The Trump administration has thrown European security and the response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine into disarray. In Part I of Rules of engagement, Andrew Gunn reports from Kyiv. Tomorrow, the UK and Trump appeasement. Wednesday, rearming Germany.
I am briefly woken by the wail of the air raid siren, but manage to get back to sleep. Call it disassociation, or what you will, but like many others in Kyiv, I have given up on taking shelter every time I hear the siren. It’s a sound we have recently heard most nights of the week.
A crude whirring overhead rouses me again: the sound of a Shahed drone on its way over our suburb. At least, I assume it is on its way elsewhere. As the whirring grows louder, I begin to doubt myself. My heart rate picks up. The drones weigh about 200kg and are just shy of 4m long. I count slowly to five, hoping to hear the air defence kick into action.
I hate these intervals – the sense that the drones have not been spotted yet, and are circling freely 100m or so above you, like mechanical birds of prey. The whirring fades away. The booms and the rat-a-tat-tat of the air defence begins. Suddenly, the blasts are far deeper. The windows rattle, betraying that we are under more than just a drone attack.
I check the Telegram messaging platform to see exactly what is incoming. “Kyiv, Kharkiv and Pavlograd are under a massive combined attack. In Kyiv were used: 6 Iskander M/KN-23 ballistic missiles, 6 cruise missiles 3M14 Kalbr, unspecified number of strike UAVs.”
The balistyka continue to come. Amid the flurry of updates, one of the moderators simply posts “hold on” with a link to the Gloria Gaynor song I Will Survive. We wake the following day, April 25, to watch the death toll climb. Thirteen died; at least 90 were wounded.
In April, the mouth of Zvirynetska, our local metro station, becomes an informal marketplace. The headscarved old women have gone from hustling pussy willows to tulips. A woman propped up on crutches is busking in the stairwell, singing a folk song a capella. Her right leg has been amputated; the leg of her pants is hitched up around her stump.
I descend Zvirynetska’s seemingly endless escalator. Constructed during the height of Cold War paranoia, sections of Kyiv’s metro system were built deep enough to withstand nuclear assault. A TV plays a recruitment advert for the Khartiia Brigade featuring a man, semi-automatic in hand, looking proudly into the distance. It is swiftly followed by an advert for instant noodles.
Boarding the carriage behind me is a group of soldiers who look no older than 18. New uniforms, freshly shaved hair. Ukraine has attempted to resolve its troop shortage by introducing one-year contracts for volunteers aged 18-24. Until this, there had been an attempt to keep such young men away from the front, with the government fearing future demographic collapse.
The thwarted veteran
When I press academic and veteran Anton Drobovych on how he would describe the morale of his comrades on the frontline, he replies: “Stubbornness; the core of our resilience is stubbornness.” He gently shuts the door on his son, who is restlessly watching SpongeBob SquarePants next door. “All of us are tired from this war. We hate this war.”
Drobovych served in the Territorial Defence Forces defending Kyiv in the full-scale early days of the Russian invasion. He then joined the 78th Airborne Assault Regiment and was stationed in Kherson, in southern Ukraine, then in Kharkiv region, near the Russian border in the east. He is a tall, deep-voiced man in his late 30s, and remarkably upbeat during our discussion as he outlines his experience as a drone operator rotating between 20-hour shifts, and eight hours of rest. He describes the constant insects and oppressive heat of summer operations. The war has clearly given him an immense sense of purpose. He was torn to have left his comrades in Kharkiv after his father had a stroke.
“Now, we have this conversation, they have a battle in Kharkiv. So this is a sad reality, and I have mixed feelings about this. One part of me says, ‘Come on! You have perfect luxury life in the capital during the war; this is not normal.’ Another part of me says, ‘This is your duty; this is your father.’”
We discuss the now infamous argument in the Oval Office between US President Donald Trump and Ukrainian counterpart Volodymyr Zelenskyy in late February. Drobovych describes the meeting as a “humiliating situation for [the] American nation. “If you invite somebody in your home, and invite [other] guests and somebody attacks him, this is a humiliation of your home. This is a humiliation of your hospitality.”
