I was there.

Or rather, I could have been.

Before being transferred to Makiyivka Penal Colony No. 97 around early June 2022, I spent 60 days underground in a windowless 1-by-3 metre concrete cell alongside two other prisoners: Vlad, a Ukrainian defender, and Brahim Saadoun, the Moroccan-born Ukrainian Marine.

For two months, daylight ceased to exist. We survived on microscopic portions of bread, sometimes only every other day. We were beaten, subjected to electric shocks, and systematically broken down—not for anything we had done, but simply for who we were: Ukrainian soldiers.

Eventually, after weeks of interrogations, we were dragged before Russian state television cameras, forced into a propaganda spectacle before being put on trial and sentenced to death, all within the space of just a few days—an experience I recount in detail in my memoir, Live. Fight. Survive.

It was then that I truly began to understand why the torture was happening.

It wasn’t the Hollywood version of interrogation: “Tell us what you know” or “Where are your friends?” It wasn’t really about extracting intelligence. The torture lasted for months, for some, years. It was relentless, every single day and designed not only to break you physically, but to destroy you psychologically and morally, until you became whatever they needed you to be.

Shaping tomorrow’s narrative was every bit as important as gathering information—if not the primary objective.

The truth about me was far less exciting.

I was married to a Ukrainian woman and Ukraine had become my home since 2018. I had legal residency, my family lived there, and I had joined the Ukrainian military under a contractual arrangement that offered a path to citizenship after three years’ service. By then, I had built my life in the country, paid my taxes in Ukraine, had a house in Mariupol on the left bank, and had many, many friends.

None of that mattered to my captors.

In their eyes, I couldn’t simply be Shaun Pinner, a former British soldier serving in the Ukrainian Marines. I had to be something else, something bigger. I had to be Special Forces, MI6, a Nazi, a mercenary or a terrorist. In fact, at various points, I was accused of being all of them. Those labels were essential because they justified everything that followed, even if they were manufactured.

Eventually, after enough beatings, starvation and humiliation, you reach a point where the truth no longer matters. Some prisoners confess to places they’ve never been. Others, like us, are coerced into confessing to crimes we never committed, simply because the body and mind can no longer endure what comes next.

That is how false confessions are manufactured.

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By the time I stood trial, I had lost around 30 kilograms. The man standing in that courtroom bore little resemblance to the one captured in Mariupol and that transformation was no accident. It was manufactured as part of a highly organised system that also incorporated Russian state media, including RT, to justify and normalise the brutality for a domestic audience.

It was the product of a machine designed not merely to imprison people, but to strip them of their identity, their dignity and, ultimately, their humanity.

I tell you this to provide context.

I am not theorising or relying on second-hand accounts. I lived it.

To this day, I have no idea where that underground torture facility was located. In many ways, it doesn’t matter. The system is replicated across Russia’s network of detention centres. Torture is not the exception—it is the rule.

What happened at Olenivka, however, went even further.

It was no longer simply about breaking prisoners, but about deliberately killing them.

That is why, four years later, we still have a duty to remember.

When news emerged on 29 July 2022 that dozens of Ukrainian prisoners of war had been killed in an explosion at Olenivka, I realised how easily my name could have been among the dead. Many of the men transferred to Makiyivka a few days later—around 200, I was told—had come directly from Olenivka. They brought with them first-hand accounts of the horrors they had endured there, stories that confirmed what many of us had already come to understand:

Torture was not an exception, it was a system.

Four years on, the massacre at Olenivka remains one of the defining atrocities of Russia’s war against Ukraine. It is not simply a story of one prison or one night. It is a story about the systematic use of torture, the deliberate destruction of international law, and the danger of allowing such crimes to fade from public memory.

In the early hours of 29 July 2022, an explosion tore through Barrack 200 at the Russian-controlled penal colony in Olenivka, in occupied Donetsk Oblast. More than 50 Ukrainian prisoners of war were killed and well over 100 others were wounded, many suffering horrific burns and blast injuries.

The victims were primarily defenders of Mariupol and the Azovstal Steelworks—men who had laid down their arms only weeks earlier under internationally brokered guarantees intended to save their lives. Among them was my friend, John Harding, a British combat medic who had served with the Azov Battalion in Urzuf, near Mariupol, before transferring to the Ukrainian Marines shortly before the full-scale invasion. Like so many others, he was among the defenders who held out inside Azovstal until the final surrender.

By the time John arrived at the underground Black Site, he had already endured severe beatings before he was thrown into the cell next to mine. I didn’t need anyone to tell me who it was, even though I couldn’t see him. The moment I heard that unmistakable Sunderland accent echo through the corridor, I knew immediately that my new neighbour was John.

