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ATUSHNI

The Tale of the
Knight and the Druid

How two warrior brothers stood for honour, for dignity, and for freedom – their own, and their homeland’s.

Alyona Martyniuk · In elder days, beneath the green and ageless slopes of Batyieva Hill

In elder days, beneath the green and ageless slopes of Batyieva Hill, where the River Lybid winds through whispering woods, and the old road stretches toward Stratown, there lived a lord and a lady.

They wore no crown, and built no fortress of stone – for in that valley, none ruled but all belonged. Each hearth was its own kingdom, raised with care and honour. And peace lay soft upon the land, guarded by the ancient forest that watched and remembered.

To the lady were born two sons. The elder was still and deep, a listener to leaves and flowing water. The younger burned bright – his voice clear as steel, his will strong as oak. They were unlike, as oak and chestnut, yet bound in brotherhood.

The elder became a Druid. He heard the voices of rivers and stones, knew the names of stars and the wisdom of the woods.

The younger was a Knight – bold in battle, unyielding in justice. His word stirred others, and his cry rose above the treetops like a warding spell.

But such days do not endure.

First came the shriek of machines, echoing through the glens. Then followed the dark tide – a horde from the East, pitiless and vast.

The brothers took up arms. Together they stood in the shadow of ruin. The Knight fell first, and the Druid after him – not defeated, but true to themselves.

And now the lady lingers by the river’s bend, listening for voices carried by wind and leaf.

And so it is told: when dusk gathers and the forest hushes, the voices of the Knight and the Druid may yet be heard – echoing through the valley of their home, guarding still the land of the free.

Not a Bunny

«Ratushnyi» is a Ukrainian surname, derived from the word «ratusha» – the town hall, once the seat of local officials.

«I'm not a bunny. I'm a frog.»

‍Four-year-old Roma shakes his head with quiet conviction, bouncing slightly to confirm his words. His fringe flops over one eye.

From early on, the Ratushnyi brothers' parents got used to the idea that their boys would always defend their own style – and their independence.

Two sides of the same coin called «freedom»:
Roma – the bookish one, his room stacked with towers of books like a tiny Babylon.
Vasyl – all punk energy, ripped jeans, and leather jackets «borrowed» from their mother.

They always had each other's backs.
For Roma, landing a punch was rare – a matter of principle and pride.
For Vasyl, getting into a fight was just a regular Tuesday.

Maidan

«Come on, Mom. Let’s go to Maidan,» Roma says, eyeing his mother and weighing how best to persuade her. The weather outside is pure November misery – damp, grey, and mean.

For neither Roma Ratushnyi nor his mother, Svitlana Povaliayeva, was this their first Maidan. Their story of resistance against authoritarianism had begun earlier – in 2012, during the Language Maidan (a protest movement against a law aimed at diminishing the status of the Ukrainian language). Back then, little Roma stood beside his mother. He spent most of that summer at Hostynyi Dvir, helping protect the historic building from demolition.

That’s where Roma began to lay the foundations – of community, defiance, and civic street politics.

The place itself had long existed. But Ratushnyi gave it new meaning – and once he did, he took responsibility for it.

Povaliayeva, this time, was skeptical. The apathy and passivity that had paved the way for Viktor Yanukovych (President of Ukraine, 2010–2014) and his dementors drained her of hope for any real change. For the first time, she began to consider emigration seriously .

Roma struck a playful deal with her:
«If people manage to hold the square for a couple of months – we both quit smoking.» It was a serious challenge.

In the end, the whole family found themselves on Maidan – Roma, Vasyl, Svitlana, even their father, Taras Ratushnyi (the parents had long been divorced, but remained on good terms).

On the night of February 18th, as Berkut special forces – a notorious riot police unit used by the regime – stormed the barricade on Khreshchatyk – from the Trade Unions Building to the Cooperative Union – Roma and Vasyl Ratushnyi stood side by side. The very barricade that would soon be rammed by an armored personnel carrier. Their friends were with them – four teenagers, three of whom were still underage. Together, they held nearly a quarter of the defence. Barely fifteen people were holding that line.

That evening, it was lawyer and activist Zhenya Zakrevska who got them to the square, bypassing already-armed checkpoints after a failed attempt to reach wounded protesters on Instytutska and Shovkovychna streets. The boys took up position at the crest of the barricade, while Zhenya stayed back – ten to fifteen meters away – never taking her eyes off their helmets, counting: one, two, three, four – they’re moving, so they must be okay.

At that very moment, Svitlana understood, fully and viscerally: here, in the heart of Kyiv, both of her sons might be killed. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.

Roma

14:24 – 15:02

He arrived on Maidan in November 2013 and stayed until the end of the Revolution of Dignity, a nationwide uprising sparked by a violent crackdown on protesters, which grew into a movement for democracy, justice, and human rights in Ukraine. He is sixteen.

Half-awake, half-asleep, he watches the stage being set up in the square.

There is no Berkut yet, but their equipment is already being removed. Vehicles roll in, only to be blocked. The tension is palpable – something will happen that night, either a dispersal or a provocation. He decides to stay. At four in the morning, the crackdown begins.

First, a man walks around Maidan with a megaphone, insisting that the protest is still ongoing and that everything is fine; they're just changing the sound system.Roma sees the Berkut special forces descending from Instytutska – a notorious riot police unit used by the regime – pouring down like an avalanche. Within minutes, they have sealed off the square completely. The students gather tightly around the central monument.

Then the mobile service cuts out.

The Berkut closes in, forming a half-circle, and the clearing operation begins: batons are swung, blows are struck, and people are dragged from the crowd. The sheer brutality of it strikes Roma.

One blow lands across his back.Later, as he runs towards Prorizna Street, he is struck again, this time in the leg.The officers chase after him.

Zakrevska has been Roma’s lawyer since he was fourteen. A year before Maidan, he filed a lawsuit against the Kyiv City Council regarding a rolling ban on public gatherings, which had affected one of his planned protests. As a precaution, Zakrevska had drawn up legal agreements with the entire Ratushnyi family.

On 18 February, a water cannon rolled in from Institutska Street. An armoured personnel carrier (APC) was heading towards European Square from Khreshchatyk.

On 18 February, a water cannon rolled in from Institutska Street. An armoured personnel carrier (APC) was heading towards European Square from Khreshchatyk.

Yevhenia looked at Roma, who was a minor and younger than her; he was a boy for whom she had long felt responsible. There he was, standing between her and the APC.

VASYL

«Don't be afraid – I'm a friend.»

A young, steady voice cuts through the chaos, smoke, and flames of the barricades. Hryhorii’s eyes burn; the shield hinders more than it helps – a tear gas grenade has just landed at his feet, thrown by Berkut officers.

Originally from Israel, Hryhorii served in the Golani infantry brigade. He worked in tourism, lived in Barcelona, and travelled across Europe. Yet somehow, fate had brought him to Kyiv by hitchhiking, right into the heart of Ukraine’s Maidan uprising.

APCs are burning. Berkut is pushing in from Mariinskyi Park. Water cannons and tear gas are being used indiscriminately.

Hryhorii was in the front row of the Khreshchatyk barricade and did not expect to lose his sight so suddenly.

It is only in the calm young man who lifts and carries him through the fire towards the medics that Hryhorii barely recognises Vasyl Ratushnyi.

The two men had crossed paths before Maidan, in the shared circles of football fans, punk shows, and protest scenes. Back then, the older Ratushnyi had been nicknamed «Apolit» – someone who said little but did a lot.

* * *

If anything came naturally to Vasyl, it was explosives.

The older Ratushnyi arrived on Maidan after Hrushevskyi Street had already caught fire. He didn't arrive at the beginning, when protesters – including his brother Roma – were beaten. Nor during the peaceful marches. He appeared when the smoke rose over the barricades and there was a need – or an opportunity – to set something alight.

Even at school, Vasyl had a talent for radical protest, much to his teachers' dismay. He "borrowed" his mother's leather jackets and combat gear. He got into the football fan scene early on. He regularly got into trouble that his mother would calmly sum up as: «Mum, I’m in the police station.»

In the army, he taught himself several specialisations, but nothing fascinated him more than explosives.

Later, a commander with the call sign Doubler taught him the basics. Vasyl mastered the rest on his own. No one had to push him – in fact, the problem was getting him to stop. He would keep digging a trench until the commander came and told him to stop in person.

In the field, he was precise, diligent, and utterly reliable.

Off the field, however, he was the complete opposite. To him, military ID, bank cards, and driving licences were all just civilian bullshit. He had to be tracked down and dragged into a bank to be assisted with the paperwork to process his salary.

"I’m here to fight," he’d say. «The rest is bullshit.»

On the blink

Roma Ratushnyi arrived at the revolution wearing a slim autumn coat with a silky faux-fur lining – light and elegant, and clearly not designed for barricades.

His family grumbled that he would catch a cold, but he politely brushed off their concern, flipping up the high collar in quiet defiance.

Initially, he wore a suit, tie, and polished shoes, yet he still ended up on the front lines.

That’s how he appeared on Instytutska Street in December 2013 during the attack on the square.

Before the events on Hrushevskyi Street, his father bought him a very particular jacket – not the sort you'd find in every shop. It was thanks to that jacket that Taras spotted his underage son in the crowd near the buses on Hrushevskyi Street.

At that point, nothing was yet on fire.Maidan protesters and Berkut forces were separated by a barricade of buses. And there, in a small group of young men in balaclavas – where he obviously had no business being – stood the younger Ratushnyi.

There was a brief but pointed conversation about risk assessment.
Mildly annoyed at having been spotted and intercepted at that moment, Roma promised he would call every evening to report his whereabouts and how things were going.
He kept that promise faithfully.

But there was one small «but».

One evening, the younger Ratushnyi called his father.«Everything’s calm here. I’m heading home with some friends. It's kinda boring; nothing's really happening». Taras had a clear conscience as he wished his underage son goodnight and started taking off his shoes, hoping for a few hours' sleep at the hotel.

