Oleksandr Klymenko is a photojournalist who began photographing the key events in Ukraine even before independence. He has also repeatedly covered armed conflicts in various countries around the world. However, in 2014 he had to put on a body armor vest and go to war with a camera in his own country. In the spring of 2024, it will be 10 years since the Russians began trying to destroy Ukraine. The key events and figures of this decade of national liberation struggle are captured in documentary photographs by war correspondent Oleksandr Klymenko.
1992–2012 — two decades in zones of military conflict in Bosnia, Kosovo, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Kuwait, Congo, South Sudan, Nagorno-Karabakh, and Transnistria.
When exactly did your career as a war correspondent begin?
It so happens that journalists who shoot in war are called “war correspondents.” But to be honest, I don’t like that. We, civilian journalists, document not only war. And war correspondents are those who are always at war: press officers of units, journalists of military media. But let it be. My first assignment to a war zone was on 12 April 1992, to Transnistria. Then I traveled to the countries of the former Yugoslavia from 1994 to 2008, then Africa… I covered events there. And, of course, our revolutions in 2004 and 2014.
At sAt one point it seemed there was nothing left to photograph on the Maidan—until the hot phase began. 19 January 2014: the first clashes on Hrushevskoho Street.
That’s where I was wounded: someone from the police threw a stun’s grenade; it landed right next to my leg, exploded, and tore into my calf, damaging the soleus muscle. That was almost the end of the Maidan for me—hospitalization and surgery. And then the Russian–Ukrainian war.
Back then, were you a journalist or a photographer? Which media outlet did you work for?
I graduated from the Faculty of Journalism at Shevchenko University, so I have always been—and remain—a photojournalist. Right after university, starting in 1986, I worked for four and a half years at the most widely circulated newspaper at the time, Silski Visti. Then I worked for the newspaper Holos Ukrainy from 1991—from its first day until its last day as a full-fledged publication: 33 years and 3 months. This parliamentary newspaper ceased to exist as a general political media outlet on 1 April 2024. Today it prints only official information and laws. It was one of the last daily nationwide newspapers still published in print. In 1991, against the backdrop of monotonous communist newspapers, Holos Ukrainy had a daily circulation of up to one million copies. I believe my newspaper is the most accurate textbook of Ukraine’s modern history. I am proud of my work there. Also, in the early 1990s I was a freelance photo correspondent in Ukraine for the reputable German magazine Der Spiegel. I was published in other foreign outlets as well.
You are someone who has seen and photographed many wars and conflicts in different countries. What was it like to cover a war at home?
I still can’t believe there is a war in my country. It’s very bitter. The flower of the nation is dying. My comrades are dying people I knew from peacekeeping missions.
Do you remember the moment when you realized: Ukraine is at war?
The realization of war came on 19 January 2014 on Hrushevskoho Street during the Revolution of Dignity, when I saw everything flying, shooting, burning. Those were already urban battles… I had covered Ukrainian peacekeeping missions in Africa several times. That’s where I met many of our helicopter crew members.
So, in 2014, of course, I wanted to go to the helicopter crew. While I was arranging the necessary permits from the General Staff to get to them, they had already flown from Konotop to the Chernihiv airfield. I arrived in Chernihiv on 30 April, we talked, and I photographed. We agreed that I would come again on 1 May and photograph them during flights. But I didn’t manage to go that day. And on 2 May, near Sloviansk, the Russians shot down two Mi-24 helicopters. Each aircraft had a crew of three: the commander, the pilot-operator, and the flight engineer. That meant there were six people in two Mi-24s: five were killed, only one survived. I knew all five of those guys. We met in Africa. That’s how it was.
Now is the second story. I again wanted to spend time with the military, again it took a long time to obtain the necessary permits, and again I headed to the helicopter crews. This was on 4 June. The pilots of the 16th Separate Army Aviation Brigade “Brody” were then based at a civilian airfield in Dnipro. In the morning we came to the airfield checkpoint, spoke with the commander, and then his radio reported that two more of our Mi-24s had been shot down. That was my realization of war. In the end, in the second half of the day I did fly on a Mi-8. We were on Mount Karachun near Sloviansk. Fighting was going on there. In general, helicopter crews are my pain. Perhaps because I talked with them a lot and knew many of them personally. They are brave warriors. I think it is more dangerous to fight in a helicopter than in fighter jets—closer to the ground. But they fight. You hear that one was shot down here or there, and you find out who. Or you read how helicopter crews— Army Aviation pilots of the Ground Forces—are posthumously awarded the title Hero of Ukraine or decorated with orders… Sometimes I catch myself thinking that I don’t want to know about their deaths; let them remain alive in my memory.
