Gillybean 🇬🇧🇺🇦 Main Bastard Div

1/3 In a St. Petersburg courtroom, a 19-year-old girl delivered a speech of incredible courage—in Putin’s Russia. The student, Daria Kozireva, was on trial for "discrediting the army" (Part 1 of Article 280.3 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation)—for having affixed a piece of paper featuring a poem by Taras Shevchenko to a monument of the Ukrainian poet, on the anniversary of the full-scale invasion. Here is his final word: ⸻ "If Taras Grigorievich were to happen upon our time, people here might expect me to say something that would leave him struck into silence. But no. He wouldn’t even be surprised—not in the slightest. A all-too-familiar scene would unfold before his eyes: Muscovy, creeping forward once again. Naturally, this war did not begin in 2022. Even in the narrowest sense, one could consider 2014 the starting point—a conflict initiated by the Russians themselves, who bear the guilt for every drop of blood shed. In a broader sense, however, this war has been raging for hundreds of years. It is a peculiar feature of Russian history: regardless of which regime holds power, some internal, quasi-religious impulse within that regime simply refuses to let Ukraine go in peace. Tsars, Communists—it makes no difference what guise they wear; they are all the same. After all these centuries, one would think they might finally grasp a simple truth: just leave. Yes, Moscow has won many times, but it has never achieved a definitive victory—and it never will. The Ukrainian people will no longer permit it. They have had enough. Those who crave occupation have never understood this. They are not particularly intelligent, no matter how much they might wish to appear otherwise. No one granted them the right to dictate Ukraine’s past or its future. They fail to realize that Ukrainians have no need for an 'elder brother'—and certainly not for the notion of a 'triune Russian nation.' Ukraine is a free nation—a truly free nation—and it shall determine its own destiny. As for those who parrot the invader’s narratives—the Ukrainian people will hold them in contempt. And there is no need to start talking about 'nationalists'..." ...Ukrainians." You are bringing this about yourselves. If you push your way into Ukraine — you will find out. And perhaps quite painfully. I sincerely hope the Russians remember these fundamental truths: Ukraine — once again — is a free nation. It will decide for itself which path to take, whom to consider a brother, and whom to regard as an enemy. It will decide for itself how to treat its own history. And, furthermore, it will decide for itself which language to speak. I believe I am stating the obvious, yet for many, these things are not yet obvious at all. Putin cannot even conceive of Ukraine as a sovereign nation. And there is much else that eludes his understanding — such as human rights or democratic principles. Even those who are supposedly opposed to the Putin regime do not always grasp this. They do not always understand that Ukraine, having paid for its sovereignty with blood, will decide for itself how to live. I want to believe that with the arrival of democracy, this attitude will change. I want to believe in a future where Russia abandons its imperialism — whether overt or covert. God willing. May it only be God’s will. I have already mentioned, during various discussions, that any talk of "chains" in relation to Ukraine would be inappropriate today. Ukrainians will no longer allow themselves to be humiliated. And, indeed, they do not permit it now. Yet, in the time of Shevchenko, chains were, unfortunately, a reality. His poetry did not contain calls to fight the Muscovites; the time was not right, and the hopes were not the same. His patriotic creative work is a cry—a cry over the cruel fate of Ukraine, a cry for the forgotten glory of the Cossacks, and a cry over the errors and defeats that led Ukraine to lose its freedom.

A 26-year-old doctor from Mariupol performed surgeries while under bombardment, removed a piece of shrapnel from his own leg—and then went to Kharkiv to treat children. When he received a call at 5 a.m. saying, "The war has started," Serhiy Danylov simply rolled over and went back to sleep. An hour and a half later, explosions outside his window woke him up. He was 26 years old. He was an intern specializing in otolaryngology—a pediatric ENT—who had just begun working at a hospital in Mariupol. He had zero surgical experience. There were almost no medical supplies. And all around him lay a city that someone had decided to wipe off the face of the earth. Serhiy and two of his colleagues stayed at the hospital and began doing things he had never done before: stitching up wounds, extracting bullets, and applying tourniquets. There was no anesthesia, no internet, and no medical textbooks. They had only what they had managed to scrape together from a nearby military hospital. When the ambulance service in Mariupol ceased to function and the wounded stopped arriving, they moved down into the basement. At one point, Serhiy ran outside—and at that exact moment, a shell struck just five meters away from him. He was thrown to the ground. He suffered a concussion; his ears were ringing, and he was bleeding. He felt his leg—a piece of shrapnel was lodged under the skin. It was removed using an ordinary knife—without anesthesia, by the light of a flashlight, amidst swearing and tears. Serhiy would never forget the sound of a knife cutting against metal beneath the skin. Two hours later, he was already sitting on a stool, operating on a 14-year-old boy whose leg had been shattered by a landmine. Then came the filtration camps. Searches, interrogations, and threats: "Either you help us, or we kill you." He refused. And when the Russians came seeking medical aid—and offered him the chance to fight for the "DPR"—he replied: "I am a doctor. But I will never collaborate with Russia. Not even at the barrel of a gun." Of the 42 people on the bus, only 21 reached Rostov. The others had disappeared at the checkpoints. Serhiy spun a yarn for the FSB—spending three hours telling them he would never take up arms. But then they asked to see his tattoos. On his chest was a knife. They let him go. He got out, climbed into a car—and traveled all the way across Russia. Then came Georgia. For the first time in 40 days, someone offered to help. A T-shirt bearing the words "Glory to Ukraine." A table laden with Georgian food. The Ukrainian flag everywhere—and tears he could no longer hold back. Serhiy could have stayed in Europe. He had a job as a gardener on the coast, a roof over his head, and peace. But he returned—specifically to Kharkiv. Because, he says, the thought of living anywhere other than Ukraine never even crosses his mind. Today, he performs surgeries on children—ranging from newborns just one day old to 18-year-olds. He has been diagnosed with PTSD, and almost every night he has dreams in which he is killed. Yet, every morning, he goes to work—because when a small child takes his hand and smiles, that is the answer to every question. "No spiteful dwarf in the Kremlin will make me change my mind. I want to work as a doctor." And that is perhaps the most powerful thing one could say about a man who has been through hell—and chose to return to where he is needed.