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How do you know when it’s time to make your next big career move? With International Women’s Day around the corner, we are excited to feature Avni Patel Thompson, Founder and CEO of Milo. Avni is building technology that directly supports the often overlooked emotional and logistical labor that falls on parents—especially women. Milo is an AI assistant designed to help families manage that invisible load more efficiently. In this episode, Avni shares her journey from studying chemistry to holding leadership roles at global brands like Adidas and Starbucks, to launching her own ventures. She discusses how she approaches career transitions, the importance of unpleasant experiences, and why she’s focused on making everyday life easier for parents. [01:26] Avni's University Days and Early Career [04:36] Non-Linear Career Paths [05:16] Pursuing Steep Learning Curves [11:51] Entrepreneurship and Safety Nets [15:22] Lived Experiences and Milo [19:55] Avni’s In Her Ellement Moment [20:03] Reflections Links: Avni Patel Thompson on LinkedIn Suchi Srinivasan on LinkedIn Kamila Rakhimova on LinkedIn Ipsos report on the future of parenting About In Her Ellement: In Her Ellement highlights the women and allies leading the charge in digital, business, and technology innovation. Through engaging conversations, the podcast explores their journeys—celebrating successes and acknowledging the balance between work and family. Most importantly, it asks: when was the moment you realized you hadn’t just arrived—you were truly in your element? About The Hosts: Suchi Srinivasan is an expert in AI and digital transformation. Originally from India, her career includes roles at trailblazing organizations like Bell Labs and Microsoft. In 2011, she co-founded the Cleanweb Hackathon, a global initiative driving IT-powered climate solutions with over 10,000 members across 25+ countries. She also advises Women in Cloud, aiming to create $1B in economic opportunities for women entrepreneurs by 2030. Kamila Rakhimova is a fintech leader whose journey took her from Tajikistan to the U.S., where she built a career on her own terms. Leveraging her English proficiency and international relations expertise, she discovered the power of microfinance and moved to the U.S., eventually leading Amazon's Alexa Fund to support underrepresented founders. Subscribe to In Her Ellement on your podcast app of choice to hear meaningful conversations with women in digital, business, and technology.…
Content provided by Meduza.io. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by Meduza.io or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.
Every day we bring you the most important news and feature stories from hundreds of sources in Russia and across the former Soviet Union.
Content provided by Meduza.io. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by Meduza.io or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.
Every day we bring you the most important news and feature stories from hundreds of sources in Russia and across the former Soviet Union.
A street artist paints a woman’s portrait next to an exhibition of military posters in St. Petersburg. March 27, 2025. The Putin administration is discussing ways to “normalize” life in Russia in the event of a ceasefire with Ukraine, Verstka Media reported on Friday, citing Kremlin and state media sources. Proposed measures range from removing certain people from the Justice Ministry’s “foreign agents” blacklist to bringing back Ivan Urgant, Russia’s leading late-night talk show host before the full-scale invasion. However, not all of Verstka’s sources agreed that these proposals are serious; some expressed doubt that the Kremlin wants “normalization” or that Russia can ever return to its pre-war reality. Meduza summarizes the key points from Verstka’s reporting. ‘He abandoned us’ The Putin administration and Russia’s flagship state broadcaster, Channel One, have been discussing the return of the network’s most popular late night show, Evening Urgant, for the last several months, according to sources in the Kremlin and the network’s parent company, National Media Group. Administration staff said there have been occasional attempts to “ask at the very top” for the return of host Ivan Urgant, who posted an anti-war message on Instagram and disappeared from Channel One following Moscow’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine. However, they told Verstka that this would only be possible “after a ceasefire.” One source familiar with the situation at Channel One described Urgant as “the favorite host of [Yury] Kovalchuk” — the owner of National Media Group and a close friend of Putin’s. “So Urgant’s return isn’t even up to officials in the presidential administration,” the source added. According to this person, Urgant’s actions at the start of the war were viewed as a betrayal: “It was very emotional — like, ‘He’s weak, he fell for it, he abandoned us. We did so much for him, and this is how he repays us.’” However, Urgant and his team have reportedly downplayed the situation, saying he “reacted emotionally, didn’t think it through — that he’s a young, hot-headed creative.” The Kremlin crushed Meduza’s business model and wiped out our ad revenue. We’ve been blocked and outlawed in Russia, where donating to us or even sharing our posts is a crime. But we’re still here — bringing independent journalism to millions of our readers inside Russia and around the world. Meduza’s survival is under threat — again. Donald Trump’s foreign aid freeze has slashed funding for international groups backing press freedom. Meduza was hurt too. It’s yet another blow in our ongoing struggle to survive. You could be our lifeline. Please, help Meduza survive with a small recurring donation. Another source close to the Putin administration linked recent media uproar over a state media report that Urgant had registered as a sole proprietor in France to the ongoing negotiations about his return to Channel One. “The smear campaign is one thing, the negotiations are something separate. Somebody doesn’t want him back on the air,” the source said. Multiple sources said they expect talks about Urgant’s return to resume after his scheduled performances in Haifa, Tel Aviv, Yerevan, Tbilisi, and Tashkent in April 2025. One source told Verstka that Urgant will then travel to Moscow, where an agreement has supposedly already been reached for his TV comeback. “The current discussions are about the format and conditions of his return. He likely won’t have to issue a public apology, but there will be sacrifices — loss of ‘creative independence,’ a new team, new producers, new scriptwriters, and so on,” the source explained. A source close to the Putin administration also confirmed that any revived version of Evening Urgant would be more heavily censored than in the past: “I asked if he understood what kind of program this would be and how long he’d last. He gave me this sad look, like, ‘I understand, but I can’t live without my viewers.’” Urgant didn’t respond to Verstka’s request for comment. At the same time, other Kremlin sources denied that there’s a concrete, agreed-upon plan for Urgant’s return. One official from the presidential administration’s public projects directorate said the president’s team has “other things to worry about” right now. Another person from Putin’s domestic policy team said the return of “runaway public figures” is currently handled on a case-by-case basis through personal connections rather than as part of an official directive. Not what they bargained for ‘We expected the war to end’ How Russian political elites feel about the full-scale invasion of Ukraine dragging into 2025 ‘You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube’ The debate over Urgant’s return is part of broader discussions within the presidential administration about “normalizing” life in Russia — an idea the Kremlin has reportedly been considering for several months. “There’s a plan called ‘Bring back the Russia of 2021’ aimed at drawing back people who left after the full-scale invasion of Ukraine. They’re developing and discussing it in anticipation of a possible halt in fighting,” one administration staffer told Verstka. According to this source, Evening Urgant is part of these discussions, and an agreement has already been made to bring the show back “immediately after a peace deal is signed or hostilities cease.” Beyond television, the Kremlin is also exploring ways to facilitate the return of Russians who left during the war but “did not engage in unlawful activities,” Verstka reports. Officials believe their return would contribute to the country’s “post-war recovery,” with a particular focus on reintegrating private entrepreneurs and IT specialists. The “normalization” plan also includes proposals for simplifying the process of removing people from the foreign agent registry. One version of the plan reviewed by journalists suggests introducing a “probationary period” for those undergoing a “rehabilitation process,” during which their foreign agent designation could be reinstated if they violate certain conditions. The plan describes these measures as being aimed at “softening domestic policy, restoring public trust, and creating conditions for stable development in the post-war period.” A source close to the Kremlin confirmed to Verstka that a roadmap for “normalization” is under discussion. However, he noted that multiple versions are being considered, as the Kremlin “always works through several concepts at once.” A high-stakes feud Kadyrov’s relations with Kremlin have soured over the Chechen leader’s unsanctioned negotiations with Middle Eastern countries, new report alleges For now, authorities have no plans for a broad “amnesty” of foreign agents, the source said. Instead, this initiative would aim to “showcase a few examples of their failure abroad — while leaving room for repentance.” According to him, officials are currently selecting candidates “who will be brought back, publicly reprimanded, and given a place here” before being removed from the foreign agents registry. “Only after this spectacle will they decide whether to launch a large-scale amnesty program,” he added. Independent journalists are not among those being considered for “test cases,” another Verstka source said. “This plan doesn’t apply to people like you,” he told the outlet’s correspondent. Meanwhile, the Putin administration “still has no real say” in the fate of foreign agents, a former Kremlin official pointed out. “[Putin's Chief of Staff] Anton Vaino chairs meetings on this topic, but the key decisionmakers are law enforcement and the FSB. No one argues with them. No one even opens their mouth anymore. The administration can add names, but it can’t remove them,” he said. However, Verstka notes that there seems to be no unified approach within the Kremlin. Some sources in the administration were unable to confirm that the government actually intends to carry out any “normalization” plans, expressing skepticism. Several noted that “the administration is always drafting something, but 90 percent of those plans end up in the shredder.” One source said, “So far, nothing outside of the military-patriotic agenda is being considered.” He saw no reason for the Russian authorities to pursue normalization or a large-scale amnesty for foreign agents. “You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube,” he said, adding that those discussing such plans “have no grasp of what has actually happened.” “Everything is so fundamentally different now that there won’t be any ‘post-war’ period,” he continued. “But I can imagine a five-person working group somewhere, reporting to Sergey Novikov, [head of Russia's Presidential Directorate for Social Projects]. They just haven’t been told that the real plan is to march on Kyiv.” He insisted that even if active fighting stops, “the war itself can’t be stopped,” and the Russian government will continue pouring money into rebuilding military capacity. Another source close to the administration agreed: “I mean, first of all, why on earth would there be some kind of thaw? As if there was a thaw before the war. I’m honestly baffled by these well-meaning people who think the war will actually end.” Potential post-war problems ‘The system could collapse’ A ceasefire would mean hundreds of thousands of Russian soldiers returning home. Moscow is bracing for chaos.…
Journalists from Mediazona and BBC News Russian, working with a team of volunteers, have identified the names of 100,001 Russian soldiers killed in the war in Ukraine using open-source data. “This is still far from the full number, even by our methodology,” Mediazona noted . “Our volunteers have more than 10,000 (10,269) obituaries left to review. Not all of them are unique, and the two figures can’t simply be added together, as some information is duplicated.” On the third anniversary of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Meduza and Mediazona published a joint study estimating the total number of Russian soldiers killed. Using Mediazona and BBC’s confirmed death list alongside data from Russia’s National Probate Registry, they put the figure at 160,000–165,000. This estimate does not include foreign citizens who fought for Russia, including residents of the partially occupied Ukrainian regions. Read more about the methodology Three years of death A new estimate from Meduza and Mediazona shows Russia is paying for its war against Ukraine with hundreds of lives each day…
Georgia has quietly built economic momentum by capitalizing on the ripple effects of Western sanctions against Russia — particularly through a booming car re-export trade. But with Donald Trump’s unpredictable approach to foreign policy, the future of this shadow economy is far from certain. For Novaya Gazeta Europe, Iya Barateli investigated how sanctions on Russia have been a boon for Georgia’s economy — and what could follow if they’re lifted or eased. Meduza shares key points from her reporting, translated into English. Georgia’s top export for years now has been something it doesn’t produce: cars. Thanks to its strategic location, access to ports, low tariffs, and streamlined customs procedures, the country has become a key hub for the re-export of vehicles from Europe and the United States. The business is thriving — perhaps not in spite of the war and sanctions, but because of them. In 2024, Georgia exported a record $2.43 billion worth of passenger cars. And in just the first two months of 2025, vehicle exports totaled $285 million. Much of that trade, experts believe, ultimately reaches Russia via third countries. The numbers back that up: since sanctions were imposed, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan have become the top buyers of Western cars from Georgia. Since January alone, Georgia has exported $100.7 million worth of cars to Kyrgyzstan and $166.6 million to Kazakhstan. In a Telegram post, Autostat analyst Sergey Tselikov shared broader figures showing how the re-export system works. Between March 2022 and February 2025, nearly 100,000 new passenger cars entered Russia via Kazakhstan. That route, he noted, began gaining traction three years ago. Kyrgyzstan became a second major transit corridor shortly thereafter. “Over the past three years, nearly 130,000 new cars have been imported through these channels,” Tselikov wrote. Many economists believe the financial stability enjoyed by the ruling Georgian Dream party — which has openly rejected aid from the E.U. and the U.S. — is largely underpinned by this “gray” re-export trade to Russia. Before the full-scale war in Ukraine, the pandemic had pushed Georgia into a deep economic crisis. Even with preferential loans and direct budget support from the West, the country struggled to keep its currency afloat. Today, the networks built over the past three years to reroute sanctioned goods to Russia largely fill the gap left by the absence of financial assistance from the E.U., U.S., and IMF. But this arrangement may not last. If U.S. President Donald Trump decides to ease or lift sanctions, Georgia’s profitable re-export scheme could quickly lose its value. For now, Georgian Dream benefits from the West’s sanctions on Russia. more on Georgian Dream A geopolitical paradox Former diplomat Sergi Kapanadze on Georgia’s upcoming elections, the people’s E.U. aspirations, and the government’s drift towards Russia ‘Doing what brings in money’ Economist Vakhtang Partsvania, a professor at Caucasus University in Tbilisi, described the situation to Novaya Gazeta Europe as paradoxical: for several countries in the region — Georgia included — sanctions on Russia have turned into a lucrative opportunity. “Under Georgian law, re-exporting goods to third countries — excluding Russia — is perfectly legal and does not violate Western sanctions. So the government’s view is: as long as Georgia isn’t selling directly to Russia, it bears no responsibility for what happens after the car leaves Georgia’s borders,” he explained. “But the E.U. might view this as a ‘gray channel’ — because in the end, those cars are still making it to Russia, bypassing sanctions.” In theory, that could be prosecuted. But in practice, it’s difficult for European authorities to trace and penalize those involved. The business is driven largely by small traders and intermediaries, not large corporations. Re-export routes often involve a network of participants from Eurasian Economic Union (EAEU) countries — including Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Armenia — between which customs borders don’t exist. Partsvania noted that after Georgia formally imposed restrictions on re-exports to Russia in 2023, in line with the E.U.’s 11th sanctions package , border dynamics shifted