Some time in our lives, even if it happened during the war, will still retain the feeling that the landscape is about the peace and beauty of existence. The arched forest, into which the dusty, rustling road under the wheels of a bicycle is about to bump, should bring joy, not harm, if you act according to the rules of this place: do not go off the path, do not pick or put in your mouth what you do not know, or destroy a bird's home.
This is the forest under my house, and in this forest I love a deep hole overgrown with too much green grass and unknown shrubs. But the most important thing at the bottom is blueberry bushes. So I slide down like a ball to crush a blueberry between my index finger and thumb, which seems to be as big as a home-grown strawberry. I'm sure that the forest and its landscape are safe, it doesn't threaten me. I grew up in its fascinating thickets and remnants of swamps, this landscape shaped me, kept my world small, where no one is looking for a way in and from which I am unlikely to ever cut a path.
So I roll into the pit like a ball, and only then does my grandmother tell me that the pit is a crater from a 1941 air raid. That is, incredibly large blueberries grow in a bomb crater, I wonder, and my grandmother worries that where the grass is greener than the rest, the bomb has not exploded: can a beautiful landscape swallow a bomb?
I still don't see anything wrong with a bomb crater if it's so green and nurtures such large blueberries-it's beautiful. Bombs are ugly. I think so for no particular reason, even though I haven't read a single book about the war yet, and my war is still far ahead of me.
The photographer Roman Zakrevsky has always seemed to me to be a master of the little things. He is the photographer for whom I have the greatest sentiment. Not least because he and I were brought up together and are largely connected by the same landscapes of northern Ukraine, our common Chernihiv and the dense nooks and crannies of the region. After all, it's hard not to have sentiments for the person with whom you sat on a thousand-year-old Chernihiv mound, pondering how much love a chestnut that has just sprouted here needs to become a big tree.
Roman, who is now not only a photographer but also a soldier, took this photo in the east, near Kramatorsk. And it's a very strange feeling to observe the landscapes in his photographs for a year now, which do not resemble the Polissia region that he and I are used to.
Roman came across this outcrop during one of his shoots, and it attracted his attention because of its difference from the perspective of the north and the Chernihiv skyline. Roman sees strength in this rock. He could compare it to an earlier experience he had: he was once in the countryside and sat for a while surrounded by beehives. It was evening, the bees were flocking and preparing for sleep, and their humming - definitely primitive - seemed pleasantly familiar to Roman, even though it was the first time he had heard such a hum. Looking at the rock, Roman felt something similar.
Most likely, the rocky chimeras in the photo are the outcrops of chalk cliffs that are spread out in this part of the country near Kramatorsk and Druzhkivka. These rocks are the remains of those who lived in the local sea depths nine tens of millions of years ago. That is, this beauty is a pure hiding place of dying, and also its consequence and purpose. Someone ninety million years ago became a rock and a whole experience by which we recognize the world today. Perhaps the writer Taras Prokhasko (who, fortunately for us, is also a biologist) said it best in his “Lexicon of Secret Knowledge”: “The key to any experience is dying [...] The maximum experience is needed in order to die in one's own way. And in order to become a dead forest for someone, a whole wasteland of additional experience.” And according to him, there is no false or unnecessary experience.
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We prefer the landscape to remain safe, or at least not threatening us at this very moment. Waves of fields, cut quarries, trampled floodplains of streams under the road. What if the landscape could take the form of our experiences, which we attach to the thin tops of spruce trees where fog falls from the mountains, or granite outcrops above a river narrowing where river mussels can be caught with our hands? Don't we ourselves give the landscape our pains, fears, and joys? We want the rocky outcropping under our feet to bring us peace, tranquility, balance, and even answers. How strange it is to ask the landscape for answers, but who else would you ask?
But the landscape is mostly silent, marked and sometimes doomed by our presence.
When any landscape is doomed by us, sooner or later it will become a battlefield. I think about the Dnipro on the surface, but also about the number of human bones that gathered on its black surface during the battles for Kyiv in World War II. In the fields near Uman, I would not be surprised if we dig trenches now and find one of Bohun's Cossacks who fell asleep on guard duty.
In addition to the desired peace, the landscapes could definitely take care of the calmness of memory and the slowness of recall. Landscapes seem to have been created to erase and hide everything we have done, good or bad. Any piece of iron can be swallowed by the forest, any tank skeleton can be caught by the claws of wild ivy, any bomb can be swallowed by the earth, and the river will gather bodies along its banks. Nature does not need our direction to hide everything. Not even to hide, no! Rather, it wants to envelop. To envelop all kinds of dying experiences, reminding us of life.
Photo: Roman Zakrevsky
Text: Vira Kuriko
Kupiansk, once known as an important trade hub, has today become a symbol of resistance and destruction. Historically, the city was closely linked to trade, a connection reflected even in its name—according to one version, it comes from the word "kupyets" (merchant). Another version links the name to "kupy" (peat bogs), which once covered the area.
Located just 50 kilometers from the Russian border, the city was one of the first targets of Russia's invasion. Kupiansk, once home to over 25,000 people and a strategic railway junction, has now become a symbol of resilience and yet another significant loss in the Russian-Ukrainian war. Today, it stands as a destroyed city, fading under the blows of war.
At the start of the invasion, the then-mayor, Hennadiy Matsehora, who was elected from a pro-Russian party, surrendered the city without resistance. The Russians promised that life in Kupiansk would remain normal, but these promises quickly dissipated. The occupiers took control of the city, turning it into a logistics hub for transporting military equipment and weapons. They seized the facilities of municipal enterprises and the district's heating network for their own use. Schools were switched to the Russian curriculum, with Ukrainian textbooks replaced by Russian ones. The Russians imposed harsh rules: Ukrainian television was cut off, communication was constantly blocked, and those who disagreed with the occupiers' policies were tortured in local prisons. According to Slidstvo.Info, there were at least four torture chambers in Kupiansk: at the sugar factory, the heating network, the water utility, and the police station.
Despite all the hardships, the residents showed remarkable solidarity: they organized self-defense groups and helped each other with medicines, food, and other essentials.
On September 9, 2022, Ukrainian forces liberated Kupiansk during a large-scale counteroffensive in the Kharkiv region. The city returned to Ukrainian control, but the Russians did not cease shelling. The central city hospital, residential buildings, educational institutions, and the railway station were all damaged.
Today, the Russians continue to attack the city using artillery, multiple rocket launchers (MRLS), guided bombs, and FPV drones. According to recent reports, Russian troops are stationed just 2.5–3 kilometers from Kupiansk, turning it into an active combat zone.
The Kharkiv regional military administration has announced a mandatory evacuation of the population from Kupiansk, Kivsharivka, Kurylivka, and other settlements. The evacuation is being conducted using armored vehicles, with special attention given to the elderly and disabled individuals. Despite the danger, approximately 2,500 people remain in the city. Volunteers and rescue workers are assisting those who choose to evacuate and those who decide to stay, despite the risks.
Photojournalist Ivan Samoylov visited Kupiansk twice — in September 2023 and October 2024. His lens captured the transformation of the city, which is literally disappearing.
“In September 2023, we traveled to Kupiansk several times, including to Kivsharivka, where the evacuation was taking place,” Samoilov recalls. ”Back then, we could move freely across the crossing in the city center. But then, after our trip, volunteers were killed there, and the crossing stopped functioning.”
Despite the shelling, the mood of local residents in 2023 remained optimistic. The Russians were then about eight kilometers from the town. “Shops and a post office were open in Kivsharivka, and minibuses to Kharkiv were running, although the roads and crossings were in a terrible state,” says the photographer: “We will stay and live here.”
However, even then, the danger was palpable. "We could afford to shoot in the center for a few hours, but there was always a feeling that at any moment something could hit," adds Ivan.
In October 2024, the situation drastically changed. "Now the center of Kupiansk is dead; there is no one there. If anyone drives through, it’s only at high speed because Russian FPV drones track movement and target vehicles," Samoylov explains.
The documentary photographer came under Russian fire at the market. "We were talking to locals, taking photos, and just two minutes after we left, a one-and-a-half-ton guided bomb landed 200–300 meters away. It killed a woman and injured many others, including an elderly lady with whom we had just spoken. It was horrific. She was hospitalized in a Kharkiv hospital. Later, she called us from the hospital, asking for help," the photographer recalls.
Now, the city is filled with anxiety and despair. "People understand that sooner or later, they’ll have to leave," Samoylov says. "The left bank of Kupiansk is completely empty: no electricity, no power. And the right bank is slowly disappearing as well. Shops and pharmacies are closing. The market where we were is destroyed."
Samoylov notes a shift in the locals' attitudes. "I felt that people were starting to view journalists and outsiders with distrust. After the shelling at the market, they hinted that the attacks were because of us. Of course, that’s absurd, but their fear is understandable," he says.
According to him, even in the most difficult conditions in 2023, people still held onto some optimism, but now the situation is much gloomier. "Kupiansk is gradually dissolving under the strikes of cluster bombs. Life here has almost disappeared," he sums up.
The photographs of Ivan Samoylov capture not only the physical destruction of Kupiansk but also the gradual disappearance of the city as a living entity, as well as the pain of its residents who are losing their homes.
Ivan Samoilov is a photojournalist and videographer from Kharkiv who actively documents the Russian-Ukrainian war. Instagram of the photographer.
Ukrainian photographer Stanislav Ostrous shared his experiences of the first days of the full-scale war in Kharkiv, the stories of people he encountered in areas liberated from Russian forces, and the places that truly embodied the soul of Kherson.
— Could you please describe what you remember about the first day of the full-scale Russian invasion? Where were you, and what images did you capture?
— On February 23, 2022, photographer Anna Melnykova and I were setting up her photogravure project City No Name, which was scheduled to open on February 24, 2022, at the Kharkiv Municipal Gallery. The setup was challenging—Anna had a large piece consisting of nine works, and we spent the whole evening with a hammer and pliers. All that was left to do was straighten the corners so the photos would hang evenly, put up nameplates, and tidy the space. We even bought some wine to celebrate the successful arrangement and enjoy the evening.
We woke up at 4 a.m. to explosions in Kharkiv. I immediately went online to read the news—everywhere, people were saying the war had begun. It was a real shock for me. I didn’t think a full-scale Russian invasion would actually happen. The day before, my ex-wife, who was living with our children in Kherson at the time, called me, worried about the possibility of war. I reassured her, saying everything would be fine.
On the morning of February 24, I didn’t even know what to do next. Looking outside, I saw a small line of five or six people at an ATM. I decided to quickly get ready and withdraw some cash as well. By the time I got outside, the line had grown to over twenty people. Nearby shops were closed—everyone was afraid of looting. While waiting in line, I thought I heard a drone flying overhead. I lived in the Shevchenkivskyi district of Kharkiv, which was heavily shelled. Russian forces had approached the city, and artillery was active. I managed to withdraw some money and left the city that same day, heading to the suburb of Pokotylivka. It was relatively calm there—no explosions could be heard, but there were self-defense checkpoints everywhere and the sounds of our troops testing their firearms.
The main issue at that time was access to medicine and food. There was a store near us with almost empty shelves. People started arriving in trucks, bringing meat from bombed farms. We later learned that farmers were hastily slaughtering animals so they wouldn’t leave them to suffer under occupation. Stories spread that Russian forces were preventing farm staff from reaching the animals or feeding them. Russian troops came right up to Saltivka, a district in Kharkiv, and seized the Feldman Ecopark. The animals there were starving, and several park workers were killed while trying to bring them food. These are some of my memories…
At the start of the full-scale Russian invasion, I didn’t have press accreditation. Without the proper documents, it was impossible to travel to Kharkiv and take photos. I immediately began searching for opportunities, and the Ivano-Frankivsk media outlet Kurs helped me obtain a press card. I received my credentials in early March, and on the very first day, I went to Kharkiv. The city was completely deserted—wrecked cars lay across the streets, anti-tank barriers were everywhere, and maybe once every half hour, a car would pass by. It was bitterly cold. I wandered the city aimlessly and eventually reached the city center, where I encountered other photographers: Pavlo Dorohyi, Maksym Dondiuk, and James Nachtwey. Maksym let me join him in his car, and we went to shoot together. Since I didn’t have a car, I walked everywhere—public transport wasn’t running, and taxis were charging outrageous sums that I won’t even name. People were paying fortunes to get from Northern Saltivka to the train station.
Together with my colleagues, I came to Saltovka. There I took my first shots of a full-scale war. Then I took pictures in the Kharkiv Regional Council. On the second day of filming, I was approached by a press officer who supervised all the journalists and with whom I had to agree on the shooting in advance. The military officer was simply surprised by such impudence. However, when he saw my camera, a medium-format Rolleiflex, he said that he would allow me to take pictures with it. I fascinated him with this camera, and we started talking.
The press officer with the call sign Karabakh was inside the regional council building on March 1 when the missiles hit. I have footage of the rescuers taking out the bodies of the dead. Karabakh recalls that the shock wave carried him towards the stairwell and broke a glass window. When the soldier came to, he saw that the sole of his boots had been torn off. I took a picture of him with my Rolleiflex.
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Every day, I took the commuter train from Pokotylivka to Kharkiv, walked through the city, and photographed. I walked as much as I could physically manage. Volunteers helped me get a bulletproof vest and a first aid kit. I would look for smoke on the horizon and head in that direction.
— Why was it important for you to photograph the war? Which media outlets did you start collaborating with?
— At first, it was terrifying. Especially during the first week, when I didn’t have accreditation and couldn’t take photos—I was focused solely on how to find food. I remember the first thing we bought: three dozen eggs. We bought them and immediately felt some relief—at least we wouldn’t starve for the next week. Later, we managed to get turkey meat and filled the freezer. Once I resolved those basic needs, I was able to think about creativity. When I started taking photographs, I immediately felt calmer because I was working again, doing what I do best. That was the first therapeutic moment for me.
Secondly, I wanted to document everything happening around me. I understood that this was an extraordinary event. After that, the fear subsided, even though the city was constantly being shelled with mortars, artillery, and Grad rockets. In Saltivka, my colleagues and I came under fire—fragments were flying right above me. I walked through Kharkiv, sticking close to the walls, and kept photographing.
My work began appearing in Ukrainian and international publications, including German outlets. Foreign journalists frequently reached out, looking for a fixer. At the start of 2022, I didn’t know Kharkiv well, as I had only recently moved to the city from Kherson. While I was familiar with the city center, I wouldn’t have been able to guide anyone to Saltivka or other districts.
Initially, I focused primarily on reportage photography. Later, I was contacted by the charity foundation Global 2000 for Children of Ukraine. In Kharkiv Oblast, there are over 20 family-type homes, and I documented the foundation’s aid to children. We traveled throughout the region, distributing humanitarian aid. A psychologist was with us because many of the children had been evacuated from occupied territories, and some were suffering from PTSD.
After the liberation of part of the region from the Russian military, I went there to take pictures. I met Kharkiv volunteers who were helping people from the de-occupied territories. Of course, I helped to unload and distribute humanitarian aid, and at the same time I was shooting. Some of the photos from these shoots were included in my photo project “Peaceful”. We traveled to many parts of the Kharkiv region, but it was harder for people who had survived the Russian occupation - it was as if something was changing inside them, and the camera could see it well.
— How beautiful can a photo taken during a war be? For you, is photography now more about documentation or art?
— For me, photography right now is primarily about documentation. However, that’s an important question, and one I’ve thought about a lot.
Photographers still rely on tools of expression—there must be composition, light, and color in the frame. Even when I’m photographing portraits of people who have endured difficult events or tragedies, I try to make them beautiful. I’ll guide them to a window or ask them to sit in a way that highlights their features.
I instinctively look for the best light, the most advantageous angle. I think about where color might be more effective or where a monochrome image would work better.
In my opinion, what should never be present in war photography is the addition of artificial beauty. To put it bluntly, searching for an interesting angle through a decorative fence, branches with leaves, or a lace curtain framing a building destroyed by shelling—especially when people might still be trapped under the rubble—is, for me, the height of cynicism. I understand that some may want to work with foreground elements, but I personally avoid such approaches. It’s crucial to clearly depict the event and convey it accurately.
Another thing that troubles me is how, by the third year of the full-scale war, we’ve started to grow accustomed to it. When I heard the sound of an explosion in Kharkiv, I calmly contacted journalist acquaintances for details, got on my bike, and went to photograph the scene. In those moments, I began to feel that these shoots had become routine for me, and I was creating content out of others’ suffering. Of course, it’s not truly like that, because I, too, was at risk—the shelling could have hit me as well. I’m not a tourist visiting Kharkiv for a weekend; I live here and experience all of this alongside other people. Except for a few residencies and exhibitions abroad, I haven’t left the city. I’ve tried to find personal meaning in what I do. I am a photographer, and the only thing I can do is document and convey the tragedy unfolding in my city and my country.
— Are there moments you chose not to photograph because of ethical considerations? Times when you had the opportunity but couldn’t bring yourself to raise the camera?
— Yes, I’ve had such moments. I witnessed a shelling, and a man died practically before my eyes. I was walking to a supermarket in the residential area of Pavlove Pole when an explosion occurred just a hundred meters away. I always carry a small Rollei 35 with me, so, of course, I immediately ran toward the scene. By the time I arrived, firefighters were already working, and a man’s body was lying on the ground. No one stopped me or interfered—I showed my accreditation, and the police allowed me through. I realized I could capture a very striking image if I photographed the man up close. However, a person in death is utterly defenseless; they cannot give consent to be photographed. I wasn’t sure how ethical it would be to take such a shot. The man’s expression in that moment was terrifying—it felt like the very face of death. I couldn’t bring myself to take a close-up. Instead, I captured wider shots—images of how the body was wrapped in a black bag and carried away. That experience made me question how professional my sense of ethics or lack thereof really is. As a documentary photographer, I’m supposed to push past my personal boundaries and take such images. But that time, I couldn’t do it.
There was another moment when I didn’t document an event. I was filming documentary clips about Kharkiv’s cultural figures, and we were in a car with Serhiy Zhadan and staff members from the Literary Museum. Shortly before we passed through one district, it had been shelled, and I saw bodies lying on the street. The women were very frightened, and I didn’t have the courage to ask the driver to stop. I probably should have gotten out and taken photos, but at that moment, I couldn’t.
— What are the biggest challenges you face as a photographer documenting the war?
— The hardest part is explaining to people why I’m taking photographs. When I was shooting in places hit by shelling, people were initially irritated and genuinely didn’t understand why this needed to be documented. Over time, of course, they got used to it. Sometimes, I would just photograph Kharkiv, even when nothing was happening. Residents would immediately approach me and ask why I was taking pictures. I would show my accreditation, explain who I was shooting for and why, and show them my film camera, emphasizing that developing the images would take a few days. Even the police accepted that argument.
When I traveled through the city and saw police officers or soldiers, I would immediately raise my hands and approach them myself. In the early days of the full-scale war, everyone was on edge. I understood that if military personnel were in an area, it likely meant they were guarding an important object that couldn’t be photographed. I would show my accreditation, the contents of my backpack, and explain my work. However, there was one time when a colleague and I were taken in by the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU). We were photographing a building, and someone saw us with cameras and called the authorities. They checked our documents and took us somewhere for further questioning. Since my residence registration was in Kherson, which was already occupied at the time, I aroused a lot of suspicion and questions. Once everything was clarified, they let us go.
— How difficult is it for you to avoid repeating yourself, not taking photos based on certain templates or clichés?
— I try to find new forms. I’ve always been more interested in shooting on film—not because it’s trendy or feels more authentic, but because the medium suits me better. Although I’m perfectly comfortable shooting digitally, I prefer film. At one point, I got my hands on an old Rolleiflex camera with a defect—the film winding mechanism didn’t work properly. In Austria, I found a replacement back for it and started shooting on photographic paper. I captured images of Kharkiv, its iconic locations, and ended up with a series of unique paper negatives—like Polaroids, but reversed. I’m now planning to turn these photographs into an art book—a “black series” about the city. I wanted to work with a concept while still shooting documentary photography.
At some point I got emotionally tired of filming arrivals. I photographed the aftermath of the explosions, wherever I could get to or where photographers were allowed. I was so burnt out from photographing the destruction and the dead that I started taking pictures of people on the beach. I took a boat ride on the river, filmed summer, the beauty of nature, people on vacation. I also think such shootings are important, because all this is happening during the war. War is not only about misfortune, air raids, destruction, but also about life. Life in a city under fire. Life during the war, here and now. People are walking, relaxing, drinking beer and riding catamarans. This is the story.
Then I collaborated with our air defense forces. I noticed that there were a lot of women serving there, and I wanted to take portraits of them. However, I was not allowed to photograph the combat divisions, only the equipment without showing the location. On the third year of the full-scale war, our air defense called and said they needed photos of their work. I shot for them digitally and simultaneously for my own project on film. However, the material I shot hasn’t been released yet, so this series of photos has not been published anywhere.
— What aspects or themes of the war do you think are still insufficiently covered?
— Honestly, I don’t know. It seems to me that everything has probably been covered. You can always look for new approaches, new forms, but most of the topics have already been explored. Personally, I would photograph collaborators, but I don’t know how to find them, let alone convince them to be photographed. When I was shooting the "Civilians" series, I was simply photographing people who came for humanitarian aid. But people told me that in the villages, there were many collaborators, and they, just like everyone else, stood in line for bread and aid. This is a complex and interesting topic, and unfortunately, collaborators haven’t disappeared—there are still many of them, including in Kharkiv.
I photographed abandoned stray animals in shelters. Dogs, in particular, are a whole separate topic. They have very heightened senses, and the sounds of shelling or explosions can cause them to have concussions. These dogs develop certain behavioral patterns that indicate the problem. They might wag their tails or show affection, only to suddenly bite. I photographed shelters for dogs with concussions. I also took photos at an abandoned stable in Staryi Saltiv. The owner had moved to Russia and left over 20 animals to fend for themselves. It was clear that the horses were once well-groomed and of high pedigree, and the stable was well-equipped. Now, two local sheriff officers take care of the horses, but they have no funding. The stable is privately owned, so the horses can't be rehomed. In the summer, the horses graze on their own, and in the winter, volunteers prepare feed for them. Of course, they’re fed, but the level of care they need is not provided.
— Tell us about your "Civilians" series. When and where did you shoot it?
— In the fall of 2022, after the Ukrainian Armed Forces liberated Kharkiv Oblast, I started traveling around the region with volunteers. At first, we went to the Chuhuiv district. We would gather at seven in the morning, load up with various packages, medicine, and of course bread—specifically picking it up from the bakery—and take it to the people. I remember the first village we went to was Malynivka. Yes, the same Malynivka where the famous film "Wedding in Malynivka" was shot. I think Malynivka is the only place where I would want to photograph a wedding.
We traveled around the village, distributing humanitarian aid. Malynivka had been under occupation, and it had a strong impact on the people. Those who hadn’t lived in Russian-occupied areas looked more lively, active, and even happier. On the other hand, people who had experienced the occupation seemed disoriented and lost. They were struggling because they had been right on the frontlines.
I wasn’t just photographing, I was unloading boxes, distributing aid, and if needed, helping to dig out vehicles stuck in the mud. We visited many villages, and I regret not recording their names. I remember we were in a village located right on the border with Russia, which had been under occupation. When I look back at the photos I took on film from that village, it feels like I’m looking at pictures from World War II. The people, wearing torn padded jackets, knit caps, and thick woolen clothes, were characteristic of a bygone era. How do you photograph them in a beautiful way? I photographed them as they were — I simply said, "Look into the camera, I need this for a report." People agreed because they were grateful for the help.
— What stories of people from the Kharkiv region liberated from Russian troops are particularly memorable to you?
— We were in the village of Zalyman, which had been caught in crossfire. It’s situated in a valley, with a river almost encircling it. On one bank, Ukrainian soldiers were based, and on the other, Russian troops. The village had a lot of destroyed houses. In this village, I met Lyuba, who had gathered all the dogs she could find in her yard. People had evacuated, but the animals were left behind. Lyuba’s husband had been mobilized and died near Bakhmut.
I also remember Ali, an Azerbaijani man, who wanted to show me his home. We arrived at the spot, but there was no house left — everything was destroyed. Ali was practically living in a chicken coop. The village had been occupied, and when the Ukrainian army arrived, not all Russian soldiers had left. Ali told me that he had taken advantage of the moment and managed to drive a fuel truck from the Russian army to the Ukrainian military. I'm not sure how much truth there is in his words, but I recorded the story.
In Donetsk region, I met an elderly couple. In early 2022, they had evacuated to their children, but in 2023, they returned to their village. It turned out there was nowhere to return to — their house was completely destroyed, except for the basement. They were utterly lost, with emptiness in their eyes. They couldn't go back to their children, so they planned to rebuild at least something before winter.
This year, I went to Kherson for the first time. I met an incredible woman, Melania. I met her in the Naftogavani district, near the Island — which is almost on the front line. Her house is by the river, and across the river is a red zone where combat operations are taking place. Her house was completely buried in sand and silt, which she had been digging out. When the Kakhovka Dam was blown up, in addition to sand, a barge had washed up in her yard. Imagine the scene — a house half-buried in sand, with a barge in the yard.
Before I became passionate about photography, I worked as the head of the industrial boiler repair section at "Khersonteploenergo." We had a base on the Island, a workshop with equipment. My former colleagues allowed me to enter this area. It was initially flooded, and then a missile landed in the yard. It was very hard to witness all of this. Overall, my visits to Kherson were the most difficult and saddest for me.
— When did you first come to Kherson after the start of the full-scale war?
— I first came to Kherson in March this year, after the Russian invasion. On the first day, I simply walked around the city and photographed. I went to the Oleksiy Honchar Library, located on the Dnipro embankment, which no longer exists. There were several missile strikes there, and it burned out from the inside. I have very personal memories tied to this library — my friend, the famous Kherson poet Yevhen Yanenko, worked there. Writers like Andrukhovych and Zhadan would visit Yevhen at the library. Unfortunately, Yanenko passed away before the full-scale war began. The library had a photography club, which I regularly attended when I lived in Kherson. Every Thursday we would have meetings, discussing and debating various topics. Later, I would go to Yevhen’s, and we would talk about literature, drink tea, and sometimes more than just tea.
It was very hard for me to see the library in such a state. Once a beautiful building in the style of Ukrainian modernism from the 1960s. Before the full-scale war, my colleagues and I received a grant and were working on a project about Kherson's modernism. I still have beautiful photos of the library — both its interiors and panoramic shots.
— On your social media, you now post many photos of Kherson from before the full-scale war. Please tell us about this series — when and where were these photos taken?
— These photos were taken between 2017 and 2019. I was always walking around with my camera, photographing Kherson. I had two series — one shot on digital and the other on film, and they were entirely different narratives. If I can put it this way, on digital I shot objective photography, while on film — very subjective. I tried to convey my feelings through the space of the city, capturing places that held special meaning for me. On digital, I photographed beautiful shots of Kherson. I wanted to convey the feeling of the city — how and what life was like in Kherson, and what was happening there.
Now, I have joined an artist residency, and I finally have time to work with my archives. When I started curating photo collections, I realized that almost everything I had captured no longer exists. This is especially true for the coastal areas, about which I once wanted to create an entire series. In fact, Kherson can only be truly felt if you get on a boat and navigate the tributaries of the Dnipro River. It seems to me that the soul of Kherson was there. But now — it's just ruins. The left bank is occupied, there are ongoing battles, and people there built their homes over generations. Building on the left bank was quite difficult — all the materials had to be transported. There were no roads, so we had to move cement and bricks by boat through the marshes.
On Potemkin Island in the Dnipro River, there was a summer house belonging to the Kherson artist Vyacheslav Mashnytsky. He popularized and developed art in Kherson and founded the Kherson Museum of Contemporary Art. During the full-scale war, he stayed in the city to take care of the museum’s collection. He lived at his summer house, fishing. During the occupation, he went missing. We are all very worried about him and hope that Slava is somewhere in captivity. This is a huge loss for Kherson. Around the Museum of Contemporary Art, a significant part of Kherson's culture was concentrated, and exhibitions were frequently held there. One of the last exhibitions I participated in was called "Kherart."
I once told Viacheslav Mashnytsky about my idea to film the lives of people on the left bank of the Dnipro River in Kherson, because few people know this side of the city. Slava then joked that he should let it stay that way, that there was no need to attract unnecessary eyes. He even talked me out of filming for a while. However, my friends and I went rafting, sailing, and I always took pictures. Now, when I look at these photos, I realize that this Kherson is gone. Of course, we will rebuild the city, but it will be a different Kherson. We can restore the buildings, but who will restore life on the left bank, the carefree and endless hot Kherson summer, boats, fishing, swimming. This simply does not exist physically-everything is destroyed. I'm finishing up the selection of material for the book. My photographs show a part of Kherson's past life, and I decided that it should be shown.
We worked on the material:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskalyuk
Editor-in-Chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
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Project MARIA by Canadian artist of Ukrainian descent Lesia Maruschak became the most famous exhibition about the Holodomor of 1932-1933, according to the National Museum of the Holodomor Genocide in Kyiv. This artwork has traveled to nine countries, and the book based on the project has won international awards. The exhibition provides an opportunity to look at the memory of the Holodomor through art, which makes a complex topic accessible and understandable on many levels. On Holodomor Remembrance Day, we talked to Lesia Marushchak about her idea, hidden symbols, and how she managed to tell about terrible things in a beautiful way.
— Do you remember when you first came up with the idea of creating the Maria project? How did you find the form in which it was realized? How long did this idea take you to mature?
— First of all, it should be noted that I turned to art only in 2016. Back then I was diagnosed with blood cancer, and everything happened very quickly, because I didn't know how much time I had left. This made me act decisively and urgently. One of my first projects was “ERASURE: Memory and the Power of Politics”. It was inspired by a box of old photographs that belonged to my husband's mother, a native Kyivan who survived Stalin's terror.
In that box were photos with faces removed or cut out. It reminded me of how my grandmother also cut people out of photographs out of fear or painful memories. This is how the concept of “erasing” people emerged, a very old and terrible process that destroys not only the physical presence but also the memory of a person.
Цей концепт я пов’язала з політикою Сталіна, яку я назвала «soft genocide» (м’який геноцид). Це починалося зі знищення церков, шкіл, священників, інтелігенції — всього, що формує ідентичність народу. Після цього я задумалася над наступним кроком цієї політики — Голодомором, уже справжнім геноцидом.
На той час я читала книгу Енн Епплбаум «Червоний голод», де дуже детально описано історичні, політичні та фізіологічні аспекти Голодомору, а також американські свідчення тих подій. Це дало мені розуміння, що Голодомор був другим етапом геноциду, і я виокремила три фази цього процесу.
— How did the image of “Maria” come about?
— I wondered what it means to be a young girl. What are her dreams? What would her photo album look like if she lived a normal life, not the one she was destined for? This is how the image of Maria was born.
I created an imaginary album of her dreams. In my archive, I had costumes that my aunt Hania from Toporivtsi had given me. I photographed these elements and built her world through photographs. To do this, I used a very old photo album and called the series “Red”.
My grandmother always associated the color red with something terrible. In this series, it symbolizes the dreams of a young girl, her being, which will be stolen from her. She does not yet realize that her life will change forever, but a deep drama already permeates this image.
The second series of the project was a work called “Counting”. At the time I was working on it, the news reported on a ship that sank. The exact number of victims was announced, and this accuracy touched me. With the Holodomor, it's different: they talk about 4 million, someone says 7, and if we take into account the generations that were not born because of this tragedy, it's over 11 million. But there is no final figure.
This uncertainty made me think: does the number matter when it comes to an act of genocide? One person or millions is still a crime against humanity. I lived with this question while working on the series: how do we count in life, and is the human mind capable of comprehending the scale of mass destruction?
I started researching how people counted in different eras. I was particularly interested in an ancient artifact from Greece - The Salamis Tablet, the oldest counting device. It was a marble slab with lines along which stones were moved to create counts. This idea of counting as a process became the basis of my work. For this series, I used archival photographs by the Austrian engineer Alexander Wienerberger, who was in Ukraine during the Holodomor, particularly in Kharkiv. He photographed what he saw and left a diary with horrific testimonies. In these photographs, I created lines and dots symbolizing the count, and asked a philosophical question: is the number of victims really important when it comes to such a large-scale crime?
I wanted to create two dialogues. The first is between Wienerberger's photographs and my abstract art language. I used counting and graphic elements to interpret historical materials. The second dialog is between these new works and contemporary viewers. My goal is to make people think about the question that haunts me: can we comprehend genocide and its scale?
This series is not just about numbers. It is about how people face tragedies and try to comprehend what, at first glance, defies understanding.
The third series of the project is called Transfiguration. It was a testimony of people who survived the Holodomor. I worked with eyewitness interviews available on Canadian and American resources, as well as with the stories of my “Maria”. I was particularly impressed by the psychological and physiological aspects of the famine, which were written about in detail by Anne Applebaum. One of the memories stuck in my mind: children said that their mothers became “like a glass of water”-transparent, weak, fragile.
I tried to convey this horrible process of dying from cold and hunger in my photographs. At the same time, these works turned out to be terribly beautiful - it was a way to find the human in the inhuman.
In 2018, during a trip to Lviv, I bought a bag of prayer books at a fair. I took one of them home, scanned all 600 pages, and created a work called Prayer.
I thought: what do people do when they die? They pray. Imagine more than 4 million people dying at the same time and praying. This thought did not let me go. My goal was to give a voice to those who could not speak out during life, whose pain the world was ignoring at the time. I wanted these works to “speak” even after death.
Currently, I am collaborating with composer Oleh Shlepko from Germany and his colleagues from Ukraine to create music based on my works to give voice to the suffering of millions.
The final part of the project was the story of a particular woman. Once I wrote to my friends on Facebook asking them to share photos that could be related to the Holodomor. One woman replied that she had a photo of her mother-in-law, whose name was Maria. The family gave permission to use the photo, asking that only her first name, Maria F., be used.
“I realized that I needed a symbol that would embody the suffering of the Ukrainian people. I cut Maria out of a family photo and added wings drawn by a Byzantine iconographer. That's how I created the collage: Mary turned into an angel, a symbol of our nation and its pain.
Instead, in my process I used Japanese paper, natural materials and techniques related to icon painting: I mixed egg and wine, added pigments, and created almost sculptural elements. These works seem to be alive: the paper shrinks and straightens, resembling human skin.
One of the works within this project was a huge photograph measuring one by four meters. It was inspired by the moment when my family was preparing to bury my father in the winter. The ground was hard as a rock, but we were digging the grave, throwing clods of frozen earth. I photographed this scene and used it as a basis for my work.
The creation process was part of my dialog with nature. After printing, I took the photo to the prairie. During the work, the wind picked up, it started to rain, and I interacted with the materials, barefoot in my embroidered shirt. The paper got wet, wore out, tore, and this became part of the art itself.
My creative process always includes interaction with the environment. It is important for me that nature is involved in the creation of the works, and people can touch them, feel the texture. These are not static exhibits under glass that cannot be touched. I want the works to become a part of the human experience, to evoke emotions and promote reflection.
It is important for me that it is not just a set of exhibits, but a sacred space, like a church. People who come to the exhibition should become participants in the process. They should not just look, but think and reflect: who are we? What is our role?
In a conversation with Harvard curator Maketa Best during FotoFest in Houston (a contemporary art organization dedicated to the development of photography and visual culture - ed.), we discussed the concept of a mobile memorial. She asked: “Lesia, how does a mobile memorial work? What do you want to convey to people?” This made me think: what kind of work should I create so that people can interact with such difficult topics as the Holodomor?
Often viewers know nothing about this tragedy, but through the works they are able to touch the history, literally and metaphorically. It's not only about memory, but also about dialog - with history, with oneself, with society.
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For this work, I used wax and ashes that I received from a local church. I asked the priest to share the leftover candles and ashes from the ceremonies. Using these materials, I painted with wax and ash on paper to create the feeling that the prayers penetrate the very structure of the work. I painted so that these prayers could somehow enter the interior. The photographs become sculptural objects so that people can touch these topics that we are so afraid of more deeply. We don't know how to talk about it, we can't even intellectually comprehend it all, and photographs and art give everyone a chance to tackle difficult topics.
— How did the audience react to the Maria project? Do you remember any feedback or reactions?
— The Maria project has become known far beyond Ukraine, traveling to different countries. In Ukraine, the exhibition started around 2020, visiting 6-7 cities with the support of the Ukrainian World Congress. The last place was Kharkiv, where it was at the beginning of the full-scale war. It was later moved and exhibited in western Ukraine. Unfortunately, I was not present during any of the Ukrainian presentations. This is difficult for me, because the project only makes sense when people interact with it. However, I know that the exhibition evoked a deep response.
One of the key elements of the exhibition was interactive work: we disassembled the book Maria, creating a wall of pages strung on nails. People could take a page, write on it their memories of the Holodomor, if they had any in their families, and attach it back to the wall. This created a living dialog between the past and the present.
One of the most important reactions I remember was from a curator who said: “It's extremely beautiful, and it's about genocide.” I have never worked with the intention of creating something beautiful, but it is this aesthetic that helps people engage with difficult topics. She explained: “If it were just images of hunger and death, people, especially children, might be afraid and avoid it. But your work creates a way to perception through beauty. People start interacting with it and then delve into the story if they want to know more.”
This concept became the basis for the Mobile Memorial, which allows people to participate in the memory of the Holodomor at different levels, gradually delving into the topic.
The exhibition project included two videos: Animatas #1 and Animatas #2. The title is based on the Latin word “animati” - “souls”. In the video, old photographs printed on fabric are hung between trees like laundry. The wind blows the fabric, and the images seem alive - people's figures move, flicker, reminding us of souls who have long since left this world.
The difference between the two videos is time: one was shot during the day and the other at night. The sound is a monotonous hum that creates the effect of a spiritual connection with the past.
One of my most important works was the art book Transfiguration, which was included in the collections of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, the Library of Congress, the Victoria and Albert Museum, and other prestigious institutions. This was an important moment for me, because many of these institutions do not have similar materials on the Holodomor.
A few weeks ago, I spoke with the head of the Library of Congress, who said: “Your books are important because they open up complex topics through art, helping people who know nothing about it to join the conversation.”
The exhibition materials are currently on display in Vinnytsia. You can see it in an electronic version on the website of the Holodomor Genocide Museum.
“My goal has always been to create works that touch on an emotional level. At a time when the world is tired of war and tragedy, such materials can stir people's hearts, awaken empathy, and encourage understanding. I want people not just to look at these works, but to feel them. Through wax, ashes, paper, and prayers, I tried to convey a tragedy that is difficult to comprehend intellectually. This art invites not only to think, but also to experience, touch, and feel. It is a way to open the way to a conversation about pain and loss, which we often remain silent about.
Lesia Maruschak is a Canadian photographer and artist of Ukrainian descent, known for her projects that explore the themes of historical memory, national identity, and the tragedies of the Ukrainian people. Through photography, archival materials, and installations, Lesia Maruschak explores the histories of colonized peoples and their transformations under the influence of geopolitical factors, as well as the individual and collective cultural consequences of exile. Her narrative exhibitions with static and dynamic images and rough and delicate sculptural elements have been presented in over 65 museums, galleries, and art spaces around the world. Her most famous project in Ukraine is dedicated to the Holodomor of 1932-1933 and is called Project MARIA, which was shown in nine countries. The book based on the project was shortlisted for the book prize at the influential international photo festival Rencontres d'Arles in France (2019) and received the award for best design at the international festival Book Arsenal in Kyiv (2019). The book MARIA was developed in collaboration with Elias Zhekalov, REDZET Kyiv. In September 2020, The Guardian published photos from the MARIA project in an article about the best photos from the Landskrona festival.
We worked on the material:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Editor-in-chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
On the anniversary of the Revolution of Dignity, the UAPF recalls how Odesa became part of the struggle for Ukraine's independence. The city, which is often called the pearl by the sea, was then on the verge of a transition between a European pro-Ukrainian future and a Russian past. In this article, we describe how Odessans fought for their freedom, and supplement the text with photographs by documentary filmmaker Oleksandr Himanov, who witnessed these events.
At the beginning of 2014, the south and east of Ukraine were at the epicenter of pro-Russian protests. In Odesa, where Anti-Maidan demanded friendship with Russia, the situation was tense on a daily basis. Supporters of rapprochement with Russia camped out on Kulikovo Field, organizing rallies and provocations, spreading the ideas of the “Russian world.”
One of the first significant incidents was an attack by “titushky” on February 19, 2014, on a peaceful rally “Don't shoot!” near the regional state administration. Armed with batons, the young men beat the protesters and journalists and damaged equipment. This attack was organized by pro-Russian forces: first, the “titushky” were accommodated in a local sanatorium, and then brought to the RSA by bus.
On March 3, pro-Russian activists blocked members of the regional council who were condemning Russia's invasion of Crimea. They raised the Russian flag over the regional state administration, but pro-Ukrainian Odessans managed to get it removed.
The bloodiest events took place on May 2, 2014. Pro-Ukrainian Odessans, together with football fans, planned to hold a peaceful march “For the Unity of Ukraine”. Instead, supporters of friendship with the Russian Federation, in violation of the agreement, attacked the marchers. Clashes on Greek Square led to the first deaths. The crowd then moved to Kulikovo Pole, where pro-Russian activists barricaded themselves in the Trade Union Building. Shooting began, with Molotov cocktails flying from both sides. The building caught fire. As a result of this clash, 48 people died: 6 - on Greek Square, 42 - on Kulikovo Field. About 200 people were injured.
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After these tragic events, pro-Russian rallies in Odesa lost support, but the city remained under the sights of propaganda and destabilizing actions.
The UAPF has published an article about this earlier: Mass deaths in Odesa. Confrontation between Euromaidan participants and pro-Russian Anti-Maidan in the photos of Oleg Kutsky
Today, the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes archival footage by Oleksandr Himanov, taken in the midst of these events, which conveys the atmosphere of those days - the determination and solidarity of Odesa residents.
“Back then, Odesa was very tense,” Oleksandr recalls. ”There seemed to be fewer people supporting Ukraine than in the pro-Russian camp. But that's because most of the most active Odessans had left for Kyiv to join the Maidan protests. In contrast, Anti-Maidan was mostly composed of the elderly, marginalized people and those who did not understand what they were standing for.”
The appearance of a large number of Russian journalists was particularly alarming. “It was a signal that Russia was actively interfering. When they raised the tricolor over the regional council, it became clear that provocations would increase,” says Himanov.
One of the most acute moments was the attack on journalists and activists on February 19. “They brought 'titushky' - athletes from the south of the region - to the RSA. Their task was to disperse everyone: protesters, journalists, anyone who opposed Yanukovych's government. They even had stickers on their helmets that said “Maidan will not pass,” the photographer recalls.
“That day there was a massive brawl: my colleague got his forehead smashed, another one had his arm broken, and the camera of an Inter TV cameraman was smashed. It was a real nightmare, because the police did absolutely nothing to stop the violence,” Oleksandr recalls.
The photographer notes that the Euromaidan in Odesa differed from the pro-Russian Anti-Maidan not only in ideas but also in mood: “The Maidan always had a very positive atmosphere. People wanted change, wanted to go to Europe, and came with their families. Even the idea to rename Catherine Square to European Square was a symbol of their aspirations.”
“According to the photographer, Anti-Maidan looked quite different. “There were aggressive people there who did not understand what they wanted. They advocated 'friendship with Russia', but in reality it was a cover. Their actions were often organized by local elites who did not want to allow the Kyiv events to be repeated,” he adds.
The events of May 2, 2014 were decisive in the confrontation. “It was the defeat of Anti-Maidan, which changed the situation in Odesa forever. If it wasn't for that day, no one knows how it would have ended,” says Himanov. He believes that this moment was the key to the fact that the “Russian world” failed to take root in Odesa.
The photographer is convinced that the Maidan in Odesa won thanks to the unity of its participants. “Euromaidan was more united, there was a greater understanding of the common goal. “Anti-Maidan, on the other hand, was chaotic and lacked a clear vision. In addition, the local elites, fortunately, did not support pro-Russian sentiments, and this also played an important role,” concludes Oleksandr.
Oleksandr Himanov was born and lives in Odesa. Since 2009, he has been working as a photojournalist and correspondent for the regional online publication Dumskaya.net, documenting the life of his hometown. He collaborates with regional and national media, as well as international photo agencies. Since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, he has been documenting the consequences of Russian aggression in southern Ukraine. The photographer's Instagram.
On November 21, Ukraine marks the Day of Dignity and Freedom, commemorating the anniversaries of two significant events - the Orange Revolution of 2004 and the Revolution of Dignity of 2013-2014. These events have become symbols of Ukrainians' aspirations for democracy, freedom and European values. Today, during the full-scale war with Russia, the struggle for these ideals continues.
On this day, the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes the photos of Mstyslav Chernov, who captured the historic moments of the Revolution of Dignity. His photographs convey the atmosphere of those tumultuous days when Ukrainians began to fight for their democratic and pro-European future.
The Revolution of Dignity began in November 2013 and lasted until February 2014. This symbolic date emphasizes 11 years of the Ukrainian people's struggle for freedom, dignity, and European choice. The mass protests that swept Kyiv and the entire country grew into a large-scale resistance to the regime of President Viktor Yanukovych, culminating in his escape, bloodshed, and the subsequent struggle for independence. It changed the political identity and mentality of Ukrainians.
On November 21, 2013, the government of Mykola Azarov announced the suspension of preparations for the signing of the Association Agreement with the EU, which caused outrage among the public. On social media, Ukrainians called on each other to protest, and by nightfall, more than 1,500 people had gathered on Independence Square. In the following days, the number of activists increased, and solidarity actions began in all cities of Ukraine.
On November 30, 2013, Berkut riot police brutally dispersed peaceful protesters, mostly students, on the Maidan. This was a turning point: the protests became widespread, and the focus shifted from European integration to the fight against the Yanukovych regime.
On December 1, Kyiv hosted the largest rally of its kind at the time, with about half a million people taking part. The protesters occupied the buildings of the Kyiv City State Administration and the House of Trade Unions, creating the National Resistance Headquarters.
On December 8, protesters toppled a monument to Lenin on Taras Shevchenko Boulevard in Kyiv. This started the “Leninfall” in all regions of the country.
On December 13, Viktor Yanukovych sat down for talks with opposition leaders for the first time, but no dialogue took place. On January 16, the Verkhovna Rada passed the so-called “dictatorial laws” that significantly restricted the rights of citizens, including the right to hold peaceful protests. This caused a wave of indignation among protesters who went to the parliament building. The security forces used stun grenades, pump-action rifles and water cannons, while the protesters responded with Molotov cocktails and set fire to barricades to protect themselves.
On January 19, 2014, the confrontation turned violent. Clashes between protesters and security forces began on Hrushevskoho Street and lasted for several days. Hundreds of people were injured during this confrontation.
On January 22, the first activists, Serhiy Nigoyan and Mykhailo Zhyznevsky, were killed. These tragic events became a symbol of the Revolution of Dignity, and the victims were called the first heroes of the Heavenly Hundred. Security forces began to abduct activists, severely beat and torture them. Witnesses of those events recall the large-scale pressure and violence that the protesters had to face.
The bloodiest events took place on February 18-20, 2014. The protesters were pushed back to Maidan, and the authorities launched an assault. On February 20, snipers opened fire, killing more than 100 people. Despite this, the protesters launched a counteroffensive, forcing the security forces to retreat.
On February 21, Viktor Yanukovych fled Kyiv, and on February 22, the Verkhovna Rada officially announced his removal from office. The Revolution of Dignity ended with a victory for the activists. Ukraine embarked on the path of democratic reforms and European integration, but in 2014 it faced new challenges - Russian aggression, the annexation of Crimea and the war in Donbas.
Mstyslav Chernov, a well-known Ukrainian photojournalist and documentary filmmaker, actively covered the events of the Revolution of Dignity in 2013-2014. He worked at the very epicenter of the protests in Kyiv, capturing key moments that became part of Ukraine's modern history. While filming, he was attacked several times by security forces. In December 2013, police officers injured the photographer's arm, tore up his journalist's press credentials and destroyed his photographic equipment. In January 2014, a police officer threw a stun grenade at Mstyslav, even though he was marked “Press”. The grenade fragments injured the journalist's legs and eyes.
Chernov's photographs became one of the main sources for international media covering the Revolution of Dignity. His work was published in such publications as The New York Times, The Washington Post, and the BBC.
In his interviews, Chernov often emphasized that the Revolution of Dignity was not only a political but also a cultural phenomenon. He spoke of the dedication of Ukrainians to their cause and their ability to unite for the sake of the future.
“Maidan is not just a protest. It is a symbol of changes that society is ready for. Changes that are expensive, but they are worth fighting for. I saw people standing on Instytutska Street with despair and faith at the same time. The war, the Revolution of Dignity, the annexation of Crimea and the Russian invasion of Donbas and the full-scale invasion are all steps to build unity and build a whole generation of people who understand that the fate of their country depends on them," - says Mstyslav in one of his interviews.
Mstyslav Chernov - is a Ukrainian photographer, Associated Press journalist, filmmaker, war correspondent, President of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, honorary member of PEN Ukraine and writer. He has covered the Revolution of Dignity, the war in eastern Ukraine, the aftermath of the downing of Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777, the Syrian civil war, the battles of Mosul in Iraq, and the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, including the blockade of Mariupol. For this work, he received the Deutsche Welle Freedom of Speech Award, the Giorgi Gongadze Prize, the Knight International Journalism Awards, the Biagio Agnes Award, the Bayeux Calvados-Normandy Award, the Elijah Parish Lovejoy Award, and the Free Media Awards. In 2022, he was included in the ratings “People of NV 2022 in the Year of War” and “14 Songs, Photos and Art Objects that Became Symbols of Ukrainian Resistance” by Forbes Ukraine, and video footage from Mariupol became the basis of the film “20 Days in Mariupol”, which in 2024 was awarded an Oscar for the first time in the history of Ukrainian cinema. Social networks of the photographer: Facebook Instagram
The material was created by:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Editor-in-chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
We can document the moment and document the consequences, and not just the next day, but everything that happens afterwards, everything that the moment we documented spills over and turns into.
Authors, photographers, illustrators-anyone who testifies to the reality of their own cities or regions shows this reality in a more restrained way. When you enter a city that has just been shelled, or a city that is shrinking every day under the onslaught of the front, the eye naturally catches something striking, something bulky and obvious, even without a metaphor. In the eyes of local documentary filmmakers, there is much more simplicity, unpretentious ordinariness, which the reader, listener, or viewer may not immediately grasp. After all, who hasn't seen the cracks and pierced through the house? Especially in cities like Kherson or Kharkiv. But in addition to the falling of shells, there are moments when neither a shell nor a rocket flies. There are seconds when people play chess on a bench. And even seconds when people are not boarding up windows. In addition to the moment of loss, there is the permanence of loss.
This photo was taken by Kherson-based photographer Ivan Antipenko after another nighttime artillery shelling in the first weeks of November. Ivan heard the explosions from his house, as he hears most shelling. This one happened nearby. Perhaps there was not even a kilometer between Ivan and the impact. Perhaps if some of his non-local photographer colleagues had spent the night in his apartment that night, they would have gone there immediately. But Ivan was alone, and, let me assume, he allowed himself to sleep in and went there during the day.
