Note：On August 18, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, accompanied by European leaders including UK Prime Minister Starmer, French President Macron, German Chancellor Merz, Italian Prime Minister Meloni, Finnish President Stubb, EU Commission President von der Leyen, and NATO Secretary General Rutte, visited the White House to meet U.S. President Trump. The meeting focused on Ukraine-Russia peace negotiations, aiming to influence the Trump administration’s foreign policy decisions. Will the peace come to Ukraine? On August 3, 2025, the Boston Review of Books had the honor of inviting a Ukrainian soldier to share his story and views on the Russia-Ukraine war. Due to occasional bombings in his city, he lacked a computer and sent his account in segments via phone in Ukrainian, which the Boston Review of Books translated into English and Chinese.The author confirmed the English translation version.This Ukrainian soldier says he doesn’t has expectations for the ongoing Zelenskyy White House meeting.

編者按：8月18日，烏克蘭總統澤倫斯基（Volodymyr Zelenskyy）偕同多位歐洲領袖，包括英國首相施凱爾、法國總統馬克宏、德國總理梅爾茨、義大利總理梅洛尼、芬蘭總統史塔布、歐盟委員會主席馮德萊恩及北約秘書長呂特，共同訪問白宮，會晤美國總統川普。會議聚焦烏俄戰爭和平談判，試圖影響川普政府的外交決策。和平談判會成功嗎？8月3日，波士頓書評有幸邀請一位烏克蘭士兵講述他的故事和對俄烏戰爭的看法。因為這位士兵所處城市依然時不時有轟炸，他沒有電腦，只能用手機一段一段發給書評。原文為烏克蘭語，波士頓書評翻譯成英文和中文。作者確認過英文翻譯版本。這位烏克蘭士兵對正在進行的澤連斯基的白宮會談並不抱有太多期待。

A Ukrainian Solder’s Narrative

You can call me is Deamer，this is from the song of Ozzy Osbourne. I come from eastern Ukraine. For safety reasons, I’d like to remain anonymous for now.

My family is ordinary. Before the full-scale invasion, I lived like many young people—working, searching for my path, sometimes doubting my choices, but always moving forward. I had friends, hobbies, and simple joys like everyone else. I loved music, especially rock, and dreamed of seeing Ozzy Osbourne live one day. I wasn’t a hero or a warrior—just an ordinary person who wanted a normal future.

Before the war, I led a regular, peaceful life. I have a well-paid. job at my hometown.

When the war started, I was one of the few who truly realized it was inevitable—and would begin within days. I wasn’t shocked or surprised. On the contrary, I expected even greater chaos—airborne assaults, airstrikes, total mayhem. But most importantly, I knew it would change us all. I was never a hero and didn’t romanticize war. I was always interested in military topics, but I understood clearly that war isn’t a game where you can “save” before a battle. It’s a reality where people die. And I felt an inner pull to be there—not for glory or external pressure, but because I knew I could be useful. I didn’t want to lie in a warm bed in some village in western Ukraine, eating homemade food and enjoying the quiet. That felt wrong. I wasn’t summoned to the enlistment office—I went myself. But they didn’t want to take me because of my back issues. Still, in the summer of 2022, I finally joined the military.

I ended up on the front lines in the summer of 2022, near Sloviansk. I had no training or unit cohesion. I didn’t participate in the airport battles—if you mean “Antonov” in Hostomel, that happened in the early days of the invasion when I was still trying to enlist. But I vividly remember that moment—we were all following the news, and the fact that the Russians landed paratroopers so close to Kyiv shocked many. Eventually, I was sent closer to the eastern front, where there were constant shelling, no drones yet, just heavy artillery, and people died every day. There was no televised “heroics.”

