Before the full-scale war and to this day, ARTUR MYLIN has been working at the Academy of Sciences in Kyiv and holds a PhD in chemistry. As a member of a research team, he has twice secured grants for scientific studies and was awarded a presidential scholarship for young scientists. He is passionate about powerlifting, training himself while also helping others achieve their goals.
About himself. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on what truly matters to me. Some people chase recognition, wealth, or attention, but I’ve come to realize that my greatest sense of peace and fulfillment comes from knowing my family is safe, my work is productive, and I have the time and health to pursue my favorite sport. Perhaps it’s a result of the war, but right now, it’s enough for me to know that my loved ones are secure and that life continues to move forward. That doesn’t mean I lack goals— I have them— but my priorities have become clearer.
I don’t need a large circle of people around me, but I’m not a loner either—I work best in a pair. During a training camp, I was assigned to room with Vlad (Vladyslav Kapkanets), and we quickly found common ground. He has a calm nature, and we got along effortlessly.
I had a similar companion during the Maidan—a person I could rely on. With him, my awareness expanded from 180 to 360 degrees because we always had each other’s backs.
The same happened in the war. There, I had Max by my side, and with him, I felt confident. Even under fire, it was easier—because I knew I wasn’t alone.
About wishes. Until the age of eight, I lived in a village in Dnipropetrovsk region before moving to Dnipro. About ten years later, I relocated to Kyiv. As another decade approached, I started wondering whether I should move somewhere new again.
I haven’t traveled much because short trips—lasting a week or two—never gave me a full experience. Everything felt too superficial; you only had time to visit the most popular spots. That’s why I’ve always viewed travel differently—not as a brief vacation but as an opportunity to live in a new place for a month, six months, or even several years.
I got the impression that Canada is welcoming to immigrants, so I considered the idea of moving there. I imagined that spending a few years in Canada would give me new experiences, a fresh perspective on the world—one I could eventually bring back home. That’s when I decided to learn English. Before that, I had only basic knowledge and never saw the point in improving it, especially since even as a scientist, I had few opportunities to use it. We weren’t allowed to attend international conferences out of fear that young researchers would leave and never return.
And now, I’m going to Canada for the Invictus Games. It feels like a reminder to be careful with what you wish for—or at least to be more precise when asking the universe for something!
About profession. I’ve been working at a research institute since 2012, when I entered postgraduate studies after university in Dnipro. Our work isn’t just about theoretical calculations—we focus on achieving practical results. The projects vary, but the core idea remains the same: we develop real products, register patents, and work on things with real-world applications.
Chemistry has its challenges—working with toxic substances and hazardous materials—but I’m fascinated by the process itself. It’s not just about numbers or recognition; it’s about seeing, touching, and testing something we’ve created.
This adaptability has allowed us to shift our focus, and now we’re working on developments that contribute to our country’s defense. At this point, it’s no longer just science—it’s about survival and the future.
That’s why the idea of changing careers, a thought prompted by my recent injury, is such a difficult decision. For me, it’s essential to dedicate my efforts to something meaningful—to contribute to research that will hold significance even years down the line Even the smallest involvement in these processes gives me a sense of belonging to something truly significant.
About revolutions. I believe my sense of began forming in childhood. My grandmother’s stories about the Holodomor and how, in the Soviet Union, a single careless word or joke could send someone to the camps had a profound effect on me. They taught me the importance of standing up for what’s right before it’s too late—of not remaining indifferent. If people fail to act, the situation can spiral out of control, making it far more difficult to fight the consequences later.
During the 2004 Orange Revolution, even as a schoolboy, I was deeply interested in what was happening. The revolution’s symbols were everywhere, and I, too, tied an orange ribbon to my backpack. I remember my teacher cutting it off. I doubt it was her personal decision—more likely an attempt to keep politics out of school. But it felt like an order from above—to erase any visible signs of support—despite the fact that everyone knew this revolution was justified, a stand against the incompetence of Yanukovych.
In the 2014 Revolution of Dignity, I joined the Right Sector. For me, it wasn’t just about protesting—it was about protecting people from unjust violence. I understood that sometimes it’s better for two people to take a single hit each than for one person to take two and not survive. Unlike some, I didn’t camp on Maidan. I commuted from my dormitory. My role was to help defend our positions and prevent Berkut from breaking through the barricades.
One of the moments that stayed with me was when Berkut charged at the protesters. It was terrifying—like a war playing out in the middle of the city. Amidst the chaos, girls kissed complete strangers to show support. But at the time, everything felt incredibly serious, as if we were standing on the edge between life and death. We couldn’t have imagined what would come next. I recall how, after the Trade Unions Building was burned down, McDonald’s in central Kyiv became our shelter. That’s where my comrade styled my hair in oseledets. But the most haunting memory remains the sight of the bodies of fallen protesters laid out on Khreshchatyk. It felt unreal.
For years, I couldn’t return to Maidan. I avoided watching any films about the revolution. The experience changed my perspective on many things.
The harsh realities I witnessed—both during the revolution and at war—aren’t something I often talk about. Some things are better left unsaid so they don’t carve themselves too deeply into memory.