Utilities were already working on the site. On one of the balconies, he saw four young men smoking, joking, and laughing at the jokes. Ivan Antypenko calls it a rather common thing: to stand there and make fatalistic jokes about what happens here every day. Just laughing and smoking.
Then Ivan saw one of the guys move to another room of the damaged apartment, the one where the shell hit, and just sat down to smoke in this hole. We don't know if it was even his room. Or the room of people he knew. Or maybe he didn't. This is just another moment of Kherson's everyday life.
“People live, smoke, laugh, ride trolleybuses, go to work. And at night you are shelled and you go to help, because it is the apartment of your friend or your mother's friend, or anyone whose house you now have the keys to in your pocket. Many people have left here, leaving their keys with someone: you need to water the flowers sometimes,” Ivan says. Watering the flowers or patching up a hole that a shell had pierced.
Ivan and I are talking from the perspective of two people who are very attached to the region about working in places you know well: do we sometimes oversimplify the picture by leaving too much context in ourselves? When I choose not to describe the ruins of Chernihiv over and over again, do I make the city better or worse? Can we sleep through the shelling of Kherson today or not? Do we have more room for maneuver when we are always on the ground or do we not have any room at all?
When, in the first month after the deblockade of Chernihiv, my foreign colleagues once again exposed me to the ruins and asked me what the situation in the city was like, I answered something like this: “Well, yesterday I called a taxi. So, the taxi drivers who know how to end the war have returned to the city, so I suspect that everything is getting better.” My colleagues from Spain didn't really understand my joke and, after pausing the recording, asked me to speak a little more seriously and anxiously. Today, my foreign colleagues don't look at me with astonished eyes when I tell them stories like this about Chernihiv, but laugh with me.
Has the world seen enough broken windows? Who else should we show our cracks to?
Photo: Ivan Antipenko
Text: Vira Kuriko
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Olha Koval is a new member of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers who attracts the attention of the art community with her original approach to contemporary issues. Her project “Eruption” took second place in the competition of the Mykolaiv School of Photography “MYPH” and resonated with the audience and critics. She created more than 40 thousand red-winged beetles, sculpting and painting them by hand. We talked to Olha about the idea of the project, the beetles themselves, photography, and finding herself.
— Olha, first of all, please tell us how you position yourself: are you a photographer, an artist, an artist?
— I am an artist for whom photography is the main tool.
In 2019, after taking a course at MYPH, I began to be more conscious of photography, especially performative photography, where the author can change reality, transforming it to suit his or her own purpose. I was greatly influenced by Roman Pyatkovka's conceptual photography course. At first, I experimented with the form and physical photography, made decorative coloring of the work, but later everything moved to the conceptual plane.
— Why did you turn to photography? What brought you to the MYPH course?
— I have been interested in photography since I was 14 years old, taking pictures of my friends and my everyday life. It was purely for fun and had no deep purpose. After school, I realized that it was time to make a conscious choice.
At that time, I learned about private schools, such as MYPH and Chekachkov's school (the Academy of Contemporary Photography founded by Ihor Chekachkov - ed.) In the end, I decided to go to Serhiy Melnychenko at MYPH. And I have never regretted it, because Serhiy really helped me to define my direction, oriented me in the world of photography. It was important, because I was only 18-19 years old, I had recently graduated from high school and was just beginning to understand what adult life was.
It was thanks to Serhiy that I met Roman Pyatkovka. I have a soft spot for Roma, he is a good teacher and mentor. It was a valuable acquaintance, because there is no universal path in the professions of photographer or artist. Each path is unique, and communication with experienced people helps you find your own.
I was very lucky to meet these people at the age of 19, which gave me confidence and certainty. Moving from Chernihiv to Kyiv only strengthened this feeling, added dynamics to my development and movement forward.
— Tell us more about your project, which won second place in the MYPH competition. What was its idea, what did you put into it? How long have you been working on it, and what does it mean to you?
— I created “Eruption” during this year, working on it for about eight months. All this time I was finishing my studies at the university, so I was sculpting and painting beetles alongside my main activity. The installation took about a week to assemble in the living room of my friend and artist Regina Bukvych. As for the explication, I'm interested in leaving the viewers to interpret what they see for themselves. It makes sense when the viewer finds their own understanding in the work, becoming a co-author.
However, of course, there is also my definition. War creates werewolves: what used to seem normal or safe has now acquired completely different, threatening features. For example, a living room. A safe, protected space, within the limits of modern realities, can kill you by an unfortunate coincidence. The infestation of red bugs in a living room is a metaphor for the highest degree of vulnerability and anxiety. There are tens of thousands of them, they volcano out of the parquet, taking on aggressive forms, occupying the room, settling on books and rummaging through things. This is a natural disaster that devastates everything in its path. The presence of bugs is a forced circumstance with which one must learn to coexist.
The bug itself is called differently in different parts of Ukraine: soldier, fireman, Moskalik bug, Cossack bug. It is a parasite that attracts with its bright color and lives in a group of others like it. The viewer has to determine what kind of insect is in front of him or her on their own, based on their own experience.
“Eruption is the third installation in a series of works about private space during a full-scale invasion.
The first installation was created in Lithuania, at a residency in Klaipeda under the direction of Darius Vaicevauskas. A two-meter stone sculpture in a room that fills all the free space and suffocates with its presence.
The second installation was in my studio, I first reconstructed a part of the living room, and then started painting each object white. And eventually everything became white, everything “disappeared”. And now “Eruption” is the third part of this cycle.
At this time I don't plan to continue making installations and want to do something else. However, these three works together form a kind of triptych that reflects my reflections on the limits of personal space and vulnerability during the war.
— There are a lot of intimate photos on your Instagram, works in the nude style. It also seems that you don't just take pictures, but also paint these pictures. Is this part of a project, a new work, or more of a personal hobby? What is the general idea behind these photos?
— Sometimes I just want to create something casual, aesthetic, and somewhat kitschy. This is something I keep for myself, for pleasure. I personally lack this in my life - lively, sexy, erotic, full of life. That's why I sublimate in this way, creating the reality I want to see.
At the same time, these works have their own dark energy. The form is somewhat similar to the works of the Czech classical photographer Jan Saudek, and the content is similar to the American artist Joel Peter Witkin. I really like this balance between the erotic and the thanatic.
For now, this is a small series of works. Perhaps something bigger will grow out of it.
— What are you working on now? Are there any projects you'd like to talk about? Or maybe there are works you've created before that haven't been mentioned yet?
— I am currently planning to complete a project with 12 images that I worked on as part of a mentoring program from the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers. My mentor was a wonderful Ivan Chernichkin, with whom we discussed a lot about this project and the look of the final result, namely the art book.
I would also like to create a trilogy of video art about Ukrainian marginalized (non)cultural figures. “With Love, Koptev was the first film in this future selection. Mikhail Koptev is a marginalized designer from Luhansk, known for his extravagant behavior and trashy fashion shows in Luhansk and now in Kyiv, who organizes the Orchid Theater and calls his models “orchids.” This project was my graduation thesis.
I was assigned by the university to choose and come up with a story for one of the paintings. So I decided without hesitation to film Caravaggio's “The Laying in the Coffin”. Thus, this work combines traditional, large, European art with Ukrainian, small and non-traditional art.
— Do you have any projects other than “MYPH” where you show the theme of war or plan to reflect it? Have you ever wanted to become a documentary photographer and document war?
— I believe that everything created during the war reflects this time in one way or another - our reality, what is happening in the country and in each of our minds. All projects, even the movie “With Love, Koptyev,” somehow “shout” about the war. It is impossible to separate an author from his country.
One of the projects I'm working on now is a series of panoramas, where a single composition is placed throughout the entire medium format film and looks like a jigsaw puzzle consisting of 12 frames. This method of combining the image into one whole composition makes it possible to achieve the “Kulishov effect”: juxtaposing two different narratives to create a meta-narrative, that is, a new meaning. Also, the panorama helps to better highlight the events taking place in Ukraine during the war. The events in my focus can be insignificant, but quite revealing, for example, a gynecological examination of women from a border village.
During the war, a documentary photographer has an important function: to record and accurately convey an event. Sometimes a picture can change or influence important decisions. Or change the attitude of a single person. Perhaps you need to love this reality to imitate it. Still, my personal approach is to create an alternative world. My task is to snatch a particle from the real and transform it into an artistic image. Into a statement.
Olha Koval was born in 2001 in Chernihiv. She currently lives in Kyiv. She started making art in 2019. She is a graduate of the cinematography department at the Karpenko-Kary Kyiv National University of Cinematography. In 2019, she completed the third MYPH course taught by Serhiy Melnychenko and a conceptual photography course taught by Roman Pyatkovka in 2020. She is a member of the MYPH team. In 2022, she worked in the creative space Menu Zona Residency, Klaipeda, under the direction of Darius Vaitsekauskas. She became one of the four winners of the European photo contest Fresh Eyes Talent in 2023. She participated in a portfolio revue at the Museum of Photography Winterthur, Switzerland.
Her work “Stone” is kept in the Odesa Art Museum, and three works from different series are in the private collection of Boris Grynyov (Grynyov Art Collection). She isa finalist of the International Women in Photo Association (IWPA) with the project 12 frames.
The photographer's Instagram.
We worked on the material:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Editor-in-chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
In October 2024, Ukrainian photographers filmed the hostilities mainly in the Donetsk region, where the Russian army concentrated all its power and had significant successes, and documented the shelling of the largest Ukrainian cities, including Kyiv, Kharkiv, Kherson, and others.
Yuriy Stefaniak and Viacheslav Ratynskyi worked on the selection.
Here are 10 important photos from October:
A Ukrainian serviceman of the 12th Brigade of the Azov National Guard of Ukraine rests before leaving for combat positions in Donetsk region. October 2024. Photo by Karina Pilyugina
A Ukrainian investigator collects the wreckage of a downed Russian S-70 Okhotnik unmanned aerial vehicle in Kostiantynivka, Donetsk region. October 5, 2024. Photo by Roman Pylypei
Soldiers of the 24th Separate Mechanized Brigade named after King Danylo install engineering fences in the suburbs of Chasovyi Yar, Donetsk region. October 2024. Photo by Oleh Petrasyuk, a soldier with the 24th King Danylo Mechanized Brigade.
An artilleryman of the Buzkyi Gard unit lights up a cigarette at the position of the D-30 gun in Kherson region. October 2024. Photo by Ivan Antypenko
People watch as a multi-storey residential building in Kyiv catches fire after the wreckage of a Russian kamikaze drone falls. October 26, 2024. Photo by Oleksiy Filipov
The building of the State Industrial Complex in Kharkiv, which was attacked by a Russian air strike, is damaged. October 28, 2024. Photo by Sasha Maslov
A view of a damaged multi-storey building in Kharkiv that was struck by a Russian guided aerial bomb. October 30, 2024, Photo by Ivan Samoilov
Anastasiia Hvozdikova next to her husband Anton, who is in a military hospital after being injured by an FPV drone. October 2024. Photo by Konstantin and Vlada Liberov
A serviceman of the Yasni Ochky aerial reconnaissance unit of the 26th Separate Mechanized Brigade prepares ammunition for an FPV drone in Donetsk region. October 2024. Photo by Serhiy Korovainyi
A medic of the 108th Da Vinci Wolves Battalion of the 59th Brigade of the Armed Forces of Ukraine rests on a couch while waiting to receive the wounded at a stabilization center in Donetsk Oblast. October 20, 2024. Photo by Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Yesterday and today, just as in the last century, photographs show us a part of suffering that we should understand and perhaps try on ourselves, which is not evil. It is commonplace to show suffering, it still works, it attracts attention. After all, a zealous Christian says that we will receive something better for our suffering when we die. However, suffering today can make you blind, and during the Christmas holidays you can suddenly be outraged that there are not enough train tickets and start getting angry at Ukrzaliznytsia: how can this be, what kind of lottery is this, you can't get anywhere, why can't you give us an extra carriage? Without thinking about the number of trains burned, destroyed, or converted for evacuation.
I don't appreciate flashy pictures. When the Russians hit a cafe in Groza, Kharkiv region, with a rocket, dozens of journalists and photographers rushed there at the same time, because fifty-nine people were killed at a memorial dinner for a soldier from the same village who had finally been reburied at home. Bodies covered with sheets on the ground, crying women covering the horror on their faces with their own hands, piles of stones with people still buried under them-these pictures could have shocked for at least a few seconds if you had no one and nothing in Hroha, and if you did, they could have even paralyzed you. More than a year later, I recall them, and they wander somewhere in my memories, but I can't grasp any of them. Instead, a bird's-eye view of the scene seems real and untouched by memory blur: the autumn earth and dozens of newly dug holes are all that is there. The more complex the photo or painting (whether it shows grief or joy), the more attractive it is to the eye, the more closely we look at it, riveted by the curiosity and excitement of a researcher. But as soon as we take a few steps back, when a day, month, and year passes, we are unlikely to recreate that image in all its details. A simple detail is another matter. After all, what is so complicated about the color of the earth that has just been shaken off the shovel near the tenth hole in the cemetery.
So it is with this photo, taken in October by photographer Roman Pylypiy. I have no idea what's going on behind this iron and sweaty glass: the window of a familiar Ukrzaliznytsia train car, a hanging handrail, so it's not a regular car. Most likely, it is a medical car of an evacuation train. The arm is bandaged, the hand is holding on, so the person is definitely alive, but injured. Was the wounded person brought or will they be taken in this car from the front? The fact that I can't see the person doesn't change anything. If it's not someone I know personally, I will most likely lose sight of their face over time. What I will not lose is this hand. Just because I don't see a situation doesn't mean I don't know about it. Reality seeps through all the cracks. In this picture, it seems, the infinite simplicity of documentary reveals itself - the speaking of a detail that remains a guardian over us.
I don't appreciate flashy pictures. They don't strike me with the twisted body of a murdered man lying face down on a dirty March roadside, or the heroic moment of a flag raised over a liberated city, but with a trifle that doesn't contain a drop of blood or a drop of pride. They don't impose anything on us, they don't offer us to be happy or horrified, but the details hidden in them prevent us from succumbing to the sin of simplification and turning away.
Photo: Roman Pilipiy
Text: Vira Kuriko
Bogdan Huliai has become a new member of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers. His work goes beyond traditional reportage photography - Bohdan explores deep themes of memory, existence, and personal stories, which he skillfully conveys mostly in film photographs. Some of Huliai's projects require a long time for deeper reflection, and sometimes even re-reading the Bible to find a new perspective on classic stories.
When asked “who do you position yourself as at this moment?” Bohdan Huliay answers that he defines himself as a photographer without narrow limits. “When it comes to photography, I'm a photographer in the broadest sense,” is how he describes his approach to the profession. Bohdan's experience covers a wide variety of genres and tasks: from reportage work for the media to the art of nude photography.
Bohdan does not limit himself to one area, believing that a true photographer should be versatile. He believes that the technical features of the tool dictate the rules of shooting, but the choice of the subject is a matter of personal interest: “If a person is a photographer, he or she doesn't care what to work with. Because the tool defines certain rules, and then it's all about your interest in the subject.”
Bohdan Huliay says that his first acquaintance with photography began in his childhood, and this story has turned into a personal legend that he often tells to people interested in analog photography.
“The inspiration came from an older cousin who had a Shift 8 camera. For me, it was something fantastic - how a person could take a picture and get a ready-made image,” Bohdan recalls. This passion gave rise to a desire to have a camera of his own, but at the time the family could not afford to buy one right away.
It was only when Bohdan was 12 that his parents were able to give him a camera with a scale focusing system. “You had to focus on the pictures: one person up to the chest, two people in the frame, or a group of three,” Bohdan shares his memories. He was actively taking pictures, developing film in a dark room, and was fascinated by the magic of the process: “I remembered those moments when images gradually appeared in the bath for the rest of my life.”
Like many children, after a while Bohdan cooled off from his hobby. But as an adult, he returned to photography. He started with a simple “soapbox”, taking pictures of everyday things: “My beloved girl is holding the sun on the seashore”, “My friends and I are on vacation”, but he felt that it was still not something that really inspired him. “I was not satisfied with what I was seeing. I bought a better camera and tried to shoot for color, and things started to change,” he says.
A funny incident helped him find his inspiration. One day Bohdan returned home and found his old camera, but it turned out that his parents had started using the bathtubs in which he used to develop photos as drinking bowls for rabbits. “I had to buy new tubs and prepare everything for developing film,” Bohdan laughs, ”and it was then that I realized I was back where I was really interested, and that's what inspires me.
Bohdan Huliay does not consider photography to be his life's work. For him, it is rather a tool of self-discovery that helps in personal development and the search for freedom. “Life's work is about self-development, understanding yourself and your place,” he explains. Photography is a pleasant activity that supports these processes.
Like many Ukrainian amateur photographers of the past, Bohdan combined photography with his main job. At the time, he worked for a local media outlet.
Working as a journalist became a way for him to combine text and photography. “The editorial office was saving money: I wrote articles and took photos at the same time, receiving one salary for two jobs,” he recalls. This approach allowed him to enjoy the creative process and at the same time get his hands dirty in photography. While taking digital photos for the editorial office, Bohdan worked with film for his own pleasure. “I also read books, was interested in military and street photography, etc. At that time, it was a rather expensive hobby - film was not cheap,” the photographer recalls.
For more than 15 years of photography, Bohdan has managed to realize many of his creative ideas. One of them is the “Scratchy Days” project, which demonstrates a deep, personal look at the photographer's experiences. Bohdan says that for him, this work is a collection of images that reflect his internal emotional states at different moments. “From naked women to dead mice, everything I felt and saw is reflected in this work,” he says. This series shows how photography can be a means of self-reflection. Bohdan considers it one of the most coherent and consistent works of his body of work.
With the start of the full-scale invasion, Bohdan Hulyai faced deep internal questions about the role of his photography in the war. He says he was prepared for the invasion: “I packed up all my valuable things - cameras, negatives, prints - and transported them to Lviv.” However, the photographer did not immediately return to filming: "I did not see the point of shooting the war myself. There are many professional photojournalists who do it better.” At that time, instead of photography, Bohdan decided to devote himself to volunteer work. For a while, he worked in a restaurant cooking for the Armed Forces of Ukraine: “I helped to pack, transport, unload - just did what was needed.”
But at the end of March 2022, the photographer felt that he wanted to shoot again: “After a few months, my hands were literally itching. It became clear to me that I needed to get back to filming, although I didn't know what I was going to shoot right away.”
Bohdan didn't try to compete with reportage photographers, he didn't want to record the war with a classical approach. His view was more personal - he took pictures that reflected his own perception of events: “For me, photography became not so much a tool of documentation as a way of self-expression and reflection.”
This is how the Memory of War project was born. According to Bohdan, the photo series is not a classic reportage, but rather an attempt to convey the personal experience of people who survived the war without taking part in hostilities but felt its consequences.
“There are many reporters who have devoted their lives to photojournalism. I decided to shoot what I can convey better-the experience of people who stayed behind after the front moved on,” says the photographer.
The project took place in the Kyiv and Chernihiv regions, in the regions affected by the Russian invasion. This project reflects the feeling and perception of war as a moment that leaves its mark on everyone. This series has become especially personal for Bohdan because his mother survived the occupation in these regions and his friends were under siege. “A lot of people work with the phenomenon of memory, but I think there are few such consistent and deep projects. Of course, others have to evaluate this, but I think my project belongs to them,” he notes.
Bohdan emphasizes that his approach to photography differs from popular conceptual trends. “The more conceptual photography appears, the less I want to do it,” he says. Instead, he is interested in capturing everyday moments: “I want to capture life as it is and show what it looks like at a certain moment in time, from a certain angle.”
The photographer admits that this approach is not commercially viable: “These works are not for sale. Of course, beautiful photographs can be sold, but this is not.” However, for him, the inner content and the process of creation are more important than commercial success: “I do it just because I like it.”
Nowadays, Bohdan Huliay focuses on large-scale long-term series, where shooting lasts for years. “I joke that if a series lasts less than four years, it will be superficial,” the photographer laughs. He shared that he is currently continuing to work on a project he started in 2020. This project requires him to carefully study religious themes: “To realize the idea, I have to read the entire Bible. The last time I read only the New Testament was many years ago.”
Bohdan's new project is about rethinking biblical themes through the prism of female characters. The photographer says that this project has no name yet and is still under development: “If the project is not completed, it is difficult to talk about it. The main idea is to move away from the patriarchal tradition and make women the central figure.”
For those who want to try their hand at photography, Bohdan advises first of all to develop curiosity and openness to the world. “The world is huge and incredibly interesting. No screenwriter can imagine what can happen to you on the way to the Nova Poshta branch. The photographer recommends always having a camera with you and not hesitating to take pictures of even seemingly insignificant moments: “Take a picture of something that seems uninteresting, and then you'll find out that you've caught something important.” He also warns beginners who decide to take up analog photography with a smile: “Be careful with film! It drags you down and drains your budget, and it will be impossible to break away from it.”
Bohdan Huliay lives and works in Kyiv and has been engaged in artistic photography since 2010. He is a member of the Ukrainian Photographic Alternative and the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers. His favorite tool is a film camera, and most of his works are printed in classic analog techniques, such as silver-gelatin printing, litho printing, and hand coloring. Guliai's main themes are memory, physicality, sexuality, and the impact of war on Ukrainian society. He studies how physical and symbolic elements influence the perception of history and emotions. Especially important for the artist is the production of art books by hand, where each copy becomes a unique art object. Bohdan's works have been exhibited in Ukraine and abroad - in the United States, the United Kingdom, Switzerland, Spain, Lithuania, Sweden, and other countries.
The material was worked on:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Editor-in-chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
This image, taken out of context, stops me and makes me interested, but reality erases all the aesthetic dimensions of the composition. It is difficult to talk about such pictures - I like them or I don't like them. Of course, I like the composition, the hunched bodies in a limited space touching each other, the flow of colors and the way the eye slides from one man's back to another, but I don't like the situation, the disgusting bodies and men's backs, their hands and, above all, their faces, which are not visible.
That is, the photograph is interesting, but as soon as its history is revealed, disgust arises. I wonder how one can like an image of something that one hates for its very existence, for the reality of a frozen moment.
This is one of the photographs taken by Vladyslav Krasnoshchek, a Kharkiv-based artist and photographer, in a camp for Russian prisoners of war. Vladyslav and his colleague Olha Kovaleva have already told UAPP about this trip.
The moment in the photo shows Russian prisoners of war sitting in a shelter under the camp in the deep rear because the alarm is sounding from above, i.e. another ballistic missile, dagger or MiG in the air, i.e. Russian troops are threatening us with something, as always. These same prisoners of war, in fact, were also Russian soldiers, and they could be anywhere now. We can list so many towns and villages where they could have been, and at least one can be guessed at random, that is, the place can be named as accurately as a Russian missile hits the center of a Ukrainian city.
That is, all these people in the picture could have threatened you. The humble, stooped backs of these men might look different, might be more violent when they are not hidden in a basement under a camp from the threat of their own people. All of them were brought down here, of course, and there is no way to know, unfortunately, whether they would have come down on their own if they had a choice. Vladyslav remembers that one of the prisoners told the journalists that he did not believe that Russia could shoot directly at them. Under the protection of solid walls, he sounded very determined.
The stooped backs, lowered heads, and palms covering their faces. Why don't they want to show their faces? They are being searched for too, don't they want someone from their families to see them alive, because someone is thinking about them too, and this is normal, it's not news, no matter how much one might want them to rot here, unwanted. The philosopher Hannah Arendt hit the truth most accurately when she called evil banal. These people who crossed our border with weapons, killed and seized our lands, and who would have continued to do so if not for their captivity, these people may love someone, someone may miss them. So why do they cover their faces? Would they cover their faces if they were taking pictures near a stele on the border of Donetsk region or a sign saying “Lysychansk” to send a photo to a friend, mother, wife? Why don't they want to be seen like this in the basement, anxious about the threat of Russian shelling? Perhaps because they think they had an accident-an accident is, after all, about suddenness-so they had weapons against those who brought them down here, but they didn't? I am exaggerating. Most likely, their reasons, like their evil, are much more banal.
There is nothing to learn about these people, and it is not worth it, although from the author's point of view I want to know as much as possible. However, everything I wanted to see and everything I preferred not to see is in front of me. Although, perhaps, a book, no, two books being read by two men. They don't hide their faces so literally, but they hide them behind their reading. That is, evil, even banal evil, reads books. That is, evil taken out of the general system, a screw taken out of the great system of evil, reads books.
But there is one more detail that is not in the picture. In this camp, as the photographers were told, prisoners of war work, for example, making plastic Christmas trees for sale. And the New Year holidays are coming soon, and there is every chance that at least one of them will end up in our home for Christmas.
***
I've seen some criticism of Vladyslav Krasnoshchek's photographs, as if by using black and white film and printing methods he is dressing up contemporary events in images of the 20th century war, stylizing this war as another. But perhaps these photographs are so reminiscent of the war of the last century because they are about an unovercome experience and an unexplored moment? Perhaps World War II or World War I, filmed with modern cameras, would be no different from the present, except for the technology? Perhaps evil, even banal evil, is just evil, no matter how you shoot it, where you shoot it, or how you display it?
Photo: Vladyslav Krasnoshchek
Text: Vira Kuriko
Photographers Olga Kovaleva and Vladislav Krasnoshchek, who actively document the Russia-Ukraine war, visited a Russian POW camp. They intended to create a photo report, but working among prisoners of war turned out to be challenging. For Vladislav and Olga, who came under enemy artillery fire in Donetsk in the summer of 2024, filming in the camp became not only a professional challenge but also an emotional one. Olga, who had been injured on the front line, felt an inner conflict, while Vladislav tried to maintain detachment and distance, shooting black-and-white frames that later became part of his documentary project about the war.
Photographer Olga Kovalova admits that working in the camp was emotionally unbearable for her. She said that the shoot was supposed to be a documentary study, but it turned into an emotional challenge, and she could not bring herself to pick up the camera.
"We tried to look at everything from a detached perspective, as part of our work, but it was all too personal. I felt my injury very acutely, and it affected everything else," she said. "It was painful not only physically but also morally. We couldn’t fully distance ourselves from the situation. I couldn’t emotionally cross that line of stability to go further. There was a sense of a barrier."
The Russian POW camp where the photographers were stationed is located deep in Ukrainian territory. The place evoked both disappointment and a deep internal dissonance in them.
"The prisoners of war look well-cared-for, not as worn out as our soldiers returning from Russian captivity. Our people come back broken and crippled, both mentally and physically, while these ones are like well-fed ducklings, walking in circles, going about their activities, eating together. It’s a strange and painful contrast," Olga shares.
The photographer mentioned that the living conditions in the camp were unexpectedly good. "The medical ward looked as if it had just been renovated. The conditions were better than in the two Ukrainian hospitals where I was treated after my injury. Everything was spotlessly clean. We saw people with lower limb injuries, some on crutches. They receive the necessary medical care. There's dental care and access to many specialists."
Olga also recalled, with surprise, that the Ukrainian language could be heard not only from the staff within the camp walls: "We heard prisoners thanking for their food in Ukrainian. It was so unexpected and strange — to hear Ukrainian from those we call enemies. I didn’t even know how to react."
While working in the camp, photographer Vladislav Krasnoshchek also felt a sense of inner conflict and was disturbed by what he saw. However, he found a way to continue working and capture the images he had come for.
"Smiles, conversations — it all looked like some kind of ironic performance. And I tried not to interfere in their space. I was just doing my job, trying to keep emotions out of the frame."
Vladislav aimed to document the lives of the prisoners in the camp while remaining unnoticed by them: "I tried not to look them in the eye. I just did what needed to be done, and that’s it. I didn’t take portraits."
The photographer explains how he chose angles and sought out contrasts that would depict reality. "I always focus on composition. It helps me avoid getting too emotionally involved; otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to work. I looked at this place through the lens, as if it were another world. Black-and-white shots help emphasize that contrast," he shares.
The camp staff emphasized that this place was not a colony or prison but specifically a POW camp, which they felt was an important distinction. The absence of bars on the windows, well-lit rooms, and organized living conditions all contributed to the impression that the prisoners were living in relatively favorable circumstances. However, for the photographers, this image was yet another reminder of the stark contrast with the conditions endured by Ukrainians suffering the horrors of Russian camps.
"This doesn’t feel like captivity," Olga reflects. "They don’t have the sense of imprisonment or the real awareness of what they’ve lost. Their carefree attitude contrasts sharply with what our soldiers experience when they end up in Russian colonies."
Daily life in the camp appeared extremely orderly and even routine. Vladislav and Olga were struck by how the prisoners' everyday lives were organized. "They make gazebos in the carpentry shop, produce plastic Christmas trees. If you see them at markets in Lviv, you’ll know who made them. They weave garden furniture. Innocent work under the sun — but this contrast was both painful and unbearable," says Vladislav Krasnoshchek.
At the same time, the photographer noted that the atmosphere in the camp was quite friendly — the prisoners and staff communicated rather warmly. He also observed the collective actions of the prisoners: "What struck me was that they are always moving somewhere, always doing something. This mass of people is constantly in motion. That became the central theme of my photographs."
Vladislav describes the daily scenes in detail: "When we arrived at the dining hall, there were 30–50 people. All dressed in overalls and caps, hands behind their backs. They prepare their own food, taking turns in the kitchen. We even tried their bread — it was quite good. For lunch, they had soup, a main dish, and compote. A standard menu."
"When we were in the shelter during an air raid alert, the colleagues asked if a Russian missile could hit the camp. The prisoners were confident it wouldn’t happen. They don’t believe that the Russians would shoot here, directly at them," Olga added.
For Vladislav Krasnoshchek, it was important to see how Ukraine adheres to international standards regarding the treatment of prisoners. "They live here almost like in a sanatorium. No one is torturing or humiliating them. They’re like cats in cream. It was crucial for me to see that we remain within the bounds of the Geneva Convention, even when it seems absurd in light of what is happening to our prisoners in Russia."
Vladislav reflects on the incomparable conditions for Ukrainian and Russian POWs, the importance of adhering to the Geneva Convention, and his own conflicting feelings about this situation.
"Our people, returning from Russian captivity, report that they only start to be fed better a few weeks before an exchange. This is done only so they don't look completely emaciated. All these realities reflect geopolitical surrealism, where only one side follows the rules," Vladislav shares. "Russia is a signatory to the Geneva Convention, but no one can verify the conditions in which our prisoners are held there. The Russians can do whatever they want to Ukrainians, and the Geneva Convention doesn't apply to them. We fulfill all our obligations by holding Russian prisoners at the expense of our taxes, while Russia can do anything it pleases."
"I always hope to get at least a few good shots. When I go on assignment, I set myself the goal of bringing back at least 2-3 photos that will contribute to the overall story of documenting the war. But honestly, I don't always know in advance what exactly I'll be photographing. I try to capture the vibe of what I see before me," Krasnoshchek explains.
Having extensive experience in documenting war, Vladislav still says that expectations sometimes don't match reality: "I always think I shot poorly. But then, when I look at the photos, I realize they are good shots. From this trip, I brought back two or three photographs that will definitely be included in my project 'Documenting the War.' There may be more, but these two photos I will definitely use."
"We looked at them and didn't see personalities in them. They were just beings moving out of inertia, carrying out certain tasks, but not understanding what they were fighting for. One of them told us that he had never been explained the true objectives of the so-called 'special military operation,'" Olga summarizes. Both photographers realized that this trip revealed not just the daily life of prisoners of war, but something deeper—the lack of meaning and the misunderstanding of their own participation in the war among those who once took up arms.
Olga Kovaleva is the chief project manager of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, a photographer, coordinator, and curator of artistic projects and social initiatives, as well as an educator.
Vladislav Krasnoshchek is a Kharkiv-based artist. From 1997 to 2002, he studied at the Faculty of Dentistry at Kharkiv State Medical University. From 2004 to 2018, he worked at the Kharkiv State Clinical Hospital of Emergency and Urgent Care named after O. I. Meshchaninov. He has been involved in photography since 2008 and became a member of the group "Shylo" in 2010, along with Serhiy Lebedynskyi, Vadym Trykoz, and Vasylysa Nezabarna. In addition to documentary photography, which is aesthetically transformed through technical manipulations, he works with archives and hand coloring—techniques that have developed in Kharkiv photography since the late 1970s. He also combines images with three-dimensional sculptural objects and engages in easel and print graphics, as well as street art.
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The "Azov" Battalion was created on May 5, 2014, in the city of Berdiansk as a special police patrol battalion of the Ministry of Internal Affairs based on a decision by the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Ukraine. The battalion emerged from the Ukrainian partisan group "Black Corps," which voluntarily participated in the Anti-Terrorist Operation in eastern Ukraine, particularly in Kharkiv and the Sea of Azov region in 2014.
Photographers Vyacheslav Ratynskyi and Anatolii Stepanov documented the first training sessions of the "Azov" fighters, the ceremonial send-off of the first volunteers to the front, and the battles in the village of Shyrokyne, where the battalion held a prolonged defense.
The special police battalion of the Ministry of Internal Affairs "Azov" was created on May 5, 2014. Its predecessor was the formation "Black Corps," which participated in the Anti-Terrorist Operation in Donbas. The unit primarily consisted of representatives from the eastern and southern regions of Ukraine. The battalion's participants were referred to as "the little black men," contrasting them with "the green men" — Russian soldiers in green uniforms without insignia who occupied the territory of Crimea.
The "Black Corps" formation was created by recently released political prisoner Andrii Biletsky during the night of February 28 to March 1, 2014. The core of the unit was composed of members of Biletsky's political party "Patriot of Ukraine," Kharkiv ultras, and active participants of the Euromaidan. That same night, the "Chornyi Korpus" stormed the "Oplot" club, the main headquarters of pro-Russian activists in Kharkiv. On March 1, 2014, Andrii Biletsky, along with the "Black Corps" formation, defended the Kharkiv Regional State Administration.
On the night of March 15, 2014, the "Black Corps" unit engaged in combat with pro-Russian forces on Rymarska Street in Kharkiv. This marked the first armed confrontation in which the pro-Russian side suffered fatalities. As a result of the shooting, the separatists had at least two dead and five seriously wounded, while the Ukrainian side reported no losses. By morning, the fighters of the "Black Corps," after lengthy negotiations, laid down their arms and surrendered to the police. After several days of arrest and court proceedings in Poltava, the members of the "Black Corps" were released.
The "Black Corps" was re-staffed throughout March-April 2014 in Poltava region. Later, the headquarters of the unit moved to Kyiv. The training and mobilization center of the unit was established in the building of the old "Cossack" hotel, which activists had seized during the Revolution of Dignity. The groups of fighters recruited and trained here periodically conducted raids in the Kharkiv region. During this time, the unit adopted black uniforms—purchased attire for the guards. The unit earned the nickname "black men."
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On May 1, 2014, the last raid of the "Black Corps" took place in Kharkiv. As a result, the mass demonstration announced by pro-Russian forces, which aimed to seize power in Kharkiv, did not occur.
From May 5 to 7, 2014, the "Black Corps" conducted a raid in the city of Mariupol. The "Black Corps" successfully repelled an attempt to capture the city police department, eliminated an ambush at the city's entrance, and captured the first Minister of Defense of the "DPR," Ihor Hakimzyanov, along with around 30 other militants. During the raid, the "Black Corps" was legitimized, and the special police battalion "Azov" was formed based on it.
On September 17, 2014, by the order of the Minister of Internal Affairs of Ukraine, the "Azov" battalion was reorganized and expanded into the special police regiment "Azov" of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. In the elections for the Verkhovna Rada, Andriy Biletsky won in the 217th district of Kyiv and became a Member of Parliament.
On November 11, the Minister of Internal Affairs of Ukraine signed an order to transfer the "Azov" regiment to the National Guard of Ukraine, with plans for its further enhancement to meet the combat standards of National Guard brigades. Today, the "Azov" unit is a separate special forces unit of the 3057th military unit of the National Guard of Ukraine. In February 2023, the separate special forces unit "Azov" became the 12th special forces brigade "Azov" of the National Guard of Ukraine.
As part of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Ukraine, the "Azov" unit participated in military operations in the territory of the Anti-Terrorist Operation, the Joint Forces Operation, and across Ukraine.
At the beginning of May 2014, the "Azov" battalion had 150 fighters and participated in the liberation of Mariupol. In August, the battalion was in Ilovaisk, where Ukrainian troops were encircled. On August 20, "Azov" commander Andriy Biletsky ordered the battalion to withdraw from encirclement after losing seven fighters. After exiting Ilovaisk, "Azov" held the defense near Mariupol. The fighters managed to destroy a militant tank, as well as an artillery system and enemy mortars.
Since early February 2015, the "Azov" regiment, along with the "Donbas" battalion and the 37th Brigade of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, participated in an offensive operation that resulted in establishing control over several settlements: Pavlopil, Berdyanske, Shyrokyne, and Lebedynske.
Fighting in the village of Shyrokyne practically leveled the settlement to the ground. On July 1, the militants announced that they would declare Shyrokyne a demilitarized zone as a "gesture of goodwill." The Azov unit was also withdrawn from the front line, with marines taking their place.
Ukrainian photographer Vyacheslav Ratynskyi photographed the farewells of volunteers from the future Azov regiment to the front during 2014-2015. Initially, they were sent off from the courtyard of the Kozatsky Hotel.
At that time, there were several dozen fighters. However, by the beginning of summer 2014, around a hundred fighters had gathered in Sofia Square in Kyiv. "The guys were brought in by several buses; the event was announced, and there were many journalists and photographers in the square," recalls Vyacheslav Ratynskyi. "Sofia Square is a very symbolic place. It's reminiscent of a hundred years ago in old photo and video archives with Petliura, Hrushevsky, and the Sich Riflemen." Ratynskyi adds that the send-off was very solemn: the boys were in uniforms and balaclavas, marching, stopping in the square to read the "Prayer of the Ukrainian Nationalist." Their relatives and girlfriends came to see them off. After the Revolution of Dignity, there was significant attention from the foreign press towards Ukraine, so many foreign photographers captured the send-off of the fighters.
"The time and location of the fighters' training sessions were also announced to the press, as the military was interested in sharing their stories. I loved photographing the training sessions of 'Azov'; it was always vibrant and dynamic. The topic of the military, especially volunteers, was popular, and I found it fascinating," explains Vyacheslav Ratynskyi. At that time, it was difficult to negotiate access to the regular army, although open training sessions were occasionally held at training grounds, while volunteer formations were open to communication. "It was easy to arrange shoots with volunteer battalions, and it was easy to work with them," says the photographer.
"During training, the fighters had their faces uncovered. Vyacheslav Ratynskyi mentions that he photographed the training sessions at the end of 2014 and in the summer of 2015. 'Now I have a sense of déjà vu, because in the same place I am shooting new young volunteers, but still from the same old war. I'm curious about where those guys from the 2014–2015 photos are, if they are all alive and healthy. Probably not all, as I find guys in those photos with amputations.'"
Ukrainian photographer Anatoliy Stepanov captured the fighters of "Azov" in positions in the village of Shyrokyne, located east of Mariupol. The village was one of the strategic points on the path of a potential advance toward Mariupol, so by the end of summer 2014, Ukrainian military forces began constructing fortifications on the western outskirts of Shyrokyne. The forward positions of Russian troops were located within two kilometers of the village. Shyrokyne was not fully controlled by either Ukrainian forces or separatists.
In early September, armed formations of the so-called "DPR" struck Ukrainian positions with artillery and, supported by tanks, launched an offensive. The attack was repelled, but Ukrainian units suffered casualties and withdrew from their positions. On September 5, Azov fighters returned to the front lines and repelled a new assault. That same day, the first Minsk Agreement was signed, which was supposed to initiate a ceasefire. The village of Shyrokyne fell within a 30-kilometer security zone, where heavy weaponry was to be withdrawn and granted neutral status. However, until February 2015, groups of "DPR" militants were based in the village, and their armored vehicles entered the area.
On January 24, 2015, the head of the so-called "DPR," Oleksandr Zakharchenko, announced the start of an offensive on Mariupol. On February 10, the "Shyrokyne Operation" commenced, aiming to divert separatist forces from Debaltseve and secure Mariupol from shelling. By the end of the day, Ukrainian fighters, including those from Azov, fully controlled Shyrokyne, although intense fighting continued on both sides.
The second company of the Azov regiment conducted a sweep of Shyrokyne. During further battles, Azov fighters secured their positions in Shyrokyne and Lebedynske. On February 11, heavy fighting occurred along the Shyrokyne-Sakhanivka route, and by February 13, "DPR" forces launched a counteroffensive on Shyrokyne. The following day, they utilized tanks and artillery, but Ukrainian forces successfully eliminated the enemy. On February 15, in accordance with the terms agreed upon during negotiations in Minsk on February 12, the active phase of the Shyrokyne operation was halted. Although Shyrokyne came under full control of Ukrainian forces, hostilities continued in its vicinity in the following years.
Anatolii Stepanov visited several times to photograph the "Azov" fighters near Shyrokyne. "The first time, I simply made arrangements with 'Azov' and went to their base in the eastern part of Mariupol. The guys put me and my colleagues in a pickup, and we went to work," recalls Anatolii Stepanov. "The second time, I coordinated with the commander and visited the fighters in a village near Shyrokyne."
Anatolii Stepanov photographed "Azov" fighters on the grounds of a resort in Shyrokyne. Its multi-story buildings were right next to the sea. The structures were heavily damaged by artillery, and the military positions were set up in gun slits carved into the walls. "From there, you could already see the other part of Shyrokyne, occupied by separatists. To get there, you had to take a road that was under sniper fire. That’s what the soldiers told me," says Anatolii Stepanov. "I have a photo of a soldier walking back to the base along that road."
Anatolii Stepanov spent several days in a bombed-out kindergarten, destroyed by separatists, along with a commander known by the call sign Donbas. The soldiers used the kindergarten to sleep and would leave from there for duty. "Azov" fighters were also there — in the evenings, they played football and relaxed. "When I was returning from a shoot, they started hitting us with AGS grenade launchers: we drove off, and a shell landed on the road just 50 meters from us," recalls Anatolii Stepanov.
Vyacheslav Ratynskyi is a Ukrainian reporter and documentary photographer. He was born in Zhytomyr and has lived and worked in Kyiv for the past 11 years. He is a graduate of the Journalism Faculty at Ivan Franko National University of Lviv. His work has been published in many Ukrainian outlets (such as Reporters, Hromadske, NV, Focus, Forbes, The Kyiv Independent, and others), as well as in several international publications, including Time, The Guardian, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, The New York Times, El Pais, Radio Free Europe, BBC, Reuters, and Der Spiegel. He has participated in numerous exhibitions in the U.S., Europe, Japan, and other countries. His photos have also been published in several books.
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Anatolii Stepanov is a Ukrainian photojournalist who has been documenting the war in Ukraine since 2014. In 2004, he completed a course at Viktor Marushchenko's photo school. Since then, he has worked in professional photography as both a freelancer and a staff photographer. He collaborates with agencies such as AP, Reuters, AFP, EPA, and Sipa, and has had his work published in magazines such as National Geographic, Spiegel, Stern, Time, and others.
He photographed the Euromaidan protests. On December 1, 2013, during the assault on Bankova Street, Berkut officers beat Anatolii, leaving him with a head injury, a broken arm, and destroyed equipment.
In 2014, he began photographing the war in Donetsk and Luhansk regions. He is the author of the photo project "Independent" (Chicago, USA) and one of the cameramen for the film "My War. The Two Lives of Vasyl Slipak" (2017). He has participated in both group and solo photo exhibitions in Ukraine, Germany, France, and the U.S.
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We worked on the material:
Researcher on the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskaliuk
Photo editor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
We continue our series of interviews with professional Ukrainian documentary filmmakers.
We talked to Oleksandr Klymenko about his experience as a photojournalist for a newspaper, his experience of filming the war in the Balkans and Ukraine, and the advantages of black-and-white photography.
Watch the full interview with Oleksandr on YouTube:
I like the term “photojournalist”. My job is a live reportage, shooting life. A photojournalist, on the other hand, is a person who goes and shoots assignments from the editor. I define myself as a photojournalist. When you work a lot, you try to decide for yourself what you're going to shoot and what you're going to do. Of course, I worked as a photojournalist for the Voice of Ukraine newspaper since 1991, which hasn't existed for a long time. I performed some tasks, but I tried to look for tasks and topics for myself. It was wonderful and I liked it very much.
Let me tell you a little bit about the history of the newspaper. The newspaper was founded in late 1990. The name was invented by Dmytro Pavlychko by analogy with the Voice of America. It was 1990, and there were these communist newspapers called Pravda Ukrainy, Soviet Ukraine, Rabocha Gazeta, and Sielski Visti, which is where I worked after university, and it was very cool. Dmytro Pavlychko and the democratic majority decided, and everyone agreed, that the Verkhovna Rada should have its own newspaper that would convey their opinion, not the communist opinion, let's say, the general opinion. When all kinds of rallies and demonstrations took place, a massive propaganda attack would immediately begin in these communist newspapers, saying that this was done by Banderites, nationalists, and so on. Our newspaper resisted to a certain extent. Not even to a certain extent, in fact, we were a free newspaper: the deputies decided that each of them had the right to express their opinion in the newspaper, and everyone had a quota, and the party had a quota. That is, the Communists could disagree with the Rukh members, but the deputies could write whatever they wanted. In the first year, the circulation of our newspaper reached one million at once. It was a pleasure. It was a pleasure to work in such a newspaper, in the free press.
In Lviv, there was a newspaper called “For a Free Ukraine,” which could be subscribed to throughout Ukraine. It also had a huge circulation. I subscribed to it and it came to Kyiv, to my mailbox, without any problems. I even have a photo there. On April 16, 1991, there was a big strike in Kyiv-the workers of the trolleybus plant, the Leninska Kuznia and Arsenal plants, which were industrial giants at the time, did not come to work. There was a chain of police standing there, and one of them was reading “For a Free Ukraine.” It was very famous.
At the Voice of Ukraine newspaper, I had a fancy two-room laboratory. I printed out photos there. I took pictures on film, of course, black and white. I developed the photos because I had to be in time for the room. The deadline was around twelve or one o'clock. You had to take a picture, run and give it to the newspaper.
The newspaper was published five times a week, except for Monday and Sunday. It was exciting - you had to take a picture, run back, develop it, print it, because they didn't scan the films - you needed a photo, dry it quickly, and give it back. It was interesting. What were we filming? We were filming life. At that time, all sorts of tumultuous processes began. There were a lot of events both in Kyiv and outside of Kyiv - strikes, rallies, demonstrations. For example, there was a very large strike of miners in Donetsk in 1990, by the way. I think that the photos I have now are very historical, they show how our Ukraine began. However, unfortunately, the period is completely different now.
It's a very long period, and I can't identify just five iconic photographs from that time. Let's assume that the tumultuous path to Ukraine's independence began in late 1989. That's when excavations began in Bykivnia, a place near Kyiv, a forest between Kyiv and Brovary, where there were mass graves of people repressed, killed by the system, killed by Stalin. We talked about this for a very long time. At first, they denied that “no, no, this is a German grave, they killed Germans there,” and so on. Finally, we went there in April 1989. We went with a correspondent from the newspaper I was working for at the time, the Village News, to film the excavation. The police, then still the police, were there, investigators, and they said: “No, you can't.” However, I had a correspondent with me, an old man, as I thought at the time, although he was actually 65-70 years old, and he said: “No, you all...”. In short, we went to the set. I took pictures of how they were digging up these bodies. There is a photo of a human skull with a hole in the head, so it is clear that this is a person who was shot. Then I saw boxes with a mountain of bones. I wanted to go further, but they didn't let me. I took pictures with a telephoto lens. This is one of the most significant photographs.
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In 1990, there were strikes by miners in Donetsk. This is also such a powerful picture - the whole square in front of the then Regional Party Committee is filled with miners who have just come out of the mine. They are unwashed, they are black. I arrived in the morning - it was so light, such a contrast to the morning. I was shooting with black and white film and made a few shots on a slide. The slide film didn't turn out very well - everything was yellow and there were a lot of black people. These people, the miners, they felt strong.
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I remember the filming in Kolomyia, where there was a “Cathedral of the Spiritual Republic”. It was organized by Oles Berdnyk, a writer, fiction writer, and dissident. Thousands of people went to the mountain and held a prayer service there. I have some interesting photos from there.
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August 24, 1991, of course. The day when the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine adopted the Act of Independence. I took pictures of all the passions in and around the Verkhovna Rada hall. For example, such a simple photo that everyone knows is just a poster with the inscription “Ukraine is leaving the USSR” and people shouting something. Actually, I don't really like photos where you have to read. A photo should speak without text. For example, when a foreigner looks at this photo, they will not understand what it is. However, on the other hand, this photo cannot be understood without text. “Ukraine is leaving the USSR” was a very big deal back then, but now we are free.
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I remember a photo with Viacheslav Chornovil that I took on August 18 in Zaporizhzhia, on the eve of the coup. It was the Chervona Ruta music festival.
I want to mention a couple of other iconic photos. In the fall of 1990, there was a huge rally at the stadium. People were walking from the central stadium to the then Lenin Museum. They were carrying all kinds of posters, including the inscription “We don't want the Moscow yoke.” There was also Lenin's coffin, which was very creative. And the final photo is from August 24, 1991, when everyone-the People's Council, Chornovil, and other people-gathered near the rostrum and started singing. Everything was over, the flag was taken out, and they started singing-first “Chervona Kalyna” and then the national anthem. This photo is very significant.
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The historian and writer Oleksandr Zinchenko has now published a book, How Ukrainians Destroyed the Empire, based on his own film. The book is illustrated entirely with my photographs, and this photo of everyone singing is on the cover.
Vyacheslav Chornovil showed the trident with his hand, and so did everyone else at all the rallies. On the eve of the 30th anniversary of Independence, a creative agency, supported by the Minister of Culture Oleksandr Tkachenko, decided to show the trident in a different way. A discussion started. I posted a photo with Viacheslav Chornovil, and Channel 5 journalist Olya Snisarchuk, the wife of my friend Vladyslav Sodel, made a post and said: “Here is the trident”. Everyone picked up this post.
I photographed Vyacheslav Chornovil a lot. He is mostly very sad and thoughtful in the photos. Sometimes I look at these photos and feel pain. Chornovil spoke on August 24 - he was shouting, waving his arms, he was a very emotional person.
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I also filmed a lot of Kravchuk, and we can mention Kuchma. I was working for Der Spiegel magazine, and they arranged an interview with Kuchma right after he was elected president. A large delegation came from Hamburg, from the magazine, including the deputy editor and journalists. We went to see him at the office of the Ukrainian Union of Entrepreneurs on Khreshchatyk. He was still there at the time. He was talking, I was filming, and suddenly he laughed very hard. I like it, he laughs very sincerely. Of course, the photo was not included in the interview, which was very official. But I still have the photo, it was printed in books. There is no disrespect in this photo.
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We can say that the further we go, the more photographs we have. I can’t even imagine someone in the year 2000 using a phone to take photos. Do you have a phone? Then you’re a photographer. I’m saying this without any irony—phones can capture anything with decent quality. If you’re in the right place during a significant event and have a phone, you’ll capture it. It’s often said that our war is the most photographed, and that’s true. There are so many photos. I follow war photography closely, but, for example, I can only recall Malolyetka—his photos from Mariupol are truly iconic. I believe that these images, if they didn’t stop the war, then they definitely changed the world’s attitude towards it. I also remember photos by Kozatsky, the guy who was in the basements of Mariupol, who managed to transmit those photos—those were also remarkable.