At first, they brought us to some village in eastern Ukraine. We didn’t even know where we were—there was no cell service. Just sounds: shelling, artillery duels, distant explosions. They put us in an abandoned house with only an old Soviet mattress on the floor. We slept close together, on our sides, to fit. We split into shifts for guard duty. I remember sitting on the stairs at night with my rifle, listening to every sound. Any rustle sparked anxiety. Somewhere nearby, a drunk man was shouting—apparently, one of the locals who stayed and didn’t evacuate. In the next room, there was a dog—alive, but possibly concussed or just old. It sat like a sphinx, staring through the wall. Its gaze was haunting, piercing through everything. That was eerie. When we went to sleep, I heard it snapping its jaws. It was nerve-wracking and scary. Suddenly, it bolted out of the house, startling everyone nearby. In the morning, we went outside. The village turned out to be completely abandoned since the start of the invasion—everything was overgrown with weeds and tall grass. They connected us to Starlink, and we found out where we were. We started filling out forms: details about relatives, wife, parents, tattoos, and so on. Then they loaded us into a vehicle. Again, no one knew where we were going. We saw smoke, shelling, burning fields, and houses. They dropped us off in another village—almost without our belongings, as everything was left in the vehicle, which drove off to who-knows-where. They told us it broke down and ordered us to wait. We didn’t know where we were or how long we stayed there. We heard explosions, gunfire, artillery, and MLRS. Eventually, the vehicle returned, and we retrieved our things. People from our unit arrived and finally picked us up. As we were transferring to another transport, our artillery started firing at the Russians. It was right nearby. Everyone froze, but I dropped to the ground. I knew if a counterstrike came, you had to hit the dirt immediately. Then we finally headed to the village where our unit was stationed.

Back then, it didn’t seem like anything extraordinary was happening. Now I realize it was the beginning of something that changed me. I remember walking through a forest on a marked path—they told us to stick to it strictly because the surrounding area was mined with both our and enemy mines. It was scary and unfamiliar. But the scariest thing was the first mortar attack. You hear the whistle, and then a mine hits a person, tearing them apart. Like ground meat. Like the meat you prepare in the kitchen—except it’s a person. And there’s nothing you can do. I was probably the calmest among the newcomers. They told us that if you hear the shot but not the whistle of the mortar, it’s likely coming for you. I don’t know why—maybe because I mentally prepared myself for this. I knew in such situations, you have to stay calm, not panic, and not give in to emotions. Later, our unit was sent to a forest to maintain equipment—BMP-1 and BMP-2 vehicles. We checked their condition and loaded ammunition. The 30mm shell belts for the BMP-2 were heavy, and I struggled with them and the loading process. That’s when I re-injured my back. I was evacuated, and a new phase began—treatment, recovery, and waiting. After that, our unit was sent to the Bakhmut area. Almost all my comrades died in the first few days. Only a handful survived—my commander, a few soldiers, and those who were in hospitals at the time. It hit me hard. I felt guilty for surviving. But over time, I pulled myself together.

As for daily life—volunteers were our lifeline. Much of what we had was Western-made, not Ukrainian: food, canned goods, sometimes even treats. Sleep and hygiene followed a schedule. We took turns on guard duty, ensuring safety. You always had to warn others if you were moving between positions—“one-two pencils heading your way”—because friendly fire incidents were common. Hygiene was basic: if we were in a village, we might get a “summer shower.” Mostly, it was just wet wipes. The biggest issue was teeth. Many had rotting or falling teeth. I had dental problems too.

As for relationships with comrades, I deliberately kept my distance. Getting close to someone and then losing them hurts too much. It weighs on you, causes stress and nerves. So I didn’t share anything about myself or ask about others. Maybe that’s what helped me survive this long.There was a moment when I was driving to the unit every day with a comrade who had a car. We sometimes gave rides to others. One of them was a quiet guy, not a soldier at heart. We barely knew each other, just exchanged a few words. One day, we’re lying in the barracks, and a nurse comes in and says, “He died yesterday.” We didn’t even realize who she meant at first. It was the guy who rode with us just days before. He was gone. Just vanished, as if he never existed. That’s why I avoided getting close to people. Every loss is pain, stress that builds up and eats you from the inside.