Over the weeks that followed, John told me about the final days at Azovstal, the internationally brokered surrender, and the assurances that prisoners would be treated in accordance with the Geneva Conventions before eventually being exchanged. Instead, almost as soon as the surrender began, those guarantees unravelled. Prisoners were separated, beaten and dispersed across Russia’s detention system.

It is hardly surprising that his opinion of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) remains deeply critical. Whether fairly or unfairly, many prisoners felt abandoned, certainly John did, But whatever assurances had been given counted for little once they were in Russian hands.

That was perhaps the first and most important lesson of captivity: any agreement with Russia existed only until it became inconvenient. Once the prisoners had surrendered, the promises disappeared. There was no protection, no meaningful oversight and certainly no journey home. There was only the prison system that awaited us and a so called legal process.

My Marine brother, Yevhen Malik, also spoke to me about the conditions after his exchange, some two years after mine. His account was echoed by dozens of other prisoners who had been transferred from Olenivka to Makiyivka while I was there. Together, they described a detention regime built on relentless violence. One prisoner had been repeatedly electrocuted through his testicles while another had been suspended for hours until he could no longer feel his legs. The brutality was systemic, not exceptional—it was simply part of daily life. Their stories differed in the details, but they all pointed to the same conclusion: torture was not the result of a few sadistic guards, but the system itself.

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It’s 24 July 2026, and there is something I simply cannot get my head around.

Over the past week, we’ve witnessed one of the strangest reversals since Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Figures who spent years ridiculing Ukraine, dismissing its suffering, repeating Kremlin narratives and portraying Ukrainians as the villains have suddenly discovered a newfound admiration for the very country they once demonised.

Laura Loomer, and now maybe Tim Pool?

It raises uncomfortable questions—not just about these so-called "influencers," but about the audiences who follow them, and about the state of political discourse in the United States. How do public figures spend years championing one position, only to pivot almost overnight, with so little scrutiny from the very people who once amplified their message?

Has reality finally caught up with them?

Has Russia become impossible to defend?

Have the predictions of a dismal Trump outcome in the midterms enforced change?

Or is it just the environment that once rewarded anti-Ukraine commentary simply shifted?

I don’t claim to know the answer and in truth, it is better that influential voices speak positively about Ukraine than continue to amplify narratives that benefit the Kremlin. I would never pretend to know what motivates people behind closed doors and it’s important to say that from the very start.

But when two of the loudest personalities promoting narratives favourable to Moscow suddenly begin embracing Ukraine at almost exactly the same time—at breakneck speed, enough to give everyone whiplash—it deserves scrutiny rather than applause.

This isn’t simply about changing an opinion. It risks becoming the whitewashing of the past without accountability.

In an earlier article, I wrote about the impending establishment of the Special Tribunal for the Crime of Aggression against Ukraine, where Russia’s senior leadership is expected to face legal scrutiny for launching the war. I argued that the prospect of accountability could eventually create fractures within Putin’s inner circle as the personal consequences of supporting the invasion became increasingly real.

At the time, I was thinking almost exclusively about those inside Russia.

I hadn’t really considered whether that same shift might eventually extend beyond the Kremlin itself, to some of the loudest voices abroad who spent years defending, excusing or amplifying narratives that helped justify the invasion.

Perhaps that’s what we’re witnessing.

Or perhaps it’s simply coincidence.

Come on... even I struggled to keep a straight face writing the word “coincidence.”

Either way, after everything Ukraine has endured, I believe those questions deserve to be asked before we rush to celebrate another convenient change of heart.

Who’s next?

Tucker Carlson turning up in Kyiv to declare he’d “misjudged the whole thing,” before taking us on a tour of a Silpo supermarket.

“Hmmmm... bread.”

At this rate, trust doesn’t need to be earned.

It just needs a passport, a camera crew, a carefully managed itinerary and the right photo opportunity.

The Narrative

For years, narratives portraying Ukraine as a nation overrun by “Nazis,” inherently corrupt or an existential threat to Russia became a recurring feature of parts of the online political discourse.

Those arguments frequently echoed themes promoted by the Kremlin to justify its actions, including claims that Russia had legitimate security concerns and that continued Western support for Ukraine would only prolong the war. Some commentators went further, arguing that military aid should end and that Ukraine should accept territorial concessions in pursuit of peace. In several high-profile cases, these narratives later came under greater scrutiny following investigations into alleged Russian influence operations and covert funding networks. As I will explain, some prominent online personalities were linked to media organisations that U.S. prosecutors allege received Russian state funding, while others have faced persistent questions about the financial incentives behind the content they produced.

These were not simply isolated opinions expressed in a vacuum. Collectively, they formed part of a broader information environment that helped normalise or legitimise Russia’s invasion in the eyes of some audiences.