There were a lot of photos from Bucha, with many people there. It was an open area, and anyone could theoretically go there and take pictures. But no one could go to Mariupol. There, the risk to life was enormous, just like in the films. That’s my take on why the images from Mariupol are iconic.
In truth, the world seems to move in circles. Unfortunately. I mentioned the excavations in Bykivnia, and when I saw the excavations in Izyum, it was almost identical. The only difference was that here you could film freely; there were a lot of people, but the themes, the stories, and the exhumed graves were nearly the same. I photographed a destroyed library in Sarajevo, and later in Maryinka. Now there are many photos of destroyed libraries. Why don’t we see these photos? I don’t know. The world is vast, with so much information—it’s hard for us to keep track of everything.
I photographed the war in the Balkans. In 1994, the press service of the Ministry of Defense asked me if I would fly with them and if I was afraid. What was there to fear? Everything was fine. We flew in an IL-76 plane, landing in Ancona. There were a lot of people—130 or 140 soldiers on board—and we couldn’t fly any further. We were supposed to refuel and continue, but there was an explosion at the Sarajevo airfield, and they banned landings, so we stayed overnight in Ancona. We arrived in Sarajevo in the morning and went to the base where the 240th Ukrainian battalion was stationed—it was a former military school. This was a location in the mountains, with snipers shooting and mortar shelling targeting the people trapped in Sarajevo. Some of our soldiers in that school also died. The building was shelled from the mountains, and the soldiers made barricades with sandbags. That was the first day. The next day, I was eager to shoot something. There were two other photographers—Pavlo Pashchenko and Valeriy Solovyov. So, we were in Sarajevo, the whole world watching, and we were just sitting at the base, capturing staged shots. Eventually, we found someone who guided us around Sarajevo.
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We didn’t even have accreditation and couldn’t go into the city on our own. By the way, I was almost arrested there, but was quickly freed. In Sarajevo, a person with a camera is considered a spy. Where are they coming from? What are they photographing? Oh—they must be a spy if they’re not labeled "Press." We walked around the city. Of course, I took some photos there. We visited the library in Sarajevo, then another place where people were running across the streets. There was a bus and then an open space being shot at from the mountains. I captured that. These are some iconic shots from Sarajevo. Later, I saw people collecting water. I photographed everything I wanted to show.
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I have emotional photographs. We flew from Mykolaiv, and the day before the flight, the soldiers went to church. The priest said, "If any of you are not baptized, I will baptize you now." Many people, around twenty, agreed to be baptized. I captured it. They were kneeling, listening to the priest, lighting candles. That became a separate series for me.
I photographed in the city of Mostar. I have a picture of a man named Zvonko on Church Street in Mostar. The street was completely shot up; it no longer existed. Of course, it’s nothing compared to what’s happening with us now. There were just buildings riddled with bullet holes. There wasn’t a single flat surface—everything was scarred by bullets. We were walking, and then an old man joined us. We started talking. "Hello" – "Hello." "Who are you?" – "We’re journalists from Ukraine." "Oh, and let me tell you..." and the man started talking to us. He began to complain: "I fought, I’m a veteran. But they won’t give me money there." Such an emotional old man. In Mostar, I also took a picture of a destroyed building—everything was burned down, and next to it, right up against it, one wall was already rebuilt. White marble... Such a contrast.
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Now, photographing the war is expensive. For example, I have to take a car from Kyiv, drive, spend money on fuel, and find a place to stay, whether in a hotel or not. The last time I was near Bakhmut, in Ivanivske, was in April of last year. The photos I took there, I sold to foreign agencies.
I experienced being a foreign journalist when I traveled to the former Yugoslavia. I would arrive, look around, and think, "Oh, how bad it is." Then I’d come back to Kyiv, and everything was fine. In 1994, I photographed the war in the Balkans. I believe these are some general rules of journalism. Sarajevo didn’t experience the same kind of shelling that we’ve had since 2014, for example, in Ivanivske. You have to be careful. If there’s shooting, lie down.
What does it mean that young colleagues weren’t prepared for the war?
A journalist must always be ready for anything.
We talked to them about PTSD. Maybe it’s buried somewhere deep in my subconscious, but I can’t say, "Oh, I suffer, I’ve seen death," or anything like that. There was one time, and I think it passed quickly. We spent two hours in a car with two corpses. That was in July 2014, on the Luhansk front. One soldier’s head was in a bag, with a lot of blood. That affected me—it was the scariest thing. Later, we were under fire, but it didn’t touch me as much...
They say that not only photographers who see war but also editors who follow the war, seeing all these brutal images on their screens, shouldn’t give themselves over to it too much, or they’ll burn out quickly. You shouldn’t drink. You should read books, go fishing, and treat it like a job.
Journalistic education and experience help with this. You read something, hear something somewhere. For example, in 2014, I read that if you’re afraid to go to war or feel bad there—don’t go. But if you do go, don’t be afraid—you’ve arrived, and there’s nothing you can change now. Just behave carefully. If something happens, you must be ready. Before going on a trip, you should get all your affairs in order. If, God forbid, something happens to you, people won’t have to deal with a mess, and no one will speak ill of you. Everything should be clear and finished, as scary as that sounds. I’m not a hero; I’m just like everyone else.
In 2014, under fire, when mines were falling, I was just as scared. We were near the village of Tonenke, close to Avdiivka, where the road led to the airport. There was some random shelling in the fall of 2014. We were walking along the road with my colleague, a journalist, when Grad rockets and mines started falling. The shelling continued, so we ran to a clay house where soldiers were stationed. The shelling kept going; we were lying on the floor, and across the road was a concrete hangar—there was a fire station, and it was safer there. So, we eventually ran there. The shelling continued, everything around us booming and booming. I wrote about this in a book. There was this feeling of wanting to drop everything, run outside, and just run. Just run away from this place. There were thoughts about how terrible it would be to die helplessly—to just lie there and be killed. It would be better to run into battle with a machine gun, shouting "Hurrah!"—that would be more interesting.
I also want to say that all journalists—me, and the young, the old, the new—we go and return. We might think, "Oh yes, I was under fire there." But on the frontlines, the guys sit in trenches for months, two months, three months, a year. So we’re just kindergartners. We shouldn’t be heroized.
In this case, I can be called a photojournalist who went to the Verkhovna Rada on assignment. I worked for the Verkhovna Rada’s newspaper, "Holos Ukrayiny." The only time it was interesting was on August 24, when I photographed with all my heart and soul. Maybe there were some other instances...
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In February 2014, the Verkhovna Rada played no significant role, but perhaps I am mistaken. In 2004, during the Orange Revolution, the Verkhovna Rada passed laws and took an active part to prevent anything catastrophic from happening. In 2014, the Verkhovna Rada did nothing.
I photographed in the hall below. There were three of us photographers, and two of us would go to the Verkhovna Rada alternately, week by week. Honestly, it was a bit dull, not very interesting. It all depended on the personalities—when the deputies were engaging, the work became interesting. I mean the first convocation—Pavlychko, Drach, Zaiets, Plyushch, and the deputies from Lviv. There were constant discussions, which were interesting to listen to.
After university, I worked for Silski Visti, then for the newspaper Holos Ukrainy, photographing on black-and-white film. Later, I worked for the magazine Der Spiegel, where they strictly used only black-and-white photography. Color film was available, but they shot only in black and white. I think by 1995, they switched to color. At the newspaper, we switched to color film before digital, sometime in 1996 or 1997.
I prefer my black-and-white photographs more. It’s hard for me to explain why. I remember doing it all myself: shooting, developing, printing. By the way, I still print my photos—I have a preserved lab
Now I shoot digitally and in color. Shooting digitally in black-and-white is easy; you can always add the effect in Photoshop. But when you shoot on black-and-white film, it’s a completely different chemistry. After shooting digitally, when you don’t think about saving resources, you just press the button and wait for the best photo. When you switch to black-and-white film, you forget yourself and shoot rapidly, like with a machine gun. I traveled to Africa several times and always brought a camera with black-and-white film. I used a lot of it, and as you know, it’s an expensive process nowadays. I love my black-and-white photos more. Maybe because they feel more historical. Maybe because there weren’t as many photographers back then as there are now. I don’t know...
I love my black-and-white photos not because of nostalgia. Color can distract when you’re looking at a photo. But, for instance, I captured an explosion in Donetsk—it was in the fall of 2014. Everything was burning, I was shooting, and suddenly it exploded, and I was ready, capturing it all. Of course, the colors were striking. I thought if I had shot it on black-and-white film, the image wouldn’t have been as impactful as it was with those colors. On the other hand, something else in black-and-white would have been better.
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Text Author: Katya Moskaliuk
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The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, in partnership with Ukraїner, continues its series of publications of important photos from the past month relating to key events in Ukraine.
In September 2024, Ukrainian photographers told their stories about the events in eastern, southern Ukraine and in the capital, which included the fighting around Pokrovsk and field hospitals near Vuhledar, the exchange of prisoners, and Ukrainian Fashion Week.
Yurii Stefaniak and Viacheslav Ratynskyi worked on the sample.
Wounded Ukrainian soldiers leave a field hospital near Kurakhove, Donetsk region, in a medevac after fighting in the Ukhlodarsk sector. September 2024. Photo by Valentyn Kuzan, a soldier of the 72nd Brigade named after the Black Cossacks
Volunteers of “Vostok SOS” provide medical assistance to an injured elderly man during the evacuation of civilians from Pokrovsk, Donetsk Oblast. September 2024. Photo by Konstantin Liberov
Members of the Ukrainian Defense Forces stand next to a house in Kharkiv that was hit by a Russian air bomb. At least 3 people were killed in the building, and 31 other residents were injured. September 2024. Photo by Nicoletta Stoyanova
Residents of Pokrovsk, Donetsk region, ride their bicycles past a house that was destroyed by Russian artillery overnight. September 2024. Photo by Olha Ivashchenko
A field that caught fire after Russian artillery shelling near the village of Nova Poltavka, Donetsk region. September 2024. Photo by Heorhiy Ivanchenko
Marines are practicing river crossing and overcoming water obstacles on a rubber boat in Kherson region. Photo by Kostyantyn Huzenko, a serviceman with the 35th Marine Brigade
Artillerymen of the 148th Artillery Brigade fire at the positions of the Russian army in the Donetsk region. September 2024. Photo by Yevhen Borysovskyi, Ukrainian Armed Forces serviceman
Combat medics of the 68th Ranger Brigade with call signs Merin and DTP under fire take away the body of a dead infantryman in the Pokrovske area of Donetsk region. September 2024. Photo by Oleksandr Magula
Ukrainian soldiers hug their families and colleagues after returning from Russian captivity. September 2024. Photo by Anatoliy Stepanov
Models with amputations walk the runway during Ukrainian Fashion Week at Mystetskyi Arsenal in Kyiv. This year's Ukrainian Fashion Week was held for the first time since the beginning of Russia's full-scale invasion. September 2024. Photo by Alina Smutko for Reuters
In such photos, any search for metaphors seems to be an exaggeration for its own sake. Reality is more terrifying than fiction and interpretation.
Yes, this is one of those photographs in which I don't have the courage to even suggest anything. It seems like a sacrilege to speak out from my place (a very good book festival chair, from which I ask smart and educated people how we should live with each other when the limits of our experience are so incomparable even in the same family). Even if your profession, business, and skill is to testify, write, and search for words, they still leave you with extremely different experiences. To look at such pictures is to feel wrong. Or rather, to feel right, that is, embarrassed. From my chair at the book festival, I don't think about what's happening near Vuhledar, because I think about the prepared plan of talking to people who have to explain something to me or at least tell me how to live it now.
So let's not use any metaphors now, just the story of the photographer.
This picture was taken by Valentyn Kuzan, a photographer who is now in the army, during two nights at the stabilization center in Kurakhove, where the wounded from Vuhledar and the surrounding area were brought. The city on the mountain, from whose tall buildings the low-lying fields are so beautifully visible in the morning, is already becoming known. All those who did not know the map of Ukraine well (almost all of them) are now learning it with each destroyed town. You can see the map from a distance and it is covered in smoke, but as soon as a town or village catches fire, it is as if you are erasing the veil over that place with a coin, like those old cell phone recharge cards. And now you see the town, but it's hard to see what it really looks like. On the first night at the staging area, Valentyn Kuzan found a frantic flow of wounded, and these are the moments when everyone who has not yet heard of Vuhledar will hear about it.
Valentyn barely had time to film the aid being provided to the military, let alone talk to anyone. In that stabilization center, medics set up a table in the corridors where the wounded could finally drink tea, eat cookies or even a sandwich while waiting to be evacuated to a hospital. Some waited for a day, because they are evacuated mostly when it gets dark.
Both medics and the wounded, who can walk, go out to smoke at night under the building. What remains outside the picture is fear and the understanding that the Russians could drop something here at any moment. The photographer captures, without taking pictures, the stupid night, the blue dimmed light of the medics, and the calm, smooth flames of hot cigarettes that freeze between the fingers of those waiting for new wounded and those waiting to be taken away.
This photo shows a wounded soldier. He didn't want to be photographed, but eventually agreed with the photographer that he would not be recognized in such bandages, and it was necessary to show what was happening. It is the second night at the staging area, a little calmer than the previous one, but all the beds are occupied by those waiting for a car to the hospital. A man is sitting on one of the beds, behind him is a light blue wall, and behind it is the same stupid pitch black night and perfectly controllable air bombs. He has a cross on a chain around his neck and, if you look closely, a silver ring. We don't know what it means to him, but it must mean something to carry it so close to him.
This man did not tell the photographer anything. All the time he was on the phone or dialing someone. Did he call different people, or was the connection constantly interrupted? Valentyn Kuzan only caught and remembered how the man put the phone to his ear and said something like “hello, brother” or “hey, brother.”
It's hard to convey with one photo that someone is always in touch with the man - maybe two. Valentyn Kuzan has one more photo from that evening, he took it when the medical evacuation vehicle arrived and the wounded were transferred inside, where the bluish light mentioned above came from.
Inside the medevac, there are shelves in two rows on both sides, like compartments in a train. Someone is sitting, someone is lying down, and you can see the legs of the wounded hanging from the upper shelves. It was there, right in the center, that the photographer saw the man with the phone for the second time, still talking. Even his posture hadn't changed much. So Valentyn took another picture.
It's a good thing that we have cell phone service now, instead of two weeks of nothing from letter to letter, with no certainty. Kollezhanka's conversation jolts me out of my thoughts as she talks about the same disparate experience. Her sister writes to her and asks how you are, to which her friend says: “Nothing, I'm getting ready for the wedding, and you?
Nothing, we are moving, we are transferred to Vuhledar.
Text: Vera Kuriko
Photo: Valentyn Kuzan
On October 5, 2023, the Russian military struck a cafe in the village of Hroza in the Kharkiv region with an Iskander missile. The café was hosting a memorial dinner, which was attended by many villagers. The strike killed 59 people, including an eight-year-old child.
Photographer Yakiv Lyashenko captured the aftermath of the missile strike on the village of Groza, the burial of the dead, and the grief of those who remained.
On October 5, 2023, at 13:24, the Russian army fired on the village of Groza, Kharkiv region, which is located 35 km from the front line. An Iskander missile hit a cafe where a memorial dinner was being held at the time. The residents of Groza were saying goodbye to their fellow villager Andriy Kozyr. The man mobilized as a volunteer in March 2022 and was killed in the fighting near Popasna less than a month later. At the beginning of the full-scale war, Hroza was occupied by the Russian military and Andrii was buried in the Dnipro region. After Hroza's liberation, his son Denys, who mobilized with his father, decided to rebury him in his native village. Denys Kozyr served until June 2022.
Then he moved to Hroza and married Nina, who worked as a laboratory assistant at the Kharkiv Humanities and Pedagogical Academy. He and his wife decided to organize a reburial and a wake. Almost a third of the village residents - 60 people - came to the cafe. 59 people died, including an eight-year-old boy. A new cemetery has grown in the village, with Andriy Kozyr's grave in the center. Then, on the outskirts, there is a large family: wife, daughter, son, daughter-in-law, uncle, cousins and nephews. They all have the same date of death - October 5, 2023.
A week later, SBU investigators named the alleged gunners of the Russian missiles. They were two former residents of Hroza, Volodymyr Mamon and his younger brother Dmytro. On the eve of the liberation of Kharkiv region, the brothers fled to Russia and asked their fellow villagers and relatives about the location of the Ukrainian Defense Forces and about mass events in Kharkiv region. It is noteworthy that before Groza's release, the Mamona brothers were friends with the Kozyr family. The prosecutor's office launched a pre-trial investigation into the attack, and the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights sent a field team to the village to gather information. Eventually, the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights confirmed that the Russian army had launched a missile attack on the village of Groza in Kharkiv region on October 5, and that all 59 people killed were civilians.
The aftermath of the missile attack on the village of Groza was captured by Ukrainian photographer Yakiv Lyashenko, who arrived there immediately after the missile hit. “I was a photographer for EPA Images at the time. My editor called me and asked if I was free and had a camera. He said that there was an arrival with a lot of victims and I had to go immediately,” recalls Yakiv Lyashenko. ”I didn't even know the exact address and was driving towards Kupiansk. Then the editor told me the location. At the same time, I was watching the news and learned about the tragedy in Hroz.” Yakiv adds that he was one of the first to get to Groza, as many Ukrainian and foreign journalists arrived there later.
“When I arrived, I was shocked by what I saw. Everything was littered with the bodies of dead people - they were lying on both sides of the fence. Most likely, some of the people had already been pulled out from under the rubble and moved from the cafe,” says Lyashenko. ”When I approached the village, I did not see any bodies, but I could already smell this specific smell. I don't even know how to describe the smell of dead people - the smell of blood, burnt flesh... But when you smell it, you immediately realize that someone has died.” In Hroha, this specific smell was quite noticeable.
Immediately upon arrival, police officers, rescuers, and forensic experts arrived in the village of Hroza to collect bodies or parts of bodies and record people's testimonies. “There were fragments of bodies lying around: an arm, a leg, and a piece of incomprehensible meat. Everything was lying separately. There were some fully surviving bodies, but people were dead,” says the photographer. He recalls that a young woman was walking near the cafe that was destroyed by a rocket and helping the police identify the bodies. “The village is quite small and everyone knows each other. The woman was walking around and saying the names of the dead people. It was difficult to identify some of the bodies - some were burned, others were crushed by a stove,” says Yakiv Lyashenko.
The photographer stayed in the village until dark and went home to give the photos from Groza to a photo agency. Lyashenko traveled there several more times and photographed the preparations for burials and funerals of the dead villagers, and talked to the locals. “If this was my first time filming the dead, it might have been more difficult for me morally. However, this is not the first time I've filmed the aftermath of air strikes. I am used to such shootings. Although I would not like to get used to it at all,” says Yakov Lyashenko.
Yakiv Lyashenko says that all the stories of the residents of Hroza are special. He recalls a woman who did not go to the wake because her brother died that morning and she was busy preparing for the burial. This saved her life. Yakov says that the woman was very depressed and did not want to go anywhere. However, she admitted that if she had been persuaded a little longer, she would have agreed. Another woman who came to the cemetery was unable to swap with anyone at work and stayed at work. This saved her from death or serious injury. Opposite the cafe lives a family whose house was badly damaged by the blast: the roof was mowed down and windows were blown out. However, they all survived and were unharmed.
“There were three brothers there. I even remember their last name - Pirozhok. Accordingly, everyone called them 'pies'. They were from a successful Ukrainian family - they had a farm, a house, etc. On the day of the farewell to Andriy Kozyr, the brothers had some business to attend to, and their parents went to a cafe and died,” says Yakiv Lyashenko. When the brothers learned about the tragedy in Hroha, they immediately came and were shocked by what they saw.
On October 5, 2023, a third of the village died in Hroha. “There were two boys who had lost their parents. They did not want to talk or take pictures,” says Liashenko. Each of the locals has their own grief, because the village is small, everyone knows each other, and everyone has lost a relative, a neighbor, or a close friend. “In this house, the windows no longer burn. And in these ones too. In many houses, the lights are no longer turned on because no one lives there anymore. Whole families died in Hroha,” Yakiv recounts the words of a local boy whose parents died.
A lot of foreign photographers came to Groza to document the aftermath of the arrival. Yakov says that Ukrainian journalists were very reserved. Instead, foreign photographers were shooting everything. “If foreign photographers had the opportunity to climb into the coffin with a camera and take a selfie there, they would have done it. They came to shoot cool shots, and they simply don't care about the feelings of the relatives and friends of the victims,” says Lyashenko.
The photographer came to the village several more times to photograph people choosing a place in the cemetery for their loved ones, filmed burials, and talked to the locals. He also filmed at the Kharkiv morgue, where the bodies of the victims were brought for forensic examination. “We were allowed into the morgue to take pictures. A morgue worker cut off a piece of flesh from the body of a woman for analysis. I understand that this is her usual work. Instead, I had the impression that I was in a butcher's shop, where they cut off a piece for sale. For a person who is shooting in a morgue for the first time, everything looked quite scary,” says Yakiv Lyashenko. The last time the photographer came to Hroza was in winter. He visited a family that lives near the cafe. They had their house repaired, the roof partially replaced, and a new fence built.
Yakiv Lyashenko says he was deeply affected by the cruelty and cynicism of the locals who were pointing missiles at his native village. “Out of curiosity, I went to the page of Denys Kozyr, who organized the reburial of my father. He has a photo on his social media with the man who guided the missile. “They are hugging,” says the photographer. ”That is, the people who launched the missile at the village used to live there and knew all its inhabitants. It's a kind of special cynicism to ask people about mass gatherings, to point missiles at them, knowing that they will all die there. I was very impressed by this.”
Yakiv Lyashenko is a Ukrainian photographer from Kharkiv. He began his professional career in 2012. After the start of the full-scale invasion, he worked as a fixer for well-known photographers and simultaneously documented the events of Russia's invasion of Ukraine. He was a freelance photojournalist for the EPA Agency and AP. He is currently serving in the National Guard.
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Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskalyuk
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On August 31, 2015, police and activists who opposed the adoption of constitutional amendments on decentralization of power clashed near the Verkhovna Rada in Kyiv. More than a hundred people were injured, and four members of the National Guard were killed.
Ukrainian photographer Vyacheslav Ratynsky captured the dramatic events inside and outside the Verkhovna Rada.
On July 15, 2015, the presidential draft law on amendments to the Constitution of Ukraine on decentralization of power was made public. Politicians and a number of experts generally praised the presidential draft law on the transfer of powers to the local level. However, one of the clauses of the Transitional Provisions, which were planned to be added to the text of the Basic Law, was extremely controversial. The most important difference between the finalized draft law and its first version was the provision on local self-government in certain districts of Donetsk and Luhansk regions. Many politicians saw the phrase “The peculiarities of local self-government in certain districts of Donetsk and Luhansk regions are determined by a separate law” as granting “special status” to the part of Donbas not controlled by Kyiv and considered it Ukraine's “surrender” in the conflict in the east.
On July 16, the Verkhovna Rada passed a resolution to send the presidential bill to the Constitutional Court to amend the Constitution to decentralize power. On July 31, 2015, the Constitutional Court of Ukraine recognized the draft law as compliant with the requirements of the Basic Law. The first reading of the draft law was scheduled for August 31, 2015.
On August 31, the day of the Verkhovna Rada session, several political forces, including Svoboda, Oleh Lyashko's Radical Party, Civic Platform, and UKROP, organized a rally. People gathered outside the Verkhovna Rada to prevent the adoption of the draft law on decentralization. At the same time, a parallel rally was held by the Ukrainian Association of Gun Owners to demand the adoption of a law on civilian circulation of weapons and ammunition. At first, the rallies were quite calm. Conflicts on the square arose only because the sound from the two stages set up by the protesters overlapped and the speakers drowned each other out.
At the time, after a heated discussion and clashes near the rostrum, 265 MPs supported the bill in the first reading at exactly 1 p.m. Immediately after considering the only item on the agenda, the parliamentary session closed, and the Ukrainian anthem was played in the hall. The anthem was also played on the square, and people learned that the MPs had voted in favor of the amendments to the Constitution of Ukraine. Clashes immediately broke out outside between law enforcement officers and protesters. The protesters came close to the metal fence and began to swing it to break through to the parliament. The protesters began throwing water bottles at the police and beating them with sticks. In several places, activists clashed with security forces. Tear gas, smoke bombs, stun grenades and firecrackers were used.
Journalists who were in the parliament building were not allowed outside by security guards. Photographers were forced to observe the events from the windows of the second and third floors of the Verkhovna Rada. MPs also crowded near the windows.
On August 31, 2015, photographer Viacheslav Ratynskyi was photographing a session of the Verkhovna Rada. He was working for a news agency at the time, and working in parliament was part of his daily routine. However, on that day, tension was palpable and the conflict was predictable. Viacheslav Ratynskyi recalls that after the Revolution of Dignity, clashes near the parliament were frequent and commonplace. “I came to the Verkhovna Rada to film the adoption of the law on decentralization. It was clear that problems could not be avoided. The then-Speaker Parubiy was surrounded by MPs from all sides, and the rostrum was blocked. He was not allowed to put the bill to a vote,” says Ratynskyi. However, at 1 p.m. the bill was passed. Viacheslav says that he even has a photo of the bill's title on the board in the Verkhovna Rada.
After the MPs voted and the session of the Verkhovna Rada was immediately adjourned, all journalists and photographers began to move quickly to the exit of the hall. “I remember some whispers among my colleagues, and everyone started running somewhere. I also ran with everyone,” says Viacheslav Ratynskyi. ”From the session hall, we went to the corridors, from the windows of which we could clearly see the entire Constitution Square. There was already a serious scuffle there - activists with sticks attacked the National Guard. No one realized how serious it was, and no one even imagined how it would end.” Slava Ratynskyi recalls that during the Revolution of Dignity, representatives of the Svoboda party formed the backbone of the protesters. Then most of them volunteered to fight in the east, in the ATO. Oleh Tyahnybok's party remained active during the first years after the Maidan.
“I went to the window and saw that the police and protesters were fighting in earnest. I started taking pictures, but the shots were almost identical from one point, so I decided to go to the square,” says the photographer. Viacheslav recalls that all the central exits were blocked. “I wanted to get into the underground passage and go to the square from the side of the Cabinet of Ministers. I met Iryna Lutsenko in the corridor and she led me to the passage,” Viacheslav Ratynskyi recalls the details of that day. It was very noisy outside, there was smoke from the checkers, and it was very difficult to breathe because of the pepper spray. “The atmosphere after Maidan and the first year of the ATO was very electrifying. There were many volunteer veterans on the square who had just returned from the war zone,” says Ratynskyi. He filmed the activists and their clashes with the security forces on the square. Firecrackers were constantly exploding and it was very noisy.
At 13:46, an explosion occurred on the square, which was much louder than the previous ones. “The protesters tried to break through to the Verkhovna Rada. However, no one expected the events to have such an ending. One of the activists threw a live grenade that hit the National Guard,” says Vyacheslav Ratynsky. There were three lines of security forces in front of the explosion site. Panic began to spread among the people on the square and the scuffle continued. A few minutes later, ambulances arrived at the parliament. The crowd moved to the Kyiv Hotel and then slowly dispersed. Four National Guard soldiers were killed that day, and dozens of law enforcement officers were injured.
On August 31, law enforcement officers detained about three dozen activists who were protesting in front of the Verkhovna Rada. 16 protesters were arrested for two months in a few days. Among the detainees was 21-year-old Ihor Humeniuk, who was accused of throwing a grenade at National Guard soldiers. According to law enforcement officials, another grenade was found on his person during his arrest. At the time of his detention, Ihor Humeniuk was a volunteer of the Sich battalion, which was later subordinated to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Shortly before the events near the Parliament, he wrote a letter of resignation from the battalion and came to Kyiv from the city of Kurakhove, Donetsk region. Before joining the service, Humeniuk was an active member of the Svoboda party. According to his lawyer, Oleksandr Svyrydovsky, Ihor Humeniuk “does not admit his guilt in the events that occurred on August 31, 2015”.
Viacheslav Ratynskyi was filming one of the courts. “I was never able to take a picture of the guy who was accused of the crime. He looked somehow inconspicuous. I can't even find him in my photos among the protesters. I came to photograph a session of the Verkhovna Rada, and there were clashes that killed people. Even routine photography can become dangerous at some point,” says Viacheslav Ratynskyi.Ihor Humeniuk, accused of committing a terrorist attack near the Verkhovna Rada, died on July 5, 2023, as a result of the detonation of his own explosive device in the premises of the Shevchenkivskyi District Court of Kyiv. It is unknown how he brought the explosives into the courtroom.
Viacheslav Ratynskyi is a Ukrainian documentary photographer and photojournalist. He has been working in the field of photojournalism for over 10 years. He collaborates with international and Ukrainian news agencies and media, including Reuters, The Guardian, Le Monde, Süddeutsche Zeitung Magazine and others. He has been published in many Western and Ukrainian media, including: The Time, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, The Telegraph, The New York Times, El Pais, Der Spiegel and others.
He has participated in numerous photo exhibitions in Europe, the USA, Japan and South Korea. His photographs have been published in several books. Viacheslav Ratynskyi works in Ukraine. His work explores the impact of war on society, social and political issues.
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Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskalyuk
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Yevhen Borysovskyi, a new member of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, embodies two roles: serviceman and photographer. Appointed as the head of the communications department of the 148th Separate Artillery Brigade in Zhytomyr, he never planned to pursue a career in either the military or photography, but life and war had other plans.
“At one point, I wanted a stable salary and an office job, rather than engaging in creativity with unpredictable income. That’s why photography remained a hobby that occasionally brought in extra earnings. However, the hobby ultimately took over almost 10 years ago. Even in war, I picked up a camera instead of a rifle,” Yevhen says.
Yevhen’s first love for photography came in childhood when his father took amateur photos of him and his sister. “We would develop the photos together in a darkroom with red light. It created close bonds back then, but I didn’t take it seriously,” the photographer recalls. A turning point came in 1998 when his father bought an Olympus DSLR camera with 1.4 megapixels. “I still have those photos stored on my computer. You could say I’m the archivist of our 10th and 11th grade school memories. Now we have cameras in our phones, and we take countless unnecessary photos throughout the day. Back then, you had to carry two separate devices,” he says about his early works.
By the late 2000s, he had replaced his simple point-and-shoot camera with a DSLR, which occasionally served as a ticket to free entry at festivals or discos. “That’s when I realized that a camera could open certain doors. I remember being allowed on stage at the ‘Chaika’ festival because I had a camera. It was incredible standing there and seeing thousands of people,” he recalls.
In 2008, Yevhen made an important step in his career by working as an editor for a political talk show on the ‘Inter’ TV channel. In addition to his standard duties, he photographed behind-the-scenes moments of the show. It was there that Yevhen met his first mentor, the show’s staff photographer, who had a top-of-the-line Nikon camera with a full set of lenses. “Although he doesn’t know it, he became my mentor, as he explained what makes a good or bad photo,” Yevhen recalls. Thanks to this encounter, he learned how to make money from photography and turn it from a hobby into a profession. Shooting behind-the-scenes for political talk shows introduced Yevhen to press services, and after the show ended, he was offered a position as a personal photographer for the Deputy Prime Minister. “It was a major step—to leave the office and turn my hobby into a job. It was a great school and experience. Constant trips and a fast work pace,” says Yevhen.
In 2014, he was offered the role of a TV camera operator, a new challenge for him. “Many photographers transition into camera work. In the first few months, my employer wasn’t happy because I had no idea how long to hold shots. They promised to teach me, to start in a studio, but in reality, they handed me a camera in the evening and told me to shoot the next morning,” Yevhen recounts. For a photographer, it was a surprise to learn that TV work wasn’t as simple as he had thought: “Directors pick the first shot they get, and it turns out to be the worst. I thought like a photographer—shooting series, making duplicates, and choosing calmly. In the beginning, I had a lot of unusable footage.”
While working in the Verkhovna Rada, Yevhen met a photographer named Lera and a man named Hryhorii Vepryk, who proposed starting a photography agency. “By that time, I had already decided that photography was closer to me than working as a news cameraman, and I was just looking for an opportunity to switch professions. I said negotiating and finding clients wasn’t my thing, but I could shoot,” he explains. Together, they founded a photography agency called The Gate Agency, which eventually grew into a large team and essentially a production company with a rich portfolio.
“I was a bit disappointed that many of my friends didn’t join the military,” Yevhen admits, “but it’s a pleasant surprise when I occasionally meet former colleagues in uniform on the frontlines.”
The last year before the war became a time of change and new pursuits for Yevhen Borysovskyi. After leaving the agency, he decided to focus on sports photography and personal projects. “We had some differences of opinion with my colleagues at the agency, so I focused more on myself and individual work,” he recalls. “Starting from scratch was hard. That’s when I realized the importance of building my personal brand, something I hadn’t invested much in. In fact, I hadn’t invested in it at all. The agency was responsible for finding clients, and I was just an executor.”
This turn of events wasn’t accidental. Yevhen was always looking for new opportunities for self-growth. “I enjoyed shooting sports because of its dynamism and emotions, the energy, victories, and defeats. That’s why, a year before the war, I mostly focused on covering sporting events,” Borysovskyi shares. “It was through this work that I found many new friends who are helping me even now.”
Yevhen was mobilized into the Armed Forces of Ukraine on February 26, 2022, after enduring emotional challenges at the onset of the war: “I just couldn’t sit still. It was both fear and a desire to do something. I went to the nearest recruitment office, and they gave me an hour and a half to pack. During the first few days at the training center, you walk around feeling so emotionally drained that you don’t just want to cry—you want to scream and howl. But you can’t.”
Yevhen recalled how, while preparing for mobilization, he grabbed his camera, which later became a crucial tool in his work: “In the rush to pack my backpack, my father told me to take a small camera, the Fuji S-10. On the 12th day at the Yavoriv training ground, we were suddenly sent to our units. That morning, we learned that our barracks and the training ground had been hit by a massive missile strike. Fate spared me. I ended up in the 71st Separate Jaeger Brigade, where I was unofficially appointed as a UAV platoon commander, as we were awaiting changes in the staffing. I probably didn’t pull the camera out of my bag for a few months, but eventually, the command needed photo reports from the training, and I didn’t want to take pictures with a phone. So, I started shooting, and a year later, I was transferred to a newly-formed artillery brigade as the head of the press service, even though I said I wasn’t ready and didn’t want to. But this is the army. There’s no room for ‘want’ or ‘don’t want’ here.”
Yevhen’s experiences came together when the war in Ukraine began. Today, his work in the military and photography is not only about capturing moments but also conveying the atmosphere of the war. "It’s important to me that the photos tell the stories I see on the front lines. They convey the atmosphere. These are not just pictures; they are testimonies. War is quite cinematic, if I can put it that way. There are picturesque and terrifying ‘sets’ and colorful, charismatic ‘actors.’ I don't think future screen adaptations of our struggle will be able to capture all of this. But I see the war in a limited way—just a piece of it, within the responsibilities of my brigade," he emphasizes.
Yevhen is not a fan of photography that lacks a story. He takes photos for himself and for his unit: “These photos are for the guys who are fighting. They’re happy when they see their pictures because it lifts their spirits.” Many of the photos remain as mementos, and some soldiers even ask for portraits in their new uniforms for personal use, like for a Tinder profile.
“I always make a folder with photos for the guys and upload them to the chats, because it's important to be part of the unit, on the same wavelength as them,” says the photographer. This allows Yevhen to maintain a balance between his professional activities and integration into the lives of the military with whom he serves.
The war has influenced his style: the images have become more minimalistic. “Now I have minimal post-processing. Because here the colors themselves are beautiful and self-sufficient and there are few of them. A little orange and a lot of gray, green and black,” says Yevhen. “I always thought that my photos were not bright enough in color,” Yevhen admits. Before the war started, he even enrolled in a color studies course to improve his skills. However, the war changed his plans. “On the second lesson, the war broke out, and I stayed in the same color scheme as before. Fate did not keep me in my palette,” he recalls.
Borysovskyi admits that he sometimes experiences "creative depression." As a press officer in the Armed Forces of Ukraine, one has to be versatile—writing texts, taking photos, and shooting videos. Serving in artillery, he faces a limited number of subjects to shoot. “We have a couple of types of cannons, and the choice of what to capture isn’t very large,” Yevhen explains.
He compares his work to that of journalist colleagues, who have the opportunity to travel across the entire front line. "I feel professional envy," Borysovskyi admits.
Photographer’s Work in Wartime and Censorship. Borysovskyi’s work as a photographer during the war is closely monitored by censorship. Serving in the airborne assault troops, the photos that appear on the brigade’s official pages undergo strict checks. “The photos you see on the brigade's pages are a compromise: they convey the atmosphere while satisfying the leadership and, most importantly, don’t endanger the guys,” Yevhen explains.
At the same time, Yevhen creates separate shots for his comrades, which are not published officially. This allows him to retain a part of his creative freedom while also meeting military requirements. “If you can’t capture it in one shot, go become a videographer,” he jokes, highlighting his motivation to shoot the best possible photos, even in combat conditions.
Yevhen reflects on his place during the war. "Unfortunately, I underestimate my role in this war because I sometimes feel like a TikTok officer," he says. Borysovskyi emphasizes that, while his profession is important, he feels conflicted: “I’m neither a rear guard nor a front-line fighter—I ride between positions, shoot, and come back. Sometimes I don’t see the point in my work because the guys are making a far more significant contribution to the fight. You take an incredibly cinematic photo that captures the atmosphere, but then you put down the camera and go help the guys.”
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Despite this, Yevhen Borysovskyi emphasizes: “These photographs may not change the weather, they may never be published, but they are important for the people in them and for history,” he says.
Despite the seriousness of the war, sometimes it is the simple moments that resonate most with society. One of Borysovskyi's most popular works was a series of photos of a soldier feeding a cat borscht. “This photo, this photoset, despite all my efforts during the war, was the most popular,” Borysovskyi recalls. This emphasizes the importance of even small moments of humanity that help create an emotional connection between the military and the public.
For Borysovskyi, photography has always been a way to discover new worlds and explore different life situations. “Photos allow you to go to places that are not accessible to mere mortals,” he says, emphasizing the unique opportunity to be in a wide variety of locations.
The work Yevhen did before the war naturally flowed into what he is doing now at the front. But the war has added new challenges, including the need to shoot video, which is now important for the military leadership. “And you're trying to sit on two chairs with one bun,” Borysovskyi jokes, describing how difficult it is to choose between photography and video at critical moments.
Borysovskyi emphasizes that while video is a quicker way to grab attention, photography is more important in the long run. “A photo is one thing, you look at it and it can be illustrated in many places,” he says, ”At the same time, video is quickly forgotten. You can put your heart and soul into a video, edit it for a few minutes, and no one watches it to the end, and you don't understand why.”
The job of press officer Yevhen Borysovskyi is to accompany journalists, but it is not always a satisfying one. As he admits: “And you hear the questions they ask. Tactical and technical characteristics of the gun, etc. It's really frustrating sometimes. Why not talk about life, about personal things? About people? About something deeper?”
Yevhen prefers working with Western journalists, who, in his opinion, focus more on human stories. “I like working with Western journalists, they talk about real life. They ask the soldiers the same questions I would answer myself: “How do you react to the fact that your classmates did not go to war? About society, about the future, about experiences, about home,” he says. These dialogues help not only to talk about the war, but also to highlight the personal experiences of the soldiers.
Yevhen describes his internal conflict when he works in dangerous conditions: “To die for 150 likes. Who needs it? But this is part of the job.” His self-irony reflects the difficulties that press officers sometimes face in the course of their duties.
Yevhen Borysovskyi continues to serve in the Armed Forces of Ukraine and work in the field of visual art, despite the challenges of the current situation. War and social change force everyone to rethink their priorities, but Borysovskyi remains true to his calling. “In 2022, I tried to pick up an assault rifle, but fate still pushed me a camera. Can I still resist it? War, no matter how horrible it sounds, is both beautiful and terrible at the same time. It's something that has always aroused a certain creative excitement in me, when you see all these scenery and destruction. You are ready to stay here. You try to convey this terrible war as best you can. Even if I am demobilized, I am sure I would like to return and film the story of our struggle, but more freely, not limited to the area of performance,” he says.
Yevhen also dreams of filming natural disasters, such as tsunamis or tornadoes, noting that he would be interested to see it with his own eyes. “I would like to take such shots while being inside the elements. But with these desires, I should probably turn to certain specialists,” Yevhen jokes.
Yevhen Borysovskyi is currently the head of the communications department of the 148th separate artillery brigade of the Air Assault Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. On February 26, 2022, he volunteered. In April 2023, he was transferred to the artillery brigade as a press officer. Until 2016, he perceived photography as a hobby and additional income, until Hryhorii Vepryk suggested creating his own photo agency, The Gate Agency, which would specialize in business photography and production filming.
Yevhen Borisovsky's Instagram.
The material was created by:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Editor-in-chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Site manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
What happens is that only dogs are left in the town, and time goes crazy in it.
A reasonable fear of obvious metaphors always tries to stop the author, but how hard is it to avoid them when it comes to a town called Chasiv Yar. How to avoid the metaphor of a town devastated by war, which now belongs to dogs and memories to some extent, to the few remaining people with weapons (because they need to somehow fight off those dogs), and most importantly to the military, who need to defend the town from the Russians, no matter what ravine or abyss of numbed time and memory the fighting may plunge it into.
This photo was taken from the fifth floor of a building in Chasovyi Yar, Donetsk Oblast, by Oleh Petrasyuk, a Ukrainian documentary photographer and member of the 24th Brigade. His brigade has been working in the Chasovyi Yar area since June. The author of the photo is a constant witness to the destruction: he said he saw the charred skeleton of a house, and during his next visit, bushes and grass sprouted inside the house, and by the third visit, nothing remained but the crater itself.
On that day, Oleh Petrasyuk entered the city unarmed, which he regretted, because those dogs on the path that can be seen from the fifth floor of the house are dogs that sometimes need to be fought off. They feel better here than people do, they organize themselves into packs, and they live the way they manage to live in war. You can say that the Russians are trying to take over the city, but the dogs have already taken it over.
In the third week of March 2022, Chernihiv was nowhere near ruin, except for the devastating fear of ruin. However, it was slowly losing people, traffic, and the noise of the streets, where dogs began to wander out in small packs: street dogs beaten by life, and now white poodles and delicate-haired black shepherds. They scurried between the endless morning queues of cars that were trying to get out again in vain, and between the garbage cans of the alley with restaurants. Only there were no visitors or leftovers on the alley, and the trash cans were completely empty, so the dogs passed the alley and moved on, toward the river port. A shepherd dog abandoned by someone still casts an angry glance at me and the pack that is walking slowly down the street.
For eight years, my father has been telling the same stories about the dogs that trod the paths to their dugouts and houses in the destroyed villages where the military had been so carefully disguised. The same man tamed the dog himself, he said, and now at the front, dogs are sentinels of war, having no position, just looking for humans for a while before moving away from them forever.
The Polish reporter Ryszard Kapuscinski, a witness (a regular, a guest?) of African wars, wrote about Luanda, the capital of Angola, on the verge of being surrounded. He described how the city becomes deserted as people pack their lives into wooden boxes and strive at all costs to get on the last plane or ship that will take them away from a place that is about to disappear, perhaps tomorrow. As the police leave first, followed by firefighters, then garbage collectors, and then bakers and postmen (who will write a letter to a city that will disappear tomorrow), the city becomes like a “dead bone sticking out of the ground toward the sun.” Everything was dying in Luanda before Kapuscinski's eyes, and in the end, he writes, only the packs of dogs remained-almost an international open-air dog show of all breeds.
Only, Ryszard notes, the dogs eventually left. Someone in charge took the responsibility of getting his pack out of Luanda. At least Ryszard did not see a single dead dog. They were just lounging in the sun in the grass, but when the final end came, either by the final end or by the fear of the final end, even the dogs died, and the city fell into a complete daze.
What happens is that only dogs are left in the town, and time goes to the dogs. And when the dogs conquer the town, every other town can look at it as if it were a mirror. As if into water.
Text: Vira Kuriko
Photo: Oleh Petrasyuk
Ukrainian documentary photographer Oleksandr Rupeta won the Xposure Photography Award 2024 for Best Independent Freelance Photojournalist with his series "Other Days of Life." For over a year, he captured life across different regions of Ukraine, offering a personal perspective on the war.
Oleksandr Rupeta shared insights into working on the series, the opportunities to document the full-scale war in Ukraine, and why it is important now to focus on the personal experiences of the conflict.
— Where were you on the first day of the full-scale war? Did you ever imagine documenting war in your own country?
— "My parents' house is located near a military airfield. On the first morning of the full-scale Russian invasion, I drove there to evacuate my relatives and witnessed the missile strikes along the road.
I had been photographing the war in my country periodically since 2014. However, I didn’t have any specific plans to document it in the event of a full-scale invasion."
— When did you begin documenting the full-scale Russian-Ukrainian war? What were the first images you captured?
— "In the first months of the full-scale war, I hardly picked up my camera. I only returned to photography after ensuring that my loved ones were relatively safe. The first photo I took, if I recall correctly, was of my mother in a temporary housing apartment for displaced people."
— What war-related themes are important for you to document? Why?
— "The Russian side commits crimes daily. Documenting each new crime is a necessary and important process. At the same time, photography, when viewed as art, allows for means beyond the literal to convey the horrors of war. For instance, it can involve reflecting on individual experiences or tracking broader trends—ultimately, anything the author deems necessary to explore through visual imagery."
— Before the full-scale Russian invasion, did you photograph vulnerable populations frequently? Do you continue working on similar projects?
— "Before the full-scale war, I explored topics in Ukraine and abroad, mostly focused on the challenges individuals face due to the structure of social life. I still keep in touch with some of the subjects from my previous projects. However, right now, the biggest challenge is the war—under the current circumstances, I don't see a more important topic."
— How beautiful or aesthetic can war photography be?
— "'Beautiful' and 'aesthetic' are not synonymous for me. Documenting with the author's detachment is also an aesthetic choice. If there is a vision guiding the selection of material, this implies an aesthetic decision. Photography can take on any form as long as the author perceives a certain approach as a tool and understands why and how to use it—it will work."
— Do you think certain "clichés" have already emerged in photographing the full-scale war in Ukraine?
— "It seems to me that clichés in war photography were established long before the war in Ukraine. Capturing something truly new is difficult, regardless of the conflict. I believe the key to avoiding clichés lies in reflecting on one's personal experience, which is unique for everyone."
— What emotions do you think your photos of the full-scale war should evoke in viewers?
— "I prefer to trust the viewer in their interpretations."
— Can you tell us about your project Other Days of Life? When did the idea come about, and where and how long did you work on it?
— "Initially, I planned to create a series of photos about Bakhmut. I spent several months shooting there, but I wasn't fully satisfied with the result. So, I decided to broaden the theme and not limit myself to a specific front line. As a result, the series consists of photos taken over the course of about a year.
I wouldn’t call Other Days of Life a project per se, as it captures various aspects of life affected by the war, shot under different circumstances. Whenever I had the chance, I photographed for the series; other times, I took advantage of opportunities to get to the front lines. I was shooting on assignment but always kept certain images in mind to later select for the series. Most of the photos were taken in Donbas and the Kharkiv region, but there are also images from other parts of Ukraine."
— Who helped you select the photos for the series? Which photos didn’t make it into the final selection, and why?
— "I have a few close friends whose advice I trust. This year, I was selected for the VII agency's mentorship program, so I now have the opportunity to discuss my work with a mentor and other colleagues. However, I had already been working on Other Days of Life before this. I don’t have a final version of the series yet—at a certain point, the selection seemed like the best fit, but it may evolve."
— Which subjects of your photos have stayed with you the most, and why?
— "That's a tough question. When it comes to the photographs taken after the full-scale Russian invasion, what stands out most to me are the children and the elderly, as they are often the most helpless victims. Their stories are mostly sad, not always meant for the public.
Behind many of the photos lies the tragedy of an individual or a family. It's difficult for me to single out one specific story."
— With your series Other Days of Life, you won the award for Best Independent Freelance Photojournalist at the Xposure Photography Award 2024. Could you tell us why this competition is important to you?
— "The finalists in the competition represented both the Ukrainian and Russian perspectives on the war. It’s good that the Ukrainian perspective won."
— Can interest in the war in Ukraine be maintained through photography? Which images, in your opinion, work best for a foreign audience?
— "Absolutely, photography can maintain interest in the full-scale war in Ukraine. However, it’s difficult for me to generalize about the audience. The more diverse the material, the more layers of the audience you can reach."
— Working on personal projects allows for a deeper dive into a subject. Do you have that opportunity right now?
— "In the series I’m currently working on, I want to focus on personal experiences of the war. The work is progressing more slowly than I’d like, but I hope it will come together in the end."
The material was created by:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Katia Moskaliuk
Editor-in-chief: Viacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Site manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
Lviv photographer Yurko Dyachyshyn has been documenting life during the war since the first hours of the full-scale Russian invasion. He specifically captures how the familiar landscapes of his hometown, Lviv, are changing under the aggressive impact of war. Yurko Dyachyshyn shared his thoughts on working on the War Nouveau project, the limits of aesthetics during wartime, and why he doesn't believe that a single photograph can stop a war, though he hopes he is wrong.
— When did you start documenting the full-scale Russo-Ukrainian war?
— I began photographing the full-scale war literally from the first hours. The first subjects were queues at ATMs and gas stations. At that moment, it was completely unclear how events would unfold and how long it would all last. It was hard to even imagine the scale of the challenges our country would have to face.
— What aspects of the full-scale war do you think are important to preserve and document?
— It's important to capture all aspects of the war and everything possible, down to the smallest details. Themes and events that seem secondary and insignificant now may hold great value even after a short period of time.
— How can you depict the war in your hometown of Lviv, which is far from the front line, through photographs? What markers of war are present in your photos?
— Of course, the visual imagery and markers of the rear are different. However, there are many, both obvious and subtle. For example, a well-understood and visible marker is the military cemetery located near the city center, as well as the funerals of soldiers and civilians who died in the war.
— How possible is it to comprehend and experience the trauma left by a full-scale war in order to reflect on it through photographs?
— In my opinion, it’s very individual. Some artists respond immediately, while others may reflect on it some time later or even many years after the war ends.
— Are the photographs you take during the war a document of the times or a subjective expression?
— Photographs are a subjective document. Everything in the world is subjective! Every author, journalist, editor, curator, or politician has their personal perspective on everything. It all depends on what "window" you’re looking through—whether it’s the window of a tank's gunner or a Ferrari, from a hospital window or a hotel at a resort, etc. My subjective view of a tragic event in my country may differ from that of a photographer in New York, for example.
— To what extent can photography be aesthetic if we are talking about preserving the memory of tragic events?
