontlines of Ukraine, where he was embedded with various military units in hotspots like Chasiv Yar, Toretsk, and alongside Colombian soldiers fighting in Ukraine. He also was embedded with a drone unit on the frontline conducting combat missions while being hunted by Russian drones and navigating mined roads to escape. Driven by deep personal ties to Ukraine and a passion for uncovering the truth, David documents the harsh realities of war. From witnessing the courage of soldiers on the battlefield to the resilience of communities enduring unimaginable hardships, his report offers a raw and powerful glimpse into a nation fighting for its freedom: “a city on a hill.”
David Kirichenko is a Ukrainian-American freelance journalist who has worked on the frontlines throughout the Russo-Ukrainian war. David can be found on the social media platform X @DVKirichenko
From the frontline, I watched Chasiv Yar burn, unceasing pillars of black smoke billowing and surging into the night. The sky would light up sporadically as bombs fell, each explosion briefly illuminating the devastation below. Every few minutes, fiery trails streaked across the horizon as artillery shells roared through the air. The ground trembled under the weight of heavy armor rolling down the roads, each rumble presenting a stark reminder of the war engulfing the city.
Yet amidst the chaos of battle, the night sky was breathtaking. Without the interference of city lights, the galaxy stretched above, infinite and serene, a stark contrast to the destruction on the ground. For a moment, it was almost peaceful. Then, the relentless buzz of drones overhead pulled me back to reality. It was a moment of paradox—both hauntingly beautiful and devastatingly chaotic. In that fragile instant, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is this my final moment?
In the latter half of the summer, I was embedded with various units on the frontlines in Ukraine’s defense against the ongoing Russian invasion. I spent time with units in Donetsk Oblast, Kharkiv Oblast, and Zaporizhzhia Oblast. I had the opportunity to report on critical aspects of the war, including drone warfare, the role of Colombian soldiers fighting in Ukraine, the evolution of tank warfare, and the strategies employed by mortar units.
But beyond the tactics and technology, I continued to witness the immense human cost of this war. I saw the toll it took on the soldiers—their exhaustion, their grief, and their unwavering bravery. There were moments when I wanted to cry for my fallen friends and for the soldiers who, despite facing death every day, continued to accept the consequences of this fight. They return again and again to the conflict, not just to defend their homes but to protect the freedom they hold so dear. It reminds me of a saying from General Valerii Zaluzhnyii, recently shared with Ukrainian recruits training in the United Kingdom: “Learn not to be afraid of death.”
People must repress their instinctual fear of death to face combat and endure the loss of friends and fellow soldiers. This psychological suspension of the fear of death, while necessary for survival in the short term, has profound and often detrimental effects on their long-term mental health. On one hand, suppressing that fear can foster a sense of focus and fortitude, enabling soldiers to make split-second decisions under life-threatening conditions. On the other hand, this repression can also lead to significant psychological consequences over time, such as emotional numbness, detachment, or the inability to process grief.
However, I also sensed the joy and hope the soldiers experienced in having me there with them. They placed great trust in me to share their stories, to ensure their fight is not forgotten, and to help audiences in the West understand that they feel no different from any other ordinary person suddenly faced with this overwhelming conflict. These soldiers had no choice but to take up arms to defend their homes against the Russian invaders.
They, too, dream of being at home, living in peace, and embracing their children. They don’t want their sacrifices to be in vain. As a journalist, I feel a profound responsibility to tell their stories and reveal the truth about what is happening on the frontlines. May my words bring meaning to their struggle, and may our collective voices create the impact needed to make a difference.
But beneath the bravery and determination, I also began to sense a creeping anger among many soldiers. They voiced a stark warning: if the U.S. and Europe allow Ukraine to fall, its army and infrastructure will be absorbed into the Russian war machine, and these same Ukrainian soldiers could one day find themselves fighting in Europe for Russia.
They expressed frustration at having to fight with limited support and with their hands tied behind their backs due to targeting restrictions and the lack of weapons. For Ukrainians, this is an existential fight for survival—for their homeland, their families, and their identity. Yet, to bureaucrats across Europe and in the U.S., the focus often seems to be on avoiding escalation or angering Putin, even as a genocide unfolds before the world’s eyes. Despite the immense loss of life among Ukraine’s best and brightest, the Biden administration continued to urge Kyiv to lower its conscription age from 25 to 18 to draft more young men, rather than providing the comprehensive military support necessary to ensure victory, such as removing weapon restrictions and giving Ukraine more weaponry.
