Under siege by the gray mist at dawn, Volodymyr huddles in the basement of his family's home in Kharkiv. The silence itself becomes a weapon, suppressing the lingering fear in the air. Every day, the sounds of missiles and gunfire are a brutal reminder of his country's belated reckoning with Putin's cruel intentions. The rhythmic thud of artillery echoes an uncaring, unyielding beat, a soundtrack to a life defined by war.
Volodymyr, a Ukrainian soldier on convalescence leave, is emotionally torn like his war-torn country. A shrapnel wound to his right leg has sent him home, but the invisible wounds have already etched into his soul. In a sense, this war takes no prisoners, grabbing and swallowing everything on its path. Human life is dirt cheap, and so is humanity. Peacemakers keep fighting each other with words. The meat grinder keeps grinding meat, be it from Russia, Ukraine, North Korea or China, according to social media.
Like many Ukrainians, Volodymyr has once hoped that the conflict would begin to end by now, preferably with Russia faltering under the strain of war, as it had in Afghanistan and Chechnya. He has studied those historical failures while in college, seeing them as a blueprint for what he then believed was inevitable. The hubris of an overstretched empire, the demoralization of its soldiers, the economic collapse—it's all there in the history books. Yet, the reality on the ground is far more complex. Russia is still digging in its heels, counting on the long-awaited rise of isolationism in America. Indeed, until Ukrainians have effectively resisted his advance, Putin has no reason to doubt himself. Now doubt is shadowing his every move.
The war, once meant to be a swift show of "shock and awe," has become a brutal chess match for Putin—a bloody tug of war with no decisive advantage for either side. As Ukrainian cities are reduced to rubble and lives young and old are shattered, the world watches in horror. But what does such horror actually mean to Ukrainians?
For Volodymyr, the war is not a spectacle but a lived reality, a constant struggle for survival and the preservation of his country's identity as well as dignity. He remembers the early days of the invasion, the chaos and confusion, the desperate need to defend his home. He has enlisted without a second thought, his patriotism burning bright. But as the war drags on, the initial fire has been tempered by the cold, hard realities of combat. Before long, the idealism of a young man fighting for his country has to accommodate the pragmatism of a soldier fighting for his life.
The Tide Turns?
Meanwhile, there are signs of cracks in the iron will that Putin has projected. Ukrainians mount a counteroffensive whenever they can, this time beating Russians on Russian soil in the Kursk Oblast. The news has spread like wildfire, a much-needed morale boost for a weary nation. "Success breeds success," the saying goes, and the West has finally begun to deliver on its promises. More advanced weapons, once deemed too escalatory, are now flowing into Ukraine. The tide, it seems, is finally turning against Moscow. The sight of Russian tanks burning and Russian soldiers retreating is a powerful symbol of defiance on the Ukrainian side. It is a testament to Kyiv's resilience and its unwavering determination to fight for freedom from the Kremlin.
Volodymyr feels a surge of pride and hope. This is what he has been fighting for, what his comrades have died for. The counteroffensive is not just a military operation; it is a psychological victory, a rejection of the narrative that Russia is invincible. It is proof that a smaller, determined nation can stand up to a larger, more powerful aggressor. But the mounting cost gnaws at him. The fields of Kursk are now soaked with the blood of both Russians and Ukrainians, a grim reminder that even an indecisive victory comes at a terrible price.
History speaks
Sitting up in his bed, the weight of history feels impossibly heavy. The basement, once a place of childhood games and family gatherings, is now a tomb of memories. A single, dusty bookshelf holds the remnants of a life that is a world away. He picks up a worn copy of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace, a book he has been re-reading since his return. He is drawn to the novel's sprawling narrative, its exploration of the human condition in the face of monumental conflict. He finds a strange solace in the stories of Prince Andrei, Pierre Bezukhov, and Natasha Rostova, their lives entangled in the Napoleonic wars. Tolstoy, a veteran himself, must understand the brutal absurdity of war, the way it can simultaneously elevate and degrade the human spirit.
Volodymyr pauses at a classic line he has underlined years ago, a line that now resonates with a chilling, new significance: "History... had been about finding evil and attempting to destroy it." He lets the weighty words sink in, pressing down on him.
The fight against Russian aggression is, in his mind, a righteous one. He sees the invasion as a clear act of evil, a violation of his country's sovereignty and a brutal assault on its people. He is a soldier in a just war, a defender of his home.
Then he reads on, his eyes scanning the page, and the next line hits him hard: "But in the process of destroying evil, we become the very thing we are seeking to destroy." These words are like bullets flying past his ears.
He thinks of the stories of Ukrainian soldiers, hardened by war, who have committed acts he can only justify as necessary evils. He never forgets the dehumanization of the enemy, the way he has come to see Russian soldiers not as people, but as weeds to be removed. Also unsettling is the collateral damage, the civilians caught in the crossfire, the children growing up physically but stunted socially, thanks to war. He sees how the lines between good and evil, once so clear, has blurred into a murky mess.
"We become the very thing we are seeking to destroy?" Volodymyr hopes not, prays not.
The sun finally breaks through the clouds, casting a weak, watery light into the basement. Dust motes swarm in the new light, looking like sinisterly tiny drones. "Does the Almighty even care what's going on here?" he asks, the words fading into the silence --- or so he thinks.
