From the ‘road of death’ to a new life: A Ukrainian veteran’s journey of survival and adaptation

In three years, Yurko has survived three times. After his latest injury, his arm was amputated. Now, he’s in rehabilitation, coming to terms with the new version of himself. He’s even learning to play the piano.

“Not long before I got wounded, I was looking for a piano on OLX. Talk about irony — then I lost my arm,” he says with a laugh.

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But in a candid, in-depth conversation, he shares how civilian life feels harder than the battlefield; how his “new self” struggles to be accepted by loved ones; how he parted ways with the girlfriend he spent 13 years working up the courage to pursue; how he faces occasional hostility; and how he remains friends with those dodging military service, because “otherwise, I’d have no friends left.”

The story of this 29-year-old volunteer serves as a reminder of the challenges veterans face adapting to civilian life.

“My arm was hanging down to my knee”

As a teenager, Yurko was fascinated by the history of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA). He was particularly inspired by Klym Savur, a regional commander of UPA-North. At 14, while studying at a military lyceum in Lutsk, he chose the pseudonym “Savur.” So, when he volunteered for the army 12 years later, picking a call sign was an easy decision.

He was eager to join the fight after the Maidan protests at 18. He called the Aidar Battalion, but after they asked his age, they told him: “Stay home a bit longer, kid. Your time hasn’t come yet.”

“But my time came, sooner or later,” Yuriy says calmly.

It was May 2022. Tired of waiting for a call from the recruitment office, he joined a Lutsk volunteer formation and, after months of training, was mobilized. He became a combat medic, responsible for evacuating the wounded. Later, he was promoted to squad leader in a special forces unit. He fought in Kherson and its islands, as well as Zaporizhzhia, Kharkiv, and Donetsk oblasts.

“Things feel tougher in Donetsk Oblast, I think,” Savur says.

He was wounded twice there. Last September, when their position was bombarded with drone-dropped explosives, a fragment hit his jaw, leaving a scar on his face. But this May, he says, he survived by a miracle.

“After we got hit, I climbed out of the vehicle, grabbed my arm with my other hand (because it was nearly torn off and would’ve just dangled otherwise…) and ran to a tree line. Roughly speaking, my arm was hanging down to my knee.

I collapsed in front of a dugout, turned my head — and about five meters above me, another drone flew by. And… it didn’t see me. I didn’t understand what was happening at that moment. But I thought: ‘Alright, I survived a second time — I need to do something.’”

Inside the dugout, as a combat medic, he guided his brothers-in-arms on how to treat him. The explosion had cauterized the bleeding, but just in case, they applied several tourniquets over the torn wound. They checked for other injuries, gave him a little water (too much can be dangerous after a concussion), and kept him awake. He felt no pain at all.

“Civilian life is way harder than the battlefield”

The pain hit later, in the hospital. It was phantom pain. At the stabilization unit, Yurko begged them to save his arm, but deep down, he knew it was futile. He realized amputation was inevitable the moment he saw the injury. Yet, in that moment, his mind was remarkably clear.

“On the battlefield, you always know what to do,” Yura says.

He continues, sounding lost: “Civilian life is way harder than the battlefield. Here, I sometimes feel out of place… And I can say now that I make way more mistakes here than I did there.”

At the front, you have a goal, an enemy. It’s clear. But here (in civilian life — ed.), there are so many different people and circumstances piling on top of each other… It’s hard to connect with loved ones.Savur, a serviceman recovering from injury

“I guess I’m just not used to it anymore,” Yura adds.

He’s currently undergoing rehabilitation, recounting his injury and combat experiences in vivid detail. But when the conversation turns to how he’s coping now and why things are tough even with family, he pauses, choosing his words carefully.

“War changes people. I’ve probably changed too. And even though these are my loved ones, I don’t understand them, and they don’t understand me. It leads to a lot of misunderstandings, silly arguments, fights… It’s like a vicious cycle. They don’t accept the new me, the way I am now.”

His voice remains calm and measured. He says he doesn’t “lose it,” but admits he can get more aggressive at times.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s about my place in the world after all this. Losing an arm isn’t just a physical injury. There’s PTSD, too. I’ve lost more than one or two brothers-in-arms. No arm. It all piles up…

Honestly, I don’t want to fight with people so much as I want them to treat me differently. To not provoke or irritate me.”

When asked what kind of treatment he’d like, Yuriy recalls an incident at a Kyiv hospital.