He was untying his laces when he saw on live television that same voice – the one who had just said he was heading home – giving a field report from outside the Ukrainian House.

'There are about a hundred interior troops inside. We’re planning to go in and drive them out.

Fire. Explosions. Curtains down.

Taras rushed back to the Ukrainian House and found his child at the centre of the chaos.

The kid, a little sheepish, tried to explain: «Well, Dad. We kinda slipped up. You know. It happens.»

Even in 2014, it was clear that trying to restrain Roma wasn’t going to work. And by 2022, any attempt to forbid or convince the adult Roman Ratushnyi of anything no longer made the slightest sense.

* * *

Seventeen-year-old Roman Ratushnyi testifies in court.

At sixteen, he had stood on the Maidan. Now, he was one of the first to support Yevhenia Zakrevska’s idea: everything that happened must be documented – through court, through formal statements of crimes. To make that possible, one needs procedural status – to be officially recognised as a victim. At the time, this wasn’t obvious. Quite the opposite – it was risky.

Witnesses and victims who voluntarily came to the prosecutor’s office, even with a lawyer, ran the risk of being treated not as complainants, but as suspects. Criminal cases against protesters were opened retroactively, based on fabricated evidence, under articles for inciting riots or participating in mass unrest.

But Roma doesn’t hesitate. He understands: if this isn’t formalised, there will be nothing left in history.

The trial against the Berkut officers begins as usual – with open witness testimony. Roma calmly tells how, on the morning of November 30, he found himself under the Independence Monument. How he and the other boys formed a protective ring around the girls. How Berkut – that black, dementor-like mass – advanced and began beating the very people they were supposed to protect.

Then begins the rain of belittling questions – from the defence lawyers, from the commanders of Berkut.
These are people paid to perform, trying to chew Ratushnyi up without a knife and fork. «The boy’s seventeen», they imply. Easy prey.

But the plan collapses. The «boy» knows the subject uncomfortably well. What was meant to be a stoning becomes verbal ping-pong.

— «You’re aware that this protest was illegal? That it didn’t have a permit?»

— «In Ukraine, the system is notification-based, not permission-based.
We don’t ask for permission to protest – we notify the authorities.
That’s not a crime – it’s Article 11 of the European Convention on Human Rights.
That’s what we were defending on Maidan. Every court I’ve been part of recognises this – including the European Court of Human Rights,» Ratushnyi replies, calm and firm.

— «You were sixteen. What were you doing on Maidan at night without your parents?»

— «Like any other minor, I have the right to be in a public space and the right to protest. As far as I remember, what’s illegal is disrupting a peaceful assembly, assaulting people, and using force. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To hold accountable those who did exactly that.» Unfazed, Ratushnyi answers. Arguments about his age had long worn thin – even before Maidan.

— «What was the goal of the protest? What exactly were you hoping to achieve?» The lawyers play their final card – straight from the handbook on discrediting activists as aimless radicals.

— «It was a response to the government’s rejection of European integration. Just days before, the authorities had backed out of signing the agreement with the EU – and we came out to say we disagreed. It was a peaceful protest for the country’s future, for the right to choose. And choice is dignity.»

What was meant to be the dismantling of a teenager turns into a brilliant testimony. In the courtroom, reactions range from shock to admiration.
‍
The attempt to discredit Roman Ratushnyi’s victim status ends in total failure. It’s the first of a thousand such hearings still ahead. Zakrevska would later regret one thing – that no video of his testimony remained.

A Winter in Sneakers

Alyona Martyniuk · The Druid walks the earth softly, careful not to disturb the silence of the grass

The Druid walks the earth softly, careful not to disturb the silence of the grass. He is no hunter, no fisherman – but an ancient seer, rooted deep in the soil of Kyiv. His roots stretch far, their chestnut limbs reaching into the neighboring woods.

The Druid has returned from war, weary from battle.
Here, he is at home.
Here, he is a master.
Here, his kingdom shall rise –
the House Above the River.

How did she know that Vasyl Ratushnyi was the one for her?

Perhaps it was the sense of calm that came over her whenever they were together.

They met in the aftermath of football matches, part of the same crowd that frequented music venues and the streets. They weren't even twenty yet, and Maidan had just ended. She had never thought of herself as confident or brave, yet somehow this quiet, fair-haired boy silenced the constant hum of anxiety inside her. After a brief phase of sharing pizza and flowers in Kyiv's cafés, they moved in together.

Then came the quiet pact: Polina and Vasyl agreed to keep his decision from his mother, Svitlana. His decision was to join the defence of Ukraine as the war began to take root in the east.

* * *

Alyona Martyniuk · And the black horde

And the black horde came to the edge of the princely land.
And the Druid, setting aside his staff, took up the sword.
And the Druid became a warrior.
And with flowers of fire he struck down the enemies of his land.

Despite all of Vasyl’s courage, there was one thing he couldn’t bring himself to do – tell his mother.

The older Ratushnyi held on to a faint hope: if he shared as little as possible with the women in the family – especially their mother – maybe they’d worry less.

But then his younger brother stepped in, wielding his Talleyrand-like diplomatic skills. Roma, with precision and tact, tipped off their mother, first asking: “Mom, let’s try to steer him toward the topic, make him tell you.” Faced with a choice between his brother’s trust and his safety, the younger Ratushnyi chose trust.

Svitlana was at a loss for what was worse – that her eldest son was planning to go to war underage, or that he was heading there practically barefoot. Middle-class Ukrainian families don’t usually raise seventeen-year-old boys with the means to buy elite tactical gear.

After hearing a firm lecture about trust and responsibility in parent-child relations, Vasyl got more than a scolding. His mother – unimpressed by his «winter in sneakers» level of preparation – rallied her network of volunteer friends. Within a day, he had everything he needed: from first-aid kits to a sleeping bag. NATO-grade.

In the end, the elder Ratushnyi left for the front slightly ashamed, but fully equipped.

* * *

Their father, Taras Ratushnyi, has just managed to squeeze into the last window of parental influence – the “underage wagon” – while Vasyl was still technically subject to adult decisions. He convinced his son not to sign a contract with the first unit that seemed acceptable, especially if it meant being far from home or working in poor conditions. So Vasyl, reluctantly but rationally, enlisted with the Kulchytskyi Battalion.

He had no interest in wasting half a year on compulsory military service just to earn the right to go on contract. He waited for his eighteenth birthday to act on his own – and from the very first days of legal adulthood, he wanted to be where he was truly needed. The draft seemed to him a needless bureaucratic hoop – and bureaucracy, he despised with every inch of his seventeen-year-old soul.

Later, Vasyl grew disillusioned with military service, not because of the battalion itself – which wasn’t overly rigid or bureaucratic – but because of the routine. The repetition, the minor regulations, the procedural delays. He constantly looked for more effective ways to apply himself – and refused to accept wasted time.

Eventually, in 2019, the elder Ratushnyi chose not to renew his contract. He left the army.

He had a new goal now – Home.

A Home by the River

Vasyl doesn’t like cities – just as he doesn’t like anything Soviet. He despises communism. Anything with the slightest trace of Sovietness fills him with disgust.

«Cities are the GULAG. And I don't want to live in the GULAG», the veteran mutters – not referring to the camps literally, but to the suffocating, dehumanizing system of Soviet control and conformity. The GULAG, in his eyes, is not just barbed wire and barracks – it’s the very idea of forced uniformity, concrete boxes, life without freedom.

He’s drawn to the forest. He explores Polissia and the Sivershchyna region – not just around Kyiv or the Chernobyl Zone. His search stretches far, deep into Chernihiv’s wilderness. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, Vasyl disappears into the thickets, crosses rivers on makeshift rafts, reaches places few people ever set foot.

The Ratushnyi brothers spent their entire childhood by the Desna River – running around in T-shirts well into October, earning disapproving looks from the neighbors. So when it came to choosing where to build a home, Vasyl had no doubts. He would build a house by the Desna.

* * *

Vasyl’s not one to stand still. Working on construction sites after the army, he quickly picked up the trade. The moment a job stops teaching him something new, he moves on. He likes diving headfirst into things that fascinate him. One day he gathers scrap metal and builds a small blast furnace – just to smelt metal. Later, he gets into drones. He’s hooked on radio tech, circuitry, assembly.

He has a metal detector and even found an app that overlays maps from centuries ago onto current landscapes. Then he goes out to check what might still lie buried underground. He draws maps himself. If he can’t buy something, he’ll figure out how to build it from whatever’s on hand. Their home fills up with hand-crafted tables and chairs as needed. Aesthetics don’t interest him much – decorating is Polina’s domain.

Polina, trained as a linguist, goes through a phase of fascination with Scandinavia and runes.

Vasyl inherited his grandfather’s skilled hands – and channels Polina’s interests into tangible form: out of his workshop come replicas of Viking daggers, swords, and shields. Even the spotted pit bull gifted to him after Maidan is named – Thor.

Their domestic life is set. Vasyl builds the house; Polina studies and runs things at home. They’re not picky about food – Vasyl’s diet is «meat with meat», and the house specialty is simple: sausage-and-cheese sandwiches.

In the cold season, they heat the summer kitchen with a cast-iron stove. It must burn constantly – otherwise the water pump freezes. When it does, they head into the woods to collect firewood. Vasyl has a gift – he can find dry branches even in a downpour.

Polina knows: her Vasyl is her anchor. He convinced her to quit her job at McDonald’s so she could study graphic design. «We’ve got food and shelter. You’ve got to grow.» Polina finally starts drawing again – one of her illustrations shows a woman’s hand, fingers like little candles, glowing with warm orange flames.

Protas and the Art of Rooftop Diplomacy

In the early 2000s, Protasiv Yar was terra incognita – a green planet of its own in the heart of the ancient capital.

The Ratushnyi boys grew up among cobbled winding lanes, tangled thickets, jungles, parks, old wooden houses and hidden paths – most of which would soon vanish under concrete and glass.