Among the clearest examples were comments made by Tim Pool, who stated:

“Ukraine is one of the greatest enemies of our nation... We should pull out all military support, and we should apologize to Russia.”

Viewed in the context of Russia’s full-scale invasion and the humanitarian catastrophe that followed, those remarks continue to attract significant scrutiny.

That wasn’t a slip of the tongue.

It was a political position, one that closely echoed narratives promoted by Russian state media at a time when Ukraine was fighting for its survival.

Even if Tim Pool is being sarcastic at Laura Loomer’s expense, that doesn’t erase or rewrite the positions he previously chose to take.

The Tenet Media Allegations

The irony became even more striking in September 2024, when the U.S. Department of Justice unsealed an indictment alleging that two employees of the Russian state broadcaster RT—Kostiantyn Kalashnikov and Elena Afanasyeva—had covertly funnelled almost $10 million into a Tennessee-based media company widely identified as Tenet Media.

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A few days ago, I wrote that it was simply too early to draw firm conclusions about Ukraine’s unexpected government reshuffle. Too many commentators, many of whom are not even based in Ukraine, let alone familiar with the inner workings of the Verkhovna Rada or the realities of wartime decision-making, were rushing to definitive conclusions largely based on speculation. Others appeared more interested in generating clicks and followers than providing balanced analysis, offering absolute certainty despite having very little information to go on, and that was before the usual Russian sympathisers arrived with their remarkably repetitive refrain:

“Why don’t you go and fight then?”

I argued then that patience was the wiser course, and several days later, the chronology tells a far clearer story. Whether that story ultimately justifies the decisions being made is another matter entirely, for many questions remain unanswered. The dismissal of Defence Minister Mykhailo Fedorov has become one of the most politically contentious episodes of Ukraine’s wartime government. It has exposed divisions within the leadership, prompted demonstrations on the streets of Kyiv, reignited debate over the influence of the Presidential Office, and once again raised an uncomfortable question I have asked before:

Does Ukraine occasionally shoot itself in the foot politically?

A Reshuffle Few Expected

The first signs came as President Volodymyr Zelensky unveiled one of the most significant wartime cabinet reshuffles since Russia's full-scale invasion. I was actually out of the country, taking what was meant to be a rare couple of days away, when the news broke. Inevitably, the phone started ringing and I found myself being asked for my opinion.

“Government changes during a war are hardly unusual,” I said during my weekly report for Meidas News. “Leaders replace ministers, restructure departments and adjust priorities as circumstances evolve—particularly in a country fighting for its survival.”

That much was expected.

What surprised almost everyone, however, was the inclusion of Mykhailo Fedorov.

During his tenure, Fedorov became synonymous with Ukraine’s drive to modernise both government and defence. At the press conference following confirmation of his departure, he chose not to dwell on political disagreements but instead reflected on what his ministry had achieved during just six months in office.

“It was a great honour to serve the Ukrainian people as Minister of Defence.”

Rather than defending himself politically, Fedorov presented what was effectively a report card on his time in office.

He highlighted the successful effort to deny Russian forces access to Starlink, which he said had “dramatically reduced their ability to conduct an effective drone war.” He described inheriting a ministry under severe budgetary pressure before redirecting resources towards the technologies increasingly defining modern warfare—FPV drones, long-range strike systems, interceptor drones, unmanned ground vehicles and low-cost reconnaissance platforms. According to Fedorov, the ministry procured more drones in just four months than had been purchased during the previous year.

He also pointed to the launch of “Logistics Lockdown,” an initiative designed to systematically degrade Russian logistics. Combined with procurement reforms and increased support for Ukraine’s most capable drone units, he argued the programme had helped isolate Crimea and place sustained pressure on Russia’s ability to supply its forces in southern Ukraine.

Perhaps the most revealing part of his remarks, however, was not what he celebrated but what he acknowledged remained unfinished.

Fedorov openly admitted that he had not completed the Ministry of Defence’s organisational transformation towards NATO standards, had not yet moved all procurement onto fully competitive tenders and had not finished creating what he described as “a culture of responsibility for decisions made.”

It was an unusually candid assessment from a departing minister.

He concluded with what many now regard as the philosophy that defined his approach to the job:

“I will continue to work toward the mission I came to the Ministry of Defence with—to defeat the enemy through asymmetry, the speed of innovation and the strength of our organisation.”

Taken together, those achievements, and the acknowledgement of the work still left to do, help explain why Fedorov became one of the most recognisable figures behind Ukraine’s wartime military modernisation.

Which inevitably leaves the question that has dominated political debate ever since:

Why remove a minister who appeared to be delivering measurable results at precisely the moment technological adaptation had become one of Ukraine’s greatest strategic advantages?