I think I’ve become more indifferent—maybe it’s just part of growing up. I stopped noticing people, how they look or act. But I understand these are changes brought by the war. I no longer cry or despair over death—not because I don’t care, but because I’ve accepted the reality: in war, everyone dies—civilians, soldiers, children, adults. We can’t snap our fingers like Thanos and make missiles fly back to Russia. Tears or anger won’t change anything. Maybe that’s what it means to keep a cool head. When I’m in the city and an air raid siren goes off, with monitoring channels reporting an incoming cruise missile or ballistic missile, I just step out onto the balcony and record a video for myself, for memory. I don’t fear being wounded or killed. I think: if I’m meant to die from this, I’ll die even in a shelter.

When I voted for Zelenskyy, he seemed like a new, promising politician—a young person not tied to the old political system. It felt like real changes would come with him. And to some extent, they did—reforms started, infrastructure projects took off, roads were built, and it gave hope. But honestly, that vote was like going to a supermarket: you see familiar products you’ve tried before and know what to expect. Then there’s a new, bright fruit—something unusual, fresh, interesting. You choose it because you want something new, because the old stuff no longer inspires trust. That’s how Zelenskyy seemed to me then. But the war changed everything. Now there are many questions and criticisms, which probably wouldn’t have arisen in peacetime. Reforms, EU integration, new laws—all this is happening against the backdrop of war, causing fatigue and tension in society. It would’ve been better if some complex reforms were introduced at a time when the country wasn’t facing its greatest trial in modern history.

What forced me to leave the army was the commanders’ indifference to their personnel. They don’t care who you are, what’s wrong with you, or what you think. People are thrown into the meat grinder like cannon fodder. The army still has too many commanders from the “Soviet school.” Almost no one plans operations, provides real leadership, trains subordinates, or ensures proper fortifications or trenches. People are constantly replaced because others die. Newcomers often have no time to adapt—they’re thrown into battle immediately. I left because I was denied treatment. They were going to send me to the east, even though I showed official documents proving my treatment hadn’t even started. They didn’t care. They threatened to send me “today.” I went home—it was allowed then. That evening, lists came for deployment to the “zone.” I ignored the message. The commander warned everyone that this was desertion, punishable by 5 to 10 years in prison. I knew what I was doing. I was not desertion. My case is not desertion.A few months later, I tried to transfer to an air defense unit. I wrote to my unit but was denied. Six months later, I wanted to return. I wrote to the commander. But no one cared. They just passed me from one person to another, and at some point, I stopped trying. Officially, I haven’t been declared AWOL, so technically, I’m still enlisted. I suspect someone in leadership is pocketing my salary. This happens, unfortunately—not just with me. The system covers itself. And yet, I still feel a pull to return. Something draws me back. But another part of me says—you’re still young, you haven’t seen or felt everything. You’ll die quickly. Now they’re calling me to another unit, for a specific role I think I can handle. But I’m afraid I’ll step on the same rake again. So I’m still thinking.

I don’t keep in touch with my comrades at all. The only military contacts I have are with people I knew before—acquaintances from earlier times. But with those I served with directly, I don’t communicate. Maybe subconsciously, I’m trying not to tie myself to that period of my life—too much pain and loss. I don’t regret my decision. I was on the front, I gave my health. I didn’t dodge, I was there when many weren’t even thinking about mobilization. I didn’t just leave the army—I exhausted my health. I saw people die, break down. I saw, and still see, how the system grinds people up and spits them out broken. And it doesn’t always even say “thank you.” I left not because I was scared, but because I knew if I stayed, I wouldn’t survive. I’d either die or break completely. Those who were with me don’t judge me. Those who’ve been through similar things understand. War isn’t black-and-white. Not everyone can be a hero until the last day. Sometimes heroism is just surviving and not losing yourself.

No, I’m not afraid of being found. I’m not hiding. As I said, I wanted to return to my unit myself. Now I’m considering going back to service, but in a different unit. I don’t feel fear. I move freely around the city, sometimes just walking. Even if I’m stopped for a check, I’m still officially enlisted. And if they take me back, I’m not afraid. I calmly see doctors for health issues or contact the police if needed. I talk to everyone openly. I don’t live in the shadows.