They’d crawl through a hole in the fence behind the Amosov Institute to sneak into the gothic Baikove Cemetery. In winter, they’d slide down the central slope of the Yar in every imaginable way. Roma would hurl himself headfirst downhill, leaving their mother and stepfather genuinely horrified by his total lack of fear or even the faintest trace of a survival instinct. And if the snow gun near the slope was blasting full force, Vasyl absolutely had to test it on himself – even if it meant becoming a soggy, snow-covered yeti.

Together with their stepfather Vlad, the boys naturally formed a little men’s club they jokingly called «The Three Bandits.» One rule: don’t tell Mom everything – from not-quite-safe river rafting on the Desna, to brewing homemade Molotov cocktails and setting spray paint cans on fire in backyard bonfires. Anything that could explode brought genuine joy to Vasyl – a joy that later became a profession.

* * *

«Vlad, come with me – there’s gonna be an epic fight!»

Vasyl was thirteen. The excitement in his voice left no doubt that the word «fight» lit something up in him. There was no stopping the boy, newly swept up in the world of football fan clashes. The Buddhist household of the Povaliaieva-Khmarsky family took his combativeness with worried composure.

At fifteen, during a fan skirmish, Vasyl’s group was defeated – but he kept fighting, alone. He didn’t run. His fierce resistance impressed the rival group so much that instead of beating him, they offered him a beer and a cigarette.

Roma and Vasyl met lawyer and activist Zhenya Zakrevska through one of their father’s civic projects – they were all campaigning to decriminalize medical marijuana. At just fourteen, Roma was already fluent in the ways of adult company and proudly led everyone to the rooftop of his building in Protasiv Yar – a gorgeous twenty-first floor view. Zhenya was a seasoned roof climber – and this one stole her heart.

Later, she and the boys would scale other rooftops, make each other quests through Kyiv’s hills, boats, and bridges, and discover an abandoned pharmaceutical lab tucked away in the Yar. The place had become a cult spot for countercultural scenes – from peaceful goths and hippies to full-on satanists.

Right next to the lab, to the brothers’ utter delight, stood an ancient, half-dead armored personnel carrier. Needless to say, there wasn’t a single surface of that BTR they didn’t climb and examine.

Just in front of their building lay an open field, still wild and untamed, where the whole courtyard played football. The boys grew up in and with their community – that was their Protasiv Yar.

* * *

Vasyl was sixteen when his knack for attracting adventure led to an «official» introduction between Zhenya Zakrevska and their mother Svitlana. It was the middle of the night when Zhenya’s phone rang. Roma was on the line:

– The cops picked up Vasyl and his friends. This isn’t a joke. Come. You know I wouldn’t call you for nothing.

When Zhenya arrived at the station, Roma, Taras, and Svitlana had already been waiting outside for over an hour, trying to figure out what had happened and how to get their underage son released. Zhenya switched into lawyer mode and marched into the building.

– You’ve got a minor in custody. Ratushnyi. These are his parents. I’m his attorney. Here are the documents – let me in to see my client.

The officer squirmed: no, they hadn't detained anyone, no one was under arrest. All present were there “voluntarily,” happily giving explanations. Ratushnyi? Not on the books, never heard of him. But Zhenya clearly heard Vasyl’s voice from the back room and loudly called out:

– Vasyl, they say you’re not detained. So what are you doing in there? Come on out!

And Vasyl walked out. They let him through, opened the door. No one dared push back – as is often the case, there was no real legal ground for his detention.

After that, Svitlana invited Zhenya for coffee. It was the first time she’d been “officially” welcomed into the Ratushnyi home – though she’d already been up on their roof more than once.

Of Black Maple and Goldenrod

Alyona Martyniuk · And upon the greenwood came a band of marauders

And Upon the Green Forest Came a Band of Marauders
And upon the greenwood came a band of marauders,
And they halted in the middle of the wide path.
There they began to hack down the trees,
To tear the shrubs and grasses from the earth,
To clear the sacred place
For their palaces of stone.

And the birds of the sky were left without nests,
The beasts of the forest – wounded or slain.
And a swallow, pierced and bleeding, took flight,
In search of justice, in search of help.

And near that forest there lived a knight –
A knight among knights.
Not old in years, but wise beyond them,
Fair of face, bright of eye,
Brave of heart and just in soul.

And unto him the swallow flew,
To carry the truth
And beg him to rise
For what is right.

May 2019. Protasiv Yar. The Beginning of Resistance
‍
‍In early May, unknown men began cutting down trees on the slopes of Protasiv Yar.

This was no ordinary land – Protasiv Yar lay within a protected natural area, covered by the Bern Convention. Rare, endangered plants grew here: Tatar maple, goldenrod, twisting shrubs. Along the old railway lines crept insects with names like spells – longhorn beetles, carpenter bees, giant scolia wasps, velvet moths.

Under Kyiv’s polluted sky, Protasiv Yar remained one of the few places where migratory birds could rest before their long journey. Warblers, finches, tits, thrushes, reed birds; ducks, wild geese, swans, cranes – even gulls. The Yar welcomed them all.

When heavy machinery appeared on one of the clearings, ready to erase everything for the sake of development, the attempt was stopped by Kyiv ecoactivists. That time, the community didn’t even have to step in.

But just days later – between May 10 and 12 – the machines returned. This time they brought more than tools. Men with the look of hired muscle arrived, erecting fences. They moved fast, posing as builders, but their presence was unmistakable: they were there to push people out.

In response, local residents gathered to protest – among them, writer and activist Svitlana Povaliaieva. But the crowd grew suspiciously fast. Alongside real citizens came others – the so-called «activists» well known in Kyiv as professional agitators, men who for years had been earning a living by staging outrage at protests.

The tactics were primitive, but effective: staged panic, fake scuffles, loud gestures in front of cameras. This time they had even brought flashbang grenades to stage a full-on spectacle.

Trust among the real protesters started to erode. Some left, not wanting to be part of a setup. Svitlana called her son.

Roman came running straight from work – still in his suit and dress shoes.

He was 22. It took him only minutes to assess what was happening.

«These guys are provocateurs», he said calmly. «They make money faking activism. They shouldn’t be here».

He didn’t shout, but he spoke with certainty – and the crowd gathered around him. He began to explain: who the developer was, how the scheme worked, and what could be done to stop it. The word legal responsibility landed hard – the provocateurs started quietly slipping away.

Then someone from the neighborhood said: «Maybe you should lead this. We don’t know how to fight this.»

And so, in mid-May 2019, the grassroots initiative «Let’s Save Protasiv Yar» was born – led by Roman Ratushnyi, facing off against the oligarch Hennadii Korban and his empire of silence and concrete.

Later, human rights lawyer Masi Nayyem would reflect: «Roma made himself the lightning rod. He stood up and said: here I am. If you want a fight – fight me.»

Short Chronology of Attacks on Protasiv Yar Activists

According to Vikentiy Khvoyka’s research, the territory of Protasiv Yar was once the site of a prehistoric hunting settlement. These slopes still remember the time when ancient people chased and finished off mammoths here.

At the end of the 19th century, as the Pechersk Fortress expanded, residents of Pechersk were resettled to this area. Quickly switching into business mode, they bought pasture lands from the village of Sovky and began construction and farming. After World War II, locals and employees of the Sugar Beet Institute reinforced the slopes and planted orchards. In 1966, the ravine was granted the status of a public recreation park.

In 2001, the city government laid a road through the ravine. At first glance, it seemed like a reasonable initiative – but part of the land was suddenly transferred into private ownership, with a new «intended use». Later, another 4 hectares were handed over to a company called Protasiv Yar LLC. When the lease expired, the land was returned to the city – but somehow, it was then mysteriously passed into sublease again.

On April 26, 2007, the Kyiv City Council illegally leased 3.23 hectares of land in Protasiv Yar.

On June 6, 2018, one year after the lease had expired, a new sublease agreement was signed between Bora LLC and Dayton Group LLC – the latter owned by oligarch Hennadii Korban. The deal was also illegal.

The beneficiaries of these schemes (surprise!) once again included Hennadii Korban, his business partner Oleh Levin, and Kyiv businessman Ihor Kucherenko – a figure linked to past organized crime networks.

And thus began the long war for Protasiv Yar.

On June 16, 2019, Roman Ratushnyi and his neighbors filed a lawsuit in Kyiv’s District Administrative Court, demanding the cancellation of an illegal construction permit issued to Dayton Group LLC. And they won.

But that victory came at a price.

Throughout May and June 2019, residents of Protasiv Yar were attacked. The police did not protect the protestors or the local community.

Roma wasn’t surprised – he had never trusted the police. Or more precisely, he had never trusted the cops.

* * *

2011. Night. Solomianskyi district.
A drunken brawl. Possibly an attempted murder. Very close by. Roma and Zakrevska witnessed it by chance.

«Zhenya, don’t», Roma said. «You can’t call the cops. You never call the cops. Don’t you know that? They won’t help. It’ll only get worse.»

He was maybe fourteen at the time. Still a kid – or maybe already not?

Zakrevska had never harbored illusions about law enforcement. But even she was taken aback by how firmly this fourteen-year-old had internalized that truth.

And, as it turned out, he was always right.

* * *

June 24, 2019, 2:00 PM
Roman Ratushnyi receives a direct threat from one of the security chiefs at the illegal construction site in Protasiv Yar. In the presence of a National Police officer, the guard says:

‍«I’ll find you and break your spine.»
This same man had already attacked Roman once before.

* * *

Roma hurls his phone against the wall.
‍
His mother watches with stoic sadness – the phone was expensive. The meeting about Protasiv had clearly gone poorly.

Roma believed in people. He had a talent for seeing where someone could shine – and would gently nudge them toward work that suited them. But sometimes, his way of communicating was too complex for the broader community – filled with literary allusions, international legal practice, and historical context. His mother would gently hint that simpler words might help, but Roma didn’t budge. He’d spend hours explaining, mediating conflicts, offering coffee, and holding everyone together in the same common cause – defending Protasiv.

