Rubble and Resolve: Humanity and Ukraine's War

By B. A. Prafke

I’ve always held a deep fascination with war. Being a western male in the 2000s, a lot of the movies, stories, role models, and media I consumed had something or another to do with soldiers, conflict, war (As it always has been since the dawn of civilisation). I happened to be one of those children that from a young age, idolized the idea of being a soldier. Concepts such as self-sacrifice, fighting for one’s nation, adventure and seeing the world, the idea of belonging to a brotherhood, the pride of wearing a uniform and being part of something greater, perhaps even historical; these ideas always appealed to my nature.

As I grew older, war became a much more complex thing. Understanding the concepts that occur to us as life goes on such as mortality, suffering, good & evil, added a greater level of depth to my understanding of what war was. It was more than the uniforms or weapons I excitedly fixated on. War is more than a spectacle; it comes at immense cost. The stakes are always generally world (or at the very minimum) region changing. What causes man to kill on a great scale, typically stems from a cause of great divisiveness, change in power, or perhaps even down to pure hatred of one another. War has existed since the dawn of mankind’s civilisation. And as a student of history, one thing I certainly know to be true is, war endures.

Despite these realizations, my deep interest remained. I was born in 2001, and I joined the Canadian reserve force shortly before graduating in 2017, afterwards moving to full-time employment. For the early part of my working life, I got to live the experience of working in a peacetime army firsthand. My earlier grandeur view was quickly overcome with a renewed firsthand understanding of what being the military was in that particular day and age (At least from a North American POV). An echo of the machine built for Afghanistan, and slowly transitioning back into something ready for conventional warfare. I had periods of my career where I got to experience valuable training, and engaged in some interesting domestic experiences, but beyond that I never took my career to the lengths I had earlier imagined. Afterwards I went on to pursue career opportunities in other fields, despite this my early desires stuck within me.

In 2022, I and the rest of the world watched uneasily as the Russians mobilized their full invasion of Ukraine. The prospect of a third world war was worrisome, for me personally due to the always potential nuclear outcome that looms in a dark corner of my mind. I have politically always been anti-communist, and on a personal level that extended and was partially inspired by the Russian-Soviet actions of the last century. I understand the real threat our western society faced in the years leading up to my birth due to Russian aggression in Europe and abroad, and because of this I’ve personally (and from a layman’s POV) held a bias towards Russia and its political maneuvering, even in its current form as the Russian federation (which I have heard many will insinuate is the same beast cloaked in different colours).

Despite all of this, when the invasion occurred, my convictions didn’t stir within me the way I retrospectively expect they ought to have. It seemed overnight, a mob of the disconnected keyboard social media justice warriors (Of which I hold a particular distaste for) who had previously jumped on every other bandwagon behavior relating to recent social issues, immediately wasted no time in filling the internet in what initially seemed like empty support and repetitive slogans. A lot of my fellow conservative minded peers held opinions and uttered variations of phrases such as: “We are dealing with too much right now following covid here for us to worry about affairs in eastern Europe,” many others even held a pro Russian stance, often erroneously citing Russia’s moral superiority over the west, or all-out claiming they were justified in the invasion outright. I personally held on to a pro-Ukraine stance, but I wasn’t so certain as to what degree Canada should commit themselves to supporting a war in Europe, one that has the risk of escalating globally for that matter.

I have many friends of Ukrainian descent, I grew up around them in Central Alberta, to which a vast diaspora inhabits. Hearing them lament about what was happening to their home country, a country not very different from mine, was stirring. Living in the age of the internet, getting a firsthand view of asymmetrical warfare in the 2020s, was both captivating and horrifying, in particular the decisive role drones had to play. Many hours I spent pouring over drone or go-pro footage of the carnage occurring on the frontline. Looking back, not much did the thought occur to me of what carnage could be happening to the cities and towns behind or within the fighting in those videos, or the people living within them. Focusing on the warfare itself, I didn’t rightfully visualize how the hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people living in the affected areas might have to exist on a day-to-day basis. My mind couldn’t imagine the tens of thousands of foreign NGO volunteers, sacrificing their time and risking their lives to help a country in need from which they aren’t from.