Not everyone knows about this. Not everyone knows my full story. My mother doesn’t know, or maybe she suspects or realizes how things really are. But my father knows. He says it’s better to visit a living person in prison than a Hero’s grave. And I know that’s true. My close friends support my choice. They say it’s normal, that I didn’t do anything wrong. I think many in our country share this view, as many soldiers are in a similar situation—either completely drained mentally and physically or forced to leave the service, even knowing they could face prison for it.

Among my comrades and civilian acquaintances, the prevailing opinion is that Ukraine’s future is only possible without russia. Not just without war, but without any russian influence, culture, or anything tied to the aggressor. For many, russians are no longer seen as human—they brought death, pain, and destruction here. Because of this, most believe there can be no forgiveness or compromise, only complete victory. Despite the fatigue, losses, and anger, I see that many still believe that after the war, Ukraine will be strong, free, with its own development, culture, army, and international standing. We’ve already paid too high a price to go back or agree to a “peace” at the cost of our territories. People dream of a Ukraine free from oligarchs, with accountable authorities, a professional and prepared army even after victory. We don’t want to return to the past—everyone wants to move forward and build a country we can truly call our own.

Perhaps it’s the design of world leaders, or maybe just a coincidence. Many countries are helping us: some do so freely and without conditions, others for payment. The key is that help exists. But it comes too slowly, stuck in endless “unwillingness” and the labyrinth of foreign bureaucracy. They discuss something, drag out time—and it’s unclear why.

At the start of the war, Zelenskyy asked European countries to close Ukraine’s airspace so their aircraft could shoot down russian missiles. But the “allies” refused, saying it would lead to escalation. Fine, one could somewhat accept that. Then came requests to sell modern aircraft, and again the same excuse: “It will provoke a greater escalation.”

What do we have now? Ukraine has received about fifty F-16 fighters and just under a dozen French Mirage 2000-5F jets. And what? Has there been some catastrophic “escalation”? No. Western countries continue to sit in silence and calm. Perhaps they’re simply afraid of russia. Because if they keep repeating that a certain step could lead to “greater escalation,” it means, deep down, they feel fear.

But we, Ukrainians, are not afraid of russians. They’re like cockroaches: there are many of them, they’re disgusting, and the harm they cause is immeasurable. They destroy cities, wipe them off the map. We asked for cruise missiles—and again heard the same talk of “escalation.” russian media scared the world: “Give Ukraine missiles, and we’ll hit you with nuclear ones!” And what happened? Ukraine is already striking with Franco-British cruise missiles—and nothing catastrophic has occurred.

We asked Germany for Taurus cruise missiles. Chancellor Scholz refused. At first, he said, “I’ll only agree after the U.S. approves and delivers ATACMS ballistic missiles to Ukraine.” Time passed—the U.S. delivered ATACMS, gave approval for Taurus. And the result? Scholz still didn’t deliver.

Then came the election of a new chancellor. During his campaign, he loudly declared: “Once I’m chancellor, Ukraine will get Taurus cruise missiles.” He became chancellor… and now what? Now he’s finding new excuses. Again, he says “no.”

The only issue is that even the manufacturing countries have too few missiles. If the West finds itself at war with russia tomorrow, its arsenal would run dry quickly. This applies to any weapon: massive production capacity is needed, and preparations must start now.

Sometimes it feels like the “higher-ups” have simply decided to let the war do its work—reduce the number of Ukrainians or russians. As Captain Price from *Call of Duty* said: “War is natural selection on an epic scale.” Maybe it’s a conspiracy. Maybe it’s just the incompetence of world leaders. But we’ll likely never know the truth.

*At the time of this narrative‘s publication, the editor of the Boston Review of books asked the author： Could the ongoing meeting between Zelenskyy and Trump at the White House bring hope for peace in Ukraine?