It often feels inhumane to explain to Western audiences why supporting Ukraine is in their self-interest. To secure their backing, those of us speaking for our friends and families in Ukraine are forced to highlight the economic benefits—such as job creation in the United States—rather than appealing to the shared humanity and the moral imperative to stand against evil in the world. As Hitler taught us in WWII, evil doesn’t just grow in isolation, it wants to grow and spread to destroy the whole world if it can.
I often wonder why humanity fails to learn from history. As discussions grow about freezing the war or pursuing a settlement, few seem to recognize that similar attempts were made after Russia’s first invasion in 2014. Those efforts failed because, at its core, modern Russia cannot exist without Ukraine being subjugated. The Russian identity, as it has been shaped, is deeply tied to the idea of Ukraine as an enslaved entity under its control.
No matter the outcome, I will stand with the Ukrainian people until the very end. I believe in victory because our freedom has been centuries in the making. Our Cossack ancestors dreamed of being a free people and fought tirelessly for that dream. I still feel that deep connection to them, and the same burning desire for freedom lives within me.
I saw that same unyielding spirit in the soldiers I stood alongside on the frontline. Faced with death, fully aware that their time may be short, they still choose to fight. They choose to die standing rather than bend a submissive knee to Russia. Now, I have the responsibility—and the privilege—to tell their stories. These are ordinary civilians who have become extraordinary heroes, fighting not just for Ukraine but for the ideals of freedom and humanity itself. This is, after all, a war for the soul of humanity.
The Road into Ukraine
As usual, when I traveled from the United States back to Ukraine, I packed my suitcases full of drones to bring to soldiers. The journey typically takes two days – flying from the U.S. to Poland, then taking three different trains across the border and through Ukraine to reach Dnipro in the eastern part of the country, close to the front line. From there, I would venture onward to various parts of the front line.
While boarding a train in Poland, I found myself sharing a cabin with an American photojournalist heading to a war zone for the first time. He confided that most of his colleagues had shifted their focus to Israel and Lebanon, leaving Ukraine largely overlooked. Determined to come anyway, he admitted he had no plan, no connections, and no idea where to start. I introduced him to friends in Ukraine who helped him gain access to the frontlines and connect with local contacts. Later, he told me the experience was life-changing—witnessing firsthand the devastation Russia has unleashed on Ukraine. He vowed to return soon, determined to document the courageous resistance of the Ukrainian people.
As a journalist, trust and connections are essential. At the start of the war, I became close with friends in Dnipro like Alina Holovko, who helped me build relationships with soldiers across many different units. Through this Dnipro “crew,” I established connections with several frontline units, which became invaluable in my reporting.
The hardest part of being an independent journalist isn’t the danger of being on the frontlines (though that is omnipresent). It’s the intense negotiations required to gain access to the front and the challenging logistics of moving through a warzone. Every step requires careful planning, coordination, and persistence to get to the fore of the conflict. Often I may negotiate with a commander and get alignment, but then a press officer steps in to derail the conversation and demand a detailed list of questions. But as a journalist, it’s hard to operate with predefined questions, as the best lines of inquiry develop while bearing witness to actual events.
This trip felt darker than the ones before. A heavy burden weighed on me, and the growing numbness inside was impossible to ignore. It lingers, paralyzing me after I leave Ukraine, replaced by the guilt of surviving and retreating to safety. When I met Alina, we talked about how at the start of the war there was an odd thrill in driving into cities under siege, even as Russian artillery rained down. Each mission in 2022 brought a story we had never lived before. But now, after years of war, we feel like old veterans—hardened and haunted. We’ve seen too much, and the weight of it is hard to shake. Nerves of steel have formed, but not in a way that feels right. Only when the war ends will I be able to confront the demons it has left behind.
Toretsk Front
My first journey on this trip to the front took me to Toretsk in Donetsk Oblast, where I spent time with a tank unit from Ukraine’s 28th Separate Mechanized Brigade. The soldiers I met ranged from young men in their 20s to seasoned fighters in their 50s. All of them bore the visible and emotional scars of battle.
