Why this text is long, direct, and careful
This is a long document because precision protects truth. In situations that may involve grave violations, a credible record requires chronology, context, and concrete detail—not slogans. International guidance for documenting ill-treatment and serious rights concerns explicitly prioritizes comprehensive, step-by-step narratives so that independent reviewers can assess facts, procedures, and credibility fairly. I follow that standard here.
I am not afraid to state a hard truth—even if it sounds like a long shot—because silence enables harm. Speaking plainly is my way to prevent it, while still acting within an ethic of restraint: I will pursue change through lawful, peaceful means and with a “do no harm” discipline that puts human safety first.
You will also see personal background and, at the same time, omissions of certain specifics. The background is included because established documentation protocols ask for the survivor’s history and mental-health context; it helps explain risk, resilience, and why events unfolded as they did. The omissions are deliberate: in wartime, naming locations, facilities, or staff can endanger people, obstruct humanitarian access, and compromise future accountability. For those reasons, I am withholding granular identifiers in public while staying ready to share them with duly authorized international bodies through confidential channels. This balances truth-telling with the duties of source protection, privacy, and operational security.
Excellencies,
I am writing to take an important stand regarding Ukraine, Ukrainian civilians and the Ukrainian army. And—what is more rare for me—to speak about myself.
On September 13, 2025, I was abducted in broad daylight from a Kyiv street by a man who claimed to be a member of the Ukrainian police. I had been wandering on my way to church in the center of Kyiv, having finished almost all my work here. In fact, I had made an Instagram video earlier that day stating that I was almost done with my tasks. As I walked I encountered a herd of goats—a sight that, after living 34 years in Kyiv, I have never seen in the center of a big city. Fascinated, I stopped to film the goats and posted the video as an Instagram story.
Just after I posted the video, I was approached from behind by two men dressed in black police uniforms. They did not show me any identification, but they asked for mine. I complied and handed over my ID, while calmly asking if it was prohibited to film goats, trying to understand the legal basis for their actions. They said it was not forbidden and that this was just a routine ID check. I remained calm, as I had nothing to hide. I have never hidden from the Ukrainian state or anyone else; I consider myself very reachable by modern standards, especially given my active civic life.
They ran my ID through some program on a tablet and then announced that I was a wanted man. This was bizarre to hear—I had no idea anyone was searching for me. The state has all my information: my email, phone number, and address. I have the state app “Diia” on my phone, and my bank contacts me whenever needed. As you know, I’m in constant communication with many of you—international colleagues—and with Ukrainian state institutions. That includes the police: in fact, during the very period when this man claimed I was “wanted,” I had been in communication with the police on other matters. Several times in 2025 I contacted the police. On one of those occasions I even spent time with them, including a short ride in their car. Not once did anyone tell me I was a wanted person. So when this man on the street claimed that I had been wanted by the Ukrainian police for about six months, I was shocked. How could the same institution that gave me a ride in their car, knowing my identity, now have other officers approach me on the street claiming I am wanted?
The men insisted that I needed to “update some information” at the Territorial Center of Recruitment and Social Support (the local military enlistment office). They assured me that I wasn’t in any trouble and that I just needed to go with them to the nearest enlistment office to update my data—it would only take 20 minutes and then I’d be on my way. I saw no reason to refuse, so I agreed to go with them. When I complied, no official protocol was followed and no documentation was provided to me. They simply escorted me to their car, which turned out to be an old unmarked civilian car with no police insignia. At that point I realized that this was not a normal procedure at all: I was being abducted. A couple more men appeared, and they “invited” me into the car. At that moment I knew there was no escaping this by normal means—I was outnumbered and there was no one else around. I ended up squeezed in the back of this small car: two men flanked me on either side, effectively blocking the doors, plus the driver and one more man in the front passenger seat. Four men and me. They started driving, and only then did they return my ID to me.
Very soon I noticed we were not heading toward the nearest enlistment office at all; we were driving in the opposite direction. Familiar with how abductions typically unfold, I kept my cool and did not provoke them. In fact, I managed to strike up a polite conversation with one of the men, hoping to gather information. He told me, in essence, that I should consider myself lucky this was going “the nice way,” because in other cases they use violence. He said that here in Kyiv things are much more pleasant than in other places. He even mentioned he was new in Kyiv, having been assigned here from the eastern regions of Ukraine. He literally said that everything shown in the media about police violence and unlawful mobilization is true, and he expressed surprise that in Kyiv things are somewhat more civilized. His comments only confirmed further that this was not a lawful procedure with minor protocol violations—it was a pure abduction.