He reply——

I didn’t follow Zelenskyy’s meeting with Trump closely, because such meetings usually don’t bring anything truly new — the real decisions are made behind the scenes. What shocked me much more was Trump’s meeting with putin. Seeing American soldiers lay out a red carpet for a man wanted for war crimes was deeply disappointing — he should be arrested, not honored.（If you write something using my words, please write them with lowercase letters – putin and russians）

一個烏克蘭士兵的故事

你可以叫我Dreamer，這是Ozzy Osbourne的一首歌，我來自烏克蘭東部。出於安全考慮，我暫時希望保持匿名。我的家庭很普通。在全面入侵之前，我像許多年輕人一樣生活——工作，尋找自己的道路，有時會懷疑自己的選擇，但總是在前進。我有朋友、愛好和簡單的快樂，就像其他人一樣。我愛音樂，尤其是搖滾，夢想有一天能親眼看到Ozzy Osbourne（奧齊·奧斯本）的現場演出。我不是英雄也不是戰士，只是一個希望擁有正常未來的普通人。

戰爭之前，我過著平凡而平靜的生活。我在我的家鄉有一份薪水不錯工作。戰爭開始時，我是少數真正意識到這是不可避免的人之一——而且就在幾天內就會開始。我並不震驚或意外。相反，我預期會有更大的混亂——空降襲擊、空襲、全面的混亂。但最重要的是，我知道這場戰爭會改變我們所有人。我從不是英雄，也不浪漫化戰爭。我一直對軍事話題感興趣，但我清楚地知道，戰爭不是遊戲，你無法在戰鬥前“存檔”。這是一個真實的世界，人們會死去。我內心有一種衝動，想去那裡——不是為了榮耀或外部壓力，而是因為我知道自己能幫上忙。我不想躺在烏克蘭西部某個村莊的溫暖床上，吃著家常飯，享受安靜。那感覺不對。我沒有被徵兵辦公室召喚——是我自己去的。但因為我的背部問題，他們不想收我。儘管如此，2022年夏天，我終於加入了軍隊。

2022年夏天，我來到了斯洛維揚斯克附近的前線。我沒有接受過訓練，也沒有單位的凝聚力。我沒有參與機場戰鬥——如果你指的是霍斯托梅爾的“安東諾夫”機場，那是入侵初期發生的，當時我還在試圖入伍。但我清楚地記得那一刻——我們都在關注新聞，俄羅斯人在離基輔這麼近的地方空降傘兵，讓許多人震驚。最終，我被派到東部前線更近的地方，那裡每天都有持續的炮擊，還沒有無人機，只有重型火炮，每天都有人死去。沒有電視上那種“英雄事蹟”。

最初，他們把我們帶到烏克蘭東部的一個村莊。我們甚至不知道自己在哪裡——沒有手機信號。只有聲音：炮擊、火炮對轟、遠處的爆炸聲。他們把我們安置在一棟廢棄的房子裡，地板上只有一張舊的蘇聯式床墊。我們擠在一起睡，側躺著才能勉強睡下。我們分成了輪班站崗。我記得晚上拿著步槍坐在樓梯上，聆聽每一個聲音。任何一點響動都會引發焦慮。附近某處，一個醉漢在喊叫——顯然是留下來沒撤離的當地人。旁邊的房間裡有一隻狗——還活著，但可能是被震暈了，或者只是老了。它像斯芬克斯一樣坐著，凝視著牆壁。它的眼神令人不安，彷彿能穿透一切。那一刻很詭異。當我們睡覺時，我聽到它在咬牙切齒。那聲音讓人緊張、害怕。突然，它衝出房子，驚動了附近的所有人。早上，我們走出去，發現這個村莊自入侵開始就完全被遺棄了——到處是雜草和茂密的草叢。他們給我們接上了Starlink，我們終於知道自己在哪裡。我們開始填寫表格：關於親戚、妻子、父母、紋身等的詳細信息。然後他們把我們裝進一輛車。又一次，沒人知道我們要去哪裡。我們看到濃煙、炮擊、燃燒的田野和房屋。他們在另一個村莊把我們放下——幾乎沒帶什麼東西，因為所有東西都留在車上，車開走了，不知道去了哪裡。他們說車壞了，命令我們等待。我們不知道自己在哪裡，也不知道在那裡待了多久。我們聽到爆炸聲、槍聲、火炮和多管火箭炮的聲音。最終，車回來了，我們拿回了東西。我們單位的人來了，終於接走了我們。在轉換到另一輛車時，我們的火炮開始向俄軍開火。就在旁邊。所有人都愣住了，但我立刻趴到地上。我知道，如果對方還擊，你必須馬上臥倒。然後我們終於前往我們單位駐紮的村莊。

