On the Edge of 25, Ukraine’s Young Men Confront War and Hard Choices

We reported what we call Project 25, focusing on young men across Ukraine — in Kyiv, Uzhhorod, Irpin and Odesa — whose 25th birthdays are approaching the draft age. As we spoke with them, we heard the same tension again and again: they’re torn between a sense of patriotism and the devastating reality of war, often living with profound disillusionment and fear. Many told us they have to stay busy just to avoid being consumed by thoughts of dying.

Russia launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. Repeated ceasefire efforts and diplomatic bids to end the war have so far failed to produce a lasting settlement.

In Kyiv, Irpin and Odesa, young men described the moment the war forced them to grow up fast: signing military contracts with no expiration dates; waking to drones buzzing over the city; sleeping on floors that shook with explosions; watching friends or parents head to the front; or, like one aspiring philosopher in Kyiv, trying to write through the fear while drones swarmed overhead. Others shared the heartbreak of losing relationships, losing a sense of self or losing the lives they imagined for themselves long before turning 25.

And then there was Ivan, who fled to Europe rather than risk being drafted — a choice that cost him community, certainty and, in many ways, the identity he’d built in Ukraine. His story sits alongside those who stayed: a wounded soldier in Irpin who learned to walk again on titanium prosthetics; an aircraft engine maintenance technician in Kyiv who has remained to develop drones; a 21-year-old in Uzhhorod suddenly raising his four younger siblings after his mother was killed by Russian shelling.

Together, their decisions — to fight, to rebuild, to serve in other ways or to leave — reveal the impossible calculus facing young men on the edge of adulthood, trying to build futures for themselves and for Ukraine.

Ivan, 24

Bratislava

The point in his life when he would have to join the army, signing a military contract without an expiration date, is coming in a few months. The pressure built until he could not bear it any longer. Ivan, who graduated from a border guard training academy, escaped across Ukraine’s border with the European Union — the border he was supposed to protect.

Now in Europe, he is confused and lost. He regrets his actions.

The West has been asking Ukraine why young men aged 18 to 25 are not being mobilized.

This year, President Volodymyr Zelensky allowed men between the ages of 18 and 22 to travel abroad. The Polish data service revealed that more than 40,000 Ukrainian men of that age crossed into Poland in just three weeks following Zelensky’s decision in August. But Ukrainian authorities stick to their decision, thinking that giving freedom would encourage young men to stay patriotic.

Ivan was 23 when he escaped the country, breaking the law. (He requested that his last name not be used, as he left the country illegally.) Looking back at the past year of his life in Europe, he hates the truth: he is a deserter. His girlfriend, who stayed in Ukraine, has left him.

He does not have a job in Slovakia’s capital city, his new home.

Ukraine’s state border meant a lot to Ivan. His father was a border guard. Following his father’s footsteps, Ivan joined the academy in 2019 after completing a yearlong exchange program in the United States. Ivan spent his entire four years of training for the border guard service, wanting to quit.

“I was close to quitting before the full-scale invasion, but my father convinced me to stay,” he told us in a recent interview.

He wore his uniform when the war began.

“The academy students served on campus and outside at checkpoints,” he said. “All of us students were armed with rocket-propelled grenades. All of us slept with grenades. I had no idea whether and when I would be transferred to a combat unit,” he said.

He was increasingly annoyed by the army rules for one and a half years of his service during the war, he said, before deserting Ukraine by jumping over a fence on the border.

“Looking back, I see that I should have stood my ground and not listened to those around me. Now that I’m in Europe, I fully understand this: here I am stuck. In Ukraine, I’m a criminal, but no one needs me here. Everything is complicated.”

Zelensky was criticized for letting young men leave the country.

“This is a rather poor decision, both from a demographic and social and political perspective. I do not consider any of the justifications I have heard to be serious,” said Oleksandr Hladun, deputy director for scientific affairs. “This age group is the most active contingent. The departure of these people abroad is a loss for the labor market.”

But there was another story in Ukraine, the story of men who remain in the country that has no choice but to fight, to survive.

Oleksandr Tolochenko, 24

Irpin 

There is a sign on the rusty, black SUV he drove in to meet us: “Tytanovi,” which translates as titanium. When he was 21, Oleksandr dreamed of falling in love and finding his “ other half.”

