To understand why that declaration mattered, one must go back nearly two decades earlier, to the final years of socialist Yugoslavia. Kosovo, a landlocked territory in the Balkans with a majority ethnic Albanian population and a Serb minority, had enjoyed a degree of autonomy within the Yugoslav federation. That autonomy was revoked in 1989 by the Serbian leader Slobodan Milosevic. What followed was not a sudden war, but a slow unravelling.

Throughout the 1990s, Kosovo Albanians were removed from public institutions, schoo…

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You could smell what had been lost: burnt fabric, singed wires, the ash that clings to fingernails, to lungs, to memory. This was not a battlefield. It was a tailor's shop. An ordinary place where hands once crafted aprons and hemmed trousers. Where laughter probably lived in the hum of sewing machines and the rustle of cotton bolts. And now, rubble.

There was nothing left to clean. But she still tried. That, I realised, is how Ukraine survives, not through victory, but through the compulsion to tidy the apocalypse and begin again.

The morning after the long night of June 5–6 did not open with birdsong but with the grim cadence of rubble being shifted and pl…

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Ruslan was introduced to me through a mutual contact, an interpreter who had become my bridge into the lives of those on the frontlines. He was a press officer at the time, but his reputation as an artist had already begun to precede him. Before I ever saw his face, I saw his work—sketches passed around in digital form, pinned to barracks walls, appearing on fundraising platforms. His art had become a language of its own, speaking to soldiers and civilians alike, distilling the h…

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Brian was a man who had seen the worst of humanity but still spoke with an unwavering belief in its capacity for good. As we walked through the city, he shared stories of the people who had chosen to stay in the frontline zones, those who had refused to abandon the homes and lives they had built, despite the danger.

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One story that Brian shared with me stuck in my mind—a story of a violinist who had traded the elegant movements of a bow for the harsh, hurried actions of an ambulance driver. The shift in her life was so stark, so jarring, that I felt a deep need to meet this person. Brian, understanding the urgency in my request, connected me with Natalia, the former violinist. We arranged a photoshoot first, capturing her in moments that spoke of the life she once had and the one she lives now. After that, we planned a longer conversation, one where she could tell me her story in her own words.

When we met, Natalia’s calm demeanour belied the chaos she had endured. Her eyes, though, told another story—they were eyes that had seen too much, eyes that still held onto a quiet sorrow. As we sat down, Natalia began to speak, her voice steady but laced with a heaviness that comes from carrying burdens alone. She spoke of a life that once revolved around music, a life where the future was filled with possibilities that seemed endless.

“I was a violinist,” she began, her fingers gently tracing the edge of the table as if it were the strings of her instrument. “I played in orchestras, at weddings, corporate events—anywhere that music was needed. Music was everything to me. It was my life, my passion.” Her eyes softened as she spoke of the past, of the life that once was. “Before the war, I had plans to return to India. I had worked there for three years, and I wanted to go back, earn enough to start my own show business company in Ukraine. I dreamed of bringing musicians together, creating something beautiful, something that would last. But then… the war came, and everything changed.”

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As she continued, the weight of her words seemed to fill the room. The dreams she spoke of weren’t just interrupted—they were shattered. In 2022, when the invasion began, Natalia found herself trapped in her hometown in Luhansk, unable to escape the encroaching terror. For four long months, she witnessed the world around her crumble.

“I saw friends, good people, choosing the side of the Russians. It was like watching someone you love disappear, replaced by a stranger. It broke something inside me,” she said, her voice trembling as she relieved those moments.

When she finally managed to escape and reached Kharkiv, Natalia made a decision that would alter the course of her life. She chose to volunteer. Her sister had started a volunteer hub in the city, and Natalia joined her, initially helping with food distribution and humanitarian aid in the areas most affected by the fighting. But it wasn’t enough for her to simply hand out supplies. Natalia’s sense of responsibility, her need to do more, pushed her toward something she had never considered before—tactical medicine.

“I didn’t know anything about it,” Natalia admitted, her eyes wide with the memory of those early days. “I had no medical training, nothing. But I started learning, I trained, because I realised that I wanted to be more than just an observer. I wanted to help, to save lives.” Her transformation was profound. She had moved from the delicate, controlled world of music to the chaotic, often brutal reality of emergency medical care in war zones. “It was a shock,” she said, her voice quiet. “Tactical medicine is so different from anything I’d known before. But what surprised me the most was that anyone, even without a medical background, could learn to save a life. You don’t need years of schooling to make a difference—you just need the will to act.”

Two years had passed since she last played her violin with the same passion and regularity she once had. It wasn’t until New Year’s Eve in 2023 that she finally picked it up again. It was a small, impromptu concert for her fellow volunteers—a brief respite from the unending tension and fear. “I wanted to give them something,” she said, her voice softening as she recalled the event. “A gift, something to lift their spirits. It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but it was something.” The simple act of playing, of creating music in the midst of so much darkness, was an act of defiance, a way of holding on to a part of herself that the war had nearly taken.

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As I listened to Natalia, it was clear that her story was not just one of loss, but of resilience, of finding a new purpose in a world turned upside down. Yet she was not alone in this journey. During our conversation, I had the chance to speak with Olga, Natalia’s best friend and fellow volunteer. Before the war, Olga had worked in outdoor advertising—a job that allowed her to express her creativity while living a life that was, in many ways, comfortable and secure. But like Natalia, Olga’s world was irrevocably changed by the war.