Initially, there was no convincing public explanation and that vacuum quickly filled with speculation.

Friction Behind Closed Doors

As more information emerged, reports began pointing to growing disagreements between Defence Minister Mykhailo Fedorov and Commander-in-Chief General Oleksandr Syrskyi.

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According to multiple reports, tensions had developed over military reform, procurement and the pace at which new technologies were being integrated into Ukraine’s armed forces.

Only those at the very top will know the full extent of those disagreements. The broader debate, however, is one I have witnessed firsthand since arriving in Ukraine in 2018.

My own experiences never involved Ukraine’s senior military leadership, nor decisions affecting the country’s survival as a whole, but they did expose a culture that many foreign advisers and experienced Ukrainian soldiers will immediately recognise—myself included.

Much of the resistance came not from frontline troops but from layers of middle management whose careers had been shaped by Soviet military doctrine. Centralised command, rigid hierarchy and an instinct to avoid initiative had been deeply ingrained over decades.

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Anybody who thought Donald Trump was going to be good for Ukraine was, in my opinion, away with the fairies.

Even before his inauguration, military aid was effectively being held back. Then came the now infamous White House confrontation with President Zelensky in February 2025, one of the lowest points in US–Ukraine relations. It may well become Trump’s defining foreign policy image: “You don’t have the cards.” Unless, of course, history judges him even more harshly for what I see as his handling of Iran.

But I’ll let you take your pick.

That meeting sent a message heard around the world, Ukraine was no longer dealing with an administration instinctively committed to its defence. From that moment, the direction of travel became increasingly clear, and I haven’t changed my opinion since. Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to be proved wrong, I’d welcome a major political announcement demonstrating a genuine, long-term commitment to Ukraine.

But six months into 2026, it still hasn't happened. Arguably, since Donald Trump's inauguration, the prospect of peace has become even more distant than it was at the start of the full-scale invasion.

Every significant decision has pointed in the opposite direction and these days, whenever I hear the words “killer sanctions,” my eye starts twitching and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I have heard plenty of rhetoric and like Ukraine heard enough soundbites, what we need is policy.

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Then there is also Vice President JD Vance. To reduce Europe’s largest land war since the Second World War to Ukraine “haggling over kilometres” demonstrated either a profound misunderstanding of the conflict or a remarkable indifference to it. This is a war that has displaced millions, destroyed entire cities and fundamentally reshaped Europe’s security landscape.

Vance’s political framing didn’t stop there, boasting that one of his proudest political achievements was helping halt military aid to Ukraine. That wasn’t a neutral policy choice, that was a conscious decision that benefited the aggressor.

Wars do not pause because one side runs out of ammunition, they end because one side wins. Every delay in military assistance makes that outcome easier for Russia to pursue, and JD Vance openly took pride in helping make that happen.

His administration went on to also dismantle departments dedicated to documenting Russian war crimes, while taking a wrecking ball to humanitarian aid. The consequences were immediate, projects across Ukraine were cancelled overnight and within weeks, my own wife lost her job as a direct result.

If that wasn’t damaging enough, military aid was halted altogether, with Washington favouring weapons sales over continued assistance. At the same time, members of Trump’s administration openly discussed inviting Vladimir Putin to the United States, a man wanted by the International Criminal Court on an arrest warrant for alleged war crimes.

Then came the now infamous image of Putin hanging on a wall inside the White House. Whether intentional or not, it spoke volumes. For anyone still wondering where Donald Trump stands on Ukraine, the evidence has been there all along, and that isn’t even the whole story.

But let’s leave that, for now.

At the beginning of this year, there was cautious optimism that 2026 might finally become the year diplomacy overtook destruction, but I’ve never shared that optimism. Donald Trump returned to office in 2025 promising he could end the war "within 24 hours," while President Volodymyr Zelensky repeatedly signalled his willingness to negotiate, proposing ceasefires, humanitarian agreements and direct talks with Vladimir Putin. Across Europe, leaders increasingly spoke of finding a path to peace, even as governments quietly prepared for the possibility of a much longer war.

Six months into 2026, the reality could hardly look more different. Rather than moving closer to peace, both Ukraine and Russia appear to be preparing for an even more dangerous phase of the conflict.

Back in February, I wrote that the balance of power was beginning to shift in favor of Ukraine and since then, long-range strikes have intensified dramatically. Overall, since Donald Trump’s inauguration, Ukraine has experienced a sharp increase in the scale of Russian attacks and the number of civilians killed and injured. This week, the UN Human Rights Monitoring Mission in Ukraine reported that civilian casualties over the past six months were approximately 40% higher than during the same period a year earlier, reflecting the growing human cost of Russia’s campaign.

That is not the trajectory of a conflict approaching its end.