— There can be no aesthetic boundaries if we are talking about preserving the memory of tragic events. Otherwise, we would enter into a discussion about the limits of aesthetics in photographs of concentration camps during World War II. Aesthetics and its boundaries can be a topic of discussion in a comfortable and peaceful time! Today in our country, we are living in an in-aesthetic and unethical time. Some people live by the rules of wartime, and their aesthetic boundaries are appropriate, while others "pretend" to live in a different territory and time, "demanding" a different aesthetic. The perception of aesthetics in Kharkiv and Mariupol may differ and may not be interpreted the same way as in Lviv, and even more so in Luxembourg. Aesthetics or anti-aesthetics are not obligatory for consumption, so there is no definition or standard. Only place and time matter.
— Many photographers, both Ukrainian and foreign, are currently capturing the full-scale war in Ukraine. Do you think certain "stamps" or clichés have emerged in the photography? How difficult is it to capture something new right now?
— The full-scale Russo-Ukrainian war is not the first conflict photographers have worked on. "Stamps" were established a long time ago; only the decorations and elements present in the frame change. The technology and speed of information dissemination have evolved, especially with the large number of amateur photos and videos taken with smartphones. Speed is probably one of the main "stamps" today. Another aspect is the perception of acceptable limits for photo editing: blurred images have become visually familiar, and their use by "trendsetters" also shapes certain templates and their boundaries.
When it comes to creative approaches, there is always something new to find, regardless of how much has already been done up to this moment. The very changes in settings and the timing of events also set a new tone, vision, and meaning.
— Could you please tell us when you took the first photograph in the War Nouveau series? When did you decide to combine these images into a project?
— I started photographing as soon as these objects (sandbags, windows taped with duct tape, protective structures around sculptures, etc.) appeared on the streets of Lviv in the first days of the full-scale Russian invasion. These objects became obvious elements of the aggressive transformation of the surrounding space. For a long time, it was just documentation—a kind of collection. Initially, these newly created objects were constant unpleasant triggers: every time they caught my eye, they reminded me of the war. However, over time, just like with other things, you start to get used to them and see them as part of the established architectural elements.
When I began to perceive these objects as permanent architectural forms, I even started to find some of them "appealing," developing personal favorites. It seemed as if they were an inseparable part of the facade, and that it had always been this way—it’s now hard to imagine the urban space without sandbags. That’s when I began to shape this series and pay closer attention to simple and unpretentious forms that might seem ordinary at first glance, observing how they deteriorate over time or how they are patched up, reinforced, or repaired, yet they still remain. I started searching for various allegories and references to convey something deeper.
— Why the name War Nouveau?
— War Nouveau (a play on words combining "War" and "Art Nouveau") is a term I coined for a fictional "architectural style," specifically for protective temporary structures (most often sandbags) that have now become part of the new urban landscape as a stable architectural form surrounding us.
— Could you please explain why the series is shot in monochrome? Did you initially envision the War Nouveau project as black-and-white?
— Initially, I created a selection in color and didn’t want to stray from a strictly documentary visual language. However, I couldn't accept that version and postponed the series for a long time. Later, I made a simple monochrome black-and-white version, which I liked even less, and again put those works aside. Then I tried to approach it with a certain decorative quality and viewed the photos with squinted eyes, as if from a disturbing "dream," making them aggressively contrasting with pronounced vignetting. At that point, I felt the series come together and realized I could convey certain messages to the viewer. I don’t actually position War Nouveau as a documentary project tied to Lviv, but rather as more abstract with broader implications.
— I found a comment on your social media that one of the images in the War Nouveau project reminds a viewer of Michelangelo's sculpture "Pietà." How much of this is coincidence or happenstance? What meanings do you embed in these photographs?
— It might be a coincidence, or perhaps it's a result of my exposure to various classical works that influences my choice of frames. In any case, I’m pleased that I'm not the only one imagining and seeing something beyond just a sandbag or the tape holding plastic sheeting together.
— When will the project be completed, and do you plan to create a photobook or an exhibition of the War Nouveau series?
— You could say that the project is already complete. Of course, I will continue to photograph and add new works, replacing old ones with others as I see fit. Regarding an exhibition, I will organize it at the first favorable opportunity or proposal that comes my way.
— How important is it, and is it possible, to maintain interest in the war in Ukraine through photography? Which images do you think resonate best with foreign audiences?
— This has been discussed many times—the fatigue of audiences in other countries regarding the war and the information about it. We need to seek new forms and approaches, so to speak, paths to the heart. Often, we don’t know which photo, at what time, and for whom might have an impact on their decision-making. We must use all means to break through this "wall." Unfortunately, I am one of those photographers who doesn’t believe that one photo can stop a war. However, secretly, I really hope I’m wrong.
— What inspires you to keep working right now?
— I don’t have much enthusiasm—everything seems meaningless. However, I often repeat the saying: "Everything that is currently postponed is automatically lost." So I’ve taken this as my motto, which pushes me to try to think and create something.
The material was worked on by:
Researcher and author: Katya Moskalyuk
Photo editor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladislav Kukhаr
In January 2015, a modular settlement for displaced persons from Eastern Ukraine and Crimea was built on the outskirts of Kharkiv, near the airport. It was planned that the small residential containers would serve as a temporary shelter for internally displaced families. However, very soon, the fenced-off settlement turned into a ghetto and became a problem for the municipal authorities. The lifespan of the structures expired in 2017, and only then did they stop housing new residents. The "long-term" inhabitants of the modular settlements refused to leave their homes.
Ukrainian documentary photographer Danilo Pavlov captured the lives of the residents of the container settlements in 2016, listening to their memories of the past and dreams for a future without war.
In 2016, over 1.7 million internally displaced persons were registered in Ukraine—those from Donetsk and Luhansk regions and Crimea. People moved from territories occupied by Russia to escape the war. The issue of housing for internally displaced families was also addressed with the help of foreign investments. For example, with funding from the German Society for International Cooperation, seven modular settlements were built in Kharkiv, Zaporizhzhia, and Dnipropetrovsk regions. Over time, these temporary housing containers became permanent homes for displaced persons from the East and Crimea, turning into isolated territories cut off from the outside world.
One of these settlements is located on the outskirts of Kharkiv. On a small patch of land, which the local authorities fenced off with a mesh fence and guards, three common blocks for 150–180 people were erected, along with 10 four-apartment (provisional name) modules, as well as separate refrigerators, a laundry room, showers, and toilets. Among the obvious advantages were free internet and playgrounds. They planned to collect a symbolic $5 per month for living in the settlement. However, forecasts for the future are uncertain.
"The settlements, which were planned in the early years of Russian aggression as temporary, became permanent. Most of the modular houses turned into a real home for internally displaced people. The settlement in Kharkiv was one of the most problematic," says Danilo Pavlov. "The authorities hoped that the modules would help people resolve their housing issues for a few weeks while they found work and could rent their own place; that the containers would provide shelter for families from occupied territories, allowing them to escape the war without worrying about where to stay."
The modular settlements were primarily built for vulnerable groups: large families, single mothers, and people with disabilities. However, over time, the container houses transformed into a ghetto, and the settlement of people there became a form of segregation. The police frequently visited the settlement, and its residents often argued among themselves, and somewhat less frequently—with the locals.
"Sometimes I felt a sense of Spanish shame for the residents of this settlement. However, such people who struggle in life are not only from Donbas. I've seen complex stories from people all over Ukraine; it doesn't necessarily depend on where they live," Danilo shares. "When people are united by a single problem, a shared grief, issues like alcoholism and other related problems can arise. That’s what happened in this settlement."
The photographer adds that for many families, the container settlement helped them adapt to their new environment. "People looked for work, began earning money, and left the settlement. Meanwhile, others had no plans to do anything and said no one would drive them out. Of course, there were also difficult situations—people with disabilities or single mothers who had no one to leave their children with found it hard to secure good jobs," says Danilo Pavlov.
Over several days, Danilo visited and photographed the residents of the modular settlements. People reacted very differently to the camera; some threatened to break the equipment, others openly posed, but most seemed indifferent. The resident who left the strongest impression on Danilo was known to everyone as "Uncle Yura." He was a football fan and a die-hard supporter of "Shakhtar," as well as a husband and father. He had to confront several ultras from the local team "Metalist" on the streets of Kharkiv. The consequences were evident in Uncle Yura's swollen left ear.
"He had a rather unique appearance: his whole body was covered in tattoos, and he was missing a front tooth. I have a shot where a Shakhtar match is being broadcast on TV, Uncle Yura is drinking beer, and behind him sits his terrified son. The child's face seemed to express disbelief: is Dad drinking again...?" Danilo recounts.
Probably the only ones who felt comfortable in the modular settlement all the time were the children. They were constantly outside, enjoying the warm spring weather, playing with each other, and riding on swings and merry-go-rounds. The playgrounds in the settlement were designed with an understanding of the situation. Parents didn't have to worry about their children's outdoor activities.
The most "flowers of life" were found in Dmytro—six children (the youngest was three years old, and the oldest was sixteen). He was dressed in black sweatpants and a T-shirt with "AC/DC" printed on it, wearing bracelets and missing several front teeth. "This man reminded me of the iconic leader of 'Sektor Ha'za' Yura Khin from the outside. Ultimately, he was a leader, but not of a band, rather of the modular settlement—Dmytro took on the role of commander. He had to negotiate with volunteers who provided food and clothing for the residents and organized recreational camps for the children," Danilo Pavlov recalls.
After the onset of the full-scale Russian invasion, Danilo Pavlov photographed the modular settlements built in Kyiv region—specifically in Borodianka and Irpin. He believes that it's not advisable to house one category of people in a separate building, as it leads to isolation in one way or another.
"I can’t even imagine how to solve housing problems for internally displaced persons. However, 'packing' them into modular settlements is not the best solution either. They always turn into separate communities, isolated from the rest and often unwelcome by local residents," explains Danilo Pavlov. "People living in containers are constantly in a state of uncertainty."
The material was worked on by:
Researcher on the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskalyuk
Photo editor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladislav Kukhar
On April 30, 2018, the large-scale anti-terrorist operation in the territories of Donetsk and Luhansk regions of Ukraine was completed. The ATO was restructured into the Joint Forces Operation. General Serhiy Nayev became the commander of the operation.
On April 30, 2018, President of Ukraine and Supreme Commander-in-Chief Petro Poroshenko signed a decree “On the Approval of the Decision of the National Security and Defense Council on the Large-Scale Anti-Terrorist Operation in the Territories of Donetsk and Luhansk Regions.” Thus, the war transitioned from the control of the Security Service of Ukraine to the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
On February 24, 2018, the law “On the Features of State Policy Regarding Ensuring the State Sovereignty of Ukraine in the Temporarily Occupied Territories of Donetsk and Luhansk Regions” came into force. The General Staff of the Armed Forces of Ukraine developed documents for the start of the Joint Forces Operation instead of the ATO in accordance with this law.
“From today, April 30, 2018, the large-scale anti-terrorist operation in the territories of Donetsk and Luhansk regions is ending. We are beginning a military operation under the leadership of the Armed Forces of Ukraine to ensure the protection of the territorial integrity, sovereignty, and independence of our state,” stated President Petro Poroshenko. He added that over the four years of the anti-terrorist operation, all tasks had been completed and expressed hope that the new format would help reclaim territories seized by pro-Russian militants.
"The interaction between the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) and the units of the Armed Forces of Ukraine (AFU), the National Police, and the National Guard is fundamentally different from what is stipulated in the law on the reintegration of Donbas, and the leadership transitions to the Armed Forces of Ukraine. The AFU gains additional powers to respond to aggression, with parts and units of the National Guard, SBU, border guards, and the National Police coming under its command," explained Petro Poroshenko.
"If the enemy launches a large-scale offensive, the primary responsibility for repelling the large-scale armed aggression of the Russian Federation falls on you," Poroshenko addressed the Commander of the Joint Forces. The President emphasized that this is not just a change of format, but new opportunities for protecting Ukrainian territory and citizens. "We will do everything possible to ensure that the occupied lands of Donbas return under the sovereignty of Ukraine as soon as possible," Poroshenko stressed. The Joint Forces Operation lasted four years—from April 30, 2018, until the beginning of the large-scale Russian invasion.
On February 24, 2022, military units and divisions participating in the Joint Forces Operation formed the Joint Forces grouping, which includes the operational and tactical groupings "East" and "North," as well as units of direct subordination. The Joint Forces grouping, together with other forces and means directly participating in current combat operations, is subordinate to the Commander of the Ukrainian Defense Forces.
Ukrainian documentary photographer Danylo Pavlov captured the beginning of the Joint Forces Operation. He spent several days with the Commander of the Joint Forces, who at that time was General Serhiy Nayev. "We traveled with him to the positions of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, flew by helicopter, visited the 'zero' line, in Marinka, and also at the headquarters. I photographed the tactical exercises of the military involved in the Joint Forces Operation," says Danylo Pavlov, "I shot military personnel who were helping the local hospital, taking care of it. They arrived, unloaded beds and humanitarian aid."
Danylo Pavlov recalls the moment when General Nayev gifted his watch to a soldier he met at a position in Marinka. "The enemy trenches were very close to the positions of the Ukrainian military near Marinka, about three to four hundred meters away. We were looking at them through a special binocular. Nayev asked the soldier when the Russians most often fired in our direction. The soldier couldn't answer accurately, and then the general took off his watch and gave it to the soldier," the photographer shares his memories.
The mood among the soldiers at that time was uplifted. Danylo says that the Ukrainian army had changed significantly by 2018—uniforms and equipment had improved.
"Inside the country, there was a vibe that the war was very far away and not felt at all. A ceasefire was in effect in the east. Of course, there were shootouts, but there were no offensive actions from the RF; positions were fixed," says Pavlov. "Marinka was peaceful. Business had returned to the city, and there were many shops and cafes on the central street. Everything looked quite optimistic."
Danylo Pavlov has been a photojournalist since 2009, working in regional media in Donetsk and later for the media holding "Segodnya" and the UNIAN agency. He also worked as a commercial photographer for several Ukrainian companies. In photojournalism, he focuses on creating social photo stories and illustrating long-read reports. In addition to his work in traditional media, Danylo also contributed to the online magazine The Ukrainians and later became responsible for the visual direction of the separate publication Reporters, which currently exists both online and in print. Danylo continues to photograph and cover events after the full-scale invasion on February 24, 2022. He reports from liberated territories and military positions, and is currently working on a long-term photo project documenting the impact of war on servicemen and civilians in need of plastic surgery. He also collaborates with the State Emergency Service, for which he was awarded the state honor last year.
Photographer's social media:
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We would like to remind you that the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers has launched a series of materials dedicated to key events of the Russian war against Ukraine, where they publish memories and photographs from Ukrainian documentary photographers.
The material was created by:
Topic researcher and author: Katya Moskaliuk
Photo editor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futey
Website manager Vladislav Kukhar
Photographer and artist Vladislav Krasnoshchek, a representative of the new wave of the Kharkiv School of Photography, continues to document the Russian-Ukrainian war. At the beginning of the full-scale Russian invasion, he captured the situation in his native Kharkiv and traveled with volunteers to the front line. He is working on authorial projects, the themes of which are united in a comprehensive chronicle of the war. Vlad spoke about the specifics of shooting the war on film, documenting the work of army aviation brigades and forensic experts, and why it is important to continue working on topics that cannot be immediately published in the media.
— When did you start documenting the full-scale war? What were the initial shots like?
— Documenting the war was, it seemed, an unattainable dream of mine. However, I never thought that a war would ever come to Ukraine, that it would be possible to photograph it. But the war came to our home, and I started photographing it.
I needed accreditation to photograph the war. At the beginning of the full-scale Russian invasion, people with cameras or mobile phones were simply at risk. Everyone thought that if you photographed a location, something would immediately hit it… I started with shots of anti-tank hedgehogs, destruction in my hometown, and burning Russian equipment here in Kharkiv. I photographed everything that was possible to try to capture at that time.
I didn’t think about the benefits of these shoots. For me, it was important in terms of documenting history and creating an archive. I divided this war into separate aspects for myself: I shoot one topic, then move on to the next, and keep the photos in my archive. I can return to previously shot topics to capture better images. When working on a book, I will simply select the most visually impactful pictures for each topic. Sometimes, I just try to compete with myself to capture the best shots.
— Besides the photographs documenting the full-scale invasion, you also write texts that serve as a diary of a war photographer. In one such piece, you mention a trip to Severodonetsk. Could you please share what kind of shots you brought back from there?
— At first, I always went out for shoots with volunteers or friends who had some kind of access to places where you could get some shots. The volunteers brought essential supplies to the locals or the military, and I traveled with them while trying to photograph at the same time. Early in the full-scale war, this way I managed to get to Lysychansk and then to Severodonetsk. By that time, local battles had already started, and I was surprised that volunteers even went there. When it was very dangerous, these people brought cat food to Severodonetsk. The situation there was such that it seemed almost impossible to take photos. Everything happened very quickly. The trip was more about remembering my feelings and everything that was going on there.
Of course, I managed to get a few shots. But my main thought was how to get out of there quickly while the bridges were still intact. By the way, the bridges were destroyed that same day, but we managed to leave before that happened. Otherwise, we would have had to float down the Siversky Donets River with the camera and then walk a long way on foot.
— How important and possible is it not to repeat oneself?
— "I think every photographer has repetitions. When it comes to documenting the war, everyone is repeating themselves, and capturing something that you or someone else hasn't captured before is very difficult. It seems that everyone has reached a standstill. All possible themes have already been covered by everyone, and photographers, to some extent, are shooting 'stamps.' For example, if there are casualties after a strike on a city, the shot will typically include: some blanket, a hand, a leg, a manicure, and in the background, parts of destroyed vehicles, someone lying down, and smoke... All photographers shoot this. I'm not saying it's unnecessary; on the contrary, it's important to document. However, it's much harder to capture something new, surreal, and unlike any shot that you or anyone else has taken before."
I don't often photograph missile strikes on Kharkiv. I don't always have the opportunity to go when I'm occupied with other matters or work. Additionally, I don't need to produce news or reports that need to be quickly delivered to agencies or editorial offices. When I have a personal sense that it's necessary to document the aftermath of a rocket strike, then I go and work at the site of the impact.
— What aspects of the full-scale war would you be interested in photographing?
— In my opinion, valuable shots can be taken anywhere you find yourself. The only difficulty is obtaining permission to shoot in certain places. I have a desire to photograph many different subjects, but access is not always available. Of course, there are journalists and photographers who don't face these problems. However, most Ukrainian documentarians encounter difficulties.
I had the chance to photograph forensic experts at work. But it's such a closed topic: I haven’t published any of the material yet, and I might not publish it at all. It’s more of a 'private collection' of sorts. Perhaps, in a few years, this work might be shown somewhere, and some of these shots could be included in my future photo book or become part of a separate photo book. Sometimes, when you delve into a topic for a long time and research it thoroughly, the work can turn into a book.
— You are currently filming an army aviation brigade. Could you please tell us when you started working on this topic?
— I've been filming army aviation for a year now and see that I’ve gathered so much material that it will also be a separate book. Whenever I have time, I write requests and inquire whether it’s possible to visit them. I got to know the brigade through pilot and captain Dmytro. I followed his Instagram page and asked if it would be possible to film the guys someday. Dmytro found out from his commanders the best way to do it and what request needed to be written. I visited the pilots, got acquainted, filmed, became friends with them, and started gradually gathering material. Then the idea came to create a separate story about army aviation.
At first, the guys were cautious of me. But then, when they saw the photos I had printed for them, they began to trust me. It’s much easier to photograph when you immerse yourself in a particular environment and aren’t seen as an outsider. Then, you shoot as if from within the system; they don’t feel self-conscious, they do their work, and you do yours — taking photos. People stop noticing you, and this relaxed atmosphere can later be captured in the shots.
I photograph the preparation of aircraft, missile loading, how pilots go on missions and return. Sometimes I'm also interested in capturing their everyday life. A few times, I’ve had the chance to fly with the guys when I got permission. It’s also interesting to go with the aviation navigators to the firing site and find out how everything happens, to work on that specific topic.
— How often do you print photos for the pilots?
— Whenever I have the chance, I always try to send the guys photos. It’s also important to me that they pass these photos to their commanders and decide which ones can be published and which should remain private for now. Recently, I made a set of postcards from the army aviation shoots. I had them printed in Kharkiv, and the design was done by a friend of mine. I selected forty photos and wrote a story that is on each postcard. I gave the sets to the pilots so they could have this memory. I included a QR code on the postcards that people could use to donate money to the brigade. It’s important that my photos are useful to the guys.
The postcards can be bought or people can use the QR code to transfer money directly to the pilots. I shared this information on my social media. I’m sure that 90% of the postcards will be bought by people working on topics related to the full-scale war and those generally interested in photography.
— You often mention photo books in our conversation. Why is this medium important to you?
— A book is something that will remain both after the war and after we are gone. It’s a way to preserve memory. Right now, these neighbors are firing missiles and rockets, and a book is a way to save the captured material. If a building with photographs and negatives is hit, the archive could be destroyed or lost. However, if there is a book, there will be a memory. It’s a way to preserve stories about what happened. When someone buys a book, and if the photos are evocative and interesting, they provide an idea of what was happening at a certain time. Of course, it’s impossible to photograph and fit all the topics of a full-scale war into one book, no matter how hard you try.
I recently thought that not all the aspects of the war captured can actually make it into the book. Some shots might visually stand out from the overall picture. You can photograph something during the war, but if the image doesn’t show the connection to the war, it could be mistaken for something taken before or after the conflict — it lacks a visual marker. For example, photographing prisoners of war might look like shooting people in a prison serving a sentence. This topic is difficult to depict in a way that is understood from the photograph alone. I want the photos that will be included in my future book to have a clear connection to the Russian-Ukrainian war.
Also, to preserve my archive, I transfer photographs to the Museum of Kharkiv School of Photography (MOKSOP). My long-time friend Serhiy Lebedynskyi took over two tons of negatives and photographs abroad. This is also one of the aspects of preserving this history about the war. When I pass the photos to Serhiy, they make their way to Europe, where they are safe for now. The museum is constantly hosting various events and exhibitions, and this is also one way to remind people that the war in Ukraine is still ongoing.
— Is it possible to maintain interest in the events in Ukraine through photography?
— This is one of the lines of support that works. People need to see photographs taken during the full-scale war. I wouldn’t say it’s the primary source of information about the war, but still, it is one of them. Recently, at a missile strike site in Kharkiv, a soldier or policeman tried to chase away the press. One of the photographers said he wouldn’t leave because it was necessary to document and show this to the world so that we could continue to receive weapons and ensure effective air defense. Of course, I understand there are restricted locations for filming, but in this case, the photographer was right.
— How aesthetic can the war in the frame be? For you, is war photography about documenting events or art?
— I look at shooting from an artistic point of view. News photographers need to show the events as harshly as possible so that it impacts people and prompts them to help us financially and with weapons. For me, it’s important that these shots are valuable from an artistic perspective and remain part of history. Sometimes people accuse me of aestheticizing war. I take it calmly. I don’t really think about whether I romanticize war or not. My main task is to create a visually compelling image that engages the viewer. It’s important for a photographer to have a visual language, a recognizable style. If you look at war photos now, 90% of the shots are very similar, they have a similar language. Sometimes it’s very hard to identify the photographer by just the picture.
The visual component is very important to me. I try to create an image where everything comes together and results in something expressive. When I return from a shoot, my first feeling is that I've photographed nothing but nonsense again. I develop the film, quickly scan it, and immediately don't like anything. This happens because there's no time gap between the shoot and the moment I print the photos. My eye gets tired, and everything looks bad to me; it doesn't match my feelings from the events because I just saw it yesterday. I need time to pass so I can realize what I’ve photographed.
Sometimes I show the material to friends to get their feedback on the images. They have a fresh perspective, as they weren’t present at the shoot, and they might notice something new. Their feedback is especially important to me in the first few days after I print everything. A month or six months later, I can evaluate my photos on my own. By then, I’ve distanced myself from the situation and can clearly see which shots are worth choosing. Even if I end up picking just two frames from an entire shoot—that's already a win.
Sometimes I have several shoots in a row, and I don't have time to print the first rolls of film. When I get a break from shooting, I can calmly go through my archive. I take A4 paper, mark the folder number, and note how many frames I want to print. While we used to rely on contact sheets, now I just look at the scanned negatives and select the frames. Then I choose a day to work in the darkroom and start developing the prints.
— What is the peculiarity of shooting the war on film? Does this method of documentation help avoid photographic "clichés"?
— The peculiarity of shooting on film is that I completely control the entire process—from developing to printing. I like that. Another advantage is that film is a physical thing. If there are large-scale blackouts, at least I will still have the negatives and photographs. Moreover, film-based photos and negatives can serve as evidence for documenting war crimes. No one will be able to claim it’s fake. Shooting on film is something I’m used to and something I find interesting to work with.
When I go on a shoot, I take enough film so I don’t have to think about running out. If it's a busy day with a lot going on, I’ll definitely use up ten rolls. When things are relatively calm, I don’t rush, and I spend more time thinking about each shot, so I use less film.
Sometimes my photographs are compared to images from World War I or World War II. Those were wars captured on black-and-white film, so perhaps such comparisons are inevitable. However, when you shoot on color film, associations with the present time arise, allowing room for experimentation. I constantly add and change things when shooting on film. At first, I photographed in the standard format, then switched to panoramic format, and later to medium format. I try to juggle different film formats, experiment with color, and test various printing methods. I’m always interested in what I’m doing. I always have the opportunity to change the way I work with film and print photographs.
The method of documentation does not allow for avoiding repetitions or clichés. You can shoot equally well on both digital and film. The main thing is what you pay attention to while photographing. It’s important for me to create a few good shots that I can add to my archive and later to a book. I try to minimize repetitions. For me, shooting the war is like a marathon that I need to run, capturing quality images. Sometimes it feels like I've hit a plateau, moving on the same plane and unable to create anything new. Then an interesting theme arises, along with the feeling that I'm moving forward and continuing to climb.
— You have published a book called "Bolinchik"—a surreal story about the work of medical personnel, filled with harsh medical humor. Currently, you are shooting a series of photos about the work of forensic experts. How much does this shooting serve as a continuation of "Bolinchik"?
— The new series of photographs is somewhat like "Bolinchik Afterparty." It’s a continuation of that theme, but the imagery is completely different. The work of forensic experts also breaks down into smaller themes. Even the work of a forensic expert is very diverse. When I photographed the exhumation in Izium, it was already the work of forensic experts—first at the cemetery, and then in the autopsy room. Specialists prepare the bodies for release to relatives and loved ones, respond to strikes, murders, and suicides. If you dig deep into this topic, it can open up significant opportunities for shooting and may lead to a historically important project. Of course, the subject is very closed, but it’s important to document it for history and for the archive.
I worked as a maxillofacial surgeon, and this helps when photographing forensic experts. I understand what is happening at any given moment. It’s easier for me to process what I see; I can distance myself from the smells, I don't experience internal shock, and I approach the work of medical personnel calmly. When you shoot a topic like this a lot, it also becomes something everyday. I try to find beauty in this entire process and in the work of these people. Doctors ask what I want to capture, and they are surprised that there is an aesthetic in their work as well. I shot for a month, then another, printed the photographs, created an album, and gifted it to the forensic experts. They looked at it and were delighted; they saw that it was indeed beautiful. At first, some doctors didn’t want me to photograph them, but later they asked why they weren’t included in the pictures.
During my shoots with forensic experts, I have seen many different things. Often, these are the bodies of soldiers who were working just yesterday, and today they lie on the tables. I catch myself thinking about how healthy these guys are. Yet they are no longer healthy; they simply no longer exist. I once noticed a tattoo on a body—a face of Christ. It turns out, Jesus is dead. On the tables lie people with various causes of death: some have hanged themselves, some have been electrocuted, and next to them is a burned tank driver. Of course, it’s impossible not to think about this afterward.
— Please tell us about the book you are currently working on.
— The book will be titled "Documentation of the War." Right now, I am selecting photographs that I will soon send to the designer of my publishing house. I want to choose at least 100–150 images that definitely need to be included in the book. I plan to include my texts in the publication, but I’m still unsure if they will be in English only, or in both English and Ukrainian. It’s important for me to preserve the meaning and artistic style of the writing. Thanks to the support of the Ukrainian Cultural Foundation, I purchased materials for shooting and had the opportunity to photograph various aspects of the Russian-Ukrainian war. I work here, on my own land, and I very much hope for our victory.
The material was worked on:
Topic researcher, text author: Katya Moskaliuk
Photo editor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladislav Kukhar
September 1st. The Street Near "Akademika Pavlova" Metro Station in Kharkiv. Over ten explosions (we’ll start counting them instead of sheep when we can't fall asleep) — about ten minutes after them. This photo was taken by photographer Georgiy Ivanchuk. At the moment the explosions occurred (someone is already counting), he was sitting in a Kharkiv café and immediately headed towards the smoke. By the time he arrived, medics were already on the scene, and they came under a second Russian attack while assisting the wounded Kharkiv residents.
The scene is almost impossible to fully capture, but it clearly depicts a day of war with devastating circumstances, where time doesn't stop, but each moment freezes the eye.
Three medics. Two are carrying a stretcher with their colleague — either he is talking to one of them or examining his wounded leg. The man pulling the stretcher at the front seems to be preparing to load it into the ambulance, while the one at the back is possibly listening to the injured man. The shot appears spontaneous and urgent: the people seem to be moving across the entire frame straight into the open doors of the ambulance, which is about to depart, and as you watch them, you almost expect the doors to slam shut in a nervous hurry.
On that day, debris injured two medics. The medic on the stretcher is Dr. Dmytro Piddubnyi, an anesthesiologist, who later underwent surgery on his leg. His colleague, 21-year-old Yevhen Yurko, a fifth-year medical student and paramedic, was injured in the head. Kharkiv residents raised funds for the young man's treatment, but a few days later, Yevhen died in the hospital.
September 1st. On this day, Ukrainian children went back to school, including those in Kharkiv. Such is life during wartime: no matter how many explosions are counted, children will go to school or continue learning at home (many in Kharkiv study in the metro), adults will go to work, and everyone will sleep in their own homes, despite the lack of guarantees. Children around the world return to their studies on this day, and in some lesson, such as a law class, they will learn that after World War II, the civilized world built a system meant to protect them.
September 1st is Knowledge Day. For instance, knowledge about the Geneva Convention’s unconditional protection of medics. Or about the requirement for a state holding prisoners of war to encourage "intellectual and recreational activities." Or that bombings, shootings, and extrajudicial executions can be condemned in many ways: sharply, decisively, boldly, resolutely, categorically, firmly, and in various other ways.
Text: Vira Kuriko
Photo: Georgiy Ivanchenko
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, in partnership with Ukraїner, continues its series of publications featuring important photographs from the previous month, focusing on key events in Ukraine.
In August 2024, Ukrainian photographers turned their attention to the Ukraine-Russia border in the Sumy region, where the Ukrainian army launched an offensive into the territory of the aggressor country.
The selection was curated by Yuriy Stefanyak and Vyacheslav Ratynskyi.
A Ukrainian soldier places a helmet on the monument to Vladimir Lenin in the city of Sudzha, Kursk region, during the Ukrainian Defense Forces' offensive into the territory of the Russian Federation. August 2024. Photo by Yulia Kochetova.
A Ukrainian tank near the Russian-Ukrainian border in the Sumy region during the Ukrainian Defense Forces' offensive into the territory of the Russian Federation. August 2024. Photo by Nicoleta Stoyanova.
Active transportation movement on the border in the Sumy region. While endless columns of military equipment head into the territory of the Russian Federation, civilians are evacuating from the border area of the Sumy region. August 2024. Photo by Roman Pylipey.
Special Operations Forces operatives stopped on the road to replace a wheel on their Humvee near the border with Russia in the Sumy region. August 2024. Photo by Vyacheslav Ratynskyi.
Russian conscript soldiers cover their faces in one of Ukraine's prisons. They were captured by Ukrainian forces during the offensive into Russian territory in the Kursk region. Some of them have already been exchanged for Ukrainian prisoners of war held in Russia. August 2024. Photo by Olga Ivashchenko.
Local farmer Yuriy Malovany loads a cow into a trailer, trying to evacuate the remaining cows after a cluster munition strike on his farm in the village of Basivka, near the Russian border in the Sumy region. August 2024. Photo by Vyacheslav Ratynskyi.
A boy watches as a high-rise building burns following a Russian airstrike on Kharkiv. August 2024. Photo by Ivan Samoylov.
Ukrainian firefighters extinguish a fire at an electrical substation damaged by a Russian strike in the Dnipropetrovsk region. Photo by Oleksandr Babienko.
52-year-old veteran Vyacheslav Rybachuk, whose brother, Ukrainian soldier Oleksiy, was killed on the Bakhmut front in 2023, kneels before a spontaneous memorial in downtown Kyiv on the 33rd anniversary of Ukraine's independence restoration. August 2024. Photo by Roman Pylipey.
View of defensive structures running through sunflower fields near the border with the Russian Federation in Sumy Oblast. August 2024. Photo by Georgiy Ivanchенко.
In August 2014, one of the fiercest battles for Ukrainian forces unfolded near the town of Ilovaisk during the war in eastern Ukraine. Ukrainian command decided to storm the city, which was occupied by pro-Russian militants and located 43 kilometers from Donetsk. However, the operation turned into a tragedy. The fighting lasted nearly a month, with about 400 Ukrainian soldiers killed in the "Ilovaisk pocket," another 400 wounded, and approximately 300 captured. The battle marked a turning point in the Russo-Ukrainian war, as the Ukrainian Armed Forces shifted from an offensive to a defensive position. Since then, August 29 has been commemorated as the Day of Remembrance for Ukrainian defenders who died fighting for the country's independence, sovereignty, and territorial integrity.
Photographer Maksym Dondyuk witnessed the events in Ilovaisk. He was on the front lines, capturing key moments of the assault on the occupied city, as well as the lives and deaths of Ukrainian soldiers.
In 2014, Maksym Dondyuk documented the Russo-Ukrainian war on both sides of the front. He photographed in Sloviansk, Kramatorsk, Luhansk, and Donetsk, as journalists and photographers could freely cross the front lines at the time. "Back then, everyone was traveling because there was chaos. At checkpoints, they would just check your documents," Dondyuk recalls.
Soon, he and journalist Simon Ostrovsky were captured by a group led by "Strelkov." They were blindfolded and subjected to mock executions with blank rounds. "From the voice, I realized it was Strelkov interrogating us. In the morning, we were all released except Ostrovsky. They probably wanted to arrest him, and I just happened to be in the car with him. I had fake documents and a cover story, and in the end, they let me go," Dondyuk recounts.
Later, while photographing on the other side of the front near Maryinka, Dondyuk came under fire from Ukrainian forces. "I thought if they kill me on the separatist side, they’ll consider me a traitor. It was important for me to photograph because many Ukrainians, our citizens, ended up on the other side. Initially, everything was blurry and surreal, and I was trying to make sense of the situation," says Maksym Dondyuk.
In the summer of 2014, the press service of the Anti-Terrorist Operation (ATO) organized press tours for journalists and photographers. "I remember they brought various TV channels, and girls in pink shorts stood in front of burning equipment, reporting on the war. But if you looked at the combat map, we were at least 20 kilometers from the front lines. I got tired of this situation and started looking for opportunities to work with the Ukrainian military," Maksym recalls. "Friends shared the contacts of the commander of the 'Donbas' battalion, and he allowed us to come." As a result, Maksym Dondyuk, Oleksandr Glyadyelov, Maks Levin, and Markiyan Liseiko witnessed the key events of Ilovaisk.
Maksym Dondiuk went with the military to storm the city. "There was little room in the military vehicles, and they told us to bring matches. Sasha got a short one, so I went alone for the first time," recalls Maksym. "The first assault on August 10 was unsuccessful. Four Ukrainian soldiers were killed that day. We had to turn back because a sabotage group was trying to blow up an aqueduct behind us, and we would have been caught in an ambush."
The Ukrainian soldiers returned along the path beside the overgrowth. Their armored vehicle was hit by an RPG, and the men inside were evacuated and carried out on stretchers. "Our sniper took out a fighter with a grenade launcher, and we moved on. We advanced along the overgrowth while the enemies were shooting at us. It was a very unsettling feeling—walking on asphalt, looking at the overgrowth, and not knowing what would come next," says Maksym.
Then there was another attempt to enter Ilovaisk. This time, Maksym Dondiuk went with Oleksandr Hlyadielov. "I remember there was a breakthrough in the front from the Russian side. We saw how artillery was approaching and part of the troops moving in," recalls Maksym Dondyuk. "We didn’t make it; we spent the night in some kindergarten."
On August 18, everything seemed to be going well. There was not too much resistance in Ilovaisk itself; the military entered the city from the other side. “We came in through the outskirts, passing through various small villages. They were all destroyed, with burned-out vehicles on the road and bloated bodies of separatists lying around—no one had picked them up,” recalls the photographer. Sometimes, Ukrainian soldiers encountered “friendly fire.” The situation was tense, with fighters encountering each other from different angles, firing, and then figuring out who was who. “We spent an entire day making our way to Ilovaisk, very slowly. In one of the villages, we came under a mortar attack. There were short battles along the road, with grenade fire. We constantly had to lie on the ground and then get up and move again. Our troops captured a few prisoners. I saw freshly killed enemies who had come out onto the road and were shooting at us,” says Maksym Dondiuk. “By evening, as darkness approached, we entered Ilovaisk. We were put in an armored vehicle. The driver was shot by a sniper. Luckily, the glass withstood two shots aimed directly at his head.”
When the Ukrainian military entered Ilovaisk, civilians emerged from the basements to greet them. The people believed they had been liberated and embraced the soldiers. They were in a critical situation—without medical supplies, food, or water. The soldiers immediately began assisting them. Maksym Dondiuk, along with the military, settled in a school. The soldiers took positions in the gym and classrooms. There were also civilians living in the basements, mostly women with children.
“When you’re shooting in a very intense atmosphere, where the war is constant, your subconscious starts to take over. It’s like for people who practice Eastern martial arts and act automatically during a fight because there’s simply no time to think,” says Maksym Dondiuk. “You have to run alongside the soldiers and take photos. It’s not always possible to stand up and compose the right shot. Everything happens so quickly that there’s no time to think. It all depends on your background, experience, and ability to work in such conditions.”
Maksym Dondiuk was in Ilovaisk with photographer Oleksandr Hliadielov. “I didn’t yet have experience working in combat conditions, and I was trying to run to places where I could have been killed with a hundred percent probability. However, Sasha always held me back, and I’m very grateful to him for that. He said we should first observe and wait, and his composure saved us,” Maksym recalls. He adds that this is a common issue for young photographers who think they will never be injured, let alone killed. “I got my first injury during the Euromaidan protests, the second one in 2022,” says Maksym Dondiuk. “I understand that the next injury might be more severe than the previous one. I’m becoming more cautious, possibly due to experience, age, or understanding that in war, you control nothing.”
Maksym Dondiuk recalls one morning in Ilovaisk when he and the soldiers brewed coffee and went out to the schoolyard. “We were standing with our coffee, talking, and some people were smoking. Suddenly, a whole series of shots from an AGS (automatic grenade launcher) landed right in the crowd. I was standing there with my coffee, and something flew by me; part of the soldiers fell, groaning in pain and shouting. I saw that Sasha got a shrapnel wound in his leg,” Maksym Dondiuk says. “You realize that you weren’t injured not because you’re some amazing guy. It just happened by chance; you were lucky this time, while someone else wasn’t. I started to understand that I have no control over the situation in war. It only seems like you can control it. Why did no shrapnel hit me, while it hit Sasha? Why did some people not get hurt at all, while others received severe injuries or died? Who decides that?”
Maksym Dondiuk worked alongside Oleksandr Hliadielov for a few days. Then Oleksandr was evacuated with other wounded, and Maksym was left alone. “We were told we would go with the soldiers for one or two days. The troops would quickly clear the city, and we’d return to Kurakhove. I only took a small tactical backpack and a sleeping bag. I didn’t even bring a charger for my equipment. After all, there was no electricity anyway,” the photographer recalls. “There were many shellings at our school, and during one of them, while I was running with the camera, I was pressed against a wall, and the lens broke. It was mechanical, so I taped it together with duct tape and continued shooting. The camera was damaged, the batteries were dead, and there was almost no memory left on the flash drives. Every evening I deleted photos and could only take a few shots per hour.”
The school in Ilovaisk, where Ukrainian soldiers were stationed, was constantly shelled with every possible type of weapon. Maksym Dondiuk recalls sitting in the school's basement, wondering if it would hold up. After the first targeted shelling, the soldiers confiscated mobile phones from the women. The soldiers realized that someone among the women was definitely not on their side. Following the heavy bombardments of the school, the soldiers began dispersing throughout the city, searching for various accommodations and houses for the night.
“It was an extremely hot August, and I hadn’t washed for about a week. The soldiers set up a makeshift shower in the field, which I had to use during the shellings. You would go and think about whether to wash or not. It was terrifying, and when there were explosions, you had to immediately run back to the house from the shower,” Dondiuk explains.
During that time, a real tragedy was unfolding beyond Ilovaisk. The front line was "collapsing," Russian troops were approaching, and gradually cutting off the possibilities for retreat. Meanwhile, preparations for a military parade in Kyiv for Independence Day were underway. "When we had internet access, Olexandr Hliadelov and I were actively posting about the situation in Ilovaisk on Facebook. We realized we were encircled and decided to bring attention to this situation. We were the only photographers there," says Maksym Dondiuk.
Maksym's camera had stopped working, the batteries had died, and he could no longer continue taking photos. On August 23, the military put him in a vehicle and said they would evacuate him along with the wounded. The photographer recalls: "Before this, a similar vehicle had left Ilovaisk and was destroyed by a direct tank hit. We had our weapons taken away, and a wounded soldier was given a pistol and a grenade. The guy had a severed spine, he was lying there, and I was just trying to keep him steady so the bumps on the road wouldn’t shake him too much. He told me there would be no captivity — if the vehicle was captured, he would blow it up. That's how we broke through ten kilometers under mortar fire. The corridor was not fully closed, and we managed to pass through a gap."
Immediately after returning, Maksym Dondiuk went to visit Oleksandr Hliadielov in the hospital. “When Sashko was injured, he ended up in an evacuation vehicle. Then he was transferred to another vehicle. It happened that all his film rolls were packed into one case, and they got lost during the transfer. Later, a soldier came up to me and said he had found the films,” recalls Maksym Dondiuk. “When I was leaving Ilovaisk, I carried not only my own materials but also Sashko’s. I thought that if I didn’t make it out, there would be no photos left, no record of what happened and how the guys fought.”
Maksym visited Oleksandr Hliadielov in the hospital in Dnipro during Ukraine's Independence Day celebrations. “I went to see Sashko and brought him the film rolls. He was thrilled, and we decided to celebrate. I went out to a store and heard explosions — it was a festive fireworks display. I immediately jumped into the bushes and lay on the ground. A week of shelling had affected my psyche,” Maksym Dondiuk recounts.
“In Ilovaisk, we bonded with the guys since we lived together and were constantly communicating. They always tried to give us a weapon for protection. We declined, saying we had cameras. They joked that we were even crazier than they were. Our soldiers often had direct contact with the enemy,” Dondiuk recalls. “I believe the most important photos are those of the guys who died, who didn’t make it out of Ilovaisk.” Maksym remembers the reconnaissance unit he interacted with regularly. They had used a fire truck that was destroyed by a direct hit from a tank shell. It’s very difficult now to look at those photos.
Maksym Dondiuk recalls a volunteer with the call sign "Franco." He came from a well-off family, lived in America, and came to assist the Ukrainian troops. “I remember when he was wounded, when first aid was administered to him. He was dying right before our eyes, groaning. He knew he was dying. It’s incredibly painful to realize that the person you were joking with just yesterday is no longer there,” Maksym says. He adds that the soldiers did not allow the photographing of their dead and wounded, so he and Oleksandr Hliadielov helped to unload the bloodied bodies of the fallen.
Maksym Dondiuk's photographs from Ilovaisk were largely unpublished. Several publications immediately offered to publish the material, but Maksym declined. Publishing the photos could have endangered the lives of Ukrainian soldiers who were captured. There were only a few exhibitions abroad with printed photographs. After nine months, when all the soldiers were released, publishing the photos in the news media was no longer relevant.
Today, a book about Ilovaisk featuring photographs by Maksym Dondiuk, Oleksandr Hliadielov, Max Levin, and Markian Lysenko is available. Every August 29th, the photographers would meet with the soldiers in the morning and gather together in the evening. At one point, they decided it would be good to create a book about Ilovaisk. Before the full-scale war began, Max Levin received funding for the book from the Ministry of Culture and Information Policy of Ukraine. The book was to be published by the end of 2022.
“In early December, I went to Oleksandr Hliadielov’s with hard drives containing photographs by Max Levin, Markian Lysenko, and me. We struggled to find Max’s photos, and it was difficult to meet with Markian,” Maksym recalls. “I spent a month living with Sashko, working on selecting photos, captions, and texts for the book. We were fortunate to find a great designer who immediately understood our concept and to arrange with the printing house.” Maksym remembers spending nights in Sashko’s apartment, sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag, just as he did in the surrounded city, spending entire days reviewing war photographs, and often in the morning not being able to tell if he was in Sashko’s apartment or back in Ilovaisk.
"We survived where others perished. We remember and cannot let it be forgotten," reads the epigraph of the book about the Ilovaisk tragedy. Maksym adds, "This book is for us a tribute to all who died in Ilovaisk, and a memory of Maks. I open the book and recall the guys, their names and call signs, their jokes and smiles. It’s important that the memory endures, that there is a place for stories about the heroic deeds of our Ukrainian soldiers."
The material was worked on:
Topic researcher and text author: Katya Moskalyuk
Photo editor: Vyacheslav Ratynsky
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladislav Kukhar
As part of the grant support for documentary photographers from UAPP, we are sharing documentary projects by finalists who received grant support in the previous season. This time, we present the project “Unicorn Battalion” by Ukrainian documentarian Sasha Maslov.
We remind you that applications for the mentoring and micro-grant program from the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers are open until August 28. For details on how to participate, please follow the link.
Below is the narrative from Sasha Maslov's perspective.
On a rainy June day in downtown Kyiv, pride flags, Ukrainian flags, and European Union flags soaked in the rain. About 500 people gathered for the Pride march, which lasted only an hour and covered approximately one hundred meters. The city of Kyiv and the police permitted the march but restricted it to a block and a half, citing security concerns.
This was not the typical Pride event that residents of New York, Berlin, or Amsterdam might expect to see in their cities. The first two rows of parade participants consisted of military personnel and veterans holding signs calling on the EU and other Ukrainian partners to provide more weapons. Other signs urged an end to the Russian genocide of Ukrainians, called for mine-clearing systems, and demanded the release of "Azovstal" defenders—prisoners of war held in Russia and subjected to torture. Slogans advocating for equality, legislation on civil partnerships, and the protection of LGBTQ+ rights were also voiced.
Now, alongside her fiancée Diana Harashko, Maria embodies resilience and defiance after enduring intense trials on the front lines and facing pervasive homophobia.
Maria Volya, 31, and her fiancée Diana Harashko, 25, stood hand in hand in the front rows. For Maria, a member of the 47th Brigade, this moment was long-awaited.
Last year, on October 24, 2022, Maria had surrendered. She had spoken on the phone with Diana and said she intended to end her life. She planned to do so by overdosing on diazepam, a selective anxiolytic benzodiazepine typically prescribed for treating anxiety and panic attacks.
Maria and Diana had been dating for only a few weeks. It had been about three months since Diana, a civilian volunteer from Bila Tserkva, had messaged Maria on Instagram in response to one of Maria's stories from the muddy trenches near Bakhmut. "How are you? Although, I suppose that's a silly question given your circumstances," the message read. After several weeks of online correspondence, Diana traveled to Kramatorsk and proposed on their first date.
Now, she listened to Maria's raspy voice delivering her final farewell. In a panic, Diana called Maria's commander. Fortunately, he answered the call. Within minutes, medics were rushing to Maria.
Three weeks after her suicide attempt, I met Maria for the first time. In the visitors' room of the acute psychiatric ward for women at a large hospital complex outside Dnipro, she sat at a table with a plastic tablecloth, wearing a fleece jacket adorned with a rainbow pin, not quite understanding how she had ended up there.
“I no longer have a home, I have no rights. What am I fighting for?” she asked me. Her frustration stemmed from feeling rejected and misunderstood by her people and her country, even after nearly a decade of service.
Maria had joined the army as a volunteer at 22, when she saw Russia seize Crimea and ignite the war in eastern Ukraine. Her hometown, Mariupol, was briefly occupied by pro-Russian separatists, and its liberation became one of the significant victories for Ukrainians in the summer of 2014. After signing a contract, she quickly noticed signs of sexism among the soldiers around her. She heard phrases like “war is no place for a woman” and saw that male soldiers were given more trust and respect by commanders.
She wanted to prove her capability. Full of idealism, Maria fought for the right to be sent to the front lines. Eventually, she was assigned to Pisky as a radio specialist with the 56th Brigade, where some of the fiercest battles for Donetsk Airport took place.
After active service, she remained in the army and was stationed in her hometown with the 56th Brigade until the winter of 2022. At that time, Mariupol became the site of brutal confrontation between encircled Ukrainian troops and the massive, dominant force of the invading Russian army. After heavy losses, her unit, along with troops from the 36th Marine Brigade and the 1st Marine Battalion, barricaded themselves at the Illich Steel Plant. They tried to break the encirclement and leave the city. The first attempt using armored vehicles failed. The second attempt, on foot, succeeded. They managed to bypass Russian patrols and checkpoints unnoticed and escape the besieged city shortly after midnight on March 12.
There were 45 soldiers silently walking through the night. Ahead lay a difficult journey through the forests and steppes of Donetsk Oblast to reach Ukrainian-controlled territory. Without mobile communication, limited supplies, and no information on where exactly the front line was, they moved through the icy darkness.
The group spent the night in abandoned houses, hunted rabbits, and cooked chickens stolen from deserted farms. They divided into three groups of fifteen to avoid detection—one group was later captured by the Russians. Maria’s group was spotted by Russian soldiers on the eighth day of their march as they tried to cross a river near the village of Staromayorske, a few kilometers from Ukrainian-controlled territory at the time. A firefight ensued, and Maria was injured in her left arm. But they succeeded in crossing the river. Five hours after the battle, they reached Velyka Novosilka and a Ukrainian checkpoint.
Barely conscious with a tourniquet on her arm, Maria was taken to the hospital. On March 21, she sat in her hospital bed, filmed by her friend Nastya: Maria was smiling and saying she couldn’t wait to go to Dnipro and order takeout from McDonald’s.
But McDonald’s in Dnipro was closed, as were most other establishments. The country was grappling with a massive invasion by a neighboring state that sought to seize territory, and the constantly shifting front line was on fire. Ukraine needed its soldiers, and Maria was sent back to the front lines, this time to Bakhmut in Donetsk Oblast.
The previous experience made Maria rethink many things, and she decided to speak openly about her sexuality. Her injury and the realization of how fragile everything around her was pushed her to disregard others' opinions.
Maria came out as gay to her fellow soldiers and then began publicly sharing her experience of being a queer person in the army. Her social media posts about life in the trenches near Bakhmut attracted both supporters and critics.
