Trace

Lew

Although no one wanted to believe that this day would come, we were prepared—at least as much as we could be. We had a plan, and my wife and I discussed it regularly. A house in the west of the country had been reserved two months before the war. A suitcase with documents and essentials for the baby was ready. We didn’t plan to take anything else—just the suitcase and whatever we happened to be wearing.

That’s just how I am: I need everything to be planned to have peace of mind. But even with that preparation, there were still plenty of nerves. I’d only heard the sound of explosions in stories before, and now I was hearing them live. Then came 36 hours on the road with a six-month-old baby. I didn’t eat or drink—I just smoked and drove. We circled around, avoiding areas where fighting was happening. We crossed almost all of Ukraine, though the journey would have been much shorter under normal circumstances. I’ll never forget that day.

There was an informational chaos. When we reached a small village in the mountains, my father called to say that Russian tanks were already near Kyiv. Fighting was happening in parts of the city, and we’d probably have a new-old president in two days. Rumors circulated that Viktor Yanukovych was already in Minsk and about to head to Kyiv. There was no certainty about what would happen to Ukraine—whether the country would even hold together. It seemed logical to stay where Ukraine would still exist, untouched by the enemy, but I kept wanting to return to Kyiv.

It took five months before we finally made it back. We were home again. I knew it was dangerous, but I cared about my child having a “normal” life.

My daughter was born in July 2021. From the very first day, we were together. I love spending time with my family, coming home after work. Now, they’ve left to take a break from all this—and I’m finding it very hard. Not that I’ll die from it, but something is missing. I feel incomplete. I know they’ll only be gone for a month, and this trip is for the good of my wife and child, but I have moments of deep longing.

Every day, I feel a mix of patriotism and fear—fear that I’ll be killed and my family will lose a husband, a father, and a son. The war became real when the sirens blared, and the borders closed for men aged 25 to 60. In a second, I was in a reality where I might be drafted into the army.

Mobilization happened gradually. At first, it wasn’t clear how long it would last or what the exact needs were, but the army initially aimed to make the best use of available resources.

I only know one person who’s really been to the front. He volunteered and trained for six months in western Ukraine. Now his unit is stationed in Kyiv, and he operates a drone. They go on missions for 2–3 weeks and return. They’re far from the front line but constantly on the move—repairing equipment, training. It seems obvious that before being sent to the front, you should undergo training and acquire skills, but some people go with no preparation at all. I don’t know much about it either; I’ve only held a gun a few times. I know I’m no better than those fighting out there, but the risk is enormous—I could die before I even have a chance to do anything.

In December 2023, everyone was talking about new mobilization laws, but it felt like a test to gauge people’s reactions. Now it’s quieter, but we’re still waiting to see what happens next.

I often see fighter jets overhead, but that’s become part of everyday life. Even a friend visiting from Odesa, when the sirens went off in the morning, just said, “life is life” and didn’t even move. This is our new normal.

My wife has anxiety attacks, and I have to be strong for her and for the child. I don’t know how I manage it, but I find the strength. I don’t read too much news and try not to get carried away by emotions. Some interpret the information differently, but I’m more restrained. I feel calm when I cut myself off from it all. When I’m alone now, though, I feel worse—because I’m only responsible for myself.

Every day looks the same. I work from home and occasionally take short walks around the neighborhood. Short, because there’s a high risk of running into the military and being handed a “ticket” to the army. It’s not about fear—it’s simply the agreement my wife and I made. I promised to do everything I could not to accelerate the course of events.

Now I live without plans. It’s a kind of game or dream that everything will be okay one day. I can only deceive myself into thinking the future depends on me, so I’ve started living as if each day were my last. On the other hand, I feel like this is all one very bad dream. We’ve been through the Orange Revolution, the Maidan protests, administrative, political, and social changes. I feel like Ukraine keeps giving me a chance. I felt good living abroad for a while, but I feel best here. That’s why I came back.

My wife had already thought about leaving before the war because she didn’t see a future for Ukraine. It was a recurring topic, but I couldn’t make that decision—I didn’t want to. At first, she said I was selfish, but she’s recently come to understand.