Some spoke with sorrow about the pain of losing friends in combat—stories of tanks hitting mines, leaving them helpless to pull their comrades’ bodies out in time. Others shared the constant dangers of tank operations, particularly the vulnerability of being out in the open for too long. They described the threat of first-person view (FPV) drones, inexpensive weapons capable of destroying multi-million-dollar tanks. These drones, which cost a few hundred dollars each, can neutralize an entire armored vehicle, forcing soldiers to adapt and innovate in the face of relentless challenges.
One tank operator from Odesa, a man in his 50s known as Oleksandr, shared that he never truly understood his deep pro-Ukrainian feelings until the full-scale invasion. Odesa, once a pro-Russian voting region, had many residents who favored closer ties with Russia. However, Russia’s brutal invasion alienated even those who once supported such ties, awakening them to the reality of what Russia truly represents. For him, the war became not just a fight for territory but a battle for identity and values. “When the war ends, I want to go and see America,” he told me.
Beneath the surface, the men are exhausted. They long to go home and embrace their loved ones. Many feel frustrated as they log onto social media and see men from their hometowns posting photos at the gym or enjoying life instead of joining the fight.
The soldiers desperately wish for the chance to be rotated out from the frontlines, even briefly. Anatoliy, a tank operator, shared the heartache of watching his child grow up from afar. “I see her growing through pictures and videos on my phone,” he told me, unable to bear the thought of missing these irreplaceable moments in her life.
Some of the men in the tank unit are in their early 20s and have been fighting since the start of the full-scale invasion. While their age defines them as young, everything they’ve witnessed and endured has aged their souls by decades.
In one instance, we went to a nearby lake on a raft. From there, we could see the city of Toretsk burning, black smoke rising against the sky, with constant artillery explosions and aircraft overhead. Yet, in the middle of the lake, two of the young men began jumping off the raft, splashing each other, and laughing. For a brief moment, they seemed to reclaim their youth, escaping the horrors of combat, even if just for a while.
I stayed nearby, swimming and watching them, thinking to myself: They shouldn’t be here, facing this horrific war. They should be living normal lives, doing what young men are meant to do—running around, causing trouble, and chasing girls.
At night, I wandered around the base, gazing at the beautiful night sky and enjoying a quiet walk. Yet even in the darkness, the roar of outgoing artillery and the whistling of incoming shells never stopped. Over time, you get used to it—the constant explosions lose their grip on you and become just so much background noise.
But some moments remind you of the constant danger. While walking in the dark, I suddenly heard a deafening boom close by. Instinctively, I dropped to the ground and quickly retreated to the bunker, my heart racing. The next morning, I got up at 6 a.m. to use the bathroom and caught a glimpse of the sunrise. It was breathtaking – a brief reminder of the beauty that still exists even in chaos. But as I stood there, I heard the unmistakable buzz of a drone overhead. Taking no chances, I sprinted back to the bunker, leaving my morning routine unfinished. This is the reality of life on the front: even in the quietest moments, danger and death are never far away.
Twenty-three-year-old Bohdan, call-sign “Vendetta,” told me he longs for the war to end so they can finally go home. To cope with the pain and suffering, the men lean heavily on humor. At first, it took me a while to adjust to the constant joking and laughter that masked the gravity of their situation. Whenever I asked the commander, “Spartak,” a question about tank warfare, he’d deflect with a joke and laughter, unwilling to show his true emotions. Over time, I came to understand their way of coping. After conducting a few interviews, I found myself joining in—telling jokes and laughing as much as I could with the guys.
Chasiv Yar Front
My friends from Dnipro—whom I affectionately call the “Dnipro crew”—connected me with a drone unit composed largely of people from the city. After a few days of negotiations, I arrived in Kostiantynivka, Donetsk Oblast, where I was picked up by the unit’s commander, Heorhii Volkov. Over the next few days, he granted me unrestricted access (to the Yasni Ochi unit). I spent time at their headquarters, listened in on battle plans, studied detailed maps, and witnessed other battlefield operations.
The weight of the responsibility was overwhelming. I knew that if I documented or accidentally revealed something sensitive, it could cost soldiers their lives. This made me hyper-aware and cautious about everything I did.