Homophobic comments and messages piled up, overwhelming her to the point of depression. The girl's vulnerability due to her recent experience in Mariupol, coming out, and returning to the front pushed her to attempt suicide. “I couldn’t handle it anymore. I didn’t even want to try…” she said.
After receiving support from Diana, Maria gradually recovered and recently transferred to the 47th Brigade. She now serves on the eastern front but took leave to attend Kyiv Pride. The day before the Pride march in Kyiv, she encountered a group of young people, mostly teenagers, holding signs supporting "traditional values," and engaged them in a debate while filming herself. The next day at Pride, she held hands with her fiancée, disregarding the disapproval of those who questioned her way of loving someone.
When the speeches concluded and the flags and banners were packed away, the crowd began to disperse. No more than five blocks away, on Khreshchatyk Street, several hundred people—mostly young men in black T-shirts and hoodies—emerged from another gathering in support of "traditional values." Upon learning about the location of the Pride event, they ran and attempted to breach the Pride participants, clashing with the police. These young men seemed indifferent to the fact that they were confronting people actively defending their country.
Before the war, most Ukrainians generally had unfavorable views of same-sex unions, but surveys show that public opinion has shifted significantly during the full-scale invasion. A recent poll by the National Democratic Institute, published in February 2024, showed that over 70 percent answered positively to the question: "Should LGBTQ+ people have the same rights as others?" In 2019, this figure was below 30%.
However, Ukrainian legislation lags behind. Despite years of advocacy by various human rights and LGBTQ+ organizations, and pressure from the EU, the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine has yet to pass hate crime laws that include acts against gays or transgender people. Additionally, no same-sex unions are legally recognized, and the Ukrainian Constitution defines marriage as a union between a man and a woman.
Inna Sovsun, a 39-year-old member of the Ukrainian Parliament from the "Holos" party, is working to address the most urgent issue for same-sex couples during the war, especially those serving in the military—passing a law that would grant them the same rights as a traditionally married couple. One of the most pressing needs for LGBTQ+ servicemembers in wartime Ukraine is basic legal recognition of their partners or spouses as family members.
Currently, same-sex couples, or any non-heterosexual pairs, have no legal recognition as a unit. For military families, this is particularly significant in cases of death, disappearance, captivity, or serious injury. Legally, your partner is considered a stranger, and therefore cannot make legal, medical, posthumous, or other decisions that a heterosexual partner would have the right to make in a crisis.
The draft bill numbered 9103 was registered in the Ukrainian Parliament in March 2023, but it has still not reached a vote in the chamber. It has passed several important stages, receiving approval from the Minister of Justice and the Ministry of Defense. However, a year and a half after its registration, it remains unclear when, if ever, this bill will be brought to a vote. Currently, it seems to be hopelessly stuck in the Verkhovna Rada's Committee on Legal Policy, which is supposed to provide a legal assessment and decide whether to forward it to Parliament, another committee, or reject it altogether.
Inna Sovsun co-wrote this bill with lawyer Maria Klyus, whose close friend Petro Zhyruha is bisexual and serves in the Ukrainian army. Petro is part of a small group of Ukrainian servicemen who openly and publicly declare their sexual orientation.
Petro, a 28-year-old musician with a classical education, never imagined he would end up in the army. However, he felt the need to defend his homeland from Russian aggression and voluntarily enlisted in the Ukrainian Armed Forces after the invasion began.
Initially, his sexual orientation did not pose any problems, but as homophobic jokes emerged, Petro felt the need to adapt his behavior to fit into the new environment. He laughed at the jokes and tried to be part of the team. On one occasion, the commander said he hoped there were no “such people” in his unit. Petro felt unwell. On another occasion, one of the soldiers in his unit said he would “kill a faggot” if he saw one.
Petro’s parents did not know about his sexual orientation, nor did his fellow soldiers. But at some point, the young man grew tired of hiding this part of his identity and decided to come out. “I had adopted this hetero-mask and had to change my language, my behavior... I didn’t want to do it anymore,” he says. In June 2022, after four months of service, Petro confessed to his unit members. The reaction was negative—there were stares and whispers. Soldiers didn’t want to stand in line for the shower with him or sit next to him. But gradually, conversation by conversation, things began to change. The soldier who had said he would "kill a faggot" if he saw one later told Petro that he would not do that now, explaining that he had never met a gay person before.
Maria Klyus, Petro's friend and deputy to Inna Sovsun, was worried about him. Petro thought his friend was losing sleep over his coming out. One day, Maria called Petro and told him about the bill she and Inna were working on. The young man was shocked. He could not believe that someone was willing to do such monumental work to protect him and other LGBTQ+ people. Although the bill covers a broad range and benefits any civil partnership, he took this gesture very personally and wanted to support it as soon as he could.
At that time, only his fellow soldiers knew about his sexual orientation, and initially, Petro had planned to keep it that way. But after the phone call with Maria, he decided to initiate a state petition in support of Bill No. 9103. This meant putting his name on a document that would reveal his sexual orientation to everyone. “If not now, then when?” he asked himself.
However, Petro did not tell his parents. Understanding the potential impact and publicity of this gesture, he knew that his name would become known and didn’t want his parents to find out from the news. Petro called his father and asked him to turn on the speakerphone. After a brief exchange of news, he said, “I need to tell you something very important,” and paused before saying that he liked both men and women. His mother immediately screamed, “Petro, oh my God, I thought someone had died!” And his father calmly said that he would always shake his hand, regardless of whom he liked.
Petro’s heart soared. All his adult life, he had feared this moment, and now it had come—a huge weight was lifted from his soul.
With the help of an NGO, he created a petition in support of Bill No. 9103 and registered it on the President’s website. Such petitions have no legal consequences, but they are meant to demonstrate public support. Once a petition reaches 25,000 signatures, it goes to the president, who writes his recommendations and comments. When the petition appeared online, a social media frenzy began. Petro’s phone lit up every few minutes—dozens of messages and calls with words of support, gratitude, and sometimes disbelief. Now Petro had come out to the entire country.
“I felt free,” recalls Petro. The soldier who had wanted to “kill a faggot” said he would sign the petition.
Military representatives tend to avoid the topic of LGBTQ+ rights as if it were an infectious disease, and when circumstances require addressing issues regarding gay or transgender service members, the Ministry of Defense and military representatives usually try to deny everything. In a note of non-support for Bill No. 9103, which the Ministry of Defense published shortly after its introduction, it was initially stated that “the information about thousands of service members who cannot officially formalize their relationships with same-sex partners, as outlined in the explanatory note to the draft law, requires further examination due to the lack of relevant data in the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine.”
During this additional examination, which many LGBTQ+ activists called clumsy and horrific, the Ministry of Defense decided to conduct a survey by asking some service members essentially: “Are you gay?”
The “survey on the issues of sexual orientation, the need for the registration of civil partnerships, and issues in this specific area” was a printed form containing seven questions about gender discrimination in the respondent’s unit, sexual preferences in choosing a partner, and whether the respondent, who is in a relationship with someone of the same sex, might face “problems” with inheritance if they are injured, killed, or declared missing.
Maxim was one of the service members who received this survey. From his description of the survey process, a picture emerges of a lack of education, empathy, and basic decency among those conducting the survey.
Maxim, a closeted gay member of the Ukrainian Air Force, describes how one morning a senior officer in his unit distributed the surveys without any explanation. The atmosphere was such that offensive jokes about gays emerged. Several aviators refused to complete the survey. Later, Maxim saw one survey lying on a table with the large letters “I AM NOT A FAGGOT” written on it. The officer later returned to collect the surveys, sometimes looking into them as he took them from the pilots. “It was mocking anonymity,” recalls Maxim. Later, the same officer came back with several additional surveys, claiming they needed to be filled out to meet the quota. Some aviators were absent—either injured or on leave—and the command demanded the exact number of surveys. “Who wants to help with the gay test?” asked the officer.
It is unclear what happened to this survey and whether it led to any results. The body responsible for equality issues in the Ukrainian Armed Forces—the Department of Humanitarian Support of the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine—did not respond to numerous attempts to contact them regarding this article. After speaking with four Ministry employees, none of whom wanted to speak openly, and reviewing the Ministry's online documents, I found no official program dedicated to combating discrimination against LGBTQ+ personnel or educating service members about LGBTQ+ issues. The Ministry of Defense has a hotline for sexual violence and violence in general, as well as mechanisms for addressing it.
An open gay employee of the Ministry of Defense, who also did not want to speak openly, said that those responsible for equality and gender issues often lack basic knowledge about anything beyond the Ministry’s guidelines.
At the same time, this person said that they understand there are much more urgent issues for the country in wartime, and if a problem for the Armed Forces is not considered critical and does not require immediate resolution, it is often pushed to the back burner.
Issues concerning the LGBTQ+ community in Ukraine have already created some problems for the current government. A recent decision by the European Court of Human Rights involved two Ukrainians, Andriy Maymulyakhin and Andriy Markiv, who claimed that the Ukrainian government had denied them the same rights as heterosexual couples. The couple has been living together since 2010 but has been unable to register as a household. According to their submission, they attempted to register as a couple seven times, but all applications were rejected. After the Russian invasion in February 2022, Mr. Maymulyakhin joined the National Guard and served for a year before resigning due to health issues.
Ukrainian judge Mykola Hnatovskyi at the European Court ruled in favor of the claimants. In its defense, the Ukrainian government used Bill No. 9103, arguing that Ukraine is already implementing necessary laws to protect same-sex couples. However, the court rejected this argument, noting that the bill had not yet become law. The European Court's decision is now a serious issue for the Ukrainian government. In addition to compensation they must pay to the couple, it represents a significant challenge to Ukraine's desired EU membership.
But from Brussels’ courts to Kyiv's government corridors and to the grim trenches near Avdiivka, there is a vast distance. While legislators, generals, and judges deliberate, LGBTQ+ Ukrainians who serve face not only a lack of legal recognition but also severe discrimination. Their stories and personal suffering often get lost in the abyss of endless death and destruction shaking the country every day. “It’s not the time,” critics comment on social media. “It’s not the time,” lawmakers repeat in the Legal Policy Committee, according to minutes from the latest meetings on Bill No. 9103 in July 2024. Despite being under consideration for over a year, the bill has still not been voted on.
For people like Gennady Apromizov, the personal trauma of lacking recognition or respect for their identity is profoundly relevant. These issues are ever-present.
Gennady Apromizov, a 25-year-old bisexual Belarusian and soldier in the International Legion, crossed the Ukrainian border on a warm July night in 2020. He carried documents for medical procedures and packed only a small bag with slippers, shampoo, and a few pairs of underwear.
Five days before, while at home in Minsk, he had received a call from the local police station requesting him to come for a "friendly chat." He knew what that meant. Several of his friends who had been called in for such chats had faced imprisonment threats if they continued any "recidivist" activities, with some already detained.
The Belarusian government had intensified its crackdown on any form of opposition after prolonged anti-government protests that summer, arresting activists one by one. Journalists, students, doctors, and college professors were detained from their apartments or on the streets, starting with the most prominent figures.
Gennady was an active participant in the protests and had been marked as an organizer in several social media posts. He knew what the Belarusian authorities had in store for him. So, he packed a bag and, with the help of BYSOL, an organization aiding Belarusian dissidents in leaving the country, set off for Kyiv.
The new home suited Gennady. Within a few months, he stopped fearing black trucks and people in police uniforms. He found accommodation and continued his activism from Kyiv, surrounding himself with members of the diaspora, which had grown significantly after the new wave of repression in Belarus. “I continued fighting for Belarus,” he says of his time in Kyiv.
However, Gennady did not plan to fight for Ukraine. The Ukrainian government had continued to flirt with Lukashenko’s dictatorship, and while many Belarusian émigrés sought refuge in Kyiv from the regime, it was not entirely safe. The visa-free regime and lax security allowed Russian and Belarusian intelligence agencies to operate almost unhindered in Kyiv. In August 2021, one of the most active Belarusian activists, Vitaly Shishov, was found hanged in a forest near his home. His death was classified as a murder, and the crime remains unsolved. In 2022, Denis Staj, a Belarusian journalist critical of the Belarusian regime, living in Ukraine since 2018, was beaten, tortured, and drugged over several days in his Kyiv apartment. When Denis stopped answering his wife’s calls, she traveled to Kyiv from their family shelter in western Ukraine and found him unconscious, bound, and wrapped in plastic bags, just steps away from death. Their apartment was ransacked, and electronic devices were stolen. Suspicions fell on Belarusian agents, but Ukrainian police did not arrest anyone in connection with the attack and torture.
Gennady viewed the war in Ukraine as the beginning of Belarus's liberation. In March 2023, he joined the International Legion, partly motivated by the thought that he would gain experience for continuing the fight to free Belarus from dictatorship when the time came. After three months of training, he was deployed to the northern border with Russia and then joined the fight on the Eastern Front.
Gennady was open about his sexual orientation with people. This had caused problems in the past, especially conflicts with his religious family. But within the military structure, he felt it was dangerous to speak openly about this side of his life. The International Legion’s composition is mostly foreign volunteers, mainly Americans and Europeans, who tend to have more progressive views, while Ukrainian commanders are significantly more conservative and, according to Gennady, sometimes openly homophobic. “I try to avoid the topic altogether,” he told me, “I don’t want to be shot in the back.”
This might seem like an overly dramatic fear, but in an environment accustomed to violence and where homophobia is common, being gay can be a real threat. In war, you rely on the person next to you for your well-being and often for your survival.
Therefore, in addition to being brave and setting an example, being an openly gay soldier often means carrying a target on one’s back.
When Gennady was transferred to a new post in December 2023, the new deputy battalion commander noticed a unicorn patch on his uniform — the emblem of the “Ukrainian LGBTQ+ Military for Equal Rights” organization — and asked, “What is this thing on your clothes?”
Gennady chose not to comment. His life depended on the decisions this commander would make in the future.
The unicorn patches have become a unifying symbol and identification mark for the LGBTQ+ community among Ukrainian Armed Forces personnel. They were created by the organization "Ukrainian LGBTQ+ Military for Equal Rights," a public group fighting for the rights of both openly LGBTQ+ and closeted members of the Ukrainian military. The organization has around 400 members, with less than a quarter being openly LGBTQ+. Viktor Pylypenko, the founder and the first openly gay member of the Ukrainian military, is at the forefront of supporting both those who have come out and those who are not yet ready to do so.
These patches carry no specific meaning other than indicating openness about one's sexual orientation. However, they open doors to both allies and homophobes. By wearing such patches on their uniforms, these soldiers accept a certain level of risk of becoming targets.
"I know that there are gay soldiers in the army who are not interested in joining our group, perhaps because they are unaware of us or do not want potential unwanted publicity," says Viktor. Being open himself, he has faced numerous public attacks, primarily from conservative groups, right-wing organizations, commentators, and members of the clergy.
The latest scandal involved the revocation of an award that the Ukrainian Orthodox Church had previously given to several members of Viktor's unit from the 72nd Mechanized Brigade for "self-sacrifice and love for Ukraine." The medal was later rescinded with the Church stating that Filaret "was unaware of the sinful tendencies" of one of the awardees. It was then emphasized that "Patriarch Filaret and the Ukrainian Orthodox Church, without exception, take a principled negative stance on the sin of Sodom and condemn the promotion of so-called same-sex marriages." Following this disgraceful turn regarding the medal, several members of the 72nd Brigade returned the award, most with strong public criticism of the Church.
This is not the first and likely not the last instance of misunderstandings and tensions due to divisions in Ukrainian society over LGBTQ+ issues. Viktor has become a target not only for critics within the country but also for Russian propaganda, which often portrays homosexuality as one of the toxic fruits of the sinister Western world.
In the summer of 2021, even before the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the rhetoric of Olga Skabeeva, a Russian propagandist and commentator on Russian TV, made a notable impression when she announced on her program that "President Volodymyr Zelensky, at the advice of American leader Joe Biden, is sending 'columns of Ukrainian homosexuals to Donbas'." This was based on an earlier statement on the Facebook page of the organization "Ukrainian LGBT Military for Equal Rights," which said: "We invite motivated LGBTQ+ individuals, servicemembers, specialists, and also friends of the LGBTQ+ community who want to sign a contract with one of the motorized infantry units of the Armed Forces."
The announcement was quickly picked up by right-wing and conservative forces in Ukraine and eventually made its way to Russian television. This led to the creation of a completely fabricated story about the "Unicorn Battalion."
Victor was harshly criticized in Ukraine as a "Kremlin agent," which further fueled Moscow's ongoing propaganda machine. Neither the "Unicorn Battalion" nor any LGBTQ-friendly unit was ever formed, but Victor continued his fight. He recalls the words of a commander he served with, who said, "If homosexuals create their own unit and call it the Unicorn Battalion, I'll accept them." In response to the criticism and fabrications, a logo for LGBTQ military members (LGBT Military) featuring a unicorn was created.
Victor's struggle is part of the broader fight by other members of the organization. One of the most notable cases involves former sailor Pavel Lahoyda.
Pavel is 23 years old and currently lives in Kyiv. He is one of the most active members of the LGBTQ Military Union, but, like Viktor, he has faced harassment and repression due to his openness. Like Viktor, he has suffered because of his desire to be open about his sexuality.
After his mother disowned him following his coming out, Pavel joined the Navy. This happened in September 2021 when he was only 19. A major war loomed over Ukraine. A few months later, as rockets rained down on cities and villages across the country, his mother called Pavel: “I accept you for who you are,” she said, crying, “just come home alive.” Pavel wondered why it took a war and his service to make his mother appreciate and accept him, but now he had to go to war.
According to Pavel, issues with his commander, Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Bondarenko, began soon after the commander learned of his sexual orientation. Pavel recounted that he was outed by other sailors in his cabin when he left his phone unlocked and open to messages with an ex. When he returned to the cabin, he saw his fellow sailors laughing. “So, you’re a fucking faggot?” one of them smirked at Pavel.
Soon, everyone, including his direct supervisors, knew. Lieutenant Bondarenko not only allowed other soldiers to beat Pavel but also became an abuser himself. Initially, this took the form of mockery about his sexuality and verbal harassment, but it eventually escalated into physical violence.
The first beating occurred during a night shift in the spring of 2022 when Lieutenant Bondarenko approached Pavel and verbally reprimanded him for looking at his phone. Pavel recounts that a quarrel ensued, and Bondarenko threw him to the floor and beat him. The second beating happened later, in November, in front of witnesses—this time over a dispute about the best way to unload a truck. Bondarenko’s command could not ignore this and transferred Pavel, but did not punish Bondarenko.
The correspondence between Pavel and his commander is unstable. Mr. Bondarenko calls Pavel a “sociopath” and says he should be studied for medical journals due to his “illness.” Pavel responds with profanity and threats of suing him and the unit. The conversation then shifts to a neutral tone discussing reports and issues about transfers and demobilization. Messages and calls from Pavel and Mr. Bondarenko remain unanswered.
From the telephone and written exchanges between them, it appears that Mr. Bondarenko does not want Pavel to transfer and enjoys his power over the subordinate, inflicting regular subtle torture. He sends Pavel on pointless tasks, various medical and psychological examinations but does not allow him to transfer or change his contract. Pavel says he was sent for two psychiatric evaluations, where doctors, without examination, diagnosed him as “unfit for active service.” Lieutenant Bondarenko claims that the psychiatric evaluations were not his initiative; they were conducted independently because sailor Lahoyda attempted to transfer to contract service and change units.
Pavel later appealed through the Ministry of Defense and was sent for evaluation in Kyiv, where the decision was overturned, and he was declared fit and healthy for active service. Pavel’s lawyer confirms his account.
Lieutenant Bondarenko claims he never saw the final psychiatric diagnosis Pavel received after the appeal, although in private correspondence with Pavel, he admits to seeing the results while accusing Pavel of forgery.
Lieutenant Bondarenko also told me that sailor Lahoyda was a bad and unruly soldier, and he was beaten not because he was gay, but due to his overall attitude and behavior. The lieutenant also accused the subordinate of having sex for money with other sailors, though he did not deny beating him.
In the spring of 2024, President Zelensky signed a law allowing the demobilization of all conscripts who started mandatory service before February 2024. At that time, Pavel had unsuccessfully attempted to change units. He took the opportunity to submit his resignation. A month later, leaving his base, he gave the finger. He was free from the tyrant.
Bullying, persecution, and even physical violence are not uncommon in the military. In many cases, the fate of a vulnerable person under someone's command depends on how the commander handles the situation. In the absence of LGBTQ+ education among the enlisted ranks of the Ukrainian Armed Forces, it often comes down to whether the commander allows abuse or, as in Pavel's case, perpetrates it himself.
But it doesn’t always turn out this way.
Alexander Zhuhan, 39, and Antonina Romanova, 38, met on a clear, warm September day in 2014. It was one of those autumn days when you’re still trying to catch the last shades of fading summer. It was a different era in Ukraine. They met through a Russian dating site, which was still quite popular in Ukraine even after Crimea was annexed and the war in Eastern Ukraine had begun.
Antonina had recently moved to Kyiv from Crimea, where, after active involvement in pro-Ukrainian protests, she ended up on arrest lists. One of her activist friends, Oleg Sentsov, advised her to leave the peninsula. She did, while Oleg stayed behind and was later arrested and imprisoned for five years on fabricated terrorism charges.
Alexander was not in a festive mood that evening. He was coming back from a meeting where he had comforted a friend whose child was diagnosed with a severe form of autism. Antonina was wearing an old-fashioned knitted jacket over a sweater. Alexander thought she looked funny. They strolled with large take-out cups, drinking lattes and talking. As it turned out, they had something in common: children with disabilities, their indifference to Kyiv’s broken infrastructure, and a love for theater and the arts. They talked about Antonina’s difficult childhood, the numerous surgeries she had undergone as a child, and her journey from a lost home in Crimea to the capital. They sat by a group of teenagers, enjoying their music from a portable speaker. They took the last metro home.
Ten years later, Antonina and Alexander share a room in a rundown house a few kilometers from the active front. It has been a long journey from their first date on that warm Kyiv evening. Behind them are an experimental theater troupe they founded, plays and performances they staged together and separately, endless parties, and long nights after premieres. Their life has been full: teaching, performing, loving. They had a small apartment together and were happy.
From this apartment, they called their actors to cancel the performance on February 24, 2022.
The Great War had come into their lives. That night, Antonina asked, “Shall we join?” and Alexander reluctantly agreed. The next day, they signed up as volunteers with the local territorial defense. There were men and women of different ages—some looked as if they had come straight from work; someone brought their belongings in a suitcase, a burly man in a cowboy hat, and one guy brought a hunting rifle.
Looking at this diverse crowd, Alexander thought, “If they can do it, so can we.”
The fear of not being understood was certainly present. “I thought: there will be these combat meat grinders, and I’m just a small theater teacher,” says Alexander. But to their surprise, their status as a queer couple was met with understanding. They had been open from the beginning of their service, and rumors had spread. By the time they were sent south after the campaign in Kyiv, their commanders and fellow soldiers already knew that “these gays” were serving with them.
In late May 2022, their unit was sent to Mykolaiv. Antonina and Alexander reported at the morning lineup, where a new sergeant major was introduced. “I know there are gays among you,” he growled. Antonina’s heart sank. “I don’t care! If you’re good soldiers, there will be no problems.” He added, “I will not tolerate any discrimination.”
Without an official policy on same-sex couples from the Ministry of Defense, such matters are left to the discretion of lower-ranking commanders. Some, like the senior sergeant, view it as a potential issue among their troops and set things straight from the beginning, but more often it falls on people like Alexander and Antonina to educate their fellow soldiers on LGBTQ+ issues.
"It's not our job to teach them," says Alexander. But when he talks about the LGBTQ+ community online, he faces criticism, often from military personnel, accusing him of using his uniform to promote LGBTQ+ values. This frustrates him. "I would have a much broader platform elsewhere to fight for equal rights," Alexander notes, "and my goal in the army is the same as everyone else's here: to win this war."
Thus, each individual experience varies and depends on the education and biases of the commander. Antonina and Alexander have been fortunate at every stage of their service. In June 2022, they were introduced to a new commander who asked Antonina which pronouns he should use when addressing her. "That was his first question to me," Antonina recalls, "I was impressed."
Antonina is a non-binary person who uses "she/her" pronouns. She and Alexander are extremely close, even though they ended their relationship about a year ago. "We were together for 10 years, went through fire and water," says Antonina. "I’m sure I will never have a closer connection with anyone else in this life."
They sit together in a dimly lit room, just as they did ten years ago on the cold asphalt, listening to teenagers playing music with lattes in paper cups on that warm Kyiv evening. The active front, where they were just hours ago, is a short trip away. They will make this trip again soon after my departure, not as a couple, lovers, or old friends, but as two Ukrainian Armed Forces personnel heading for another assignment, fighting for their country and their right to be who they are, for themselves and for future generations. Despite the hardships they’ve endured, their love helps them persevere. It fights for them as they fight for their country.
Love has also supported Anna Kazhan throughout her life. Anna is a medic in the 47th Brigade and a person who has always gone against the grain. Her call sign, Kazhan, is not by chance. She likes the sound of it and, more importantly, she likes bats themselves. Anna, now 31, has studied nocturnal flying creatures since her early 20s—she earned a bachelor’s degree in molecular biology and biotechnology and completed a master’s in vertebrate zoology. She was in her 4th semester in Ghent, Belgium, studying tropical biodiversity and ecosystems when the full-scale invasion began. This event compelled her to return to Ukraine and join the army, something she would never have considered before.
If there were an illustration for a leftist activist in Ukraine, it would likely be Anna. Since her teenage years, she has been actively involved in the leftist movement in her native Kharkiv. She helped organize an anarchist squat (which also housed LGBTQ+ activists and displaced persons from annexed Crimea and eastern Ukraine in 2014), co-founded Kharkiv Pride, an organization that defends LGBTQ+ rights in Ukraine, and participated in organizing the first Pride in Kharkiv in 2019.
That first Pride was a turning point in her life. In Freedom Square in central Kharkiv, she stood among about 2,000 other activists who came to support the event. Surrounded by police with shields and a row of trucks separating them from another group of people—right-wing activists from various organizations, including Freikorps, "National Corps," and "Tradition and Order." "Every Pride, these right-wing guys use it as a training event," says Anna with a touch of dark humor. "They gather, meet, have fun, and show what they're capable of."
And that day, they were capable of a lot of violence. They clashed with police and LGBTQ+ activists, a teenager sustained severe injuries in a nearby park, and several people were arrested. It made waves in Ukrainian media, the US Embassy in Ukraine issued a condemnation statement, and Amnesty International wrote a public statement.
Four years later, when Anna was already in the 47th Brigade, she met Kostya, who served in her medical unit. Kostya was also at Freedom Square in 2019, but on the other side of the barricades. Enthralled by right-wing views, he was part of Freikorps—a far-right group that fought with the police and targeted parade participants that day. Kostya and Anna spoke, trying to maintain a safe distance. These conversations became regular. Kostya was an intellectual who wrote poetry, sharply contrasting with other right-wing people Anna had encountered through her service.
One day, trying to summarize one of their conversations, Kostya pointed to a battle map hanging on the wall of their medical headquarters. "This is the only thing that matters now," he said.
They were discussing an incident involving one of the founders of Kharkiv Pride, Anna Sharygina, who publicly opposed renaming a street in Kharkiv in honor of Georgiy Tarasenko, a member of Freikorps who died in the battles near Kharkiv in March 2022. Sharygina had posted on Facebook that Tarasenko was a well-known right-wing figure and had violently persecuted LGBTQ+ activists several times. Her post also raised questions about who Ukrainians should immortalize in the pantheon of heroes of this war and what can be forgiven or overlooked for those who give their lives to defend the country.
It was a nuanced post that sparked a lively but complex debate, filled with hatred and threats, as well as words of support for Ms. Sharygina. Her motivation is understandable—people like Georgiy Tarasenko were a threat to her personally. He wasn't just opposed to same-sex marriage or equal rights for LGBTQ+ people—he committed violence and persecuted her and those she fought for. But Georgiy Tarasenko also died fighting against the Russians who had invaded their city to occupy it and make it part of Russia, where any LGBTQ+ activity is now criminalized.
In wartime Ukraine, the army has become a reflection of Ukrainian society itself; it's a country within a country—with all its complexities and internal conflicts, many voices and camps. Tens of thousands of people from all walks of life have voluntarily enlisted, been mobilized, and drafted over the past two and a half years. And just like in Ukrainian society, LGBTQ+ people in the Ukrainian Armed Forces are a minority—a minority that is easier to bully and discriminate against, but one that needs protection.
Anna Kazhan disagreed with the Facebook post of her former colleague, with whom she had organized Kharkiv Pride in 2019. But she understands what it means to be threatened, criticized, and to argue about who she is. Recently, she found herself in a car with another far-right supporter on the way to the Azov medical base. Her ex-girlfriend worked there and had arranged the visit. Anna joked that it was the LGBT community bringing far-right extremists to the Azov base. They talked about issues and values, argued, and joked.
"At the next Pride, we’ll drop a drone bomb on you," the far-right guy said, laughing. "We’ll set up jammers," Anna replied. And then there was silence. They both knew they might not make it to the next Pride. They continued driving.
The material was worked on:
Topic researcher, author: Sasha Maslov
Translation: Marusya Maruzhenko
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladislav Kukhar
Sasha Maslov was born in Kharkiv. He lives and works in New York. His works have been featured in various European and American venues. He collaborates with prominent publications, including The New Yorker, The Guardian, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Esquire, Forbes, and others. In his free time, he works on personal projects, the most ambitious of which is the "Veterans" project, for which he has traveled to over 20 countries in the past 5 years.
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UAPP, in partnership with Ukraїner, continues its series of publications featuring important photographs from the past month, highlighting key events in Ukraine.
A serviceman of the 148th Artillery Brigade of the Air Assault Forces stands next to a cannon at a position in Donetsk Oblast. July 2024. Photo by Ukrainian Armed Forces serviceman Yevhen Borysovsky.
A view of the destroyed city of Toretsk in Donetsk Oblast. Intense fighting is ongoing along the entire front line, with Toretsk being one of the main attack directions. The Russian army is attempting to completely destroy the city in order to capture it. July 2024. Photo by Anatoliy Stepanov.
A doctor helps clear the rubble after a Russian missile strike on the "Okhmatdyt" children's hospital in Kyiv. On that day, the Russian army launched a massive missile attack across Ukraine, including Kyiv. As a result of the attack, 47 people were killed, and dozens were injured. July 2024. Photo by Yuliya Kochetova.
Parents with children seek shelter in the underground bomb shelter of the hospital after the missile strike on "Okhmatdyt" in Kyiv. July 2024. Photo by Oleksandr Magula.
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A soldier from the 24th Separate Mechanized Brigade lies on the operating table of a field hospital near the front line in Donetsk Oblast. July 2024. Photo by Oleg Petrasyuk, a soldier-photographer.
The coffin with the body of the murdered political figure Iryna Faryon is being carried out of the Garrison Church of Saints Peter and Paul in Lviv. The day before, Faryon was killed by an unknown man near her home in Lviv. July 2024. Photo by Iva Sidash.
Soldiers from the 12th Brigade of the National Guard of Ukraine light flares in memory of their fallen comrades in Olenivka. According to Ukrainian law enforcement, Russian occupation forces blew up one of the barracks in the Olenivka camp, where prisoners from the Azov Brigade were held. At least 58 people were killed and 120 were injured in the attack. July 2024. Photo by Yefrem Lukatsky for Associated Press.
Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy poses for a photo with workers from a light industry factory in the Volyn region. July 2024. Photo by Oleksandr Rupeta.
Ukrainian fencer Olga Kharlan in action during the 2024 Olympic Games in Paris. July 2024. Photo by Mykola Synelnykov for the National Olympic Committee of Ukraine.
Air defense forces repel a drone attack on Kherson. July 2024. Photo by Ivan Antypenko.
Lviv-based photographer Marta Syryko has created a series of photographs of Ukrainian veterans who lost their limbs in the war. The author dedicated her project “Sculptural” to art based on ancient Greek statues. Today, the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers is publishing a conversation with the author and her photographs.
— Marta, how do you position yourself? Who are you?
— In fact, I've been doing photography all my life, so I position myself as a photographer. I am also fond of art history, and I teach art history.
— What projects were you working on before the full-scale Russian invasion?
— It so happened that for ten years I photographed all the time in the nude style. I worked with corporeality. But somewhere between 2019 and 2020, I came to a deeper awareness of corporeality and acceptance. People's bodies are very diverse. This buzzword “diversity” came to me, so I started exploring it through photography. I photographed older people naked, including my grandparents. They had no choice and agreed to the shoot, but only because they liked what I was doing. I think I aestheticize any body I touch. Maybe it's the influence of the Renaissance or the Baroque. I try to present any body in a more picturesque and aesthetic way. Even if it's a documentary, I still want to add some artistic touch.
I also filmed various projects with children with Down syndrome. It was also a challenge for me. When I was thinking about motherhood, I had a lot of internal questions, and that's how the project called The Sun Inside was born. Now, by the way, we've reached the point where we can no longer call children with Down syndrome “sunny.” I agree with this. I like what I see in society now in terms of inclusion: we are learning to speak, think, and coexist with each other correctly.
I discovered many things for myself. For example, people could not accept the fact that I photographed a woman who, in their opinion, was overweight. She went in for sports, she liked her body, she lived happily, but her fatness was an eyesore to people. I was curious why people reacted to this in such a way. Then I filmed a woman who had huge scars and stretched skin after giving birth to a child, and, for example, she had a much more positive attitude. I also had a lot of questions about feminism and its development in Ukraine. And then the great war happened.
— Are the people who come to your photo shoots confident or vulnerable? Do your photos help them to look at themselves in a different way? Maybe accept themselves?
— I have always had more empathy for women because it so happens that in our culture there is still a certain attitude towards appearance. People live with complexes. I didn't think that I would be somehow connected to this and work psychologically as well: trying to reveal a person during the shooting and emphasize the beautiful parts of their body that are aesthetically pleasing. I never thought I would have to explain to a woman that she is beautiful and has no problems. I met women who had to be convinced: “You just met the wrong person. She broke your psyche, and there was nothing to break, because you are fine. You're fine! You're too picky!”. During photo shoots, I always try to support my subjects and explain to them that everything is fine. In general, I always want to say that all people are beautiful, so that they can live in peace.
— Perhaps you remember a story of a hero or heroine when a person saw their own photos and changed their attitude towards themselves?
— I remember that I was shooting an older woman and she didn't like the photos, but she didn't like them from a technical point of view. She explained that the girls on Instagram that I photograph don't look like that. It was a turning point for me. I realized that I needed to focus on reality, on what a person is like. A lot has changed since then. For example, I had a situation where a girl with the fourth stage of scoliosis wanted to have a photo shoot before her spinal surgery. She wanted to remember what she looked like. And she liked the photos and published them. Despite the fact that we tend to hide such moments. It seems to me that this is absolutely normal. We are all different.
— How did the idea for the Sculptural project come about?
— In the last months before the Russian invasion, I collaborated with athletes. My works were presented at exhibitions, and people asked: “Is this a real person or a sculpture?”. It stuck in my mind. So I can say that many paths led me to the Sculptural project. That is, it didn't come out of nowhere.
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The Sculptural project involves all people who suffered as a result of the full-scale invasion. They undergo rehabilitation and prosthetics at the Superhumans center. Most of them are veterans, but there is also one civilian woman from Soledar. She is the oldest among my heroes. The project is not yet completed, but I don't focus on that. I'm not looking for heroes myself, personally. But now, for example, we are making a documentary about heroes. And because the project has essentially grown into a new form, we need to work with new stories. More and more people are getting injured, and not everyone manages to adapt. They get a lot of psychological help at the center. This is an incredible job of the doctors who work there. To be honest, I don't want to finish this project just because I'm immersed in each story, and each story is unique, each person tells it differently, perceives the injury differently, and this affects their future life.
— Tell us about your first hero who agreed to be filmed. What were your expectations for this shoot and how did it turn out?
— My first hero is the current “Bachelor” Alexander Budko. His life has taken off and spun well! He is, by the way, one of the few guys who have taken off their clothes completely. Many, for example, don't want to take off their underwear, so we cover it with a cloth. So the idea is to identify with the Greco-Roman sculptures, which for the most part, not all of them, of course, had drapery. And drapery was the main element of any marble or other sculpture.
We filmed Sasha for only 15 minutes because it was during the blackout period. Nevertheless, our short collaboration turned into a long-term friendship and support. I keep in touch with many of my characters to find out how they are doing. Some of them have already had children, some have gotten married, and so on. Some of them did it faster than I did. Sashko is an incredibly talented guy who just tears up everyone around him and is building an incredibly good career for himself. He and we, as a society, need this, because he is the one who tells people: “Hello! Inclusivity! Hello!” By his example, he does more than I did with my niche, which was only in circles that were interested in art. It was still a small part of people.
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— Does the perception of your characters' trauma change after the photo shoot? What do they talk about?
— Zakhar, who lost two arms, an eye and a leg. And it is he who tells me about acceptance and stoicism, positive thinking, and life in general. This is the last character I filmed. Zakhar was treated in Germany. He tells me that it was not comfortable to travel in a wheelchair everywhere. Although there are comfortable cities and places there. And in our country... Yes, I understand that it's all a matter of funding. Accessibility is a very important thing, because an incredible number of people have been injured in two and a half years.
Perhaps I am so sensitive to this because this problem was close to my family. My grandfather, being blind, could not go out. Even though we lived in a home for the blind. Now they say in a home for the visually impaired. And he could not go out without being accompanied by another person. Especially as he got older, he could not go out at all. I remember his state when you feel weak and a burden to someone. Because you can't do it yourself and you have to ask someone to help you all the time. It's a very difficult moment to overcome yourself and ask for help. My grandfather was very nervous about this. Even though we were his family, we loved him, he felt guilty because he had to ask someone for something all the time. So there is still the question of how the family perceives and reacts to everything. It's also hard for family members now, because they really have more responsibilities. This is a huge problem that is not talked about enough. People accuse me of taking nice pictures and leaving. Yes, I did, but at least I reminded people about it with my work.
— Marta, what's next? Can you tell us what you plan to do with this Sculpture project?
— The project is also expanding naturally. I find civilians through rehabilitation specialists whom I photograph. We talk about different types of injuries, traumas, and losses. We are also making a documentary with the director Sashko Brama. We want to tell the stories of the heroes. This movie will be translated into English. I think it is very important for the international audience to see it. And finally, I would like to see a book or an exhibition, but in some acceptable space. In my opinion, the way people look at works printed in the right space has a greater impact on their emotional range and how they will remember these works. This is even very important from a diplomatic point of view.
— What photograph do you still dream of taking? Or perhaps, are there any heroes you would still like to capture?
— My desire is simply to continue making photographs. I often feel disappointed that in today's world of fast-paced content, many people don't appreciate photography as much. My goal is just to keep creating, so that one day I will have an audience who truly stops and takes the time to look at my work and reflect on it. Nowadays, it’s really hard to capture people's attention. The truth is, our information space is so saturated and cluttered that sometimes something very valuable gets lost in this flow. Yes, you get lost, and you have to play by the same rules, because there's no other way. You also have to make videos, plan content, just to somehow reach an audience with works that require a bit more time.
Marta Syrko is a 29-year-old photographer from Lviv with a background in art history. She works in conceptual photography, exploring themes of the body in her projects.
Marta's Instagram.
The material was worked on:
Topic researcher, text author: Vira Labych
Photo editor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Literary editor: Yulia Futei
Website manager: Vladyslav Kukhar
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
Two years of full-scale war in a photo book by Reporters. 190 documentary shots taken between February 2022 and February 2024. Among the authors of the photos are Danylo Pavlov, Yevhen Malolietka, Serhiy Korovainyi, Viacheslav Ratynskyi and almost 40 other photographers.
The photo book is published in hardcover. The publication includes all the photos from the English-language special issue of Reporters magazine, as well as new photos about the struggle of Ukrainians in the new stage of the Russian-Ukrainian war.
The photo book features photographs by more than 40 Ukrainian documentary filmmakers. Some of them provided specific photos, while others had access to their own archives, where Danylo Pavlov had to find exactly the right shots to fill the book.
The cover of the book features a photo taken with a night vision device by Oleksandr Popenko.
The publication covers all important aspects of the Russian invasion: footage of both military and civilians, training, burials, the Verkhovna Rada, a Ukrainian Railways train, shelling, blackouts, etc.
The 30th anniversary of Ukraine's independence is a significant reason to reflect on our experiences of achievements and setbacks, discoveries and disappointments. No great story unfolds smoothly. It is woven from events, each playing an important role and each needing to be documented and preserved, for this is our reality.
In 2021, many books were published detailing the history of modern Ukraine, but this book is not one of them. We did not aim to create a textbook on history or an album of Ukrainian documentary photography. Our goal was to showcase the path of independence through the eyes of several generations of talented Ukrainian reporters and documentarians, making it engaging for both a wide audience and specialists. You won't find a comprehensive list of names and historical events here; however, the photos collected in this book are not merely reflections of their time. They are symbols, an important historical and cultural legacy that has the power to change public opinion and, in turn, influence history. The 144 images by over 60 photographers—winners of both Ukrainian and international competitions—have created a unique artistic publication that captures the contemporary history of Ukraine and presents it to the world.
As you flip through the pages of this album, each person will see Ukraine in its many forms, yet still familiar: reliving the day of independence declaration and the adoption of the Constitution, participating in protests and revolutions, witnessing significant sports events and world record achievements, meeting prominent Ukrainians and unknown heroes, descending into a coal mine and soaring on the wings of "Mriya," and witnessing the struggle against ecological disasters, communist idols, and pandemics. These photos, sometimes painful and brutal, are part of the essential process of creating national identity. They have contributed to making Ukraine stronger.
We do not claim to provide a complete picture or encyclopedic objectivity. Photography is subjective, and that is part of its magic. Our experience has allowed us to gather disparate images and share a perspective on history through the eyes of Ukrainian documentarians, showcasing it in the context of world photography. For history is not just what happened; it is what remains in our memory. History without photography is merely words, and in the modern world, words are no longer trusted. Documentarians, if they do not create the history of our independence, at least help ensure that it is not distorted by those who wish to rewrite it.
The working title of the project was "100 Best Documentary Photographs of Independent Ukraine." However, telling the story of the country solely through the "best photos" turned out to be a utopian idea. The initial concept was for the book to consist of sections, each dedicated to a specific decade, but that would have resulted in uneven volumes. The period after 2014 occupies nearly half the book, not because those events seemed more important than others, but because they were more thoroughly documented.
Therefore, we decided to abandon that division and simply arranged the photographs in chronological order with brief historical notes. Nevertheless, readers will still notice three informal eras: the post-Soviet period (1991–2000), the stagnation period (2000–2012), and the breakthrough (2014–2022).
When we finished the book, we saw how interconnected the history of Ukrainian photography is with what is happening in the country. It seems that tragic events provoke documentary photography and other forms of art to evolve. Over the past eight years, a generation of young authors has emerged, thinking in terms of projects, which has elevated Ukrainian documentary photography to a global level.
I realized that I no longer perceive history as a list of dates, events, and names. Working on the book helped me see how certain historical events laid the groundwork for others and how pivotal moments are interconnected—not just in a narrative sense, but visually as well. We are now working on an English-language version of the album. — Mstislav Chernov
"Independent" encompasses the political, cultural, and sports events, tragedies, hopes, pride, and joys of Ukraine—not just documentary photographs, but a cultural heritage that showcases the best of Ukrainian documentary work, which has never been compiled under one cover.
"Independent" is a comprehensive study and preservation of modern Ukrainian photographic heritage that deserves to be introduced to the world. In addition to the Ukrainian version, an English-language edition is planned, printed to the highest standards, making it a perfect coffee table book for Ukrainian diplomats, cultural figures, and politicians, as well as being interesting for every Ukrainian.
"Independent" is a unique collection that combines high-art photographs from the most renowned contemporary Ukrainian documentarians with lesser-known images that have yet to reach a wide audience. Moreover, this publication draws attention, perhaps for the first time in recent years, to the exceptionally high level of professionalism among Ukrainian documentarians, who tirelessly continue to capture our history despite the risks and obstacles they face daily.
Until 1991, street photography was almost nonexistent. Political life was documented better, but even those images were sometimes lacking. Due to the absence of photographs, we could not include the monetary reform of 1996, when the new national currency, the hryvnia, was introduced. International sports competitions featuring Ukrainians were also not photographed. While such images exist in agencies and foreign photographers' collections, they are absent in domestic ones. At that time, Ukrainian photographers were surviving, while foreign ones only captured what interested them.
A significant watershed year is 2014, after which photographers began to cover various events in their unique ways. The book includes not only the works of well-known authors but also those of lesser-known ones. One of the images from the Maidan was even taken by a girl who was not connected to photography at all. — Mykhailo Palinchak
The language of photography is a social project implemented by the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers (UAPP) in educational and rehabilitation centers in Kharkiv and Kyiv for children with speech and hearing impairments.
The sessions were conducted by experienced educators who are UAPP members. They included general photography lectures adapted for children with hearing impairments, covering basic skills in photographic art, introducing the fundamentals of composition, systematizing the knowledge gained, and ultimately providing tools for artistic self-expression and further development for children interested in photography.
The General Director of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, Myroslav Chernov, notes:
"We are confident that children with hearing impairments can fully realize their creative talents and potential through the 'Language of Photography.' The project will give them the opportunity to engage in dialogue with society through their knowledge of photography, or to express themselves in the field of photography in the future."
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers (UAPP), in collaboration with Ukrainischer Verein Mainz e.V. and photographer David Yampolsky, realized a photo exhibition dedicated to Russia's invasion of Ukraine. It was presented on May 14, 2022, at the Gutleut gallery in Mainz, Germany. The Kyiv Photography School and the National Society of Photo Artists of Ukraine also joined the organization of the exhibition.
"...Images of ruthless devastation, the horrific war of Russia against Ukraine. 'It was an order, sorry,' — written on the wall in Bucha. Before and after, they shot houses with tanks, raped and tortured women and children. Another order?..."
The exhibition features works by photographers Mstyslav Chernov, Kostyantyn Sova, Volodymyr Ogloblin, Oleksandr Zvir, Max Levin, Mariana Kushnir, Yevhen Maloletka, Serhiy Mykhalchuk, Yurko Dyachyshyn, Oleksiy Furman, and Sasha Maslov.
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New York (USA)
A photo exhibition dedicated to the upcoming FRONTLINE project of PBS and the Associated Press. The exhibition featured the works of Ukrainian documentary filmmakers, members of the UWPP and Pulitzer Prize winners Mstislav Chernov and Yevhen Malolletka.
"There were no funerals. There were no public gatherings to honor those who died during Russia's incessant attacks on the port city of Mariupol, which has become a symbol of Ukraine's fierce resistance. Only mass graves reminded us of the city under siege."
The world would not have seen any of this if it were not for the team of Associated Press journalists Mstislav Chernov and Yevgeny Malolletko, who were in the city when the invasion began. They stayed in Mariupol even after it became one of the most dangerous places on earth. For more than two weeks now, they have been the only international media in the city and the only journalists able to transmit video and photos to the outside.
Thanks to their work, the world learned about the bloody atrocities committed by the Russians during the capture of the city, including the attack on the Mariupol maternity hospital, which became a symbol of the brutality of this war.
In early August 2024, columns of Ukrainian military equipment crossed the border with the Russian Federation in Sumy region. Reports of a breach of the border appeared on August 6, 2024 in the Kremlin media, which claimed that the Armed Forces entered the Sudzhansky district of the Kursk region. On August 12, President of Ukraine Vladimir Zelensky confirmed the operation of the Defense Forces in the Kursk region, emphasizing that its goal is to liberate the border territories of Ukraine from Russian troops who regularly shelled the Sumy region.
Photojournalist Vyacheslav Ratynskyi for 10 days he documented the situation on the border regions of Sumy, recording the evacuation of the local population, the columns of Ukrainian vehicles heading to the territory of the aggressor state, the consequences of shelling by Russian cabs, and also explained why he himself did not go to Russia with the Ukrainian military.
Vyacheslav Ratinsky was shooting Khmelnytsky NPP when he learned about the offensive of the Armed Forces on Kurshchina. He hesitated whether to go to the Russian-Ukrainian border in Sumy region to document the historical event.
“I thought it would be a situation similar to the march of the RDC (Russian Volunteer Corps — ed.) in the Belgorod region. They will come and go. But every day events began to develop more and more actively, and I decided to look for a way to get there,” says Vyacheslav. “My colleague from Reuters, who was also going to go there, contacted me. Together we went to the border villages with the NGO “East SOS”, which was engaged in the evacuation of the local population.”
The Russians are shelling Ukrainian border villages daily with guided air bombs. There were a lot of people willing to leave that morning.
“In the morning we were called from East SOS and said that there were two buses - 40 people wanted to leave after the shelling of Kabul. We asked permission to join them because we were worried that they would not miss us ourselves. However, “East SOS” refused, as the priority was to remove civilians. We were offered to go by our own transport to also help with the evacuation of people. We left and successfully crossed all the checkpoints,” Vyacheslav recalls.
During the evacuation of civilians, the work of Russian artillery was heard. People converged on the evacuation site with pets and small bags. Some were drunk.
Vyacheslav hoped to shoot only the evacuation of civilians, so the fact that he managed to communicate and capture the military was a great success: “When we saw the military, we were very happy. It was a pleasant surprise, because there were times before when we negotiated with the command about work, for example, in Robotyne in the South, but at the checkpoints we were not missed any further.”
The photographer admits that, apart from a large number of military equipment and well-equipped soldiers, he has not seen the Ukrainian military in such a high mood for a long time: “They go to fulfill their mission, they win!”
During these 10 days in Sumy region, Vyacheslav met many people and recorded many stories. About one of the episodes he remembered, the photographer said: “We drive along the highway and see a large SAU, we decided to overtake it. Just set the sun, the rays of light broke through the dust on the road. On the howitzer sat a stocky bearded guy waving at us into the camera. We stopped, and one of the soldiers said, “Everything is fine! Moving forward! Kursk NPP will soon be ours!” Their positive attitude was felt in the air. However, later other military said that the situation in Kurshchina had become more complicated.”
During these days, Western media actively published photos of Vyacheslav from Sumy region — the Armed Forces of Ukraine appeared on their front pages.
“This is good, because the Ukrainian army is again appearing in the Western media as a strong army,” Vyacheslav shares. - The military themselves said that they were encouraged by the Kursk operation. After all, for a long time we heard only sad news: about death, failure, suffering. And this attack reminded them themselves that they are capable of more! It really lifted the spirit of the boys.”
The military explained that the official work of journalists near the border is prohibited: they can neither mention nor comment on any actions of the military, in particular in the Kursk region. However, photojournalist Vyacheslav Ratinsky says that he still managed to get to the border territory of Sumy region: “Although we wrote a request, we did not receive any answer. At least the command knew we were here. Work seemed to be banned, but they did not interfere, for the first time I see this. We worried every day that we could be detained, stripped of accreditation or punished in some way.”
The next day, the photographers again decided to go to shoot the military. They tried to find volunteers to accompany them, but to no avail, so they went at their own risk. The trip went well, but one day they and a colleague were detained and searched, forced to remove the footage.