This all changed when I got a message from my former employer Scott in the early fall of 2024. I had worked for his business and political campaigns in the past, and he is a very good friend to my family. He extended to me an offer that would forever change my life, and how I view the world. He knew of my particular background, skillset as a former armoured crewman and interests in world conflict/affairs. I was sat down and to summarize a long conversation, I was offered the chance to accompany him to Ukraine, working with the newspaper the Lviv Herald to document the Russian military crimes, and provide medical support directly to NGOs on the ground using funds from Scott’s local fundraising. This seemed like a noble cause to be apart of and perhaps even one of those adventures I had always been yearning for. I accepted, and thus began the process of preparing for our journey.

We disembarked mid-November, and arrived in Germany. An hour flight from there I found myself in the historic city of Krakow, Poland. There we met our guide and organizer of the trip, Dr. Matthew Parish. I liken him to our Virgil, like he who guided Dante into the 9 circles, Matthew would be our guide into the chaos, and inferno that is Ukraine. After admiring the medieval center of Krakow, we disembarked on the bus to the Polish border towards Ukraine.

At the border, my party in particular and another military aged male were marched off the bus, where we faced a thorough yet friendly officer holding onto a leashed German Shepherd. After looking through our luggage, taking careful attention at the various kit and body armour present, he confirmed our role/purposes as journalists and let us back on the bus, where we pressed on into the already clear signs of a wounded nation. Machine gun nests, trenches, checkpoints and vehicle obstacles lined the sides of the highway within a few km’s of us leaving the border. I saw no visible damage, but from the moment I entered the country, everywhere I looked I saw some sign of the war. Evidently for the people of Ukraine still living inside, there is no hiding from it, regardless of where they are. We arrived in Lviv and within a half hour, were greeted by a chorus of air raid sirens.

Lviv is a truly unique city, and I can confidently say it was the most beautiful one I have ever visited at this point in my life. I was immediately struck by the awe-inspiring arrangement of Baroque, Neo-Classical and Renaissance architecture that dominated the heart of the city. The influence of all the different various occupying cultures over the years was also evident in its architecture. The streets were full of life, but by no means was it a normal city like I had seen before. Half of the people that walked around me were uniformed men and women, by the looks of it on leave and trying to enjoy the relative safety of the western part of the country. They ranged from what looked to be in their late teens to their 50’s. Some walked in groups, almost as if they were in sections or units. Others alone. Many older men limped around the streets limbless and bandaged still in their fatigues, clearly destitute. The rest of the population stubbornly clings on to some semblance of a busy and normal life, hustling to make a living in the harsh conditions a war economy creates for people to live in, much less thrive.

We spent this afternoon being shown around by Matthew, into the evening we wandered up and down the cobblestone streets, pub to pub, talking to the people and trying to get a sense of the mood. The first and foremost thing I sensed from the Ukrainian people was their strength and resiliency. I felt this from every person I spoke to, from kids in bars to the soldiers further east, that these people hold a deep love their country, and they have no intention of ever bowing down.

My 2nd day in Lviv held a different tone. Fundraising commitments had us visit what is called “The Field of Mars.” When I arrived, I was immediately hit by a wave of somberness. In front of me lay a field of hundreds of graves, adorned with pictures of the deceased, decorations, flags, and family messages. As I walked among the many rows of fallen, I was hit with the sobering reality that many of these men were my age or younger. Staring at pictures of them alive, knowing that they lay beneath me, having paid the ultimate sacrifice in defense of their homeland, I was profoundly moved. I was honored to be standing in the presence of heroes. We were joined by a guide, who kindly told us individual stories of many of the brave men and women buried in that field. Leaving the fallen, we witnessed the grisly sight of an excavator and some somber-looking older men, digging more graves.

That afternoon, we made our final preparations to head east. Matthew brought us to a bustling market, where he claimed and from what I could see sold almost anything one could imagine. As he described it, Ukraine has gone into a state of almost “Anarcho-capitalism.” Now, I am no economist, nor nearly as educated as Matthew, but I am quite sure that seems like a pretty bang-on description of what I was witnessing on the streets. We made our way into a basement surplus shop, where I vastly overspent on body armor and other equipment in a state of manic bliss, being surrounded by incredibly affordable and high-quality gear compared to what I was used to. Now that our party was confidently equipped, we boarded our evening train, bound for Kharkiv.

Our train plowed its way on through the rugged Ukrainian landscape. Gold domed churches peaked their way above the towns and villages that dotted the landscape, passing through the cities Ternopil, Vinnytsia, and Poltava. The most memorable part of that 12-hour train ride, and one that will stick with me forever, was at a middle-of-the-night stop in Poltava. I sprung awake in my car, watching the soldiers make their way onto the train in groups, bags slung over their shoulders. Amidst the onboarding, I witnessed two children, visibly crying, holding onto their father. After hugging and speaking closely with both of them, the mother and what appeared to be their grandmother pulled them away. Inconsolably reaching to their father, he grimly stepped off the platform. As I drifted off that night, the cost of war I had just witnessed weighed heavily on my mind. It was one of many to come.