Yaroslav Khodakivskyi “Yara” and Mykhailo Kozachenko “Angel,” Right Sector fighters, at the “Nebo” position. The settlement of Pisky near Donetsk, 21 November 2014. Photo by Oleksandr Klymenko
I tried to go to Donbas at least once a month. In June I went again to Karachun with the 95th Brigade, but this time by land. Later, with them as well, I was near the village of Kryva Luka. Fierce fighting was going on there on the newly captured bridgehead; on 25 June 2014 we drove in as part of a convoy together with the paratroopers. The brigade commander there was one of the first Heroes of Ukraine, Mykhailo Zabrodskyi. It was like a movie from the Second World War era. Everyone is running somewhere, someone is carrying a machine gun, shells; somewhere further on, over an open fire, the guys are cooking. Later the 95th artillery began working. Only the artillery commander was a career officer; everyone else— mobilized.
Then we were in Shchastia, near the settlement of Metalist, in early July. There I met (then) Colonel of the 30th Brigade—later commander of the 58th Brigade, and now General Serhii Zabolotnyi. Today he is Chief of Staff—Deputy Head of the National Defence University of Ukraine. I always remember how I called him from Kyiv back then to arrange it. Explosions could be heard on the line, and in a calm, cultivated voice he replied: “Excuse me, please, I’m commanding a battle at the moment. Could you call me a little later?” We are still friends with this worthy man to this day.
When we reached the “30th” positions on 8 July, from which the outskirts of Luhansk were already visible, there was a heavy downpour. An IFV stood in a dugout like in a lake. The artillerymen were preparing for battle, unloading shells that had just been delivered. A tank stood at the edge of a wheat field that no one could harvest anymore. Across the field in the rain, Aidar fighters were returning from reconnaissance, looking like ghosts. Using artillery powder (because everything was wet), the soldiers lit a fire to cook food. Another scene like in a movie. But it was real.
On 24 August 2014, a military parade took place in Kyiv. The paratroopers’ column was led by Mykhailo Zabrodskyi. For the continuation of the story I absolutely had to photograph it. Maks Levin told me the day before that he was driving to Ilovaisk and invited me to join. I told him about my plan to shoot the parade and said I would leave by train on the evening of 24 August to Dnipro, and then somehow join them. By 25 August I was already at a field command post near Kurakhove. On 26 August, a column arrived from Ilovaisk. A tired, soot-covered colonel, in response to my request to get into the city, said: “Where are you going? We barely got out of there. We evacuated the wounded. It’s no longer possible to drive in.” So I didn’t make it to Ilovaisk. (Well, you know how Maks and his friends miraculously escaped Ilovaisk.) And continuing this: you make a huge effort to get somewhere, you get nervous, you beg—and nothing works. A wise man once told me: it means God (or an Angel) doesn’t want to let you in there; He knows something—so relax and go with the flow…
Another memorable event was the liberation of the settlement of Pisky near Donetsk on 24 July 2014. We ended up there by chance at exactly that time—journalistic luck. The morning began at 5 a.m. with an offensive preceded by artillery preparation. Then infantry on tanks and IFVs began entering the settlement. Everything according to military textbooks. Back then it wasn’t every day that you were lucky enough to witness the liberation of a village. There, by the way, I met soldiers of the 93rd Brigade and later became friends with many of them: sniper Oleksandr Mamalui (now Acting Chairman of the Supreme Court of Ukraine), tanker Yevhen Mezhevikin (Hero of Ukraine, commander of the “Adam” tactical group), and others. Even in distant Congo in 2018, one serviceman recognized my surname, came up and said that he was in my photo taken during the capture of Pisky.