那時，這一切似乎沒什麼特別的。現在我意識到，那是改變我的開始。我記得沿著一條標記的路徑走過一片森林——他們告訴我們要嚴格走這條路，因為周圍佈滿了我們和敵人的地雷。那很可怕，也很陌生。但最恐怖的是第一次迫擊炮襲擊。你聽到哨聲，然後一枚炮彈擊中一個人，把他炸得四分五裂。就像絞肉。就像你在廚房裡準備的肉——只是那是個人。而你無能為力。我可能是新人中最冷靜的。他們告訴我們，如果你聽到射擊聲但沒有迫擊炮的哨聲，那炮彈很可能是衝著你來的。我不知道為什麼——也許因為我心理上已經準備好了。我知道在這種情況下，你必須保持冷靜，不能慌亂，不能被情緒控制。後來，我們單位被派到一片森林，維護裝備——BMP-1和BMP-2車輛。我們檢查它們的狀況，裝載彈藥。BMP-2的30毫米炮彈帶很重，我很難應付這些和裝載過程。那時我再次傷了背部。我被撤離，開始了新階段——治療、恢復和等待。之後，我們單位被派往巴赫穆特地區。幾乎所有我的戰友在最初幾天就死了。只有少數人倖存——我的指揮官、幾個士兵和當時在醫院的人。這對我打擊很大。我為自己活下來感到內疚。但隨著時間推移，我振作起來。

至於日常生活——志願者是我們的生命線。我們用的很多東西都是西方的，不是烏克蘭的：食物、罐頭，有時甚至是甜點。睡眠和衛生有固定的安排。我們輪流站崗，確保安全。你總是要警告其他人如果你要在陣地之間移動——“一兩個鉛筆朝你那邊去”——因為友軍誤擊很常見。衛生很簡單：如果在村莊裡，我們可能有個“夏季淋浴”。大多數時候只是用濕紙巾。最大的問題是牙齒。很多人牙齒腐爛或脫落。我也有牙齒問題。

至於與戰友的關係，我故意保持距離。與某人走得太近，然後失去他們，太痛苦了。這會給你帶來壓力，讓你崩潰。所以我不分享自己的事，也不問別人的事。也許這就是我能活到現在的原因。有一段時間，我每天和一個有車的戰友一起開車去單位。我們有時會載其他人。其中一個是個安靜的傢伙，不是天生的士兵。我們幾乎不認識，只是簡單聊了幾句。有一天，我們躺在軍營裡，一個護士進來說：“他昨天死了。”我們一開始甚至沒意識到她說的是誰，後來才意識到就是那天和我們一起坐車的人。他走了。就像從未存在過一樣。這就是為什麼我避免與人走得太近。每一次失去都是痛苦，壓力在內心積累，侵蝕著你。

我想我變得更冷漠了——也許這只是成長的一部分。我不再注意別人，不在乎他們的樣子或行為。但我明白，這是戰爭帶來的改變。我不再為死亡而哭泣或絕望——不是因為我不在乎，而是因為我接受了現實：在戰爭中，每個人都會死——平民、士兵、孩子、成人。我們無法像薩諾斯一樣打個響指讓導彈飛回俄羅斯。眼淚或憤怒改變不了什麼。也許這就是保持冷靜的意義。當我在城市裡，防空警報響起，監控頻道報告有巡航導彈或彈道導彈來襲時，我只是走到陽台上，為自己錄一段視頻，留作紀念。我不怕受傷或死亡。我想：如果我註定要死於此，即使在避難所也會死。