Arriving in Kharkiv early in the morning, we were greeted by the eerie wail of air raid sirens echoing throughout the city as we walked out of the massive station. Making our way towards the groups of hired cars, we instead opted to take the underground metro to the hotel. The metro, a practical and enduring remnant of the Soviet era, serves a dual purpose as public transport and air raid/bomb shelter. It was surreal to see families, students, and elderly residents stand and wait for the train, eerily undisturbed by the sirens blaring above as they persevered through what most people would find unimaginably terrifying—another real reminder of the strength these people hold.

Our destination was a modest hotel that offered a safe underground living space, our organizer reporting it was a favorite safe spot for foreign journalists. Among our co-guests were a team of French reporters, and many other mysterious faces of various nationalities passed by as we conversed in the hotel’s lounge. Shortly after arriving, we were privileged to meet Paul, a friend of Matthew’s, a fellow security industry professional and volunteer from the UK who had joined our party. Matthew, always diligent and planning ahead, had already coordinated three NGO meetings for us in the city.

Later that day, we first attended a meeting with the NGO known as Hell’s Kitchen, an extraordinary group whose mission is nothing short of heroic. Igor, the founder and a proud Ukrainian native, introduced us to his team. The room was alive with purpose, and amidst the hard work, I was given the pleasure of conversing with foreign volunteers Franklin and Wynd, two Americans, and Aint, a man hailing from New Zealand. Alongside them was a small but mighty squad of local women and babushkas whose unwavering dedication was visible by their lightning-fast work ethic, portioning and firing out what appeared to be an incredible quantity of food. Funded by three angel investors—Ukrainians based in the United States—Hell’s Kitchen operates with a clear purpose: to provide fresh bread and nourishing meals to those who need them most. Hospitals, frontline soldiers, and vulnerable communities across the region have come to rely on or request their support. Despite the magnitude of their work, none of these individuals receive payment for their efforts. Their reward lies in the impact they’re making, one loaf of bread at a time.

While there, we had the privilege of meeting Jack, a British volunteer and ex-Army serviceman. Jack’s contributions go beyond delivering food; he plays a crucial role in coordinating casualty evacuations from the front lines. His calm demeanor belied the harrowing nature of his work. Hearing him speak about the people he’s helped and the lives he’s touched was profoundly humbling, and the stories of the close calls he experienced daily were gripping and captivating. Learning the true extent of the level of support that comes from non-military volunteers, both domestic and foreign, was as surprising as it was inspiring.

The workers at Hell’s Kitchen embody selfless sacrifice. Every loaf of bread they bake is a symbol of solidarity, a gesture of humanity in the face of unimaginable adversity, terror, and war. These individuals—Igor, his team, the local women, and volunteers like Jack—are not just feeding bodies; they are nourishing hope. As we left the meeting, chewing on the delicious and fresh bread they gave us as a parting gift, I couldn’t help but reflect on their quiet heroism, the kind that often goes unnoticed but deserves the world’s recognition.

Our second NGO meeting brought us to the Ark Organization, located in the heart of Kharkiv, represented by Yaryna, a local volunteer whose passion for her work was immediately apparent. I sat down and had the opportunity to interview her. Ark focuses on rescuing animals—both domestic and wild—from the frontline warzone. Their mission is multifaceted, providing shelter, veterinary care, and even reunification efforts for displaced animals. Since the war began, Ark has rescued an astounding 20,270 animals, with 20% of those returned to their original owners. These range from cats, dogs, individual small pets abandoned in a haste as people fled the advancing Russian onslaught, and even large animals found on the many devastated farms. In 2023, Ark expanded its mission to include animal therapy for patients with PTSD. The center now offers calming rooms where soldiers and civilians alike suffering from trauma can interact with the animals in a therapeutic environment. The facility sees around 200 users each month, a testament to the healing power that this unique initiative provides to the wounded city of Kharkiv. As I spoke with more people who lived and worked near the frontlines, I began to hear similar accounts of Russian war crimes coming from volunteers’ workers. This unfortunately was also the case with Ark. In 2022, their original shelter entirely destroyed by Russian artillery. Yaryna shared the chilling reality that their workers, clearly marked as medical/rescue personnel and dressed in civilian clothing, have been subjected to drone and artillery attacks during rescue operations. In one harrowing instance, a van that was transporting animals ended up being struck by a drone, killing and maiming several animals. Miraculously, the two drivers suffered only minor injuries. When asked what message she wanted to share with people in North America, Yaryna’s response was simple: "Animals suffer too." Her words resonated deeply as we toured the facility, surrounded by hundreds of injured and abandoned animals. Another cost of war.