But sometimes he’d come home after a long day of endless meetings, exhausted and furious, barely holding back tears. Calm and composed in public, at home he would explode – pacing the room, swearing, throwing things, choking on frustration.

He couldn’t stand wasting hours in meetings where only 5% was constructive, and the rest was endless petty drama – the kind of circular «office politics meets village gossip» nonsense that killed any real progress. People needed constant guidance, encouragement, pressure.

And yet the next morning, he’d get up and do it all again.

Because he believed in the community he was forging with his own hands.

* * *

Alyona Martyniuk · And the Knight Took No Silver

And the Knight Took No Silver
And the knight took no silver,
Nor did he cloak himself in silken robes.
No gold could tempt him, no bribe could bind him –
For no man can purchase,
With copper coin or gilded lie,
A heart made of true gold.

They came to buy him,
With flattery and threats,
With promises whispered from behind velvet curtains.
But he stood unbent,
Unshaken as an oak in the wind,
For the forest was in him,
And the truth walked beside him.

August 14, 2019.
Lawyer Andriy Smyrnov*, a representative of the developer, contacts Roman Ratushnyi. Roma agrees to the meeting. His goal is to clearly communicate the position of the Protasiv Yar community: there is no place for construction here. He offers the only acceptable option – that Oleg Levin and Hennadii Korban abandon their development plans entirely.

At the start of the meeting, Ratushnyi tries to clarify that this is not a personal conflict. The issue, he says, lies in the legal risks that were ignored as early as the audit phase. These miscalculations, he explains, made the construction project legally impossible from the outset.

Smyrnov listens – briefly – before shifting tone. He moves to pressure. Whether it was a «friendly warning» or a direct threat is a matter of perspective. But the message is clear: either «the boy» takes the money – $50,000 – or «the boy» ends up in the forest.

«If we don’t reach a compromise», Smyrnov says, «I’ll call Oleg (Levin) and tell him I didn’t get the job done – but I don’t want gunfire and all that.»

«I can be a constructive negotiator between you and the business side. But if we can’t find common ground – the thefts, the beatings, the blood – it all hurts reputations. And I don’t want to be part of that.»

August 28, 2019. Hennadii Korban issues a threat to Roman Ratushnyi via Facebook.

Context: August 28, 2019. Public comments on Facebook under a post by Hennadii Korban, oligarch and business partner behind the controversial development project in Protasiv Yar.

Gennady Korban:
Bravo, well done! («Molodets!» – a patronizing or sarcastic «good job» in Russian.)

‍Roman Ratushnyi:
And you’ll be «well done» too – if Dayton Group LLC decides to build elsewhere.

‍Gennady Korban:
Roman Ratushnyi, if you tag me again – I’ll find you, you little shit, and I’ll tag you back. Got that?!

‍Roman Ratushnyi:
Gennady Korban, if you don’t want to be tagged – check your privacy settings. There’s a way to limit that. No need to awaken your inner thug again.

‍Roman Ratushnyi (next comment):
Also, Gennady Korban – leaving Protasiv Yar sounds like a good plan. Ask your partners who missed the protest action at the Cosmos cinema today. If you believe me, that is.

‍Gennady Korban:
Roman Ratushnyi, I see you’re aiming for the frontline. Want to go there with your friend Rudyk?

The threats were real. But the institutions were silent.

Every threat – every warning, every recorded insult, every message thick with violence – Ratushnyi and Zakrevska brought them to the Security Service of Ukraine and the Prosecutor General’s Office.

And the institutions... did nothing.

* * *

– Zhenya, hey, sorry it’s late. But the police just stopped me. They’re asking to check my backpack. And I have this very clear feeling I don’t have to let them. Am I right?

It was autumn. It was 2 a.m. Zhenya Zakrevska, half-asleep in a hotel room in Crimea, woken by the call. This was before all the Maidans, before the revolutions.

Still semiconscious, she tried to repeat what they’d discussed many times before. According to Article 11, Clause 6 of the Ukrainian Law on Police, officers could search a person or their belongings only if that person was officially detained – and only with a report, and two witnesses.

– Right... thanks, that makes sense. Can you tell them that? I’ll pass the phone. I mean, I’m just a teenager. When I say it, it doesn’t really land.

– Go ahead.

She heard him say, politely:
– Would you mind speaking to my lawyer?

And then she spoke:
– Good evening. Could you please tell me why he was stopped? Did he break any law?

– No, no, not at all. It’s just... someone was painting graffiti nearby, and then this young man showed up with a backpack. We just wanted to check. I’m pretty sure it’s not him. Polite guy, reasonable. Are you really his lawyer? If he just shows us what’s inside, we can all move on...

– I am. But I can’t ask him to do that. And you know you don’t have the legal right to insist. Yes, it’d be easier to open the bag. But the easy way isn’t always the right one. He knows his rights – and he’s right. Let’s not punish him for that.

A pause.

– Well… alright then. Have a good night, young man.

The officer handed back the phone.
– Thanks. Sorry for the trouble. Sleep well.

An hour later, another message.
– So what did you tell him?

– That kind of information costs a hundred bucks. And you call this a good night?!

* * *

September 15, 2019
One of the security guards at the Protasiv Yar construction site struck community coordinator Yuliia Kononenko in the head.
Diagnosis: concussion and a jaw injury.
The police refused to detain the attacker.

‍September 20
In front of witnesses, Dmytro Nikitin – head of site security – threatened Ratushnyi, Kononenko, Zakharchenko and their families with beatings and arson. He offered Roman money: name your price and walk away from the movement. Otherwise, he promised, Roman would «simply disappear». He mentioned torture. Ratushnyi recorded most of the conversation.

‍September 31
Roman was told: they were preparing to abduct him. Kill him. The cars started circling – black, low-slung, with strange plates. His official letter to President Zelenskyy changed nothing. Not a thing. The police ignored the criminal complaint, even after Korban’s threats. Roman changed his phone number. Moved out of his home.

* * *

– You quit smoking? Seriously? After all these years?

‍Zhenya automatically took the cigarette from his hand and, once again, scolded herself internally: how do I fall for this every time? Ratushnyi played it straight – and the more theatrical the audience, the more dramatic his monologue became.

– I’ve known her since she was thirteen. She smoked constantly. And now she quit? Sure. Let’s see how long that lasts.

In reality, Zakrevska never smoked at all. But back when Roman was a teenager, she had made a personal rule: she would never buy him cigarettes. He still smoked – just not with her help.

He protested. Called it ageism. Said they were friends, colleagues, equals. That she lacked empathy.

His strongest argument?
– You buy cigarettes for your clients in pre-trial detention! And for me – nothing!

Which was true. Defense attorneys in Ukraine often brought cigarettes to their clients – they were currency behind bars. But Roman took that as the ultimate injustice.

– Even prisoners get your cigarettes. But not me.

When he came of age and could buy them himself, he found a new form of protest.

Whenever a group went out for a smoke, and Zhenya happened to join in, he’d quietly offer her one – with the same casual gesture he extended to everyone.

He never lit it.
Because revenge, in Roman’s version, was always served cold. And unlit.

* * *

At first, Zhenya Zakrevska suggested that Roma leave the country – or at least relocate to another city – to reduce the risk of a physical attack. But it soon became clear: even in another city, there were no guarantees of safety.

In the end, Roma moved in with Zhenya – to stay close to the movement and remain in touch with his team. His hiding was carefully planned: curtains drawn, digital and visual traces minimized. Only a few trusted people knew where he was.

Still, Ratushnyi didn’t disappear from the fight. On the contrary – he stayed deeply involved in everything related to the Protasiv Yar campaign. He ran online meetings, coordinated strategy, mapped out next steps. His focus was absolute – this was his world, every day.

Zhenya struggled to keep him hidden – and it quickly became clear it couldn’t go on forever.

That’s how Roma Ratushnyi ended up in Brussels.

* * *

When Peter Wagner, Head of the European Commission’s Support Group for Ukraine, first saw Roma in 2019, his impression was immediate: this young man didn’t look like someone who wore a suit often. Too young. And the tie – probably not his thing either.

What Wagner didn’t know was that Roma had started wearing suits at sixteen – even in the summer heat, even on the barricades of the Maidan.

Brussels first heard of him in December 2019, when the European Endowment for Democracy (EED) announced that a persecuted Ukrainian activist would be arriving to present his case. Ratushnyi already had their trust – and if EED vouched for someone, people listened.

He was composed, focused, and completely convinced of what he was doing. He didn’t talk much.

«He should speak more», sighed Yulia Kononenko. «He’s a future leader – our future.»

People loved assigning labels to Roma. Some even started calling him «our little Chornovil» – a reference to Vyacheslav Chornovil, the Soviet-era Ukrainian dissident and independence leader known for his fearless resistance to authoritarianism.

But what struck Wagner most was Roma’s conviction. In a country that had just come out of a revolution and was already at war, here was a young man who stood up to injustice – for the sake of a single green ravine in his neighborhood.

Wagner considered himself no longer young. In his own youth, he too had defended trees and fought against overdevelopment. But expressing yourself in a Western democracy wasn’t dangerous. You could protest, campaign, criticize – without fearing for your safety.

In Ukraine, what Roma was doing felt more like laying your neck on the guillotine.

Some time later, Wagner posted a photo with Ratushnyi on Twitter, along with a caption:
‍«Impressed by the courage of Roman Ratushnyi, Yulia Kononenko and many other activists defending Protasiv Yar – a historic green area in Kyiv. Alarmed by reports of threats and attacks against them.»

‍And then something shifted.

For the first time in months, the cars with unmarked license plates disappeared from outside Roma’s home.

Andriy Smyrnov is the former Deputy Head of the Office of the President of Ukraine (2019–2024). In 2025, he was taken into custody with the option of bail set at 18 million hryvnias. The bail was subsequently paid.Smyrnov was officially charged with money laundering and accepting a bribe in an especially large amount. According to the investigation, he planned to launder the funds through the construction of private houses with a total area exceeding 300 square meters in a recreational zone in the Odesa region.