當我投票給澤連斯基時，他看起來像一個充滿希望的新政客——一個不與舊政治體制掛鉤的年輕人。感覺他會帶來真正的改變。某種程度上，確實如此——改革開始了，基礎設施項目啟動，道路建成，這給了人們希望。但老實說，那次投票就像去超市：你看到熟悉的產品，試過，知道會得到什麼。然後有一個新的、鮮艷的水果——不尋常、新鮮、有趣。你選擇它，因為你想要新的東西，因為舊的東西不再讓你信任。那時的澤連斯基對我來說就是這樣。但戰爭改變了一切。現在有很多問題和批評，如果是在和平時期，這些可能不會出現。改革、歐盟一體化、新法律——這一切都在戰爭的背景下進行，給社會帶來了疲憊和緊張。如果這些複雜的改革是在國家沒有面臨現代史上最大考驗的時候推出，會更好。

迫使我離開軍隊的是指揮官對部下的冷漠。他們不在乎你是誰、你有什麼問題或你怎麼想。人們被像炮灰一樣扔進絞肉機。軍隊裡仍然有太多“蘇聯學派”的指揮官。幾乎沒有人計劃行動、提供真正的領導、訓練下屬，或確保適當的防禦工事或戰壕。人們不斷被替換，因為其他人死了。新人往往沒有時間適應——他們被立即扔進戰鬥。我離開是因為我被拒絕治療。他們要把我送到東部，即使我出示了證明我治療尚未開始的正式文件。他們不在乎。他們威脅說“今天”就送我去。我回家了——當時這是允許的。那天晚上，部署到“戰區”的名單來了。我忽略了消息。指揮官警告大家，這是擅離職守，可能被判5到10年監禁。但我的情況不是擅離職守。我知道自己在做什麼。幾個月後，我想轉到防空部隊。我寫信給我的單位，但被拒絕。六個月後，我想回來。我寫信給指揮官。但沒人在乎。他們只是把我從一個人推到另一個人，某個時候我放棄了嘗試。官方上，我沒有被宣布為擅離職守，所以技術上我仍然在役。我懷疑領導層中有人在私吞我的薪水。這種事很常見，不只發生在我身上。系統在自我保護。然而，我仍然感到一種回歸的衝動。某種東西在吸引我回去。但我的另一部分說——你還年輕，你還沒見過、沒感受過一切。你會很快死去。現在他們叫我去另一個單位，擔任一個我認為自己能勝任的特定角色。但我害怕會再次遇到同樣的問題。所以我還在考慮。

我完全不與戰友保持聯繫。我唯一的軍事聯繫是之前認識的人——早年的熟人。但與那些一起服役的人，我不聯繫。也許潛意識裡，我試圖不讓自己與那段人生綁定——太多的痛苦和失去。我不後悔我的決定。我在前線奉獻了我的健康。我沒有逃避，當許多人甚至沒想過去參軍時，我在那裡。我不是簡單地離開軍隊——我耗盡了我的健康。我看到人們死去、崩潰。我看到，現在仍然看到，這個系統如何把人碾碎，吐出破碎的殞地。它甚至不總是說“謝謝”。我離開不是因為害怕，而是因為我知道如果留下來，我不會活下去。我要麼死，要麼完全崩潰。和我一起的人不評判我。那些經歷過類似事情的人理解。戰爭不是非黑即白的。不是每個人都能做英雄直到最後一天。有時，英雄主義只是活下來，不迷失自己。

不，我不怕被找到。我沒在躲藏。如我所說，我想自己回到我的單位。現在我在考慮回去服役，但是在另一個單位。我不感到恐懼。我在城市裡自由走動，有時只是散步。即使被攔下來檢查，我仍然是正式在役的。如果他們把我帶回去，我也不怕。我平靜地去看醫生處理健康問題，或者在需要時聯繫警察。我和每個人都公開交談。我沒有生活在陰影中。

不是每個人都知道這些。不是每個人都知道我的完整故事。我的母親不知道，或者她可能懷疑或意識到事情的真相。但我父親知道。他說，探望活著的監獄裡的人比探望英雄的墳墓好。我知道那是真的。我的密友支持我的選擇。他們說這很正常，我沒做錯什麼。我認為國內很多人有同樣的看法，因為許多士兵處於類似的情況——要麼身心完全耗盡，要麼被迫離開軍隊，即使知道可能因此面臨監禁。

