The sound of birdsong is so loud outside Yulia Mykytenko’s current home, an abandoned house somewhere in the Donbas region of Ukraine, that I can hear it through my laptop. We’re speaking on Zoom, Mykytenko visible briefly – young, wearing black, her dark bobbed hair with blue-dyed streaks in it – before she turns the camera off because her signal isn’t great. She has some outside space and, she says with a laugh, a local sheep sometimes comes to visit her dog. Mykytenko, a lieutenant in the Ukrainian army, also feeds the street cats, pets abandoned by residents who fled, and has her own cat. In her new memoir, How Good It Is I Have No Fear of Dying (the name comes from the first line of a poem by the Ukrainian poet Vasyl Stus), she writes that each of the houses her 15-strong platoon live in has a cat, to catch the mice and rats that chew everything, including the cables to the generators and satellite communications. Their numbers boom in the area, she writes, as they “feed on the bodies of hapless soldiers”.
Mykytenko, 29, spent two years here between 2016 and 2018, when Russia invaded the region, then again after the full-scale invasion in 2022. One of the first female frontline commanders, she leads a reconnaissance and attack unit. Her pilots use drones to track the Russian army and to locate the dead bodies of fallen colleagues and support their retrieval. Just this morning, some of her men – she lives with five of her platoon – told her there had been some heavy shelling at 5am, but she slept through it. “I got used to it,” she says. This current house is “quite comfortable” – it has running water (at the previous one, they had to fetch water from a well), but it is cold and takes an hour to heat.
She is “tired, very tired”, she says. A year ago, she felt more motivated: “I was ready to be at war for at least maybe three years more, but now, sometimes I really want to go home [to Kyiv]. But I know that nobody will replace me, and I know that my experience can preserve my people, my fellows [her name for her comrades], which is why I’m ready to work for them.” Is it a struggle to keep her morale up? “I wouldn’t say that it’s a struggle, but yes, it takes some resources.” On bad days, Mykytenko will ask her sergeants to take over, and she’ll spend the day watching Harry Potter movies.
The coming year, she thinks, “will be most critical. I think maybe we will see some results, and maybe peace agreements, because our side is completely exhausted, and the enemy is also completely exhausted.” There have been concerns for what it could mean for Ukraine if Donald Trump wins the US election, including decreased military spending and pressure on the country to negotiate an unfavourable settlement with Russia. She doesn’t spend much time thinking about global politics, she says, “but I believe in US democracy, and the only thing I can do is support the American people and their choice. I just hope that the western world may see that this is not only a war between Ukraine and Russia, it’s a war of democratic values. For now, it’s a critical moment for the democratic world, whether they push away dictators, or they continue with intolerance.”
Mykytenko is resigned to war fatigue from the west; that Ukraine only gets attention “if something extremely bad happens, like the bombarding of a children’s hospital in Kyiv”, as happened in July this year. “I can understand. Our citizens are exhausted and try to live not seeing war. I can see that with donations, it’s a very small amount now, compared [with what] it was one or two years ago.” (Like other platoons, Mykytenko’s raises money online to pay for expenses, such as new drones and fixing vehicles.) “So it’s not so surprising that the west is also tired.” In her book, written with the journalist Lara Marlowe, she states she doesn’t expect to see peace in Ukraine in her lifetime. “I think that my generation won’t,” she says now. She just hopes that future generations will.
Mykytenko grew up on the outskirts of Kyiv. Shortly after her younger brother was born, their father left, though she still saw him. She and her brother were brought up by their mother, who went back to work to support them, getting a job in a call centre (later, she would go back to university and become a psychotherapist, working for the military). Until she was 17, she spoke Russian, and viewed the country “as our friend”; her father, especially, was very pro-Russia. Mykytenko hadn’t been particularly interested in Ukraine’s 1991 independence, a few years before she was born. At university, though – the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy, which actively promotes Ukrainian identity – everything changed. “The history events that we learned at school had a Russian perspective. At university, everyone spoke Ukrainian.” She started, she says, “to think in Ukrainian. Language gives you the right perspective on your history, on your culture.” She started removing whatever aspects of Russian language and culture she could from her life.
Mykytenko joined the 2013 protests at Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Independence Square) in Kyiv, which ended with the Revolution of Dignity the following year and the ousting of Ukraine’s pro-Russian president, Viktor Yanukovych. She says she felt as if she had been at the right time and place in history, and was “doing the right thing” even though back then she was “a good girl”, she says with a laugh, and found it hard to disobey the law. It was frightening to see protesters armed only with cycling helmets and plywood shields shot by snipers, and experience smoke bombs and teargas – nothing, in retrospect, compared with what she would go through later. “I saw bodies of protesters, the price we paid for that, but it definitely was worth it.”
Around the same time, Russia occupied Crimea. Mykytenko wanted to join up, but stayed on to finish university. In 2015, she met her husband, Illia Serbin, a young soldier – he was on leave from his unit in Mariupol and was lodging with Mykytenko and her mother in their Kyiv apartment. They fell in love and married quickly. They joined a unit together the following year, the day before her 21st birthday. “He supported my decision, and with him, I wasn’t so frightened,” she says.