The Political Prisoner

45:53 – 46:34

Translated excerpt from an interview between Roman Ratushnyi and Oleg Sentsov – film director, soldier, and former Kremlin political prisoner:
You see, from a plain common-sense perspective, I think a lot of people were uncomfortable with the graffiti on the President’s Office – because it forces a kind of reflection. You have to actually think about why that graffiti appeared, what it says. What was the protest demanding?

And people don’t want to do that. They don’t want to admit they live in a gangster republic built on regional feudalism – where the cops can abduct someone and beat them to death, where courts rule based on phone calls or bribes, where the president can do some absurd nonsense and face no consequences for it.

It’s a really simple story, actually.

On the evening of March 20, 2021 – the birthday of Serhiy Sternenko, a Ukrainian activist and former leader of the Odesa branch of Right Sector – a protest gathers outside the President’s Office in Kyiv. Hundreds of people demand justice for Sternenko, who had recently been sentenced to seven years in prison. The protest begins peacefully, but as night falls, firecrackers explode, flares are lit, someone sprays slogans on the walls, someone throws stones. The sign reading “Office of the President of Ukraine” is set on fire. Glass shatters in the building.

Roman Ratushnyi is, of course, at the protest. But by the time things get heated, he’s already left Bankova Street. A few days later, after reviewing footage, his name is added to a list of suspected “provocateurs.” The video is published by Deputy Interior Minister Anton Herashchenko, who also names several activists. Roman immediately files a complaint with the Ministry of Internal Affairs, demanding a retraction.

* * *

«Soviet crap. It’s inauthentic and all wrong», Ratushnyi mutters, kicking the concrete slabs at Pidhirtsi Castle.

Artem Kharitonov – president of the Liberal Democratic League of Ukraine and a longtime friend – watches his grumbling with Buddhist calm. They’ve stopped here during a work trip because their driver had never seen this historic castle in Lviv region.

Artem’s known Roman for ages, and he’s used to these sudden waves of grumpiness. Ratushnyi’s critical thinking is razor-sharp. He knows exactly what he cares about and what he doesn’t – and he’s never been too impressed by anyone’s authority.

Their conversations bounce from Ukrainian history to Kosovo and Albania’s fight against Serbia, from Catalan separatism to the splintering of the Kuomintang in China and the making of modern Burma. Artem knows Roman who can get lost in an old bookstore or curse endlessly after falling off an e-scooter – because railing against imperial China is just as essential to him as railing against imperial Russia.

There’s no one more reliable than Roman. His friends and colleagues know him by his favorite phrase: «From a plain common-sense perspective…»

«What do we do, boss?», echoes in the mind of activist and human rights defender Maryna Hromych whenever she thinks of Ratushnyi. At any protest – whether in front of the President’s Office or at a vigil for murdered activist Katya Handziuk – Roman will always show up on time, somehow bringing fifty candleholders, some folding chairs, and more moral support than one heart can hold.

* * *

On March 24, after a TV appearance, Roman is served a notice of suspicion. Right as he exits the studio, he’s officially accused of hooliganism and intentional property damage. Investigators claim he tried to throw a lit flare into the President’s Office. Roman denies the charges, calling the case politically motivated – a consequence of his campaign to stop illegal construction in Protasiv Yar. He mentions names, including Andriy Smyrnov, deputy head of the President’s Office, whom he believes is influencing the investigation.

On March 26, the Pechersk District Court holds a pre-trial hearing. Roman is backed by fellow activists, MPs, colleagues – many offer to post bail or take him on personal recognizance. The judge denies the motion. Prosecutors demand round-the-clock house arrest with an electronic monitor. Tension thickens in the courtroom. Roman challenges the evidence – grainy video stills in which no faces can be identified. Later, they’ll be dubbed the «Malevich black squares.»

The presiding judge is Kristina Konstantinova. A routine hearing on the surface – arguments, procedures, formalities. But there’s a catch.

Konstantinova has a history of rulings favoring the previous regime. She once blocked prosecutors from accessing Yanukovych’s phone data and halted investigations into former Prosecutor General Pshonka. Her partner, Judge Kytziuk, issued rulings against Maidan protesters and now faces criminal charges for knowingly unlawful decisions.

Roman, as a Maidan veteran who filed cases against former Berkut officers, clearly stood no chance of impartial treatment. He and his lawyers filed a motion to recuse the judge. It was denied.

This hearing became a turning point. Roman was placed under 24-hour house arrest with an electronic ankle monitor until April 24. But more than that, it felt like the court was passing judgment not just on his actions – but on the protest itself.

Notes from the manual: «How to Cook a Young Civil Society».
From a citizen of Ukraine, 2021.

Recipe: House Arrest with a Bracelet

Ingredients:

1 Gangster Republic
3 police clans
2 regional feudal lords
1 peaceful protest
A pinch of political expediency
1 electronic ankle bracelet (may be malfunctioning)
1 biased judge
1 base station (do not touch!)
Add one prosecutor, one investigator, and a couple of cops to taste
1 civic activist with no dirt on him – by virtue of youth and principle

Instructions:

Prepare the suspicion.
It should be served on the same day it’s signed. In our case – the date was edited by hand.
Add the prosecutor’s motion.
‍Include basic details: suspect’s job, flight risks, etc. In our case – none were provided.
Whip up a preventive measure.
The court must choose from:
– personal recognizance
– third-party custody
– night house arrest
– full house arrest with bracelet
– pre-trial detention
– bail
Attach the ankle bracelet.
According to Kharkiv Human Rights Group: of 511 devices, 404 don’t work. Only 109 functional. 9 are reserved “for emergencies.” In our case – it worked. Thanks to Deputy Head of the President’s Office Andriy Smyrnov, still bitter over Protasiv Yar.
Connect the charger.
– Extension cord: must-have
– Battery lasts 1 hour instead of 12
– Power bank: essential
– Indicators: not working
– GPS: blinking? not blinking? unclear
Add water.
You can shower with the bracelet. Just wipe it after, so the contacts don’t rust.
Optional garnish:
– Police «routine inspections»
– Base station «must stay on the windowsill»
– If the power goes out – call immediately, or risk a surprise police visit

Serve with the thought:
«Political repression will find you anyway, unless we stop it first.»
‍
Best served:
– Unboxed
– Without fear
– With humor
– With faith in the country you’re building yourself

* * *

House arrest didn’t look the way his enemies hoped. Roman’s apartment became a revolving door of journalists, friends, fellow activists. He gave dozens of interviews – including one to filmmaker, soldier, and former Kremlin prisoner Oleg Sentsov – launched a YouTube channel, and never once stopped his civic work. The threat only fueled him. Every attempt to silence him made him speak louder.

Technically, Roman no longer lived with his mother and stepfather. Yet the court ordered him confined to their apartment.

So he painted the balcony black to get a better video backdrop, shoved the artistic mess of his room into his mother’s space, and left himself just a wall of books on world history, political science, and law – and his Maidan riot shield. Roman read constantly, no matter the circumstances. He listened to wildly specific music: Slovak partisan songs, Finnish and Estonian folk tunes, 17th–18th-century Spanish melodies, and compositions spanning Europe from Ukraine to Portugal, north to south.

* * *

Recipe: How to Pack a Care Package for Pre-Trial Detention

Ingredients:

Up to 50 kg of allowed items
Transparent or sealed packaging
Long-lasting food
Something sweet (mood matters)
3 books: The Origins of Totalitarianism, The Basics of Democracy, Criminal Code of Ukraine
Help from friends at Protasiv Yar

Instructions:

Coordinate with the family – don’t send 50 kg of books and no food.
Everything must be transparent or factory-sealed.
‍ – Tea: repackage into a clear bag
– Snickers: fine as-is, factory-sealed
No perishables.
There are no stoves or steamers in pre-trial detention – keep it simple.
Books – depending on taste and context:
– The Basics of Democracy (found post-Avakov)
– Criminal Code – so you know how many years they’re trying to give you
Note: Packages are non-personalized.
We’re sending it to the Okeanivska detention center – for everyone the system holds for their activism.

* * *

In April, Roman’s lawyers file an appeal. On April 21, the Kyiv Court of Appeal cancels the house arrest ruling. No grounds for holding him. Instead: personal recognizance. Dozens of people sign on as sureties.

Yet for several more days, Roman remains in his ankle bracelet. Police refuse to remove it, citing “missing paperwork.” Only after public outcry – media requests, social media posts – does the Ministry of Internal Affairs confirm that the appeal is valid. The bracelet is finally removed on April 22.

* * *

– So, Roma, how’s life without the bracelet?
– Just like life with the bracelet. Except it doesn’t chafe my leg.
– Do you feel free now?
– I’ve always been free. I just don’t have to shuffle around anymore.

* * *

Through it all, Ratushnyi doesn’t vanish. He posts updates, talks to journalists, stays in the thick of things – even within a limited radius. Meanwhile, the fight for Protasiv Yar continues: court hearings, protests, public statements, smear articles calling him a fascist.

By now, he knows he can’t afford to disappear. Not when pressure keeps mounting – not when they want him quiet.

* * *

«I’m going to the countryside house. I’ll sit there and hate people.»
«Maybe we shouldn’t have come.»
«No, it’s fine. I don’t count you as people.»

Zhenya knows – Roman’s hunger for freedom is innate. For him, freedom is an inner thing. Something achieved once and for all.

Sometimes he goes off-grid – phone off, alone at the countryside house, reading and meditating. But one more smear article or threat, and he’s back on the barricades.

He never complains. Never whines. Never shifts the weight to anyone else. He carries it all himself. One day, he tells his friend Yevhen Cherepnya:
«Listen, if anyone thinks I enjoy constant death threats, smear campaigns, nonstop stress and having no money – they’re wrong. But if you take something on, you finish it.»