“We passed through checkpoints where we were not even stopped, not once during these days we had our documents checked. Except for one episode when we almost had our equipment taken away.”
Vyacheslav emphasizes that he worked very carefully so as not to harm the Defense Forces:
“I always shot so as not to harm the military. The main thing for me was and remains to do no harm. I would not like my photos to be able to identify the area where the Armed Forces are moving, or what roads they are driving on.”
“We worked quite confidently and openly, as Ukrainian troops advanced far beyond the border,” the photojournalist says. “There were no FPV drones, artillery or mortar shelling in these villages, so we felt relatively safe. However, the threat was posed by numerous CABs. There were many of them, and it always caused fear. A loud sound that cannot be forgotten. We have seen the consequences of airstrikes in these settlements: houses destroyed, farms bombed.”
“We were the first journalists who got to the checkpoint on the state border and filmed the Ukrainian military there,” explains Vyacheslav. “If we wanted to, we could press on the gas at the checkpoint and go straight to Russia, and probably no one would have stopped us. But we were held back by several reasons.”
First, Vyacheslav's car did not have any identification marks, so the Ukrainian military could take it for an enemy DRG and destroy it. Secondly, crossing the border, even during hostilities, is illegal.
Vyacheslav says: “I remember well that in 2014, during the fighting in Donbas and the annexation of Crimea, it was painful and unpleasant for me to see how six foreign photographers from well-known photo agencies presented the project “Another Crimea”. Among them was the Russian photographer Yuri Kozyrev or Georgy Pinkhasov, whom I still respected at that time. They went to Crimea and created propaganda material about what the peninsula looks like now.
It was horrible. Ukrainian colleagues then said that this was unethical, shameful, illegal and violates Ukraine's sovereignty. I always mention this story when I think about whether it is worth crossing the border and going to Russia, even if we are officially offered. We journalists work not only to collect and disseminate information, but also to defend values, to show what is right and what is not. We cannot make decisions emotionally, even if we really want to. As a person, I too would like to go to Sudja and see what happens there, but I find it unethical.
Along with the desire to show what is happening on the territory of the Russian Federation, this issue also has a reverse side: the situation with the border crossing reflects the actions of the Russians who entered our villages and cities together with journalists, removed the tearing down of Ukrainian flags, etc. We had a discussion about this with colleagues. I was told, “What about the journalists who went into Iraq with American troops? Or a similar situation in Kosovo or Serbia in the 90s?” This question is complicated. It contains not only a professional, but also a moral dilemma. If we do not raise the relevant discussion now, at least in the professional circle, they will forget about it.”
Vyacheslav emphasizes that he had no desire to take revenge on the Russians by their own methods. According to him, Ukrainians should be morally and valuably superior to their enemies: “Only in this way can Ukrainians win. Asymmetric actions. Otherwise, why fight? What do we want to prove? That we are no different from them?!”
Vyacheslav Ratynskyi — Ukrainian documentary photographer and photojournalist. He has been working in the field of photojournalism for more than 10 years. Collaborates with international and Ukrainian news agencies and media, including Reuters, The Guardian, Le Monde, Süddeutsche Zeitung Magazine and others. He has been published in many Western and Ukrainian media, including The Time, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, The Telegraph, The New York Times, El Pais, Der Spiegel and others.
Participant in many photo exhibitions in Europe, USA, Japan and South Korea. His photographs have been published in several books. Vyacheslav Ratinsky works in Ukraine. In his work, the photographer explores the impact of war on society, social and political problems.
Social networks:Facebook, Instagram
On August 9, around 11:05 the Russian army shelled Konstantinovka in Donetsk region from barrel artillery. The Russians hit a local supermarket.
The number of victims of the Russian air strike in Konstantinovka reached 14 people. 44 people were wounded. About this reported in the Office of the Attorney General.
“This is terror and barbarism. No situation on the front can be an excuse for killing civilians. An investigation into the fact of a war crime has already been launched. The terrorist country should be and will be punished for everything committed,” said Prosecutor General Andrey Kostin.
According to preliminary information, the enemy struck with an X-38 missile. As a result of the attack, a large-scale fire broke out on the site: more than a thousand square meters of the shopping center were burned. At the time of the attack, about half a hundred people were there.
“This is another targeted attack on the place of accumulation of people. Police, rescuers, medics and all responsible services are working on the spot,” he said Head of staffDonetsk Regional Military Administration Vadim Filashkin. He also called on all residents of Donetsk region to behave responsibly: “If you have not yet been evacuated and remain in the region, then avoid places of mass crowds and go to shelter without delay in case of alarm. Every day you are here is a danger. It cannot be avoided, but you can at least try to reduce the risks.”
As a result of the shelling, the office of “Nova Poshta” was also destroyed. At least four private houses, shops, a car wash were damaged. Several cars burned down.
President Volodymyr Zelensky expressed his condolences to the victims. “Russia will be responsible for this terror, and we will do everything so that the world continues to be with Ukraine, supporting our protection and saving the lives of our people,” statedpresident.
At noon, around 16:00 the Russians cynically struck Konstantinovka for the second time. “This time from “Smerchiv” in the private sector. Two civilians were wounded,” Vadim Filashkin said.
We continue with a series of interviews with professional Ukrainian documentarians.
We talked about the experience of filming the war, empathy in work and the hometown of Kharkiv with Georgy Ivanchenko, Yakov Lyashenko and Oleksandr Magula.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
With photography, I began to work with the beginning of the full-scale Russian invasion. I deal with documentary, journalism, but for a long time I could not decide whether I was a documentary photographer or a photojournalist. First of all, I am a non-profit photographer. I am very close to the thesis of Max Dondyuk, who wrote: “Photographer in the field of journalism and documentary.”
Alexander Magula:
I never thought of myself as a documentary filmmaker. First of all, I associate myself with a journalist, because I am a journalist by education, and in my work I use primarily techniques from journalism, not from documentary. And I think that most of the photos I take are still more related to journalism. Documentary photography for me is more artistic, more thoughtful. Instead, I am more guided by journalistic techniques. But, even working in a journalistic format, I take a lot of photos, and maybe out of a hundred news photos, one becomes an important document.
Yakov Lyashenko:
I also feel more attached to photojournalism because my work is not always documentary. There are many events happening in Kharkiv region, in Ukraine, which we document, but more as photojournalists.
Alexander Magula:
The main technique of photojournalism is efficiency. Everything happens very quickly in news photos. Such a photo lives in the information stream, no matter how sad it may be, for two or three days, if the event is such that it goes beyond, then maybe a week. Therefore, yes, the main technique is to react quickly, quickly appear on the scene, and quickly return the frames to the editorial office.
Yakov Lyashenko:
I came from commercial photography. I did a lot of reportage photography, and I always liked it. In fact, what I do now has the same goal — documenting, photographing what is happening around you. I fundamentally never influence the frame, I do not tell anyone how or where to stand, where to look. This is exactly a photograph of what is really happening.
Alexander Magula:
I have been shooting since I was a child, since childhood, from the age of 12. I drew graffiti with my friends and I wanted my drawings to look good in the photo. I was not satisfied with the photos on the phone, and I began to shoot. First on the film, because that was the fashion. Gradually, it was the pictures of the drawings that ceased to interest me. I began to be interested in the creation process itself: how my friends draw, how they go to draw, how they return. And in fact, it was also a kind of reporter shooting, just from inside the process. Gradually, I came to the conclusion that graffiti is such a peculiar genre of art, where some plots are constantly repeated. My personal story is also intertwined with the journey into journalism. My family is from Donbas. When the war began in 2014, I saw that no one, for example, among my classmates, knew what was happening in the same Debaltseve. It surprised me a lot. I have this inner urge to communicate to people, to their information bubble, that something bad is going on. So I decided that I like to photograph, I decided to enter journalism and came to the conclusion that I was attracted to photojournalism. Thus, from the first year of university, I began to shoot already in this genre.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
If it is very simple, then as a child, at the age of 10, I was lured by the viewfinder of my mother's camera. She showed me sometimes, I watched. And everything somehow looked so very different than in reality, although it was broadcasting ordinary reality. That's where it all started. These are the first, perhaps, the basics, steps to acquaintance with photography. However, I started keeping my camera on my own at the age of 17. I walked, filmed something on the street, somehow understood slowly, learned that there are different ways, different animals, how and what can be shown. However, perhaps, such a moment of quintessence was the admission to Lviv Polytechnic at the Faculty of Journalism. I had high expectations that I would have mentors who could lead me into this world. Why did I like this social photo at all? This is documentary, journalism. I realized that you can not just shoot a street, where you need to catch shadows or something unusual and beautiful, but you can do something similar, but in those moments when it is a socially significant thing in the history of a family, people, city, country, world.
I was influenced by the story of journalist Gareth Jones. But I have not seen his pictures. I read the book, heard the story, saw the movie, but I didn't see the pictures. The joke is that he is the first Welshman who came and showed the whole world that there is a Holodomor in Ukraine. And it struck me that a person with a camera, with a text, could tell something from another part of the world, something socially important that no one dared to talk about. It is no longer even about photography and not about text, but about curiosity and investigation, about the direction of movement in journalism.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
When I studied for half a year at the university, a full-scale invasion began and I left Lviv to shoot. I knew I needed to take pictures. He filmed volunteers at the station for a week and then left. I looked at a lot of pictures by photographers from the Magnum agency, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Eliot Hervit, Robert Capa and others. Their photos led me to the decision that we had to go and shoot.
Yakov Lyashenko:
I have a slightly different story as I got into documentary photography. At the beginning of a full-scale war, he worked as a fixer. A friend suggested I try it. At that point, I didn't even know what fixation was. My first photographers that I helped were precisely documentarians, with work experience, and they inspired me. For example, James Nachtway. However, I realized that they come, shoot and move on. However, the war does not end, and you need to do it every day. At that point, I was just starting out and did not yet know how to work in the war. However, I gained a lot of experience with photographers.
I started working in Kharkov, because then it was one of the epicenters of events. Of course, there was a war in the Donbas and in Kherson, but I was in Kharkov, I knew the city, I knew everything that was needed to work here.
Yakov Lyashenko:
At the time of the beginning of a full-scale war, I had a creative crisis. At that time, I rarely took pictures, even took a camera in my hands. I worked a lot before that, maybe a little burned out, and the format in which I worked did not suit me anymore. I wanted to take a break. However, at the beginning of the war I started working with prominent photographers, especially such as Nachtway, and that inspired me super. I saw how it works and how it communicates with people.
I watched photographers from morning to evening, analyzed how they work, what methods they use. I'm not talking about setting up the camera, I'm talking about finding the moment, choosing a frame. I was fascinated by it and I knew I wanted to shoot. I then shot a little on the film and on the figure. Later I realized that I no longer wanted to be a fixer, but wanted to photograph and document myself.
Alexander Magula:
My family is from Debaltseve, so I have my motivation to take pictures. I decided in the first year that I wanted to shoot. Now it's even a little embarrassing to say that I dreamed of becoming a military photographer. I always thought I would go somewhere in the Donbas. When the war came to Kharkiv itself, I realized that we must be more careful with my desires, because they can become a reality.
In 2019 or 2020, I met German journalists in Berlin by chance. They told me about their experience in Syria, in Afghanistan. We have established a good contact. When the full-scale invasion began, I also had a creative crisis in photography. At that point, I barely touched the camera. Before full-scale, I worked for a year at the university as a journalist, videographer, it was a superlocal publication. I burned out, thoughts began to occur to me that I did not want to do this. A month after February 24, I received a message from a friend from Germany: “I remember our conversation and that you told me that you wanted to shoot. I'm going to Ukraine, the time has come — let's try it.” That's how we united with him. For the first six months, maybe eight months, we worked together as freelancers. Sometimes I helped him, worked with him as a photojournalist, and several times I worked for him as a fixer. I met a French photographer, with whom we are now friends.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
In fact, we did not see war until February 24. And our foreign colleagues, photographers, have such experience. They saw a lot of different surreal pictures that we see now. And so they already have a perception of war, and they apply their experience to Ukrainian realities. It works. Of course, our war is different, but wars are still similar. Our war is completely exclusive in the technologies used, unique in the number of weapons and shells.
Alexander Magula:
My first post was after two months of war. The photos were bought by the German magazine “Focus”. It was a report about Kharkov. He took a series of photographs together with a foreign journalist. This was my first publication in print, my first money earned precisely for photojournalism.
It was a portrait of the commander of “Kraken” Konstantin Nemichev, and these were the infantry positions in Cherkasy Lozova, where then there was conditionally “zero”, the front line Kharkov, North Saltovka. I had an existential crisis at the time, because these are the first days when I really saw houses burning down where I was walking, where my friends lived. When I was sent a PDF of the magazine, I looked at this: “Wow, it turned out!”. However, during the filming everything was like in a fog.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
The first material from a full-scale war that the media bought from me was from the filming of Borodianka after the occupation, where I was born. Then for the first time I worked with a journalist who needed a photographer. Journalist from Belarus, we became very friends with him, went to shoot the liberated Chernihiv region. It was important for me to share what I saw, to publish my work.
I did not think about money, but at some point one of the journalist's friends saw my photo with him somewhere on Facebook. I was given a contact by the EPA and then for the first time my photo went to the media. It was the village of Senkivka, a very authentic beautiful wooden house located 600 meters from the Russian border and the monument to the three sisters. From there, the Russians poured cassettes, and “Hurricanes”, and everything that they could. Fields in the village are sown with “cassettes”. We wanted to talk to the locals, we were looking for people in this village, and there were very few of them. We knocked on the house and no one opened it. I stood on a bench and looked at what was in the yard, and there was a big “Hurricane” just in the center.
Yakov Lyashenko:
In the beginning, when I worked as a fixer, I photographed for myself, trained, studied, watched more experienced photographers take pictures. My friend Katya arranged an exhibition for me, thank her for this. These were probably my first sold photos. These were not even publications in the media, but it was part of an exhibition in France, for which I was paid the first money. And that was interesting. I posted photos on instagram and the first publication was when Zelensky's official account posted my photos. It was nice.
The picture was from the de-occupation of Kharkiv region. It was the military who were riding on the BMP in Izyum — they smiled, rejoiced and waved at us. I made this frame and it was published. Before that, I just posted photos on social networks and said that you can take my photos, use them. It was important to me that someone saw these photos so that they were not lying on the table. After a year and a half of work as a fixer, he spent the money earned on updating photographic equipment. He also met people from the EPA and since then there have been publications in the media, in the world media.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
If the photos are from the event, they should not lie. However, I think that everyone has something “lying around”. The desire to tell about the events brings us to Kharkov. Obviously, this is the first major city on which there was such a massive blow, on which Russian troops are moving so actively. We know that Kharkov can be lost even before the start of a full-scale invasion. The attack on Kiev was a surprise for us, the attack on Kharkov was not a surprise for anyone. However, there are many internal, invisible events taking place there. I will tell you about the memories of one of those who led the defense of Saltovka. He counted 15 minutes for the first three days, that is, lived 15 minutes, lasted 15 minutes - that's cool. And it's a completely different sense of time that I don't know anything about. Nothing like that happened in my life, not even during the Russian-Ukrainian war, when my time would be reduced to 15 minutes, so that it would be an achievement, a super gift to survive 15 minutes. And photography is a visual thing that interacts primarily with time, it stops and captures it.
What was the feeling of the first months of the war in Kharkov, what was then wanted from my own photo? How was this all fixed? There are a lot of ways to tell. In the end, what makes a photo a photograph is the meaning you bring there. Then choose a composition and form in order to fix the meaning that you want to convey. The meaning of life in a city under siege, in a city on which the enemy is attacking, in which time is so concentrated, in which everything changes so much. People left, the light disappeared, people began to live in the subway. Everything was changing. And what then was desired at the level of meaning from his photograph, and how did this desired level of meaning provoke form?
Yakov Lyashenko:
All the time at the beginning of the full-scale war I was in Kharkov. Honestly, the first time was super scary. Lack of experience played a big minus. Why did fixation help this? I gained that important experience to be able to concentrate and take pictures in conditions of high stress. I remember my first trip to Saltivka with a French photographer. We just arrived after the “Grad” package was there, literally seven minutes later. I remember taking a picture of one grandmother who came out of her house engulfed in fire. Two other houses nearby also burned. She came out in a robe, in slippers, and it was, if I'm not mistaken, March. She went out, walked around the house, looked at this house. If I had experience working during the war, I could have taken a lot more pictures and better. However, now, if I look back, I understand that I did not fully realize the moment because of fears, ignorance. It was a new experience because I have never worked in places where there is constant shelling, where you can die at any moment. I didn't have the right clothes and equipment that could save lives, I didn't even have a first aid kit. My first first aid kit probably appeared closer to May.
Alexander Magula:
I have a similar story. I came to Saltivka with journalist Philip from Germany. I wanted to continue shooting, just even for myself. We went out to North Saltivka, and also filmed these poor people walking on the wreckage. I agree, if I had the experience, I could have made better shots. However, it was scary and there was no first aid kit. I only had a bulletproof vest and that's it.
We walked, filmed, filmed, met the soldiers. The soldiers began to check on us: “What are you doing here? Do you have a camera, are you a gunner or what are you shooting?” We explained that journalists work here. The soldiers told us, “Get out of here, because now there will be shelling.” Even before the full-scale war, in 2020, I went to “Desna”, received accreditation to the ATO zone. I never had to go there. Then we were told that in a combat zone, always listen to the military. If they say run away, then you have to run away. And that was just such a case. We began with such a slow step to move from an equipped position. The military began to shout at us: “We said run away, do not go, but run!” We ran a hundred meters, crossed the “Rodnik”...
The photos were published on the website of the Institute of War and Peace Reporting. It's good that they went somewhere. Because at that moment I was shooting it just for myself. And I also had the feeling that due to lack of experience, I did not do enough. First of all, I didn't make any very, very touching shots. I almost died, but it was an experience when you understand that everything is very serious and basic safety rules should not be neglected.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
My story is also about Rodnik. We passed through this place and I stopped to remove the broken house. For the first time I came under such shelling when the square of your stay covers the “Grad”. If we talk about time, then it really slows down at this point. It was very scary. After that, I realized that the military says to go for a reason.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
The first shelling he came under was in Tsvirkuny in Kharkiv region in May. Then we were winged with “lighters” or phosphorus, it is not clear exactly. There was such a whistle, such a sound, as if the blades of a helicopter were spinning. It crumbles and slowly falls, you know, like such a fireworks salute. We did not understand what was happening and quickly ran to a random grandmother in the basement. There they waited. There were six of us humans, a small basement, but then I realized something else, a little more interesting. Those people were already used to all these things, and this woman says: “Oh, now I'll put the seagulls in the house, I'll bring the seagulls.” We are like, “What?”. As a result, we stayed there for a short time, maybe up to an hour. I saw that grandmother for the first time in my life, and that grandfather. However, war and all the terrible events that happen to you catalyze, I think, absolutely all processes — both growing up and relationships between people. During the hour I spent with my grandmother, I thought that she was closer to me than some distant relative. That is, these relationships, they have contracted over time.
Yakov Lyashenko:
I caught the concentrated time with Nachtway on Saltovka. It was relatively far from North Saltovka, we were in the car with him. A hundred meters from us was a package of “Grad”. The moment you sit in the car and pour a package of “Grad”, you do not realize that it is a hundred meters. It trickles like in chess, and you do not understand whether you are in the epicenter, whether you are on the side, or if it is somewhere far from you at all. By the feeling that you are right in the epicenter. I do not wish this to anyone. I didn't think about the photos at all at that moment.
I have one photograph, taken on film, of the aftermath of the arrival of that Grad package. There were injured people, burned apartments, a destroyed house. It seems to me that I did not capture that condensed time the way I would have liked. I believe that due to lack of work experience precisely in the conditions of war, I was not able to fully recover those first few months before the de-occupation of Cirkuni and the following villages, when shelling of Kharkov decreased greatly.
Alexander Magula:
I think the first photos just have some personal value for everyone. For example, George and I looked at pictures of each other about the beginning of a full-scale invasion. At a distance you see progress in technique, composition and how you gain experience. The first photos were taken intuitively, to the touch, when you just shoot what you see. The first pictures may not be very successful, but personally for you they are valuable. For example, you will open this photo and for the viewer it will be out of context. It can be just some smoke, collapsed buildings. Photography is not something you can be proud of, but there is a story behind it.
I am reminded of two pictures. The moment I photographed the collapsed entrance. There is nothing super special about this photo. However, I know that two minutes after the picture, the package of “Grad” arrived and I was very creepy there. The second photo, which I can call more successful, is a portrait of the commander of “Kraken” in the destroyed Regional State Administration. Then a rocket flew there. The attitude towards the military was, as I felt at the time, as if towards the gods. These are the people who can protect us, on whom all hope. The portrait of this commander is my personal embodiment of the attitude towards one of those men who defend Kharkiv, on whom the responsibility lies. All people are waiting for some kind of post from him, operational information that “Kraken” liberated new villages. I remember these first de-occupied villages, which Kraken liberated with other units. People had a very reverent attitude towards the military.
Yakov Lyashenko:
As for me, Kharkiv has changed a lot. When the artillery could no longer fire on Kharkov because of the long distance, people began to return en masse to the city. Before that, Kharkiv was empty. When the Circuses were liberated, when they liberated Vilkhivka, when they liberated Ruska Lozova, then people began to return little by little. This also affected the shooting, there were much fewer topics for filming. It's true. When artillery was shelling the city every day, the districts of Saltovka, Pyatikhatka were in turmoil, people lived in the metro, someone had no water, no light, nothing; he was shooting constantly. However, Kharkiv is a big city and not everything looks like Northern Saltovka. I came home from filming, I had internet, heating and even hot water. At home it was like another world. I think it was worth fixing the “two Kharkov”. I am glad that there are areas in Kharkov that are not destroyed, which were not fired at by artillery.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
At the beginning of the full-scale Russian invasion, KABs arrived in Nikolaev every day. As an alarm clock — from five to nine in the morning, from five to ten CABs flew. Five-story buildings were torn down, people died. I photographed everything I saw, shot the news. We heard that something flew - we left.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
Topic selection is based on experience. You first start working with events, with socially important materials. Then you understand that something is missing, that you need to change approaches to work. I stopped being interested in purely informational photography, because these topics can be shown a little differently. And what impact does that have now? Aren't the same arrival cards enough now? And do I need them now, because there are people who do it, and it's good that they do it. You ask yourself questions, you try to change technical, visual, conceptual solutions, you think how to show the theme of war, invasion, to make it interesting. When you go to Kiev or Lviv, you can hear, for example, conversations about the exhibition. Someone says, “Oh, the photo exhibition has opened!”. The second person replies, “Oh, it's about war again.” This has already affected everyone so much that it is necessary to find solutions that would interest people in the topic of war. Unfortunately, this is such a stage now. I try to both use techniques and think more. Finding new solutions requires thinking and reading more. It can be any literature that can inspire and motivate action. Everyone finds the right path for himself.
Alexander Magula:
I would like to go back to how photography in Kharkov changed. The shelling of the city continues and people are learning to just live with it. I see more and more photos as photographers try to capture this routine in the intervals between arrivals. For example, it inspires me, it pleases me.
I don't live in Kharkiv now, but I look at photos of Sergei Korovainy, Roman Pylypey, Yakov Lyashenko. I really liked Lyashenko's series about the zoo. The routine of people living in this horror and just trying to live a normal life. I really like George's series about the family in Izyum in Kharkiv region. Such a very intimate series. It seems to me that this is how photography in Kharkov began to change, it is immersed in everyday life.
Yakov Lyashenko:
When it all started, there was a concentration of horror, and I didn't even want to film the routine. There were many events on the outskirts of the city, sometimes in the center of Kharkov: missiles arrived, artillery, “Grad” worked, and life was imperceptible. Everyone was sitting in basements, someone lived in the subway. Now people are used to it. However, I remember the period in 2022, the summer when the artillery no longer fired into the city, and the Russian military every day, like clockwork, fired S-300 missiles. We could even check the clock — at exactly 10 p.m., a rocket arrived. You look at the clock and hear an explosion outside the window. It was every day. Then they changed the time and everything repeated at 4 in the morning. You walk through the city, you see people everywhere who have not slept, because at 4 in the morning a rocket arrives.
Now sometimes I photograph everyday life in Kharkov, because it is interesting and there is something to shoot. I go, I shoot people in the zoo, on the streets of the city, and everyone reacts normally to the camera. In 2022, when it all started, it was extremely difficult to shoot because everyone was pretty aggressive about the cameras. I was attacked twice, almost smashed my car. It was possible to film the life of people in the subway. However, people did not want to communicate, let alone photos. I understand that every day hundreds of journalists come, film how they live, and people want privacy, want a normal life simply. They don't want to live in the subway, they want to live in their apartments, but they can't. At that time, it was almost impossible to shoot it. There were hardly any people on the streets.
Georgy Ivanchenko:
A series of photos about the family from Izyum in Kharkiv region has not been published. I met these people by chance a few months after the de-occupation of Kharkiv region. We stayed with them for the evening. They had no light, no water, nothing. For almost a year and a half, I visited them on the way to Donetsk region or from Donetsk region. They had a vacant apartment and we stayed there. We just talked, found some kind of common language, and I really fit into this party. These are super-cool, extraordinary people who live lives. However, I did not photograph them. I started shooting them just a few months ago, and now I understand why I photograph them, why it is important. This is the ordinary life of people who have experienced very uncool emotions, pictures and all that. People now live, work, have problems, die from common diseases, that is, life has not gone anywhere. In addition to the war there is another thing that has always been, there are these all the problems that were before that.
Alexander Magula:
Now war is still piling up on ordinary problems. When I watched this series about Raisin, I really liked it. Because what we know from the photos of Ryazum are the mass burials, the first days of exhumation. For example, it is important for me to see this life of ordinary people who have stayed to live there. Because the portrait of the city is not only news, but also the stories of the people who stayed there.
It is important to shoot people and remember the issue of ethics. When there was the last arrival on the “Epicenter”, a lot of photographers filmed the body of the deceased, which lay a little further, covered with a thermal blanket. It was important for me not to show the face of this man, to photograph him so that he could not be recognized by the photo. I do not in any way condemn the colleagues who filmed this man with an open face. Because it's about efficiency, about trying to quickly show this horror when dead people are lying in the middle of the street.
I will also tell you about the manifestation of empathy in photography. When there was a rocket attack on the Thunderstorm, my colleague from the Social Nastya Ivantsev and I were doing a story about the Mukhovaty family. My brother and sister died in a cafe, mom, dad and grandmother. It was news, but it was important for us to make this story well. We spent five days on it. I felt very sorry for this family. It was very important for me to show these people with maximum empathy, and, again, to show them up close, inside their home, when their parents left and did not return. Now these children are alone in the house. I was ready to sacrifice even the promptness, informativeness of the staff. My colleague and I were discussing how we could make this story whole. We filmed several stages: here we met them, they set pegs in the cemetery where their family will be buried. The next day, their friends, also children, came to help them dig these graves. On the third and fourth days there were the first burials. Sasha asked us not to film the burial of his parents. We understood that in order for the story to be complete, we needed to remove the burial of our parents. However, he asked and we did not shoot, we left. We decided that empathy and ethics are more important in this moment than a whole or not a whole story.
Yakov Lyashenko:
I've also been to the burials at Thunder. They took place for several days, probably more than a week, because so many people died. There were many journalists, both Ukrainian and foreign. At one point, when the body was brought in, most of the foreign journalists behaved rather badly. Everyone noticed that the “westerners” were just a dick. All Ukrainian journalists were as empathetic as possible to the feelings of relatives who experienced mourning. The main thing for foreign photographers was to make a bright shot at any price. Perhaps over time we have come to the conclusion that for us what is happening in our country is not just documentation at all costs. For all of us, this is our personal story, the history of our country, our family. Maybe that picture that Nick Ut took in Vietnam, we would have taken differently, or not done at all. Because we experience everything personally, and for foreign journalists it's just work.
The material was worked on:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Katya Moskalyuk
Literary Editor: Julia Futei
Site Manager: Vladislav Kuhar
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
Yakov Liashenko— Ukrainian photographer from Kharkov. He began his professional career in 2012. After the beginning of the full-scale invasion, he worked as a fixer for well-known photographers and in parallel documented the events of Russia's invasion of Ukraine.
Currently, Yakov is a soldier-photographer of the special purpose battalion “Donbass” of the 18th Slavic Brigade of the NGU.
Author's social networks: Instagram, Facebook.
Heorhii Ivanchenko— Ukrainian photographer, who since February 2022 works as a freelance reporter in the field of documentary and journalistic photography.
From the first months of the invasion, he filmed for the Associated Press and the European Pressphoto Agency. Starting from Borodyan, where George was born, he continued with the front line: Nikolaev region, Kharkiv region, Kherson region. Now his attention is focused on the Donetsk region.
The turning point in his photography was almost a month spent in Bakhmut. Throughout December and January, George documented the lives of the townspeople, carrying a backpack and sleeping bag, sharing life with local volunteers, doctors, military and firefighters in the basements.
Author's social networks: Instagram, Facebook.
Oleksandr Magula— photographer from Kharkov. Journalist Social News in Kyiv. He studied journalism at Kharkiv National University named after V. N.D. Karazin. Before the war, he worked in the local media. Collaborated with the largest German-language print publications in Europe (NZZ, FAZ, TAZ, Focus, DerStandard).
Ukrainian photographer Maksym DondyukHe has been fighting the war since 2014. He visited the hottest spots, in particular the Ilovai boiler. At the beginning of the full-scale war, he documented the battles in the Kiev region, and his photos are published by the leading publications of the world. Maxim Dondyuk works on long-term author's projects, which are personal reflections on the war in Ukraine. Maxim talked about creating photos from the new “White Series”, about finding his own visual language and why every frame of it is an attempt to convey hatred of war.
— In your author's projects, in particular in the “White Series”, you show the war through the landscape. Why exactly this genre?
— I have been photographing the war in Ukraine since 2014. After a year of filming active combat actions, I decided to pause. In 2017, he traveled the former demarcation line, where he saw war, blood and murder, where he saw destroyed houses and land fought for every meter. I have traveled along this line from the Sea of Azov to the Russian border several times. All of this territory, except for a small piece near New York, is now unfortunately occupied by Russian troops.
When I arrived, all these places were not needed by anyone, they were devastated. Instead, there were already some rebuilt houses, shops, block-posts nearby. It reminded me of the condition I had and those who came back from the war. The state of inner emptiness when you come from the front and no one understands you. You ask yourself why there is still corruption, or why everyone here drinks wine when they still kill there. There is despair, as well as misunderstandings with relatives and friends.
In 2017, I filmed a series “Between Life and Death”where he showed the effects of war through the landscape. Before the war, I also used landscape photography, for example in a series about Chernobyl. For me, this is a convenient format, the possibility of a more artistic approach to photography. I am very tired of what I was doing at the beginning of my creative path, when I was working more with people. True, the full-scale war brought me back again — for the first year I actively worked with the military, documented events, collaborated with magazines. When war comes to your home, you are no longer into art. Someone takes a weapon, and someone takes a camera and does everything they can. The military is fighting Russian soldiers, and for me it was a war with Russian propaganda.
At some point I realized that I was very tired of everything I was doing at the front. It became increasingly difficult to access the footage of the fighting. I went back to landscape photography. I spent the last two winters in Donetsk, Kharkiv and Kherson regions. After the project on the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, I can say freak-out about maps. In the summer I marked the objects of interest to me on the map, and in the winter I went to the shooting.
I lived in Izyum, Kramatorsk, if possible, went to the front line, but most of the time I waited for the weather I needed to shoot the “White Series”. I needed a few inches of snow, frost, so that there was no sun. It is not so often that all these parameters coincide. So I shot some objects ten, twenty times. I just took the car, drove into the fields, knowing that they were all mined. Tried to walk the trails if I noticed them. When there was no weather, I was looking for new potentially interesting locations for filming. Such a scrupulous landscape approach to the photo. For me, it is also a meditative approach, when I was alone among the field, winter and frost, such a kind of conversation with myself. For me, this series is very private.
“The White Series” about what will happen to humanity if we do not stop fighting. It just shows me what our planet might look like if we beat each other up over territory, resources, or religion. This is not only a problem of Ukraine and Russia, it is a global problem of humanity, because we cannot stop, we cannot not fight. My new series is about the hatred of everything related to war. War generates aggression, it destroys life, nature, technology.
— How connected are your projects “Between Life and Death” and “White Series”. Is one a continuation of the other?
— Separating these two series of photos is very difficult. In the end, my project on Chernobyl is also based on a similar approach. He used visual languages that are very intersecting. They are like twins. Nevertheless, the “White Series” is different, it is deeper, more powerful, I use the medium format for shooting. The idea originated in 2017, when he first traveled to places where he was in 2014 with the military. I had psychological problems and I needed to go back there, see everything again and reflect on the events of the war.
The projects “Between Life and Death” and “White Series” are related. However, for the filming of the “White Series”, I use a medium format so that the photos can be printed three to four meters in size. I see this project for exhibitions in galleries. Imagine walking into a space and noticing such an interesting landscape. At first it seems that it is something beautiful, but in fact it is our distorted aesthetic. Because visual art is often based on suffering, wars or religious crucifixions. As you get closer and closer to the photo, you already see the destruction and scars that war leaves.
I am sure that people who live abroad and have completely different problems may not understand the photos of the “White Series”. Photos will be closer for those who know what war and devastation are. This series is probably more about me and my inner worldview, how I perceive what war leaves behind.
— Why are there no people in your pictures from the “White Series” at all?
— “When I was shooting the series Between Life and Death, it was very important for me to convey the emptiness that I felt myself and that many of the guys who came back from the front felt. When you come home, and you end the meaning of life, there is no understanding of what to do next. Many soldiers return to the front again because they cannot find work, are not understood by family and friends. If the military has PTSD, it is very, very heavy inside.
In 2017, I tried to visualize the emptiness that was in me. I couldn't go back to the front and shoot again, so I went along this line of demarcation. For me, it was therapy through art. Then the war continued, but the front line did not move, and everything seemed to freeze. Now, in the “White Series”, the idea is different, since active combat actions are being waged. Now it is important for me to show what will remain of humanity. If we do not stop fighting, there will be a nuclear winter and everything will be covered with snow, everything will freeze. Destroyed houses and rusted tanks will remain in some places.
War does nothing good. I simply do not believe that war happens with any good intention, that war is fought for religion, nation, or any other ideals. Human life is more important than a piece of land. It is a very painful topic for me to hear that it is necessary to fight, to fight and to liberate everything. I would like to know how many more boys and girls have to die for this. How difficult and painful it will be for our country. How destructive war is to any country.
I only filmed the war in Ukraine. I am not a war photographer who travels to other countries. I'm not interested in that. I see the war as a person, as a Ukrainian to whom it happened. I took the camera not because I decided to film the war, but because this sworn war came to our country. I am such an idealistic humanist and it is very difficult for me.
With the pictures from the “White Series” I try to show what can happen to our world. We will all be in ruins. There are a lot of such things that I photograph in Ukraine now in other countries, such as Afghanistan, Chechnya. I cannot understand the meaning in the actions of these countries that start wars, such as the Russian Federation, the United States and others. When they come to a strange land and they need something. I can't find the answer. Instead, I walked through mined fields for months and just took pictures. Someone collects various items, someone — impressions. I collected, collected on a white background, threw away things that were once important. The tank was important, someone sat in it, this house was important, people lived there. Now everything is destroyed and devastated, like our entire country.
— The idea to create the “White Series” arose as a result of long filming of the war? How and when did you conceive her visual language?
— In this case, I decided everything before filming. I needed to buy special equipment for photographing panoramas, learn how to use it correctly. Canadian photographer Edward Burtinsky works in this style. He helped me make panoramas, and now he is very supportive of my project.
I decided to make all the photos of the series completely original, without significant post-production. It happened that the twentieth came to the monument in Izyum, and there was still not enough fog, or the sun looked out from behind the clouds. And I just stood, and I couldn't take a picture. The viewer sees one white frame. To him, it looks like someone drove in a car, took a photo and drove on. Instead, two years before this picture, I was making a map, lived in Donetsk region for two winters, traveled many kilometers to catch a few minutes of the weather I needed. If suitable conditions occurred, I quickly drove the car to several objects at once.
— In the project “Between Life and Death”, in addition to the photo, you add quotes from “Tao De Jing. The Book of Path and Dignity” by Lao Tzu. Why this book?
After 2014, I tried to find balance in myself. Initially looking for ways in Western philosophy, he lived for a while in Europe. Then I realized that my way of thinking and perceiving the world gravitates towards the eastern. Until 2021, I traveled a lot in Asia. I am fascinated by Taoism and Buddhism, I have read a lot of relevant literature, several times immersed myself in meditative practices in temples.
I really like Lao Tzu, in particular his book “Tao De Jing”. Just picked the quotes that best reflect my attitude towards the war. Lao Tzu writes very powerful things. For example, he talks about two countries that fought and one of them won. An army that has killed thousands of people should not celebrate, stage parades, or drink wine. The day of the end of the war is mournful, because no one can enjoy the fact that someone is killed. Even though the dead are enemies. I am sometimes shocked when I see people in restaurants in Ukraine watching videos of drones killing someone at breakfast and marking it with a “smiley face”. It's easiest to talk about patriotism over dinner in a safe place. I've seen war, I've been wounded twice, spent a lot of time with the military, but I still don't understand how you can enjoy killing, even enemies.
I can understand when this happens to the military. Yet it amazes me to see so much hatred in civilians who have no experience at the front. They seem to have come to the theater or the cinema. What kind of idea is it, to watch someone get killed. I saw more respect for the enemies at the front than in the towns farther from the line of contact. It's just nonsense. I am also talking about the respect that often exists on the front between militaries on different sides, even considering the fact that they are fighting.
Hatred and aggression destroys us from the inside, burns us out. We will begin to destroy not only our enemies, but also family, friends, ultimately, our country. When hatred takes hold of us, we will not be able to just stop after the war is over. We will start looking for new enemies, but this time among our families, acquaintances, inside our country.
I tried to convey the message of the pictures, supplementing them with expressions of Lao Tzu. For who will give meaning to my words. I added quotes from the book “Tao De Jing. The Book of Way and Dignity”, where Lao Tzu talks about war and how to fight when you had to do it when the enemy came to your country. First of all, a person must remain a humanist, even in times of war. Maintain humanity, and not become a beast.
— In the preface to your exhibition “Modern Ukrainian Landscape” in Lviv's “I Gallery”, curator Pavlo Gudimov writes that the silence of war is more frightening than active actions. How much do you agree with this statement?
I agree 100%. If you ask the guys in the front door what is worst for them, they will say that silence. If you ask the stormtrooper what is most terrible for him, he will say that this is an unknown on the way to combat positions. In war photos and videos, we often see action. However, this is only ten percent of the war, the remaining ninety is silence and expectation. When you are driving along the road, and no car comes across you, you subconsciously start to worry, you do not understand what could have happened. For me, during filming at the front, the silence was also the worst. When you hear the arrival and shots, you understand where to expect danger, you get certainty. The silence, on the other hand, is very heavy. Even in the city, after the air alarm, you begin to live with the thought that this time you could die. Expectation and silence are the worst in war.
My White Series photos are not an attempt to convey silence, but an attempt to convey my inner state. Art for me is not only a means of self-expression, but also a tool for deep analysis and reflection. I aim to create a space for contemplation where viewers confront complex issues, explore their feelings, rethink their relationships with the world and history; I hope to elicit emotional and intellectual feedback, inspiring deeper understanding and awareness.
— The photos of the “White Series” are visually attractive and beautiful. How aesthetic can a photograph of war be?
If you show a person the war the way a webcam shows you, showing bodies and “meat”, no one will watch it. It is necessary to work with the consciousness of the viewer, because everyone has a certain visual perception, which is based on art, painting. It is necessary to lure the viewer into this trap so that he will open, look and then his mind will feel this horror of war. In The White Series, I use this visual aesthetic to make people come closer and feel the emotion. People often ask me why my photos are so aesthetic and beautiful. I always ask them in response why they perceive it as something beautiful. Why photographs of bodies of dead people, destroyed houses and mangled tanks can be called attractive. Perhaps it is the problem of all humanity that we, looking at images of suffering, murder and war, perceive them as aesthetic. Artists understand these things and use them to communicate with their audience. Susan Sontag writes a lot about this problem in her book “Observing the Pain of Others.”
— Photographing war for you is documenting and informing, or is it still art and aesthetics?
“When the war started in 2014, and then the full-scale war in 2022, at first I still documented the events. However, I always try to look for things at the same time that I can use for exhibitions or as an idea for an author's project. Because photos of current events for magazines can be printed as international propaganda. However, I am not one of those photographers who use the same photos at the same time for publications, exhibitions and books. When I make stories for print in the media, at the same time I try to create frames for myself in another visual language. Sometimes I try to combine, but often it's just not possible. To make a shot that I like, sometimes I have to spend several weeks looking for a location and waiting for the right moment.
I have this approach to work, so I do not consider myself a photojournalist. If there is no good light, a good composition and the right combination of colors, I will not take a photo. Or I will make it by machine and then I will not use it anywhere. For me, the background of a photo is sometimes more important than what happened on it. Photojournalists follow the object in the frame, and their background is random. I choose a background and wait for something to happen on it.
When I was working on the “White Series”, at some point I realized that I was shooting the same tank for a whole week. I already have two hundred photos of this tank. Sometimes you get hung up on something without even realizing it. Many young journalists shoot the work of artillery, mortars, catch the “pipe with fire”, that is, the moment when the projectile flies out. They often do not understand that it is no longer possible to look at such monotonous in composition, light and plot of photographs. You need to look for your language, yourself and your style.
Of course, it is impossible not to repeat yourself. Now I have stopped photographing some military things, because I have been taking the same photo for two years, but from different angles. This happens to everyone. At this point, it is important to pause, distance yourself, review your entire photo archive, and, if possible, make an exhibition or book.
— You photographed many events at the beginning of a full-scale war. Please tell us about the photo from the cover of Time magazine!
I don't really like this photo. However, I understand why it became the cover of the magazine. At that time it was important for Ukraine, the cover attracted our attention.
I have collaborated with various magazines since 2014, the editors knew my work. At the beginning of 2022, it was the only way for me to continue working, as photographing war is expensive. You need to find a place to live, a car to be able to travel to Kharkiv, Zaporozhye, Kiev and other cities. International magazines have been a financial pillar for me. All the magazines I collaborated with were weeklies, I didn't have to send pictures every day. I had a lot of free time for my own filming. For the first four months I worked alone, without journalists. I had freedom of movement and choice of topics. I respect journalists if they respect my work. I am willing to wait for him three hours for an interview if he then waits for me when I work in the trench. However, if a journalist expects me only to film his interview in coffee shops, we will definitely not work.
— The full-scale war in Ukraine is filmed by many photographers, both Ukrainian and foreign. During these two and a half years, many photographic stamps and templates have already been formed. What do you think are the themes and aspects of the war that have not been adequately covered? How difficult is it in the field of photography today to create something completely new?
This problem is global. It was the same in 2014. Many modern photographers do not remember this because they were not yet engaged in photography at that time. There were only a few documentary photographers who worked before the war and, when the fighting began, continued to shoot. At the same time, there was a large layer of young photographers who began working for international news agencies or as fixers for foreign journalists and photographers. They had never heard of a documentary photograph or a photojournalist. In 2015, ninety percent of these photographers disappeared. They went to earn money in game design or in IT. Now the situation is the same.
It is very difficult to form your own visual language when you work in an information agency and have to shoot events and news every day. Something went wrong and you immediately ran there. When you only have two hours or five minutes to take photos. I do not really believe that under such conditions it is possible to develop your own style. When photographers run after the subject, they shoot everything in series, and then choose the best one for the agency out of five thousand photos. I'm not criticizing, it's work. At the same time, many photographers do something for their own money, travel a lot, look for something and document something. They can form their own shooting aesthetics and style.
The photo editor of Stern magazine once said to me, “Max, the easiest thing to shoot is war. You just have to have steel eggs.” And if you send a photographer to a place where nothing happens, he will not be able to shoot anything. He is used to photographing active actions in the war, where you are as if in a movie. I also went through this. This is normal. The first year you can “hammer”, and then comes awareness and you start to see other projects.
Most of the photographers currently documenting the war will also soon go into another profession that will bring in more money. The profession is slowly dying, and only news agencies still pay something for pictures. Magazines with which I have collaborated a lot, such as The New Yorker, Time, Stern, Der Spiegel and others, cut their budgets every year. During the year you can get a maximum of two shooting orders from them. Many documentarians change jobs.
There are photo festivals in Arles — Recontres d'Arles, and in Perpignan — Visa pour l'Image. Both festivals are documentary, but it's like two different poles. I've been there and there. In Perpignan, photographers communicate about which of them spent more days in the trenches or who came under fire more times. In the city of Arles, on the other hand, the war is told from a completely different perspective — I am talking about the art of documenting. When you work with journalism, but it still remains an art. At the Recontres d'Arles festival, they talk more about the inner world, not just stating facts. Photographs are not only about what happened or happened, there the authors use the medium of photography to convey some visual concept or smart concept.
You need to know these things so as not to repeat someone else. It is important to understand modern photography, to read criticism. In fact, very few photographers read. I have talked to many young photographers, and all of them just look at colleagues' photos for inspiration. And what's the point? Watch other photographers to repeat them? If you want to repeat someone, you should watch the films of Andrei Tarkovsky or Theodore Angelopoulos, read criticism or philosophy of art. This approach will give you a lot more ideas than looking at the top photos in Time magazine or the Associated Press.
Tell me, please, what inspires you? What books do you like to read, what movies do you watch?
I am fascinated by Eastern philosophy. I must have already read everything I can on this topic. I also read Western philosophers. I read criticism and theory of photography, literature on the development of visual art. I can say that I am such a bookworm. If I am asked to go to a party or to the beach, then I better stay at home with a book. I do not drink alcohol, I do not drink coffee, I communicate little with others, I have few friends in Ukraine. I'm closer to being at home with my wife, with a close circle of friends.
The best director for me is Theodore Angelopoulos. He touched on many difficult topics. His films about the Greeks and their culture. I especially advise you to watch the historical drama “Trilogy. A weeping meadow.” It tells about the history of Greece on the example of one family that returns from Odessa to Greece after the civil war. The film leaves a lot of impressions. After watching, my wife and I can discuss it for another week.
I am inspired by everything except photography. Most of all, I like to look at pictures. Of course, I find interesting authors. For example, I just adore Nadav Kander's pictures. I love working with archival photos. I did this in the project on the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. I still have a lot of archives from there that I haven't even started working with because of the war.
— Is it possible to continue to support attention to the war in Ukraine with photographs?
— Daily news from Ukraine is of little interest to people abroad. Everyone actively read about Bucha, the explosion of the dam of the Kakhovskaya hydroelectric power plant, etc., but we definitely do not need such events. Attention to Ukraine can only be focused on powerful and serious projects. These can be documentaries or photographs. However, our authorities do not understand that in order to create a large-scale in-depth project, and not propaganda, it is necessary to provide access and time for filming to Ukrainian and foreign authors. We are allowed to go to the presbytery for a day together with the pressoficer. Instead, you need to take cultural projects, multimedia projects, work with curators.
In Europe, people constantly go to cinemas, to exhibitions. You need to communicate with them through art. Our authorities must realize that it is necessary to spend money on work with museum and gallery spaces, send artists to art festivals. The authorities should provide access for filming, support documentarians, writers, artists with grant programs, give freedom for creativity, not control. Culture is important.
All my recent interviews are unfortunately about censorship and restricting access to the front line. After the material with Luke Mogelson about the life of our soldiers in the trenches, which was published in The New Yorker magazine, I was summoned for questioning at the SBU. I do not have accreditation from the Armed Forces and I cannot continue to shoot the front line. I do not believe that war is not a time to criticize the authorities. If the patient has gangrene or some other disease, it will not pass by the fact that the person will not be told about it. We need to talk about problems out loud.
Please tell me about the book you are currently working on.
“I came to the United States to finish a book about the war in Ukraine by the fall. I am helped to work on the book by Honorary Dean of ICP (International Center of Photography) Fred Ritchin. He writes a text for a book, does an interview with me. This will be a book about the first two years of a full-scale war in Ukraine, from 2024 there will be one or two photographs. The book is not only about the war, but also my reflections on it. Of course, there will be photographs of the dead, footage of the destruction, but my book is not about active fighting. I think that you can just stick the label “Meditation” to all my works. They are all about contemplation and awareness. When I see many photographers shooting something in one direction, I will definitely turn in the other direction. Therefore, my Maidan of Dignity is a panorama. I can't shoot with everyone.
He did all of his long-term projects himself. I don't need anyone to follow me or be near me. Often before shooting, I conduct visual studies, just walk, look, feel. Photography for me is about feeling, about collecting emotions. The book will be with photos that he shot before the “White Series”. Based on this author's project, I plan to make a separate book.
The material was prepared by Ekaterina Moskalyuk
The Russians dropped a guided air bomb on the central part of Kharkov. On July 24 at 16:47 Russian troops attacked Kharkiv for the sixth time.
Two people were injured as a result of an attack on a private house in Kharkiv. Rescuers and medics are working at the scene. This was announced by the mayor of Kharkiv Igor Terekhov.
“The Cabs hit almost the central part of the city. Area of private residential development,” he said. At the scene of the fire.
The Kharkiv Regional Prosecutor's Office clarified that three people were injured: two men and a 45-year-old woman. They were taken to the hospital. As a result of the impact, at least six residential buildings, five garages, three utility rooms were damaged. Three cars were destroyed.
“According to preliminary data, the Russian army struck on the city UMPB D-30 SN (unified interspecific planning ammunition, caliber 30 cm) from the territory of the Belgorod region of the Russian Federation. The consequences of the armed aggression of the Russian Federation were documented by prosecutors and investigators of the HRUP №3 GUNP in the Kharkiv region,” the statement reads message Kharkiv Regional Prosecutor's Office.
In addition, an infrastructure object was attacked by Russian missiles at noon on Wednesday. There is a strong fire at the scene of the attack. After that, there were several more “arrivals”. Subsequently, Terekhov reported that as a result of the fifth missile strike, which was on the industrial zone, six townspeople were injured. They are provided with medical care.
Recall, on the morning of July 19, the troops of the Russian Federation hit by two Iskander missiles on the central part of Chuguev Kharkiv region. As a result of the enemy air attack, 9 people were injured. Among them is a teenager.
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
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In the morning of July 19, Russian forces hit two Iskander missiles on the central part of Chuguev, Kharkiv region.
As a result of the enemy air attack, 9 people were injured. Among them is a teenager.
This is reported by the head of the Kharkiv OVA Oleg Synegubov.
“Nine people were injured, including a 14 year old child,” he said. The 14-year-old boy is now in serious condition, he was taken to the hospital.
One of the missiles struck near a dormitory, destroying a non-residential building, damaging two high-rise buildings and up to 10 private residences. Two cars and several garages were also burned.
The second missile hit a parking lot near a nine-story apartment building. This missile destroyed 9 vehicles. Also, as a result of the explosion, at least three nine-story buildings, one five-story building, a hotel, shopping rows and about 10 private residential buildings were damaged. Interrupted power grids.
