ARSEN RIABOSHAPKO, originally from the Kirovohrad region, studied in Odesa and grew up dreaming of becoming a professional football player. His passion for sports began early and remains strong to this day, extending to nearly every aspect of athletic life. From a young age, he aspired to represent Ukraine on the international stage, raising the national flag in new countries. Before the full-scale war, Arsen worked as a sailor on international ships, fondly recalling the romanticism of life at sea. Now back in Ukraine, he is focused on developing programs to support the rehabilitation of veterans who have suffered injuries.
About life before the war. I had no connection to the military before the full-scale invasion. Honestly, I’d call myself a draft-dodger. Back in 2014–2015, I had the chance to “board the train to war,” but football held me back—I was chasing my dream of becoming a professional player.
When the Maidan protests began, I was studying at the Odesa Maritime Academy. The environment there was so pro-Russian that they organized groups to attend anti-Maidan rallies, offering students perks like exemptions from duties or exams. I didn’t go, but I admit that I was a fool—speaking Russian and succumbing to the influence of my surroundings.
About turning points. At that time, I was working at sea, and many of my colleagues were from Odesa, so it’s no surprise that Russian was the dominant language onboard. That was my reality until 2020. One day, I had a conversation with a friend who started complaining about the so-called “oppression of Russian speakers.” Suddenly, it hit me: I’m Ukrainian, speaking Russian, forgetting my native language, while he has the audacity to talk about oppression. It was a wake-up call, and from that moment, I committed to speaking only Ukrainian in Ukraine.
Having lived in Odesa and Kharkiv, I fully transitioned to Ukrainian. I’m trying to eliminate everything Russian within me, starting with the language—because that’s the foundation.
Life teaches us through mistakes. Kharkiv has learned. Odesa is still learning. But what astonishes me is the mindset of some people who, even after being struck by Russian missiles, still say, “It’s not so clear-cut,” while quietly choosing Russia. Let’s be clear: Russia is evil—it’s rot and filth.
Even as a student, I was aware that Ukrainians had been at odds with Russia for centuries. It always felt off—that illusion of friendship while we shared music, books, and culture. Something always felt deceitful. When I studied history, I felt the bitterness of all the lies we’d been told.
On February 24, 2022, I thought, “Finally, everyone will see the truth.”
We Ukrainians need to stop being excessively tolerant. We need to value what’s ours and fight for it.
About belief and faith. I believe that life unfolds according to what we believe in. For example, if someone believes that fiery rain will fall from the sky, sooner or later, they will witness it. If someone believes in something else, they’ll experience something else entirely.
I believe in myself.
I also believe in God. It’s hard for me to accept the idea that everything evolved from animals to a point where we now discuss consciousness, thoughts, and values. It’s not just random. I often think about the purpose of humanity—why we exist and why I’m here.
I’ve come to believe that each of us is here to understand something important. We all live our lives, face challenges, experience emotions, and accumulate wisdom. We’re all immersed in this process, striving to grasp the meaning of human existence. It’s a process that leads us closer to grasping the meaning of human existence. While I don’t fully believe in reincarnation or karma—because I can’t quite grasp the logic of starting life over from scratch—I respect all faiths, as long as they don’t pose harm to others.
I also firmly believe that there’s always a choice and a way out. Even if you’re swallowed by a shark, you have at least two options. I’ve never allowed myself to feel trapped or believe there’s no way forward.
Whatever happens in life stems from our beliefs. If it seems otherwise, it’s often a sign that we need to rethink our thoughts and desires.
About books. The literature I read has a significant influence on me. Before the full-scale war, when I was working at sea, I read Atlas Shrugged. The philosophy of rational egoism deeply impacted me. It’s encapsulated in the idea: “I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.” You are born alone, and you die alone. No one can take your place when facing death.
About love. I think my karmic lesson is that when I fall in love, I slightly deviate from my philosophy of rational egoism. I read The Five Love Languages, hoping to learn how to express love better—both in a way that resonates with my partner and respects their unique perspective on love. Everyone experiences and expresses it differently. Despite my efforts, things didn’t work out as I’d hoped.
I’ve realized that I’m very tactile, and this became clear to me only after I was injured. Before that, I didn’t give it much thought. But lying in the hospital, I felt how much I missed the hugs of a loved one. At that time, my girlfriend and I had already broken up, which made it even sadder.
About the sea. When choosing a profession, I focused on something I had some knowledge of. For instance, I knew a bit about physics. However, my teacher told me I wouldn’t even score the minimum required points. That got under my skin. In general, I get very motivated when people don’t believe in me—it drives me to prove them wrong, at least to myself.
I found another teacher, prepared in a short time, and ended up doing well enough to get into marine electro-mechanics.
In my third year, I got injured playing football, so I decided to spend the summer at sea. It turned out to be a great first contract. My route was Mexico–California–Canada–California.
The biggest perk of life at sea is the opportunity to travel the world for free. When I first went ashore in Los Angeles with my colleagues, it felt like I’d already been there. As a kid, I played GTA, which features a replica of the city’s map. Surprisingly, I could navigate it like a guide.