The Full-Scale Invasion

Alyona Martyniuk · Then came a horde, fiercer and greater

Then came a horde, fiercer and greater –
And with it, three kinds of death:
From the sky.
From the water.
From the earth.
They came riding fire-breathing beasts.
They flew.
They sailed.
They crawled.

And once again,
the druid reached for the sword.
And the young knight
turned from the green hills of Protasiv –
to the shadowed woods of Kholodnyi(Cold) Yar.

The full-scale invasion found Vasyl and Polina in a small town near Kyiv. That morning, Polina got a panicked call from her mother: «The war has started». Vasyl joined the local defense unit immediately. The next day, the bridge connecting their town to Kyiv and Vyshhorod was blown up. They were cut off. To get out, they’d have to take a long detour.

When Vasyl was getting ready to leave, he told Polina, «Take my computer. You’ll need it more than I do.» He never cared much for possessions. He wasn’t going to serve things. He was going to serve his country.

* * *

Viktor Pochatovskyi knows his job well. He can tell who brings order to a unit and who brings confusion. Sometimes he steps in as deputy commander, assigning people and keeping the group organized. From experience, he knew that in the first weeks of the invasion, the only people you could rely on were veterans of the Anti-Terrorist Operation, or ATO – the fight against Russian invasion in eastern Ukraine that had begun in 2014. Even if, compared to the full-scale invasion, the ATO now felt like a summer camp.

Many new recruits acted like they were in a movie. Holding a weapon made them feel like soldiers. They clicked safeties and showed off. But once real fighting began, they disappeared. «Mommy’s cherry pies» – gone the moment they hear gunfire.

Vasyl joined the unit as a rifleman. But he was curious, calm, and focused. As a veteran, he gravitated toward explosives. Pochatovskyi, who knew the subject well, saw how Vasyl’s eyes lit up when they talked about powder and fuse systems. Even after Vasyl moved to Madyar’s Birds – an aerial reconnaissance unit – he kept calling now and then to ask about standard and improvised munitions. He had found his place and stayed with it.

Pochatovskyi met Roman Ratushnyi at the front in March, while building fortifications. Roman and his group were carrying out short raids near Makariv. Viktor called them «free shooters». He couldn’t take on those missions himself, though he wanted to. Roman kept showing up. From the first meeting, it was clear that people followed him. He didn’t have a title or command. But in a military unit, real leadership can’t be hidden. Command can be given. Respect has to be earned. Roman had both.

The Defender

When Andriy Smyrnov, Deputy Head of the Office of the President of Ukraine for Law Enforcement Affairs (September 10, 2019 – March 29, 2024), offered Roman $50,000, a car, and a comfortable life, he clearly didn’t understand who he was dealing with.

In Smyrnov’s worldview, there was simply no space for someone who didn’t think in material terms.

Roman was only satisfied by results that benefitted the country.

* * *

In autumn 2021, musician, poet, and ATO veteran Andriy Antonenko was finally released from pre-trial detention and placed under 24-hour house arrest. Since December 2019, he had been held in a remand prison, falsely accused of involvement in the murder of journalist Pavel Sheremet, who held Russian and Belarusian citizenship. Many activists saw the case as fabricated and blamed then–Minister of Internal Affairs Arsen Avakov, a powerful and controversial figure in Ukrainian politics.

Roman and his friend Yevhen Cherepnya were in court that day. For months, they had been following the case – endless sessions, heavy police presence, and court rulings that often seemed absurd.

Roman kept showing up, regardless of weather or time of year. So when Antonenko was finally allowed to see his family again, it felt like a real victory – not just for him, but for everyone who had stood up for his rights.

After the court session, under a light drizzle, Roman and Yevhen sat on a bench to smoke. Roman smoked heavily – he could go through an entire pack of Marlboro Silver in a single day. It helped him think.

«You know», he said, exhaling, «it’s kind of amazing. A man who spent all that time in prison because of Avakov is finally going to see his family».

Roman rarely showed strong emotions, but that morning, Yevhen could tell – he was genuinely happy. Not because of a headline or a win for his reputation. He was happy because one person had become a little freer.

* * *

Roman wasn’t rich – he was generous. He often paid for friends or colleagues in cafés and restaurants, sometimes without thinking about the fact that he’d be left with just 100 hryvnias (about 2.5 euros) in his pocket. He bought a good laptop for work but would never choose Apple – he couldn’t stand what the brand represented. He always covered the coffee, called the cab, and even offered to pay the future salary of a volunteer assistant that a friend was helping him recruit.
‍
He moved easily between indulgence and simplicity. When short on money, he’d live on frozen dumplings and wear the simplest hoodie without complaint. At the same time, if he earned a decent sum, he could spend it all at once – on overpriced shoes, a sharp blazer, a nice shirt, or dinner at an expensive restaurant with a colleague.

Schemes and backroom favors were never part of how he operated.

He quietly paid the bill for younger activist friends from Protasiv Yar, slipping away from the table and returning with a straight face. «It’s paid. Let’s go», he’d say.

Before he got involved in defending Protasiv Yar, Roman worked for a parliamentary committee on housing and utilities. His mother couldn’t understand how anyone could enjoy something so dull – but he’d come home with bright eyes, excited to talk about the problems he’d solved with «the old guys».

Later, he received compensation from the European Court of Human Rights for police brutality during the Revolution of Dignity. He spent half the money on community projects in Protasiv Yar. The other half he donated to legal support for other Maidan victims.

When he joined the 93rd Brigade, he joked to his mother:
«Well, mom, if I get killed – at least you’ll get a decent payout».

Roman’s first political action was in childhood, long before the Revolution of Dignity. After reading that the writer Svitlana Povalyaieva had been beaten by police near the Parliament, he joined the protest in defense of the Ukrainian language. Years later, the story of Protasiv Yar began the same way – his mother went to a rally against illegal construction, so Roman went too.

To protect his mother, his home and his dignity.

21.02.2022

A February Evening

Yevhen Cherepnya met up with Roman near the WOG gas station in their neighborhood. It was their usual spot for coffee. But that evening, something else caught Roman’s attention – a long line of black luxury Mercedes cars, all aggressively filling their tanks.

Yevhen had first met Roman Ratushnyi in 2021 during the trial of civic activist Serhiy Sternenko. Roman and a group of fellow activists, including Yevhen, had traveled to Odesa to support Sternenko in court. When they returned to Kyiv, they organized an impromptu demonstration near the President’s Office. Roman would later be placed under house arrest for his participation in that protest.

That first meeting marked the beginning of their friendship, which grew into shared action – first in the fight to protect Protasiv Yar from unauthorized construction, later in military service for the country’s freedom.

Even back then, Yevhen noticed Roman’s rare ability to navigate the details of Ukraine’s political landscape. Being his friend was like taking a crash course in history, political science, and public policy. Roman had an instinct for reading people – who was corrupt, who wasn’t. A Kyiv native, he knew the city like a living network of historical and cultural connections, and he worked with that awareness like a craftsman uses his tools.

So when Roman spotted a familiar convoy, he didn’t hesitate. It belonged to Viktor Medvedchuk – a notoriously pro-Russian Ukrainian politician, oligarch, and close personal friend of Vladimir Putin. Years ago, Medvedchuk had played a key role in the imprisonment and exile of the Ukrainian poet Vasyl Stus.

By strange coincidence, Medvedchuk lived nearby. His estate sat not far from Protasiv Yar, and it was there he was being held under house arrest.

Roman and Yevhen decided to check it out. The usual security was in place, but down the street, near the entrance, they noticed several men in black loading large dark bags into vans. It looked like someone was packing in a hurry. Suspicion turned into certainty.

Roman stopped, pulled out his phone, and said what he always said in moments like this:
«We absolutely cannot let this bastard get away». Then he started calling every contact he had in every government office he could reach.

Within a few hours, there was movement at Medvedchuk’s house. Security forces – known among activists as «the rexes» – showed up to inspect the property. They promised tighter surveillance. As if that hadn’t been necessary before – after all, this was just Putin’s closest ally in Ukraine, under house arrest.

Roman and Yevhen had their doubts. Maybe they were overreacting. But one thing they knew for sure – no check on Medvedchuk would ever be unnecessary.

Later, it turned out they were right. That very day, Medvedchuk had been preparing to flee the country and had filed a request to lift his house arrest. His wife, TV host Oksana Marchenko, had already left Ukraine – for some reason, through the Belarusian border.

After the full-scale war began, Roman and other activists returned to Medvedchuk’s residence – this time to disarm his private security. During that operation, they seized valuable gear: radios, body armor, even weapons.

In September 2022, Ukraine exchanged 200 captured defenders of Mariupol – fighters from the Azov Regiment, marines, national guardsmen, territorial defense, border guards, and medics – in return for one man: Viktor Medvedchuk.

If Roman hadn’t looked up from his coffee that February evening and noticed the oligarch’s convoy, that exchange might never have happened.

The Jungles

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare
Lord, it's all so true
They told me, don't go walking slow
The devil's on the loose
Better run through the jungle
Better run through the jungle
Better run through the jungle
Whoa, don't look back to see.
Run Through the Jungle від Creedence Clearwater Revival:
Best read with a soundtrack

«It’s been days since the full-scale invasion began, and I still haven’t taken out a single Moskal», Roman said with a half-smile as he rushed in for a quick coffee with Zakrevska.
‍
(Moskal is a Ukrainian slang term for a Russian soldier – originally tied to the city of Moscow, today often used with irony or hostility.)

On the morning of the invasion, Roman started calling all his comrades. For many of them, his voice was the first to break the news: the war had started.

By five in the morning, he and a friend were hauling a heavy generator to set up a «fancy» basement shelter for the local community. While most Ukrainians were still frozen in panic, trying to figure out what to do with their lives, the people of Protasiv Yar already had power, water, and light.

After helping disarm Viktor Medvedchuk’s private security team – with quiet support from the Security Service of Ukraine – Roman’s «little army» got its hands on ammunition and gear. It was time for the small army of Protasiv to become part of Ukraine’s real army.