In addition to the newspaper, I made a Facebook post about that event. I mentioned that there, in Pervomaiske near Pisky, on the road lay our disabled tank. And one man wrote to me that he could tell a lot specifically about that tank. It was Colonel (then Lieutenant Colonel, commander of the 93rd Tank Battalion) Dmytro Kashchenko. We met; he told me about a fierce battle in which he sustained eight wounds on 21 July 2014. I wrote a long text for the newspaper that drew a lot of reactions. In September 2019, Dmytro Kashchenko was appointed commander of the 58th Brigade. From the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022, the brigade fought on the Chernihiv axis—successfully, as we can see, because the enemy did not take Chernihiv. On 15 April 2022, Dmytro Kashchenko was awarded the title Hero of Ukraine. We don’t see each other very often. The last time was at the funeral of “Da Vinci.”
Did you have the feeling in 2014 that the war would end that year?
I welcomed the New Year 2015 together with Right Sector in Pisky. I clearly remember my feeling that in 2015 the war would definitely end. It seemed that victory was just around the corner. But as you can see…
Then came the withdrawal from Debaltseve on 18 February 2015. At that moment I was in Bakhmut, and in the morning I saw tanks and other military vehicles driving through the city with exhausted men sitting on them. I photographed it.
Then I went to the hospital. They were bringing in the wounded. I asked one National Guard soldier, where are the dead? “Where would they be? In the morgue.” And I went there. Outside lay wooden coffins made of rough, unplaned boards. There were soldiers inside them. Through the gaps you could see their hands and feet. Besides the coffins, there were also black plastic bags with bodies. It was a horrific scene and very bitter emotions.
This photo reached the verification stage at World Press Photo. A jury member wrote to Oleksandr: “Dude, don’t be upset—your photo is cool. It’s already gone through a major selection and a bunch of filters, and I voted for it. But… keep working, and one day you’ll become a winner.”
During the ATO/OOS period, was it as dangerous for journalists to work as it is now? Did you pay attention to safety while shooting?
War is always dangerous. You don’t know what awaits you the next second. A mine or a shell may land, a sniper may hit you, you can get into an accident… and many other things. Any journalist who’s been there will tell you that. Once you’ve driven in—you’re already in danger. At the end of February 2015, Serhii Nikolaiev became the first Ukrainian photographer to be killed in the war while carrying out professional duties. He and the soldier who accompanied him from Right Sector, “Tanchyk” (whom I also knew and photographed), were walking through Pisky—and suddenly a mine landed. But when you’re in the heat of work, that feeling of danger somehow gets lost; your self-preservation instinct fades. You want to do your job well. Every journalist will tell you that too. Otherwise, why go there? Sit in Kyiv and photograph reflections on war. We’re talking about the frontline. And now, where are you safe? In Kyiv, Kharkiv, Odesa—ultimately, in Ukraine?
In 2021, your frontline photo was included in a selection of the best pictures by Reuters. What do you know about the subject of this photo with the puppies? Where did you capture this moment?
Well, not only in 2021. Journalists at war usually look for war—shots and shelling, attacks and battles. But people want to see something bright. And they notice a man with two little dogs. On Reuters’ Instagram this photo immediately got 30,000 likes. It made it into three sections of Reuters’ best photos of 2021. And it’s the only photo from the Russian–Ukrainian war in the entire Reuters selection for 2021.
I understand that, of course, but I don't want to understand it. War is a horror, and it must be shown. Then, in 2019, 2020 and 2021, few people filmed the war, and hardly any foreigners came. It seems to me that then no more than 10 photographers filmed the war systematically and regularly. I love reporter photos, I love when a photo immediately hits the eyes, in the soul. When you look and “fall from that shot” of the reporter.
Could it have been ima
I understand that, of course—but I don’t want to understand it. War is horror, and it needs to be shown. Back then, in 2019, 2020, and 2021, few people were photographing the war, and foreigners almost never came. It seems to me that back then no more than 10 photographers were shooting the war systematically and regularly. I love reportage photography; I love it when a photograph hits you straight in the eyes, in the soul—when you look and “fall from that shot” of the reporter.