At one point, I asked Volkov why he was willing to entrust me—a Ukrainian-American journalist—alone in the field with such critical secrets. While I had journalist accreditation from the Ministry of Defense, Volkov explained that he had my name cleared through counterintelligence services to ensure I was a journalist with good intentions. His confidence in me was humbling. He was proud of his men and wanted their story shared. “Listen, people, I pray the hell we’re facing never comes to your lands or your homes. It’s terrifying. We’re dying out here every day. We need fewer words and more action from people in the West,” said Volkov.
I visited several bases where the men slept and where various drones were stored. I also spent time in the kitchen, which doubled as a workshop where engineers modified drones and others assembled bombs to be dropped from them. Some of the 3D-printed bombs were filled with nails, designed to scatter shrapnel over Russian soldiers, while others were packed with explosive materials. The air hummed with a mix of focus and urgency, the reality of the war reflected in every meticulous adjustment and careful assembly.
At night, I joined different segments of the drone unit on various missions. On my first night with the group, the soldiers conducted an aerial reconnaissance mission. We had to wait until sunset to move to our position near the front, as traveling during the day was too dangerous. During the day, we would be easy prey for FPV drones. The Ukrainian soldiers explained that Russia still lacks a significant number of FPV drones equipped with night vision, giving the Ukrainians a slight advantage under cover of darkness.
Most vehicles transporting drone pilots to the front carry a jammer, but its effectiveness isn’t guaranteed. Some enemy drones operate on different frequencies, making them harder to counter. Before reaching the site, the soldiers carefully scanned the skies for enemy drones to avoid detection and an immediate strike. Once we arrived at our position, we quickly unloaded from the van. Supplies were swiftly carried underground into a dugout, where the soldiers waited until the skies were clear of enemy activity before deploying their reconnaissance drone. If the Russians spotted the launch, they would respond with artillery fire and send FPV drones to target the position.
Throughout the night, artillery fire was a constant presence—both incoming and outgoing. Nearby, Ukrainian artillery and mortar units had set up and were actively firing at Russian positions. Their activity began to attract unwanted attention to our area. At one point, eight Russian drones were circling above.
The situation grew even more tense when a Ukrainian tank unexpectedly rolled up beside our position and opened fire. Unaware of our presence, the tank inadvertently drew even more Russian drones overhead. We had no choice but to stay hidden. At one point, we sat frozen, exchanging uneasy glances as the unmistakable buzz of a Russian drone hovered right above us. Fortunately, we were well-concealed, and as long as we stayed still under the branches covering us, our heat signatures wouldn’t be detected. Still, I couldn’t shake the question: was this the moment we would get hit?
Using the reconnaissance drone for the night mission, the soldiers meticulously tracked Russian movements around the ruins of Bakhmut. This city, which traces its origins back to the 16th century and formerly held a population of over 70,000, now stands largely in ashes and rubble thanks to the war. The Russians move through the remains on ATVs and motorbikes for rapid maneuvers, adding another layer of unpredictability to the mission. When it was time for us to return back to the base, we faced another harrowing journey—driving back on broken roads that could be mined, all while knowing the unarmored van was vulnerable to drone strikes.
During another night mission, the Ukrainian soldiers were using a larger ‘Vampire’ drone to drop anti-tank mines on Russian positions. In the dugout, practically just down the street from the enemy, two drone pilots, Vitaly and Yuriy, stared at me for a moment before asking why I would risk my life to be out here on the front. Their question hung in the tense air between us.
I met their gaze, smiled, and replied, “I don’t know exactly why. But this is my mission—it feels right to be here, standing alongside my people. It just feels right.”
The following night, I would again go on an FPV drone bombing mission with a separate part of the unit. As dusk settled, DJI Mavic drones and other reconnaissance devices silently swept the skies, gathering intelligence that would guide the night’s bombing missions. These aerial scouts tracked enemy movements, pinpointed newly dug trenches, and attempted fortifications. With nightfall, the Russians retreated to their dugouts, unaware that soon, Ukrainian drones would pierce the darkness and rain destruction from above.
The journey to the front began under a shroud of complete darkness. Inside the van, the driver switched off all lights and drove without night vision, relying solely on his memory of the roads. The world outside was an inky void; it felt as though any moment we might crash into unseen obstacles. The tension was palpable.
As we neared the drop-off point, the devastation became evident. Houses burned from recent shelling, their smoldering frames silhouetted against the horizon. Under enemy fire, the soldiers disembarked with practiced urgency, unloading their gear and rushing for cover. The van roared away, leaving us amidst the violence of the front.
