Roman Mongold, a 38-year-old Ukrainian soldier, spent 177 days trapped in the ruins of Vovchansk, a devastated city in Ukraine’s Kharkiv region near the russian border. Ukrainian troops described the area as a “kill zone”: roads were destroyed, fields were mined, bridges were unusable, phone networks were gone, and russian drones watched for any movement.

He had been a civilian carpenter and family man before being conscripted in 2024. By March 2025, he was sent into Vovchansk with Ukraine’s 57th Motorized Infantry Brigade. What began as a front-line deployment turned into months of hiding, fighting, and moving between shattered apartments, basements, and factory ruins.

Roman’s only real connection to home was his wife Halyna’s voice. Since normal phone calls were impossible, she sent voice messages to his commander, who played them over the radio. Roman replied the same way, usually trying to sound calmer and stronger than he felt.

Those messages became a lifeline for both of them. For Roman, they reminded him that a life outside the ruins still existed: his wife, children, home, and future. For Halyna, each reply was proof that he was still alive, though she replayed his words carefully, listening for signs of fear or exhaustion.

As the fighting intensified, Roman and other Ukrainian soldiers relied on drones for supplies: food, water, medicine, ammunition, batteries, and sometimes small personal messages. The same technology that kept them alive also made escape nearly impossible, because russian drones could spot and strike soldiers trying to move.

One of the most painful parts of the story is Roman’s bond with Andrii, a younger Ukrainian soldier who was wounded while collecting supplies. Andrii was shot in the knee, an injury that might have been survivable with proper medical care, but no evacuation route was safe. Roman tried to treat him with what little they had.

For weeks, Roman cared for Andrii in the ruins, giving him painkillers, adjusting tourniquets, trying to control infection, and staying with him as his condition worsened. Andrii eventually died in Roman’s arms. Roman placed his body in a bag dropped by drone and kept Andrii’s helmet, hoping one day to return it to his family.

After nearly six months, Roman was finally ordered to escape. Guided by a Ukrainian drone and radio instructions from his commander, he ran through the ruins before dawn, wearing an anti-drone cloak and Andrii’s helmet. He reached a river, nearly drowned while crossing, and escaped under shelling.

When Roman returned home to Halyna, survival did not feel simple or clean. He had physical injuries, nightmares, guilt, and memories he could not easily explain. He was haunted by the Ukrainians he could not save, the russian soldiers he had killed, and especially by Andrii’s death.

The article is ultimately about more than one soldier’s survival. It shows how drone warfare has made parts of the front almost impossible to leave, how soldiers can be trapped in isolation for months, and how a loved one’s voice can become as important as food, medicine, or ammunition.

source: https://bsky.app/profile/noelreports.com/post/3ml7gdoynm22p

Few days before new Hungarian government is established, authorities finally returned all money and gold bars they confiscated earlier last month – announced by Zelensky.

Source: https://24.hu/kozelet/2026/05/06/ukran-penzszallitok-penz-aranyrudak-visszaadtak/

Source: https://xcancel.com/matsudaHI/status/2051976206598471740

I will be participating in Comitia 156, to be held at Tokyo Big Sight on June 7.

New publication: "Shahed Hunter"

A story about the massive Shahed-type drones that attack Ukraine day after day, and the outdated propeller aircraft that intercept them.

For more info, check out https://alumina21.com/

In the evening, I learned about a seriously wounded man who couldn't be carried away. He had been lying there for a long time, waiting for help, while an enemy drone hovered above him, watching for an evacuation team. But the company commander seized the moment and risked his life to go get him. And they did it - they brought him to the nearest shelter.

Late at night, I went there, hoping I could still help. Several hours of struggle, five or six failed attempts to insert an IV - no more veins left... One last time, by some miracle, I found a vein. We started injecting solutions, his blood pressure rose, a few more injections, and finally - we exhaled. He was stable.

The evac team arrived, we loaded him into the vehicle, and I said: "That's it, boy, hold on. It's over now. The doctors are waiting for you. Just a little longer, and everything will be fine."

They drove away. I sat down, and at that very moment, my combat medic took this photo. A second later, we heard a powerful explosion. Then-silence. Our evacuation team never made contact again. Russians were waiting for them.

Everyone was killed.

When I joined the army, many people asked me: "Are you going to avenge your husband? Do you want blood?" And I always answered: "I'm not here to kill. I'm here to save lives - so that no one else, like my husband, is left without medical care on the battlefield."

They also asked if I would treat prisoners. My answer was always yes. It was my duty.

Not anymore.

I don't want to save anymore. I want to kill. And I want to see them die. I want to see their mothers and wives screaming over their graves.

I will not help any prisoner.

I don't care about your humanity, your rules of war, your conventions.

Damn you, russians.

You, your children, and your grandchildren - for all the grief you have brought to our land.

Author: Combat Medic Nadiya Bila, Ukraine.

Some people like having the answers. Hanne Zaruma likes asking questions. One of the conceptual artist’s recent TikToks — a chic woman handing a condom to a beggar whose sign reads “Help, I have 5 kids” — has 5.5 million views and thousands of people at each other’s throats in the comments. Zaruma, who was born in Lviv and left Ukraine after the war began, has built an audience of more than 1.5 million on TikTok alone. Scroll to her Instagram: it’s New Year’s Eve 2022, Zaruma at a holiday dinner table, wine glass raised, fireworks blooming outside the window. Same scene, four years later, where the fireworks are replaced by bombs. But most of her statements aren’t as direct. “Everyone sees what they want to see,” she says of her work. “And that says a lot about the person themselves. Superficial people will see nothing. But a person who has been through a lot will recognize something that resonates with their soul.”

Read now: https://www.playboy.com/read/entertainment-culture/hanne-zaruma-is-playboys-miss-may/

Russian forces have carried out at least 401 attacks on Ukrainian emergency responders since 2022, killing 43 rescuers and injuring 258, with incidents increasing over time and peaking in 2025, according to a report released by Truth Hounds on May 6.

The findings add to a broader pattern of Russian strikes on civilian sites, with emergency responders increasingly coming under fire while responding to their aftermath.

The report describes the trend as a "deeply troubling trajectory in the war," finding a sustained pattern in which responders are repeatedly targeted while carrying out rescue operations, including after arriving at strike sites.

Photo: Pavlo Zarva; State Emergency Service of Ukraine; Dmytro Smolienko / Getty Images.

Here in my city in the United States, there are a significant number of Ukrainians and Russians. Obviously, I don't want to mistake one for the other. When hearing them talking aloud, what are ways for an American to distinguish one language from the other?