Ukrainian Veterans Prepare For Postwar Leadership

The patch of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. (KIRILL CHUBOTIN / Ukrinform/Future Publishing via Getty Images)

Future Publishing via Getty Images

Nothing about the dozen men and women gathered on a summer Saturday in the nondescript classroom in downtown Kyiv signaled who they were. Pale, skinny women in punkish black mingled comfortably with beefy men in rugged work clothes. Ages ranged from early 20s to late middle age. They greeted each other warmly and shared a few jokes as they squeezed into plastic chair desks and waited for their instructor.

What they had in common: all were Ukrainian veterans chosen to participate in a program they hope will prepare them for future leadership, whether in government, nonprofit organizations, or community settings—any initiative, as the program’s cofounders put it in an interview, to “rebuild and strengthen Ukraine.”

Virtually no one in Ukraine expects peace anytime soon—they don’t believe Vladimir Putin will make peace until he has achieved his goal of subjugating his southern neighbor. But in a nation fighting to break free of Russian influence, refashioning itself as a European democracy, the future of the country is on everyone’s mind—that’s what they’re fighting and dying for—and it’s never too soon to think about rebuilding.

One estimate by a leading parliamentarian suggests there could be 3 million veterans by the time the war ends, perhaps 10% of the population, and they are expected to play a major role in reshaping the country. But there are also lots of question marks, including a gaping social divide between those who have and have not taken up arms against Russia.

The Defenders Leadership Center housed at Kyiv-Mohyla University, a small, elite school in the heart of the capital, offers a window on this generation that will inherit Ukraine in the years after the war.

An Intensive Program Encourages The Generation That Will Reshape The Country After The War

Most participants in the program are holding down full-time jobs, one-quarter of them still in the military. But they find time to attend class two evenings a week and all day on Saturday. The center offers no traditional social or mental health services. It’s an academic program taught mostly by volunteers from the Kyiv-Mohyla faculty—classes in Ukrainian history and literature as well as public administration and strategic communications.

The goal, according to the center’s staff: to impart an understanding of Ukrainian identity and political values, reinforcing the sense of personal responsibility soldiers learn in the army. The spirit is patriotic but intellectually rigorous. “We speak candidly about the weaknesses of the Ukrainian system,” cofounder Yana Chapailo explains to me, “with an emphasis on what a future leader can do to change them.”

Chapailo and fellow Kyiv-Mohyla alum Mariia Savrun, both in their mid-30s with honey-blond hair, launched the program just over a year ago, knowing they were swimming against the tide. “All Ukrainians are grateful to the defenders,” former IT marketer Savrun explains. “Without them, we wouldn’t be here. But there are lots of misconceptions.” Some civilians think all veterans suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Bosses hesitate to discipline them, so many HR managers avoid hiring them. “We want to show people there’s no need to be afraid of the topic,” former nonprofit manager Chapailo tells me.

The cofounders look to private donors to sustain the program, and in the first year, they served just over 100 veterans, who attend free of charge. The two women say they’re making up their approach as they go along, with help from Kyiv-Mohyla faculty and active-duty military advisers. But the pair have firm views on a few things, starting with what veterans want and need.

“We don’t just hug them,” Savrun explains. “We make clear there are rules—rules that apply to them—and they respect the discipline. We select participants carefully, and everyone here is motivated by the same thing—a sense of responsibility for Ukraine’s future.”

Two Former Fighters Know Firsthand What Needs Changing

Tymur Abdulin, 28, enters the classroom 10 minutes late, a tall, thin man with a dark ponytail and an abundance of tattoos. It takes only a few minutes for him to insert himself in the conversation. Smiling and charismatic, a kind of natural leader, he poses a question whenever there’s an opportunity and answers every query put by the instructor. Only later do I learn what a hard time he had in the military in the early days of the war.

