The cities of Donbas have turned into fortresses—battered, besieged, others reduced to ash and rubble under Russia’s grinding advance that devours territory inch by inch, house by house. Yet Ukraine’s Armed Forces fight and hold what remains. Among those on the line is Mykhailo “Malina” Malinovskyi, a 45-year-old combat medic from Zhytomyr who volunteered the moment Russia’s full-scale invasion began.

His reason was simple: stop the enemy before they reach home.

During brief pauses in the fighting, Malinovskyi records his thoughts in a war diary. What emerges is a raw account of survival at the zero line, where death hovers one drone strike away.

“I thought Bakhmut was the darkest. I was wrong.”

Here I am — 45 years old and working as a combat medic. Who’d have imagined it? But life keeps teaching, and I keep learning.

Bakhmut, Chasiv Yar, Vovchansk. I thought those were the darkest days I’d face. I was wrong.

Now I’m back in the Donbas: Chasiv Yar again, Toretsk, Kostiantynivka. Each time I return, it feels like fate has raised the difficulty level. Only now, I’m not just responsible for myself. I’m responsible for every man next to me.

Not even in my worst nightmares did I expect to dig my comrades out of a collapsed dugout. To treat the wounded in the open while enemy drones carrying grenades swarm above. FPVs flying over us one by one, shredding the last of our cover. Flash. Explosion. Silence.

A fog invades the brain. Then nothing. For a second, everything vanishes. Voices sound distant, muffled, like they’re coming from deep underground. And then, realization — I’m still alive. I still have a little time to do something that matters.

I drag the wounded guy into the ruins of the burning blindage — a reinforced shelter where I can shield him, at least from sight. Survival instincts shut down. Emotions go dark. You work on autopilot. You do what you were taught.

One chance in a hundred

And when you survive ten attacks, a thought creeps in — you can’t die. Not yet. God has more plans for you. You grow more confident, and that confidence spreads to those around you. You grow hard, tough-skinned. But when the job’s done, that hardness starts to scare you.

After weeks underground, your legs stop working. They’re stiff, numb. Permanent soreness. But now, you have to move. Walk. Run. Drag. Hide. Then run again. You hesitate at the mouth of the shelter. The sky hums with drones. You wait for the next wave, but you don’t hear the FPVs yet. So, you venture out. First steps, heavy with doubt.

Out now. Emotions vanish again. All you see is the distant goal — you gotta get the group 250 meters to the next cover. You move carefully, watching every step for mines, live drones, and dropped explosives. Your head spins. Ears scan the air like radars. You calculate as your eyes scan the gray sky: the seconds before impact, drone trajectory, distance.

Vision blurs. But you keep your eyes fixed on that one patch of cover up ahead. Exhausted, you crawl into the hole. You can’t breathe properly. Each breath scrapes your throat raw, followed by desperate gasps for air. Shortness of breath keeps your lungs half-empty.

“Relief comes, but only briefly — evacuations are still ahead”

You lie there, body tensed, ears ringing, sky buzzing. Something tells you — now. “Move!” you scream.

Your body nearly empty, you force yourself across scorched ground to reach the last bit of cover before the evac point. Your body threatens to collapse. You drop, gasping. Then, a car horn. The vehicle’s here to take the wounded. You have one minute.

You push yourself once more. You’re on the edge of blacking out, watching from the sidelines through blurry eyes. You override the exhaustion. Just for a moment.

Everyone’s loaded in. You slump over, almost unconscious. But there’s one thought keeping you conscious — you made it. You breathe out, relief washing over the fear of what tomorrow might bring.

“What if you can’t handle it one more time?”

Because this isn’t a one-time test. Tomorrow, it starts again. And you’re afraid — what if you can’t handle it one more time?

You don’t really sleep. You drop off in short bursts. You live in a constant state of tension. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

Back on the zero line — the front-line combat position — you’re slowly rotting away. But you’re grateful for a 1.5-liter bottle of water dropped by drone — no vehicle can reach you here. You haven’t had more than a few sips in days. You save some water — for coffee. Just a mouthful. You can’t waste it. But you brew it anyway. Sip it slowly. You light a cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. Quiet.

Because maybe this-this tiny, bitter moment — is the most peace you’ll get in the next few months.

When Vitalii’s skull was shattered near Avdiivka in August 2022 during military operations defending Ukraine, doctors gave no guarantees that he would survive and could not even predict how far his recovery path would go.