“Under the procedural leadership of the Chuguev District Prosecutor's Office of Kharkiv Oblast, a pre-trial investigation was launched into violation of the laws and customs of war (Part 1 of Art. 438 Criminal Code of Ukraine)”, — noted in the Kharkiv Regional Prosecutor's Office.
In total, 10 cars were completely burned as a result of the attack. Three apartment buildings and one private house, two shops, an administrative building were damaged.
Recall that in the morning of July 8, Russian troops launched a rocket attack on Kiev, the largest children's hospital of Ukraine “Okhmatdyt” came under enemy attack.
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
Chasiv Yar is a city that has been stormed and shelled for months by occupation forces. The invaders continue to intensively burn Chasiv Yar, embodying scorched earth tactics. For more than two and a half years, Russian troops have been trying at any cost to capture the city of Chasiv Yar in the Donetsk region, which became the front line after the capture of Bakhmut.
Today, the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes pictures of Konstantin and Vlada Liberov, Sergey Korovayny, Georgy Ivanchenko and Yakov Lyashenko. Documentarians recorded the war in the Time Yar and the life on the line of fire of its inhabitants in different periods from the beginning of the full-scale invasion of the Russians. Each of the photographers managed to preserve in their pictures a different state of the city: someone has only been wounded, someone has already caught it destroyed.
In June, British intelligence reported that Chasiv Yar was valuable to Russia because of its strategic location on a hill, as well as because of its use as a logistics hub for the Armed Forces. At times, Yar stands on hills, which, like defensive walls, protect it from the east and south. The highest point is 247 meters, and, for example, in neighboring Konstantinovka, Druzhkivka, Slavyansk and Kramatorsk there are average heights from 100 to 125 meters. At times, Yar became the “gateway” to this agglomeration due to the proximity to Konstantinovka (7 km to the west) and Kramatorsk (25 km to the northwest).
“Chasiv Yar is a Ukrainian city, and there is every chance that we will push the enemy away from there and destroy it in the direction as it was before,” Nazar Voloshin, a spokesman for OSOV “Khortytsya”, assured on the air of the national tele-marathon on July 14. Voloshin explained that “this day the enemy has also not abandoned attempts to storm and show its presence in the area of Chasovy Yar”, but stressed that “the defense forces are fighting back and holding.”
Recall that in recent days, media attention has been actively focused on Time Yar, because on the night of July 3, the DeepState project reported that the Russian army managed to capture the “Channel” neighborhood in the city. This area is separated from most of the city by the canal “Seversky Donets — Donbas”. Fighting for the neighborhood began in early April 2024, when the aggressor advanced west of Bakhmut.
There is no surviving building there now. Due to the actions of the Russian Federation, the city, in which 12,000 people once lived, has become practically deserted. As of the beginning of July 2024, there are 635 residents in Chasovy Yar.
For example, this week none of the locals showed any desire to leave the city. About this told head of the city military administration of Chasovy Yar Sergey Chaus. “People just don't leave the city. Evacuating people has become more dangerous than it was before, because the activity of drones is not decreasing. The line of hostilities is directly very close to the city. In these conditions, it is difficult to come to the city to pick up a person. In the city, in addition to people of retirement age, there are also young people, there are about a few dozen of them. In general, people are evacuated to Kramatorsk, most of them go to relatives,” Serhiy Chaus said.
Documentary shots from Time Yar of Photographers' Spouses Kostas and Vladi LiberovThe other day they flew through the net. Footage from this city now resembles the ruins of occupied and destroyed Bakhmut, Avdiyivka, Marinka.
“Chasiv Yar. Russia approached the city and turned it into ruins, like everything it touches. According to DeepState maps, on June 27, we knocked the enemy out of the city, and already now the Russians completely occupied the Canal neighborhood. And wiped off the face of the earth. Despite the fact that the military defending Chasiv Yar are ready to stand until the end, today there is a real threat that we will lose the city.” shareddisturbing thoughts of Kostya and Vlad regarding the situation in the city in early July 2024.
“It was a nice and cozy place. Low buildings. An ordinary Donbas city and even somewhat resembled Bakhmut. Chasik — that's what we called it,” — this is how photographer Yakov Lyashenko remembered Chasiv Yar.
In April 2023, he witnessed the medical evacuation of fighters from Bakhmut. Through mud and puddles, the BMP with wounded servicemen drove up to Chasovy Yar. What he saw there impressed him.
“It was an evacuation point: the wounded were brought from Bakhmut. There was one doctor. When the second soldier was unloaded, this woman began to shout “Sasha!”. It turned out to be her husband. She starts kissing him and crying. This moment impressed me very much and stuck in my memory. I then asked the pressofizer about his fate. Fortunately, this man survived, although he received a serious injury,” Yakov Lyashenko recalls.
“The streets of Chasovy Yar are stingy spring greenery of trees and the first flowers that mix with destroyed Soviet houses with holes from shelling,” - this is how Chasiv Yar met a photojournalist Georgy Ivanchenko in the spring of 2023. Preparing a report for Reporters, his car was damaged by shelling.
In Chasovy Yar, Georgy met 55-year-old Svetlana and her son, 28-year-old Igor, who remained to live at home, three kilometers from the front. All together they went down to the ground floor of the house, to the garage, from which the family almost did not leave because of the constant “comings and goings”. Svetlana still has a 34-year-old daughter, who was ill with lymphoma before the invasion, but due to a long stay in shelters, the oncology became complicated, now her daughter is being treated in Donetsk.
“I listen to her and think about this war and peace around the world. War is always bad. It's always victims and destruction. We promise to return to Svetlana with Igor with water, food, batteries and medicine. But, reaching the car, which was left in the garage, we see that there is no roof in it, and metal structures fell on the car. The garage was shelled. Fortunately, the car started, took us to a more or less safe area, where we saw that we also had a punctured fuel tank. The military helped to get us to the next town. We have not been able to return to Svetlana and Igor, as promised,” said Georgy Ivanchenko.
Photographer Serhiy Korovaynyi visited the city many times: “Very sad place, absolutely broken. There are very few civilians there. We visited the Points of Inviolability and met mostly only old people there.
One day we evacuated 80-year-old Mrs. Maria to Kiev. There was a dramatic scene that impressed me a lot. The woman said goodbye to her grandson, who decided to stay in the city. I carried her bags and thought to myself how much grief the Russians had brought to this land. She cries and he cries. Explosions are heard in the background.”
According to Sergey, among the main dangers in Chasovy Yar are the constant strikes of FPV drones. “Because any car, especially the press, is a target,” says the photographer.
Serhiy Korovaynyy has been in Chasovy Yar since 2017, because there previously the press received accreditation to work in the ATO/OOS zone. He managed to see this city still relatively peaceful. “It was a small quiet town, there were good evenings in the summer. The contrast between the Time Rift then and now are two different worlds, like life and death. Then there was a completely different front line, and no one thought that the war would come, despite the fact that it was already going on. It hurts me to talk about it. Many cities can become like Chasiv Yar, or have already become so.”
Yakov Liashenko— Ukrainian photographer from Kharkov. He began his professional career in 2012. After the beginning of a full-scale invasion, he worked as a fixer for famous photographers and in parallel documented the events of Russia's invasion of Ukraine. Currently a freelance photojournalist at EPA Agency. Instagram.
Heorhii Ivanchenko— Ukrainian photographer, who since February 2022 works as a freelance reporter in the field of documentary and journalistic photography. From the first months of the invasion, he began filming for the Associated Press and the European Pressphoto Agency. Starting from Borodyanshchyna, where Georgy was born, he continued his journey through the front line: Mykolaiv, Kharkiv region, Kherson region; now his attention was concentrated on Donetsk region. The turning point in his photography was almost a month spent in Bakhmut. Throughout December and January, he documented the lives of the townspeople, carrying a backpack and sleeping bag, sharing life with locals in basements, volunteers, medics, military and firemen. In April, while working on material about Chasiv Yar in Donbas, his car was shot and destroyed by a Russian shell. Now the author continues his reflection on the numerous situations that have happened on his way and is working on the creation of his first project “Way of War” (working title). Instagram.
Konstantin and Vlada Liberov — spouses of photographers from Odessa. They began their journey 4 years ago, focusing initially on creative and emotional engagements. In a few years, they have become one of the most recognizable photographers in the field and have moved on to active teaching activities, have thousands of grateful students around the world. At the beginning of the war in Ukraine, they changed the vector of their work, focusing on feature documentaries: their photos from hot spots in Ukraine go viral on social networks, gaining hundreds of thousands of reposts, they are published by influential media such as BBC, Welt, Vogue, Forbes, and also take to their social networks the President of Ukraine and others high-ranking officials. Instagram.
Serhiy Korovaynyi— photojournalist and portrait photographer. Collaborates with international publications, including the Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, The Guardian, Financaial Times and others. He makes his documentary projects, where he focuses on the themes of the Russian-Ukrainian war, ecology and various aspects of Ukrainian modernity. He was educated in the United States in the Master's Program in Visual Storytelling as a Fulbright Program Fellow. In 2018, he joined The Gate, a leading Ukrainian photo agency. Sergey's works have been exhibited at numerous personal and collective exhibitions in Ukraine, the USA and the EU. Instagram.
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
Creative Publishing House and Mykolaiv School of Conceptual and Art Photography MYPH have jointly prepared a photo book “Conceptual Photography”. The aim is to inform the domestic and international audience about contemporary conceptual photography in Ukraine, demonstrating the work of its brightest representatives. The authors of the book are Lucia Bondar, Creative Publishing, and Sergey Melnychenko, photographer, founder of the school of conceptual and art photography MYPH. Ekaterina Korolevtseva worked on the design of the cover, and the author of the main photo was Oksana Master.
Sergey Melnychenko says that it was from the photo of the jar with canned tomatoes by Oksana Master, which was placed on the cover of the publication, that the cooperation of the publishing house with MYPH began in part: “In my opinion, this jar is both authentic and attractive. At the Ukrainian Art Festival last year in Berlin, Lucia Bondar fell in love with this work and bought it from us. In total, she bought two photos. In fact, this is where the discussion began to create a joint book. She said she wanted to prepare an edition about contemporary photography. I replied that it was cool and suggested the idea — to show conceptual contemporary photography through the lens of MYPH students.”
Conceptual Photography contains quite different themes, directions and genres of photography with which the authors work. These are digital photography, film, hand printing, instant photography, etc. Photographers demonstrate their artistic vision without being afraid to experiment in their work.
“There are many projects that are somehow or directly related to the reflections and states in which the authors are in during our present — full-scale invasion,” explains Serhiy Melnychenko. “In particular, in the book there is my project “Tattoo of War”, which shows these events. Although we are not represented as documentarians in the book, these moods can be seen through the prism of conceptual art photography.”
The selection of works is accompanied by an article by the leading representative of the Kharkiv School of Photography Roman Pyatkovka, which talks about the universal creative technique of collage, spontaneity and unpredictability of instant action cameras and experiments with alternative photographic methods.
Sergey Melnichenko says that this book is, in particular, a great opportunity for students of the MYPH school to present themselves in the world, to show their own achievements. According to him, photobooks in the world are spreading faster than exhibitions. “Therefore, there is a greater likelihood that books will quickly spread from Ukraine to the United States or Japan and that authors will be invited to exhibitions, fairs, festivals or any other events,” he says.
Sergey Melnichenko says that this book is, in particular, a great opportunity for students of the MYPH school to present themselves in the world, to show their own achievements. According to him, photobooks in the world are spreading faster than exhibitions. “Therefore, there is a greater likelihood that books will quickly spread from Ukraine to the United States or Japan and that authors will be invited to exhibitions, fairs, festivals or any other events,” he says.
The book has already been published, it was presented to the general public in Kyiv. The publication is bilingual: in Ukrainian and English. Anyone can buy a photobook at site publishing houses, as well as on other platforms and bookstores: www.yakaboo.ua, www.book-ye.com.ua, Kniga.biz.ua, www.book.ua etc.
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
On May 2, 2014, in Odessa on Greek Square and Kulikovo Field, there were mass clashes between Euromaidan supporters and participants of the Maidan action and a fire broke out in the House of Trade Unions. At that time, 48 people were killed and more than 200 were injured.
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes pictures of Oleg Kutsky, who captured the events in Odessa.
On May 2, 2014, in the center of Odessa, near the Greek Square, mass clashes began. At lunchtime, around three o'clock, fans of the football clubs “Metalist” and “Chernomorets” decided to walk through the streets of Odessa in a peaceful march under the slogan “For a united Ukraine”. The event brought together almost two thousand people. Simultaneously with the march, more than three hundred participants of “Anti-Maidan” gathered, most of whom represented the organization “Odessa Wife”. They planned to move in parallel with the march of football fans and supporters on the Maidan.
The columns crossed near Greek Square. Mass clashes began: participants threw pyrotechnics, “Molotov cocktails” and stones at each other. During the riots, shots were even fired. As a result of the confrontation, six people died from gunshot wounds, and surrounding shop windows, bus stops and cars were smashed.
The confrontation in the city center lasted half a day. Around seven o'clock in the evening, clashes between Euromaidan supporters and participants of the Maidan action moved to Kulikovo Field. They were joined by other football fans who came after the match. The storming of the tent camp near the House of Trade Unions began. When the town was destroyed, more than three hundred people ran to the building of the House of Trade Unions. They were trapped there. Participants continued to throw stones and incendiary mixtures at each other — a fire started in the House of Trade Unions. According to the official version of the investigation, 32 people died from carbon monoxide, another 10 died jumping out of windows. Among the victims were 34 men, 7 women and an underage boy. In total, more than 200 people were injured on May 2, 2014.
Editions “Social. Odesa” reports that the Trade Union House fire started with wooden barricades at the entrance. To understand what was happening that day, journalists and some experts created the May 2 Group, gathering facts and evidence. Chemist and expert of the May 2 Group Vladislav Bilinska explains that the fire later moved to the door and the central hall, which was densely filled with wooden pallets, furniture, bottles with the ignition mixture, and there was also a gasoline generator. Flames engulfed stairwells, particularly the rear of the building. The temperature at the ground floor level reached 600 degrees and 200-300 — on the stairs. The lobby, Vladislav explained, was conditionally a “furnace”, and the stairwell - an “exhaust pipe”.
Smoke began to come out through the rear windows, where there were just a lot of people. There it is convenient to stand and watch the events on the square. For a while, the smoke came out freely, people bent over and moved inside the building. Subsequently, the tank of the gasoline generator exploded, which caused the disaster.
Now the Trade Union House, where the fire and clashes occurred on May 2, 2014, is surrounded by a fence. You can not go to it, here hangs a castle. The dead in this Trade Union House are reminded only of the ribbons inscribed “Eternal Memory” and the fresh flowers that people bring.
Oleg Kutskiy— photographer from Odessa.
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers continues to work on the rubric “Is it really?”, where it checks the authenticity of certain manipulations of information, referring to the original source.
On July 8, Russia launched a massive missile attack on Ukraine, attacking the capital for the first time in a long time. The Russian army committed another war crime by targeting civilian infrastructure.
The consequences of the shelling of Ukraine's largest children's hospital “Okhmatdyt”, where the toxicology department and intensive care unit were hit, gained worldwide resonance.
Russia confirmed the missile strike and said it was “a response to attempts by the Kiev regime to damage Russian energy and economic facilities”, rejecting accusations of deliberately shelling the hospital.
Propaganda edition Lenta.ru writes: “The Russian army hit military targets in Kiev with at least three hypersonic Dagger missiles. The military plant “Artem”, which produces air-to-air missiles and equipment for aviation machinery, was hit. According to sources of information of TASS in the security forces, as a result of the attack, a warehouse on its territory was affected.”
Justifying the attack of the Russian army on Kiev, the publication illustrated the material with the work of Ukrainian photographer Gleb Garanich for the Reuters news agency, which documented not military warehouses, but the ruins of the Kiev “Okhmatdyt”.
Here's what Reuters writes: “Russia blew up the main children's hospital in Kiev, hitting a rocket in the middle of the day on Monday, and shelled other Ukrainian cities, killing at least 41 civilians in the largest rocket attack in months.
Parents, holding their children, walked crying down the street near the hospital, they were in a state of shock after a terrible air attack in the afternoon. Windows were smashed, plates torn off, and hundreds of Kiev residents helped dismantle the rubble.
“It was very scary. I couldn't breathe. I tried to cover (my child). I tried to cover him with this cloth so he could breathe,” 33-year-old Svetlana Kravchenko told Reuters.
Russian media and telegram channels massively spread fakes, trying to shift responsibility for the hospital shelling to Ukraine.
The UN Human Rights Monitoring Mission in Ukraine, after analyzing the video and visiting the scene of the tragedy, previously concluded that the Kyiv Children's Hospital “Okhmatdyt” was hit as a result of a direct hit by a Russian missile.
Pro-Russian propagandist Alex Parker Returns in his Telegram channel under a photo with evacuated children with cancer, sitting under droppers just on the street, shared his opinion about the need to re-hit the children's hospital “Okhmatdyt”.
“Evacuated mothers with sick children from Okhmatdyt Hospital, whose yard was hit by a downed rocket. Am I just thinking about hitting the dagger again?”
Thanks to the work of Ukrainian documentarians, the world community sees how the country, which in July chairs the UN Security Council, deliberately hits critically ill children with missiles.
The material was created with the support of the international non-profit organization “Reporters Without Borders”.
Read also: “I need this flag because half my village is Orcs.” How Russian Propaganda Violates Copyright
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
Violating copyright, Russian media used a photo of Yulia Kochetova with a flag, illustrating the material “Dirt money, or how NATO will fight for black transplantation in Ukraine” and pointed to the author of the photo Russian drains.
This photo is part of a multimedia project by Yulia Kochetova War is personal, in which images of the war years were combined with poetry, music and audio clips in order to tell a story about a war that concerns everyone. These are stories told by the Ukrainian documentary filmmaker to the world about what it is like when war is an everyday reality.
Among the pictures is a photo with the flag, taken for foreign publications for the Day of the State Flag of Ukraine. On it, a teenager in the village of Zelena in Kharkiv region puts our flag on a stick.
“This is my checkpoint,” says the guy. We are located on the border of Kharkiv and Donetsk regions. “I need this flag because half of my village is Orcs” (that is, pro-Russian),” - a quote from Yulia's Instagram.
The information that the former Deputy Minister of Health, Head of Transplantation and Surgery of the Abdominal Organs at the Heart Institute Mikhail Zagriichuk and ten other doctors were informed by law enforcement officers of suspicion of interference in the Unified State Information System of Transplantation was used by the Russians as a basis to spread narratives about “black” transplantology in Ukraine.
“During the special operation, Russian peacekeepers identified special zones for illegal operations. Thus, at once two workshops were located in Zaporozhye — in the boiler house of Kramatorsk and in Dnipro. However, the NATO leadership decided not to stop there and began to demand from the commanders of the Armed Forces to create special units that would be deliberately contorted or injured, and then sent to the operating table of a black transplant specialist,” the propaganda material said.
Such narratives are designed to demoralize Ukrainian society and provoke conflicts within Ukraine; to shift responsibility for the war in Ukraine to the United States, they say, they are fighting a war for money.
By distorting reality and spreading fakes, the Russians are trying to deprive the photo of meaning so that the images are remembered instead of the essence that is on it.
The works of Ukrainian photographers are not only documentation — first of all, it is the personal experiences of the authors themselves, which will forever remain a scar on the heart. “It hurts, but grateful. This war stole my heart and from the very beginning it is a very personal story,” Yulia Kochetova wrote.
The material was created with the support of an international non-profit organization “Reporters Without Borders”.
On April 13, 2014, the National Security and Defense Council of Ukraine began a large-scale anti-terrorist operation, which eventually turned into a war against the Russian army. The battles for Karachun and the battles for Savur-Mohyla went down in history as one of the bloodiest battles in Donbas at the beginning of the ATO.
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes documentary photos of photojournalist Oleksandr Klymenko.
The next day after the start of the ATO, on April 14, Mount Karachun near Slavyansk became one of the first hot spots of conflict in Donbas. Then the militants fought for this height with the forces of ATO in order to cut off the Ukrainian channels, because there was a TV tower on it. The famous Mount Karachun was of strategic importance in order to control the city of Slavyansk and the entrances to the city. This was very well understood by the Russian military, special forces, who practically isolated this control height. The siege lasted almost two and a half months. In the battles for this land, the Ukrainian army suffered the first losses.
On May 29, 2014, Russian troops shot down a Ukrainian Mi-8 helicopter. At about noon that day, the general on a helicopter delivered ammunition and food to the checkpoint at Karachun and flew on. The plane returning from a mission in the combat zone was shot down by Russian militants from a portable anti-aircraft missile complex.
11 fighters of the special unit of the Ministry of Internal Affairs and guards and Major General Serhiy Kulchitsky were killed in the Mi-8 airstrip. He became the first general in the history of Ukraine's independence to die in the performance of official duties. In honor of the crew, a memorial was opened near Mount Karachun on the highway between Kramatorsk and Slavyansk.
Photojournalist Oleksandr Klymenko recalls that Mount Karachun became one of the first places he had to shoot at the beginning of the Russian-Ukrainian war. Three times the photographer managed to fly with the MI-8 and deliver military aid, including food and water, to the defenders of Karachun.
“The first time I didn't know where we were going, when we had already returned, I realized that it was Karachun. We flew very low so that the militants would not shoot us down. The helicopter landed and everything was unloaded from it very quickly. But there was one man who asked to take a photo for memory. And I took such a photo. The next time I was in Karachun with the 95th Brigade. In general, I was: June 4 and June 21, 2014. From there, Slavyansk was clearly visible. When I flew to Karachun for the second time — there I met this man again, then I met him. Then he became one of those who hung the flag on the television tower in Karachun. It was such a famous story. This paratrooper from the 95th Brigade was called Serhiy Shevchuk,” the photographer recalls.
Oleksandr notes that at that time it was already clear to him that “this is not an ATO, this is a real war, people fought and there were shelling, traces of mines and bullets.”
The liberation of Slavyansk was a turning point in the de-occupation of a number of other cities and villages of Donbas. The fighting for Slavyansk lasted from April to July 2014. The Russian-backed militants left the city on the night of July 5, 2014. This enabled the Ukrainian military to establish control over Kramatorsk, Artemivsk, Druzhkivka and Kostiantynivka during 5—6 July.
The famous “Markiv affair” is also connected with Karachun. On May 24, 2014, near this mountain as a result of mortar shelling, Italian photojournalist Andrea Rocelli and his Russian translator Andrei Mironov were killed. Italian police in 2017 detained Ukrainian national guard Vitaliy Markiv, who has Ukrainian and Italian citizenship, on false suspicion of involvement in the murder of an Italian photojournalist. An Italian court sentenced him to 24 years in prison, but then acquitted.
In the fighting for Savur-Mohyla from June 6 to August 29, 2014, 49 ATO fighters were killed.
Savur grave in Donetsk region is a strategic mound 278 meters high, located in Shakhtar district of Donetsk region. On August 7, 2014, a group under the command of Colonel Igor Gordichuk and Right Sector volunteers took control of Savur grave. For a month, the Ukrainian military held the height completely surrounded and under fire from Russian artillery.
The mound of Savur-Grave rises significantly above the surrounding steppes. From its top you can see the territory with a radius of 30—40 km, which allows you to control a significant part of the Ukrainian-Russian border. From Savur-Grave you can see the terikons of mines, the plant in Amvrosiyivka and the Sea of Azov. In World War II, a large-scale battle with Nazi troops took place here.
Since the height was controlled by pro-Russian forces, it was turned into a fortified point, which allowed them to monitor the supply of the Armed Forces of Ukraine and to adjust the shelling of the Ukrainian Defense Forces from the territory of the Russian Federation. The intensity of the fighting for Savur Tomb increased during June and July 2014. To capture the altitude, the Ukrainian command involved, in particular, units of the 79th Separate Airmobile Brigade and the 3rd Special Purpose Regiment.
On June 5, 2014, south of the altitude, Ukrainian troops with the support of aircraft fought with pro-Russian groups that tried to break into Ukraine from the territory of the Russian Federation near the customs post “Marynivka”. The attack was repelled. However, on June 7, pro-Russian forces occupied Savur-Mohyla. Positional battles for control of altitude have entered a protracted phase. Due to the high density of artillery fire, the Armed Forces could not take the mound. However, in early August, the height came under the control of the Ukrainian military. About 70 people took part in the storming of Savur Tomb and, after a two-hour battle, they managed to take the heights and finally consolidate there on August 8.
Savur Tomb was in the deep rear of the enemy and it was very difficult to maintain control over it. For three weeks, Ukrainian fighters repelled the Russian military. At that time, the Armed Forces monitored the enemy forces and even adjusted the fire of Ukrainian artillery.
The soldiers told Colonel Gordiichuk about the imexpediency of maintaining altitude in such a deep rear of the enemy, but he was not going to leave without an order. On August 24, 2014, the order to withdraw from the mound was received. By that time, the Savur grave was already in a tight ring. The car of the 3rd Special Forces Regiment, which arrived for the wounded, was shot by Russian mercenaries in Petrovsky. Groups of Ukrainian servicemen left the encirclement without heavy equipment, on foot, moved to the nearest Ukrainian units. Some of the military were captured by the Russians.
On September 1, the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Ukraine recognized the departure of Ukrainian servicemen from Savur-Grave. On September 8—9, bodies of Ukrainian servicemen who died during fighting at Savur-Grave arrived with signs of torture. The remains of the captured soldiers found at the site of the field camp near Savur Tomb were disfigured beyond recognition. Yuriy Stoyansky, an officer of the Military-Civil Cooperation Forces, said: “There were traces of torture — severed phalanges of fingers, hands twisted, pieces of bodies, there were traces of suffocation.”
Recall that the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers has started a series of materials dedicated to key events of the Russian war against Ukraine, where he publishes memoirs and photographs of Ukrainian documentary photographers.
Life as a Deadline: 10 Years of War in the Photos of Olexander Klymenko
Oleksandr Klymenko was born in Chernihiv region. Graduate of the Faculty of Journalism of Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. From 1991 to 2024 — photocorrespondent of the newspaper “Voice of Ukraine”. In 1992, he documented events in Transnistria, then in the former Yugoslavia, as well as Lebanon, Kuwait, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Cote d'Ivoire, South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. During the Revolution of Dignity, being in the very epicenter of events, Alexander was wounded. Since the beginning of the Russian military aggression in 2014, he has filmed events on the front in the east. Oleksandr is the author of several photo albums, including: “Ukraine. 10 years of progress” (2001), “Peacekeeping activities of the Ukrainian army. The First Decade” (2004), “Through Fire and Tears” (2009), “Front Album” (2016). “The latest history of Ukrainian journalism. From Maidan to Maidan” co-authored with Yuriy Nesteryak and Julia Nesteryak (2022). Had personal photo exhibitions at UN Headquarters in New York (2012), NATO Headquarters in Brussels (2012, 2013, 2014), Lithuania (2015), Poland (2015, 2016, 2023), Luxembourg (2015), Norway (2023), Latvia (2022); participated in collective exhibitions on the war in Ukraine in the parliaments of Great Britain (2015) and Denmark (2014).
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
Wounded children, frightened adults, white medical robes covered in blood — these are the consequences of another Russian combined attack against Ukrainians. In the morning of July 8, Russian troops launched a rocket attack on Kiev, the largest children's hospital in Ukraine “Okhmatdyt” came under enemy attack.
Damaged hospital buildings, destroyed operating and wards, knocked out windows and doors. In the first minutes after the attack, children's crying and the screams of hundreds of children were heard in the hospital.
Rescuers and medics are working at the scene. Simple Kiev residents help to clear the rubble.
There is no official information on the number of dead and injured in the children's hospital yet.
Head of the Office of the President Andriy Yermak wrote that “the Russians deliberately beat children today.”
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Minister of the Interior Igor Klymenko reported that as a result of the massive Russian attack as of 15:00 it is known about 28 dead: 11 in Dnipropetrovsk region and 17 in Kiev. 112 people were injured: 62 in the Dnipropetrovsk region, 48 in the capital and two in the Kiev region. Today, Russia has damaged more than 50 civilian facilities, including residential buildings, a business center and two medical facilities.
“Emergency and rescue work at the sites of the largest impacts continues. Rescuers, policemen, municipal workers work. Special gratitude to all the caring people who rushed to help. Unity makes us stronger,” Klimenko said.
President Volodymyr Zelensky said that Ukraine is initiating the convening of an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council after the attacks of the Russian Federation. The guarantor also noted: “Children's hospital “Okhmatdyt” in Kyiv. One of the most important not only in Ukraine, but also in Europe is the CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. “Okhmatdyt” saved and restored health to thousands of children. Now the hospital is damaged by the Russian attack, people are under the rubble, the exact number of wounded and dead is currently unknown. Now everyone is helping to disassemble the rubble: doctors, ordinary people.”
In addition, as a result of enemy attack, there is damage in several areas of the capital. The Kyiv City Military Administration noted that an office building was damaged in Solomianskyi district, in Holosiivskyi — debris fell near a residential building, in Dniprovske, debris in a residential building is burning. Also in Darnytskyi district a private house was damaged, and in Desnyansk a building is on fire.
Aid headquarters have been deployed in three districts of Kyiv, where victims of shelling can write applications for one-time material assistance and receive consultations.
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
On Wednesday morning, July 3, the Russians carried out a combined attack on the Dnieper. There were about 10 explosions in the city. At approximately 8:45 a.m., the Air Force of the Armed Forces reported the movement of enemy drones in the direction of the Dnieper. In a few minutes, missiles flew in the direction of the city.
As a result of the shelling, a shopping center, a medical facility and a gas station were damaged. At least five people were killed and 47 others were injured.
Mayor of Dnipro Boris Filatov He said that as a result of the Russian attack on the Dnieper, a 14-year-old girl was among the victims, and 27 people went to hospitals.
Russian shelling damaged the facade of one of the shopping centers of the Dnieper, located in the Chechelovsky district on the right bank of the city. In addition, as a result of the impact, windows were knocked out in two schools and three kindergartens. A fragment hit the intensive care unit of the children's hospital - fortunately, it survived without casualties. There is destruction in one of the outpatient clinics, in another hospital there was a fire in the archive room.
ChapterVladimir Zelensky once again noted that Russian terror can only be stopped by modern air defense and long-range weapons. “The world can protect lives, and that requires the determination of leaders. Determination, which can and must make security against terrorism again the norm,” the president stressed.
Commander of the Air Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine Mykola Oleshchuk reportedthat for the morning attack, which fell mainly on the Dnipropetrovsk region, the Russians used 13 air targets: three Iskander-K cruise missiles, four X-59 guided air missiles, five Shahed drones, one reconnaissance drone “Orlan-10”.
Tomorrow, July 4, mourning is declared in Dnipro.
Recall that on June 30, around 16:30 Russian troops once again launched an air strike on Kharkov. The CAB flew about 80 kilometers and hit a few meters from the premises of “Nova Poshta” in the Slobidsky district of the city.“Workers were unloading parcels.” The aftermath of the Russian air strike on “Nova Poshta” in Kharkiv in the photo of Yakov Lyashenko and Olga Kovalyova
The material was created with the support of The Fritt Ord Foundation.
On June 30, around 16:30 Russian troops again launched an air strike on Kharkov. The CAB flew about 80 kilometers and hit a few meters from the premises of “Nova Poshta” in the Slobidsky district of the city.
“Workers were unloading parcels at the time of arrival. This is not only terror against the civilian population, the enemy continues to terrorize businesses, because this is not the first intrusion into the terminal “Novaya Poshta”, — said the head of the Kharkiv OVA Oleg Synegubov. According to him, the impact destroyed the terminal of “Novaya Poshta”.
As a result of an enemy airstrike, one person was killed. Police said the dead man was about 40 years old: “The body is very badly damaged, so they will use the laboratory to identify the DNA... The family with the baby was near the scene of the attack: as a result of the blast wave, the child fell on the sidewalk, so he received bodily injuries.”
By late evening, the number of victims had risen to nine, among them an eight-month-old boy. The survey of the arrival site continues. Rescuers managed to locate the fire.
IN Kharkiv Regional Prosecutor's Officenoted that as a result of the enemy attack, eight vehicles were destroyed, five more damaged. At the scene of the attack, prosecutors and police investigators record war crimes. Criminal proceedings under Part 2 of Art. 438 Criminal Code of Ukraine (violation of the laws and customs of war, combined with premeditated murder).
Russia daily deploys guided air bombs in eastern and southern Ukraine. President Volodymyr Zelensky noted that during this week alone, the enemy used more than 800 KABs against Ukraine. “Against our cities and communities, against our people, against everything that ensures normal life,” the head of state wrote.
Recall, on June 28, the Russians struck a residential building in Dnipro. A damaged high-rise building, one dead, injured people, among the victims is a baby. The consequences of the missile strike on the Dnieper in the photo of Mykola Sinelnikov.
On June 25, another 90 Ukrainians returned home from Russian captivity: 32 National Guardsmen, 18 border guards, 17 representatives of the Navy, 15 soldiers of the Armed Forces, 8 terrorists. Among them — 59 defenders of Mariupol, 52 of whom left Azovstal. Also, 5 fighters of the NGU, who at the beginning of the invasion guarded the Chernobyl nuclear power plant, set foot on their native land.
Photographs of photographers Vlada and Konstantin Liberov have been covered by Ukrainian and world media. Documentarians recorded the state in which Ukrainian servicemen returned from captivity.
“The boys kissed the ground, cried when they heard the native language. And we were happy to be there at this moment,” the photographers commented briefly.
After meeting at the border, Kostya and Vlad went to a hospital, where the military was examined by doctors before being sent for further rehabilitation.
“Hungry. Exhausted. Happy. On June 25, Ukraine returned home 90 more prisoners of war, - Liberov wrote. - Like last time, we cannot and will not comment on anything. These photos speak for themselves. Russian captivity kills, and every return to our homes is a great happiness with a taste of great pain. After all, thousands of Ukrainian defenders and defenders, as well as civilians, are still there, in the clutches of the fascist regime of Russia.
President Volodymyr Zelensky thanked all partners who help in the release of these prisoners of war.
“Home is not just words. At home, this is Ukraine. We remember all our people in Russian captivity. We continue to work for the release of each and every one. We seek the truth about all who can be held by the enemy. Thank you to our team that deals with exchanges: Budanov, Yermak, Malyuk, Klimenko, Lubinets. To all partners who help, the UAE for assisting in the release of these of our people. Together we can achieve even the most difficult results,” President Volodymyr Zelensky said.
Today, 3300 Ukrainians have been returned. This is the 53rd exchange of prisoners of war since the beginning of the full-scale invasion of the Russian Federation.
“In the future, we will monitor the observance of the rights of returnees, in particular regarding medical examination, rehabilitation, receipt of the necessary documents, bank cards,” the Ombudsman noted Dmytro Lubinets. He also addressed the families who are still waiting for relatives from captivity: “Do not lose faith! Ukraine is working to return all our citizens home!”
Konstantin and Vlada Liberov. A couple of photographers from Odessa. They began their journey 4 years ago, focusing initially on creative and emotional engagements. In a few years, they have become one of the most recognizable photographers in the field and have moved on to active teaching activities, have thousands of grateful students around the world. At the beginning of the war in Ukraine, they changed the vector of their work, focusing on feature documentaries: their photos from hot spots in Ukraine go viral on social networks, gaining hundreds of thousands of reposts, they are published by influential media such as BBC, Welt, Vogue, Forbes, and also take to their social networks the President of Ukraine and others high-ranking persons.
MYPH, a well-known school of conceptual and art photography in the South of Ukraine, was founded Serhiy Melnichenkoin his hometown Nikolaev. The training aims to promote and understand contemporary conceptual and artistic photography among artists. During the full-scale invasion of Russia in our state, Nikolaev photographers took an active volunteer position. Someone joined the ranks of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, and some from artistic photography switched to documentary in order to record the consequences of the occupiers' actions. We talk with the founder of MYPH Serhiy Melnychenko about the training of young photographers, their projects, his projects, as well as the impact of the war on photography in Nikolaev — the city that received the status of Hero.
“MYPH — Mykolaiv Young Photography. The abbreviation is consonant with the Ukrainian word “myth”. So the name took root organically. Our photographers often work with themes of mythology.” — begins acquaintance with the school, its founder Sergey Melnychenko. It all started in 2018 with photography courses. Serhiy created a pilot project in order to see the reaction of young authors in Nikolaev. “I wanted to know if there was an interest in conceptual contemporary photography. There were many commercial photographers in the city at that time, but there were no conceptual ones.“,— he recalls.
Since then, thanks to theory and practice, online and offline, and even during a full-scale invasion, Serhiy, together with invited lecturers, shares his artistic and commercial experiences with students.
The authors work with different directions: “We have photojournalists, documentarians, and portraitists, etc. However, the main thing is the artistic direction. During this time, we have formed a powerful community that promotes young authors and assists in expanding the spectrum of both their photographic knowledge and practices, and in finding exhibitions, festivals and fairs“,— Serhiy continues.
The aim of the school is to unite a community of photographers and promote the development of young talents. In particular, one of these methods is grant programs. “We are in the process of receiving a grant to support our community, that is, we allocate five subgrants to create projects in the southern region, reveal the stories of its inhabitants, etc.“.
70% of the projects made by Nikolaev authors concern reflections of war. Sergey believes that real artists cannot be abstracted from those moments and events that take place around.
“These are both self-portraits and storytelling — they are all closely related to the theme of war. Some of the authors stayed in Nikolaev. For example, our student Maria Gorshkova. She worked as a photojournalist in the media and documented a lot of things.”
From October to November 2023, the team implemented the project “Visual History of Nikolaev”. Recall that the city was on the front line for nine months, suffered from shelling, barely escaping occupation. Through art photography and documentary photography, the school's 20 artists have conveyed the mood of the city over the past two years.
Serhiy says that this exhibition captures the impact of the war on Nikolaev and the moral and psychological state of the local population: “The goal, in particular, is to help restore the moral spirit of the local community, as well as, to emphasize the unsurpassed strength and ingenuity of Nikolayevs, which led to the award of Nikolaev the title of “city” Hero.”
In addition to exhibition projects for his students, Sergey continues to implement, in particular, his own ideas. “I don't do documentary photography,” he says, “but I do have a photo series, Tattoos of War. It is more of a conceptual project, but with elements of documentary shooting.” He began to implement this idea in April 2023, shooting on a medium format film camera. Sergey gives his heroes the opportunity to choose the frame that will be directed to them with the help of the projector.
“I ask my heroes to choose the moment that comes to mind first. We expose this frame with the help of the projector. Among the latest works are immigrants from Nikolaev who live in Ivano-Frankivsk. The frame that was projected on them is the destroyed hotel “Ingul”“from Nikolaev. It was one of the first such big hits in our city. That's what stuck in their memory.”
Serhiy has already started work on a new documentary project “Under the Dnieper”, which will include human stories from Nikolaev, Zaporizhia, Cherkassy, Dnipro and their regions, as well as a photobook and video adaptations: “This project will consist of at least 50% documentary. The idea will be implemented with a grant from the Munich Alexander Tutsek-Stiftung Foundation as part of the program Alexander Tutsek Photography Grant.
Serhiy is convinced that the level of development of photography in Ukraine is high, but it can be even better: “We continue to actively work and participate in exhibitions and festivals in order to promote Ukrainian photography at home and to represent it to an international audience.”
He admits to keeping a close eye on young authors who were able to reveal themselves during the war.
“Their work is authentic, they are different. The authors were inspired. Students such as Maria Gorshkova and Veronika Mol showed their interesting vision. Among them is our Alexei Charei, who joined the ranks of the Armed Forces of Ukraine and documents the war, directly participating in it,” — says Sergey.
Anyone who wants to become a photographer or those who just want to get acquainted with the art of photographs can find all the necessary information on siteMYPH. The school is constantly working on expanding the curriculum, attracting new lecturers.
“In the future, we are considering launching the course “Documentary Photography”, attracting the best Ukrainian photographers documenting the war,” Serhiy shares his plans.
Currently, the works of the authors of the Mykolaiv School of Photography MYPH can be seen at exhibitions in Lviv(location: Powder Tower, exposition “Subconscious”) and in Stockholm(location: Ukrainian Cultural Center, exposition “One day”).
The material was worked on:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Literary Editor: Julia Futei
Bildeditor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Site Manager: Vladislav Kuhar
What made photographers join the ranks of the Armed Forces of Ukraine? How has the photo changed, and they themselves, since Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine? What did I have to give up and what to get used to? We talk with photographers Valentin Kuzan, Oleg Palchik and Sergey Mikhalchuk.
Valentin Kuzan is a well-known portrait photographer in Ukraine, currently serving as a photojournalist of the public relations service of the 72nd separate mechanized brigade named after the Black Zaporozhtsy.
Valentine's love for photography appeared in adolescence. He begged his father for a camera to capture something for himself. The first combat baptism, that is, commercial filming was a wedding job that had to be shot by a 10th grader with no experience because his father mistakenly booked two events for the same date. “I was very worried at the time. I thought to myself: “God, this is a once-in-a-lifetime wedding for people. What will it be if I do something wrong?“Valentina's father explained that it should be filmed, and what should be done at will. “Those were the times when they were photographed like the groom is holding the bride in the palm of his hand or they are peering through the tree. Mostly near the birch”, — Valentyn recalls those times with a smile.
He met documentary photography in 2014. He was inspired by the works of photographer Alexander Gladielov, who came to Uzhgorod with exhibitions. “It gave me the opportunity to fill photography with a new meaning, - says Valentyn, - and to consider the documentary as a language in which to speak about the important“.
Then Valentin stormed Alexander with questions about how to film the war and how to get there, but then the matter did not progress further: “As long as I remember myself as an adult — I always have children. I have four children and one of them is always small. Therefore, in truth, then the situation was not favorable for long trips to dangerous places“.
He returned to his desire already in 2022, after evacuating his family from Kiev to the West and “the situation has become more or less stable and understandable“. Together with the project Ukraіner, he filmed military near the capital, was involved in a series of works about intellectuals and artists who went to the army. After that, he was invited to document for a week how missile troops work in Donetsk region. “One of the first aid packages has just arrived in Ukraine. It was a weapon similar to Himars, just a manufacturer from another country. This was my first shooting at the front. Even then I learned that this is not allowed to anyone to photograph and so far there is a big problem with admission to this. This is an attractive target for the Russians.” — says Valentyn.
Then several photos, namely portraits, from this series, were published on the page of the then current Commander-in-Chief Valery Zaluzhny. “It made me terribly happy. That's how cheerful was my start in military photography!” There is no hiding the joy of the photographer.
After that, there were no more opportunities to fight the war directly, but Valentine took on everything that was somehow connected with it. He began to cooperate with various media: The Ukrainians, Kunsht and Local History.
“Together with The Ukrainians, we filmed two UPA veterans and political prisoners. One was 94 years old and the other was 99. However, four days after the shooting, he should have turned 100. It was in Kolomyia. This uncle commanded a unit of the UPA, which became famous for the fact that in one battle they destroyed about 400 Encavedists. His name is Miroslav Simchych. His son is fighting now. It was a very interesting story. It's about the continuity of generations and the constant enemy“.
After that with Ukrainener he shot the project “Victory Units“about the fighters of the 93rd OMBR “Kholodny Yar” and the 72nd OMB named after Chorny Zaporozhtsy, it was in the last brigade that he found new friends. “Although we were there for about a week, but then I saw how good I felt being there. This work is filled with maximum meaning for me.” In the fall of 2023, Valentin was mobilized in this brigade as a photojournalist.
Since 2016, Valentyn's focus has been portraits of Ukrainian artists and artists for the project “Sultprocess” as an analogue to the portraits of contemporaries of the artist Anatol Petritsky — the generation of the “Shot Renaissance”. During this time, the photographer shot thousands of shots with Ukrainian writers, musicians, artists and other people who shaped our culture during the Independence period. But now he has defenders in his sights.
“It is important for me now to highlight who is protecting us and to work to ensure that the memory of these people in the visual dimension is represented as adequately as possible, as far as I can,” Valentin explains.
He had to refuse to take his favorite photos — black and white portraits. Since after the invasion, such pictures are associated with the death of a person. “Not to frighten anyone. So now I work only in color. It's a crazy challenge for me to work with colors in a portrait.”
Even before mobilization, Valentine invited people to portrait shooting in the studio to meet with himself. People came to look at their photos and at the same time their changes. “In a year of full-scale war, everything was visible on the face. These tons of stress are in their eyes. But it was also noticeable how people still give themselves advice. This path was in the eyes of people,” Valentin explains.
He notes that the military view is different, and it is in this contrast that he decided to mobilize for himself: “Anxiety is a come-no-fly, it is permanent, it is oppressive, and you think all the time that you could do more. And when you are in the army, it is scary, but the anxieties recede - you have already made your choice and are already here.”
Despite the fear he felt himself, he sees peace in the eyes of his fellow officers. “Oddly enough, because people are calm about their choices, and that they may not be ashamed in front of their relatives, descendants or fellow citizens.
A large percentage of the people I meet here are volunteers. They know what they are here for. Their eyes are full of meaning.” Valentin says that he also sees zeal, courage, and a little humor, as well as heaviness and fatigue in the eyes of his brothers: “The looks say: “We have been here for two years, and could someone change us?” In principle, I also reacted to such a phrase when I decided to mobilize,” the photographer admits.
When asked what kind of photograph he would like to take, he replied: “I would like every soldier to have a quality photo portrait. Unfortunately, now in cities and villages we see alleys of dead Heroes, and not everyone has pictures worthy of them and their feat.”
Valentyn added that after the war, he would like every soldier to have his beautiful photo in military uniform, so that in 50-60 years he could look at this photo and realize how important work he was doing in his time.
“It's hard to kill a Ukrainian” — photographer, junior sergeant of the Armed Forces of Ukraine Oleg Palchyk quotes the words of one of the heroes of his numerous photo reports, the combat medic “Lata”. Until 2022, he was a commercial photographer, engaged in subject, portrait and reportage shots. Oleg lived in Kharkiv for many years, and now lives in Kyiv. The war has come to each of the cities he calls his own. That is why, since February 24, 2022, his photos have also changed with him.
On February 24 and 25, 2022, he went to the TCC twice to mobilize for the troops, and then he was not taken without experience. Therefore, Oleg volunteered and continued to look for a way to become useful for the state. So he attached himself to one of the special police units, began to document military actions in the Kiev region. In the end, in May, Oleg managed to officially become part of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. Since then, he has been documenting the war for TRO Media.
Oleg considers his public relations service unit one of the best in the army. “We are engaged in coverage of historical events, filming documentaries about brigades and about people. We shoot stories, record stories, make photo portraits. Anything that can be covered in media — we do it!” — the soldier shares.
Currently, a photobook is being prepared for printing based on the works of Oleg Palchyk. Also in Ukraine and abroad you can see photo exhibitions with his photos. The photo exhibition “Long into War” is a joint work of two authors: Oleg Palchyk and Colonel Alexei Dmitrashkivskyi. These are two separate projects, “Faces of War” and “On the Other Side of Peace”, which were combined into one joint exhibition. Hundreds of pictures are constantly supplemented with new materials. “This is the Kyiv region after the de-occupation, the Kharkiv region before a large-scale counterattack, and the everyday Donetsk region and Zaporizhzhia. The exposition presents portraits of defenders in combat positions, photographs of civilians living in de-occupied territories or near the front line. As well as military training and combat work of artillery and other weapons. In general, the consequences of Russian aggression, etc.,” says Oleg Palchyk.
Among hundreds of his pictures, it is difficult for Oleg to choose the ones that are most dear to his heart or those that are most imprinted in his memory. However, special for him are the photos of the flames when Russia struck the gas pipeline in Kherson. “It looked very surreal,” recalls the photographer. “Although the explosion was far away, and the flames were very bright. Already on the spot we saw a fire larger than a 5-storey building. The whole city saw this glow. It was both beautiful and scary at the same time.”
Basically, Oleg focuses on people and their stories. One of these is a photo of the commander of the 68th Yeheran Brigade, Valery “Roland” Dorokhov, who was killed along with his brother Oleg Barna during the storming of enemy positions in the Donetsk region. “This story, to put it mildly, knocked me out of the rut. I was shooting Roland. A few hours before his death, we communicated, he made edits to the material. I sent him photos, but he did not have time to read my message,” says Oleg.
Oleg believes that Ukrainian documentary photographers demonstrated a very high level during the full-scale invasion: “It seems to me that they did not even take a step forward, but jumped far above their heads. We have a lot of really professional photographers. I am sure that their documentary photographs will serve as a model in the post-war era!”
Oleg says that with the beginning of the invasion, his photos received more freedom, the frames became freer, because they demonstrate completely different values. “According to my feelings, all the tinsel just disappeared,” says Oleg Palchyk.
Despite the large portfolio, he believes that he has not yet taken his best photo. “But somehow I was asked in the comments to film the Ukrainian parade on Red Square in Moscow. This is the photo I would probably really like to take,” laughs the photographer.
“When it's very scary, you take the camera in your hands, you work and it becomes easier,” says Serhiy Mikhalchuk. Although there are times when it is necessary to hold the machine in your fingers until the blue, otherwise tomorrow will not come, but the camera is still his favorite weapon. He has been inseparable from her since 1979.
“My journey to photography began a long time ago. Someone says that creative personalities do not even live that long. However, photography is a major part of my life, and it is from it that my profession as a cinematographer began,” he says.
Sergey always liked documentary photography because of the nature of the work, the transmission of emotions and the living state of things. He documented the Revolution of Dignity on the Maidan, so he repeatedly filmed in Donetsk region, in particular the events in Slavyansk and Debaltseve. Therefore, he believes that it is quite natural that even during a full-scale invasion, he continues this business.
Serhiy has been a volunteer since March 2022. For the first 16 months, he documented the war in one of the special forces. “These images are unlikely to ever be published. Even after the end of the war, I will speak about these events with great caution, or I will not speak at all,” Serhiy says. Now he serves in another unit at the General Staff of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
Sergey explains his decision to mobilize by the fact that he has no illusions about Russia, with which Ukraine has long been imposed friendship. “I realized that as long as we exist, they will try to destroy us. Perhaps as a civilian photographer I would be more useful, but going to the army is the right moral choice,” Serhiy shares.
He admits that his profession was realized in Russia, where he worked on various projects for almost 15 years starting in 1996. Sergei has more than 40 projects, one of them loudly premiered in the summer of 2023 — the film “Dovbush”. He was a production operator, that is, he was fully responsible for the visual part of the picture. “This film has become so relevant now because the war has escalated. Although it has been going on for 10 years. The fact that we are fighting has become a revelation for many in reality. Now the war has come to almost every home. It's so scary that no one knows if this struggle will end for our generation,” Serhiy shares.
The film has a lot of meanings and ideas. “I want Ukrainians to be proud of their country, proud of their mountains and appreciate the fact that they live on this land,” concludes Serhiy Mykhalchuk, director of the film “Dovbush”.
Despite the fact that the film thundered a few months ago, Sergey has already hidden this creative part of himself somewhat: “I have already assimilated so much in the army in two years that even now I feel more like a soldier than a cameraman. Although I worked with him for more than 30 years and managed to shoot about 40 paintings.”