Underground, the soldiers waited in tense silence, their red lights casting an eerie glow as they prepared for the mission ahead. The first task: establishing their lifeline—a Starlink connection and antenna that will deliver the night’s objectives. Yevhenii, whose callsign is “Bird,” meticulously sets up the system.
Once the connection is live, the team receives their targets: positions scouted earlier by reconnaissance drones. The soldiers attach night-vision equipment and explosives to the FPV drones, transforming them into precision weapons. Yevhenii dons his immersive goggles, becoming one with the drone as it takes flight.
“We can only stop their assaults and hold our lines with our drones,” Yevhenii says as he guides the drone toward its target with surgical precision.
The assault begins. The drone glides silently through the night, dropping bombs with pinpoint accuracy. Volodymyr, known by his call-sign “Panda,” sprints to retrieve the drone after each mission as it lands nearby, reloading it with fresh explosives. The team quickly switches tactics, attaching bottles of flammable liquid to create makeshift “flying Molotov cocktails.” When the drone drops its payload, it ignites chaos, forcing Russian soldiers from their hiding spots.
Within an hour, five enemy soldiers scatter in panic across Chasiv Yar. The team cheered as Yevhenii hit his mark again and again. The soldiers responded with grim humor, as the soldiers often do to help dissipate the tension of living in constant fear.
The operation was relentless. I asked Yevhenii if he had a message for the American public between drone flights. “We are trying our best. We cherish and value the help that America is giving us. We are still holding on,” he said, his voice steady despite the exhaustion in his eyes.
As dawn broke, the soldiers remained in their positions, unrelieved. Supplies arrived—fresh bombs, food, and water—but they offered only temporary reprieve. The van that took me back to safety sped through an apocalyptic landscape. Smoke rose from homes that were still burning from the night’s artillery barrage. The driver navigated the bumpy roads with intense focus, scanning for land mines and enemy drones.
“Driving so fast means we destroy our vehicles quickly,” he muttered as the van jolted over another cratered road. It felt surreal to be able to get in the van and be evacuated; wrong that I was able to escape from the battle and leave behind guys who may never return from this mission.
The following day, Heorhii Volkov, the drone unit commander, commented on Yevhenii’s skills. “He’s always critical of himself, learning from each mission. He wants to grow as a pilot,” Volkov says. His admiration is clear.
But war is unrelenting, and the costs are heavy. The soldiers often remain in position for days without relief. They take quick naps and jump back into action afterward. With too few soldiers, they are unable to rotate men in and out as needed.
For now, Ukraine holds the line in Chasiv Yar, thanks to drone units like Yasni Ochi. Their bravery and ingenuity prevent Russian forces from breaking through, but their commander, Serhii, known as “Fly,” voices the mounting frustration.
“The Russians have significantly more artillery and effective aviation,” he explains, exhaustion etched on his face. “They advance slowly, wave after wave, digging into the basements of every building. Without enough shells and rockets, we can only hold the line. We can’t push forward.”
Serhii rises from his chair, with palpable frustration. “The West only gives us enough to defend, not to win. Europe and the US must give us what we need to finish this. We’re protecting them from Russia too,” he says.
Andriy, a medic in the unit, known by his callsign “Steppe” in homage to the sweeping plains of Donetsk Oblast from which he hails, says if Ukraine falls, the Europeans should be preparing for war because this hell that the Russians brought will come to them.
Kharkiv Front
After my time on the Donetsk front, my friends from Dnipro connected me with others fighting along the front, this time in Kharkiv Oblast near the Russian border. Anatoliy, a commander of a mortar battery unit from Ukraine’s 92nd Separate Assault Brigade, welcomed us to their base. He was a soft-spoken gentleman who carried the weight of the war in his eyes. As we talked, he showed me photos of his children and spoke of his longing to be home—tucking his kids into bed instead of fighting a war. But, he said, they must continue to fight because the Russians want to kill Ukrainians and destroy their homes and everything that they value.
The men and women at the 92nd base were visibly exhausted, worn down by the relentless destruction caused by glide bombs falling on their positions. The danger at the front grows daily, especially from FPV drone attacks, which have claimed numerous lives. Commanders scouting for new positions often step on mines or are killed by enemy drones. Just before my arrival, five Ukrainian soldiers traveling in a Humvee to the front were all killed in a wave of FPV drone attacks. Every day, the front becomes more dangerous, with these drones increasingly shaping the grim reality of the battlefield.