The signs of the seismic shift in US policy towards Europe had been well-flagged. Two weeks previously, US Defence Secretary Pete Hegseth had called on Europe to take the lead in Ukraine’s defence. “To be clear, as part of any security guarantee, there will not be US troops deployed to Ukraine,” Hegseth told a security meeting in Brussels. And Vice-President JD Vance slammed European leaders for failing to work with right-wing parties, comparing them to Cold War tyrants.
Trump then intensified pressure on Zelenskyy to accept a heavily one-sided peace agreement that cements Russia’s territorial gains, blocks Ukraine’s future Nato membership and offers no meaningful security guarantees to Kyiv. The proposed deal would effectively legitimise Russia’s occupation of Ukrainian lands, and leave Ukraine vulnerable to future aggression.
This is sharply at odds with the joint EU-Ukrainian position, which includes “robust security guarantees” and no discussion of territorial concessions until a formal ceasefire is in place, and categorically rejects any recognition of Crimea as Russian territory.
After a slowdown in territorial gains over winter, Russia launched a spring offensive in April, taking advantage of Trump’s stance and Ukraine’s difficulties in securing more Western aid. Moscow also dialled up the pressure on Ukrainian civilians, intensifying airstrikes on Ukrainian cities.
Drobovych cannot see any reason Russia would stop its assault now and describes Trump’s peace plan as effectively offering a “victory plan” to Putin.
On May 10, Zelenskyy, Trump and European officials proposed an “unconditional” ceasefire to begin the process of ending the war, and Zelenskyy called on Putin to meet him in Istanbul. Putin proposed restarting talks “without preconditions”.
Ukrainians see the war in the context of hundreds of years of Russian colonialism, and understand that here, Putin is playing the long game. The only way to ensure future sovereignty is to play Russia at its own game, but this means Ukraine will have to remain an extremely militarised country.
I raise the issue of men of fighting age illegally crossing into Romania to escape conscription. Drobovych assures me there’s always a small minority who don’t wish to support their country in wartime and who will flee. It’s a moral dilemma, he says. “In this situation, you must go to the army, because this country protects your way of living. In this situation, a lot of risks that you will die.”
Approximately 13,000 men – of about 5 million who were eligible to fight – crossed into Romania last year. At least 25 died during their attempt, most by drowning.
The reluctant professional
A friend of mine, Vladyslav, arrives back from Kharkiv by marshrutka, the famously clapped-out regional buses. Kharkiv city is 30km from the Russian border. Vladyslav paces back and forth, agitated after the crowded, eight-hour ride. Like Drobovych, his father also recently suffered a stroke and has needed constant care since then. This entitles Vladyslav, 30, to military exemption. He’s quit his job in freight logistics; I ask him what his plan for work is now. “Well, for a moment there, it looked like I was gonna be working in infantry.” He laughs nervously.
Every 90 days, Vladyslav has to return to Kharkiv, where his address is registered to his parents’ property, to apply for an extension to his exemption papers. This always leaves a window of a few days when he is eligible to be conscripted, should he run into an officer. He describes Kharkiv as feeling like “a museum of your past life”.
We meet in Podil, the northernmost stretch of the historical centre of Kyiv. He seems thrown by the seemingly nonchalant life led by the gaggles of teenagers surrounding us in the park, drinking and smoking weed, ducking patrolling police.
Ukrainian men who volunteer to serve generally have some degree of choice about the position they might take. For those conscripted, it’s not uncommon to be sent straight to the tensest positions of the frontline.
The weight of this fact hangs over Vladyslav. “I feel this pressure on me every single day. On the one hand, the obvious reason is to join the army and ‘fulfil your destiny,’ but in real life, when you see the death of people, you don’t want to do that.”
Like many young professionals, he struggles with the lack of agency he would have in the army. “I have some expertise in my field, which I am good at. In the military, I will be the lowest possible rank – I won’t be making any decisions. For some people it’s their duty, but for me, it’s my life.”
There’s also the matter of getting out again – Vladyslav says the length of service required is a deterrent to joining up. If a man aged 25-60 signs up, his contract cannot be terminated until martial law ends, except in very specific circumstances. Women cannot be conscripted but can join voluntarily: about 70,000 are in the million-strong armed forces, 20,000 in combat roles.
Vladyslav sees Russia as becoming increasingly desperate. “They cannot even conquer two oblasts [administrative regions] in four years. “If in fourth year of the war you have to send a million-dollar missile to hit a residential building 500km from the front, you probably are not doing so good.”