Three draft notices arrived at once when the full-scale invasion began. Just recently, he was drinking beer with his friends, traveling to Poland and Germany to make money on construction projects, cracking jokes at family dinners or going on dates. His father and brother left their home to go to the front line.

The army rejected him at first, telling him he was too young and inexperienced. After nine months in combat, his father had two heart attacks. His father’s heart was the reason that pushed Oleksandr out of his home to fight.

“I could have chosen not to go to war. But it was my duty now,” he said.

In January 2023, he joined an assault battalion. His service lasted five months.

“On May 11, 2023, during one of our assaults, we got hit by an anti-personnel mine,” Oleksandr told us. “My left leg was blown off at the knee, and my right leg was injured,” Oleksandr said.

Both the time and place were wrong, he said.

“My evacuation to the hospital took 17 hours, because we were working in the enemy’s territory. It took too long. I was in a coma for eight days. And when I woke up, I realized that both my legs were gone. For many weeks, I had severe phantom pains in my legs as if they were still there,” he recalled.

The sun went down; it smelled of fall. In September, we sat down on a bench by a playground full of cheerful kids going up and down a slope. It was chilly, but Oleksandr wore shorts, so we could see his titanium prosthetic legs. His smile was shy. We were prepared to hear a gut-turning story. Nearly every Ukrainian man we had interviewed for this project told us about their deep sadness and disillusionment at losing a sense of their ordinary selves.

Against all odds, Oleksandr’s life story turned out to be the most uplifting.

In 2023, he was transferred from hospital to hospital, rarely coming across another soldier with wounds like his.

“It was hard for me to come to terms with why I didn’t see any other amputees. I thought I was the only one without legs; only when I met guys like me in Lviv, it eased my mind a little,” he said.

His amputation was high on his leg. No doctor could figure out how to fit him with a prosthesis.

Last year, “a miracle happened”: Oleksandr met the head of the Tytanovi Rehab, Vyacheslav Zaporozhets, who found sponsors for the titanium implants. Surgeons anchored his prosthesis directly to the bone. Eleven months later, Oleksandr was back on his feet, decommissioned and legally allowed to travel the world. But

He chose to stay in Ukraine. Tytanovi Rehab gave him a job and a sense of purpose. He now works helping wounded soldiers.

“I tell them I live the best version of myself,” he said. “There are too many amputations, unfortunately. We need years of help, but our specialists become so experienced that even Western doctors come to Ukraine to learn from them.”

Ukraine counts up to 100,000 amputations. Oleksandr drives his rusty SUV to hospitals scattered around the country.

“I support young people, because when I was wounded, I suffered from not knowing anything about prosthetics, what awaits me in the future,” he said.

Many Ukrainian mothers have been taking their teen sons abroad, away from the war-torn country. Some have returned home “after failing to adapt to the new conditions in Europe, they realized that Europe and Ukraine were different,” Kateryna Urus, a Kyiv-based psychologist, said.

“Those who are under 25 years of age, with a few years to spare before military service, hope that the fighting will end after all, before they turn 25,” she continued.

Mothers approach Urus, seeking her assistance in persuading their sons to leave. “The guys share with me if they don’t want to leave the country, we talk about their choices,” Urus told us. “Some teenagers now seem to feel as if they have no real prospects, no future growth here. Still, more guys under 25 are socially active; they hurry to live a full life.”

Dmytro Prymachenko 24

Kyiv

Night was falling. The sky above Kyiv was filled with the high-pitched buzzing of drones — another Russian attack on this city.

Wrapped in a blanket, Dmytro moved to his laptop on the desk by the window. Outside, naked trees waved their branches in the wind. He reread the first part of his manuscript on how to help people see value in books, thinking over ideas by his favorite authors, Umberto Eco and Albert Camus.

Sipping his tea, he added a new sentence: “Books are still relevant; books are as reliable as scissors or hammers.”

He moved back to his mattress — he slept on the floor because of his injured back. Every time drones or missiles exploded nearby, he bounced with the mattress. He told us that on the floor, he “felt naked in his insecurity of being constantly woken up by unending booming sounds and vibrations.”