Could anyone have imagined a few years ago that Ukrainian reporters Yevhen Maloletka and Mstyslav Chernov would win all the most prestigious global awards in journalism? I respect them greatly—it’s very cool that they did it. Their work, even if it didn’t stop the war, showed the world at the very beginning of Russia’s aggression what horror was actually happening. I’d also like to mention Dmytro Kozatskyi. The world saw his photos of Azov fighters from the besieged Azovstal. It’s a miracle: a person surrounded, yet thanks to the internet he managed to transmit those photos.
I respect all Ukrainian photojournalists who photograph the war—the people through whose eyes the world sees what is happening in Ukraine. They often, at risk to their lives, honestly do their work. There aren’t that many of them. There is video, print journalism, but now we see how important photography is—the most effective and powerful means of communicating with the world.
From 24 February 2022 to this day, Oleksandr has been documenting Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. In April 2023, the photographer suffered a concussion.
Before your eyes, essentially, the Ukrainian army was formed. The military grew and became stronger. Before your eyes, commanders grew. Could you recall a few names that stayed with you?
I’ve already spoken a bit about the worthy people whom work at the war brought into my life. I’ll continue this topic. I knew Dmytro Kotsiubailo, known as “Da Vinci,” quite well. We first met in June 2015 at the Butovka mine. Back then he looked, as always, like a young guy. But at the same time he was a confident warrior: “Come on! I’ll show you this and that and that!”, and in the evening he clearly commanded the fight. I had some strange helmet from the Serbian army or from airsoft, and “Da Vinci” said: “Take it off, it’s flimsy,” and for that evening he gave me a sturdier one—still no less strange—sand-colored (more like the color of a child’s…, well, you know).
Then we met in 2016, and in 2017 as well; the last time was in 2021 at his unit’s base in Avdiivka. He showed us videos of how they fought despite the so-called “ceasefire.” I gave him my book, where he is also featured. “Da Vinci” fought constantly; his guys had their own armory and their own mortars. He would climb onto a tank of the 24th Brigade and go to fire. Brigade commanders respected him greatly; they were his friends and trusted him. After the invasion, when he became a brigade commander, I didn’t get a chance to see him.
Also, since 2017 I have known Oleksandr Vdovychenko, a full recipient of the Order of Bohdan Khmelnytsky. His call sign is “Slovian”; at the time we met he was a battalion commander. And when the full-scale invasion began, under his command the 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade named after the Black Zaporozhians defended Kyiv.
I also already mentioned Dmytro Kashchenko, call sign “Kashchei.” In 2019, “Kashchei” was appointed commander of the 58th Separate Motorized Infantry Brigade. In the spring of 2021 we met near that place in Pisky thanks to which we first got acquainted. It was another piece for my newspaper.
In January 2022 I was in Avdiivka in the Industrial Zone, and there I met a young company commander of the 72nd Brigade, Yaroslav. A very professional commander, even though not a career officer. Somehow we immediately understood each other.
Already during the full-scale invasion on March 31, 2022, I was in Gostomel with journalists. The Russians began to flee that day. We waited a long time for some military man to come and tell us everything. And here comes my friend Yaroslav. It was such a super-super warm meeting. We were happy about this coincidence! Yaroslav was wounded, treated a little and escaped from the hospital to his mouth. I have already said that sometimes I am afraid to know the fate of people I am familiar with. Already during the full-scale invasion, on 31 March 2022, I was in Hostomel with other journalists. That day the Russians began to flee. We waited a long time for some soldier to come and tell us everything. And then my acquaintance Yaroslav comes. It was such a super-super warm meeting. We were happy about that coincidence! Yaroslav had been wounded, recovered a bit, and ran away from the hospital back to his company. I’ve already said that sometimes I’m afraid to learn the fate of people I know.
Tell us about your books
My first book was published in 2001; it is dedicated to Independence. In 2004 I published a book about peacekeepers. In 2009 a book came out with the telling title Through Fire and Tears: it’s an overview of everything I photographed and everywhere I was. It includes Africa and Yugoslavia. In 2014 I began thinking about preparing a book about the Russian–Ukrainian war. It was published in 2016. To tell the truth, it was hard to choose only 150–200 key photos. I had no editors. And even if you do have them, you are still the author.
You inspire many young photographers. And which photographers inspired you?
