In July 2023, under the sun-scorched skies of Ukraine’s de-occupied regions, I met a young man who would stay with me long after I returned home. His name is Andriy. At the time, he was volunteering with the church organisation Banner of Love, running youth programs, distributing aid, and bringing hope to villages still echoing with the trauma of Russian occupation.
Andriy had been given a chance to leave. He chose to stay.
He translated for me, played football with the kids, carried boxes of food and medicine, and moved with a quiet energy that felt both young and impossibly wise. You could see it in his eyes—that old soul gentleness shaped by far too much tragedy.
A few weeks ago, I got a message from him. Just a simple “hi” and a photo. He was now a combat medic. My heart sank.
Andriy, with his open smile and servant heart, was now on the front lines. Not because he had to be. Because he believed he had to help.
War doesn’t spare the good ones. About ten days later, another message came: a picture from a hospital bed. One leg pinned. The other, blown off below the knee. “I have time to rest now,” he wrote with dark humour.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
In Ukraine, combat medics are the unseen heroes—the ones who rush into hell with a medpack and a prayer. The recent documentaries I’ve watched only confirmed it: 48-hour shifts with barely a breath, stabilising soldiers under artillery fire, navigating mined roads and drone threats to evacuate the wounded. Some operate in bombed-out basements and abandoned buildings, performing complex trauma care with next to nothing.
They save lives with seconds to spare, often using makeshift gear and sheer grit. Drone strikes have changed the game—causing catastrophic blast injuries that demand immediate haemorrhage control and surgical-level care on the battlefield. But it’s not just limbs and lungs these medics tend to—it’s fear, grief, and the unbearable aftermath of battle.
A few days after his surgery, Andriy and I messaged again. “The physical pain,” he told me, “is nothing.”
He had just found out his younger brother—only 21—had been killed in combat.
There is “so much pain over here,” he wrote.
Andriy couldn’t even attend the funeral. He lay in a hospital bed, grieving not just for his brother, but for his country, for the generation being shattered piece by piece. I could feel his sorrow seeping through every word.
This war is waged not just on land—but on hearts, families, and futures.
Frontline medics in Ukraine operate under relentless pressure. They stabilise trauma victims while shells fall nearby, while drones hover overhead, and while the blood on their gloves often belongs to someone they know. Their vehicles are often targeted. Their clinics, bombed. Yet they return—again and again—to save others.
In the de-occupied Kherson region, I saw this bravery with my own eyes. Clinics shelled days after our visit. Paramedics injured. Supplies scarce. Roads mined. And yet—they carry on.
Many of these medics are young. Some are volunteers like Andriy, with no formal military background. Others are doctors and nurses who’ve traded hospital wards for bunkers and field stations. They train in tactical combat casualty care (TCCC) and work under conditions that would cripple the average civilian healthcare system.
Their resilience is nothing short of miraculous.
Andriy’s story is one of thousands. His is a face to a crisis that can’t be ignored.
As I prepare to visit him on my next trip, I wonder what I will say. What words can hold the weight of his loss? What comfort can I offer someone who’s given so much and lost even more?
But I know this: he doesn’t want pity. None of them do.
They want support. They want us to see. They want the world to understand that this war is not just Ukraine’s burden—it is a defence of human dignity against imperialism and cruelty.
They want solidarity, not charity.
And so, we tell their stories. We raise our voices. We honour their courage not just in memory—but in action.
The work of Ukraine’s frontline medics is more than just treating wounds—it’s holding the fragile line between life and death, between despair and hope. It’s the embodiment of love in the darkest places.
Andriy once ran youth programs for children who had lost everything. Now he lies in a hospital bed, missing a foot, mourning a brother, still holding the same heart for his people.
There is so much pain over there. But there is also profound love.
SHOW YOUR SUPPORT
If you’d like to support those on the ground, our Australian-registered charity works directly with Ukrainian organisations we’ve vetted personally. Your donations are tax-deductible and go where they’re needed most. If you would specifically like to help Andriy please note that on the form.
👉 www.passingthrough.net/donating
Let us stand with Andriy—and all those who bleed for freedom.