significantly. “Before the restrictions, you might have seen 100 cars re-exported from the E.U. to Russia via Georgia. Now it’s 10,” he said. “The other 90 get routed through different countries — but in the end, Russia still gets its 100 cars.” The Kremlin crushed Meduza’s business model and wiped out our ad revenue. We’ve been blocked and outlawed in Russia, where donating to us or even sharing our posts is a crime. But we’re still here — bringing independent journalism to millions of our readers inside Russia and around the world. Meduza’s survival is under threat — again. Donald Trump’s foreign aid freeze has slashed funding for international groups backing press freedom. Meduza was hurt too. It’s yet another blow in our ongoing struggle to survive. You could be our lifeline. Please, help Meduza survive with a small recurring donation. Western sanctions are also expanding. The U.S. and E.U. continue to introduce new restrictions and tighten existing ones, adding more categories of goods to the list. Secondary sanctions have already hit companies in countries like China, South Korea, Kazakhstan, Turkey, the UAE, and Taiwan. Thanks to tighter enforcement, large-scale shipments — like turbines or heavy machinery — are increasingly difficult to move through these routes, Partsvania noted. “But microchips or car parts are much easier to slip through unnoticed,” he added. Investigations by journalists in Georgia have revealed that the re-export of sanctioned goods is a lucrative business involving a wide network of individuals who’ve established connections with government agencies along the supply chain. In theory, customs enforcement could clamp down on these shipments — if there were political will. But that hasn’t happened. Instead, the main profits flow not into the state budget, but into the pockets of those running the schemes. “It’s not exactly accurate to say Georgian Dream is fundamentally pursuing a pro-Russian policy,” said Partsvania. “They’re simply doing what brings in money — however short-term or shadowy it may be. If it stops being profitable, or becomes too risky under sanctions, they’ll start talking about European integration again.” Other countries in the region have taken a similar approach. According to Partsvania, when Europe shut down Russia’s trade routes, the region saw an opening. “Armenia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan — they all started playing their own game,” he said. “Lifting sanctions is the last thing they want. In fact, if Russia were allowed to fully return to global trade, Moscow’s attitude toward these countries might shift dramatically — and not for the better.” Western sanctions ‘The U.S. came to the peace talks unarmed’ Sanctions expert Maria Shagina explains how the West can use its main economic weapon in negotiations with Russia Tariff troubles Whether or not sanctions are eased, there’s still a real chance that Georgia could lose its billion-dollar foothold in the car re-export business. And once again, the reason has to do with Donald Trump — this time, because of his tariffs. Georgia primarily imports and resells used cars. The most popular models are European and Japanese vehicles assembled in the United States, followed by American brands themselves. Russian buyers tend to favor the same types of cars. It’s no surprise, then, that in 2023, Georgia’s imports of passenger vehicles from the U.S. rose by 84 percent. But if prices for these cars go up in the U.S., reselling them to Russia — via Georgia, then through Kyrgyzstan or Kazakhstan — will no longer be profitable. Trump is planning to raise import duties on cars, tacking on a 25 percent tariff starting April 2, and has already imposed a 25 percent tariff on steel and aluminum imports — key materials in car manufacturing. As a result, the global auto market is bracing for increased demand and higher prices for used vehicles. Aleksi Noniadze, head of Georgia’s Auto Importers Association, told the Georgian outlet Commersant.ge that the U.S. tariff hikes will likely reduce car imports to Georgia. “Of course, Trump’s decision will have a negative impact on car imports, although not immediately. We expect it will take at least five to six months,” he said. “If American cars become even more expensive, they’ll likely be pushed out of the Russian market entirely — replaced by Chinese models.” And China won’t need Georgia to do that. The country could lose its role as a re-export hub just as Chinese automakers gain ground — not only in Russia, but also in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. According to official statistics, Chinese cars made up 37.9 percent of all auto sales in Kazakhstan in 2024, up from 26 percent the year before. Korean cars accounted for 32.9 percent, while American vehicles dropped to 15.2 percent. The trend is even more dramatic in Kyrgyzstan. Between January and July 2022, just 574 Chinese cars were imported. In the same period in 2024, that number jumped to 14,910 — an increase of nearly 26-fold. read more from Iya Barateli ‘Russia would do here what they did in Mariupol’ Why Georgia's response to the war has been feeble — despite months of pro-Ukraine protests in Tbilisi…
A Russian researcher at Harvard Medical School was detained at Boston Logan Airport upon entering the U.S. after she failed to declare frog embryo samples on her customs declaration, according to her colleagues. Her visa was subsequently revoked, putting her at risk of deportation, and she was sent to an immigration detention center. Kseniia Petrova was detained on February 16 upon returning to the U.S. from a personal trip to France. She was carrying “a sizable box with several cold packs, which was clearly impossible to hide,” a colleague told Mediazona , adding that she may have made an accidental error on her customs declaration. According to the colleague, the maximum penalty for this violation under U.S. law is a $500 fine, as the frog samples were safe and non-toxic. Following her detention, Petrova was initially held at a migrant facility in Vermont before being transferred to Louisiana, where she remains. According to her colleague Cora Anderson, she’s being housed in a room with 80 other women. Petrova has legal representation and is receiving assistance in applying for a new visa, but the process could take several months, Anderson added. Anderson also said that Petrova fears persecution in Russia due to her opposition to the war in Ukraine. Mediazona notes that at the start of the full-scale invasion, Petrova shared links to anti-war videos and a petition calling for Vladimir Putin’s resignation. According to the Telegram channel Mozhem Obyasnit, Petrova first arrived in Boston in the spring of 2023 from Georgia, where she had moved after leaving Russia to avoid retaliation for her anti-war statements. According to her LinkedIn page, she works as an associate researcher in Harvard’s Department of Systems Biology. Petrova’s friends and colleagues fear for her safety and have launched a GoFundMe to cover her legal fees and other expenses. “Kseniia’s in danger,” a person familiar with the details of her case told Mozhem Obyasnit. In 2023, The Guardian reported that the U.S. had “quietly resumed” deportations to Russia after suspending them altogether shortly after the start of the full-scale war. According to the newspaper, one of the first deportees was a man who had fled conscription in Russia and sought asylum in the U.S. after entering the country via Mexico. Russian asylum seekers in U.S. detention ‘They escape Putin’s prisons — only to end up in America’s’ Hundreds of Russian asylum seekers are stuck in U.S. detention centers. Exiled dissident Ilya Yashin is fighting for their release.…
Russian President Vladimir Putin offered commentary on — and effectively endorsed — U.S. President Donald Trump’s remarks that Greenland should become part of the United States. “At first glance, this might seem surprising to some. But it’s a mistake to assume these are merely extravagant notions from the new American administration. Not at all,” Putin said during Russia's Arctic Forum in Murmansk. “In fact, such plans emerged in the United States as early as the 1860s. Even then, the American administration considered annexing Greenland and Iceland. But the idea failed to gain support in Congress.” According to Putin, U.S. ambitions regarding Greenland are serious, and it is clear, he said, that Washington intends to advance its military and strategic interests in the Arctic. He also noted that international cooperation in the region is “going through a difficult period.” Still, he said, Russia supports equitable collaboration in the Arctic. “We are ready to work together not only with Arctic states but with all who, like us, share responsibility for the planet’s stable and sustainable future — and who are capable of making balanced decisions with decades in mind,” he added. President Trump has, since his first term in office, repeatedly said that Greenland should become part of the United States. He has called “ownership and control” of Greenland an “absolute necessity” for U.S. national security and has not ruled out the use of economic or military pressure to gain control over the island. Following such statements, Denmark increased its defense spending in Greenland.…
The Trump administration has temporarily reversed its decision to shut down an initiative that tracks alleged Russian war crimes in Ukraine and the deportation of Ukrainian children, The Washington Post reported , citing congressional sources. The program, known as the Conflict Observatory, is funded by the State Department and led by Yale University’s Humanitarian Research Lab. The decision grants the initiative an additional six weeks of funding, allowing it to transfer its databases to Europol, the European Union’s law enforcement agency. Update: On Friday, U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio denied that the government had restored funding to the Conflict Observatory. “The program is not funded. It was part of the reductions that were made, but we secured the data and we’ve ensured that we have it and it can be transferred to any appropriate authorities,” he said in remarks to the press. According to The Washington Post, the administration changed course following repeated appeals from members of Congress and growing media scrutiny. On March 19, the outlet was the first to report that the administration had shut down the program, cutting off researchers’ ability to share information about Ukrainian children with prosecutors at the International Criminal Court. The Washington Post also cited concerns from U.S. senators that three years of data on Ukrainian children had been permanently deleted. The State Department, however, said the data had not been deleted or lost.…
In December 2023, Russia’s largest cellular network operator, MTS, launched a video hosting platform called Nuum. The site was meant to be yet another domestic alternative to YouTube alongside the services VK Video and RuTube — but just over a year later, its story is already ending (while YouTube is still standing). In early 2025, reports emerged of staff cuts and a revised development strategy at Nuum, and on March 20, MTS representatives announced that the platform would be shut down in the coming months. Meduza takes a look at what Nuum managed to achieve and where Russia’s other “YouTube killers” stand today. Even before the full-scale war in Ukraine, MTS was investing in domestic streaming platforms. In March 2019, the company launched WASD, a gaming-focused service billed as Russia’s answer to Twitch. MTS representatives touted two key advantages over Western analogues: they claimed it was easier for new content creators to gain popularity on WASD than on YouTube or Twitch, and they promised better support for Russian streamers, arguing that competitors primarily catered to North America and Western Europe. MTS never disclosed traffic figures for WASD, but it did occasionally share successes. One report stated that between March and August 2022 — after the full-scale war had begun — traffic increased by 120 percent compared to the same period in 2021. However, data from the analytics firm Similarweb showed that WASD’s website traffic dropped by half in February 2023 compared to the previous month, falling to just 1.3 million visits. For comparison, Twitch’s average monthly audience at the time was estimated at 240 million unique visitors. Even though we’re outlawed in Russia, we continue to deliver exclusive reporting and analysis from inside the country. Our journalists on the ground take risks to keep you informed about changes in Russia during its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Support Meduza’s work today. MTS had planned to relaunch WASD with a broader focus beyond gaming, hoping to attract YouTube and TikTok users who faced restrictions or lost monetization due to the war. Instead, in December 2023, the company announced that WASD would be “put on hold,” directing users to its new video platform, Nuum. Functionally, Nuum closely resembled YouTube but included some TikTok-like features. Users could upload and watch both short and long videos, vertical clips, and live streams. The launch announcement claimed that “bloggers from various categories have already joined the platform,” though didn’t mention specific names. Ahead of the rollout, MTS ran an extensive promo campaign, even advertising Nuum on YouTube itself. YouTube’s most formidable Russian competitor How VKontakte’s video-sharing platform is trying to lure Russians from YouTube by stealing its content and cloning its look In March 2024, Nuum introduced hashtag searching and a donation feature. MTS also launched a partner program, promising content creators 55 percent of ad revenue from vertical videos. To qualify, users needed at least 50 subscribers and five hours of total watch time per month — relatively low requirements that suggested Nuum had struggled to gain traction. In May 2024, project head Natalia Bratchikova told RBC that MTS had allocated six billion rubles for Nuum’s development. She also said that as of April, the platform’s monthly audience had surpassed five million unique users — higher than WASD’s peak but still far from Western competitors. By early 2025, signs of trouble emerged. In February, Vedomosti, citing sources at MTS and former employees, reported that around 250 people — roughly 70–80 percent of the team working on Nuum — had left since the start of the year. While the company had no immediate plans to shut down the platform, the sources said, its development strategy was being completely overhauled. One current employee also noted that MTS had “significantly cut funding” for the project. In mid-March, Nuum announced the shutdown of its partner program, and just days later, an MTS representative confirmed that the platform itself would soon be discontinued. Users would be able to download their content until June 1, 2025. A tall order Right now, in the “Top Channels” section on Nuum’s homepage, only one account (Rozetked) has more than 10,000 subscribers, and half of the featured channels have fewer than 1,000. The videos themselves struggle to gain traction — most receive only a few dozen to a few hundred views, with only rare exceptions reaching the low thousands. The livestream section paints an even bleaker picture, with most streams attracting just one viewer or none at all. Even piracy hasn’t provided much of a boost. Nuum has a dedicated hashtag for full-length uploads of Oscar-nominated films from this year, yet the most popular uploads barely surpass one or two thousand likes. The short-form vertical video section, designed for endless scrolling like TikTok, performs slightly better, but videos with more than 100,000 views are extremely rare. These numbers are especially unimpressive considering that the Russian authorities have been throttling YouTube since August 2024 and restricting TikTok since the start of the war. But despite the absence of major Western competition, MTS has struggled to attract creators and viewers. Experts have said the problem extends beyond just Nuum. Can ‘Russian Facebook’ build a ‘Russian YouTube?’ Russia’s likely ‘YouTube killer’ The young man tapped to develop VK’s video platforms owes his powerful position to family connections and tireless lobbying, a new investigation shows “Creating a platform that dominates the market is nearly impossible — not just technically, but in terms of marketing and audience growth,” Denis Kuskov, head of the outlet TelecomDaily, told RBC. He said there’s currently little demand for new video platforms in Russia; even if some users are initially attracted, they generally return to YouTube at the first opportunity. “Ultimately, this raises doubts about the viability of any similar platforms in Russia,” he added. Alexey Zamesov, head of special projects at RuCenter, echoed this view, saying that launching yet another platform that simply replicates existing ones is a losing strategy. “You either need massive marketing investments or a unique feature that sets the service apart,” he explained. “The best approach is to introduce a new format or concept that the market sees as truly different. MTS didn’t manage to do that.” Section title Nuum isn’t the only Russian YouTube competitor struggling to attract an audience. In July 2024, just before the government began throttling the U.S.