Our next stop was HUGS (Helping Ukraine Grassroot Support), the NGO we visited that left the biggest impression on me. This group, founded by Canadians, was by far the most profound and impactful volunteer organization we encountered, deserving an article in its own right. Paul Hughes, the founder, is an ex-Canadian soldier and former member of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry (PPCLI). His dedication and commitment to the Ukrainian cause were evident not just in his words but also in his and his family’s actions. Apart from Paul leading the HUGS organization, his own 22-year-old son is at this time currently fighting in the Ukrainian Legion, a testament to the family’s deep connection to the conflict.

HUGS was a garage staffed by a mix of foreign and domestic volunteers, and we had the privilege of meeting Marc from Scotland, Chelsea from England, our very own Paul from the UK (A HUGS volunteer himself), and many others. Their initiatives are vast and diverse, focusing primarily on evacuation missions, mechanical work for NGOs supporting the war effort—500 vehicles repaired in the last two years alone—delivering medical supplies and personnel to the front lines, and running a free clinic. They also operate the SMART program (Sport, Music, Art, Recreation, and Technology) for youth development, focusing their efforts not only on supporting the war but fostering a sense of normality and community for those youth living in wartime conditions. In addition, HUGS sponsors a “Mom and Tots” group, providing support to young mothers and children of Kharkiv, many of which no doubt I speculate are widows. Additionally, HUGS delivers lifesaving supplies and equipment to stabilization points along the front line. Locally referred to as "Little Canada," walking into the group’s base immediately felt as if I were in a home away from home, a beacon of unity and shared purpose.

To me, HUGS exemplifies the best of Canadian values, showing what can be achieved by even our own brothers and sisters through unwavering courage, resolve, and compassion. I left our final interview that evening with a full heart, standing and sharing a beer amidst characters that exuded such selflessness, courage, and dedication. It was at that moment in a city in war-torn eastern Ukraine, that I have never felt prouder to be a Canadian.

The next morning after a rather comical situation getting our car sorted out, the four of us departed Kharkiv in a Honda CRV. As we left the outskirts of Kharkiv, we stopped by a tank graveyard on the edge of the city. Located in a dreary gas station parking lot, a haunting array of destroyed armored vehicles stood destroyed and beleaguered as a grim testament to the fierce battle that had raged where we stood just two years earlier. Among the wreckage were tanks, medium and light armored vehicles, scarred with the marks of small arms fire, torn open and left to rust, exposed to the rainy air by the wounds of the larger caliber weapons which brought them down. The infamous invasion “Z’s” were clearly seen emblazoned on the front and sides of the silent beasts. Mannequins dressed in captured Russian uniforms were eerily posed across the site, chained in grotesque tableaux—a warning to those who might once again try and test the Ukrainian resolve. One striking display featured a cage filled with the empty vodka bottles and uniforms stripped from downed Russian vehicles. Nearby, a destroyed BTR was buried under a mountain of looted household goods—laundry machines, microwaves, children’s electric vehicles—items stolen from Ukrainian homes during the Russian occupation/retreat. This particular vehicle had been obliterated before it could escape with its pile of loot. The scene was both chilling and surreal, a stark reminder that many things in war never change.

We arrived in Kupiansk around midday, a frontline city that was once home to 50,000-60,000 residents. Though not entirely abandoned, the streets were filled with a new silence, with far fewer people than we had seen elsewhere. The occasional damaged building or bomb site we had witnessed in previous cities paled in comparison to the widespread destruction witnessed here. Every structure bore the scars of war—businesses, homes, and public spaces either devastated or reduced to rubble.