Russian missile and drone attacks against Ukrainian cities have continued with devastating regularity, but Ukraine has adapted. Domestically produced long-range drones and ballistic missiles are now reaching deeper into Russia than at any point since the full-scale invasion began.

Crimea remains under sustained pressure, effectively under siege. Russia’s logistics are becoming increasingly vulnerable. Fuel shortages are becoming impossible for the Kremlin to disguise, while Ukraine’s campaign is expanding well beyond the front line and into Russia’s heartland. Moscow’s response has been predictable: more mass strikes against civilian infrastructure.

To those of us living in Ukraine, talk of imminent peace is beginning to feel like the perennial predictions that Putin is about to die or that Russia's economy will collapse any day now. We've heard these predictions for years, yet, every morning the air raid alerts still sound, the missiles still fly, and the war continues to intensify. The internet remains full of YouTube clickbait promising Putin's imminent collapse or Russia's economic implosion, but reality has a habit of exposing wishful thinking.

Iran ultimately interrupted what had been presented as peace talks, Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner never even visiting Ukraine, yet both managed multiple trips to Moscow. That alone spoke volumes about where the White House saw its priorities and how many in Ukraine perceived those sham talks.

Let’s be honest, I never believed these were genuine peace talks. They looked far more like an attempt to secure a quick political victory by freezing the conflict and pressuring Ukraine into accepting Russian control over territory Moscow had failed to seize militarily, and that’s just skimming over the reasons why I finally came to that conclusion.

That is not peace in any shape or form, it is however, the diplomatic legitimisation of military aggression, accompanied by a noticeable softening towards Russia by the White House.

Ukraine understood that, so did the Kremlin and, frankly, almost anyone paying close attention to this war. Yet some continued to speak as though a comprehensive peace agreement was just around the corner. Months later, we are still waiting for the much-publicised 1,000-for-1,000 prisoner exchange that Donald Trump publicly celebrated on social media during Russia's Victory Day commemorations, an agreement that has yet to materialise.

From where I sit in Ukraine, this no longer feels like a war approaching its conclusion. It feels like a war approaching another major escalation.

The uncomfortable truth is that peace is not failing because nobody is talking. It is failing because neither side currently believes compromise offers a better outcome than continued military pressure.

Russia’s room for manoeuvre also appears increasingly constrained. Beyond intensifying conventional missile and drone strikes, what meaningful options does the Kremlin have left? Full mobilisation carries significant political risks, nuclear brinkmanship has repeatedly failed to alter Western policy, and simply doing more of the same has delivered only incremental territorial gains at an enormous cost.

Putin’s latest remarks reveal something equally significant. Speaking to Russia’s General Staff, he argued that the more Ukraine strikes targets inside Russia, the larger the “security zone” Moscow will have to create inside Ukrainian territory.

It is a familiar pattern, rather than asking why Ukraine is striking Russian territory, despite Russia launching its full-scale invasion and continuing to bombard Ukrainian cities almost daily, the Kremlin reframes every Ukrainian action as justification for further escalation. Defensive measures become offensive campaigns, and Russian advances are presented not as territorial conquest but as reluctant necessities forced upon Moscow.

Strategically, it also raises an important question. If Putin is already signaling the need for an expanded buffer zone, what does that say about his remaining options?

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In a country at war, life is often measured by air raid sirens, headlines, and uncertainty. This little garden is my escape from all of that, a reminder that, despite everything, life continues to grow.

I know how lucky I am to have this small sli…

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We were not in Washington, nor London, and certainly not Brussels.

We were in Ukraine.

The day itself was beautiful, bright sunshine stretched across an uninterrupted blue sky, the colours almost mirroring Ukraine’s own yellow and blue flag. For a moment, if you ignored the occasional sandbagged checkpoint and the soldiers moving about their daily business, you could almost convince yourself that life was normal.

Almost.

Over the preceding days, even for our guests, the reality of war had been impossible to ignore. Air raid alerts interrupted conversations, warning notifications flashed across phones and discussions over coffee were occasionally accompanied by the now familiar soundtrack of sirens in the distance.

For Ukrainians, these interruptions have become part of daily life. For visitors, they serve as a reminder that this is not a country preparing for war, discussing war, or studying war.

It is a country living through one.

And that is precisely why these trips matter.

I was accompanying a delegation of researchers and academics from the Universities of Cambridge and St Andrews, many of whom had come to Ukraine for the first time. Their objective was straightforward enough: to understand where Ukraine has come from, where it stands today, and perhaps most importantly, where it intends to go next.

Over the course of several days, that journey would take us from discussions with senior political figures and policymakers to meetings with those working in the humanitarian sector, defence industry and civil society. It would provide a rare glimpse into the machinery that keeps Ukraine functioning under the most extraordinary circumstances.