The political activist
Some weeks later, I meet Lesya Orobets in a café in Podil, where the suburb’s ancient trams rumble past. Orobets is a former politician, now civilian activist, and a founder of Price of Freedom, an NGO dedicated to broader European support for Ukraine’s defence forces. Both her husband and brother are on the frontline. She is an extremely passionate speaker with a razor-sharp wit.
Orobets spent much of her political career fighting corruption in Ukraine and vividly remembers serving in the opposition during Viktor Yanukovych’s presidency in the early 2010s, when it felt like Ukraine was on the tipping point of becoming a puppet state of Russia – “a new Belorussia”. Her work meant she and her family were subjected to extreme intimidation. At one point, she took to wearing a bulletproof vest into chamber sessions.
“I have a diploma in international law, and I’m [now] useless because international law no longer works. We have to invent a new world order. We will have to rethink the geopolitical alliances. This is the moment to create new security, probably regional security alliances.”
Having Ukraine work with European nations to mount strong counterproposals to the US – as evidenced by recent meetings of the “coalition of the willing” – is critical, she says. “If you are not around the table, you are on the menu.”
“Putin is trying to replay the Cold War. Look, he already achieved at least two big goals of the Cold War. Goal number one... ” She pauses abruptly to feed a sparrow.
“My surname in Ukrainian means sparrow. So I consider them my relatives.” She continues. “Number one: Europe and the US are no longer allies. Second: no one believes that Nato is a strong organisation. Two speeches by Hegseth and Vance – two speeches to ruin something that was created for decades and working beautifully.
“I’ve been in the headquarters of Nato recently. I’ve never seen that organisation in such a state of worry about its own future.”
You cannot be ready for a war. You think you are, but you cannot, ever.
Like Drobovych, she can’t see any reason Russia would stop its assault now. “I mean, everyone learnt the lesson in 2014 [when Russia annexed Crimea]. Some people then thought, okay, if we give up territories and we do not fight, they would just stop there. No, they wouldn’t.”
Orobets is pushing for the establishment of the Sky Shield security initiative, a European-led air protection zone with 120 fighter jets operating over uncontested western and central Ukraine. This would relieve pressure on Ukraine’s air defence in these territories, allowing equipment and personnel to be relocated to the eastern territories.
“After 21/2 years, we find ourselves in the middle of a missile crisis. Because we shot out most of our arsenal, and western supply was very, very limited, we lost half of our energy supply and energy for production. The Russians bombed our power plants.”
Is Europe ready to step up to fill the gap should the US completely abandon European assistance? Orobets doubts it. “No one’s ready. You cannot be ready for a war. You think you are, but you cannot, ever.
“But this is the point where we all have to grow up faster than we thought, because those decisions would change the face of the European continent for decades.”
The new world order
In late April, in St Peter’s Basilica as Pope Francis’s funeral was getting underway, Trump and Zelenskyy had a discussion that seemed to indicate some kind of reconciliation. Trump suggested afterwards he may have allowed himself to be led on by Putin. Two days before, he implored “Vladimir, STOP!” on a social media post after Russia launched a new wave of deadly strikes on Kyiv.
But as should be clear by now, Trump’s loyalties change on a dime. In Ukraine, as in Palestine, and in his authoritarian reforms at home, his administration has weakened any legitimacy the US still possessed. It has been made clear it is to be engaged with in purely transactional terms, and despite any personal revelations Trump may have experienced, Ukraine must look elsewhere for enduring support. As Orobets says, we have to invent a new world order, one not shaped by global US hegemony.
I cannot help but be concerned by how the militarisation of European economies will affect the continent’s efforts to combat the climate crisis. The Ukrainian response would be that the costs of unchecked Russian aggression has had its own immense ecological toll. Last year alone, 100,000 sq km of Ukrainian forest – equivalent to almost 90% of New Zealand’s North Island – were scorched by wildfires due to the war.
Although remaining in the fight is brutalising the lives of this generation of Ukrainians, the deep sense of the historical continuity of the conflict means many Ukrainians seem prepared to fight on, rather than accept a compromising peace deal.
Today, in the courtyard outside our apartment, a cold northerly has picked up. The chestnut trees shake. Arm in arm, a young soldier is guided home by his mother, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Andrew Gunn is a New Zealand journalist living in Kyiv with his Ukrainian partner.