Coming from a city of similar size, it was an arduous experience to witness firsthand what real devastation looks like, furthermore to a place that reminded me of my home. As we worked our way toward the center of the city, we arrived at a cluster of government buildings overlooking the river. From this vantage point, Matthew pointed out the Russian lines which encompassed all across the water. The scene at this point in the front was hauntingly still, the silence and calm casting an eerie veil over the area. It was a stark reminder of how fragile that peace truly was. While taking photos behind a rock wall facing the river, a voice suddenly called out from our right. Concealed beneath camouflage netting within a grove of trees about 50 meters away, a group of Ukrainian soldiers operated an observation post. One soldier, speaking in English, warned us that large drones had been sighted in the area recently and urged us to move on for our own safety. The gravity of the warning was clear, and we quickly made our way to a safer part of the city. There, we visited the central Orthodox Cathedral. Its bombed-out windows and bullet-ridden compound walls stood as a solemn testament to the ferocity of the street-to-street fighting which took place previously in Kupiansk. The empty cathedral, once a sanctuary, now bore the marks of violence and survival, and for the moment, sat in a sad sereness, as if it was waiting for more peaceful times.

As we drove out of Kupiansk, the scale of destruction was staggering. The damage to local infrastructure was total—one of our guides remarked that nearly every building had been affected in some way. The city, now barely recognizable, stood as both a monument to resilience and a grim reminder of the cost of war. Leaving Kupiansk, I was left with a clearer perspective on the realities of conflict. The devastation was profound, but even amidst the rubble, there was a quiet strength in those who remained. It’s a vision I won’t soon forget—a city scarred but not entirely broken.

Carrying on through the Donbass, we stopped briefly in Izium, greeted once again by the familiar wail of air raid sirens. The city, previously held by Russian forces, bore the marks of its occupation and subsequent liberation by the Ukrainians. At the Great Patriotic War Memorial built by the Soviets, Ukrainian graffiti art now adorned its surface, ironically reflecting the current struggle. Nearby, we came across a blown-up chapel and the remains of a fish restaurant that Matthew had hoped we might eat at—intact the last time he had passed through. No fish for us that day.

By midday, we crossed into the Donetsk Oblast, officially entering the by now well-known Donbass region of Ukraine, and continued toward Sloviansk. We arrived later that afternoon, the city openly bearing the scars from Russian artillery and missile strikes—a hauntingly familiar sight by now. The next morning, we made our way to Kramatorsk, where I would spend my last two days in the Donbass. Our guide for this leg of the journey was a fiery Polish volunteer we’ll call "S." Introduced to us by Matthew and Paul, she was a fixer within the NGO network, a selfless and resourceful woman who coordinated medical supplies for those who needed them most. Charismatic and inspiring, S took us to breakfast before showing us around the bombed-out city.

Our first stop was a Pentecostal church, where we met with the lead pastor to learn about his ministry’s outreach efforts in the local community. As we stood outside the church around 10:30 a.m., Matthew made a remark that dripped with irony: “It surprises me we haven’t experienced any close artillery since being here.” Not a second later, a thunderous sound erupted, followed by a massive explosion that shook the ground beneath us. Every car on the street blared its alarm in unison, and for a moment, it felt as though the fist of God had slammed into the earth. About 500 meters down the road, a Russian shell had landed. My adrenaline surged as I instinctively lowered myself and scanned the elderly locals around me, many of whom appeared far less shaken than I was. The neighborhood, filled with civilians and far from any active fighting, had been struck without warning. The initial exhilaration quickly turned to anger and then unease as I glanced skyward, helplessly wondering if another shell would land closer. We moved swiftly to a safer area—if such a thing existed here—and resumed our interview.

The pastor, unshaken by the blast, carried on. As artillery echoed in the distance, he shared a message for Canadians: “As Christians, I remind people we need to look at the world as God does, from above. I don’t hate Russians; I am against evil and aggression.” His calm demeanor astonished me. I asked how long it had taken him to grow used to the shelling. “Half a year,” he replied. “Now it’s not scary at all—at least, people say it’s not scary until it hits your house,” he added with a faint grin. He spoke with quiet sorrow about the elderly left homeless by the war. “At the end of their lives, they have nothing. Especially those who lost or never had families.” As he spoke, images of the many old women we had seen selling potatoes from bags on street corners flashed through my mind. The church itself was a sanctuary and haven of resilience. Its rooms were lined with bunk beds and blankets, ready to shelter those displaced by the fighting. Some beds were already occupied. Amid the distant pound of artillery, the civilian volunteers worked with unwavering focus. In their presence, I again felt incredible honor to have borne witness to such courage.

Later that afternoon, we met with a group of foreign medics operating in the Kramatorsk area, primarily Americans. Their harrowing stories painted a vivid picture of the frontline reality—dedicated, a lot of the time foreign individuals providing medical aid to soldiers and hurt civilians under constant threat. That night, we stayed in an old Soviet apartment graciously offered by one of S’s friends.