About national strength. Sometimes, I’m surprised when people say, “If only Russia didn’t exist…” because just a few decades ago, our greatest enemies were the Germans. The point is that as a nation, we must always stay strong, always be prepared, no matter where the threat comes from. A fence on the border with Russia won’t solve all our problems. Our focus should be on building our own strength—developing a powerful, well-equipped, and well-respected army.
Education, science, and technology are just as essential. Fighting with advanced weaponry is far more effective than relying solely on infantry. Scientists and engineers can develop solutions that change the course of war without requiring massive human sacrifice.
Another key aspect is fostering love for our country in children—because everything starts with them. One of the best ways to do this, in my opinion, is through travel. When kids visit different regions, they attach memories to places, recognize their uniqueness, and meet the people who live there. These cities and communities become personally significant to them. This helps them understand that, despite regional differences, our land is one and belongs to all of us.
About the war. The night of February 23rd was tense. I spent it at “Musafir”, and before that, I wandered around a nearby bookstore, searching for something to read. I found a book I liked but decided, “If the war doesn’t start tomorrow, I’ll buy it. If it does, there won’t be time for reading.”
For me, the war began at four in the morning with a call from a friend. “It’s started,” he said. I replied, “If it’s started, why wake me up? I need to sleep to have energy for the war.”
Going to the military enlistment office was my answer to a question that had been on my mind for a long time—what home is to me. Is it the village where I was born? Dnipro, where I spent my youth? Kyiv, where I lived at the time? And when I stood defending my district, Sviatoshyn, I knew—this was home. That feeling only solidified when I returned after rehabilitation.
I joined the 131st Brigade. For the first two months, we were stationed on the Irpin front but weren’t deployed—everyone was till inexperienced. Thanks to the mechanized brigades of the Armed Forces, the enemy never made it past Irpin. When the Russians retreated from Kyiv, the immediate danger lessened, but after a month in position, the guys started getting anxious. We knew the fiercest battles were happening in the south and east. Command noticed this and started selecting the most resilient and motivated soldiers to head into the hotspots. That’s how the first consolidated company of the 131st Battalion was formed. After a month of training, we were sent east.
There, we were attached to the 24th Brigade, and the missions we were given were brutally difficult. We suffered heavy losses in our first battles—we were thrown into Komyshuvakha, a place we didn’t know, without proper support. It was frustrating that things unfolded that way, but at that time, that’s just how the war was fought.
Our “journey” through different brigades continued—we served with the 80th, the 111th, and possibly others. Command kept changing, and for me, everything blurred together into one continuous battle.
About the injury. When I first saw a photo of myself without my leg it seemed like something edited, like a Photoshop trick. My brain couldn’t grasp it—like it wasn’t possible. And that feeling still sticks with me. Sometimes, when I see people without limbs, there’s some kind of protective mechanism that kicks in—my brain doesn’t want to believe it. I even look at myself and think that it’s some kind of magic, that they just “painted over” my leg.
After the explosion, when I fell, I looked at my leg—the bone was sticking out, and I could see the white nerve. I touched it and felt the pulse. It felt unreal, like a dream. I was 32 at the time, and I thought, I love everyone, but it’s a shame I didn’t make it to 33, the age of Christ.
As a child, I wasn’t particularly active or aggressive, but due to certain circumstances, I had surgery almost every five years. So, when I was injured, I think it was a little easier for me to accept and approach the treatment calmly.
This experience made it easier for me to accept the injury and the loss of my leg. There are things I could have done with both legs, but I didn’t. So, I realized the key is to adjust the load properly.
There were moments when, for example, someone would sit on the bed next to me in the hospital, and I’d catch myself thinking, “My leg should have been there.” There was also a period of phantom pain. I’d talk to myself, convincing myself that there was nothing to hurt. I was very afraid of getting hooked on painkillers. One night, I endured it, but by the second night, I asked for a pill.
I didn’t rush into rehabilitation; I gave myself time to “be sick.” I was lucky that I wasn’t alone. My mom was there, and friends came to visit even from other cities. To this day, no one in my circle treats me differently because of the missing leg—nothing has changed in how they view or perceive me. In fact, my mind pushed out the negative thoughts. I understand that there’s only now, and only here.
About mindset. There are many reasons to feel sadness right now: war, loss, relationships, people, indifference, and government. One can feel down about everything. And I’ve started to realize that there are people with whom we don’t share the same views, and we may argue. I don’t want that. I decided to focus on like-minded people, surround myself with them, like a protective circle against the war-weary characters, and focus on the little positive things. Otherwise, one can lose their mind.
About the support of the injured. When people come to me for advice on someone who has also been injured, the first thing I tell them is, “The Soldier’s Guide After an Injury.” One of the first questions many have after an injury is, “I lost my leg, how do I keep going? I need to raise money.” In war, you don’t think about prosthetics; you don’t think about injuries at all. In war, you either die or survive. It’s unpleasant to think about the injury. But this guide answers many of the questions that arise after being injured.
When I returned to civilian life, there were already many veterans who had been through rehabilitation, and I drew a lot of inspiration from them. Their journey became my new path, and by seeing them, I realized that maybe I, too, can make it through. I don’t even know if people see me that way, but maybe they do. I see so many examples that inspire me not to stop and to live normally—and maybe I’m that kind of example for someone else.
Translated by Green Forest English School