Serhiy notes that war is always about extremely strong emotions that are too bursting into memory: “Even if they are short-lived, they can become the most basic emotions of your whole life. You will always remember them.”
Now it is difficult for Sergey to highlight or choose key ones among his photos. He says he can't stay away from emotions or from the troops at the moment because he's in a whirlwind of events, but notes that maybe years from now he will have a different view of his documentaries.
“War has become a part of my life. The whole world is also getting used to it, and this is a very worrying trend. You're already starting to feel part of it. That's why we need to keep covering everything. We need to be reminded of the tragedy,” he said.
Sergey says that for him every photo is important: the first photos from Irpen, and pictures from Bakhmut or from any other military operations. “The cameraman is taught to shoot like it's the last frame of your life. Maybe that's how I feel about all my images,” the soldier admits.
For now, his task is to convey the state of affairs and the condition of people at war. Sergey believes that often a person's eyes or movements can be the most eloquent. That is why, as a native of game cinema, he tries to speak the language of symbols and images. Sometimes a photo helps him to remain himself even when it is very scary.
“If they shoot nearby, then you seem to fall into another reality. It works in your mind like a charm. You're just doing your job. Like real warriors, if this is your last moment and you leave with your weapon in your hands. Actually, that's the camera for me.”
The material was worked on:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Literary Editor: Julia Futei
Bildeditor: Vyacheslav Ratynskyi
Site Manager: Vladislav Kuhar
Photos of members of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers in the international press: June's selection. UAPF is proud of the Ukrainian documentary photographers whose photos represent Ukraine in the international media and once again draw attention to the Russian-Ukrainian war and major events in our country.
Alex Babenko's photo was published by The Associated Press in a story about emergency power outages in the country.
Sasha Maslov's photos of civilian life in frontline Kharkiv were published by the German weekly Die Zeit.
Oksana Parafeniuk's photographs complemented The Washington Post's story about Ukrainian prisoners who agreed to defend Ukraine.
Oksana Parafeniuk's photos also appeared in The Washington Post from the first Equality March since the beginning of the invasion.
The Guardian published pictures by Roman Pylypiy of a farewell to Iryna “Cheka” Tsybukh, a combat medic with the Hospitallers volunteer battalion, who died while evacuating the wounded from the battlefield in the Kharkiv sector.
Traditionally, Roman Pylypiy's photos have been included in the Guardian's photo collections. This time, the list includes a photo from the Donetsk region. The photo shows Ukrainian soldiers of the 55th Artillery Brigade “Zaporizhzhya Sich” shelling Russian positions with a French-made Caesar self-propelled howitzer.
The Guardian's weekly selection also includes a photo by Roman Pylypiy of the funeral ceremony for hospital worker Iryna Tsybukh.
Yulia Kochetova's photos were complemented by The Guardian's interview with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.
Heorhiy Ivanchenko's photographs of the war in the Kharkiv region appeared in the French edition of Le Monde.
Alina Smutko's photo was published by The New York Times in an article about the Russian shelling of Ukrainian energy systems.
Vyacheslav Ratynsky's photo was published by the German media outlet Spiegel in an article about the possibility of missiles being fired at Russian territory by Western partners.
Viacheslav Ratynskyi's photos also complemented the Frankfurter Allgemeine's report on the situation in the Kherson sector.
In addition, The Telegraph has repeatedly published photographs of Ukrainian soldiers taken by Vyacheslav Ratynsky.
The Dutch newspaper Trouw published a photo report by Ukrainian graduate Oleksandr Magula.
Anastasia Vlasova's photo was published by The Guardian in an interview with Ukrainian jumper Yulia Levchenko. The athlete spoke about her preparations for the Paris Olympics.
Serhiy Korovainyi's photos were published by The Wall Street Journal. His photographs complemented the article about Zaporizhzhia NPP and the state of energy in Ukraine during the war.
A photo by Ivan Samoilov of the aftermath of the Russian shelling of a printing house in Kharkiv was published by CNN.
Yevhen Maloletka's photographs were published by The Washington Post in a story about the situation at the front.
Ivan Antypenko's photo from the frontline was included in Reuters' selection of the day.
The works presented in this article are not the whole list of published photographs by Ukrainian photographers in foreign media. Therefore, we urge documentary filmmakers to feel free to write about their own foreign publications in their social networks and mention UAPF so that we do not miss any achievements in the next selections.
A damaged high-rise building, one dead, injured people, among the victims is a baby. Such are the consequences of the Russian missile attack on the Dnieper on Friday, June 28. Rescuers spent the night dismantling the rubble of a destroyed high-rise building.
In the high-rise building, which was hit by a Russian missile, four floors were destroyed. People are blocked there. This was announced by the head of the Dnipropetrovsk Regional State Administration on the evening of June 28 Serhiy Lisak.
“The enemy carried out a missile attack on the Dnieper. The nine-story building was damaged. There is the destruction of several floors. Previously, there are wounded,” he wrote.
Sergey Lisak noted that the number of victims has increased to nine people.
Among them is a 7-month-old baby. The girl has poisoning with combustion products. It is also known that three people are in serious condition: women 27 and 30 years old and a 29-year-old man.
Minister of Internal Affairs of Ukraine Igor Klymenko reported one dead. “Unfortunately, there could be more victims. Rescuers are dismantling rubble,” he wrote.
One man was rescued by emergency personnel from a car. It was covered with parts of a damaged house. Emergency services are working on the spot, the victims are provided with the necessary assistance.
According to the police, as a result of yesterday's missile strike on a high-rise building in Dnipro, five people are considered missing.
Earlier, the Air Force of the Armed Forces warned that the Russians had launched a missile in the direction of the Dnieper.
On June 24, there were explosions in Odesa. The Russians launched two missiles, one of them did not reach the target due to the work of air defense. Black pillar of smoke over Odesa. Consequences of Russian shelling in the lens of Alexander Gimanov
Cultural diplomacy is an important tool for building international relations, promoting mutual understanding and strengthening cultural ties between countries. One of the striking examples of such diplomacy is the presentation of a photobook about the most difficult winter in the history of independent Ukraine “Dare to bear light” in The Hague.
Read also: Presentation of the book “Brave to bear light” was held in Kyiv
The images of Ukrainian photographers who captured life during the massive light outages in the winter of 2022-2023 showed diplomats the resilience and courage of our people in extremely difficult conditions.
Through the documentation of the war, we see that even in extremely difficult conditions Ukrainians find a way to learn, create, work. Keep fighting.
A welcoming word at the opening of the exhibition said Serhiy Korovaynyi, photojournalist and portrait photographer, member of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers:
But winter seemed like a disaster, but now it's clear — well, it will get worse. The new blackouts are already with us. Among the photos of this post are June Kramatorska, Sloviansk, Kharkov, taken forThe Wall Street Journal.
Such measures contribute to the strengthening of cultural ties between countries. They can be the basis for future cooperation in the field of culture, art and other areas.
On June 27, 2017, around 8 am, the commander of one of the special purpose units of the Main Intelligence Directorate Maxim Shapoval died. His car exploded at the intersection of Solomenskaya and Mechanisatorov streets. The murder was classified as a terrorist act.
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes pictures of Serhiy Nuzhnenko, who recorded the consequences of the crime.
On June 27, 2017, at 8:10am in Kyiv as a result of a car explosion, Colonel GUR MO, commander of the 10th OZSPP Maxim Shapoval died. Two more people were injured during the explosion, they received shrapnel wounds, but their lives were not threatened. The murder of Maxim Shapoval is compared with the death of the head of the counterintelligence department of the Main Directorate of SBU in Donetsk region Colonel Oleksandr Kharaberiush, which took place on March 31, 2017 in Mariupol. The main military prosecutor's office investigated the crime with the involvement of all Ukrainian special services. The main version is the Russian footprint. Maxim Shapoval performed combat missions in the ATO zone and coordinated the actions of other special forces officers.
The terrorist act and its investigation were immediately discussed in a closed meeting with the participation of law enforcement leaders. Representatives of all special services, investigators of the military prosecutor's office, prosecutors, as well as operational counterintelligence officers of the Security Service of Ukraine and the National Police worked on the case.
“The strength of the explosive device, which was activated at 8.14 am, was such that at a distance of 50 meters, I apologize to the family of the deceased, for saying this, at the height of the first floor were found parts of the body of the deceased,” the chief military prosecutor Anatoly Matali told journalists Ios. He added that Maxim Shapoval was a combat officer and, in particular, commanded the first group of special forces that liberated Donetsk airport in the spring of 2014. “Already after that, groups from the 3rd and 8th special purpose regiments entered the facility, and the first group was led and commanded by the deceased. So, it was the first Ukrainian “cyborg”, — said military prosecutor Anatoly Matios.
Eyewitnesses of the event recall a very strong explosion, its strength can be assessed on video from a surveillance camera, which was quickly posted on the Internet. According to the head of the Main Directorate of the National Police in Kyiv Andriy Kryshchenko, the explosives were planted from the bottom of the car, inside or under the bottom. The strength of the homemade explosive device was about three kilograms in TNT equivalent. Officially, the Ministry of Internal Affairs reported a strength of about one kilogram. For comparison: hand grenades contain from 60 to 110 grams of tulle.
Colonel Maxim Shapoval lived near the scene of the explosion. The car that was blown up was a military service vehicle. He usually drove with a driver, but that day he was driving alone. Explosives could be laid when the car was at the service station, or in the underground parking.
A few hours after the assassination of Colonel Maxim Shapoval, a hacker attack on Ukraine began. Presumably, these two events are connected and timed to the Constitution Day of Ukraine. On the same day, Colonel Yuriy Vozny, an employee of the Counterintelligence Department, died from a car explosion. The crime took place in the village of Illinovka, Konstantinovsky district in Donetsk region. This crime was also classified as a terrorist act.
Photographer Serhiy Nuzhnenko documented the aftermath of Maxim Shapoval's car blowing up in Kyiv. “It's been a long time ago and it's hard to remember the details. However, I remember that in the period 2016-2018, such explosions from cars or other explosions occurred periodically. There is an attempt to assassinate journalist Palv Sheremet, here is this explosion, an attempt on Mosiychuk, etc. Then it seemed that such events had become somehow natural. This happened every few months and that's why you get used to them,” says Serhiy Nuzhnenko, “I remember the day when Maxim Shapoval's car was blown up. I found out about the explosion in our reporter chat and went to the scene. The police were already working there. But I remembered one moment that struck me. Near the destroyed car, I saw a man sitting on his knees and crying bitterly, raising his hands to the sky. It was probably the father of the deceased.”
Recall that the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers has started a series of materials dedicated tokey events of the Russian war against Ukraine, where he publishes memoirs and photographs of Ukrainian documentary photographers.
Serhiy Nuzhnenko— reportage photographer. Photocorrespondent of Radio Svoboda since 2016. Since February 2022, he has become a war photographer: he filmed events in Kyiv, Chernihiv region, Kharkiv region, and now works mainly in Donbas. He is the author of photos from Bucha and Irpen, which Ukrposhta used in their stamps for the anniversary of the liberation of Kyiv region in March 2023. Serhiy Nuzhnenko's Works Completed the International Exhibition #OntheFrontlinesofTruth organized by the NGO “Institute of Mass Information” and the international organization in the field of independent media development Internews. The pictures were exhibited at the station in Vilnius. Also, Nuzhnenko's picture about Russian aggression in Ukraine was included in 100 photos of 2022 according to Time magazine. During the Revolution of Dignity, Nuzhnenko was one of the nine “Bankova prisoners”.
On January 30, 2017, the Armed Forces took control of the Avdeyev industrial zone, knocking out the Russians from there.
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes photos of photojournalist Oleksandr Klymenko, who documented the stay of Ukrainian troops in Avdiivka industrial zone.
On the anniversary of the Battle of Kruty at 5 am on January 29, the enemy began intensive shelling of Ukrainian positions in the Avdiivka industrial zone. The Russians fired small arms and mortars. A group of fighters of the 1st Battalion of the 72nd Brigade took the fight and moved on to the counterattack. Their actions were covered by a battery of 120 mm mortars of the brigade art group, and a diversionary maneuver was carried out on the left flank at the same time. The assault group of 8 fighters was led by Lieutenant Andriy Verkhozhda “Livsha”. At 7 o'clock, two groups of militants of up to 30 people moved into the assault. The defense forces were able to fight back. Then three Ukrainians were killed in the fighting, and another received torture. Among the losses of the enemy: about 40 personnel and the commander of the battalion “DPR” with the nickname “Greek”, who also tried to storm the positions of ATO forces in the Avdiivka industrial zone.
Avdiyivka is an industrial city 13 kilometers from Donetsk, there was even a direct trolleybus. Before the beginning of the Russian aggression in 2014, about 40 thousand people lived there. It was from Avdiivka that it was possible to control: the northern outskirts of Donetsk and Yasinovataya, the southern outskirts of Horlivka, as well as the strategic route M04 “Donetsk — Horlivka”.
In April 2014, militants proclaimed a “Donetsk People's Republic” in Avdiivka, but on 28 July the Ukrainian defence forces liberated the city during a general offensive on Donetsk. However, the situation was somewhat more complicated with the industrial zone. There were no Ukrainian strongholds, although the industrial zone is within Avdiyivka. This is what loosened the hands of the militants, who crossed the demarcation line and attacked Ukrainian positions, in particular, shooting civilians. The Ukrainian military decided to de-occupy the industrial zone for the sake of the safety of civilians.
At the beginning of 2016, the 16th battalion of the 58th brigade took the Avdiyivsk industrial zone, so space was opened for the destruction of enemy vehicles on the Donetsk-Horlivka highway. However, from March of the same year, militants began to actively shell Avdiyivka.
The greatest aggravation of the situation in the Avdiyivka area came on the anniversary of the battle near Kruty, January 29, 2017. Due to active Russian shelling, local residents were left without light, water and heating, for whom the Ukrainian side deployed heating points.
After its liberation and until the full-scale Russian invasion in 2022, the Avdeyev industrial zone remained one of the hottest points on the map of the Russian-Ukrainian war. The fighting here has practically not subsided for several years at any time of the day. In some places, the positions of the Russian-separatist forces were only a few meters away.
Photojournalist Oleksandr Klymenko repeatedly documented the newly occupied positions of Ukrainian troops from 2016 until the invasion. Sometimes he stayed overnight with the boys, slept in the basement.
“I went there many times in 2016, and in 2017, and in 2018, and in 2019. The last time I was there was in February 2022 on the eve of the invasion. There was then the 25th Brigade. Paratroopers. They said, “We are ready!” They all talked about it!” — recalls Oleksandr Klymenko, “Foreign journalists always went there, because Avdiivka industrial zone has always been a place where some battles took place, shelling continued or ceasefire was declared and again shelling, etc. Conventionally, then it was the closest place to the enemy.”
For almost 10 years, the Russians tried to occupy Avdiyivka, and after more than 3,100 days of defense, the city fell. February 17, 2023, Armed Forces of Ukraine came out from Avdiivka to avoid the surroundings. The defense forces moved to more favorable frontiers.
Recall that the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers has started a series of materials dedicated to key events of the Russian war against Ukraine, where he publishes memoirs and photographs of Ukrainian documentary photographers.
Life as a Deadline: 10 Years of War in the Photos of Alexander Klymenko
Oleksandr Klymenko was born in Chernihiv region. Graduate of the Faculty of Journalism of Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. From 1991 to 2024 — photocorrespondent of the newspaper “Voice of Ukraine”. In 1992, he documented events in Transnistria, then in the former Yugoslavia, as well as Lebanon, Kuwait, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Cote d'Ivoire, South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. During the Revolution of Dignity, being in the very epicenter of events, Alexander was wounded. Since the beginning of the Russian military aggression in 2014 in the East, he has been filming events at the front. Oleksandr is the author of several photo albums, including: “Ukraine. 10 years of progress” (2001), “Peacekeeping activities of the Ukrainian army. The First Decade” (2004), “Through Fire and Tears” (2009), “Front Album” (2016). “The latest history of Ukrainian journalism. From Maidan to Maidan” co-authored with Yuriy Nesteryak, Julia Nesteryak (2022). Had personal photo exhibitions at UN Headquarters in New York (2012), NATO Headquarters in Brussels (2012, 2013, 2014), Lithuania (2015), Poland (2015, 2016, 2023), Luxembourg (2015), Norway (2023), Latvia (2022), participated in collective exhibitions on the war in Ukraine in the parliaments of Great Britain (2015) and Denmark (2014).
The fighting in Debaltseve became one of the key events in the confrontation in Donbas. The most intense phase of the battle lasted from January 25 to February 18, 2015, including massive artillery attacks, small arms fire, and street and tank battles. According to the General Staff of the Armed Forces, about 5 thousand soldiers defended Debaltseve, they were opposed by four times larger forces of the occupiers. The fighting for the city and the operation to withdraw Ukrainian troops became one of the most tragic and large-scale events in the entire period of the ATO/PLO.
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes photos of photojournalist Oleksandr Klymenko, who documented the withdrawal of Ukrainian troops from Debaltsev after heavy fighting.
On July 29, 2014, the Defense Forces liberated Debaltseve from the illegal armed groups that had controlled the city since April. However, seven months later, the Ukrainian military was forced to leave the city. Russian mercenaries shell residential neighborhoods with “Grad” and tanks. Militants with the support of regular Russian troops managed to surround the city on three sides.
At this time, negotiations of the “Normandy Four” continued in Minsk. The Russians promised a complete ceasefire, but only on paper. Debaltseve continued to suffer from intense shelling. Militants with the support of units of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, sought at any cost to encircle and defeat our troops. After the establishment of a conditional truce, pro-Russian mercenaries transferred to Debaltseve forces from other directions. As a result, shelling of Ukrainian positions increased even more.
There were almost no additional reserves to support ATO forces in Debaltseve. Therefore, on the night of February 17-18, 2015, Ukrainian troops began withdrawing troops from Debaltseve. For more than a day, they went out in small columns along different routes, with equipment battered and wounded, under shelling. Some went on foot. Because of the frosts, it was planned to go out not only on highways, but also on field roads.
For versionThe General Staff of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, holding Debaltsevsky bridgehead until February 18, Ukrainian troops thwarted the militants' plans for a large-scale offensive on Artemivsk (Bakhmut), Kramatorsk and further movement in the direction of Kharkov. Ukrainian troops had never made such a massive withdrawal until now. In the battles on the Debaltsevsky bridgehead, the whole world saw the professionalism and readiness of Ukrainian soldiers. Ukrainian forces took positions near Artemivsk, present-day Bakhmut. Debaltseve is still under Russian occupation.
Oleksandr Klymenko is a photojournalist who, even before the beginning of independence, began filming the main events in Ukraine. In addition, he has repeatedly covered armed conflicts in different countries of the world. However, in 2014, he had to put on an armored vest and go with his camera to the war in his country. He managed to record the movement of columns of Ukrainian equipment during the exit from Debaltsev.
“They go, they go, they go, they go. Tanks of all kinds there, SAU, just loading machines. BMP, BTR. They are all filled with our soldiers. The military is so tired. Those who came out of hell,” says the photographer.
In Alexander's photographs, not only the tired eyes of the soldiers were preserved, but also the wounded and dead as a result of the fighting for Debaltseve.
“I met the New Year 2015 together with the Right Sector in Pisky. I clearly remember my feeling that in 2015 the war will definitely end. It seemed that victory was about to be won. But you see... Then there was the exit from Debaltsev on February 18, 2015. I was in Bakhmut at that moment and in the morning I saw tanks and other military equipment driving through the city, on which tired men were sitting. I filmed it. Then he went to the hospital. The wounded were brought there. I asked one national guard, and where were the dead? “How where? In the morgue.” And I went there. On the street lay wooden graves made of unhewn boards. They had soldiers. Their arms and legs peered through the slits. In addition to the graves, there were still black plastic bags with bodies. It was a terrible picture and very bitter emotions,” recalls Oleksandr Klymenko.
February 18 is called the Day of Remembrance of the Battles for Debaltseve, on this day they honor those killed during the Debaltseve operation. According to the Ministry of Defense, during the fighting in the area of Debaltseve from January 15 to February 18, 110 servicemen were killed, 270 were wounded, 7 were captured, 18 were missing. During the entire defense of the Debaltsevsk salient, 136 Ukrainian servicemen were killed and 331 were wounded.
Recall that the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers has started a series of materials dedicated to key events of the Russian war against Ukraine, where he publishes memoirs and photographs of Ukrainian documentary photographers.
Life as a Deadline: 10 Years of War in the Photos of Olexandr Klymenko
Oleksandr Klymenko was born in Chernihiv region. Graduate of the Faculty of Journalism of Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. From 1991 to 2024 — photocorrespondent of the newspaper “Voice of Ukraine”. In 1992, he documented events in Transnistria, then in the former Yugoslavia, as well as Lebanon, Kuwait, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Cote d'Ivoire, South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. During the Revolution of Dignity, being in the very epicenter of events, Alexander was wounded. Since the beginning of the Russian military aggression in 2014 in the East, he has been filming events at the front. Oleksandr is the author of several photo albums, including: “Ukraine. 10 years of progress” (2001), “Peacekeeping activities of the Ukrainian army. The First Decade” (2004), “Through Fire and Tears” (2009), “Front Album” (2016). “The latest history of Ukrainian journalism. From Maidan to Maidan” co-authored with Yuriy Nesteryak, Julia Nesteryak (2022). Had personal photo exhibitions at UN Headquarters in New York (2012), NATO Headquarters in Brussels (2012, 2013, 2014), Lithuania (2015), Poland (2015, 2016, 2023), Luxembourg (2015), Norway (2023), Latvia (2022), participated in collective exhibitions on the war in Ukraine in the parliaments of Great Britain (2015) and Denmark (2014).
On the morning of January 31, 2017, the Armed Forces of Ukraine repulsed the stronghold of the militants “Almaz-2” in Avdiyivka in the Donetsk region. The position was strategically important in the overall defense system of the country, as it allowed to control the roads Donetsk-Luhansk and Donetsk-Horlivka.
The Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers publishes photos of photojournalist Oleksandr Klymenko, who documented the situation at the position of “Almaz-2” occupied by Ukrainian forces in Avdiyivka.
Since 2014, for every conquered meter of Ukrainian land, it was necessary to pay in blood. In April, separatists proclaimed the so-called Donetsk People's Republic in Avdiivka. However, in a few months, in July, a strong yellow veil again loomed in the city: the Armed Forces returned the city to Ukrainian control. In the future, between 2014 and 2015, almost no active fighting took place in the Avdiyivka area. There was a relatively calm situation. The reason was that the enemy sent almost all of its forces to the fighting for Debaltseve and in the area of Donetsk airport. In February 2016, militants attempted to take Avdiyivka and push the demarcation line. Ukrainian troops not only repelled the enemy, but were able to push him back. January 2017 was remembered for heavy fighting. After a prolonged, seemingly calm situation at the front, the whole of Ukraine learned about the Avdiyev “industrial zone” and the stronghold “Diamond-2", as well as the names of the fighters of the 72nd OMB named after. Black Zaporozhts, about whom Ukrainian and international media wrote. Under the onslaught of Ukrainian troops, the terrorists were forced to retreat, but quickly recovered and began to conduct artillery fire in order to regain these positions.
At the end of January 2017, the fighters of the 72nd OMB named after Cherny Zaporozhtsy held the position of “Diamond-2" for a week under the fierce fire of the enemy.
Andriy Verkhozhda, together with Andriy Kyzyl and his brothers courageously repelled the enemy's attacks before the approach of the main forces. The fiercest fighting between Ukrainian fighters and terrorist groups lasted several days — from January 29 to February 6, 2017. After the stronghold was captured by the Ukrainian army, it was renamed in honor of the deceased Andrei Kyzyl. He was deputy commander of the 1st battalion of the 72nd OMB, whose fighters stormed the position. Then it was called “Eagle”, it was such a callsign for 23-year-old Combatant Andrei Kyzyl.
In the fighting on January 29-30 for the position “Diamond-2" were killed: Deputy Battalion Commander Captain Andriy Kyzilo, Soldier Dmitry Overchenko, Junior Sergeant Volodymyr Balchenko, Sergeant Volodymyr Kryzhansky, Soldiers Oleg Burets, Vitaliy Shashay Yaroslav Pavlyuk and Yaroslav. During the full-scale invasion of the Russian Federation on June 23, 2022, at the age of 27, Major Andriy Verkhozhda died in battle.
Then, in January 2017, the losses of pro-Russian militants from the 1st Battalion of the 100th Brigade of the DPR were estimated at nine killed and about thirty wounded.
Each enemy height, stronghold or checkpoint is not only a springboard for further offensives, but first of all an opportunity to push the occupying forces further to the East and thereby reduce the intensity of shelling of front-line cities.
Photojournalist Oleksandr Klymenko recalls that the news about the captured positions in Avdiivka from the militants then caused him pleasant emotions, because for several years the Ukrainian forces did not advance. “The troops stood and stood. No one moved anywhere, so here we managed to get the stronghold “Diamond”, — recalls Klimenko.
He remembers the stories of servicemen who fought for the “Diamond” with the enemy. “The guys said it was really hard. It was very difficult to fight with militants and repulse those positions. They talked about how they moved through the aisles. It was a grueling battle.”
The Armed Forces of Ukraine defended Avdiyivka, in particular the industrial zone and “Diamonds” until 2023. February 17 Ukrainian troops came out from Avdiivka to avoid the surroundings. The defense forces moved to more favorable frontiers.
Recall that the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers has started a series of materials dedicated to key events of the Russian war against Ukraine, where he publishes memoirs and photographs of Ukrainian documentary photographers.
Life as a Deadline: 10 Years of War in the Photos of Alexander Klymenko
Oleksandr Klymenko was born in Chernihiv region. Graduate of the Faculty of Journalism of Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. From 1991 to 2024 — photocorrespondent of the newspaper “Voice of Ukraine”. In 1992, he documented events in Transnistria, then in the former Yugoslavia, as well as Lebanon, Kuwait, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Cote d'Ivoire, South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. During the Revolution of Dignity, being in the very epicenter of events, Alexander was wounded. Since the beginning of the Russian military aggression in 2014 in the East, he has been filming events at the front. Oleksandr is the author of several photo albums, including: “Ukraine. 10 years of progress” (2001), “Peacekeeping activities of the Ukrainian army. The First Decade” (2004), “Through Fire and Tears” (2009), “Front Album” (2016). “The latest history of Ukrainian journalism. From Maidan to Maidan” co-authored with Yuriy Nesteryak, Julia Nesteryak (2022). Had personal photo exhibitions at UN Headquarters in New York (2012), NATO Headquarters in Brussels (2012, 2013, 2014), Lithuania (2015), Poland (2015, 2016, 2023), Luxembourg (2015), Norway (2023), Latvia (2022), participated in collective exhibitions on the war in Ukraine in the parliaments of Great Britain (2015) and Denmark (2014).
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We continue with a series of interviews with professional Ukrainian documentarians.
About photo editing, the role of bill-editors in the media and the voices of Ukrainians in the international field, we talked with Danylo Pavlov and Irinka Gromodska.
Watch the full interview on YouTube:
Danylo Pavlov:
Bild editor is a person who is responsible for the images that will appear in the media. Bild editor and photo editor or photo editor is a person who deals with the entire process of maintaining visual material from conceptualization to publication, including communication with photographers and journalists.
Irinka Gromotska:
Photo editor or photo editor are people who, among other things, are engaged in bill-editing. Text and visual should be a collaboration that complements each other.
Irinka Gromotska:
The Kyiv Independent is a news media outlet, but this does not mean that we publish only news material. We also have reports, longrads, art reports. Photography is a tool like text, infographics and design. Depending on the purpose of the material, you need to choose one or another configuration of tools. People like to look at people, people empathize with people. The visual component is often what may interest a person to read the text.
Danylo Pavlov:
The photo editor influences the choice of photographers for shooting and thus shapes the face of the media.
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Irinka Gromotska:
The photo illustrates, but does not have to be literal.
Danylo Pavlov:
A well-constructed photo story, which consists of literally 12-15 frames, can bring you into such a feeling that you watched a short film.
Danylo Pavlov:
We get the materials, and it is important how they are baked. For example, Katya Moskalyuk, Mykhailo Palinchak, Serhiy Korovaynyi — their pitches are clear and understandable. We see the series and understand how to add it all up.
Irinka Gromotska:
I am interested in seeing photographers who are interested in their material, who can talk about their material themselves, who themselves understand the value of their material, and have their own vision.
There should be a dialogue and comfortable interaction between the photo editor and the photographer. On a bad relationship, nothing worthy and integral can be built.
Danylo Pavlov
Irinka Gromodska
Our main audience at The Kyiv Independent is a foreign audience. And a certain mission of our media is that Ukrainian photographers, photographers, journalists and journalists, so that their talents are highlighted. In order to be able to highlight the work of our professionals and professionals, they must understand that their work is needed.
Danylo Pavlov:
I trust the people I work with, and I hope they trust that their material, in which they have invested so much, I will present as best as I can. I will not just take their material without consulting them regarding the final sample, without talking to them how they would feel best.
It seems to me that only in such an atmosphere can valuable material grow. If photographers and photographers do not feel that they are valued, if they do not feel that their material will be beautifully presented on the site, not among advertisements, not small, if they do not feel that the photo editors themselves and the editorial staff themselves do not understand the value of their work, then what will be the motivation for them to work in the field?
Irinka Gromodska:
Do we have a voice? I think we have a voice. What is missing is warm contacts with foreign editors.
It is a question of freedom of choice and determinism. Either we think we can't get into foreign media because of invisible forces, or we do everything we can to win this place.
At the beginning of the full-scale invasion, I was studying abroad, and the largest American newspapers came to our library every day. And I just remember that every day there on the main, A1, Ukraine, Ukraine and so on, and so on, with every newspaper pictures of our cities and our people, and in no timeline for some reason I don't see our people.
If the media positions itself as foreign, why is the lion's share of people who tell about the world there from North America or Western Europe? And this is really the remnant of colonialism.
We have great examples where added value to stories adds a deep understanding of context. For example, Oksana Parafeniuk, a Ukrainian photographer, makes excellent materials about Ukraine and represents us qualitatively. Other examples are Brendan Hoffman and Natalie Keisar, who teach Ukrainian and focus on Ukraine, which allows them to make in-depth material. They invest time and resources to understand the region, unlike those who come through the conjuncture. This is a big difference.
Danylo Pavlov:
Every photographer influences reality with his vision and style. You can take a story out of the war in a very noir way, but you can add hope. We influence what comes out, one way or another.
The arrival of foreign photographers is a positive moment. Our photographers do not always see what is interesting to the world. This broadens our horizons and understanding of which projects can be of interest internationally.
This interview was made possible thanks to the support work.ua.
Irinka Gromotska— photo editor of The Kyiv Independent. She earned a master's degree in photojournalism from the Missouri School of Journalism under the Fulbright Program. Previously, Irinka was the curator of the exhibition “Struggle for Dignity”, which highlighted the resilience of Ukrainians, interned at Magnum Foundation, worked with Magnum Photos and was assistant photo editor of the photobook FotoEvidence “Ukraine: War Crime”. Her photographs have been published by publications such as Radio Liberty, Reuters, The New York Times and The Guardian. While working at Kyiv Independent, Irinka actively liaises with photojournalists covering events in Ukraine, paying particular attention to the promotion of long-lasting visual stories.
Danylo Pavlov— photojournalist since 2009, worked in the regional media of Donetsk, and later in the media holding “Segodnya” and the UNIAN agency. He also worked as a commercial photographer for several Ukrainian companies. In photojournalism, it focuses on creating social photo stories and illustrating long-read reports.
In addition to working in traditional media, Danylo also contributed to the online magazine The Ukrainians, and later became responsible for the visual direction of a separate edition of Reporters, which now exists both online and in print.
Danylo continues to photograph and cover the events following the full-scale invasion on February 24, 2022. He reports from de-occupied territories and military positions, and is currently working on a long-running photo project documenting the impact of war on servicemen and civilians in need of plastic surgery. He also collaborates with the State Emergency Service, for which he was awarded the State Badge of Honor last year.
Founder of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, BAFTA winner and Oscar winner, director of the documentary film “20 Days in Mariupol” Mstyslav Chernov requested to the jury of the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
If Mstyslav Chernov agrees to the proposal, he will vote for the Oscar winners in the nomination “Best Documentary”.
In total, 487 new members were invited to the Academy jury this year. Among them — 71 nominees for the award and 19 winners, writes The Guardian.
“We are delighted to welcome this year's new entrants,” said Academy CEO Bill Kramer and President Janet Young. “These extremely talented artists and professionals from around the world have made a significant impact on our community of filmmakers.”
If all invited artists agree, the number of members of the organization will reach 10,910, of whom 9,934 will have the right to vote in 2025. The American Film Academy tries to diversify the composition of its representatives, inviting about 400 people every year.
Recall that Mstislav Chernov's film “20 Days in Mariupol” received the Oscar as the best feature documentary. This award was the first for Ukraine.
In March 2022, Mstyslav Chernov, along with colleagues from the Associated Press Yevgeny Maloletka and Vasilisa Stepanenko, were the only international team of journalists working in Mariupol and sending materials from there. The documentary shows the beginning of a full-scale invasion of the Russian Federation, the lives of peaceful residents of Mariupol under siege, the bombing of the hospital and residential quarters of the city, as well as the places of mass burials. In 2023, the authors of the tape became the winners of the Pulitzer Prize in the category “Service to Society”. Also, the film “20 Days in Mariupol” won the nomination “Best Documentary” at the prestigious British BAFTA Film Awards. In addition, Mstislav Chernov was awarded the US Directors Guild Award for “outstanding directorial achievements in documentary film”.
Mstyslav Chernov ---- Ukrainian photographer, Associated Press journalist, director, war correspondent, President of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers, honorary member of PEN Ukraine and writer. He covered the Revolution of Dignity, the war in eastern Ukraine, the aftermath of the downing of the Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777, the Syrian civil war, the battle of Mosul in Iraq, the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, including the blockade of Mariupol. For this work, he received Deutsche Welle Freedom of Speech Award, Georgy Gongadze Award, Knight International Journalism Awards, Biagio Agnes Award, Bayeux Calvados-Normandy Award, Elijah Parish Lovejoy Award, Free Media Awards. According to the results of 2022, he was included in the ratings “People of NV 2022 in the Year of the War” and “14 songs, photos and art objects that became symbols of Ukrainian resistance” from “Forbes Ukraine”, and video materials from Mariupol became the basis of the film “20 Days in Mariupol”, which in 2024 was for the first time in the history of Ukrainian cinema Awarded an Oscar.
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WEYUAPP is an art project created by Italian photographer Lisa Borgiani in partnership with the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers (UAPP). The project is a continuation of the series “What does Europe mean to you?” (WEY), which explores the sense of European identity through the personal histories and visual images of residents of European countries.
Four Ukrainian photographers — Katya Moskalyuk (Lviv), Olga Kovalyova (Kharkiv), Mykhailo Palinchak (Kyiv) and Timofiy Melnikov (Odessa) — created a series of photographs where each portrait reveals one feeling, one name and one location related to Europe.
The photos show people whom photographers met in four cities and asked them one simple question: “What does Europe mean to you?” The project aims to reflect the diversity of views on European identity, to demonstrate Europe's cultural and linguistic richness and to stimulate reflection on the concept of “Europeanness”.
WEYUAPP becomes an important contribution to the debate on European identity in the context of contemporary political and social changes, giving Ukrainians the right to vote and offering them the opportunity to share their thoughts and feelings about Europe.
What is Europe for you? Help, future, example!
Andrey, 25 years old, call sign “Spytsia”, BTR driver.
Donetsk region, Ukraine, February 14, 2024
What is Europe for you? Europe is a certain type of thinking.
Eugene and Alexandra, 37 and 28 years old, military.
Ukraine, Odessa, beach “Lanzheron”.
February 23, 2024
What is Europe for you? Europe is a difficult path for our country to the goal.
Yakov Lyashenko, owner of a sewing production, volunteer, photographer.
What is Europe for you? Europe is a cultural diversity.
Yuri, lecturer of the Department of Tourism.
The project will be exhibited in Ukraine and other European countries. It also has a website and pages on social networks where you can learn more about it and its members.
WEYUAPP is a true artistic journey that reveals European identity through personal stories and emotions captured in photographs.
Social networks:
The material was worked on:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Marusia Maruzhenko
Site Manager: Vladislav Kuhar
The edition with photos of leading photographers documenting Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine was presented by the Ukrainian House in partnership with the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers. The book is based on pictures that were exhibited in October 2022 in the exhibition project “FLASH”. The goal is to preserve and disseminate the evidence of the events of the war through the author's optics of leading Ukrainian photographers.
The exposition included 500 works of Ukrainian photographers, among which, in particular, participants of the Ukrainian Association of Professional Photographers: Mstislav Chernov (founder of UAFF), Taras Bychko, Alexey Furman, Pavel Dorogoy, Sergey Melnychenko, Igor Chekachkov, Yevgeny Zavgeny Yurko Diachishin, Yurko Diachishin, Yana Kononova, Sasha Maslov, Mykhailo Palinchak, Olena Grom, Sergey Mikhalchuk and Serhiy Korovainy.
“Forming the dramaturgy of the album, we sought to present the fullness of the author's statements, to show a wide range of emotions — not only through war photography, but also through modern Ukrainian in general: street, studio, landscape, portrait, chamber scenes, nudes,” says the curator of the project Alice Grishanova.
In terms of idea and content, the album “Flash” conveys the reality and multilayedness in which Ukrainians live and fight for victory.
Irpin, Bucha, Saltovka in Kharkiv, mass burial in Izyum, Kakhovsk hydroelectric power plant, counter-offensive of the Armed Forces in the South — these and other footage of key events of the war are presented in the publication. The reference point for the selection of photos was the date of February 24, 2022.
Alina Hrishanova emphasizes that war photography and wartime photography are not identical phenomena: “But taken together they form a general picture of the tragedy, reflect the theater of hostilities, the heroics of resistance, the history of people, their psychological state, death and life, pain and hope.”
“Photos that instantly spread across social networks around the world played an extremely important role in the perception of the war,” says Olga Vieru, director of the Ukrainian House. “Their influence is difficult to overestimate, because it was they who discovered the truth and shaped the attitude to certain events. Emotional response to truthful photos helped resolve the issue of comprehensive support for Ukraine in the civilizational battle at the world's leading diplomatic and political platforms.”
Most of the bill will be transferred to public institutions as well as project partners in order to communicate this evidence to a wide audience inside and outside the country. The album was published by Ukrainian House with the support of Ukrgasbank. Typography — “From A to Z”.
The material was worked on:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Marusia Maruzhenko
Site Manager: Vladislav Kuhar
Dmytro Malyshev is a photographer, recently a member of the UAFF, who has been engaged in panoramic photography for more than 10 years. Since the beginning of Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Dmitry has documented the consequences of Russian crimes in VR format. By this time he had taken more than 1700 panoramic photographs in more than 30 settlements.
“VR is a very useful service that can fully show destroyed objects and destroyed settlements. It gives unique opportunities to display a specific place. In my opinion, this is the most emotional format that can transfer a person to this place, to this location, and make it possible to feel everything that happened there,” says Dmytro.
The photographer notes that he makes not just panoramic shots, but spherical: “That is, such a shooting covers 360 degrees. What does it look like? Imagine such a ball, inside which the viewer is and looks around, that is, he sees the space around. So a person can plunge into a certain location: to be in this destroyed and burnt apartment. In fact, a person himself becomes a director, choosing the desired angle. She can see everything around her. She can look under her feet and see the remains of the residents' personal belongings. And then it can lift its head up and see the broken floors hanging over it.”
Dmytro started doing panoramic photography in 2013 and virtual tours since 2015, since Google Street View came to Ukraine. Google Street View is a feature for panoramic views of streets around the world, provided through the Google Maps and Google Earth extensions.
“Since 2016, together with the Ukrainian office of Google Street View, we have filmed many objects. We even filmed the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine, the Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine and much more. At the same time, I was contacted by the State Enterprise “Antonov”, and I was shooting the Ukrainian plane “Mriya”. It was a virtual tour: both outside and inside. There was the passenger compartment, the cockpit, and everything else was filmed.”
Of all the footage that Dmitry had to shoot, it was the documentation of the destroyed “Dream” in VR format that was the most emotional moment for him. In 2016, he was proud to have had the opportunity to make the only one in the world virtual tour of the largest cargo aircraftIt was created by the Ukrainians. Even before the invasion, Dmitry was negotiating with SE “Antonov” to update the virtual tour, because during these few years technical progress had been made. New better lenses and software appeared, so it was possible to shoot the Ukrainian “Dream” even better. The photographer got access to shooting in 2022, but with a different purpose.
“Broken, burned, blown up “Mriya” is an AN-225 aircraft. We and SP “Antonov” had big plans for 2022, but I had to shoot, I say, the dead “Dream”. Of course, when I got to this location, frankly, I had tears in my eyes. I stood, looked at her, and she lies like a person, just dead. I was in complete shock, how could this be allowed, because the AN-225 aircraft is the property not only of Ukraine, but of the whole world. This is the only such plane! It was very emotional for me,” Dmytro admits.
The photographer actively takes panoramic shots and virtual tours for the project 360war.in.ua, the author of which is Taras Volyanjuk. This is a map where you can see the consequences of Russian aggression in certain locations: “This is a story that needs to be recorded. It's a documentary so people don't forget. This is the idea of the project,” says Dmytro.
The team removes mostly destroyed or damaged civilian infrastructure by the Russians: schools, kindergartens, apartment buildings. For security purposes, Dmytro never covers what is connected with military facilities and may threaten national security.
Unfortunately, the war continues, the Russians are shelling Ukrainians every day, and therefore the number of places that need to be recorded digitally is also growing. Dmitry says that feedback from people gives strength to continue working in this direction.
“We have had cases where people commented on filmed locations. For example, when we published pictures from the village of Dovgenske in Kharkiv region, people began to write: “This is my grandmother's house”, “Not far from this house my husband died”. Someone wrote, “We had defenses there.” And once the teacher of the destroyed school wrote: “We were preparing food for the military in this school until the last time,” he says.
When asked what Dmytro wants to shoot in VR format, he replied — Mariupol and Crimea: “When Google Street View entered Ukraine in 2015, the Russians had already annexed Crimea. And there are a lot of incredible tourist, historical, cultural places. This is such a simple dream.”
The material was worked on:
Researcher of the topic, author of the text: Vira Labych
Bildeditor: Olga Kovalyova
Literary Editor: Julia Futei
Site Manager: Vladislav Kuhar
Oleksandr Klymenko— photojournalist who, even before the beginning of independence, began filming the main events in Ukraine. In addition, he has repeatedly covered armed conflicts in different countries of the world. However, in 2014, he had to put on an armored vest and go with his camera to the war in his country. In the spring of 2024, it will be 10 years since the Russians tried to destroy Ukraine. The main events and figures of this decade of national liberation competitions are in the documentary photos of the war correspondent Oleksandr Klymenko.
1992-2012 — two decades in military conflict zones in Bosnia, Kosovo, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Kuwait, Congo, South Sudan, Nagorno-Karabakh and Transnistria.
So it is said that journalists who film in the war are called military officers. But frankly, I don't like it. We, civilian journalists, document not only war. And the military officers are those who are always at war: the press officers of the units, the journalists of the military media. But let it be. My first business trip to the military conflict zone occurred on April 12, 1992 in Transnistria. Then he traveled to the countries of the former Yugoslavia from 1994 to 2008, then Africa... He covered the events there. Of course, our revolutions of 2004 and 2014.
At some point it seemed that there was nothing left to shoot on the Maidan until the hot phase began. On January 19, 2014 — the first battles on Hrushevsky.
There I was wounded: someone from the militia threw a light-noise grenade, it fell clearly close to my leg, exploded and pierced my calf, damaged the “flounder” muscle. This is where the Maidan is almost over for me. Hospitalization and surgery. And then the Russian-Ukrainian war.
I graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Shevchenko University, so I have always been and still am a photojournalist. Immediately after university, from 1986, he worked for four and a half years in the then most widely circulated newspaper, “Village News”. And then in the newspaper “Voice of Ukraine”, since 1991, from the first to the last day of the publication's existence — 33 years and 3 months. This parliamentary newspaper ceased to exist as a pan-political media on April 1, 2024. Currently, only official information and laws are printed. It was one of the last daily all-Ukrainian newspapers still in print. In 1991, the Voice of Ukraine, against the background of monotonous communist newspapers, had a daily circulation of up to a million copies. I believe that my newspaper is the most accurate textbook of the latest history of Ukraine. Proud of his work in this publication. Also in the early 90's I was a freelance photojournalist in Ukraine for the authoritative German magazine Der Spiegel. It was published in other foreign publications.
I still do not believe that there is a war in my country. It's very bitter. The flower of the nation is dying. My comrades who I knew from peacekeeping missions are dying.
2014—2015 — Oleksandr shot soldiers every month in the ATO zone
Awareness of the war came on January 19, 2014 on Hrushevsky Street during the Revolution of Dignity, when I saw everything there flying, shooting, burning. It was already urban fighting... I covered Ukrainian peacekeeping missions in Africa several times. There I met a lot of our helicopters.
So, in 2014, of course, I wanted to go to helicopters. While I was preparing the necessary permits from the General Staff to get to them, they had already flown from Konotop to Chernihiv airfield. I arrived in Chernihiv on April 30, we talked, I got acquainted. They agreed that I would come again on May 1 and collect them during the flights. I was unable to leave that day. And on May 2, the Russians near Slavyansk shot down two MI-24 helicopters. There are 3 people in each car. The crew consists of: commander, pilot-operator and flight technician. That is, two MI-24s had 6 people: five died, only one escaped. I knew all five of these guys. We met in Africa. That's it.
Now the story is second. I again wanted to visit the military, again obtained the necessary permits for a long time, again applied to helicopters. It was June 4th. Pilots of the 16th Separate Brigade of the Army Aviation “Brody”then were based at the civilian airfield in Dnipro. In the morning we came to the airfield checkpoint, talked with the commander, and on his radio we reported the shooting down of two more of our MI-24s. This is my awareness of war. In the end, in the afternoon, I did fly on the MI-8. We were on Mount Karachun, near Slavyansk. There were just fights going on. Helicopters in general — my pain. Perhaps because I talked a lot with them, I am familiar with many. These are brave warriors. I think that it is more dangerous to fight on a helicopter than on fighters, closer to the ground. But they are fighting. You hear what was shot down there or there, you find out who. Do you read how they are posthumously awarded the title of Hero of Ukraine, and whether they are awarded posthumously the Order of Helicopters? pilots of the Army Air Forces... Sometimes I catch myself thinking that I do not want to know about their deaths, may they remain alive in my memory.
I tried to go to Donbas at least once a month. With the 95th Brigade in June he again went to Karachun, but already by land. Later I was with them near the village of Kriva Luka. There was hot fighting on a busy beachhead, on June 25, 2014 we drove there in a convoy with paratroopers. The commander of the brigade, one of the first Heroes of Ukraine, Mikhail Zabrodsky, commanded there. It was like some kind of World War II movie. Everyone is running somewhere, someone is carrying a machine gun, shells, somewhere further on the fire the guys are cooking to eat. Later, the artillery of the 95th began to work. Only the art commander was human, everyone else — mobilized.
Then we were in Schasta, near the village of Metalist in early July. There he met the (then) colonel of the 30th Brigade, later the commander of the 58th Brigade, and now a general Serhiy Zabolotny. He is now Chief of Staff — Deputy Chief National Defense University of Ukraine. I always remember how I called him back then from Kiev, agreed. Explosions could be heard on the phone, and he answered me in a calm intelligent voice: “Excuse me, please, I'm just leading the fight. Could you call me a little later?” We are friends with this decent man until now.
When on July 8 we reached the position of “thirty”, from which the outskirts of Luhansk are already visible, there was a heavy downpour. The BMP stood in a caponair like in a lake. The artillerymen were preparing for battle, unloading newly brought shells. The tank stood on the edge of a wheat field that no one could collect anymore. In the midst of the rain, the fighters of “Aidar” returned from reconnaissance, looking like ghosts. With artillery powder (because wet), the fighters lit bonfires to cook food. Also a picture from the cinema. But she is real.
On August 24, 2014, a military parade took place in Kiev. The column of paratroopers was led by Mikhail Zabrodsky. To continue the story, I just needed to photograph it. Max Levinthe day before he tells me that he is driving to Ilovaisk and invites me. I tell him about my plan to shoot the parade and say that I will take the train in the evening of August 24 to the Dnieper, and then somehow join them. On August 25, I was already at the field KP near Kurakhovo. On August 26, a column arrived from Ilovaisk. The weary, suffocated colonel, at my request to get into that city, says: “Where are you going? We barely got out of there. The wounded were taken out. It is no longer possible to get there.” So I did not get to Ilovaisk. (Well, you know how Max and his comrades miraculously escaped from Ilovaisk). And in the continuation of this: you make a lot of effort to get somewhere, you get nervous, you ask - and it's not. One wise man told me: so God (or Angel) does not want to let you there, he knows something, so relax and swim in the wave...
Another memorable event is the liberation of Pisky village near Donetsk on July 24, 2014. We got there by chance just at this time. Journalistic luck. The morning began at 5 o'clock with an assault with artillery training. Then infantry on tanks and BMP began to enter the village. All according to military textbooks. Not every day then was it so lucky that you witnessed the liberation of the village. There, by the way, I met the soldiers of the 93rd Brigade and then became friends with many of them: a sniper Oleksandr Mamaluyi(currently serving as Chairman of the Supreme Court of Ukraine), tanker Yevgeny Mezhevikin(Hero of Ukraine, commander of the tactical group “Adam”), others. Even in the distant Congo in 2018, one soldier recognized my last name, came up and said that he was in my photo when taking Sand.
In addition to the newspaper, I made a Facebook post about the event. I mentioned that there, in Pervomaisk, near Pisky, our broken tank lay on the road. And one person wrote to me that he can tell a lot about this particular tank. It was a colonel (then a lieutenant colonel, commander of the 93rd Tank Battalion) Dmytro Kashchenko. We met him, he told us about the heavy battle in which he sustained eight injuries on July 21, 2014. I wrote a great text for the newspaper, which had a lot of reactions. Dmitry Kashchenko in September 2019 was appointed commander of the 58th Brigade. Since the beginning of the Russian invasion in 2022, the brigade fought in the Chernihiv direction, as you can see, successfully, because Chernihiv was not captured by the enemy. On April 15, 2022, Dmitry Kashchenko was awarded the title of Hero of Ukraine. We don't see him very often. The last time at the funeral of “Da Vinci”.
I met the new 2015 year together with “Right Sector” in Pisky. I clearly remember my feeling that in 2015 the war will definitely end. It seemed that victory was about to be won. But you see...
Then there was the exit from Debaltsev on February 18, 2015. I was in Bakhmut at that moment and in the morning I saw tanks and other military equipment driving through the city, on which tired men were sitting. I filmed it.
Then he went to the hospital. The wounded were brought there. I asked one national guard, and where were the dead? “How where? In the morgue.” And I went there. On the street lay wooden graves made of unhewn boards. They had soldiers. Their arms and legs peered through the slits. In addition to the graves, there were still black plastic bags with bodies. It was a terrible picture and very bitter emotions.