On my final day in the Donbass, S introduced me to two Ukrainian NCMs from the 10th Brigade. They arrived in a green, spray-painted quarter-ton truck, its rear emblazoned with a white cross—the familiar symbol identifying friendly vehicles. The men were socially connected with a close friend of S and had arranged to pick up a variety of crucial medical supplies: tourniquets, quick clot, IV tubes, and more. The ingenuity and resourcefulness of these two Polish women impressed me deeply. Living in a frontline city, one working as a journalist and S as a volunteer, they were each making a real and significant difference to the war effort. When I asked the soldiers if they normally used civilian-pattern vehicles for supply runs, one of the soldiers replied, “We view the West and what they have as almost science fiction. Generally, I’m always delivering medical supplies in a civilian vehicle.” Curious about their perspective on the war, I asked how they thought things were going for Ukraine. “I’m too busy to look at the big things,” one said. “I mainly focus on my job here. I learn more about the situation from my family overseas when I speak with them.” As we finished loading the supplies and grabbed a quick picture, the unmistakable buzz of a drone cut through the air. Moments later, bursts of small-arms fire erupted, followed by the heavier staccato of machine guns. For the next ten minutes, the area roared with the sounds of gunfire aimed at the sky. As I turned and made my way towards shelter, S explained it might be training—or perhaps indeed a Russian FPV drone. Either way, it was business as usual for those around us. I marveled at the normality of it all, a surreal juxtaposition to the chaos just a stone’s throw away. As I’ve heard my friend Matthew say, it was “just another day in Kramatorsk.”

After lunch, S and I said our goodbyes, and I boarded the train, leaving the dangers of the Donbass behind me. Heading west to Lviv and then to Poland, I carried with me a deeper understanding of courage, resilience, and the quiet heroism that endures in even the darkest of times. My train would take 20 hours to cross the open plains of Ukraine. As it carried me further and further away from the chaos and destruction, I pondered what I had taken away from this.

Looking back on my journey, I realize now that it was more than just an adventure or a chance to witness history—it was a descent into humanity’s own inferno. Guided by individuals like Scott, whose unwavering determination was the reason we made it there in the first place, and Dr. Matthew Parish, our modern-day Virgil, who navigated us through the chaos with wisdom and resolve, I bore witness firsthand to some of the many faces war can show. From meeting Paul and the volunteers of HUGS, tirelessly working to preserve life and provide neighborly support, to the soldiers defending their homelands with courage and determination, and the ordinary people who stand resilient amidst unimaginable hardship, each encounter revealed a new layer of strength, sacrifice, and humanity.

My time in Ukraine forced me to confront the harsh realities of war—not the romanticized version I once held, but the unrelenting truth of loss, resilience, and hope. Each grave I passed in the Field of Mars, each person I encountered, and every story of survival and sacrifice I witnessed painted a vivid picture of war’s cost. It is a cost borne not just by soldiers but by civilians, families, and entire communities. The inferno we traversed revealed not only the horrors of destruction but also the unyielding and unbreakable spirit of those who refuse to yield. The Ukrainian spirit embodies a courage that defies despair. The foreign volunteers we encountered, such as Igor at Hell’s Kitchen and the tireless workers from HUGS, proved to me that even in the darkest of times, humanity’s capacity for compassion and solidarity endures in the face of darkness and in the defense of freedom.

Amid the ashes of war, I constantly witnessed an unparalleled contrast—the beauty and art that can persist even in the face of death and destruction. The unity and ability of people to come together, brought on by others tearing themselves apart, is a testament to the paradox of our world: its capacity for destruction matched only by its ability to create, inspire, and endure.

And yet, amid this resilience, I proclaim to anyone who will listen that the undeniable truth remains: the Russian forces and Putin’s regime are committing atrocities against civilians, spreading terror, and leaving scars that will take generations to heal. This war is not being fought nobly or for just cause. My journey, like Dante’s, was not one I could emerge from unchanged. Although I faced a much different inferno than the one written in The Divine Comedy, I emerge committed to the idea that remaining silent in the face of such crimes is to abandon the very principles that define us as humanity. These acts of aggression are not just an attack on Ukraine but on the shared ideals of self-governance, justice, and freedom for the whole world. In the faces of those I met and the stories they shared, I found lessons in courage, sacrifice, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. It is these lessons that I will forever carry with me. Glory to Ukraine. Glory to the Heroes.