-based service, a new service called Platforma launched in Russia. Developed by Rteam, a company owned by ANO TV-Novosti (the organization behind Russia Today), Platforma turned out to be an exact clone of YouTube, down to its interface design. The platform’s creators openly acknowledged their copycat approach, claiming it was intended to ensure users wouldn’t have to change their habits. However, in the months since its launch, news about Platforma has been sparse, with only occasional mentions in lists of alternative services amid reports about YouTube’s throttling. In its early days, most of Platforma’s videos barely reached 10 views. The most popular bloggers had a few hundred subscribers, but their videos struggled to surpass 1,000 views. Not much has changed since then. The platform’s homepage is still dominated by videos with only a few dozen to a few hundred views, and many videos have never been watched at all. The type of content uploaded — whether it’s propaganda, pirated sports streams, or illegal movies — doesn’t seem to matter; Platforma’s small audience just isn’t engaging. Don’t touch my YouTube ‘No decent alternative’ As the Kremlin cracks down on YouTube, Russians cancel Internet contracts and organize protests Rutube is in slightly better shape. The platform has channels with over a million subscribers, and some videos draw tens or even hundreds of thousands of views, occasionally reaching the million mark. However, its live streams and short vertical videos face similar challenges to those on the other services. Most broadcasts attract only a few dozen viewers, and even the most popular YouTube Shorts-style clips reach only tens of thousands of likes. Rutube’s representatives call it “the most actively growing video platform in Russia.” According to the company, in February 2024, it had 77 million active users, and total views had increased fivefold compared to the previous year. The only platform with viewership numbers approaching YouTube’s, however, is VK Video. In December 2024, this platform claimed a monthly audience of 92 million, surpassing YouTube’s numbers in Russia for the first time — though the accuracy of these figures is doubtful . More about Platforma ‘Either move to VK or find something else to do’ How the Russian authorities finally decided to crack down on YouTube But VK Video faces more pressing issues. Many bloggers who migrated to the platform due to the YouTube throttling have expressed frustration over its complicated analytics tools, flawed monetization system, and recommendation algorithms, which allegedly favor creators partnered with VK while sidelining independent users. VK’s massive investment — reportedly in the hundreds of millions of rubles (or millions of dollars) — into securing exclusive content has also failed to pay off. The company posted a net loss of 94.9 billion rubles ($1.13 million) in 2024, and many creators have started returning to more familiar, user-friendly platforms. Despite Rutube and VK’s impressive official numbers, the Russian authorities aren’t satisfied with how users are shifting to domestic platforms. Even the Digital Development Ministry has acknowledged that the impact of YouTube’s throttling “could have been greater.” Officials believe the problem is not a lack of quality but rather a shortage of content. Some, for example, have expressed a desire to see more “classics of Russian cinema” on the platforms. “If users had been welcomed more ‘hospitably’ on our platforms, they could have been more successful,” Ekaterina Larina, head of the Mass Communication Development Department at the Digital Development Ministry, told state media.…
Russian President Vladimir Putin is trying to buy time as Russian forces prepare for a new offensive in Ukraine’s Sumy, Kharkiv, and Zaporizhzhia regions, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky said following the “Coalition of the Willing” summit in Paris on Thursday. Zelensky said Ukrainian intelligence has information indicating that Russia is planning a spring offensive and that Kyiv has shared those findings with its allies. According to him, Russia had originally intended to launch the operation eight months ago, but the Ukrainian Armed Forces disrupted those plans with a military operation in Russia’s Kursk region. “[Russia is] dragging out the talks and trying to get the U.S. stuck in endless, pointless discussions about fake ‘conditions’ just to buy time and then try to grab more land,” Zelensky said . He also announced that France and the United Kingdom would represent Europe in future negotiations aimed at ending the war — a decision reached during the Paris summit. Zelensky added that the United States continues to change the terms of a proposed agreement on mineral resources, and that officials from both countries are still working on the deal. Ukrainian lawmaker Yaroslav Zhelezniak previously said the latest draft includes provisions on oil and gas across all of Ukraine’s territory. The “Coalition of the Willing” summit took place in Paris on March 27, with Ukraine and its allies in attendance.…
An arbitration court in Kaliningrad has ruled in the Prosecutor General’s favor and transferred 100 percent of the shares of the oilfield services group Borets to the state. According to the newspaper Kommersant , the court ordered the decision to be enforced immediately. Officials filed their lawsuit only last month, stating that the company was controlled by former Yukos shareholder Leonid Nevzlin and his business partners — British citizen Mark Shabad and Swedish citizen Gregory Shulberg. Prosecutors accused Nevzlin, Shabad, and Shulberg of “creating the appearance of transferring control over strategic enterprises to a Russian resident” while they allegedly funneled the profits abroad, circumventing restrictions placed on foreign investors. Leonid Nevzlin is a former Yukos co-owner. He was sentenced in absentia in Russia to life in prison on charges of organizing multiple hired killings. Nevzlin has lived in Israel since 2003. Mark Shabad and Gregory Shulberg are both originally from the USSR. Since the 1990s, they have invested in various projects in Russia, including ventures related to machine-building and oil and gas equipment manufacturing.…
In public remarks on Thursday, Vladimir Putin proposed putting Ukraine under a new temporary government, administered under the auspices of the U.N. and a number of countries, to hold new elections there. “The goal would be to hold democratic elections, to bring to office a capable government that enjoys the trust of the people — and then begin negotiations with them on a peace agreement,” Putin told a group of sailors aboard Russia’s “Arkhangelsk” nuclear-powered cruiser, arguing that a newly elected Ukrainian leadership could sign “legitimate documents that would be recognized around the world and would be reliable.” Russia’s president noted that this proposal for the Ukrainian government “is just one option.” “I’m not saying there aren’t others… But this is one possibility, and the U.N. has precedents for such a practice,” he added. The Kremlin has repeatedly stated that it does not consider Volodymyr Zelensky a legitimate president, since Ukraine did not hold new elections in 2024. Ukrainian law prohibits any elections while martial law is in effect.…
On Thursday, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky said he isn’t afraid of direct talks with Vladimir Putin, though he also compared Russia’s leadership to “dinosaurs.” “You see, they just want to eat us. And we have to defend ourselves and fight for our rights,” Zelensky said at a press conference in Paris. He also told reporters that he has “nothing to talk about” with Putin. Zelensky argued — not for the first time — that he doesn’t believe the Kremlin is interested in real peace negotiations, saying, “The problem is that Putin wants war. What can someone who wants war possibly say in peace talks?” At the Munich Security Conference in February, Zelensky stated that Putin is the only Russian official he would meet directly in peace negotiations. The Kremlin, meanwhile, has insisted that Zelensky’s presidential legitimacy “expired” after his term ended and Ukraine didn’t hold new presidential elections (due to martial law restrictions).…
Russia and Ukraine have been at full-scale war for more than three years. Throughout this time, the Ukrainians have mounted a fierce resistance to Russia’s aggression, but their strength appears to be waning. Shura Burtin, a journalist from the Swiss publication Reportagen, spent two months in Ukraine, traveling to Kyiv and throughout the Donbas region and speaking with people all along the way. He observed a national mood that has shifted noticeably over the past year and a half. Terrified by the prospect of being drafted, many Ukrainians have gone into hiding to elude military patrols. There is a shortage of soldiers at the front, and the troops there now have been unable to rotate out for several months. Desertion has become commonplace. Evacuating the wounded has become harder, too, with survival odds plummeting, largely due to drones, which kill infantry far more effectively than older weaponry. Meduza has translated Burtin’s report, which includes dozens of testimonies describing the atmosphere at the front and behind Ukrainian lines. These are harrowing accounts filled with pain, helplessness, and despair. All persons’ names have been changed for security reasons. There’s also a lot of swearing in this story, so please read no further if that’s not for you. Meduza condemns the invasion of Ukraine and Russia’s ongoing military aggression against the Ukrainian people. Part one The recruitment center A year and a half ago, Kyiv felt frustratingly detached from the war in eastern Ukraine. Today, the invasion’s shadow has clearly moved closer. Walking from the train station at five in the morning, I immediately heard the sirens. It was chilly and gray, with a few scattered passersby hurrying along Yaroslaviv Val under the powdery snow. The shift in the city’s atmosphere over the past year was immediately palpable — it had become somehow more desolate and hopeless. Soon, a powerful explosion rang out — a missile slammed into the Holiday Inn. Later, the news reported that someone had died there. The aftermath of a Russian missile strike in Kyiv. December 20, 2024. However, more than missile strikes, it is the “TRC” that truly makes the capital feel like a city at war. Strictly speaking, the Territorial Recruitment Center refers to the army’s enlistment offices, but in everyday speech, the abbreviation has come to signify the military patrols that capture men in the streets to send them to the front. Today, “TRC” is maybe the most widely discussed word in Ukraine. At the beginning of the war, Ukraine had no shortage of soldiers — a huge number of men went to the front voluntarily. But many have died, and far fewer are now willing to fight. At first, TRC patrols simply handed out draft notices on the streets while the state tightened penalties for draft evasion. When this proved insufficient, the authorities began using force. A patrol stops you, shoves you into a van, and takes you to a military enlistment office for a medical examination — where everyone is declared fit for service. This process has been dubbed “ busification ” — maybe the second most widely used word in Ukraine today. Later that evening or the next morning, you’re sent to boot camp: a site in the forest with army tents or dugouts, strict security lockdown, and basic military training. A year and a half ago, people were already whispering about busification, but the threat had yet to arrive here. TRC patrols swept through villages and small towns while Kyiv still enjoyed the relaxed life of a capital city. Everything has changed since then. The Internet is now flooded with videos like this one showing TRC officers beating men when they try to escape, refuse medical exams, or resist being sent to boot camp. A man sprints down the street, zigzagging like a rabbit, with soldiers in hot pursuit. Men with bloodied faces. Men jumping out of moving vans. On Ukrainian social media, these scenes are now commonplace. The government has promised to intervene but does nothing. Meanwhile, men have started dying at army enlistment offices. Several have been killed by the TRC. It may seem insignificant compared to the number of people dying at the front and under Russian bombardment, but these incidents have deeply demoralized the Ukrainian public. A report from the Poltava TRC captures the atmosphere inside recruitment offices: At approximately 3:00 p.m. on March 14, 2025, at the enlistment station, a 25-year-old citizen deliberately started scraping his arms with keys after learning he had been deemed fit for military service. Around 6:00 p.m. that same day, a 32-year-old conscript repeated similar actions using glass from a broken bottle. In both cases, military commission doctors provided first aid. An ambulance, called by the TRC duty officer, confirmed there was no threat to the men’s lives. However, since these “men” stated they would rather kill themselves than defend their country, they were transferred to a psychiatric ward. While the media portrays these disgraceful acts of cowardice and self-harm as “suicide attempts,” the command of the Poltava Regional TRC and Enlistment Station considers them an attempt to evade military service. It is not actually possible in Ukraine to object to mobilization. By law, a person has the right to choose a prison sentence instead of military service — and many would take this option. In reality, even these men are sent to boot camp and then the front. A enlistment poster from Ukraine’s Third Assault Brigade. Kyiv, January 30, 2024. A military patrol officer checks a man’s documents and issues a draft notice. Kyiv, July 3, 2024. Many in Ukraine view TRC officers as enemies. There are popular Telegram channels in Kyiv and other cities where locals share constant updates on patrol sightings. Opposition bloggers abroad have heavily criticized the TRCs, but Ukraine’s mainstream media rarely covers the criminal cases against draft dodgers, killings at army enlistment offices, and desertions. It’s been considered indecent to admit that many men are unwilling to serve. Slogans fuel Ukraine’s prevailing rhetoric: victory is near, glory to the Armed Forces, the nation is united like a clenched fist, and so on. The media has reported on corruption in TRCs and other logistical units — essentially writing about “traitors disgracing the Armed Forces.” In October 2024, the corruption in Khmelnytskyi (about 200 miles southwest of Kyiv) made national headlines when the local medical commission chief was found with more than $5 million in cash. The story was especially explosive thanks to a photograph of her son reclining in a Rembrandt-like pose on a bed covered with stacks of dollar bills. Investigations soon revealed that numerous local prosecutors had dubiously, albeit legally, obtained disability exemptions. In January 2025, more than a million dollars was found in the possession of the military’s head psychiatrist, whose position has been notorious for corruption, largely because “psych ward” discharge is generally the only way out of service for men who still have both legs. Adding to the scandal is the fact that this same psychiatrist was arrested for bribery six years earlier. It’s a familiar pattern: arrests are staged for TV cameras, and corruption cases go to court, but officials eventually slip away unpunished. In two nearly identical photos from 2017 and 2025, the same colonel sits in the same office under the same Christian icons, and the same stack of cash is laid out before him. Not only did he avoid prison, but he even kept his job. Such images fill Ukraine’s front-line soldiers with a profound sense of despair. When I arrived in Kyiv this year, I learned that my friends no longer use the subway because patrols are stationed there. They never travel to other cities and avoid going outside unless they have to. Despite these precautions, the TRC “busified” two of these people within a couple of weeks. After the officers caught them outside, they spent a night at an enlistment office and were in boot camp by the next day. When they were allowed 30 minutes of phone access on Sunday, their scattered messages made it clear that it was like a prison: full of drunks (because more cautious men follow the right Telegram channels and know when to stay indoors) and without any chance of getting out. After a month of basic, you’re sent straight to the front. Men who volunteer are given some choices: branch of service, training, specialty. But if you’re grabbed off the street, you’re just deployed to the front lines as infantry, whatever your health, profession, or preferences. Since one of my friends is an exceptionally talented programmer, I assumed he’d be assigned to some kind of radio intelligence unit. Our mutual friend Valya put a different spin on this. He told me: “As if they’d let him go now — it’s a slave market,” referring to how brigades send so-called “buyers” to basic training camps to claim a set number of recruits. Kyiv, September 2, 2024. Part two A killer There were several shocking stories in a single week in February. In Zaporizhzhia, a 24-year-old man was killed at a military enlistment office, but his mother turned out to be a lawyer and began investigating the case. A nuclear physicist from Lviv jumped out of a moving truck taking him to boot camp and fractured the base of his skull (he may also have been beaten before his attempted escape). In Khmelnytskyi, a man at a TRC slit his own throat and died . In the Poltava region, a man armed with a hunting rifle shot and killed a TRC officer escorting draftees to basic training. When this caused an outpouring of malicious delight online, patriotic circles demanded that Ukraine’s Security Service identify everyone posting such comments and send them to the front. There were also calls to lynch the officer’s killer. I travel to Pyriatyn, the town where the TRC officer was killed, to attend the shooter’s arraignment. When the police bring in the suspect, I’m surprised to see a thin, sad-looking