Just a few days earlier, before the oligarch’s arrest, the activists had been circling Medvedchuk’s estate – walking slow, deliberate loops around the property, which drove his guards absolutely mad.

«Hey, what are your guys doing here?» one of the security heads yelled at Roman on the phone.
«No idea», Roman replied, unfazed. «They’ve got legs – so they walk.»

Roman was chain-smoking – lighting one cigarette after another. Before the war, he could go all night on just coffee and nicotine. That experience came in handy in February 2022.

Working with counterintelligence, Roman helped identify Russian sabotage and reconnaissance groups. Around this time, he picked up aerial reconnaissance and quickly learned to fly drones. He called the de-occupation of the Kyiv region his training ground – because without that experience, no combat unit would have taken him in.

But one did.

From Protasiv Yar to Kholodnyi Yar

«Our bodies are compost – for the blossoms of bright dreams.»

Roman hummed an old Sich Riflemen’s song – mournful, heavy. (The Sich Riflemen were a Ukrainian unit in World War I whose songs often spoke of sacrifice and death.)

The older soldiers hunched their shoulders and groaned.
«Here he goes again with his 'rotting, rotting», someone muttered.

Roman just laughed. There was something absurd and endearing about teasing men twice his age, who masked fear with bravado. Roman worried more about his parents than about himself.

He knew exactly what he was signing up for when he decided to join the 93rd Mechanized Brigade. Eight others from the Protasiv Yar community volunteered to go with him – into a full-scale combat unit, one that would be fighting at the front.

The 93rd Mechanized Brigade, named after Kholodnyi Yar – the Cold Ravine – was one of the most battle-tested in Ukraine’s Armed Forces. Since 2014, it had fought in Donetsk Airport, Pisky, and Avdiivka. Its name carried the legacy of the Kholodnyi Yar Republic, a Ukrainian partisan stronghold that operated in the Cherkasy region from 1919 to 1922.

Fifteen thousand peasant soldiers had defended the Ukrainian People’s Republic against the Bolsheviks, the White Guard, and even German occupiers. Their leaders and commanders held out longer than the official UPR government. The Kholodnyi Yar fighters went into battle under a black flag embroidered with silver thread: «Freedom for Ukraine – or death.»

* * *

Seneca and Sergeant – the call signs of two of the guys – ran through artillery fire. The treeline was torn and crooked, bullets whistling past their heads. Everything that hadn’t exploded yet seemed ready to go off any second. Dust and grit clogged their eyes and noses.

Roman handed Sergeant one earbud and shouted – «Crank the music!»
Now the blues in their ears drowned out the blasts.

Better Run Through The Jungle
Whoa, thought it was a nightmare
Lord, it's all so true
They told me, don't go walking slow
The devil's on the loose

Better run through the jungle
Better run through the jungle
Better run through the jungle
Whoa, don't look back to see.

Run Through the Jungle from Creedence Clearwater Revival
Ого, думав, що це кошмар,
Боже, але це все – правда.
Вони казали мені: не ходи повільно –
Диявол на волі.

Краще біжи крізь джунглі,
Краще біжи крізь джунглі,
Краще біжи крізь джунглі –
І не озирайся назад.

A song once popular in the Vietnam War spills over – from the jungles of Southeast Asia into the open steppes of Donbas.

The boys are running. The ground is on fire beneath their feet. The sky is burning above their heads.
And the whole thing feels like some strange video game they’ve accidentally dropped into.

And they’re laughing – really laughing – as they run through the steppe jungle of Donetsk.

Laughing like teenagers.
Laughing like boys.

* * *

Roman, who had no prior military experience, became a reconnaissance officer with the call sign Seneca. He was quickly promoted to a leadership role, but made it clear to the others – the rank meant nothing to him. They were equals. Still, he felt a deep sense of responsibility. He constantly checked in on his team, making sure they were safe, fed, and active.

At the same time, he did the work of a scout. Reconnaissance meant being on the front edge – no one would cover you. You were the cover for everyone else. Beyond combat, Roman also worked to develop the unit – finding volunteers, equipment, supplies.

One day, he and Sergeant – another fighter’s call sign – were sitting in a car somewhere with a bit of internet. Seneca jumped on a video call with American contacts. It took Sergeant a few minutes to realize what was happening: Roman was calmly talking to members of the U.S. House of Representatives. At one point, Roman muted the call, turned in frustration and muttered,
«F**k, what else am I supposed to say to them? Come on, give me something».

Sergeant hesitated, then said quietly, “Ask for an artillery detection system.”
Roman nodded and instantly «pitched » the idea to them – in fluent English.

Now and then, his phone would buzz with non-military notifications. Seneca was texting with different women – and getting annoyed if someone distracted him from the mission. Once, a girl he referred to as his partner came to visit. She vanished just as quickly as she had arrived.

After Roman was killed, his mother, Svitlana, received his military backpack. Two things surprised her. First – the unusually neat and meticulous way everything was packed. That wasn’t like him. Second – two carefully folded T-shirts, embroidered by another girl Svitlana vaguely recognized.

* * *

Yana Bezsmertna, Roman’s class monitor back in college, could spot him from a distance during school breaks.

At 17, Roman had started making his first money – enough to buy sharp suits and polished shoes. During breaks, he sat with an English-language copy of the Kyiv Post and a cigarette. He only studied the subjects that truly interested him. Everything else he passed on intellect and instinct.

But even his classmates didn’t know the other Roman – the one who wrote handwritten letters and sometimes brought flowers for no reason. The one who kissed her hand when they met and quoted poetry in messages. The one who, a few years later, would reschedule a meeting just to attend a theater premiere with her.

The same Roman who might wait outside with flowers, hoping for a chance to talk. And if the answer was no – he’d toss the bouquet through her window, turn around and leave without a word.

In spring 2022, years after all that, a tired Roman invited Yana for a friendly coffee near Zoloti Vorota – the Golden Gate, an old landmark in the center of Kyiv. Yana was already married, long in another relationship – and nothing had ever happened between them beyond those kisses on the hand at 17. They spoke mostly about his unit’s needs – they were fundraising for pickup trucks. Roman laughed and made jokes, but something about him felt distant, as if he was half there and half somewhere else.

He remembered her favorite flowers – soft white garden roses.

On the day Yana learned Roman had been killed, she found a single pale artificial rose lying in the street on her walk home.

The younger Ratushnyi had been searching for something more than meaning – he had been looking for love.

And he didn’t have time to find it.

Thunder-black night

Alyona Martyniuk · And the Knight fell in valorous battle

And the Knight fell in valorous battle.
And sorrow fell like a shadowed veil
Upon Protasiv Yar,
Upon the heart of the Princess,
Upon the city of Kyiv,
Upon the land of Ukraine.

And a swallow flew from the edge of the sky
To carry the soul of the warrior high
To the Hero’s Halls beyond the veil –
To the Eternal Vyriy,
Where heroes dwell
Forevermore.

Vyriy – in Slavic mythology, the distant and eternal land where souls of birds and the righteous dead journey after death; a paradise of light, rest, and peace.

Seneca had a way of making people like him – quickly, naturally. He wasn’t a «commander» barking orders. He was a leader, someone you wanted to follow. That difference stood out even more beside their unit commander – a man cut from a different cloth, the kind who never questioned an order and often sent soldiers to die to save his own skin.

On the night of June 8, 2022, Seneca’s team of four set out on a mission. August moved with Roman; Raven was paired with Sergeant. Their task was to mine a road near a makeshift burial ground that had appeared close to the front line. After that, they were to lie low, close to enemy patrols – watch them, count them, find the moment to strike and reclaim the position.

They split into pairs. Raven and Sergeant remained at the old observation post; August and Seneca moved out to establish a new one.

From his trench, Sergeant heard gunfire. He was too far to help. The team had crossed through a field to cut distance on the way to the enemy line. By dawn, it became clear they had miscalculated – by just 20 meters. It was enough to put them too close.

At 11:40 p.m., three final shots came from Seneca’s position. Then – silence. He didn’t answer the radio again.

By noon, a Russian tank rolled up near Sergeant and Raven’s trench. What happened next, Sergeant can only describe in fragments: fire, unbearable and unending. He remembers burning – remembers the blaze devouring Raven beside him – remembers how it wouldn’t stop. It was fire, and nothing but fire, all around and within.

In his will, Roman had written:
«Don’t rush to follow me. Let me rest from you awhile.»

And that’s how it happened. For four long days, no one could reach him. An ambush occurred at the site of the fight.

They recovered his body only during a thunderstorm – on a night so dark and violent, it swallowed even light.

A thunder-black night – the kind where thermal sights stop working, and the only sounds are rain, lightning, and the sky splitting in two.

Only then, through that storm, were his brothers-in-arms able to reach Roman Ratushnyi.

Alyona Martyniuk · When I die, I will die not of death – but of life

PATAGONIA
When I die, I will die not of death
but of life.
When I do, life will perish itself —
flags won’t fly.

I will die a young man, very young —
growing old? There’s no time.
Quit this game of funeral songs,
scatter their rhymes.

The wild Patagonian steppe is where I will die,
a poet of fire and earth.
My kin, I will not hear you cry —
I am no one’s — my words are the world’s.

When all nature grows calm, I’ll depart,
ahead of the last stormy night —
in a flash, when death seizes my heart,
my youth, my life, and my fight.

June 30, 1917
Vladivostok
Translation by: @yazavtra and @Olia_Hercules

Mykhail Semenko (December 31, 1892 – October 23, 1937) was a leading Ukrainian futurist poet and a key figure of the «Executed Renaissance» – a generation of Ukrainian intellectuals annihilated by Stalinist repression. He was murdered by the Soviets in a Kyiv prison during Stalin’s Great Terror.

Roman posted this poem just a few weeks before his death. It is now engraved on his gravestone.

At his funeral, the sound of trembitas – Carpathian alpine horns – rose above the wail of the air raid siren.

Soldiers walking behind the casket sang old Sich Riflemen songs – the ones he loved.