Serbin was transferred to an infantry unit, but Mykytenko was only allowed to do admin work, which was frustrating. “I wanted to join to a combat unit, but I was told that I’m a woman with no experience, there is no way. My husband told me, just calm down, you are at war, and you have to do your job best in the place where you are.” Was she scared when he was fighting? “Yes, I was really frightened for him, because I knew that he’s a warrior and he won’t just sit in one place. He wanted to be in action, to go somewhere, to a grey zone [between the Ukrainian and Russian lines], or go and steal weapons from the enemy.”
Eventually, Mykytenko managed to convince one of her superiors to let her be on the guard duty rota (a packet of peanuts may or may not have helped with his decision, she says with a laugh). It wasn’t a huge leap – she was guarding the building where she had been working – but it felt big. “It was important to insist that I can be the same as a man. I can do the same job.”
Mykytenko found out that, as a graduate, she was eligible for officer training. There weren’t many female officers – those that there were had mostly been medics, psychologists and financial workers. Mykytenko was determined to be in combat. Once she was commissioned, she was put in charge of a reconnaissance platoon of 20 men; 16 of them resigned. “It was one of the hardest times in my service,” she says. She told them it was their choice whether they stayed or not, but they weren’t going to push her out. Did she feel strong, or was it an act? Mykytenko laughs. “At first, maybe acting,” she says, but her confidence in herself and her decisions grew. “I felt that I was working in the right way, so I felt strong.” It took a few months to earn respect, she says, and she gradually built the unit back up. “I was doing everything with them, I didn’t refuse hard work. I also lived with them, so they felt that I shared this service with them.”
Of her early experiences of coming under fire, she says: “To be honest, I was mainly excited, and with a lot of adrenaline, I actually didn’t think that I could die.” She hadn’t seen anyone killed then. “The war wasn’t so intensive as it is now.” The fighting worsened, though. As a drone commander, she would watch battles on her video screen in real time. It was the hardest to watch colleagues being killed. “You understand that you can do nothing,” she says, then adds that at least they can see where that person fell, to later retrieve their body. “I just don’t let feelings come too close, that it was a human being, my friends – I just do my job, and after that, when the person is evacuated from the battlefield, I can give myself a few hours of mourning.”
In February 2018, Serbin was killed. There were moments in that intense early grief, she says, “when I wanted to die”. She describes walking out into the open during shelling, “hoping that something …” She pauses. “During the shelling that I would die.” It only lasted a few moments, she says, “then I thought that it wasn’t a very competent and reasonable decision”. I hear her give a small laugh. She requested a transfer out of combat, and back to Kyiv. Some people might think of it as weakness, she says, but “I completely understood that I couldn’t take the right decisions” and never wanted to put her unit at risk.
Back in Kyiv, Mykytenko joined the military training academy. It helped her recover, she says. “I was working with teenagers, and I put all my energy and resources into preparing them. And some of them actually are now fighting not far from me, unfortunately – I was hoping that they wouldn’t do that.” She was responsible for the first class of female cadets. To succeed in the Ukrainian army, she thinks, women “have to be ready to work hard and also have a tough skin”. She has heard stories of sexual harassment, but says she hasn’t experienced it, beyond inappropriate “jokes”. She differentiates between “warriors” and “soldiers”. “I was surrounded by warriors – warriors respect you and accept you and support you, so I was pleased to be surrounded by such men.” She has heard plenty of sexist attitudes from men in senior ranks, but says she has stopped responding. “In the first years, it did hurt, but for now, it doesn’t bother me. It isn’t worth my resources.”
Mykytenko is not yet 30 and has been through so much, not just losing her husband, colleagues and experiencing the horrors of war. In 2020, her father, Mykola, died by suicide in Maidan square, after posting on Facebook about Ukrainian independence. He had changed his pro-Russia stance and had been campaigning against what he saw as President Zelenskyy’s capitulation and withdrawal of troops. How does she cope with it all? “I’m trying not to concentrate on it, just because it’s not the right time,” she says. “Sometimes I think I need some psychological support.” She supports herself with “books, movies, to try to find a way to have a rest”.
She works much less now than when the invasion started. Back then, she felt like a sprinter “when I should have been preparing for a marathon”. Mykytenko is mindful of her health and energy, “because it’s not only my productivity that depends on my resources, but also the health and lives of my fellows. I understand when I have no resources that somebody might die because I could miss something.” In her book, she writes about not fearing death. “I just hope that it might be fast,” she says.
She seems to live in such a present and physical way – whether heating water with chopped wood just to go through her basic morning routine, or enduring shelling, or watching drone footage in real time. Does she think about the future? Or allow herself to think about peace and what she might do when she can leave the army? She is quiet for a moment. “Not really,” she says, but adds that she has started to renovate her flat in Kyiv. “I don’t know [if that’s] thinking about the future, but at least it gives me some stability.” I hope she gets there one day, with her dog, and her rescued cats, and peace and birdsong.
How Good It Is I have No Fear of Dying by Lara Marlowe (Bloomsbury Publishing PLC, £20). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123, or email jo@samaritans.org or jo@samaritans.ie. In the US, you can call or text the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline on 988, chat on 988lifeline.org, or text HOME to 741741 to connect with a crisis counselor. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international helplines can be found at befrienders.org