Time has become more valuable than ever. He needed to learn more; he needed time to finish his book. With a BA in philosophy, he thought about continuing his studies in Boston or California.

But his 25th birthday was six months away, and he was bound to stay in his home country. That hard decision — whether to stay or leave —he made in February 2022, right in his room. Just like today, the trees were moving their naked branches in the wind.

The deeper he analyzed Greek philosophy, the more he realized that all the events in his life were predetermined by fate and that issues highlighted in books thousands of years ago were still relevant today.

“We need to be able to say everything as it is, using common language, to be heard, to see justice even as a common man,” he told us. “It’s pretty obvious that it is not working.”

This was one reason he decided to write his book, hoping he had enough time to finish.

He was in his cozy room with his favorite octopus toy, remembering his childhood. We asked Dmytro to define his love for absurdity.

“We cannot ever comprehend the absolute truth, since we are human,” he said. “Absurdism is the philosophy that allows me to function, to live despite the realization that there is no higher meaning for everything.”

Some questions were hard to ask. Yes, he was in love, but he tried not to get consumed by the feeling, since his girlfriend was in Europe and he would not like her to experience the nights full of buzzing sounds of death. And no, he was not exempt from military service. Absurdity and hard work helped him not to go insane from the pressure.

Oleksandr Zhytynskyi, 21

Kyiv

Pilots and planes always fascinated him. His grandfather was a commander of the Poltava Long-Range Aviation Airfield. As a boy, he spent weekends surrounded by the “incredible atmosphere of airplanes, of freedom,” Oleksandr said.

He dreamed of becoming a pilot, but when he turned 17, he decided to build planes instead of flying them and went to study aircraft engine maintenance.

The war changed everything.

“In the first months of the war, I thought I should be a volunteer soldier. My parents were against it. Then I realized that I could be more useful designing drones,” he said.

Today, Oleksandr is a drone developer. Since the beginning of the war in 2022, he’s been designing new models of reconnaissance and FPV drones. He can still leave Ukraine anytime if he wants, but he chose to stay in his home city of Kyiv. In late 2022, he joined Vyriy, a Kyiv-based drone manufacturer.

When Oleksandr talks about his work, his eyes sparkle with enthusiasm: he made the right choice.

“If I felt that I was of no use here, I wouldn’t have stayed,” he said. He has matured faster. “I don’t have any close friends — friendship requires effort and time, which I don’t have. I have a girlfriend, parents and a job, which takes about 80% of my life.”

Oleksandr studies on his own, watching Harvard lectures and reading books on engineering and management to improve his skills in assembling drones. He worries about the future of his country and grows serious when he speaks about it.

“The next five years is a very responsible period for us. We will not be able to sort the war out for a long time. I see myself as one of those people who will sort it out,” he said.

Sviatoslav Chubarev, 25

Kyiv

Sviatoslav is tall and handsome. He is in love, and he is angry. He recently reached a dreadful point in his life: he turned 25. The ministry of sports, where he works, exempts him from military service, but the exemption is temporary, and his future is uncertain.

“I think the government made a bad decision with mobilization. If the government motivated people with a good salary and conditions, many would like to fight, I think,” he told us in an interview at a café in the center of Kyiv. He is angry with the foreign press. “Why don’t you tell your readers more about corruption in the mobilizing services?”

Unlike most young Ukrainian men, Sviatoslav is not afraid to express his opinion.

In August, his school friend was picked by recruitment officers from a street in Odesa. “He had to pay an $800 bribe for them to release him,” he said.

Some bribes in Odesa can be over $5,000. “This situation with mobilization is great for corruption,” Sviatoslav said. “The moment you are lifted, you pay one amount of money; once you are inside their bus, you pay more. Once they bring you to a recruitment office, you pay double.”

We met with Sviatoslav when his girlfriend was on vacation abroad. Ukrainian men between 23 and 60 are prohibited from leaving the country, so he could not join her and stayed behind, waiting, “like a hostage.”

Sviatoslav works three jobs: at the ministry of sports, at the World Bank and as a taxi driver at night. He wished he lived in an uncorrupted democratic state, where people had the right to express their opinion, to be free to choose.