man in his fifties. His name is Vadym. Behind him, they bring in Zhenya, his wife’s brother, whom he had tried to free. In his mid-thirties, Zhenya is a bit younger than Vadym but just as skinny, shy, and bewildered. Both come across as thoughtful working-class men. Vadym’s mother sits beside me in the gallery and cries. When I ask her why her son was so worried about his brother-in-law, she answers, “Well, you see what’s happening in this country….” Listening to the prosecutor, I piece together the details: As Zhenya was being “busified,” he called his brother-in-law, and they decided that Vadym would tail behind and help Zhenya escape when the van stopped for fuel. Whether out of rage or stupidity, Vadym took a hunting rifle with him. At the gas station, Vadym exited his car and saw Zhenya standing near a TRC escort officer named Sasha. Vadym raised his rifle and said, “Drop your weapon!” But Sasha didn’t flinch. Instead, the officer chambered a round and raised his assault rifle, at which point Vadym shot him in the stomach. Sasha fell to the ground, groaning: “Vanya, Vanya…” — apparently calling for his partner. Vadym grabbed the officer’s weapon, told Zhenya to get in the car, and they sped away. In court, Vadym says he never meant to kill the soldier, only to scare him. Clearly, bringing a hunting rifle was a dumb move: the moment he raised it, he found himself at war, where it was kill or be killed. He’d hoped the TRC officer was only wounded, but he was afraid to stay at the gas station, fearing he and Zhenya would be shot. When an ambulance arrived 40 minutes later, Sasha was already dead. Zhenya and Vadym returned home and waited for their arrest. When the authorities came for them, they immediately confessed. The reality doesn’t reflect the heated online debates. Vadym didn’t kill Sasha out of revenge against Ukraine’s hated recruitment center officers. It was an absurd tragedy driven by fear, not a cold-blooded murder. On the cab ride back from the courthouse, I ask the driver what he thinks about the case. “Well, it’s a complicated situation,” he answers evasively. “It’s really complicated. Honestly, I’m afraid this will set a precedent that allows TRC officers to start shooting at people. And they will…” A military patrol officer in Kyiv. July 3, 2024. Part three Draft dodgers Fleeing the country is a widespread phenomenon and a booming criminal industry. Ukraine’s television networks show officials dragging men out of vans headed for the border, throwing them to the ground and kicking them. The commentary from news anchors implies that this is what draft dodgers deserve. For another perspective, I contacted two men, Serhiy and Sasha, who illegally crossed Ukraine’s border and now live in Berlin. Serhiy’s story — I’d already seen guys with folders packing people up. I’d go to the corner store near my house, and the cashier would warn me, “Be careful around here. They’re on patrol…” The trigger for me was when a manager I worked with just didn’t come to work one day — he got “busified.” And he had a presentation for a client, but he just never showed up. It felt like the noose was tightening. From then on, I tried not to leave the house. When I did go out, I kept my phone in my pocket and focused on my surroundings, scanning for danger, just in case. I was lucky — one of my coworkers lived nearby, and he had a car. We used backroads to get to work. At the office, we had a group chat, and if there was a TRC raid, the security guards were supposed to send a code word, and all the men would hurry downstairs. We had a special basement for hiding. I heard about guys faking disabilities, but it takes forever and costs a fortune. Everyone was scared — guys everywhere and their wives. But one day, I just stopped being afraid. All I had left was desperation and even some defiance. I started carrying a little hatchet to work. I figured, if they come for me, at least I’ll have the last word. My girlfriend found out and said, “Maybe you should just leave?” She told me a friend of hers had just gotten out, and [for now] it was still possible. She even lent me money for it because I didn’t have any. I went to work and spent the whole day thinking about it. In the evening, I went to the corner store and saw an old man buying a bit of buckwheat or something and some cooking oil. He seemed very poor. And then it hit me. I thought, my God, I don’t want to grow old in this country. I went home, opened a bottle of wine, and made the call: I was ready to leave. Those last days were a mix of despair and euphoria. I studied all the checkpoints where the TRC stops people. They usually start working around eight or nine, so we left Kyiv at 5:00 a.m. [My friend] Sasha’s coworker drove us. She’s a tough, no-nonsense lady, and we felt safer with her. She also has this bright red, very girly car, which was oddly reassuring. The scariest stretch of highway was near Bila Tserkva, where there are tons of checkpoints, but the roads were empty at that hour. Nobody was stopping cars so early. By then, it all felt like a game to me — no hope or illusions left. Later on, they’d sometimes stop the car ahead of us, but we passed through, threading the needle. Ukrainian border guards and military patrol officers check a driver’s documents at the border with Romania. Tyachiv, September 26, 2023. We reached Uman [130 miles south of Kyiv], checked into a hotel, and waited three days for instructions. Our handler paired us up with two other guys — we’d all be crossing together. They charged us each 8,000 euros [$8,680]; for them, it was 12,000 [$13,020] per person because they had more middlemen taking a cut. Somebody from work later asked me for the handlers’ contact info, but he ended up using a different group. He said, “I’d rather shell out 20,000 euros since their route is only two kilometers [1.2 miles] instead of 20 [12.5 miles].” After that two-kilometer trek, they picked him up and packed him off straight to the front. In Uman, I get a call from a Moldovan number with a destination and a message to leave in a taxi immediately. We drove 200 kilometers [almost 125 miles] in two cars, got out in some empty lot, and waited until this garbage truck pulled up. There were 20 guys packed inside, everyone drenched. The air was suffocating, like being in a sauna. We had to strip down, there and then, to avoid overheating. It turned out that they were guys from Odesa and had been in there for two hours already. A thick metal chain was hanging inside, naked men lay on the floor, condensation covered the truck’s walls, and runoff water pooled with rust at the bottom. I’d brought a bottle of whiskey and said, “Guys, who wants a drink?” They shot back, “A drink? Are you kidding? This guy’s about to pass out.” Every time we stopped, we heard voices outside, and I kept telling people, “Quiet, quiet, shut up!” so the cops wouldn’t open the hopper. We rode for three hours, deep into the wilderness. By the time we stopped, it was nearly night. I twisted my ankle when jumping out of the garbage truck, and it immediately started swelling and hurting. They gave us another geolocation, and we set off on foot, heading into a forest that was more like a dense jungle. We were lucky that one of the guys — a big, tall, rugged type — knew how to use a compass and had downloaded an offline map. He led the way. They had warned us: the most important thing was not to stray from the route. Branches kept hitting me in the face. I was covered in scratches — all over my face, legs, and arms. But it was kind of fun, and we stuck together. We were also really thirsty; we hadn’t brought much water. Every now and then, we came to an open field, and we’d been warned to sprint across them. After about five hours, we reached the border. There was a small patch of woods, and then the last field we had to cross. We ran and ran and ran, for as long as we could, because the drones could have spotted us. We saw lights in the distance. At the actual border, there were big concrete “ dragon’s teeth ” anti-tank barriers. Ukraine had put them there because Transnistria is a Russian proxy. As soon as we crossed those barriers, sensors went off and floodlights lit up. Suddenly, there were dogs, and someone with a flashlight was running toward us. A view of the Dniester River from the Transnistrian side. We started booking it. I was the second one out, and the guy ahead of me was sprinting when suddenly, I heard him fall and yell, “Watch out! A pit!” But it was too late, and I was already falling in after him. I went flying, but somehow, I landed okay. Then, everyone started falling on top of me. The trench was wide and deep, about two and a half meters [eight feet]. Everyone climbed down and helped each other get out on the other side. We boosted up the first guy and then started pulling each other out, moving as fast as we could because they were closing in from both sides. We got out and took off running. We pulled it off perfectly, really. After that, there was more forest, but things calmed down — just the sound of dogs barking in the distance. There was one guy with us who kept falling behind. It seemed like he was genuinely sick and had been from the start. Honestly, the moment I saw him, I thought he was in bad shape. This was the same guy who was so messed up in the back of the garbage truck. I kept helping him up, but he fell too far behind after we crossed the border. I told the others, “Let’s wait for him.” They said, “We’re not stopping for anyone. It’s every man for himself out here.” We left him behind somewhere in the forest. I could hear him shouting for us, but we were already too far away. I don’t know what happened to him. We made it through the forest, and there were no border checkpoints — nothing. It was unexpectedly peaceful. We stepped out into a Transnistrian village. The whole place was quiet and isolated, just a few little houses and a river. The lights were off almost everywhere. The smugglers running the operation started picking us up in groups, giving us water right away. One of the drivers said, “You guys were lucky. The Ukrainian border guards caught the group before you. Some of them spent three days lying low in the wetlands, waiting. And a week ago, a father and son tried crossing and the Transnistrian border guards shot them both.” Later, we heard many horror stories about people being locked up and tortured by the Transnistrian KGB. We drove for hours and got there just as the sun was coming up. I’d completely lost all sense of time. Everything around us looked rundown. The driver was super pro-Russian, yelling about how Ukraine was shelling them and all that. I gave the guys a look: stay quiet, don’t say a word. He dropped us at the next checkpoint, where we had to cross another field to get from Transnistria into Moldova. Another guy met us there, and we followed him into somebody’s yard. When he started his car, I noticed the Moldovan plates. After another long drive, he finally dropped us off at a hotel in Chisinau. All these drivers got $100 each. A Ukrainian border guard in Tyachiv, near the border with Romania. September 26, 2023. At the hotel, another Moldovan guy calls and says, “I’m headed to the location now. I need to take your passports and get them stamped.” Then he adds, “You need to find another place to stay. It’s not safe for you at that hotel. I’ll be honest with you: The group right behind you got caught, and the whole operation has gone dark for now. I can’t reach them. Lay low somewhere for like 10 days.” It was terrifying because we were in another country, now without passports, without anything. Sasha and I found a house, but it ended up taking almost three weeks before that guy called again and said everything was ready. He told us where to go, handed back the stamped passports, and said congratulations. That night, we went for a walk. It was such a strange feeling — music was playing, people were having fun. I’d never been outside Ukraine before; this was my first time abroad. Now I’m in Berlin, and it’s incredible. One of my friends [back in Ukraine] saw on Instagram that I’m in Berlin and messaged me: “Serhiyko, did you bail?” I wrote back: “Yeah, I just couldn’t take it anymore.” And he replied, “Go fuck yourself. I never want to speak to you again.” Okay, I’m not a brave person. I don’t fall in line, I don’t follow orders, and I’m not about to sacrifice anything. * * * * I ask Serhiy what he plans to do now that he lives in Berlin. “Pick berries in the summer and enjoy the jam in the winter,” he tells me. Part four Nobody likes cowards “Those who left, they’ve vanished from our lives," says my friend Valya. “They’re gone. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve lost all relevance.” At the start of the war, Valya, an electronic musician, saw some combat outside Kyiv, but in the chaos, he managed to slip back into civilian life. Today, like many others, he tries to avoid the subway. Explaining why he doesn’t write to our mutual friend now stationed at the front, Valya sighs: “I just don’t know what to say. They’ve been at war for three years, and we’re here just hanging out….” Valya seems to worry that he, too, has lost all relevance, and he’s not alone — everyone in Ukraine has faded into irrelevance for each other, and a sense of dissonance has replaced the feeling of unity. Another friend, Borya, has had similar experiences. Borya’s story — At the start of the war, it seemed like it brought out the good in people. But then it turned out that all the worst in people comes out. A prolonged war wreaks havoc on society. I was telling my brother about how these guys bailed, and his wife got really worked up. People like her lose it instantly. I said how guys mentioned that some Moldovans over there were really nasty to them, and she goes: “Yeah, nobody anywhere likes cowards!” She went straight to screaming, hissing: “What, should we just surrender to Putin?!” I got worked up, too, telling her: “And what makes you think you have the right to decide other people’s lives? Just because you don’t want to surrender to Putin?” I tell her: “Do you even understand what people are running from? Have you even seen these videos?” I wanted to show her — there’s a whole series from the Third Assault Brigade, where FPV drones are hunting infantry. Set to upbeat music, the footage shows a drone pursuing [Russian] soldiers. One drone crashes into a man, while another films from above as he dies. And these soldiers try to find ways to survive, even playing dead. Or a soldier takes cover behind some puny tree, crouches down, and the drone flies right up his ass, blowing it off. And he’s left writhing in agony and gasping for air, heaving in a pool of blood. The bodies of Russian soldiers in a trench. Avdiivka, December 23, 2023. “Oh please, I don’t watch things like that!” Of course, people like her don’t want to see that stuff — they swat it away without blinking. Because if they ever stopped to reflect and think things through, it would shatter their whole worldview, where there’s noble struggle and heroic beauty. But open your eyes and it’s spilled guts, snapped spines, and dismembered jaws. This woman isn’t heartless — she’s a genuine animal lover with five rescue dogs. Naturally, if she lets herself think about these things, she’ll lose the ability to stay on the “right” side of things. She knows it but won’t allow herself to face that choice. Otherwise, she’d turn out just as messed up as me. Why did so many volunteer when Kyiv was surrounded? There was no faith in victory back then, but a lot of people just didn’t want to be helpless victims, like sheep led to the slaughter. Later on, it started to feel like there were guys who had your back. Graffiti of Valerii Zaluzhnyi, former Commander-in-Chief of Ukraine’s Armed Forces. Chasiv Yar, December 13, 2023. War turns ordinary people into helpless children, but you know the grown-ups are out there, somewhere, sorting it out somehow. There was a year when everyone made donations, greeted soldiers in the street, shook their hands, and thanked them. These days, wherever you turn, you feel like sheep. Any TRC officer can beat the crap out of you. And if you’re not on the front lines, the TV does nothing but shit on you — you’re garbage, it’s all your fault. People push back: “It’s not me. It’s the thieves and corrupt officials.” It’s enough to make you fucking snap. Remember when the counteroffensive stalled? That fall, The Economist published an article by [then Armed Forces Comannder-in-Chief Valerii] Zaluzhnyi, where he declared a strategic deadlock. After that, Zelensky came out and said he doesn’t need generals who talk about stalemates. Then there was a campaign against Zaluzhnyi, and they fired him. And after that, the entire media, all the patriots, started saying that the war would drag on. No one even mentioned peace as a possibility. They just kept drilling into people’s heads: “A long war is inevitable. You can’t talk to Putin. We have to fight for as long as we can.” And now it turns out they were lying for two years? How many people died in that time? What was it all for? * * * * For the last two months, I’ve been going back and forth with Borya, who never stops ripping into Zelensky and Ukraine’s patriots. Then, one day, I walk in on him, and he’s completely wasted. He’d just watched an interview with some general who wanted to ramp up mobilization. Labeled fit for limited service, Borya was supposed to report to an enlistment office before February for a second medical exam. “They’re gonna get everyone killed, those fuckers, every last one…,” he mutters grimly. “I’ve made up my mind: I’m not going to the draft office. Let them come and dig me out.” Part five A rude question Borya sends me videos of TRC officers every day, asking why journalists don’t write about it. The