Back at the base, the soldiers prepared a feast in our honor as I traveled there with Oleksandr. They brought out a special bottle of liquor they’d been saving for rare occasions, and having a journalist from America visit was certainly one of them. They grilled meat, and the table overflowed with food.
We stayed up past 1 a.m., talking about life and the war as if we’d been friends for decades. The first toast celebrated our gathering and meeting one another, but after that, the drinking turned solemn. Each round was taken in silence, honoring the fallen soldiers and the friends lost to the war. The atmosphere was bittersweet—a mix of camaraderie and the ubiquitous shadow of loss.
I also spoke with Oleksandr and Svitlana, a couple serving together on the frontline. Their son is also in the army, currently fighting in Kupiansk. Oleksandr has been fighting since Russia’s first invasion of Ukraine in 2014. Svitlana, unable to bear the distance and constant worry about her husband, joined the army herself in 2019. Now, they live together at the base, serving on the frontlines with the pervasive risk that either—or both—could lose their lives at any moment. Despite the danger, they’ve renewed their contracts for another 10 years and plan to remain in the army indefinitely, even after the war ends.
In December 2024, I had the opportunity to visit the unit again to deliver a jammer, which they had urgently requested to counter the daily threats posed by enemy drones. We managed to deliver the jammer just in time, as the unit was being rotated to the Kursk front. However, Anatoliy was already near Kursk, preparing operations ahead of the unit’s arrival. Speaking with me over the phone, he was distraught—several of his soldiers had been killed or injured when a Ukrainian mortar shell detonated prematurely as it was being loaded a few weeks prior.
Zaporizhzhia Front
I was welcomed to the flatlands of the Zaporizhzhia front by Dima, a company commander from the 98th Separate Territorial Defense Battalion. Originally from Dnipro, Dima was incredibly warm and welcoming. He took me to their position, where they were training to storm Russian trenches. To my surprise, when I arrived, there were many Colombian soldiers present.
At first, the atmosphere was tense. Many of the Colombians were uncomfortable, worried about having their faces captured on camera or their identities revealed. To complicate matters, other commanders in the area approached me, saying I wasn’t authorized to be there. The situation grew a bit dramatic and stressful, but Dima firmly intervened. He insisted that I was cleared and approved to be there, even going so far as to call headquarters and push back against the objections. His determination to vouch for me was unrelenting.
Despite the tension, I decided to approach the Colombian soldiers and began speaking with them in Spanish. They were stunned to learn that I could speak their language. Dima returned shortly after to assure me everything had been settled and that I could freely observe, record, and take notes. He even offered to help if I needed anything further.
Within minutes of chatting in Spanish, the Colombians quickly warmed up to me. They started running over to take selfies, and soon I was conducting interviews with them in Spanish. Their camaraderie and humor were infectious, much to the irritation of the training officer, whose instructions were drowned out as the Colombians began singing and cracking jokes with me.
Nonetheless, both the Ukrainian and Colombian soldiers quickly got into action. Dima explained that the most critical aspect of storming enemy positions is shouting to maintain clear communication. However, it was challenging to watch the soldiers yelling in different languages, struggling to stay in sync.
It was also evident who had been fighting since the start of the war. The seasoned soldiers remained highly motivated, shouting commands with authority, while the newly conscripted soldiers hesitated, visibly nervous and unsure about even holding their rifles. Yet, this is war, and the soldiers have no choice but to press on. The soldiers communicated with one another in a mix of Spanish and Ukrainian, occasionally relying on translation apps on their phones or resorting to hand gestures. Despite the language barrier, they seemed to understand each other well enough to carry out their tasks.
Back at the base, I handed over a few drones to Dima—a DJI Mavic 3 Pro and an attack FPV drone capable of dropping over 100 explosives if everything goes as planned. As I observed the activity around me, my eyes were drawn to a soldier with the callsign “Chaplain.” He walked with a noticeable limp, dragging his body as he carried his rifle. From the moment I saw him, an overwhelming wave of emotion hit me, and I struggled to hold back tears.
