When the full-scale invasion of Ukraine began on February 24, 2022 at 4 a.m. Kyiv time I had just arrived in Germany with my family, and my shift in the newsroom was just beginning. From the moment Russian President Vladimir Putin announced that he had launched a "special military operation," I was writing about Russian missiles raining down on my hometown and endless columns of Russian armored vehicles crossing the borders into Ukraine. 

The Russian aggressors bombed the kindergarten and the school where my children went. Ballistic missiles and cruise missiles landed near my parents' building, where I spent a large part of my life. Though I was a Russian speaker, had never boasted of wearing the Ukrainian vyshyvanka, a traditional embroidered shirt, and had not had anything to do with the army, I felt I had no choice but to return immediately to Ukraine to defend my homeland. I would never have forgiven myself if I had stayed abroad, or had even thought of just waiting it out in a safe place.

It took me 36 hours to get from Germany to Kyiv. It was sheer horror at the Polish-Ukrainian border. Thousands of people were thronged there, trying to get out of Ukraine. Hundreds of cars waited in queues that went on for dozens of kilometers. Women and children, as well as the men helping to get away from the war, slept in the open, in freezing temperatures. People lit bonfires and those who could tried to keep warm in their cars. Mattresses, warm clothes and garbage were strewn all over the roadside.

But it took me only a couple of minutes to cross the border in the other direction. There were only two others trying to get into Ukraine at the checkpoint.

I was very worried that I would not reach Kyiv in time because Russian troops were already advancing on the capital and clearly intending to conquer or at least besiege it. Moreover, the city could only be entered from the south as all the other routes were already too dangerous. Drivers were refusing to drive there or charging astronomical sums for doing so.

I bought three tickets for different trains from Lviv to Kyiv, but none worked. I was only able to reach my hometown by taking a train that had already evacuated refugees to western Ukraine and was returning almost empty to the capital to collect more. There were no lights on the train as it crossed half of the country, arriving in a capital city whose streets were almost deserted. I had never seen Kyiv like this. I had also never seen such long queues of people as those I saw waiting to enroll in the army at the military commissariats. Most were not able to get a say before the evening curfew began.

In the army now

In the end, it was three months after the invasion before I was able to actually join up. Nobody called me. Nobody sent me a draft notice. It worked on my fourth try with the military commissariat. But after plenty of red tape, I was finally in the army.

Until that point, I continued to work as a journalist. I was one of the first reporters to visit Bucha, Borodyanka, Makariv and other places in the Kyiv region that had been liberated from Russian occupation. I talked to locals who had experienced this hell and saw with my own eyes what the "Russian world" apparently means (Translator's note: russkiy mir is a concept that comprises core Russian culture through the traditions, history, and language. It can be understood ambiguously as both "Russian world" and "Russian peace.")

I also encountered this "Russian world" directly in my new role as a soldier when I was in the Kherson region in the summer and autumn, where our unit experienced heavy fighting. I was one of the first Ukrainian soldiers to see Ukrainian citizens at the Inhulets bridgehead, some 20 kilometers (12.4 miles) from the city of Kherson, emerging after the occupation. I have vivid memories of grandmothers and grandfathers dancing, and of seeing Ukrainian flags being raised again on administrative buildings. I saw people cry tears of joy after they were liberated in the regions of Mykolaiv and Kherson.

Later, our unit was transferred to Bakhmut, whose suffering continues, and then to Soledar. I remember clearly how these towns were destroyed by Russian artillery and tanks, reduced to ruins. The locals here cried very different tears. I was wounded not far from Soledar and ended up in a hospital where I shared a ward with a young man who had lost his leg because of enemy shelling. He was from Shakhtarsk and was reading the famous "Kobzar" cycle of poems by Ukrainian national poet and author Taras Shevchenko.

For me, he has become a symbol of steadfastness, and Russia's inevitable defeat. The Russian army continues to destroy everything it can with the weapons at its disposal, but the defenders of Ukraine are working to reduce the number of weapons, and that of the barbarians using them. We are continuing the struggle for our rights, for freedom and life. "We" — that is the real accountants, lawyers, artists, psychologists, bankers, professional poker players and ministry officials who signed up for war and make up my battalion. What Ukrainian fighters are doing today, particularly in Bakhmut, is more than heroism because heroism is extraordinary and exceptional. What they are doing is almost superhuman because they have been persevering for months, without respite, in conditions that are unthinkable, and yet have become normal.

Unfortunately, this war is far from over and there are decisive battles ahead. The fight goes on and will continue until all Ukrainian territories are liberated from the Russian occupiers.

This article was originally written in Russian.