Today, Vitalii Shumey is speaking in full sentences, cracking jokes with his nurses, recovering memories, and preparing to walk again. Just a year ago he was not able to eat and respond to his surroundings at all.

For nearly three years, his father Serhii Fedorovych has refused to leave his son’s bedside, believing in his recovery and supporting his progress like no one else. His  unwavering smile has become a beacon of hope at the rehabilitation center Modrychi in Lviv Oblast, where the workers called him a hero for his determination and fatherly love. 

“This is my child,” Serhii said to Suspilne News. “While my hands and legs work, I won’t leave him. Never. Because this is my child. He defended our country so we could live peacefully. This is my duty.”

The father plays harmonica for his son, jokes with him, reads him, and maintains the constant conversation that helped bring Vitalii back from the brink of nothingness.

“Hope, hope. Cling to every goal, to every straw. Cling and hope that everything will be fine. Don’t give up. Because if we, parents, give up, it will be bad for our children,” Serhii believes.

Defender of Ukraine

Vitalii Shumey, standing over two meters tall, began his military service in 2014, when Russia covertly supported separatists in eastern Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts and illegally annexed Crimea. 

As commander of a long-range anti-aircraft missile complex, he defended Ukraine across multiple fronts – from Kyiv and Chernihiv in the early days of the full-scale invasion to the brutal fighting in Donbas,  earning three concussions before his final, nearly fatal encounter with war.

“Since 2014, he constantly was in ‘hot’ spots on Donbas,” his father explains with evident pride. “When the full-scale war began, he commanded a unit near Kyiv. He eliminated a lot of the enemy there. And he fought near Chernihiv. Then they transferred him to Donbas and he was there again – it was a nightmare there.”

“I’m proud of him. I never tried to talk him out of this,” he adds.

A deputy brigade commander once remarked, “If I had five such sergeants in the battalion, I wouldn’t need anything else.” Vitalii’s courage and leadership on the battlefield earned him such respect that in February 2025, a petition was created to award him the title of Hero of Ukraine.

Darkest hour: life-changing war injury 

In August 2022, near Avdiivka of Donetsk Oblast, Vitalii’s life changed forever. A mine-blast caused severe trauma and a skull fractured on both sides. The prognosis was grim – doctors gave no chance for survival.

“The scariest was when he got injured, how his head was broken, how bad he felt,” Serhii recalls, his voice heavy with emotion. “When they transferred him to Chernihiv, he was hopeless. But I held on. I knew that everything should be good.”

Vitalii couldn’t move, speak, eat, or respond to his surroundings. He underwent three operations on his head in different hospitals across Ukraine – Dnipro, Kyiv, and Chernihiv. Doctors removed sections of his skull to allow his injured brain room to heal, placing him on tube feeding while his father watched, waiting for any sign of awareness.

“He didn’t even blink his eyes, he looked down and that’s it,” recalls volunteer Iryna Tymofieieva in 2023, who witnessed those darkest days. “In Kyiv, he was on tube feeding, and then our doctors stabilized him.”

For almost two years, Vitalii remained paralyzed and bedridden, his powerful frame reduced to stillness, his voice silenced. In those long months, his father was absent from his son’s side for only two days – when he himself was hospitalized with respiratory illness.

Father’s love works miracles

Five months after the injury, while in Chernihiv, came the first miraculous sign. Serhii had developed a routine of reading letters from well-wishers and books about local history to his seemingly unresponsive son, talking to him constantly, believing somehow that love could reach through the darkness.

“I realized that he hears, that he understands that they are reading to him,” Iryna remembers the breakthrough moment. “At some point he was touched and tears came from Vitalik. From that moment, he began to blink his eyes, then his eyes began to look left and right.”

These tears became the foundation of a new language between father and son. Serhii learned to read every minimal movement, every expression.

“By his eyes I can see when he wants water. When he needs to be changed, he starts making some movements – that’s enough. I already hear what needs to be done.”

Without medical training, the father learned to provide round-the-clock care, performing procedures himself and supporting medical professionals.

He feeds Vitalii, massages his limbs, reads to him, plays harmonica, and maintains constant conversation. All while also worrying about his older son Roman, who continues to serve in the Armed Forces of Ukraine.

“My older son also serves in the Ukrainian military, defending Ukraine. Sometimes he doesn’t call for two or three days, though usually he calls constantly: ‘Dad, Dad, everything is fine with me.’ But I can hear from his voice whether it’s fine or not,” he shares.

Sometimes Roman manages to find time off his military duty and visits the rehabilitation center to see his brother.