“When the invasion started, I didn’t see any other option,” Olga told me, her voice firm, with a hint of the determination that had carried her through the past years. “I had to do something. My father worked in a service station, fixing cars, and I used to help him. I learned how to drive from him, how to fix things. That’s how I ended up driving ambulances.” Her shift from the world of advertising to volunteering was sudden, but in her mind, it was inevitable. “There was no choice, really,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “When you see what’s happening, when you see people suffering, you can’t just sit back and do nothing.”

Olga and Natalia met through a humanitarian organisation in Kharkiv. They quickly bonded over their shared love of cars and travel—two passions that had taken a backseat to the demands of war. Now, they live and work together, a team forged in the fires of conflict. “It’s comforting to have someone by your side who understands what you’re going through,” Olga said, her eyes flicking to Natalia with a soft smile. “We’ve been through so much together. We’ve seen the worst of this war, and we’ve found a way to keep going, to keep helping.”

Their friendship, though born out of necessity, had grown into something deeper, something that could only be forged in the most trying of circumstances. “War creates bonds that are different from anything else,” Natalia said quietly. “When you’re surrounded by people who share your experiences, who know that death could come at any moment, those connections become unbreakable.”

Olga nodded in agreement. “You find out who your real friends are in war. You find out who you can trust, who will stand by you no matter what. And you hold on to those people, because they’re the ones who will help you get through it.”

As our conversation continued, I asked Olga about her motivations, about what drove her to volunteer, to put herself in harm’s way day after day. Her response was simple, yet it spoke volumes. “People matter,” she said, her voice unwavering. “In war, you see how fragile life is. You see how easily it can be taken away. I volunteer because I want to help people, because I want to make a difference, even if it’s just a small one. We can’t change what’s happening, but we can try to make it a little better, a little easier for those who are suffering.”

For Olga, volunteering wasn’t just about the physical act of helping—it was about maintaining a sense of humanity in a world that often seemed to be losing it. “We’re not just saving lives,” she said, her eyes intense. “We’re saving ourselves, too. We’re holding on to our humanity, to the things that make us who we are. In a war, that’s one of the hardest things to do.”

Natalia echoed this sentiment, her voice soft but resolute. “I lost so much when the war started,” she said. “But I found something, too. I found a purpose, a reason to keep going. Volunteering, helping people—it’s given me a new life, a new way to be. It’s not the life I imagined, not the life I wanted, but it’s the one I have now, and I’m making the best of it.”

As I left Kharkiv, the stories of Natalia and Olga stayed with me. Their lives had been irrevocably changed by the war, yet they had found a way to keep moving forward. They had found new purposes, new ways to make a difference, even as the world around them fell apart. In a place where everything else had been stripped away, they had discovered a deeper meaning, one that could never be taken from them. It was a powerful reminder of the strength of the human spirit, of the ways in which we can adapt, survive, and even thrive in the face of unimaginable adversity.

At first, I was skeptical. Fashion? I thought. What could a fashion designer possibly offer that would pique my interest? I had never written about fashion, nor did I understand it. Throughout my life, I’ve worn trousers until they were practically falling apart and needed replacing, sticking to the same shirts and shoes as long as they kept me dry and warm. But then they explained—this fashion designer had an extraordinary story to tell. Her business, like many others, had been affected by the war. Yet, instead of closing shop, as so many others had done, she transformed her business into something meaningful, something vital for Ukraine’s survival under these dire circumstances. She didn’t just survive; she thrived, becoming part of Ukraine’s ongoing story, helping her country in its time of need.

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As Bosnia and Herzegovina grapples with the enduring shadows of its violent past, its present-day security forces remain on high alert, prepared to confront any threat that might destabilise the fragile peace. In Sarajevo, where the scars of the Bosnian War are etched into the very fabric of the city, I met with Zukan Helez, the Minister of Defence, and Martic Zeljko, the commander of the Federal Special Police Unit—a key player in the nation’s counterterrorism and high-risk operations. Our conversations revealed the complex dynamics of maintaining security in a country still haunted by ethnic divisions and external pressures.

Minister Helez, a man of measured words but firm resolve, spoke at length about the role of the Ministry of Defence in safeguarding Bosnia’s territorial integrity. The nation’s military forces, despite being a product of a multiethnic state born out of conflict, have managed to function as a cohesive unit, bridging the divides that still fracture the country’s civilian population. Helez assured me that the Armed Forces of Bosnia and Herzegovina are prepared to respond to any threat, whether from within or beyond the country’s borders.

But as Helez and I discussed the challenges posed by leaders like Milorad Dodik, who continues to push for the Republika Srpska’s secession from Bosnia, the conversation took on a darker tone. Dodik’s rhetoric, which echoes the nationalist narratives that fuelled the Yugoslav Wars, poses a direct threat to Bosnia’s fragile peace. Helez was clear: the armed forces are ready, but the primary responsibility for maintaining stability lies with the international community, particularly NATO and the European Union. “If the worst-case scenario were to occur,” he said, “our armed forces, supported by our international partners, are ready to ensure that Bosnia and Herzegovina remains intact.”

VIDEO: Dodik’s Declaration: “Passing this Resolution on Srebrenica will break Bosnia and Herzegovina. We have no reason left to remain part of it.”

My meeting with Martic Zeljko, the seasoned commander of the Federal Special Police Unit, provided a more granular view of the ongoing security operations within the country. Zeljko, who has served in the unit for over two decades, offered insight into the rigorous training and the diverse capabilities of the unit. Specialising in high-risk arrests, counterterrorism, and hostage rescue, the unit is also trained for search and rescue operations in some of Bosnia’s most treacherous terrains—snow-covered mountains, earthquake zones, and underwater caves.

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