“To me, democracy is when the government does not interfere with people’s lives. The government is failing to fight that corruption, yes. I tell you this truth, though I realize it might be bad for Ukraine’s reputation.”

Viacheslav Yalov, 21

Uzhhorod 

He is young and could pack up and go abroad, but he does not even consider that option.

Nearly three years had gone by, but Viacheslav still swallowed tears telling us about the biggest tragedy in his life: his “angel” mother was mortally wounded by shrapnel in Russia’s shelling of Verkhniotoretske, Donetsk region, now occupied by Russia. She died in his arms when he was just 18.

Furious, heartbroken and desperate, his first intention was to rush to the front and avenge his mother. His tragedy forced him to take on responsibilities that not every adult could bear — taking legal guardianship of his four underage siblings, who had no one else.

“I wanted to save what our mom had built,” he said. “She dedicated her life to us. I’ll do everything to keep our family for her.”

Viacheslav received two court denials for custody of his siblings, but he didn’t give up. He eventually convinced the judge that he could be a responsible father. “I am the only one who can give them a happy childhood, the future,” he said.

First, he moved them to the safest town in Ukraine, then he took on three jobs to support his family. We spoke with Viacheslav and his three underage siblings in a café on a Sunday morning in Uzhhorod, the westernmost city in Ukraine, bordering Slovakia.

Viacheslav said their mother was amazing. Despite working several jobs, she always managed to look her best. He couldn’t show weakness to his children.

“I put the children to bed, go out onto the balcony and sob with tears that I can’t describe to you. Sometimes, I don’t understand what to do next, but I keep trying,” he said.

Viacheslav is ambitious. He wants to become a Ukrainian politician and is looking into enrolling in a leadership course to pursue his dreams while staying in Ukraine.

He said he “would have trained for a military medic if it was not for his underaged, orphaned siblings.”

Kirilo Shvets, 21

Odesa

He stopped singing as the rehearsal ended and stepped out of the theater onto streets blanketed with autumn leaves.

Kirilo, an opera and musical theater performer, was born and raised in Odesa, where he spent years training in arts schools and performing in theaters.

“War or no war, arts are the meaning of life in our family: my great-grandfather was an actor; my grandfather, my father, my uncle are all musicians,” Kirilo said in an interview backstage at Odesa’s musical comedy theater. “My uncle took me to all his performances when I was a kid.

Kirilo is a tenor. He performs at the Young Theater, Ukrainian Theater, Drama Theater and the Musical Comedy. “My dream is to sing Judas’ part in the Jesus Christ Superstar,” he said, laughing. Even his laughter is musical.

In late November, he had Romeo and Juliet on his schedule, a rock opera full of acrobatic tricks and impressive battles between the Montagues and Capulets.

Kirilo grows serious, talking about love and hate, loyalty and betrayal, life and death. It was all close to home: his neighbor and his best friend’s brother were serving on the front line. He associated Shakespeare’s play with the reality outside.

“Undoubtedly, there is an intertwining,” he said. “As young people, we should not experience this enmity, violence, the result of older Montagues’ and Capulets’ failures — my youth is passing during wartime.

“We are hostages of this period. But despite the war, we must live, love and give birth, of course.”

Editor’s note: This reporting was supported by the International Women’s Media Foundation’s Women on the Ground: Reporting from Ukraine’s Unseen Frontlines Initiative, in partnership with the Howard G. Buffett Foundation.

Maria Kostenko is a freelance journalist who has worked with CNN since the early days of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, researching and reporting on the war. She and the CNN Worldwide Ukraine team received the Dupont Columbia Award for broadcast, documentary and online journalism. She is an IWMF grantee this year.

Anna Nemtsova is The Daily Beast’s Eastern Europe correspondent and a contributing writer for The Atlantic. Her Ukraine reporting has also appeared in The Washington Post, Newsweek, Rolling Stone, USA Today and Politico. She is a recipient of the Persephone Miel Fellowship and the IWMF Courage in Journalism Award, and is an IWMF grantee this year.

Evelina Riabenko is a freelance journalist who has been producing and reporting for The New York Times since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022. In 2023, she was named a finalist for the Martin Adler Prize, part of the Rory Peck Awards. She is an IWMF grantee this year.