We don’t talk about the war in front of our daughter. We try to shield her from it. But she instinctively knows what to do. When she hears an alarm, she runs to the bathroom and pulls us along. It’s not fear; it’s instinct.

At night, they almost always shoot between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m., and even without that, kids don’t sleep well. It’s hard for us to recover, and it affects our daily functioning. In May 2023, there was shooting every night for a whole month. During the day, you work, and at night, you don’t sleep—because of the explosions or the baby. We’re exhausted, on the brink of collapse, and argue more often.

Explosions make the windows and walls tremble. You never know what’s going to happen. January 2023 was the worst. I was alone with my daughter. I caught bits of sleep—maybe an hour and a half—but then again, from midnight to 5:00 a.m., there were two alarms. Almost no sleep all night, and the next day, you have to work.

Soon, my little one will start preschool. Now you choose a school differently than before the war. You check if the teachers know what to do during an alarm and if the place where you’ll send your child has a shelter.

Bogdan

I know people who didn’t believe the war would actually start, but there are many who had been preparing for it for years. I didn’t hear the first explosions—I was sleeping too deeply. It wasn’t until a series of messages from loved ones woke me up. When my mother called at 7:00 a.m., I reassured her it was just a provocation and that the explosions would stop soon. That’s what I thought at the time.

Ten minutes later, boom—two helicopters were shot down to prevent a landing. I started checking on what my friends were doing. That’s how I spent the whole day—sitting at the computer, refreshing YouTube every 10 minutes, watching for news, trying to understand what was next. That’s when it hit me—Russia had been preparing for this all along. I found a video where someone mentioned looking for suspicious signs around your home, like white crosses on roads, though no one knew what they meant. And sure enough, two or three days later, someone chalked a cross on our gate. We walked around the house, checking everything. Every third house had these marks.

Everyone was in a panic, but my first night was calm. I went to bed around 2:00 a.m. I’m the kind of person who prefers to sleep rather than sit and worry, so I can be more productive during the day. Not even explosions changed that.

Maybe it was the second day of the war when a coworker messaged me saying he could see tanks from his window. There was also a girl from Bucha who said she couldn’t leave her house because soldiers were visible from her window. Later, she hid in a basement with others for several days. When she finally came out to get water, she said there were corpses on the streets—dead soldiers with maps and compasses on them. It felt surreal.

Meanwhile, a friend told me he and a group of others were heading west. I had five hours to hide my valuables and pack essentials. I knew there wasn’t much room in the car, and that whatever stayed in the house, we’d probably never see again. Very quickly, videos started surfacing of Russian soldiers breaking into homes, or people being tied to poles for looting abandoned houses. Less important documents and a new hoodie I stashed in a cupboard behind a curtain. The most crucial things I took with me. We ran to the meeting point. A friend who was driving the car urged us to hurry because a landing force had just arrived near him. Gunfire echoed everywhere.

We drove west for a day and a half. But right after arriving, I decided to return to Kyiv. I felt I’d be more useful there.

When I returned, living alone felt too unsafe, so we moved in with a group of friends. We kept monitoring Telegram for updates. We came across a map of Kyiv showing a large column of tanks near the city’s border, directly on our route. We decided to move to the city center, across the Dnipro River. Even if the Russians entered, they wouldn’t reach us there because the bridges would be cut off. But they didn’t enter the city at all, so I went back to my apartment. I didn’t turn on the lights—I was afraid they’d be targeted. Especially since we had no idea what was happening outside—whether it was Russians or Ukrainians shooting. That’s how we lived for the first 10 months.

Work probably saved me then. I quickly got back to my tasks, though the days felt surreal. You’d sit drinking coffee, but at the back of your mind, you knew someone out there was fighting for you. It was a psychological game. Soldiers actively engaged in combat began being portrayed as heroes. On YouTube, they often played an ad that ended with the words: “One day, your children may ask what you did during the war. What will you tell them?”

Did I think about what I’d say?