Well, there are many. You constantly look online—best photos by the best reporters. But I especially want to mention James Nachtwey—he’s an outstanding photojournalist. He photographed the war in Yugoslavia. He documented the genocide in Rwanda. I mention him because in 1995, in the small town of Aquila near Rome, I accidentally came across his book World of the ’80s (La pace degli anni ’80) in a bookstore among piles of books. It contains photos from Northern Ireland, Lebanon, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and other countries. Those photos—high-quality prints, brought together comprehensively in one book—impressed me. Later Nachtwey published the photo book Inferno. I consider it a masterpiece beyond time. He also came to document the war in Ukraine. He is 76 now. We even met in Bucha and took a photo together. I approached him and said: “Thank you! You inspired me to do exactly this kind of photojournalism!” But then there was no time for long conversations, because everyone was focused on filming the exhumation of a mass grave. Still, I’m glad I got to see him and say words of gratitude!
I always wanted to photograph something very important. That is what the Faculty of Journalism at Kyiv University taught me. When Ukraine became independent in 1991, I photographed it.
Back then I was sure I was living in such a happy time for a photojournalist, and that the processes in Ukraine in the late 1980s and early 1990s—and ultimately the achievement of Independence—were the most important historical event. And I captured it; I witnessed history. At one time it seemed to me that photographing war was very “cool”: it was drive, adrenaline, hard rock! In reality, with the years you understand that war is nothing but pain and death, even if it is not visually depicted. When you are young, everything is new to you, and that is why you shoot so emotionally. I have already seen a lot in my professional life; it seems that everything goes in circles. Perhaps I no longer have as strong a motivation as younger photographers do.
I remember the morning the invasion began. It felt as if, in one moment—at 5 a.m. in 2022—everything I had seen in my life in conflicts and wars fell on me at once: destruction, starving children, death… Even though the war has been going on for us since 2014, at the first explosions in Kyiv at 5 a.m. I felt (more than others) a universal horror, an apocalypse rolling toward Ukraine.
For more than two years we have been getting used to this and sometimes perceive it as everyday life. And I am getting used to it, too. That is bad.
For a certain period of time there was a feeling that this war was happening somewhere unknown, but not in our country. Then I didn’t want to shoot; I didn’t want to pick up a camera. I photographed rather by inertia, out of habit.
All my life is deadlines. At university you have to hand in term papers, exams, a thesis. In a newspaper, and in journalism in general, it’s nothing but deadlines. Into the issue, into the issue… With books it’s the same: it’s so hard to choose your own photos, and again—faster, faster…
And then, it would seem, you could calm down and write books, quietly remember your life. But in our case—again, no.
In April 2023 I suffered a concussion, but I will keep working for as long as I have to. But I can no longer shoot music festivals (even though that matters) or fashion models. I want to be in the thick of events, together with the people who make history and do important things. I feel good with them. My soul is there. And the warmest meetings are with old acquaintances. I am grateful to the people I’ve met on my life’s path. There are many of them.
Oleksandr Klymenko was born in Chernihiv Oblast. He is a graduate of the Faculty of Journalism of Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. From 1991 to 2024, he was a photo correspondent for the newspaper “Holos Ukrainy.” In 1992 he documented events in Transnistria, then in the countries of the former Yugoslavia, as well as in Lebanon, Kuwait, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Côte d’Ivoire, South Sudan, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. During the Revolution of Dignity, being at the very epicenter of events, Oleksandr was wounded. Since the beginning of Russia’s military aggression in 2014 in the East, he has been photographing events on the front line. 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), Frontline Album (2016). Modern History of Ukrainian Journalism. From Maidan to Maidan (co-authored with Yurii Nesteryak and Yuliia Nesteryak, 2022). He has held solo photo exhibitions at the UN Headquarters in New York (2012), at NATO Headquarters in Brussels (2012, 2013, 2014), in Lithuania (2015), Poland (2015, 2016, 2023), Luxembourg (2015), Norway (2023), Latvia (2022), and participated in collective exhibitions about the war in Ukraine in the parliaments of the United Kingdom (2015) and Denmark (2014).
Credits:
Text: Vira Labych, Oleksandr Klymenko
Literary editor: Yuliia Futei