Even with a master’s degree and work experience as an IT manager, he struggled to find a unit that would accept him as a fighter. Then, when he finally secured a spot, he was made platoon commander. But he found it hard to take charge of two dozen men, many of them much older, from different backgrounds. “I was just 25 and the only one in the platoon who could read an Excel spreadsheet,” he recalls.

He was transferred though a series of units, but none of them saw enough action for his taste, and he grew increasingly frustrated by what he thought were make-work assignments. He felt the commander of the last unit where he served was deliberately harassing him, and when his elderly mother fell ill, he took the opportunity to muster out of the service. But now, two years later, he is haunted by regret. “I didn’t do the best in the army,” he tells me, and he thinks every day about reenlisting.

His friend, Liudmyla Pautets, 35, is quiet in class but already highly accomplished in her field. A pale woman with dark hair and thick eyebrows, she knew as a child that she wanted to practice medicine. When she couldn’t afford to train as a doctor, she took courses in nursing and health management. When Russian-backed fighters launched a separatist rebellion in eastern Ukraine in 2014, she tried to enlist as a paramedic. The army wouldn’t take her, but she served as a volunteer, providing frontline care and evacuating wounded soldiers from some of the conflict’s fiercest battles.

Searing memories of moments when she didn’t feel she knew enough to provide needed care drove her to continue her medical education after the war. Then she found work training others and, eventually, developing courses in combat care. Today, she is the director of tactical medical instruction at the influential nonprofit organization, Come Back Alive, and is already working to shape national policy on frontline care.

Different as they are, the two veterans have a lot in common. Asked what they’re getting out of the Kyiv-Mohyla program, both emphasize the sense of community. “No one who hasn’t served in the military understands us,” Abdulin complains. “A friend of mine who’s a veteran—a doctor—tried to get a job in a hospital, and the only thing the hiring manager wanted to know was ‘How many Russians did you kill?’”

Abdulin isn’t sure he sees the point of all the topics covered in the Kyiv-Mohyla program. But what made it worthwhile for him was the “community of veterans.” “The people here are very different” he tells me, “different ages and all walks of life. But we’ve all been through the same thing, and we understand each other.”

Both Abdulin and Pautets also share strong views about what’s wrong with the Ukrainian military. Both had trouble finding their place in the armed forces—units and positions that could make full use of their talents.

Both struggled with what they saw as blinkered, “Soviet-style” commanders, more focused on the rules and what their bosses would think than on the task at hand or the lives of the fighters they commanded. One of Pautets’ biggest gripes is about the army’s blindness to gender issues—she says she was denied several jobs she was more than qualified for.

Most damning, both complain, the army isn’t open enough to new ideas. “It’s impossible to change the system from inside the system,” Pautets maintains. “That’s why I never actually joined the armed forces. I did all my work as a volunteer.”

Motivated Men And Women Determined To Advance Reform

Their strongest bond: both veterans share an consuming drive to reform the Ukrainian military—the command structure and its approach to medical care.

Pautets is well on the way to achieving her goal. She has a vision of what’s needed and a clear plan to get there. In the age of drone warfare, she says, you can’t leave combat care to specialized personnel, whether doctors or paramedics. Every soldier needs to know the basics, and every third fighter should be more qualified—a trained ‘‘combat life saver.’’ At Come Back Alive, she is working to realize this dream with a train-the-trainer network and allies in the armed forces.

Abdulin’s plans are still taking shape. He wants first to return to the army and prove himself, ideally in a specialized elite unit. But unlike Pautets, he’s convinced he can advance change from within. “If we want to change this country,” he tells me, “we need to go through the government,” and he is looking for likeminded advocates in his current job at Brave1, a government initiative to support defense industry entrepreneurs.

No one at the Kyiv-Mohyla defenders center—neither the cofounders nor the veterans I met—have any idea when or how the war will end. But they can’t wait to start shaping what will come after. “There’s plenty of work to do now,” Savrun tells me. “These people want to be change agents—that’s why they’re here. Our job is to encourage them and give them the tools.”