In 2024, changes were made to the conscription system. New laws lowered the mobilization age from 27 to 25. Even before that, I’d seen many videos online of people being forcibly taken to recruitment offices. It’s hard to believe this could happen outside your home, especially in a big city like Kyiv, but you’d walk down the street, always looking around. Whenever a new wave of such reports came, everyone scrambled to find the latest patrol updates, rules, or ways to avoid them. On the other hand, living with that fear leads nowhere. Maybe it’s better not to live at all than to live with fear eating you from the inside. For your own sanity, it’s good to know what to say if stopped, but I don’t plan on running from a patrol or avoiding responsibility. I don’t have kids, so if I’m called up or taken from the street, it will mostly impact my parents. It’ll just be my turn.

From the start, I’ve been trying to stay fit—spending time with a drone controller and learning to fly using simulation apps, just like the military. I did it and still do, to be ready. Some say going to the gym is pointless. Even soldiers criticize it, arguing you’ll adapt when you get to the front. But I believe in staying in good shape no matter what. There’s a chance I’ll need to prove myself somewhere. I want to be prepared because it might extend my life. When you hear a shot—and by now, you can hear and identify every one—you usually have three to ten seconds to hide. Physical readiness can save your life.

Once, I wanted to join the military, but now I’m more skeptical. Like it or not, I have to stay informed about the war because politics affects my life. I often talk to friends about how to handle the future with wartime experiences. One thing I’ve realized: every man will end up there, sooner or later. Fighting on the front, working in a command center, operating drones—everyone wonders where they’ll end up when the time comes.

Some people try to escape permanently, even though it’s risky. I’ve heard of cases where people tried to swim across a river in freezing temperatures, but many drowned due to the strong currents. Borders are controlled, and fleeing through rivers or forests is difficult and dangerous. Others pay large sums for a “civilian ticket.” At my workplace, one guy paid $10,000 for a certificate declaring him unfit for service due to poor health. Another got documents saying he had mental issues and used them to cross the border and leave for the U.S.

I don’t judge people who decide to flee. First, it’s their choice. Second, I understand that everyone wants to live, plan their future, and start a family. And now, instead of that, war is your life. Even if you’re not on the front line, it leaves a mark. It’s a semblance of normal life, but it’s mentally exhausting. Last night, I fell asleep watching a YouTube video of soldiers recounting their combat experiences. I wish I didn’t know terms like “two hundred” for dead and “three hundred” for wounded. These terms, once used in military reports, mean death or the need for medical evacuation. Why do I need these stories in my head? Friends who fight describe injuries as common as colds. Almost everyone has hearing loss, concentration problems, but after a few days off, they go back to fighting. They say if someone survives three to ten assaults, they’re “guided by God.” But such people are rare. Most die or end up with severe disabilities.

I wish I could leave, even briefly, to reset and clear my head. Living in wartime imposes many physical and mental constraints. I feel trapped, restricted—especially because I can’t travel normally. The thought of being unable to leave and see something new is suffocating. Even dreaming about it feels like a luxury because now, the most important thing is staying focused. Without a strong mind, you can’t last long. Dreams and plans are severely limited now. You live day by day. A friend once said, “I used to think about taking out a loan, but now? What if I die in the war? What happens then?” Another stopped paying his loan, saying he might die anyway. Many things seem pointless, yet life goes on. Some people live as if the war doesn’t exist—endless parties, Instagram pictures of coffee and travel. I can’t talk to such people anymore because I think you need to be aware of what’s happening. Even if you don’t join the army, you must do something to help end this war.

You can’t pretend it doesn’t affect us, but I try not to go to extremes. Often, when I hear sirens at night, I stay in bed, even though it could kill me. I choose sleep. Most people react differently—when the sirens start at 4:00 a.m., they dress and head to the shelter.

Sometimes I think, “Maybe if everyone had gone to the army at the very start, this might already be over.” A friend who ended up at the front once said he wished every man could go through what he did. After some time, he was promoted to captain, gaining that much experience. Recently, when we talked, he said he’d changed his mind. He no longer wants anyone to go through that hell.

While working on this material, one of the subjects was drafted into the army.

The names of two participants have been changed.