Author: jeffnaper
Under siege by the gray mist at dawn, Volodymyr huddles in the basement of his family's home in Kharkiv. The silence itself becomes a weapon, suppressing the lingering fear in the air. Every day, the sounds of missiles and gunfire are a brutal reminder of his country's belated reckoning with Putin's cruel intentions. The rhythmic thud of artillery echoes an uncaring, unyielding beat, a soundtrack to a life defined by war.
Volodymyr, a Ukrainian soldier on convalescence leave, is emotionally torn like his war-torn country. A shrapnel wound to his right leg has sent him home, but the invisible wounds have already etched into his soul. In a sense, this war takes no prisoners, grabbing and swallowing everything on its path. Human life is dirt cheap, and so is humanity. Peacemakers keep fighting each other with words. The meat grinder keeps grinding meat, be it from Russia, Ukraine, North Korea or China, according to social media.
Like many Ukrainians, Volodymyr has once hoped that the conflict would begin to end by now, preferably with Russia faltering under the strain of war, as it had in Afghanistan and Chechnya. He has studied those historical failures while in college, seeing them as a blueprint for what he then believed was inevitable. The hubris of an overstretched empire, the demoralization of its soldiers, the economic collapse—it's all there in the history books. Yet, the reality on the ground is far more complex. Russia is still digging in its heels, counting on the long-awaited rise of isolationism in America. Indeed, until Ukrainians have effectively resisted his advance, Putin has no reason to doubt himself. Now doubt is shadowing his every move.
The war, once meant to be a swift show of "shock and awe," has become a brutal chess match for Putin—a bloody tug of war with no decisive advantage for either side. As Ukrainian cities are reduced to rubble and lives young and old are shattered, the world watches in horror. But what does such horror actually mean to Ukrainians?
For Volodymyr, the war is not a spectacle but a lived reality, a constant struggle for survival and the preservation of his country's identity as well as dignity. He remembers the early days of the invasion, the chaos and confusion, the desperate need to defend his home. He has enlisted without a second thought, his patriotism burning bright. But as the war drags on, the initial fire has been tempered by the cold, hard realities of combat. Before long, the idealism of a young man fighting for his country has to accommodate the pragmatism of a soldier fighting for his life.
The Tide Turns?
Meanwhile, there are signs of cracks in the iron will that Putin has projected. Ukrainians mount a counteroffensive whenever they can, this time beating Russians on Russian soil in the Kursk Oblast. The news has spread like wildfire, a much-needed morale boost for a weary nation. "Success breeds success," the saying goes, and the West has finally begun to deliver on its promises. More advanced weapons, once deemed too escalatory, are now flowing into Ukraine. The tide, it seems, is finally turning against Moscow. The sight of Russian tanks burning and Russian soldiers retreating is a powerful symbol of defiance on the Ukrainian side. It is a testament to Kyiv's resilience and its unwavering determination to fight for freedom from the Kremlin.
Volodymyr feels a surge of pride and hope. This is what he has been fighting for, what his comrades have died for. The counteroffensive is not just a military operation; it is a psychological victory, a rejection of the narrative that Russia is invincible. It is proof that a smaller, determined nation can stand up to a larger, more powerful aggressor. But the mounting cost gnaws at him. The fields of Kursk are now soaked with the blood of both Russians and Ukrainians, a grim reminder that even an indecisive victory comes at a terrible price.
History speaks
Sitting up in his bed, the weight of history feels impossibly heavy. The basement, once a place of childhood games and family gatherings, is now a tomb of memories. A single, dusty bookshelf holds the remnants of a life that is a world away. He picks up a worn copy of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace, a book he has been re-reading since his return. He is drawn to the novel's sprawling narrative, its exploration of the human condition in the face of monumental conflict. He finds a strange solace in the stories of Prince Andrei, Pierre Bezukhov, and Natasha Rostova, their lives entangled in the Napoleonic wars. Tolstoy, a veteran himself, must understand the brutal absurdity of war, the way it can simultaneously elevate and degrade the human spirit.
Volodymyr pauses at a classic line he has underlined years ago, a line that now resonates with a chilling, new significance: "History... had been about finding evil and attempting to destroy it." He lets the weighty words sink in, pressing down on him.
The fight against Russian aggression is, in his mind, a righteous one. He sees the invasion as a clear act of evil, a violation of his country's sovereignty and a brutal assault on its people. He is a soldier in a just war, a defender of his home.
Then he reads on, his eyes scanning the page, and the next line hits him hard: "But in the process of destroying evil, we become the very thing we are seeking to destroy." These words are like bullets flying past his ears.
He thinks of the stories of Ukrainian soldiers, hardened by war, who have committed acts he can only justify as necessary evils. He never forgets the dehumanization of the enemy, the way he has come to see Russian soldiers not as people, but as weeds to be removed. Also unsettling is the collateral damage, the civilians caught in the crossfire, the children growing up physically but stunted socially, thanks to war. He sees how the lines between good and evil, once so clear, has blurred into a murky mess.
"We become the very thing we are seeking to destroy?" Volodymyr hopes not, prays not.
The sun finally breaks through the clouds, casting a weak, watery light into the basement. Dust motes swarm in the new light, looking like sinisterly tiny drones. "Does the Almighty even care what's going on here?" he asks, the words fading into the silence --- or so he thinks.
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