Serhii beams as he watches his two sons finally talk again – something they had waited for so desperately long. Vitalii peppers Roman with questions about family, asks eagerly about his nephew, remembers old friends, and his humor flows naturally. These conversations that once seemed impossible now fill the room with warmth and hope.

A remarkable breakthrough: first words after serious injury

In March 2023, Vitalii and his father traveled to Barcelona, Spain, for specialized treatment. The Ukrainian football club Shakhtar stepped in to cover expenses for the operation and rehabilitation. There, surgeons installed plates to protect Vitalii’s brain and removed remaining blood clots.

For seven months, father and son lived together in a foreign country, Serhii learning medical procedures, providing round-the-clock care, and never losing faith.

The defining moment of their time in Spain came unexpectedly. Serhii bent down to his son’s face and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

After a pause, Vitalii responded: “Papa.” [father]

“I got goosebumps,” Serhii remembers. “Then I asked – what should I give you: water or juice? He said – juice. I quickly poured it for him.”

These first words gave way to more communication, but progress faced a serious setback when Vitalii suffered an epileptic seizure in late summer 2023. His condition regressed to what it had been immediately after surgery, devastating his father but not diminishing his determination.

“I will never get on my knees. Never. Not in front of the Russians who came to us,” says Serhii. “I can only kneel in church and in the garden near the flower beds. I will crawl, but I will get him on his feet. This is my dream!”

Progress that inspires and gives hope 

In November 2023, father and son returned to Ukraine, continuing rehabilitation at the specialized Modrychi center in western Lviv Oblast. There, Vitalii began an intensive program – more than five hours daily of various therapies with physical therapists, occupational therapists, and speech specialists.

“At this stage, we spend a lot of time in a vertical position,” explains his physical therapist Mykola Nadych. “We stretch Vitalii, keep his joints in tone, and provoke him to do something: say something, show something.”

Serhii remained constantly at his side, living at the center, hanging photos of Vitalii before his injury and military chevrons from Spanish soldiers above the bed as reminders of how far they had come.

By early 2025, Vitalii’s progress accelerated dramatically. He began speaking not just in short phrases but in complete sentences. His cognitive abilities improved significantly – he could identify his location in Lviv Oblast and remembered his home address. He began commenting on television programs and politics. His memory includes much of his pre-injury life, with gaps only around the time of injury and his coma in Kyiv and Chernihiv.

“He started talking and controlling his head more, showing various emotions, such as, laughter, crying, and sadness. It’s the achievement of the occupational therapist and the speech therapist, we work as a team. The father also communicates a lot, tells stories – this makes a significant contribution to the result,” says physical therapist Mykola Nadych.

His physical progress is equally remarkable. Vitalii strengthened his shoulder girdle muscles and cervical spine, learning to hold his head independently. He tenses and makes movements with his arms and legs, learns to hold a spoon and eat independently.

One of the most emotionally significant moments came when Vitalii’s recovering memory led him to ask about his absent mother.

“About two weeks ago we were having lunch and he said to me: ‘Dad, can I ask a question?'” Serhii recounts. “I said: ‘Yes.’ And he asked: ‘Tell me, has Mom probably died, since Mom doesn’t call, doesn’t visit, I haven’t heard Mom’s voice for a long time.'”

Having hidden this painful truth throughout his son’s recovery, Serhii finally confirmed that Vitalii’s mother had indeed passed away. Though the news brought tears, Serhii comforts his son by telling him, “Mom is in heaven, Mom sees us, prays for us, and wants everything to be good for us.” He then turns to journalists saying “Mom is not here so I must be with him.”

Sadly, it’s been discovered that Vitalii has practically gone blind – his vision will be studied further to understand if there’s a chance for recovery. Ahead also lies leg surgery to remove contractures from his feet, which will help him sit better in a wheelchair, verticalize, and eventually try to take steps and learn to walk again.

But his transformation from an unresponsive patient given no chance of survival to an engaged, communicative person with improving physical abilities represents an extraordinary testament to medical care, rehabilitation, and above all, unwavering familial support.

This story of recovery inspired others at the rehabilitation center and outside its borders. Recently, American and French filmmakers visited Modrychi to document Vitalii’s journey for a film about Ukrainians who refused to surrender.

For Serhii, whose life has been entirely dedicated to his son’s recovery for nearly three years, the ultimate goal remains clear:

“I think a little more and we will get up. I assure you, we will achieve our goal. And we will go home healthy.”