footage doesn’t really shock me: the country is at war, after all, and the state is doing what it can. But I still want to know how people went from trusting the army to fearing it like the plague. I head to Donbas to talk to friends who volunteered to fight. These men didn’t enlist at the start of the war; they thought about it before signing up. One of them is Taras, whose very first deployment was as a combat medic in Ukraine’s failed counteroffensive in the Zaporizhzhia region. “Every inch of the ground was covered in bodies. It was just the smell of gunpowder, your own adrenaline-charged, piss-soaked sweat, and rotting flesh everywhere you turned. Then we moved to Robotyne [a small town in the Zaporizhzhia region] — the highest elevation in the area. If we’d taken it, we could’ve pushed downhill toward Tokmak. We literally had to step over dead bodies out there. It was late November, early December, and insanely cold. The trenches were full of our dead. We tried pulling a few out, but it was pointless — we couldn’t even make a dent. A soldier from Ukraine’s 65th Separate Mechanized Brigade in the outskirts of Robotyne, outside Zaporizhzhia. February 21, 2024. Taras used to work in labor rights and served as the chairman of a workers’ union. I visit him in a small town near Pokrovsk and ask what compelled him to enlist. He says solidarity still drives him: There’s this guy — Artem Chapay — who started the first petition demanding fixed service terms for drafted soldiers. It was the first time somebody stood up and said we need to know what’s coming — otherwise, it messes with your head. Without it, soldiers start to crack. A key thing he kept coming back to was that the responsibility to defend this society should be shared fairly. That hit a nerve for me. I started asking myself: Is it fair that I’m hanging back behind the lines while Artem, who’s got two kids, is out there digging trenches? At the end of the day, solidarity means putting in the work — really showing up and doing your part. It stopped being just talk about the country’s future and started feeling real, like something solid. Of course, Taras isn’t your average person. But it seems deciding whether or not to go to war is connected to a broader sense of fairness, even for regular people. And now, that sense feels like it’s fading. I decide to visit Kostya, an old colleague who enlisted about a year ago, after seeing him on Facebook mocking some friends now living in Berlin who act like they’re emotionally traumatized over arguments online about the purity of the Ukrainian language. He basically told them: Quit whining over there and come stand with us instead. Trenches near Robotyne, outside Zaporizhzhia. January 23, 2024. Kostya meets me in a mining town outside Pokrovsk. We’re nowhere near the front. There are lots of people out, the stores are open, and even some mines are still running. Kostya says his day off just got canceled — he’s now heading out to drop some guys at their positions. He’s the driver for a drone crew. They launch long-range drones, something like small “ Shaheds ,” flying tens of miles beyond the front line. We stop by his place and unload cardboard boxes from the van. One of them opens, and I see a drone’s wings folded neatly, like a Soviet-era model airplane, just bigger. Both the box and the foam wings look kind of flimsy. Then we pick up two guys with rifles and drive out into the fields. “This is Shura. He’s a journalist — you can trust him. Anything you want to say?” Vitalik, a young guy, about 23, with curly hair, suddenly starts speaking with intense emotion: Most of the higher-ups are just out to make money — they don’t give a damn about soldiers’ lives. Just the other day, they sent people out in broad daylight to look for a lost Leleka [Ukrainian-made reconnaissance drone]. One got hit, medics went out to grab him, and then an FPV [video-piloted drone] hit them. One killed my friend — a 19-year-old kid! Just ask these guys how their battalion commander threatened to come and shoot them in the legs if they didn’t launch the drone. So many drones have been lost just because he insisted on launches in crap weather, and the pilots knew it. But he’s got no experience — and he doesn’t give a shit! Kostya throws a look at Vitalik over his shoulder, signaling that he’s gone a bit too far. We pass through small towns that were full of life just a year ago. Now, they’re gray and bleak. At every gate, there’s a military jeep packed with electronic warfare systems. The roads have been reduced to mush. But you still see old ladies sitting on benches with soldiers — like someone glued together pieces of photographs from very different eras. When I was here last year, on the road between these small towns, there was still a stone statue of an old Scythian woman. I remember we stopped, and I went up to run my hand over its rough surface. The carving was crude, but it still felt like a window into my distant past — something nearly forgotten, yet still mine. I felt that ancient impulse to carve the human form, to try and grasp its mystery. For thousands of years, the stone mother has watched with dead eyes as people killed each other in these fields. Now she’s gone. A few months ago, afraid that the front was closing in, volunteers dug her up and hauled her away. “She’s probably planted at someone’s summer home now,” jokes Kostya. Finally, we pull up to a dugout by the road — a scrap of plywood above the entrance reads: “IN USE.” There’s heavy artillery trading shots somewhere nearby, but it’s not our problem, and drones don’t make it out this far — they call it a yellow zone. The guys hop out of the vehicle, two others emerge from the dugout and get in with us, and we head back. I ask what they were doing there. “Defending the homeland,” they tell me. The soldiers explain that they’ve been rotating shifts in the dugout to make sure another unit doesn’t come along and claim it. It’s supposed to be a drone launch base, but their unit’s a mess right now, and they’re just guarding it, not launching anything. A drone on the front line near Robotyne, outside Zaporizhzhia. January 23, 2024. After dropping off the guys, Kostya and I duck into a café. The prices are outrageous — worse than downtown Kyiv. The locals now just want to squeeze whatever they can out of the soldiers. Kostya tells me how he ended up in the army. He joined up even though he had a medical exemption thanks to a brain surgery that put a metal plate in his skull: I was scared as hell — I’m not supposed to get any concussions, even one could kill me. And enlisting is like agreeing to jail time — you don’t know for how long. Every second, I felt like I’d lose it, all those people, all that paperwork. First, they stuck me in decoding: “You’ll just be tracking equipment, no risk of a concussion.” After a month of that, I was losing my mind. Stuck 24/7 in a closed-off room, staring at a monitor. No air, everyone constantly on edge, and people just screaming at each other all the time. Ninety percent of the job is bullshit — we’re just watching an empty field. Like, you’re flying over enemy territory and finding nothing because everyone is hiding. But you can’t just report that you found nothing, so you start padding the stats. You see a random vehicle and say: “Look, a GAZ jeep, let’s track it.” A soldier hops out, walks into a store, and buys some cigarettes. Our commander’s sitting there with a giant screen showing a pixelated image, and he says he sees a gun. Nobody else sees any gun. But he won’t eat shit in front of the men, so he sounds the alarm, and we shell the area. “Strike executed. Target destroyed.” I’m watching the same screen, and there’s jack shit there. Never was. In six weeks, I didn’t feel useful for even a second. And people are getting combat pay for this. You know damned well that nobody’s doing shit, but they’re still yelling nonstop like we’re on some crucial mission. I started hiding cognac under my coat; it got to the point where I was having it with tea — morning, noon, and night. I knew I was about to lose it, so I started putting on a show — saying stuff like, “I can’t do this anymore, it’s too much, get me out of here.” Drone footage from a reconnaissance mission near Pokrovsk. Donetsk region, February 12, 2025. I came here because I actually wanted to do something meaningful — not fool myself, but really contribute. And then you see it’s just this giant mess of people. I met a decryption unit captain who knew less than I did after a week and a half of training. All he cared about was his next lunch break. There are 10,000 completely useless positions. Every scrap of paper you touch has to be delivered, carried over, signed, stamped, and approved, first by one department and then another. You’ve always got to suck up to the brass, and the older the officer, the worse his PMS. And it’s tough knowing there’s no end in sight. In our unit, most of the guys who broke down and went AWOL weren’t the ones at the front. Now, I’m a driver for a drone crew. I have a log showing I went out on a mission, used this much fuel, drove this many kilometers. The car’s rated to burn 10 liters of gas per 100 kilometers [23.5 miles per gallon]. But I drive carefully, and it burns only five or six [about 43 miles per gallon]. My commanding officer says, “Are you screwing with me?” I say, “I’m saving fuel.” He goes, “What the fuck do I care if you’re saving fuel? The numbers don’t match on the paperwork.” “So what should I do?” I ask him. He answers, “Go buy a hose. Don’t tell me you’re too good to siphon diesel like everyone else.” This is pure Soviet shit. These people know exactly how to get you off their backs while bending the system to line their own pockets. Our unit tried forever to buy drones. There are several manufacturers in Ukraine, and we went around to their factories to see what they’ve got — and it’s all basically the same thing everywhere. And I watched our colonel tell the director, “Weeelll, if we can come to some sort of agreement…” — and he gave him that “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine” look. It wasn’t subtle. They were talking kickbacks — it’s the only way things get done. Picture the face of some drunk, bloated old Soviet boss — that’s what both of them looked like. In the end, we cut a deal with somebody else. Kostya took off in the morning to bring the guys some pizza — it was an hour there and an hour back. After he got back, we grabbed a coffee in the center of town. That evening, he zipped back to the guys with a bottle of cognac to help them stay warm through the night. We could have brought it all with us when we dropped them off earlier, but I can see it’s Kostya’s way of keeping busy. “You know I’m not actually doing anything — none of us are,” Kostya says when he gets back. “What we’re launching — it’s a children’s toy. Half the drones just crash in some field, and the rest fly past the front. In three months, we’ve hit something maybe twice, tops. But we were out there every day — how’s that for stats? They’re so hard to control that hitting anything is a miracle. They promised us better drones, but hey, it’s the army. Promises don’t mean shit. Bragging about how many combat flights you’ve flown is like bragging about how many times you jerked off.” “I feel like I’m in prison,” Kostya continues. “All my ambition’s dried up. I realized I can’t keep grinding through all of this. Now I just do the minimum — I mind the car and try not to screw anything up. I try to keep the guys from tearing out each other’s throats (they never stop fighting), and I handle stuff like helping to find housing. I guess I’m useful in little ways with personal stuff, but honestly, as a unit, we’re not doing anything that matters. Oh well, at least I’m making some money for now.” A Ukrainian soldier in the Sumy region. March 9, 2025. I’m half asleep in the morning when I hear a machine gun rattling. It has a strangely comforting quality, like it’s watching over me. It makes me want to roll over and go back to bed. “What’s that sound?” I ask. “They’re shooting down Shaheds,” says Kostya. “Are they hitting any?” “Bit of a rude question,” Kostya grins. Finally, I grill him about something that’s been gnawing at me. If the work is such bullshit and everything’s so miserable, why does Kostya keep posting on Facebook that others should join the army? “Ha, yeah…,” he smiles again. “That’s just how it works — everyone’s supposed to sacrifice something.” I ask him if a manpower shortage might be what finally forces the army to change. “I doubt it,” he says. “More likely, it’ll collapse.” It seems to me that a lot of people in Ukraine now are acting like Kostya — they’ve stopped believing, but they’re still out there waving the flag. That night, I change trains in the small town of Smila in the Cherkasy region. It’s freezing outside, and an air-raid siren is howling. There were no direct tickets to Kyiv, so now I have to wait three hours for the next train. A Shahed drone rattles overhead along the railway line. And it’s weird — you can tell from the sound alone that there’s no one in it. Anything with a pilot inside just feels different, while this thing makes a harsh, lifeless noise. When I approach the station, people are being kicked out. This started three years ago after a missile strike on the Kramatorsk train station. On the locked doors, there’s an ad for a “Point of Invincibility” — the specially equipped warming tents that are supposed to operate at every station. The poster promises “hot tea and coffee 24/7.” In the photo, people in scarves smile and sip tea. We just stare at them. It’s freezing outside. After about an hour, people start banging on the train station’s doors. The staff shout back through the doors that it’s not their fault, that we need to find a damned shelter. So, I do — it’s a cramped basement around the corner that’s just as freezing and reeks so bad that it’s hard to breathe. There’s no way anyone has washed the bench mats once in the last three years. Two hours in, I see an old lady sitting on the ledge by the station entrance start to slump over. I catch her and start pounding on the door. “We’ve got cameras! Don’t you get it?” a woman inside yells — but she finally agrees to let the old lady into the little entry space between the doors. The whole thing is absurd, but we grew up in the Soviet Union, so we know the drill. It feels like the country’s just burned out. Nothing makes sense anymore. Kostya’s voicemail Later, Kostya left me this voicemail: “Dude, you’re not wrong, but you made it sound like Remarque [the author of the novel All Quiet on the Western Front ]. Yeah, things are rough, but what I really want to know is why the system still functions. What’s this war even about? It’s about all these contradictions that somehow manage to work together. Sure, the Ukrainian army is a mess — but come on, is there any army that isn’t? No matter where you are, commanders are busy thinking of how to bang girls in the hot tub. Others are just trying to dodge work, and some are all about chasing promotions. I really don’t like Ukraine’s Armed Forces — it’s a brutal system that chews people up and spits them out, but damn if there’s not something hard and stubborn at its core that’s kept it from falling apart. And it’s still holding, even if things are kind of buckling near Pokrovsk, but it’s not collapsing or retreating. Life keeps winning over death, somehow — don’t ask me how. Damaged tank treads. Near Robotyne in the Zaporizhzhia region, March 1, 2024. Part six The deserter A year and a half ago, I met an assault soldier named Danylo, who became the central figure in one of my reports. I couldn’t even imagine what he’d been through, but he had such incredible humility and quiet strength. Back then, he was all in. He talked about “driving out those fuckers” and said everyone needed to get ready to fight — no exceptions. Six months ago, I wrote and asked how he was doing. “Hey, I’m in the shit right now, heading to Chasiv Yar tomorrow,” he answered. “Try not to be a hero, okay?” I told him “I already did the hero thing — now I just want to make it out alive.” The tone was new. When I got back to Kyiv, I called Danylo again. “I went AWOL,” he said. “Didn’t see it coming — but then again, maybe I did.” According to different estimates , as of fall 2024, Ukraine had anywhere from 100,000 to 200,000 deserters. Soldiers said roughly a third of new draftees flee the front — either immediately after arriving or after their first battle. There’s simply no way to keep that many people from leaving. Many commanders don’t even bother filing a report — they just don’t have time. Officials have opened more than 60,000 criminal cases for desertion, but they’re not being investigated — the state doesn’t have even a tenth of the investigators needed. When someone deserts the front, they’re technically outside the law, but there’s no real punishment. And commanders know there’s no point in holding onto guys like that. They’re dead weight. So, about a third of what recruitment centers and training camps do just goes straight down the drain. The soldiers who’ve actually started going out on combat missions are less likely to desert: they get used to the danger, and more than that, they build real connections. That makes it harder to turn your back on the men around you. Still, even seasoned front-line guys are bailing now — they just can’t take it anymore. The government said a year and a half ago they’d settle when people could rotate out, but it was a lie. Eventually, you realize the army’s just going to keep using you until you’re dead. That’s all there is to it. Danylo said he got sick of being treated like shit. What really got to him was when his commanding officer told his unit to go into a Russian-occupied town and hold a defensive ring inside a school. Danylo thought it was basically suicide and refused the order. At first, the battalion commander threatened him with criminal charges. Then he waited until Danylo was asleep and got a few guys from his squad to go in instead. The guys died, and Danylo couldn’t forgive the officer for getting them killed just to tick a box for the higher-ups. He explained: “Then they pull you off rotation, bring you back to base, line you up, and go, ‘In a month, new troops will arrive — we need to get things ready.’ So we’re stuck replacing windows, painting walls, and installing showers. And we’re all looking at each other like — wait, seriously? We just did four and a half months out on the front line, and now we’re painting walls? After two years, I accepted that I’m disposable. But it’s hard to keep wrecking yourself when you see they don’t give a shit about you. Everyone’s completely drained. The guys are just burned out.” Medics treat a soldier at a field hospital in the Donetsk region. February 24, 2025. When I ask Danylo what finally made him leave, this is what he tells me: Me and my guys were inside this house when a drone dropped a magnesium firebomb on us. They thought we’d come running out, so they set up a trap to ambush us the second we showed our faces. But I led the guys into the basement, and we huddled there for an hour and a half, choking on thick smoke and passing one gas mask between the three of us. One guy breathes while the other two wait. The house over our heads is burning. We had an RPG stashed nearby, too, and it goes off, of course. So, we’re sitting there in a burning house, everything glowing red-hot. It was hell, and all you could do was lie on the floor and hope you didn’t fry. I realized we were about to black out, so we made a run for it and hid in a courtyard. Lying there, we heard [Russian troops] walking on shattered glass just a few feet away — they thought we’d burned alive. We almost had. Dimonchik couldn’t even move his hands. I whisper into the radio: “Get us the hell out. Use the drones — anything.” “Danylo, proceed to the next courtyard,” the voice says. “Get your guys in a basement, then come back for new guys.” I tell them: “No. I’m pulling my guys out first — I’ll deal with the new group later.” We made our way out in pitch dark, just feeling our way through. I pulled the pin on a grenade and carried it like that for two and a half hours. I got my guys out — they were burned to hell — and grabbed the next group. I didn’t even walk them the whole way to the basement, just within 50 meters. I pointed and made sure they could make it on their own. I just wanted to get the hell out of there, fast. I don’t know why they didn’t toss a grenade in first — they weren’t rookies. But they just rushed in and got mowed down like helpless kittens — in the same basement our commanding officer kept banging on about. And nobody faced any consequences. They took the three of us to the hospital. We called up HQ and asked for the form saying we were injured while on a mission — so we could qualify for compensation. “There’s nobody here to deal with that right now,” they said. That was the last straw. I go, “Boys, if they don’t give a fuck about us, then let them figure it out without us.” What the fuck do I need that bullshit for? I’m a goddamn human being. There were just five of us left in the platoon, doing a whole fucking company’s work, carrying out assaults nonstop. We were just done with that shit. When I ask Danylo if he’s afraid of being prosecuted for desertion, he says, “Fuck it. I’d rather do time than get killed because some idiot gave a bullshit order.” Evidently, after experiencing combat, the threat of a criminal charge seems laughable. I ask about his family’s reaction: My mom’s in goddamn Russia. We talk on the phone. She knows I went AWOL. She worries, of course, but she’s a vatnik [invasion supporter], so we don’t get into that stuff. I tried talking to her at first, but she just shrugged and said, “I don’t follow politics.” You know — typical Russki stuff. And she’s still working her shift at the Uralvagonzavod factory, cranking out tanks. The image stays with me: a mom who worries about her son while building the tanks that will hunt him. Later on, Danylo asked to borrow 200 bucks. He said he was headed back to the front and would repay me with his first combat paycheck. He planned to learn how to fly a DJI MAVIC 3 quadrocopter and link up with a different unit. Life back home wasn’t panning out: I was back home for a while, and it seriously messes with my head how nobody gives a damn about veterans. You show your ID on the bus, and the driver gives you this look: “Watch it, don’t break anything.” Like he hates you just for not coughing up 15 hryvnias [$0.36]. I had so many people tell me, “Come on, stop fighting, come back — we’ll hook you up with a job.” Now I’ve been stuck at home for four months, doing nothing, calling around — and all I hear is, “Yeah, sorry man, there’s nothing right now.” I ask if he remembers when he used to say that everyone should go fight. He says he understands now why people don’t. In three years, has there been even a hint of demobilization? Just keep fighting until you’re dead. I’ve had all kinds of thoughts… there are ways to get out through Zakarpattia . But here’s the thing: I met a girl. Saw her and thought, “Man, whoever’s with her is lucky as hell.” And that same night, crazily enough, we ended up hanging out with mutual friends. We’ve stuck together ever since. She’s got four kids, but you’d never know it by looking at her. I want to give her a fifth. But I don’t have the cash to feed that many. All I know how to do is go to war. Kyiv, April 23, 2024. I ask Danylo if he’s tired of all this, and he says, “Well, who else is gonna do it, right?” If he’d said this 18 months earlier, Danylo would’ve meant it. But now, when he speaks, we both feel it — the words fall flat to the ground the moment they leave his mouth. Public desertion For the longest time, trash-talking Ukraine’s Armed Forces was off-limits. But people got fed up with the army, and it all started spilling out into the open in the last few months. The first major scandal was the case of the 155th Brigade , where a third of the troops deserted before firing a single shot. The public figured out that officials are using “busification” to pump out phony brigades — one after another, no gear, no officers, no training — and send them straight to Pokrovsk. Put simply, the generals are sending thousands of men to their graves just so they can tick some box. A widely circulated photograph showing a soldier from Ukraine’s 211th Brigade tied to a wooden cross triggered an intense public backlash. Reports later confirmed that the platoon commander was issuing 5,000-hryvnia [$120] penalties for getting caught drinking — and those who didn’t pay were physically tied to a cross as punishment. Meanwhile, documents listed the soldiers as deployed on the front lines — but in reality, they were off building a house for the brigade commander’s father. People have grown sick of these stories, and public opinion has shifted sharply in recent months. A new trend has emerged — public desertion — where volunteers who enlisted early in the war say openly that they’re walking away from their units. For example, when a volunteer soldier named Mykyta Zoryanyi declared his desertion, the announcement got 10,000 reposts in a single day. Here’s what he wrote: The Soviet system chewed me up — same as it has so many others still hiding behind their patriotic vyshyvankas . The lucky ones died before they figured it out. A little Soviet army can’t beat a big Soviet army. There’s something diseased about our army, thanks mostly to these gray-haired colonels and generals who tear around in Land Cruisers with black VIP plates, fucking the new girls from HQ, while the ones who don’t get an invite to the hot tub are dumped at the front in the mud and the shit. My commanding officers threatened to rough me up, to send me to one of those meat-grinder units (you know, the ones that don’t exist, hehe, just enemy psyops, right?), and to throw me in prison. Bottom line — I’m done fighting these dumbfucks on our own side. I’ll admit it: they wore me down. One time, I slipped away from Vuhledar for a couple of days and bought my daughter a teddy bear. She named it Daddy. Now I can be daddy again. Part seven Drones I step onto the medevac bus in some town outside Pokrovsk, and the first thing I register is their swollen faces and blank stares. The wounded are doped up on painkillers, but you can see in their eyes that they’re still hurting. The more important thing is that they’re somewhere else in their heads now, miles away. I sit down next to a few of the soldiers and ask how they were wounded. One after another, they tell the same story, each man pulling back the curtain on a living nightmare. An older guy, pushing 60, says he works construction in the Rivne region. He holds out his frostbitten hands and says, almost like he still can’t believe it, “They just won’t bend anymore.” He tells me what he’s been through, and I begin to understand why wounded soldiers have that thousand-yard stare: We were totally out in the open — no dugouts, no shelter, just a net above us. No one came to rotate us out. A bunch of guys bailed. We had no comms, but we stuck it out to the end. The bastards were trying to surround us, block the road — hitting us with two or three assaults a day. Out of 20 of us, five didn’t make it. And there were tons of wounded. There were other guys with us, but they disappeared — no idea where they went. We had no food for three days. Then they dropped us some stuff from drones — one can of stew for four people for a whole day. There was a young guy losing it, and we tried to calm him down. You couldn’t even dig in — there were no real trenches, just a shallow little spot to lie in. At night, when things quieted down, you’d crawl out real quick just to stretch your legs. That last day, the FPV drones started coming in. We stacked up branches, and they’d smack into them and blow up just a few meters in front of us. My nose bled for two, maybe three days — then it finally stopped. They gave me pills that I’m still taking. Our radio had died, so we were shooting at anything that moved. Something rustling in the brush? It might have been just an animal, but we lit it up. When the assault team showed up, they found 12 dead bastards out there — so I guess we didn’t panic for nothing. They gave us a pat on the back, a hug, some water, and a chocolate bar. I didn’t want to go to the med unit — I was still wired on adrenaline, I guess. They just said, “You’re no good like this.” Then they took all my trophies — my guns, my knives, the radios. I never agreed to go, but somehow I ended up in the med unit. I don’t even remember how. They gave me food, and I puked it up immediately. The next morning, it was the same thing. But slowly, I started getting used to eating again. We were out there 22 days, but who knows if they’ll even log it. They said the notebooks at HQ burned up, or maybe it was the computer. I was all messed up when they pulled me in. I rewrote the report twice. Then, the CO tore it up. But at least I made it out alive. My son’s still fighting in Zaporizhzhia, and my wife is alone at home. I call her on the phone, but when she breaks down in tears, I have to hang up. [From my salary], I keep two, maybe three thousand [about $60] for myself and send the rest to her. All I need are some cigarettes, that’s it. [When I was in the field], there was nothing around, so I figured maybe those dead bastards had some on them. I checked and found three packs. We lit up, but damn, they were strong. I thought, “What if they laced them with something? Eh, fuck it.” I only remember things in pieces now — I’ll be in the middle of saying something, and then I just blank. The guys go, “You already told us this, man.” I just say, “Oh, sorry, guys.” The man shows clear signs of a serious concussion. Most of the soldiers sitting around him on the bus say they’re having memory problems, too. A wounded Ukrainian soldier in a medevac bus in the Donetsk region. January 3, 2025. Nine times out of ten, the wounded owe their injuries to a drone attack — whether an FPV kamikaze drone, an aerial “drop” (a grenade, mine, or incendiary device), or a drone used to guide mortar fire, among others. Drones are everywhere now, far outnumbering men at the front. It’s no longer safe to step out into the open — not in daylight, not even after dark. Soldiers have to stay hidden at all times in dugouts or camouflaged foxholes covered with branches. My bus companion describes the situation: There’s always a fuckin’ drone hanging up there — the air’s buzzing non-stop. One comes, and the next one replaces it, just hovering for hours. And every hour or so, like clockwork, an FPV drops in, just in case. They dive right into the gunports. And if they don’t nail you — they just crash into the junk outside, it doesn’t matter. They watched us all day, waiting for any wounded to crawl out. We pick off their guys; they pick off ours. One of our flanking units had a house — the FPVs shredded it. There’s nothing left, not even ruins. I kept yelling to the guys, but nobody answered on comms… Put simply, FPVs sweep areas of the front, rotating in and out like a carousel, remaining airborne until dying batteries force them back to base. Kamikaze drones dive at soldiers who peek out from their dugouts, sometimes weaving in through the portholes. Each day, there are only 20-minute periods of “gray time” at dusk and dawn when the drones’ cameras are briefly confused. This is when wounded men are evacuated and the infantry tries to move. For nearly two centuries, trenches were the infantry’s main defense. Artillery and mortar shells are rarely precise, and flying shrapnel caused most casualties. But drones now drop grenades with pinpoint accuracy, making the old trench system largely obsolete. “A trench definitely won’t save you,” says my friend, Taras the combat medic. “A dugout might — unless they start targeting it directly. You can’t really move through the trenches anymore — people just live underground. They’ve gotten used to it, basically turning into mice. The mice are actually biting you all the time, and you’re like the mouse king, living down there with them.” Back on the bus, one of the wounded soldiers says he spent 12 days in a dugout without going outside for more than 30 minutes the whole time: When the troops are coming at you, at least you see them. But with this, all you hear are the sounds — you can’t even raise your head to look. FPVs zigzag around, trying to spot you. And once they do — they’ll chase you down no matter what. You can’t really shoot it down with a rifle — they’re doing 180 kilometers per hour [112 mph]. An FPV drone near the town of Orikhove outside Pokrovsk. September 14, 2023. An FPV drone is a robot lightning strike — it appears out of nowhere at extreme speed and explodes when it hits you. Drones have fundamentally altered the nature of warfare, stripping away what little luck the individual soldier once had. War has always been about killing, but soldiers could at least hope to survive by luck. Today, a drone will find you, track you down, and end you. “You step outside the dugout to take a piss — and there’s already a drone hovering overhead, and then a second one swoops in and drops on you,” says a man on the medevac bus. “Those assholes have two drones for each of our guys — one just hovers and observes, and the other’s loaded with “eggs” [explosives]. If we have four guys moving through the woods, they’ve got eight drones tailing them, just waiting for somebody to stop. The moment they do, the drones dive in. And those things see even better at night. They don’t fly only when it’s foggy. They’ve got thermal cams, which is why nobody heats anything in dugouts, even at night. Once, when the guys were bandaging me up around midnight, somebody put the kettle on to boil some tea, and they spotted us instantly and hit our dugout with an FPV.” Recon drones, “drop” drones, and FPVs all work together. The scout finds the target and then guides in the drop — an FPV or some other weapon. Drones have significantly increased the accuracy of mortar fire. Reconnaissance drones now track soldiers anytime they’re moving in or out of positions. Anyone who stops for so much as a minute becomes a target for a drone drop, and FPVs are fast and nimble enough to catch you even on the move. On social media, both Russian and Ukrainian channels are full of videos laughing at enemy soldiers freaking out as an FPV chases them down. “We used to cover 11 fuckin’ klicks to get to our position, but you can’t go even one now. Step outside, and there’s already a drone on you,” says my bus companion. “As soon as you hear that FPV coming, you run — straight into whatever brush or forest you can. You start looking for something it might hit — maybe some branches — but there’s nothing left. The treelines are already shredded. It either loses track of you, you get off a few shots, or it slams right into you. But hey — when you’re fighting for your life, fear gives you wings.” In winter, the treelines near the front are basically just thin rows of blackened trunks, branchless and burned — or, more often, just mangled stumps. And yet, in spring, it’s striking to see them bloom again in wild, defiant green. A drone’s view of trenches in the Serebriansky Forest, outside Luhansk. November 9, 2024. “You see a drone — you hide. But the thing is, you don’t know what kind of drone it is. It could be packing an RPG; it could have a thermobaric charge,” another soldier tells me, referring to a vacuum bomb that kills by creating a massive pressure wave. He describes