Documenting the Ukrainian Struggle for Survival: The Power of Storytelling

For several weeks after I returned from Ukraine, I noticed it in my body: the pervasive sense of dissociation and disorientation. As a filmmaker who absorbs the emotions of my subjects, I could feel myself torn between extremes, struggling to reconcile extraordinary strength and staggering vulnerability. I had traveled to Ukraine with the same fear that anyone would feel when looking at the news headlines, and with the frightening knowledge that at any moment I could be caught in the crossfire of violence. What I found, of course, was far more complex and beautiful, illuminating the full spectrum of the universal human experience. 

In Ukraine, a “Broken Inner Landscape” 

I had been sent to Ukraine in February 2023 by the humanitarian relief organization International Medical Corps to document the mental health crisis unfolding in the wake of the Russian invasion. Many of its local staff had been on the frontlines of the war’s earliest battles and were struggling to cope with their own haunting losses while working to serve a widely traumatized population seemingly perched on the precipice of annihilation. Across a physical territory decimated by daily attacks and explosions, I sought to explore the broken inner landscape of the Ukrainian people—and the frontier of our shared humanity.

What I found, of course, was far more complex and beautiful, illuminating the full spectrum of the universal human experience.

After a four-day journey into Kyiv, I discovered, to my surprise, a city that felt as Westernized as Vienna or Berlin. A city teeming with hip, young people speaking broken English and palpably yearning for freedom. A city largely untouched by the visible manifestations of war, instead boasting crowded restaurants, vibrant social scenes, and a population determined to restore a sense of normality—despite the knowledge that, at any moment, a missile could drop from the sky and obliterate them. 

Driving through the outskirts of Kyiv, however, I glimpsed an archaic World War I-like nightmare flanking the edges of innovation and progress: camouflaged, armed soldiers huddled in dense forests, makeshift military bunkers, deep trenches, and heavily guarded checkpoints. A few hours northeast of the capital, we arrived in Chernihiv, the site of some of the war’s deadliest battles and the first place that Russia attacked via Belarus on February 24, 2022. Entire villages lay in rubble. In the city center, people bustled to work alongside firebombed buildings. 

Confronting a Crisis 

We made our way to Chernihiv Psychoneurological Hospital, a psychiatric inpatient facility nestled in the woods a few miles from the Belarussian border. Here, patients and staff rode out the early days of the war, huddled in the dark, dank hospital basement without power, heat, or running water as terrifying battles waged outside and Russian snipers patrolled the premises. Their story of survival over those 37 days of war is at the heart of my short film, INDOMITABLE, illustrating the unyielding fierceness and resilience of the Ukrainian people—as well as their enduring mental and emotional wounds. 

Every Ukrainian I met, on and off camera, has suffered profound traumas that will last long after the headlines fade. They still live with constant air-raid sirens that remind them to stay vigilant—that “overconfidence is weakness,” that their safety is no longer guaranteed. Many have lost loved ones and homes; all have lost any semblance of security and stability. For me, INDOMITABLE serves as a testament to the true frontlines of this war: the daily battle being waged in the minds and hearts of the Ukrainian people, who face an enemy that wants to eradicate their very existence. Their country’s sovereignty hangs in the balance—but their humanity is also under assault. 

Their story of survival over those 37 days of war is at the heart of my short film, INDOMITABLE, illustrating the unyielding fierceness and resilience of the Ukrainian people—as well as their enduring mental and emotional wounds.

Amid the pain, I experienced firsthand the power and resolve of the Ukrainians—how they collectively maintained an unwavering mental narrative of their inevitable victory over their Russian aggressors, how humbly and gratefully they spoke of the ways in which the wider democratized world rallied to their cause, and how confidently they asserted that they would win the war by the summer’s end, pinning their hopes on the highly anticipated counteroffensive by Ukrainian Armed Forces. I hoped that INDOMITABLE would showcase the inextinguishable human spirit that rises in the face of darkness and despair, writing lines of narration for the film that encapsulated this wild juxtaposition: 

And still, we refuse to be vanquished.

We remain stronger and braver than we ever thought possible…forging beauty from brutality…regenerating amidst destruction…clinging to the spark that lit our resistance.

Fueled by our own inextinguishable light, we will burn bright across this dark night for as long as it takes.

For we know what’s at stake.

And we are…indomitable.

All the while, a mounting mental health crisis continues to imprint itself on a generation that has been permanently changed by war—consequences that could last generations.

Then, last summer came and went, but the war did not end as hoped. The Ukrainians made some advances but not enough to turn the tide. And in the fall, while the world’s attention turned to Israel and Gaza, Russia pummeled Ukraine with an unrelenting barrage of missile strikes and ground attacks that weakened the Ukrainian military, perhaps irrevocably. Meanwhile, US funding for military aid to Ukraine was hijacked by highly polarized political infighting and remains a chess piece in Congress.

A Lingering Sorrow, a Continued Fight 

Today, more than one year after my trip to Ukraine and two years after the Russian invasion, much of the optimism I encountered on the ground has dissipated. The Ukrainians I speak with now convey exhaustion and uncertainty, telling me they have stopped planning for the future. They question who is still on their side, fretting about the chaotic state of US politics and watching their military arsenals dwindle in the face of waning international support. All the while, a mounting mental health crisis continues to imprint itself on a generation that has been permanently changed by war—consequences that could last generations.

International Medical Corps (IMC) still works every day on the frontlines of this conflict, providing emergency trauma training, services for gender-based violence, mental health support, and more. But this work depends on people outside Ukraine caring about what happens inside Ukraine. As a humanitarian relief organization, IMC must maintain neutrality and continue focusing on the immediate task at hand: saving lives and relieving suffering. As a storyteller, I struggle to convey the wider stakes—and why they matter to every single one of us.

Just as Ukraine’s military is unlikely to win this war without continued international support, humanitarian relief organizations like IMC depend on donor support. In the final analysis, the question isn’t: “How far will we go to help Ukraine?” Rather, each of us must ask ourselves: “How far will we go to defend our shared humanity?” 

What is often forgotten in a divided world fueled by fear and aggression is that humanity has a connective tissue that transcends borders and politics. Abandoning one another threatens our very survival as a species. If we turn away from Ukraine now, we will turn the tide against ourselves. 

Ukraine’s struggle reminds us that even in the darkest of times, the human spirit remains indomitable—and that is something always worth fighting for.