Summoning the courage to speak, I asked him what had happened. Chaplain explained that a Russian FPV drone had targeted him. In a desperate attempt to shield his face, he raised his hands, but the explosion tore apart both arms, leaving most of his fingers gone. He had only two or three fingers remaining on one hand, along with other injuries across his body. Despite his injuries, he begged Dima to let him stay in the unit and continue fighting. His resilience and determination left me speechless.
Pokrovsk Front
Following my time spent with Ukrainian army units on various fronts, I then joined my close friend Oleksandr Dovhal from Dobra Sprava on a mission to evacuate civilians near the frontlines around Pokrovsk, where villages and towns in the area were rapidly falling to advancing Russian forces. Evacuees were instructed to gather at designated meeting points at precise times to minimize exposure to Russian shelling.
“My nerves can’t take it anymore. May God not allow anyone else to experience this,” an elderly woman said as she was hurried away from her home, escaping the relentless attacks. “A big thank you to America for helping us with military aid. Without America, I don’t know what would happen.”
In Myrnohrad, an elderly woman, unable to leave due to her poor health, weeps as she watches her neighbors board the evacuation van. Tears stream down her face as she witnesses her friends and neighbors departing, possibly for the last time. She said the nights were the most harrowing, with Russian shelling at its fiercest.
An elderly man who is also staying behind pedals to the evacuation point on his bicycle. Determined, he tells me, “I’ll use whatever I can get my hands on to fight the Russians when they come.”
At another settlement, as we waited for civilians to gather at the rally point, the aftermath of the morning’s Russian strikes was unmistakable. Volunteers urged me to document the destruction but cautioned against the threat of double-tap strikes—a brutal tactic where an initial shelling is followed by a second attack to target rescuers. This method, widely used by Russia in Syria, has become a grim hallmark of their invasion of Ukraine.
The following day, Oleksandr set out again to evacuate civilians, venturing within just 1 kilometer of Russian positions. While searching for an elderly woman who needed to be evacuated, he took a wrong turn. As he continued his search, Russian forces spotted the Red Cross on his van and unleashed a barrage of firepower. Targeting humanitarian and medical workers has become an increasingly common tactic by Russian forces, turning acts of mercy into life-threatening missions. The Russians struck his van, but Oleksandr managed to escape just in time, evading the artillery and drones targeting him. When I saw him later in Dnipro, his face was etched with intense shock.
Freedom is Our Destiny
I don’t go to the front seeking death. Like the Ukrainian soldiers and volunteers I meet, being in such close proximity to it makes you cherish life all the more and deepens your desire to live. But as a Ukrainian-American, I recognize that I have a unique voice, one that can make a real impact—and I choose to use it. Yet, each time I go to the front, I can’t help but wonder if my death will be random. It’s not death itself that I fear most, but the thought of being struck by artillery or a drone, having my body ripped apart rather than facing an instant end. I also fear the possibility of Russian captivity, where torture could be a fate worse than death.
I often think about my friend Andriy, with whom I volunteered in Bakhmut in 2022. After Russia’s strike on Okhmatdyt Children’s Hospital in July, Andriy was drafted into the Ukrainian army. However, he wasn’t angry about it. In his words, “I’m in my 50s now and have lived enough of life.” Instead, his resolve was clear: he hoped to take out as many Russian soldiers as possible before he fell, seeking revenge for Okhmatdyt.
After returning from Ukraine, I understand the battle doesn’t truly end. The frontline stretches across multiple spectrums—from the physical to the informational. Far from the battlefields, members of the Ukrainian-American community are waging another critical fight on Capitol Hill. From September 22-25, 2024, the fifth Ukraine Action Summit, organized by the American Coalition for Ukraine (ACU), took place in Washington, D.C. The summit brought together over 500 delegates from 45 states to engage with members of Congress and advocate for increased support for Ukraine.
As a member of the Washington State delegation, I met with staffers from both the Senate and House of Representatives representing Washington State. Among all the offices we engaged with, the staff from U.S. Senator Maria Cantwell’s office stood out for their attentiveness. Stacy Baird, Senator Cantwell’s Senior Policy Advisor, was particularly empathetic, asking numerous thoughtful questions. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing about my experiences as a war journalist on the frontlines in Ukraine and understanding why additional military support is vital for Ukraine’s success on the battlefield.