“They will kill us and our children without hesitation,” says Ukraine’s former chief mufti, watching Russian soldiers crawling over their dead.

The man who once led interfaith prayers for peace in Donetsk’s central square — now under Russian grip for over a decade — serves as a combat medic, wondering what transforms a human being into something that devours everything in its path: your home, your bed, your children’s future, simply because their government said they could.

In the ruins of Vovchansk, once a bustling city now reduced to rubble, Said Ismagilov asks what drives men to die for nothing — only to find his answer in an ancient prophecy about gold and the ninety-nine percent who die reaching for it.

“They will eat from your plate and wear your shirt without a second thought”

They run and crawl in hordes — like locusts. Their raison d’être is to move forward at any cost and seize our homes and new territory.

Every day in Vovchansk, they attack in small groups of three to five. They trample and climb over the corpses of their comrades who stormed the same position just hours earlier. There is no logic, no meaning, no success — only the relentless throwing of bodies at us.

The difference from Marshal Zhukov’s meat-grinder assaults is that now they come in small waves, and the goal is not kilometers but a single position, mere square meters.

My philosophical education stops me from viewing this daily carnage through the eyes of a mathematician, simply recording: minus one, minus five, minus forty. My background in philosophy and theology compels me to try to understand why this conditional Homo erectus and I say “upright man” because I cannot, in good conscience, call them Homo sapiens, as I see no rationality in their actions — why he climbs over the corpses of his swarm mates toward certain death, across the ruins of a city that now resembles a Martian landscape.

What for? What is your motivation? What do you hope to gain?

Did you come to kill our children so you could raise your own? He is silent. He lowers his eyes. But that’s the truth.

They will eat from your plate and wear your shirt without a second thought, because their king and their church have blessed them to do so.

The Prophet Muhammad once gave a striking description of human stupidity and greed:
“The Hour will not come to pass before the River Euphrates dries up to reveal a mountain of gold, for which people will fight. Ninety-nine out of one hundred will die, and every man among them will say, ‘Perhaps I will be the one who survives.’”

I look at them and wonder — maybe each one advancing, charging at us, believes he will survive, he will get rich.

But then our guys get to work.

And the statistician in me says:

Minus five more.

The mufti who lost everything — twice

Said Ismagilov, former mufti of Ukraine’s Umma (Muslim community) has twice lost his home to Russia’s invasions. A Volga Tatar, Ismagilov’s ancestors fled Soviet collectivization in central Russia.

He studied in Donetsk and Moscow before becoming an imam and helping build Islamic religious life in the Donbas, which by 2014 had Ukraine’s largest Muslim population outside Crimea — including Crimean Tatars illegally deported from their homelans during the Second World War, ethnic Tatars from Russia like hiw own family, and Meskhetian Turks  — a Muslim group forcibly relocated during the Soviet times.

On 12 April 2014, a group of Russian saboteurs led by Igor Girkin (Strelkov) entered Sloviansk in Donetsk Oblast.  Protests against the disguised Russian takeover erupted across the Donbas. That same year, Ismagilov helped lead a five-month Interreligious Prayer Marathon, where believers of different faiths gathered daily in central Donetsk to pray for peace in Ukraine.

However, the peaceful interfaith action was seen as a threat by the occupation forces. In September 2014, the marathon was forcibly disbanded and the prayer site destroyed; sixteen participants were detained and tortured. Warned of danger, Ismagilov fled Donetsk with his family.

From interfaith prayers to frontline service

He resettled in Bucha, outside Kyiv. When Russia invaded again in February 2022, Bucha was quickly occupied. Ismagilov evacuated his family and volunteered as a paramedic after being rejected for military service due to inexperience. He helped evacuate the wounded from Bucha and later from the eastern front lines.

“Our main weapons were our hands… to save the wounded,” he said in an interview.

In October 2023, he was formally drafted, serving in Kyiv’s air defense forces, then with the 57th Brigade’s drone unit near Kharkiv, and later along the Donetsk line. Though he stepped down as mufti in late 2022, Ismagilov continued to lead prayers when possible, including in front-line mosques and even amid the ruins of Bakhmut.

Some Muslim observances are impossible during active duty, but Ismagilov emphasizes the integration of Muslims in Ukrainian society:

“We fight together, build together, and defend together, and this is because there’s a normal attitude toward Muslims in Ukraine. They’re not seen as aliens or enemies or immigrants, but as an integral part of the Ukrainian nation.”