And eventually, it would lead us somewhere few people ever get to see.

A place hidden from public view.

A place helping redefine modern warfare.

A place called Fire Point.

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For the last several days in Kyiv, I found myself slightly apprehensive that another large-scale Russian package of attack drones and ballistic missiles would descend on the city. As it turned out, I should have been far more concerned about three days of torrential rain and the cyst forming beneath a tooth that had lost its cap the day before I set off for Kyiv.

The trip itself was important. I had arranged to meet a group of Portuguese volunteers delivering vehicles to Ukraine while also preparing for a talk at the British Embassy on Ukrainian prisoners of war and Russia’s repeated breaches of the Geneva Conventions.

Staying just off Kyiv’s central avenue, roughly a five-minute walk from Maidan Square, the Independence Monument, and the memorial to the fallen, there was no shortage of reminders as to why these events matter.

The memorial has grown steadily throughout the war, with thousands of photographs now lining the square, accompanied by flags fluttering in the wind, each flag representing a life lost. Every photograph is a son, daughter, husband, wife, friend, or comrade who paid the ultimate price in service to their country, their lives cut short by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Most are soldiers, others were volunteers, medics, aid workers, journalists, and civilians caught up in a war they did not choose. Together they serve as a stark reminder of the human cost of a conflict born from imperial ambition and aggression.

Many of those faces belong to people I knew and called friends: Chris “Swampy” Garrett (UK), Pete Reed (US), and Nick Parsons (AUS), who were killed while serving with Prevail, the US-based humanitarian demining charity founded by Chris and his partner Courtney, and for which I am honoured to act as an ambassador.

Alongside them are many Ukrainians I served with and knew only by their callsigns — Bulgaria, Mars, Fish, and Kvat among them.

Too many names to list. Too many stories left unfinished.

Not that I needed motivation, but standing there always inspires me to push through whatever discomfort I may be feeling. So I brushed aside the pain, ignored the growing headache and the ache spreading into my ear, and did what most former soldiers tend to do when faced with something unpleasant: told myself to get on with it.

“Get a grip, Pinner.”

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What you can hear is Ukrainian air defence engaging incoming drones overhead. What you can also hear are the explosions that have become a familiar part of life for millions of Ukrainians living far from the front lines.

Russia launched another major aerial assault against …

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I am tired of hearing the same recycled nonsense surrounding Ukraine.

“Ukraine banned Russian.”
“Everyone in Donbas wanted Russia.”
“Putin came to protect Russian speakers.”
“The coup.”

Most of these narratives have already been debunked countless times, yet they continue circulat…

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Mariupol, as I said, was predominantly Russian-speaking. If Azov had spent years terrorizing Russian speakers, the city itself would likely have exploded long before 2022.

In fact, one of the first things I quickly learned after arriving was that I needed Russian far more than Ukrainian in daily life, because almost everybody around me spoke it, or some hybrid mixture of both languages commonly referred to as Surzhyk. My wife, who absolutely identifies as Ukrainian, spoke Russian as her first language, as did many of my colleagues, neighbours and friends, itself a legacy of Russian imperialism and colonialism, where Ukrainian was often pushed aside or rarely used publicly.

Mariupol was also strangely one of those places where, during the holiday season, home and away supporters often mixed without much issue. Resorts and coastal towns like Berdyansk and Urzuf filled with holidaymakers from both Ukraine and Russia, all sharing the same beaches, bars and summer atmosphere.

So the irony became impossible to miss: the first language I properly learned in Ukraine was Russian, the very language Vladimir Putin would later claim he was invading Ukraine to “protect.”

But nothing upsets pro-Russian sympathisers more than me introducing myself now as a Russian-speaking man living in eastern Ukraine, if only because they worked incredibly hard to portray me as some British mercenary, Nazi and a terrorist to fit their narratives to justify the war. The fact my family are Ukrainian barely even registered with many of my captors, so you won’t be surprised if I tell you my actual military contract never even made it onto the radar despite finding out after my exchange that numerous copies were sent to Russian Embassy’s.

I’d also worked with and met Azov fighters who had previously been held in captivity. They explained to me in graphic detail the various stages of imprisonment and torture, with one man telling me he spent weeks being beaten, placed in stress positions and electrocuted before a local-level prisoner exchange was eventually arranged. Historically, exchanges are something both sides have usually managed to facilitate at various levels, but I hung on every word as both a warning and a reminder of why I had absolutely no intention of ever being captured.