After the meeting, we gathered for photos with the staff, and Senator Cantwell herself came outside to meet us. During our brief conversation, I shared insights from the frontlines, emphasizing that Ukrainian soldiers are fighting for the same values and ideals that Americans hold dear. I told her how these soldiers view America as a “city on a hill.” Senator Cantwell responded thoughtfully, saying, “We need to keep America as that city on a hill and give Ukraine the support it needs to win.” I also urged the Senator to apply pressure on the Biden administration to allow Ukraine to conduct long-range strikes within Russia. By November 2024, the Biden administration finally relented, authorizing Ukraine to use the U.S.-supplied weapons for long-range strikes in Russia’s Kursk Oblast.
After my work on Capitol Hill, I traveled to London, where I was honored to present my research paper, Military Lessons for NATO from the Russia-Ukraine War: Preparing for the Wars of Tomorrow, at the British Parliament. This was my second time presenting at the British Parliament this year, following my earlier presentation on cyber warfare between Russia and Ukraine. After my first presentation, I considered it a once-in-a-lifetime achievement. Yet, here I was again, standing before Parliament just months later.
Afterward, I had meetings with various members of Parliament to advocate for greater military support for Ukraine and to increase sanctions on the Russian economy. I have also continued gathering funds and buying supplies for Ukrainian soldiers, including jammers to protect Ukrainian soldiers from Russian drones. I always wake up and think about what else I could be doing to help save more lives.
Amid the uncertainty of where the war may go in the near future, especially with many wondering what will happen with Trump’s wildcard presidency, the future seems precarious for Ukraine.
I don’t know what the future holds, but history has an uncanny way of repeating itself. As my Protestant father often prays, “Lord, bless the President and his team, give them the wisdom they need to make the right decisions.” I can only hope that good leaders will step up to guide Trump’s policies in a way that helps Ukraine prevail. But I also find myself wondering whether we are, once again, reliving 1938. Hitler’s appetite was not satisfied with the taking of the Sudetenland; instead, it only grew—just as Putin’s did after taking Crimea and occupying parts of eastern Ukraine in 2014.
This war for Ukraine’s freedom is nothing new; it has been in the making for almost a thousand years. Ukraine has always fought for its independence against various invading powers, Mongol Golden Horde and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth to the Russian Empire, the Soviet Union, and now Putin’s Russia. Yet, here Ukraine stands, fighting and stunning the world with the bravery of its people. However, history has already shown us what will happen if Ukraine fails to prevail over Russia.
In 1709, when Hetman Ivan Mazepa failed to defeat Russia at the Battle of Poltava, Russian leaders took their revenge on the Ukrainian people. Russia launched a devastating assault on the Hetmanate’s capital, Baturyn, reducing the city to rubble and subjecting its inhabitants to a horrific massacre that claimed an estimated 15,000 lives, including women and children. The Russian troops engaged in widespread looting, burned buildings to the ground, and carried out chilling acts of brutality, such as sending the bodies of prominent Cossacks floating down the river as a grim display of dominance.
Even after Putin, peace will remain elusive for Ukraine as long as Russia’s elite persist in the belief that Ukraine must be subjugated to Moscow’s will. Russia’s ongoing campaign is not just about controlling the Ukrainian state; it is an effort to erase both Ukraine’s future and its past. Through force and coercion, Russian occupying forces have been working to strip Ukrainians of their language, culture, and identity, just as Russian rulers have attempted to do for centuries. Russia will never abandon its campaign of conquest until it is decisively defeated on the battlefield, just as the much smaller Japan did in 1905.
Despite the immense sacrifices made since 2014, including the loss of so many of Ukraine’s best, lasting peace will be impossible as long as Russian leaders remain committed to imperialist ambitions. Yet, the Ukrainian people will honor those sacrifices, for they have sown the seeds of a future in which Ukraine is truly free and peace reaches all its lands.
As President Volodymyr Zelensky has said, “Nobody believes in our victory like I do. Nobody.” I say to President Zelensky that I, too, intend to fight for Ukraine and the freedom of our people until the very end. I owe it to my ancestors, to my fallen brothers and sisters, and to the greater good of humanity.
In the words of Taras Shevchenko:
Keep fighting — you are sure to win!
God helps you in your fight!
For fame and freedom march with you,
And right is on your side!
How you can help: If you want to support Ukrainian defenders with protective gear and life-saving equipment, please consider donating to Dzyga’s Paw.