在我的戰友和平民熟人中，普遍認為烏克蘭的未來只有在沒有俄羅斯的影響下才有可能。不僅是沒有戰爭，而是完全沒有俄羅斯的影響、文化或任何與侵略者有關的東西。對許多人來說，俄羅斯人不再被視為人——他們帶來了死亡、痛苦和破壞。因此，大多數人認為不可能有寬恕或妥協，只有徹底的勝利。儘管疲憊、損失和憤怒，我看到許多人仍然相信，戰爭結束後，烏克蘭將會強大、自由，擁有自己的發展、文化、軍隊和國際地位。我們已經付出了太高的代價，不能回頭或同意以我們的領土為代價的“和平”。人們夢想一個沒有寡頭、當局負責任、即使勝利後也有專業且準備充分的軍隊的烏克蘭。我們不想回到過去——每個人都想向前看，建設一個我們真正可以稱之為自己的國家。

或許這是各國領導人的計劃，或許只是巧合。許多國家在幫助我們：有些是無償且無條件的，有些則是為了金錢。關鍵在於，幫助確實存在。但它來得太慢，卡在無止盡的“不願意”和外國官僚系統的迷宮中。他們在討論什麼，拖延時間——卻不清楚為什麼。

戰爭初期，澤連斯基請求歐洲國家封鎖烏克蘭的領空，讓他們的飛機擊落俄羅斯的導彈。但“盟友”拒絕了，說這會導致局勢升級。好吧，這還勉強可以接受。隨後我們請求購買現代戰機，又聽到了同樣的藉口：“這會引發更大的升級。”

現在情況如何？烏克蘭已經接收了大約五十架F-16戰機和不到十架法國幻影2000-5F戰機。然後呢？有什麼災難性的“升級”嗎？沒有。西方國家仍然安靜地置身事外。或許他們只是害怕俄羅斯。因為如果他們一再重複某個行動可能導致“更大的升級”，那意味著他們內心深處感到恐懼。

但我們烏克蘭人不怕俄羅斯人。他們就像蟑螂：數量多、令人厭惡，造成的危害無法估量。他們摧毀城市，將它們從地圖上抹去。我們請求巡航導彈——又聽到了關於“升級”的老調重彈。俄羅斯媒體恐嚇世界：“給烏克蘭導彈，我們就用核武打擊你們！”結果呢？烏克蘭已經在用英法巡航導彈打擊——什麼可怕的事也沒發生。

我們向德國請求Taurus巡航導彈。當時的總理肖爾茨拒絕了。一開始他說：“只有在美國同意並向烏克蘭交付ATACMS彈道導彈後，我才會同意。”時間過去了——美國交付了ATACMS，也批准了Taurus。結果呢？肖爾茨仍然沒給。

然後是新總理選舉。在競選期間，他高調宣稱：“一旦我成為總理，烏克蘭將獲得Taurus巡航導彈。”他當選了……現在呢？現在他又找了新的藉口。再次說“不”。

唯一的問題是，即使是製造這些導彈的國家，庫存也太少。如果明天西方與俄羅斯開戰，他們的武器庫很快就會耗盡。這適用於任何武器：需要巨大的生產能力，而且現在就必須開始準備。

有時感覺那些“高層人士”只是決定讓戰爭自行發揮作用——減少烏克蘭人或俄羅斯人的數量。正如《使命召喚》中的普萊斯上尉說：“戰爭是大規模的自然選擇。”也許這是個陰謀。也許只是世界領袖的無能。但我們可能永遠不會知道真相。

* 在文章就要刊發之際，《波士頓書評》編輯問作者：你認為澤連斯基這次在白宮與川普的會面，是否為烏克蘭帶來和平的希望？

作者回覆——

我沒有密切關注澤連斯基與川普的會面，因為這種會議通常不會帶來什麼真正的新東西——真正的決定都是在幕後做出的。讓我更震驚的是川普與普京的會面。看到美國士兵為一個被通緝的戰犯鋪紅毯，實在令人深感失望——他應該被逮捕，而不是被禮遇。（如果你用我的話，請把putin（普京） 和russians（俄國人）第一個字母小寫。）

轉載自《波士頓書評》