Part of my early days with Azov, before I was even allowed to teach anybody, involved a lengthy selection process consisting of fitness tests, shooting assessments, lesson planning and execution, followed by security vetting. With only three places available, competition was fierce and when the officer in charge of the security vetting asked me in a bond villain type accent if I would be willing to take a polygraph, having never done one previously, I probably came across quiet eagerly when I said,

“yes! of course”

as curious about the whole process and how, or if I could actually pass this test myself. Alas, it never materialized, but hitting home was my introduction to this Cold War style of military and paranoia where distrust comes from fighting an enemy who look like you, and speak virtually the same language, my closest experience to this kind of environment had been counter-terrorism operations in Northern Ireland, so in many ways it was something that didn’t feel entirely unfamiliar to me.

Being in my mid-40s and competing against 12 far younger candidates, excluding Tony & John, both of whom I’d known for a number of years prior to serving in Ukraine, they all had varying levels of experience, and honestly, that genuinely did not bother me. I was confident in my own abilities and, in truth, one of the more experienced men there. That showed itself during the snap shooting, lesson execution as a section commander and the overall assessments. While I was not racing under the 13-minute cut-off for the 3km run, I was not far outside it either.

Ironically, I would never again during the rest of my time in Ukraine be tested in quite the same way Azov tested me. Even after my time there, the Marines still required me to effectively rebadge from the bottom up, working through their far more Soviet-style training and lesson structures at places like Desna near Kyiv. In many ways, I was being assessed alongside newly recruited Ukrainian Marines, which, if I’m honest, was probably more unfair on them than me.

While I was comfortably shooting tight groupings at 50 and 100 metres using iron sights, many of my new muckers were only just beginning their military careers. During target inspections, some of the groupings looked less like they’d been fired from an AKM and more like somebody had taken a shotgun to the paper.

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There are few military units in modern warfare surrounded by as much myth, propaganda, fascination and outright fabrication as the Azov Brigade.

To some in the West, they became an internet obsession. To Russia, they became the centerpiece of an entire propaganda narrative used to justify not only the invasion of Ukraine, but the demonisation of an entire nation. Yet for many Ukrainians in Mariupol, especially in the years after 2014, they were simply the men standing between the city and complete collapse.

My experience with them was very different to the caricature presented by Russian state media, Twitter commentators, and people who had never spent a single day in eastern Ukraine, many of whom had probably never even set foot in the country.

I remember sitting at the base near Mariupol reading startling headlines from Western media outlets claiming “100,000 foreign fighters” were supposedly flocking to this far-right outfit called Azov. Meanwhile, the reality around me in Urzuf, a quiet sandy stretch of coastline along the Azov Sea, looked very different.

There were actually only a handful of foreign instructors among roughly 2,000 active servicemen and women, from places like Britain, Sweden and Croatia, but honestly, at the time I was half waiting for these supposed waves of foreign extremists to suddenly appear.

But they never did.

There were no columns of international radicals, and certainly no secret neo-Nazi foreign legion preparing for some racial holy war. By 2018, what I actually saw were soldiers, instructors, volunteers and Marines in Mariupol trying to prepare for the very real possibility that Russia’s war would eventually escalate far beyond the trenches of Donbas, and that Mariupol would once again become one of the primary targets.

It was one of the first moments I truly understood the scale of the information war surrounding Ukraine, because the Azov many of us experienced on the ground, by then fully integrated into Ukraine’s National Guard structure, often bore little resemblance to the version being sold abroad through Russian propaganda, sensationalist headlines and people chasing clicks from thousands of miles away.

Not quite what Russia would have you believe, aye?

I worked alongside Azov Brigade between 2018 and 2020 as a sniper instructor before later transferring into the Ukrainian Marines. During that period I was based in Mykolaiv, but my home and family were still in Mariupol. Many of the men I trained, fought beside, argued with, shared trenches with and drank coffee alongside, some of whom later attended my wedding, were from Azov or had operated closely beside them.

And like most things in war, the reality was far more complicated than the simplistic narratives pushed online, especially with Russia as a neighbour.

This piece is not about romanticising Azov, and to be honest, I am not even sure they would want that, because they were never interested in dreamers or people searching for fantasy. Nor is this about pretending controversial elements never existed, because they did. But if we are going to discuss Azov honestly, then we need to discuss what it actually was, what it became, and what many of us who operated around them genuinely saw with our own eyes.

Because truth matters in war, and because truth is so often its first casualty.

But more than that, only a handful of men from my former Scout Sniper Platoon — a unit of more than thirty — ever made it out of Mariupol alive.

This piece is for them.

The Origins of Azov

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I was openly against the state visit by King Charles III to the United States, and I stand by that. Not because I don’t understand diplomacy, but because of what we’re being asked to overlook in order to maintain it, and frankly, I think it’s pointless. The timing, the optics, and more importantly, the response from Donald Trump himself have only reinforced that view.