the grim survival odds at the front: All the drones work differently. If it’s thermobaric, hiding behind a tree won’t help. It’ll just kill you. If it’s an RPG, yeah, the shrapnel’s huge, but you can try to hide. Every time we head out, we lose at least four or five guys. It happens mainly when we’re changing shifts. The Russki is listening and knows when we’re rotating out, and that’s when they start pounding the tree lines with drones. We went out with a few guys — a drone spots us, and boom, four mortars hit. Four dead on the spot. A fifth guy is wounded and manages to crawl to an old dugout, but he dies before we can find him. Taras told me that pressure from above often makes a bad situation worse: The Russians are moving fast — like a klick a day sometimes — and our commanders are under orders to hold the line. So they start rushing things and putting guys in danger. The higher-ups lean on our commander, and he ends up pushing the guys too hard. Like, instead of going out during twilight — when the drones can’t see — we’re forced to move at night when thermal can spot you easy. They kept sending out group after group like that, and our whole company got torn apart. By the time I got wounded, we were down to maybe 40 guys. We never had a full company — only right at the start. After our first mission, a third of the men bailed — and some didn’t even wait for that. We started out with half a company, then a quarter, and now there are maybe 10 guys left. While I was recovering, not a single one of the guys I’d fought with made it. Every soldier says the same thing: There’s a catastrophic shortage of men at the front. Most units are operating at just 20 percent strength, which means soldiers sit in trenches for weeks or even months with no one to relieve them. A man on the bus tells me how the manpower crisis got him: We were deployed for what was supposed to be a three-day mission. Our sergeant goes, “Grab enough ammo and smokes for five days, just in case. Chow and water will get dropped in by a Babka Yozhka [heavy military drone].” We didn’t come out until day 12 — there was just nobody left. After 12 days without a rotation, you’re not really human anymore. There’s no end to this — you get here, and that’s it. The only way out is on a stretcher or in a bodybag…. “Or you go AWOL,” says the guy sitting next to him. “They’re just feeding us to the meat grinder while those fuckers keep advancing, taking five new towns a day.” A wounded soldier is evacuated near Kupiansk on January 27, 2024. Ukrainian soldiers now radiate pessimism. Exhausted troops once condemned those who refused to join them on the frontlines, but a sense of resignation has replaced that fury and contempt. After all, who would volunteer for this? Even going AWOL now gets a nod of understanding. One of the worst tragedies at this stage of the war is how difficult it’s become to evacuate the wounded. Drones now target every medevac, meaning the only safe times to move are at twilight or in dense fog. The wounded are often left on the front lines for three to five days, suffering and dying. Survival depends almost entirely on how fast you can get them to a hospital. Targeting medevac vehicles is a war crime — but drone operators seem to do little else. “He was lying there in agony for five days, poor guy. We couldn’t get out,” the wounded man says about a comrade. “In the end, I pulled him out myself. Had to force him to eat. He’d been hit in the gut, too — stomach all swollen and 20 pieces of shrapnel in him. Later, he somehow limped all 700 meters to the evac on his own. He had to get out because his blood was already going septic.” “There’s maybe 20 of us left from the whole battalion,” says another soldier. “Most of the guys who died were just wounded and didn’t get pulled out in time. Armor can only come in during twilight when the drones are switching over their cameras. But there are some crazy guys who will roll in and do extractions in the middle of the day.” “Our brigade had this driver,” a medic tells me. “He was headed through the woods to a position when shelling started. So, he stops the car and crawls under it. Wouldn’t answer the radio. Our guys are waiting for him, so they send out a search party and find him under the vehicle. They try pulling him out, but he won’t go. He’s curled up like a scared cat, pushing them away, totally out of it, has no idea what’s happening.” “They managed to evacuate me on the third try,” the medic continues. “We’d barely started moving when they started shelling us. [The Russians] are listening to our comms — they’ve got every grid locked in. We got lucky there were three of us wounded — [the medevac team] wouldn’t have come for just one or two.” I start talking to a paramedic, and she tells me why many wounded soldiers are so emaciated : I was transporting this really skinny kid, and he says, “I’m not eating anything until I’m at the hospital. We went nearly a month without food or water — just so we wouldn’t have to go outside to use the can.” Drones are methodically annihilating people, and the infantry is being ground down, like a pencil held too long in a sharpener. The full picture is starting to take shape in my head. Now I understand what those army enlistment patrols really mean and why people are so freaked out about getting “busified.” What soldiers told me doesn’t make it on TV, but somehow, people know. Part eight Hunting the bastards “Hell yeah, Kostya!” a young drone operator named Vitalik nearly shouts as Kostya and I drive him to guard some empty dugout. “In the army, people fall into three groups. First, there are the ones who came here to kill — ’cause here, you won’t get in trouble for it. The second group is in it for the money. The third is chasing rank. And the ones who actually came to defend the country? After a month, they’d go home in a heartbeat — if they could. Let ’em scream about how they’re still ‘true believers’ and knock my teeth in for saying it, but I don’t buy that crap anymore. It’s either survival — for the guys stuck at the front who’ve stopped believing this will ever end — or it’s a needle they just can’t pull out. There are highly motivated FPV crews who work non-stop. But when you really talk to them, you realize they just get off on killing. We used to like it, too. But then you start to rethink all the shit you’re doing — and realize there are real people on the other side, too. All kinds.” Preparing a drone for flight near Robotyne, in the Zaporizhzhia region. January 23, 2024. “My guy,” Kostya tells Vitalik, his voice soft, like a patient teacher, “I completely disagree. You can’t say the guys on the other side are people. ’Cause if they are — how do you keep doing this? I mean, sure, yeah, technically they are… but still.” “I saw one of those bastards giving first aid to one of our wounded,” Vitalik fires back. “You’d hit him with an FPV? Go ahead — press the button. He’s not a fucking human, right?” “What are you yelling at me for!” says Kostya. Vitalik tells him why: People just like killing. For weeks, we were running on two or three hours of sleep a night — and we were totally fine with it! You get a taste, you ride that high, and you’re not walking away. It’s a drug. You need your fix. You roll up to your position, hit your target, and head back, having bagged something — it’s like you just went hunting. In the beginning, it was just “those fuckers, those fuckers” — we hated them. I wanted revenge for everything those bastards had done. Wipe them out, no mercy — and hey, the financial bonus didn’t hurt either. Some people are actually into this stuff — they keep rewatching the clips where people get blown to pieces. It’s all: “Wow, awesome!” And honestly, I get it. We used to be the same. “It’s just my job, what’s the problem?” And pretty soon, you start feeling the same. It’s been shown. You’re watching it like it’s a movie, a game — there’s no pressure, no fear. But that doesn’t last forever, and you’ll still have to live with it. We didn’t really talk about it much. But once you’re on leave, you start going over all that shit, rewatching the footage. Not the stuff they post online, but our own videos. You never see the daily life of those fuckers online — that doesn’t make it to the Internet. They’re scraping by just like us. And you’ve got to take them out — because if you don’t, they’ll come here and live that same life, but on our turf. When you fly in, you watch their reactions — and most of the time, it’s pure shock. They freeze up. But sometimes, we’d run into special forces guys who knew exactly what to do. A Ukrainian soldier shows a video of an explosion at a Russian position. Near Robotyne, in the Zaporizhzhia region, January 23, 2024. “You saw one of those bastards giving first aid to our guy?” Kostya asks. “Yeah,” Vitalik explains. “When new units rotate in, the fresh ones on both sides don’t dive right into fighting. They watch each other for a bit. Then the real shitshow begins. I remember us hitting this house — it was one of their command posts — and they had some of our wounded in there, captured. But they went ahead and hit it with artillery anyway. We’ve got no clue how the brass sees it. But out here, you kind of get used to it — you stop overthinking it.” Listening to Vitalik, I want to talk to another drone operator — someone else who’s spent time behind the controls of these killing machines. At the hospital, I sit down with an older soldier who suffered a concussion during an attack on his dugout: Night’s the best time to work — you use thermal to spot a generator, a Starlink terminal, or any heat source. You catch them crawling out of dugouts when they’re not expecting it. A good pilot can even cut through the fog. You might rack up 10 kills on a good night — sometimes more. You’ve got to prep the drone for takeoff and make sure it launches and flies right. But they give you junk — unfinished, glitchy shit. So you fix it yourself. You rewire it, tweak the channels, dial in the relay, so it flies smooth. Then you fly out 13–14 klicks [almost 8.4 miles] past the line — you know there’s a road out there, and there’s always someone around. You’ll find something. But if it’s foggy and you don’t spot anyone, and your drone’s hover time is running out, you have to hit something, or the drone’s just wasted. Listening to the soldier, I start to grasp why drone crews often end up hitting civilian cars, houses, or even people — it’s those last few minutes of flight, and the crew doesn’t want to waste the drone. I ask the man if his team also hunts infantry. “Of course,” he says. “Yesterday, I was chasing two guys — dropped a three-kilo bomb right on one of them. Ripped him to shreds, no surprise there. And when they send our infantry to the meat grinder, their drones do the same damn thing to us.” I ask if he watches the whole thing up close. “You watch it all the way up to the last second,” he tells me. “Right before you slam into him.” When I ask how he lives with it, he’s suddenly guarded and looks me in the eyes. I’ve crossed a line. “Feels great,” he answers. “Just one drone, and you know the meat’s already down — he ain’t goin’ nowhere.” When I tell my friend Borya about all this, he says, “It’s like chemical weapons. These things [drones] should be banned.” Near Robotyne in the Zaporizhzhia region. February 22, 2024. Part nine Welcome to ‘Milan’ I’m scared to go. On the train, I dream there’s a drone in my apartment. It’s sitting in the kitchen like a spider, ready to strike. I run out to the stairwell and slam the door, but I’m terrified because my dog and — for some reason — a lizard are still inside. I worry they’ll trigger the drone, but there’s no explosion. Kramatorsk makes an unusually bleak impression. A year and a half ago, it was a battered but functioning industrial city where disoriented seniors still walked the streets. Borya had even taught me to see a certain beauty in its weathered modernist architecture. Today, the city feels dead. There’s hardly anyone left. At night, maybe four windows are lit up in an entire apartment building — and three of them belong to soldiers. The city isn’t being shelled heavily, but three years of almost daily strikes have taken their toll: the number of damaged buildings is so overwhelming that the city feels diseased — like it’s infected with something slow and incurable. Every car is painted khaki. Most of the people you see are in uniform — and something about them feels off now, even dangerous. The mood is grim and detached. Lyman, outside Donetsk, April 11, 2024. I meet another friend, Hrysha. He enlisted six months ago, reasoning that it was better than waiting to get dragged in by the TRC. He got a job as a press officer with a battalion he knew and now spends his days editing drone and bodycam footage for the brigade’s social media. We sit down in a café, and he says he’s doing well. His girlfriend recently visited him. Hrysha scrolls through videos on his phone — clip after clip of so-called “drops.” A grenade falls from above on some “fuckers” moving through the treeline. There’s a small blast; a soldier collapses, curls up on the ground, and dies. Hrysha scrolls to another clip — a dog gnawing on a skeleton. The arms are gone. The skull just dangles. “I’m used to it now,” he says flatly. “Doesn’t faze me anymore.” I can tell he’s totally checked out — like he’s running on power-save mode now. While in Kramatorsk, I ask another friend about a guy named Max — he’d introduced us on my last trip. Max used to be a combat medic, but for some reason, he decided to switch jobs and join an assault unit. At the time, Max said he just wanted things to be fair. But the truth is, what combat medics do is already a nightmare. Almost half the evacs get hit by drones. I’ve been told that, in terms of risk, infantry and assault units rank at the highest level — ten. Combat medics are slightly lower, around eight. Mortar units, engineers, drone operators, and artillery — closer to three. But Max still decided to join the assault troops. “People get that idea all the time,” says a mutual friend. “‘I want things to be fair, so I’m gonna head straight into the worst of it.’ That’s the worst time to go. I told him to drop that bullshit, just for a while. Gotta step off the ride and catch your breath. But he was like, ‘No, no, I want this, that’s final.’ And I could see his mind was made up.” “And so what happened with him?” I ask. “Died right away. Two weeks later.” Drone footage released by Ukrainian troops. In the morning, I head to the hospital to speak with more wounded soldiers. Just an hour earlier, an Iskander missile slammed dead center into the round flowerbed in the city’s main square — a perfect bullseye. Locals from the nearby Stalin-era buildings are sweeping up shards of glass. I approach a neatly dressed elderly woman in a down shawl and ask for directions. She’s sitting alone on a bench, her eyes fixed on something far away — like she’s seeing a different city, the one where she used to live. The hospital is a grim old building from before the revolution, tucked behind a cast-iron fence. The windows are boarded up with plywood, and the whole place reeks of death. A wave of nausea hits me, along with a visceral sense of horror, and suddenly, with total clarity, I understand what war really is. It’s about torturing and killing people. War is something fundamentally rotten. We drive into Lyman with a team from a volunteer medical battalion. The city is half-destroyed and totally deserted, like a Hollywood movie set. There’s not a soul in sight. In Kramatorsk, you’re haunted by the feeling that the city around you is dying. But here, that feeling is gone — this place is already dead. Just bones left. Then suddenly, in the gap between two dark apartment blocks, I see a man walking his dog. It’s a surreal image. “Welcome to our little Milan,” says the unit commander. The Italian nickname helps take the edge off what we’re seeing. Lyman has changed hands twice during the war — and it shows. Two years ago, when the Ukrainian army drove out the Russians, there were still a lot of people living here. At the time, a local man summed up the city’s mood in a conversation with my friend: “We’d prefer it if nobody ‘liberates’ us again.” But now the front line is back, just 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) away. I talk to two women — a doctor and a nurse — who just returned from a field medical post. “I used to think, what can I even do?” the nurse says. “But at the front, you see how many true miracles a single person can pull off. And you start to believe in yourself again. Today, we had this patient — he came in with high amputations of all four limbs. He’d lost so much blood. His heart had already stopped. We walk in, and they’re resuscitating him — his face is completely gray. I’m thinking, okay, maybe they’ll get his heart going again, but there’s no way we’ll get him to the hospital in time. But he made it — in stable condition. He actually has a shot now….” Dear God, I think, what miracles you force us to witness out here. Twice, while I’m talking to the women, the area comes under Grad rocket fire, and we run for the dugout, laughing nervously. Lyman, the Donetsk Region, January 12, 2025. Because “Milan” is again within range of artillery fire, the medics spend the night in a small town outside the city. On the drive out, the doctor behind the wheel opens every window to listen for drones — and floors it the whole way. When we get there, the nurses are already making pancakes, frying something up for us. The quiet domesticity of it — in the middle of a war — is strangely hypnotic. “Wanna go get some vodka?” asks the driver, Hennadiy. I’m confused. Liquor is banned here. But Hennadiy shakes his head and says, “Come on, it’ll be a good lesson in field reporting.” At the store, he tells me to go up and ask the clerk for a “black bag.” I do — whispering it — and the clerk says, “Well, you do know, prices these days….” “He knows,” Hennadiy cuts in. Then, turning to me: “Come on, Shura — what’s with the secret agent face? Just say it normal: ‘black bag.’ Be cool.” The clerk brings out a bag. When I grab it, I accidentally knock it on the counter, all the bottles clink, and everybody in line turns to look. “Shura, man… in front of the whole line?” Hennadiy says. “You gotta be smooth. You’re at the front, remember?” On the ride back, he complains about how the army has absorbed all the volunteer battalions and reduced them to standard Armed Forces units: “What we’ve got now is just a cheap imitation — we used to be five times bigger. It would be like putting you on staff at one of those old Soviet newspapers — your work would lose its edge, the spark would go out. The army’s the same way. But whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re like boxers in the 12th round — bam… bam….” Hennadiy sways, shadowboxing the air with weak punches. Then he stops. “We’re just waiting for someone to call the fight.” At the dinner table that evening, I ask Kyrylo, a young paramedic from Poltava, how he’s handling the war. He tells me that volunteering is harder now: “Times have changed. Work almost didn’t let me come — I had to go on unpaid leave. They said, ‘If something happens to you, we’re on the hook.’” “Just small talk,” Kyrylo says when I ask if he speaks much to wounded soldiers. “You know: Who are you? What do you do? It helps the patient relax. If he’s a fisherman, great, let’s talk fishing gear. Ketamine induces hallucinations, and whether they’re good or bad depends on me to a certain degree. Before I administer it, I always try to get him talking: ‘How are things back home?’ And if that only makes him sad, I switch it up and start talking about the sea or the mountains. That one always seemed to work.” But Kyrylo immediately corrects himself, remembering that it doesn’t always work out: “One time, we had to pick up this guy with a bad concussion. There was also a dead body — his brother, it turned out. He broke down completely — this massive guy, built like a tank. We pumped him full of meds, but he just kept sobbing. And you realize there’s truly nothing you can do to help.” Ukrainian medics working at a field medical post near Lyman. April 7, 2024. I ask Kyrylo if he’s ever scared in the field. He’s certainly not afraid to get philosophical when he answers: Out here, it’s all random. Once, I stepped out of the dugout to pee, thinking I’d go into the bushes, but then I changed my mind and stood by a tree. Next thing I know, something crashes into the bushes right where I’d been headed. And I don’t know — I just suddenly saw the world as this big clump of energy. And each person is like their own little clump. You exist for a while in that bigger mix, and how long or how strong depends on a bunch of things. And I just felt, for a moment, like I was part of something bigger and that how long I’m here doesn’t really matter. Then Kyrylo catches the look on my face and laughs: “It’s not like I’m out here waving a flashlight at the sky!” A beacon like that would be easy work for the drones. Part ten The train As of December 2024, saying publicly that the war should end was still considered a kind of treason. But in private, a lot of people were already saying, “They can choke on their damn Donbas — just make this stop.” Of course, few could say that out loud. But by February, I witness this: in a third-class sleeper car, a young, broad-shouldered assault trooper and an older soldier who works with mines and bombs sit on the lower bunk. Across from them, a woman. “Enough of this already!” the woman says, raising her voice. “You guys have it easy — you’re getting paid to fight.” “Easy?” Sasha, the older man, repeats in disbelief. “My kid has grown up without me!” I sit down with them, surprised, and they pour me some vodka. Though officially banned, drinking and smoking on trains has basically become legalized. Every train car is packed with soldiers coming back from the front, and the conductors have stopped trying to crack down on these small comforts. You can buy horilka or beer on pretty much any train now. “This is my first time heading home in nine months,” says Vladyslav, the young assault trooper. “I’ve got a wife and a kid, too. You think this is the life I dreamed of? Yeah, right — we’re all millionaires, just raking it in out there….” “Oh right — you just do what you’re told, that’s all,” the woman sneers. “We’re doing our job! We didn’t bail, didn’t desert — we’re out there defending the country! Maybe think about something other than money for once…” “And what exactly are you fighting for?” she asks. “We fight for our parents, for my daughter.” “And are they actually in danger right now? You only see what’s right in front of your nose. Try stepping back and looking at the bigger picture. You should be asking — why won’t they let you out?” The woman wants to say something more, but the words catch in her throat. “What’s there to look at? You realize, if we’d bailed, you wouldn’t even be on this train right now! We’re fighting for Ukraine.” “And what does that even mean to you — ‘Ukraine’?” “I can see you’re no patriot; you’re not even a Ukrainian. Who are your parents? Where are you from?” “I’m from Shepetivka [a city in Ukraine’s Khmelnytskyi region]. You made me the enemy right away — didn’t hear a word I said.” “If it weren’t for us, they [the Russians] would already be in Shepetivka.” Oddly enough, even with how heated the conversation has become, everyone remains friendly. “Tell me, do you have a neighbor back home?” the woman asks. “I do — so what? He’s a drunk. He came home drunk one night and started in on his wife, so I went over and clocked him.” “We’ll always have neighbors,” she explains. “The trick is figuring out how to live with them in peace.” “We’ll never live side by side with the damn Russians. They’re scum. They’re animals. You’ve seen what they do, right? The videos — our guys on their knees in the snow, stripped to their underwear in the freezing cold — and they shoot them in the back of the head. You’ve seen it, right? Let them all fucking die — young and old, every single one. Pour concrete over that whole shithole and let ’em rot.” A view of Chasiv Yar. January 29, 2025. “That’s your anger talking. If I’m a human being, I have to treat all people equally.” “The Russkies aren’t people! The Russkies and those damn Buryats.” “And what about in Donetsk — do they count as people?” “Who gives a fuck?” A thin, tall, visibly drunk infantryman suddenly leans over from the top bunk. “My friend died out there! You’re in our country! Leave us the fuck alone! This is ours — stay the fuck out! I hate all of you!” “Who is ‘us’?” the woman asks, a bit startled. “The Russkies, for fuck’s sake…” the soldier answers incoherently. “You’re in a public place — knock it off!” snaps another woman from a side bunk. “Vadyk, you’re getting on my fucking nerves,” the assault trooper says, calm but firm. “I asked you nicely — lie down. I can’t stand drunk soldiers.” “He probably carries a wound in his soul,” the first woman says gently. “We’re all a little broken. But we’re not living out our own lives — we’re stuck cleaning up someone else’s mess. And the worst part is that soldiers keep dying.” “The worst part will be when we give up those territories and our guys died for nothing,” mutters the woman from the side bunk. “You really think our army’s going to win them back?” snaps the first woman. “We need to stop. What’s the point of dragging it out?” “It’ll only get worse,” the assault trooper suddenly agrees. “Because now everyone they try to draft just runs and says, ‘What am I, an idiot? Let the politicians’ sons fight instead!’” “And you judge them?” “Of course! I’m no politician’s son.” “Then why keep fighting?” “What — we should just surrender?” “This has to end.” “Well, that’s not up to us.” “Then who is it up to?” “Alright, just say what you really mean.” “What I mean, Vladyslav, is that you’re tough as they come,” she says with a smile. The assault trooper blinks, unsure whether it’s a compliment or an insult. Just a couple of months earlier, no one would’ve dared utter such things out loud. But now, people who believe the war should end immediately are starting to say it openly. As I walk through the train car, I hear that in another compartment, they’re also talking about how peace might be near. Back where I started, Vadyk climbs down from his top bunk and sits across from me. “What’s your ethnicity?” he asks me. “Jewish,” I tell him. “No kidding? Then take a look at what your people did to this country — sold off everything.” He leans in, drunk, pressing his forehead against mine. “My wife left me. Three months in — can you believe that?” “Why?” I ask. “She just gave it up to somebody who was closer.” I remember what the woman said earlier in the ride: “He probably carries a wound in his soul.” She wasn’t wrong. A fire on train tracks. Pokrovsk, October 3, 2024. Part eleven The electrician I decide to visit one of the wounded soldiers I met earlier on the medevac bus. The moment I step into the room, he lights up — like he’d been waiting for me. “I need to find some kind of help! I can’t take it anymore!” he says, visibly distressed. “I’ve had constant high blood pressure since the concussions. I told him [he nods at a soldier in the next bed]: ‘Just leave me on the road — the end. I can’t do this anymore!’ There’s so much injustice in this army — they treat you like a piece of meat. We got hit hard, one strike after another, and ran for our lives — and they’re screaming on the radio, ‘Get back to your position!’ But it was gone. Completely leveled. Where the hell were we supposed to go back to?!” He’s trembling now. “They don’t treat you like a soldier… These ‘buyers’ come and say, ‘Boys, you’re headed to the front — but chances are, you won’t be coming back.’ Why the hell start with that? My dad was there, too — we were drafted together. And there was a young guy from my town. We got there, did some live fire for a couple of days, and then they sent us straight into combat. And bam — a bullet to the head, right in front of me.” He continues: “When you go to ask for help, telling them you’re not okay and asking for some real medicine, they say they’ll do it later, and later they say, ‘What do you need that for? You’re alive. You’ve still got your arms and legs.’ I spent my entire leave in the hospital — hernias, bulging discs, two kinds of tumors. No one even looked at my chart. Back when I was healthy, I went willingly. I’m not saying I won’t serve. I’ll help however I can. I used to be an electrician, and I loved it. I’ve always been happy to pitch in. But I’m not cut out for the infantry anymore. I’m all shaky now, see?” “I’ve got two kids — a twelve-year-old son and a four-year-old daughter.” His hands tremble as he produces a wallet from his pocket and shows me their photos. “I keep these with me all the time — it’s like my good luck charm. I just want to see them again. If they told us how long — even if they said, okay, 18 more months on your contract — I’d keep serving, even sick like this. I get it — it’s war. But how come nobody drafts all these guys still partying in nightclubs? We’ve lost so many men — so damn many. I just want to go home, that’s all,” the soldier breaks down, crying on the edge of his bed. “Please don’t use my name, okay? I don’t want any trouble. Otherwise, they’ll stick me in an even worse shithole.” Story by Shura Burtin , reporting from Ukraine Translation by Kevin Rothrock…
Ramzan Kadyrov welcomes Vladimir Putin as he arrives at Grozny International Airport Relations between Russian President Vladimir Putin and Chechnya Governor Ramzan Kadyrov have soured in recent months, the independent outlet iStories reported on Thursday, citing current and former Federal Security Service (FSB) officers, a journalist in the North Caucasus, and human rights activists. The tensions reportedly began when Kadyrov went behind Putin’s back to negotiate with Middle Eastern countries regarding the future of his assets and his relatives’ security. Meduza shares key takeaways from the investigation. According to iStories’s sources, the fallout between Putin and Kadyrov began when the FSB informed the Russian president about unauthorized negotiations the Chechen leader has held with Middle Eastern monarchies. Amid worsening health, Kadyrov has reportedly sought assurances from foreign allies regarding his assets and his family’s safety. iStories notes that a 2024 investigation by Novaya Gazeta Europe detailed Kadyrov’s health issues, including “serious” pancreatic and kidney problems. While Kadyrov has denied being in poor health, he has spent long periods out of the public eye in recent months. Kadyrov’s health issues Despite his efforts to keep his negotiations secret, the FSB quickly uncovered them and reported them to Putin, iStories reports. The fallout has also affected Kadyrov’s closest political ally, State Duma deputy Adam Delimkhanov. According to the Telegram channel VChK-OGPU, which claims to have insider information from Russian security forces, Delimkhanov has refused to take part in any power struggles since early 2025, regardless of the stakes. He has reportedly told confidants that a “strict order from the top” bars Chechen leaders and security officials from engaging in such conflicts or drawing public attention in general. An independent journalist covering the North Caucasus told iStories that human rights activists in the region are also aware of the growing rift between Kadyrov and Delimkhanov and the Kremlin. Activist Ansar Dishni told the outlet that “the limits of Delimkhanov’s abilities were made clear to him.” Dishni added that Delimkhanov is currently staying at the President Hotel in Moscow, which serves as a headquarters for Kadyrov’s representatives in the capital. The Kremlin and the FSB, human rights activists say, are displeased that Delimkhanov has recently orchestrated criminal schemes — such as extortion and corporate takeovers — without approval from the country’s leadership. Untangling a summer scandal Chechnya’s leader says a retail merger approved by Putin is a ‘hostile takeover’ executed by ‘devils.’ How a family feud over the future of Wildberries became a public scandal.…
The Church on the Blood in Yekaterinburg, Russia, has set up an open-air exhibition to commemorate “Operation Stream” — during which Russian soldiers crawled through part of a defunct gas pipeline to get behind Ukrainian lines near Sudzha, as part of an operation to retake territory in the Kursk region. The main exhibit, unveiled on March 25, is a replica of the pipeline itself. At the opening ceremony, according to the local outlet 66.ru, Metropolitan Yevgeny Kulberg gave a speech. “The feat of those guys who descended into the underworld with absolutely no guarantee that anyone would come out — it stirs the heart,” he said. “Like in the tale of Koschei the Deathless, our warriors went deep inside, reached the egg, and broke the needle.” Father Alexey Skripkin, a priest who took part in Operation Stream, walked through the pipeline carrying white doves, which he then released. The ceremony also featured a performance by singer Vika Tsyganova, who sang a song called “Truba” (“Pipe”), with the chorus: “Pipe — that’s a Russian word! / Pipe — that means trouble! / Pipe — you’re in for it, for sure! / Pipe! Pipe! Pipe!” Meduza shares photos taken at the exhibit. Preparations for the exhibition opening in Yekaterinburg. March 24, 2025. Visitors at the exhibition. March 25, 2025. Meduza has condemned Russia’s invasion of Ukraine from the very start, and we are committed to reporting objectively on a war we firmly oppose. Join Meduza in its mission to challenge the Kremlin’s censorship with the truth. Donate today . The replica pipeline installed in Yekaterinburg is 16 meters long (about 50 feet) and 1,420 millimeters (56 inches) in diameter. March 25, 2025. At the exhibition opening, visitors were invited to walk through the pipe “to experience the atmosphere of Operation Stream.” March 25, 2025. In addition to the pipe, the exhibition includes photographs of soldiers and other images from the scene, according to TASS. March 25, 2025. The exhibition was organized by the Church on the Blood and the Tsarsky Cultural and Educational Center. March 25, 2025. Vika Tsyganova performed several songs, including “Pipe.” March 25, 2025. The exhibition’s opening drew “children from cadet classes and Cossack organizations, Suvorov Military School cadets, folk performance groups, and students from schools, colleges, and universities,” reported E1.ru. March 25, 2025. As Meduza previously reported , it remains unclear what impact Operation “Pipe” (or “Stream”) had on Russia’s offensive in the Kursk region — but Russian state television channels claimed it “would go down in the history books.” March 25, 2025.…
Last year, 209,000 foreigners obtained Russian citizenship — the lowest number in the past five years, the Russian newspaper Kommersant reported on Thursday, citing Interior Ministry statistics. In 2023, the figure was 378,000, and in 2022, it was 691,000. The Interior Ministry attributed the sharp decline to the fact that in 2022 and 2023, many residents of the annexed Ukrainian regions received Russian passports, supposedly boosting the numbers for those years. However, in the last year before the full-scale war, an even greater number of foreigners — 735,000 — were granted Russian citizenship. At the same time, the number of foreigners deported from Russia has risen sharply, from 145,000 in 2023 to 190,000 in 2024.…
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