Medical Mission in Ukraine 2025 (5)

Training Future Lifesavers

May 3rd

Dawn arrived and the Save A Life team picked me up for their tactical medicine and first aid training session. Today’s participants weren’t medical professionals but ordinary citizens—soon-to-be soldiers preparing for deployment to the frontlines in just two weeks. A hollowness filled my chest as I observed this diverse assembly of kind faces, young and old alike, knowing where they would soon be applying these critical skills.

Among the trainers was a cardiologist whose life had taken an unexpected turn. En route to an interventional cardiology course, he was intercepted by the mobilisation team and conscripted into military service. Despite his medical expertise, he had initially been destined for infantry deployment but managed to secure officer training that would allow him to utilise his medical skills in the military. Now, alongside other volunteers, he dedicates himself to providing this tactical medical training to civilians thrust into combat roles.

The training team included Alyna from CMA serving as manager and instructor, alongside Tania whom I’d met earlier in my trip to Lviv. A neonatologist named Dima had generously volunteered as my translator for the day. Alyna had specifically requested my feedback on their training methods from an Australian medical educator’s perspective, positioning me as an observer rather than a participant.

The atmosphere was understandably solemn as everyone present contemplated the harsh reality of where these skills would soon be tested. Yet even in this setting, humanity’s irrepressible spirit surfaced unexpectedly. During a scenario where trainees were instructed to assess an “unconscious” buddy’s responsiveness by asking a question (typically something like “Andriy, can you hear me?”), one of the many heavy smokers in the group leaned over his “patient” and asked with complete seriousness: “Do you have Marlboro cigarettes?” The moment of levity rippled through the room, a brief respite from the weight of their imminent future.

The training facility itself revealed much about the conditions these citizen-soldiers would soon face. They slept in basic camp accommodations, and lunch—which we shared together—consisted of simple fare served in personal mess kits that each person brought along. The stark utilitarian environment stood in stark contrast to the sophisticated medical training facilities I was accustomed to back home, yet the quality of instruction and seriousness of purpose were no less impressive.

As I observed each demonstration and practice session, I found myself cataloguing feedback while simultaneously processing the profound emotional weight of what I was witnessing—civilians from all walks of life preparing for the unimaginable. My professional assessment of teaching methodologies couldn’t be separated from the human reality before me: a cardiologist who should be saving hearts in a hospital was instead teaching tourniquet application to shopkeepers and students who should never have to use such knowledge.

Looking into their focused faces, I saw determination overlaying fear, courage wrestling with uncertainty. These weren’t soldiers by choice or profession—they were Ukraine’s citizens answering an existential call. The training wasn’t theoretical; for them, it represented the thin line between life and death, not just for themselves but for their comrades who would soon depend on them in moments of crisis.

As the day concluded and I shared my observations with Alyna, I struggled to maintain professional detachment. How do you clinically evaluate training methods when you know the stakes are so desperately high? My feedback focused on technical aspects—communication techniques, skill reinforcement, retention strategies—but privately, I carried the weight of fifteen faces I might never see again, whose lives might depend on what they learned today.