There is no denying that the United States still holds deep and genuine support for Ukraine. I’ve spoken to countless Americans, many of whom are my friends, some who volunteer here in country and understand exactly what’s at stake, but also understand that support for Ukraine is being undermined at the highest political level, and that’s where my concern truly lies.

Trump’s recent comments, particularly those aimed at veterans, cross a line that should never be approached, let alone stepped over. His remarks about UK veterans who served in Afghanistan are, in my view, inexcusable. These are men and women who fought alongside American forces, who bled in the same dust under the same mission, and him of all people, cannot be allowed to rewrite that, or diminish it for political theatre. My own thoughts on that are far harsher, this coming from a man shaped by privilege, rarely held to account, and unlikely to ever fully understand responsibility, all the while being shielded from the consequences of his words.

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There’s a tendency to view war through geography, particularly when trying to explain how Donald Trump’s shifting focus toward Iran plays directly into the hands of a Moscow already under pressure. For Vladimir Putin, facing mounting battlefield setbacks in Ukrain…

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There’s something deeply unnatural about being safe while your family isn’t.

I’m currently in Canada, thousands of miles from Ukraine, speaking in halls, shaking hands, raising support while telling stories from the front. The rooms are warm, the people generous, the support genuine, but none of that quite cuts through the reality of what’s happening back home, especially when your phone lights up with news from Dnipro.

Another strike.
Another night and now day of drones and missiles.
Another list of injured, and worse, those murdered.

The latest wave was textbook Russia. Shahed drones buzzing through the night, cruise missiles cutting across the sky, ballistic strikes hammering civilian infrastructure, but this wasn’t just another attack, it was one of the largest in recent weeks, maybe this year.

Over 600 drones and nearly 50 missiles were launched in a single coordinated wave, with Ukrainian air defences managing to intercept the vast majority, reportedly over 580 drones and around 30 missiles.

Even so, enough got through.

In Dnipro, the consequences were immediate and brutal. Residential buildings were hit, fires tearing through homes and businesses, sections of housing collapsed with rescue teams pulling bodies from the rubble as the night dragged into morning. At least five to seven people were killed in the city alone, with dozens injured, including children.

Across Ukraine, the toll climbed higher, with over 50 injured nationwide as strikes hit multiple regions simultaneously.

Ukrainian officials were blunt in their assessment, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy described the attacks as targeting “ordinary infrastructure… residential buildings, energy facilities, and businesses,” reinforcing what people on the ground already know, civilians are not collateral in this war, they are the point.

And here I am, an ocean away, watching it unfold in real time, and it’s weirdly, far worse than being there.

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Last night didn’t feel like anything new, because for me it’s eight years of this, and that’s probably the most dangerous part of all. So when Dnipro was hit again yesterday, by ballistics earlier in the day and then by drones throughout the night, that kind of pattern becomes all too familiar, almost procedural.

You hear it, you register it, you wait, and then you make that decision: do I go to the shelter or basement, or do I take my chance, pull up the Kevlar quilt, check my phone, my messages, my people… and roll over try to sleep through it?

It’s something I’ve become an expert in, making that call, and that’s where the problem lies, in complacency. It can bring it’s own problems to be fair, but, in my defence, with drones you can often read the situation generally well, because the apps nowadays are that good and you can practically follow them in individually. It’s the second line of defence, the listening that is critical. If you can hear them, move, get to the shelter fast, and if you hear that two-stroke unmistakable whine of the engine on a death dive, you may already be too late.

Ballistics are different on the other hand, that’s an automatic shelter and I give them the respect they deserve. I don’t ever chance it with ballistics, for when they are intercepted, and sometimes they are, the media has a nice phrase for it: “falling debris.”

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The latest reports of a sharp upsurge in Russian casualties are not just another data point in a long war of attrition; they are a signal of something deeper. As I have previously reported, battlefield dynamics are shifting, and with them, the Kremlin’s grip on both the w…

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People think that when you come home, the story ends. It doesn’t. The war just changes its clothes. There’s a happy ending of sorts: the cages disappear, the torture stops, but the bars stay somewhere behind your eyes.

I remember touching my face in the mirror, seeing the weight I’d lost, just 64 kilos, and that was after a very well-publicised McDonald’…

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I was exhausted, unable to compute that I was free.

Sitting next to Aiden on Saudi Air Force One, in what I can only describe as a Lazy Boy, still in my tatty prison clothes with a bleeding forehead, I looked like I’d just lost a fight with a herd of stampeding wildebeest.

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The Captivity

Hooded and bound, I was dragged into a room, my leg pulsing in agony, blood already clotted around the makeshift pressure bandage someone had improvised from a blue T-shirt and a length of Sellotape. I suppose I should thank my luck, or my captor’s twisted sense of decency, that the same Russian soldier who stuck a knife in me later decided…

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