For a cadet, going to sea is an incredible experience, especially if you’re on a good ship—not a tanker that skips ports. I was on a bulk carrier, so I had weeks of solitude, enjoying sunsets, each one unique and unforgettable. There was plenty of time for reflection and philosophical pondering. That’s what I love most about the sea.
About the start of the full-scale war. When the full-scale war began, I was on a voyage. I had told the crew that on February 24, I planned to run a marathon on the treadmill to mark my birthday with something memorable.
It was morning on the Canadian coast, while in Ukraine it was closer to evening, and we had no communication with the outside world. I managed to run 33 kilometers before my ankles began to hurt. I pushed through three more kilometers out of sheer willpower before stopping.
As I headed to my cabin, one of the sailors congratulated me, saying, “I hope this is the worst birthday of your life. The full-scale war has started.”
I asked my girlfriend to leave Kharkiv, convinced that civilians had no place in war zones. They either become obstacles or human shields. But she refused—first volunteering, then joining the military.
When the Kharkiv Regional Administration was hit on March 1, she was there. She stopped answering her phone, and I was trapped in the confines of the ship, not knowing what to do with myself.
Eventually, she reached out, and the relief was indescribable. She’d been incredibly lucky; the men in the room she’d just left hadn’t survived.
Over time, our communication dwindled. We drifted apart. She urged me not to return to Ukraine but instead to send money to support the Armed Forces, arguing that there were already enough untrained people joining. For a while, I listened, but eventually, I realized there was no point in delaying. I had to return to Ukraine and fight.
Our relationship ended eventually. It was a painful and difficult time for me, but once I came to terms with it, I understood I had nothing left to lose—it was time to fight.
About my participation in the war. I had a few options for where I could serve, but one unit’s selection was already closed, and the route through the military office seemed like I would die in only two or three days. I wanted to do something meaningful. My motivation was overwhelming, but motivation alone is not enough for war. It won’t help you kill someone—what you need is the skill to shoot.
I ended up in the 77th Air Assault Brigade. However, instead of going to Germany for training, we were deployed directly to Bakhmut during the winter battles.
After my injury, I returned to service, but this time at a military institute. At times, I felt like an outsider. The institute had very few people who had seen real combat. Similarly, when I joined the third wave of mobilization, I felt disconnected. I also regret not volunteering to fight right away in February 2022. It felt the same way when I was on the ship, where I was known as a Russian speaker, and suddenly, everything changed.
About my injury. Bakhmut. Spring. Shelling. Assaults. Wagner troops pushed hard, trying to encircle the city. We were resisting their plans and holding the northern flank. The communication within our forces was poor, and it felt more like chaos.
During one operation, I was hit by bullets in both legs. The brain works differently in situations like that. In training, we were taught to distinguish between different pain sensations: if a bullet hits the bone, it burns a headshot makes your vision fade, and a muscle hit feels like a bee sting.
I heard a burst of gunfire and instantly felt it. The first bullet hit my right thigh—it felt like a bee sting. Then a bullet hit my left leg, and it felt like my leg was in hell. I thought my knee had been shattered. I screamed, “I’m 300!” (meaning I’m injured), and the response came, “Shut up and apply the tourniquet!” That actually helped me stay focused. I applied the tourniquet, and my comrade tightened it further. Over the radio, I heard them shouting, “Dallas – 300!” (my call sign). But when the evacuation team arrived and started setting up the stretcher, a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) hit nearby. The medic “caught” the shrapnel while covering me, taking a hit to the shoulder. The comrades who were supposed to save me had to leave.
Left alone, I thought, “What if it’s not over yet? I’ve got the golden hour. What if I end up without legs? No, I want to play football!” I adjusted my helmet, propped myself up on my hands, and crawled toward the evacuation point. Everything around me was exploding, but I didn’t care at that moment. If it’s going to hit me, so be it. But if there’s a chance, you have to take it.
Six guys dragged me through the field, or what was left of it. My leg was dragging through the dirt. On the evacuation vehicle, I was surrounded by the bodies of fallen soldiers, including my friend, Josson.
When I finally arrived at the hospital and was left alone, I was overwhelmed emotionally. I thought, “I crawled to the evacuation point by myself, refused painkillers to get here faster, Josson was pushing my leg, and now they’ve left me.” The doctors came back in about five minutes, but it felt like much longer.
About accepting the injury. I woke up and saw that my legs were still there. That’s when I finally felt relief. I didn’t want my mom to be there because she’s very sensitive, and I knew she’d cry.
However, I kept having the same recurring dream: I was carried on a stretcher to the f***ers and left there in the woods. I couldn’t walk, and I didn’t have any weapons. I woke up in terror. This dream haunted me almost every night for about a month. The details changed—different settings, different people—but the feeling of abandonment remained the same. That’s when I realized I had psychological issues to deal with.
I started sharing my story in detail with others. This helped me process the emotions I’d felt when I was injured and the overwhelming sense of being abandoned. Over time, the dream changed. The final version was me being brought back to the same place, but this time, I felt a weapon by my side. With that, the feeling of being abandoned and facing a pointless death disappeared. I knew that at least I would fight.
That was the final dream. I think I had to learn something from it. And I did.
I know that, over time, I’ll run a marathon again and play football. We do always get what we want.
Translated by Green Forest English School