* * *

– Zhenia, you’re my lawyer, right?
– I am.
– I put you down as my first contact in case I’m killed. Like a sister.

* * *

Once, as a child, Roman rescued a baby swallow and named it Gandhi. He nursed it back to health and let it go.

Gandhi returned to his balcony on the day Ukrainian human rights defender Dmytro Groysman was buried.

Years later, another swallow flew into a half-ruined house in Kharkiv region – just after Zakrevska learned that Roman had been killed.

The Chestnut Bird

Alyona Martyniuk · And the Druid took up the sword once more – for the third and final time

And the Druid took up the sword once more –
for the third and final time.

He rose to avenge his brother fallen,
and sought a battle fierce and noble,
a fate not given, but earned in flame.

And he found it –
for he shielded his comrades
with the weight of his own body.

And he closed his eyes –
unto the ages everlasting.

After his younger brother’s funeral, Vasyl didn’t speak to anyone about Roman’s death.

He could have left the military – loss gave him that right.
Instead, he chose a practical form of grief: vengeance.

The unit he had served in since the first days of the full-scale invasion no longer satisfied him.

Vasyl was learning at an industrial pace. He had already mastered at least three military occupational specialties – including combat engineering – and was on par with instructors.

So he began looking for a new unit. His only requirement: one that killed the highest number of Russians per day.
He asked bluntly – «What are your daily enemy KIA numbers in reports?»

‍If the number was too low, he moved on. Most soldiers wouldn’t dare push for a transfer like that. But Vasyl wasn’t most soldiers. He needed the most efficient unit. And he found it.

When he joined the unit known as Madyar’s Birds, they were stunned by his level of skill. Tasks that usually required three people – he completed alone.

But the transfer order sat in a drawer for over a month.
‍
So Vasyl waited – armed, fully geared, ready – and utterly useless. Waiting.Then came the missions – fierce and relentless: Kupiansk, Torske, Klishchiivka, Ocheretyne.

From June 9, 2022 – the day Vasyl learned that Roman had been killed – to February 27, 2025 – the day he was killed himself. Vasyl shielded two of his comrades with his body.

In 2023, he was awarded the Commander-in-Chief’s honorary medal – the Golden Cross.

Vasyl had a tattoo on his arm – a chestnut leaf and the word KYIV.

His call sign was Chestnut.
‍
Roman had written in his will:
«Kyiv, I died far from you – but for you.»

«When I look at the future», Vasyl once said, «I know the only thing that matters is increasing enemy losses – by a lot – just to pause the fighting for a while. Everything else, especially anything that leads to fewer enemy losses, just won’t make sense.»

– Vasyl «Bird Chestnut» Ratushnyi

At his funeral, the motorcade blasted his favorite punk tracks – he once had a band of his own.

Guests saying goodbye to the fallen soldier were handed NON-Stop energy drinks and pastries – the kind the Druid from the House by the River used to love.

* * *

When Vasyl and Roman were little, they would often get caught in summer rain with their mother Svitlana at their summer house by the Desna River.

They’d run out into the storm, bathe in the downpour, splash in the puddles. Their clothes – soaked, muddy, and torn – always seemed to vanish by day’s end.Sneakers, jeans, T-shirts disappeared as if they’d self-destructed.

By evening, there wouldn’t be a single dry piece of clothing left in the house – not even the little flannel pajamas with bears, dolphins, kittens, and puppies printed on them.

* * *

*In Kyiv, part of Volhohradska Street was renamed in honor of Roman Ratushnyi.
In Protasiv Yar – the place where he fought for years against illegal development – a memorial garden now bears his name, marked with a stone. In October 2023, the Kyiv City Council established a municipal enterprise, «Protasiv Yar», tasked with protecting and developing the green zone.

*The team behind the «Defend Protasiv Yar» initiative continues its work.
In 2023–2024, they won several lawsuits – including one against businessman Hennadii Korban, who had demanded that Roman Ratushnyi and the civic organization retract all mentions of him in connection with the attempted development of the area. The court rejected all of Korban’s claims.

*At the same time, the team succeeded in getting construction permits revoked by a number of state institutions. They fought for – and fulfilled – one more line in Roman’s will: the creation of a protected nature reserve in Protasiv Yar.

*Legal victory turned into urban planning: in 2024, during public hearings, the team defended the area’s green zone status. They also pushed for local policies that would prevent development on the slopes without community approval. The city’s Department of Land Resources began working to redraw the official boundaries of the park. In documentation, Protasiv Yar now appears as a distinct protected area.

*Every year, Kyiv hosts a football tournament in Roman’s memory – an informal event that brings together veterans, activists, and his friends.

*In 2023, the documentary film «Ratushnyi. A Free Man» was released. It tells the story of his life, his role in the Revolution of Dignity, his fight for Kyiv, and his military service.

*The film has been screened at festivals and in schools, used as part of civic education lessons.

*A few days after Roman’s death, his will became public.
His mother, Svitlana, shared a post: Roman had asked that his military compensation be donated to four causes he deeply believed in – institutions that reflected culture, truth, memory, and music in Ukrainian public life.

One share went to the National Museum of Taras Shevchenko, dedicated to preserving the legacy of Ukraine’s national poet and cultural icon.
‍
Another to the National Bandura Chapel, a renowned folk orchestra that performs Ukrainian epic songs with the traditional multi-stringed instrument – the bandura.
‍
The rest was divided between two independent media outlets: Istorychna Pravda, a historical journalism platform that documents Ukraine’s past and memory politics, and Novynarnia, a respected newsroom that reports on the military, war, and life on the front lines.

Vakhtang Kipiani, editor of Istorychna Pravda, later said the donation became the seed funding for a new literary prize in Roman’s name – for young authors writing about Kyiv and its heritage. Dmytro Lykhovii of Novynarnia shared that Svitlana transferred 100,000 hryvnias (about 2,500 euros) to their newsroom. They used it to create a journalist support fund, which now also bears Roman’s name.

*The National Bandura Chapel used their share to host a concert in his honor – and to sew new stage costumes.

*On one of the walls in Protasiv Yar, a quote from Roman is written in large letters:

«The more Russians we kill now, the fewer our children will have to kill.
This war has lasted more than three hundred years.
When we win – we will earn time to rest before the next phase of this war».

Roman once said the greatest problem any person faces is fear – fear of change, of loss, of death – of anything.And so he told himself, and others: never be afraid of anything.

He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery; he is above any external power, or, at any rate, he is beyond it. Richard Mott Gummere (Translator), – Seneca. One of Roman’s favorite quotes.

And the Knight’s will was this – to plant an oak in Protasiv Yar. A strong, tall tree. A symbol of knighthood. A living memory of the ballad, where the Legend of the Knight and the Druid will never die.

Alyona Martyniuk · And the Knight’s will was this – to plant an oak in Protasiv Yar

Roman «Seneca » Ratushnyi
24 years old

Roman Ratushnyi was killed on June 8, 2022, during a reconnaissance mission near Izium in the Kharkiv region, while serving with the 93rd Mechanized Brigade «Kholodnyi Yar».

He was a well-known civic activist and public figure. Roman led the «Defend Protasiv Yar » initiative, which successfully protected a valuable green area in Kyiv from illegal development. He was a strong voice for civil society and democratic values.

During the full-scale invasion, he fought in the battles for Kyiv, helped liberate Trostianets, and took part in operations in Sumy and Kharkiv regions.

‍«Burn out every trace of Russian subculture within yourself. Burn the childhood memories tied to Russian-Soviet things. Burn the relationships with those on the other side who are carriers of Russian culture. Otherwise, all of it will burn you.» – Roman Ratushnyi

He was posthumously awarded the Order «For Courage», 3rd class.
A street in Kyiv’s Solomianskyi district now bears his name, and the Protasiv Yar nature reserve has also been named in his honor.

Vasyl “Bird Chestnut” Ratushnyi
‍28 years old

Vasyl Ratushnyi was killed on February 27, 2025, during a combat mission on the front line, when he was hit directly by a Russian FPV drone.

As a teenager, he took part in the Revolution of Dignity. In 2014, he volunteered to fight for Ukraine and served during the early stages of Russia’s war. After demobilizing in 2019, he returned to civilian life. He built a house with his own hands, played the alto saxophone, and crafted knives in the Scandinavian style.

He returned to defend Ukraine during the full-scale invasion. After the death of his younger brother, Roman, Vasyl’s war also became a personal fight for vengeance.

In his final years, he served as a drone pilot with the «Madyar’s Birds» unit.

In October 2023, he was awarded the Commander-in-Chief’s honorary Golden Cross.

‍«When I think about the future, I know the only thing that really matters is drastically increasing enemy losses – just to pause the fighting for a while. Everything else, especially anything that reduces those losses, simply makes no sense». – Vasyl Ratushnyi

This special project by the Memorial platform was prepared with the support of Kharakter.Media.

Kharakter.Media is a platform that highlights all facets of the military experience. It tells the stories of service members defending the country, veterans returning to active life after the frontlines and injuries, families supporting them through difficult trials, and heroes who gave their lives for Ukraine. Join the Kharakter community.

The Memorial platform is building a new culture of remembrance in Ukraine, turning the statistics of the dead into names. Since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, it has documented over 10,000 stories of fallen soldiers and killed civilians. You can support the team’s work with a Donation in Memory. This will allow us to continue naming the heroes and telling their stories, preserving the truth about the price of our freedom in russia’s war against Ukraine.

R

ATUSHNI

The Tale of the Knight and the Druid

Not a Bunny

Maidan

Roma

VASYL

On the blink

A Winter in Sneakers

A Home by the River

Protas and the Art of Rooftop Diplomacy

Of Black Maple and Goldenrod

Short Chronology of Attacks on Protasiv Yar Activists

The Political Prisoner

The Full-Scale Invasion

The Defender

21.02.2022

A February Evening

The Jungles

From Protasiv Yar to Kholodnyi Yar

Thunder-black night

The Chestnut Bird

The team

The Tale of the
Knight and the Druid