“You couldn’t find the nurses, the doctors were arguing, everyone acting indifferent… You know, I’m sitting there, no arm, thinking: ‘War hero,’ — and then some elevator operator in the hospital snaps at me for no reason. And you’re like: ‘Man, this isn’t right.’ And for what?”

“I messed it all up myself”

Back in that dugout, having lost liters of blood, his body temperature plummeting, he started seeing white spots — like the light at the end of the tunnel, the kind you see in movies before “crossing over.”

And like in the movies, I told the commander: ‘Tell my mom and my girlfriend I love them.’ And they all said back: ‘You’ll tell them yourself.’Savur, a serviceman recovering from injury

“How are things with your girlfriend now?” I ask cautiously, given the earlier conversation.

“We broke up yesterday…” Yuriy says, catching me off guard.

They’d been together for just over six months but had known each other since they were 15. He’d always liked her. They stayed in touch over the years, but he never mustered the courage for more.

“Thirteen years to work up the nerve,” he says with a laugh.

They grew closer after his first injury, while he was recovering in Lutsk. A relationship began. But it couldn’t withstand this new test. Yuriy blames himself.

“I don’t know, maybe I forgot how to talk to people, how to be a normal person… I messed it all up,” Savur says without elaborating. It still hurts too much.

“Losing a partner — that’s probably the biggest loss. It’s painful, unpleasant. But it’s a lesson. I’ve got to keep moving forward.”

“Handing out draft notices? No way I could do that”

I ask Yurko if he’s come to terms with his new self after the injury.

“At first, it felt easier. I was like: ‘Hell yeah, no arm — who cares?’ But now… It’s starting to weigh on me. Things aren’t so simple. Part of it is not knowing when I’ll get a prosthetic or what I’ll do after.”

“Maybe I could become a vlogger,” he quips with a laugh.

But one thing he’s sure of: he couldn’t work for the enlistment office.

Handing out draft notices? No way I’m doing that. It’s not for me. Not because I don’t respect the job. I just know how people react. I wouldn’t handle it emotionally. If I saw some arrogance, videos of a one-armed enlistment officer beating someone would be all over the internet.Savur, a serviceman recovering from injury

“I’d like to do something on my own, be independent. Or, you know, there’s always the option to go back to the army. Maybe as an instructor. Or they could make me ‘chief of the printer’ — I’d be happy. That’s the most coveted job in the whole armed forces!” Yurko says, and we laugh together.

Draft-dodging friends: “Otherwise, I’d have no friends left”

Finally, we talk about mobilization. Yuriy doesn’t see his voluntary enlistment as heroic — just a duty. But does it bother him when others dodge that duty?

“I look at men of draft age and honestly don’t know who they are. They could be soldiers on leave. Or doctors doing their job. There are lots of professions that support the army,” Savur reflects.

“What annoys me more (just for laughs) is when I ask my draft-age friends to hang out in the city center, and they’re not too keen.”

“So, some of your friends are hiding from the enlistment office?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

“And you still manage to stay friends?” I ask, surprised.

“Otherwise, I’d have no friends left,” he laughs. “But after my injury, those same draft-dodgers have helped me a lot. Some with money, others in different ways.”

“Honestly, I don’t judge people hiding from the enlistment office. Yeah, I think it’s everyone’s duty to defend, to help — not necessarily on the front lines. But if you’re a man of draft age, you should probably think about it.

But if I heard someone say, ‘It’s all pointless’ or ‘We should negotiate and give up territory,’ I wouldn’t hold back. I’ve still got one arm and two legs — and they’d come in handy.”

If you don’t have the courage to join the army, then don’t open your mouth to complain about the enlistment office.Savur, soldier

“We’ve got a lot of problems. But I’ll quote my friend: ‘The enemy doesn’t care if you’re neutral, hiding from the draft, or in the army — they’ll kill anyone.’ At least, they’ll try. That’s what we’re working to prevent.”

***

Yuriy is now undergoing long-term rehabilitation, including physical and occupational therapy. Another surgery awaits. It’s unclear when he’ll receive his initial prosthetic — what he calls a “mannequin hand” provided by the state. A functional (bionic) prosthetic could cost up to 2 million hryvnias ($48,528). The state covers part of the cost.

Friends, acquaintances, and supporters have raised over 850,000 hryvnias ($20,624) for Savur. If the state covers the cost, he says he’ll donate the collected funds to the army.

He hasn’t sought psychological help, saying he’s managing on his own. But he promises to reach out if things get tough. For now, he’s learning to play the piano with a teacher. He plans to take up swimming and Thai boxing: “So dark thoughts don’t creep in.”