They eventually drove me to a facility – I am deliberately withholding identifying details for security and humanitarian reasons. The car passed through a massive gate topped with barbed wire and entered a central courtyard. Inside the yard, more men—now in military uniform—were waiting for us. The two who brought me handed me over to these uniformed men without any introduction or explanation. No one presented any documents or told me what was happening. They simply passed me to an unknown man in military uniform, who took me immediately down into a basement area. There were gates and coils of barbed wire all around, like some kind of off-the-books prison. They put me in a room with a small window that looked out into that central courtyard. There was no way to escape or call for help, and no civilian personnel in sight. The men ordered me to put my phone in airplane mode, then they confiscated it.
At this point, I fully understood what was unfolding. In fact, this exact scenario was something I had been afraid of and explicitly warned about. Early in the year, some friends and colleagues of mine—some of whom were active police officers—warned me to stay quiet and not openly oppose the current government, because they knew how these things are handled. They literally described to me a scenario in which I could be grabbed off the street by men claiming to be police, taken with no paperwork to some facility under the guise of “mobilization updates.” The process would move so fast I wouldn’t have time to react. They said a fake medical commission would then swiftly declare me fit for service, I’d be forcibly enlisted into the army, and sent to the eastern front. Once there, I could disappear under the pretense of being mobilized, and the paperwork would list me as “missing in action,” so no forensic investigation could prove what actually happened to me.
I had been warned about this numerous times, so I was alert to the possibility. I was essentially ticking off “red flags” as the situation progressed. By the time I was left alone in a basement room—no phone, no contact with the outside world—that was one of the final red flags confirming that what my friends foretold was indeed happening to me. I have also been well-informed by people who have seen the system from the inside about how this works: the process is broken into parts carried out by different people who often don’t realize the full picture of what they’re involved in. Many of those involved are just happy to be serving in Kyiv (away from the front) and don’t ask questions. I knew there was no point pleading with these men to release me, asking for a lawyer, or demanding the involvement of other law enforcement—they were operating within a system that wouldn’t respond to such requests.
Moreover, amid extensive media accounts and first-hand testimonies about men being violently seized for mobilization—including cases under official investigation where detainees were seriously injured or died shortly after recruitment-center custody—I recognized that, as horrifying as this was, it fit a pattern. A part of me, as strange as this sounds, felt that as part of my broader mission, I was meant to witness this firsthand. Enduring suffering has always been part of my mission. I’ve grown used to it, and I tried to remain eerily calm, trusting that if I stayed true to what I had to do, somehow a miracle would save me. That might sound naive, but miracles have saved me before—it’s kind of my style of survival. Throughout my life in Ukraine, I’ve been in so many dangerous situations where only a “miracle” could save me, that people often ask how I’m still alive. It’s gotten to the point where it’s hard for me not to trust that higher path is at work.
From the times of the revolution, to fighting systemic corruption, to opposing powerful individuals who abused their power, to confronting criminal organizations, institutions, politicians, and even living through a full-scale war—I have directly opposed evil and seen it with my own eyes. I was in places like Borodyanka in February–March 2022 at the height of the invasion, seeing everything firsthand, yet I survived situations where no one else did. This is my way. As I mentioned at the start, my work here was almost complete; I sensed it. In fact, about an hour before this abduction happened, I even recorded an Instagram Reel saying I was nearly finished with my work. I know how to read the events around me, and I actually documented my feelings because I knew that what might happen later could sound unbelievable. So I was not surprised when it did happen. I was grounded in my mission, ready to witness and endure what was coming. I understood that this might be the last task in my mission here: to escape, one more time, from a place where no one else could escape. My mind was prepared, and as I sat alone in that basement room, I took the time to meditate and remain fully aware of everything happening around me. It was brutally hard—alone, cut off from the outside world, deprived of freedom, under the control of men who never even identified themselves. My body surged into alarm: adrenaline flooding, muscles in my arms and legs tightening, my face drawn taut—the nervous system’s fight-or-flight reflex trying to seize the wheel and push me toward panic. I had to use my will and the skills I’ve built over years to win the battle with my own body—steadying my breath, lengthening the exhale, and anchoring my attention—so I could keep awareness high and bring the nervous system’s ‘brake’ back online, using the most advanced functions of the mind instead of collapsing into the primitive reflex. Meditation training and disciplined attention have taught me to regulate this surge rather than be ruled by it, and I relied on that training in those minutes.
After some time, a man in a military uniform came and escorted me out of the room. They were going to subject me to a medical examination. Once again, no paperwork was presented to me—no official order for a medical exam by the Military Medical Commission (Військово-лікарська комісія, VLK) was given. They didn’t ask to sign any consent forms. A soldier was assigned to stay with me, and I was led through prison-like gates and hallways to see a series of doctors.
This was yet another major red flag. Another was the noticeable absence of other civilians undergoing this process. I saw only two other civilian-looking men in the corridors, presumably also “detainees” undergoing evaluation. In contrast, there were many men in military uniform present, and a handful of doctors who appeared to be regular civilian medical staff. Given the ongoing war, the current martial-law regime, and humanitarian considerations, I am deliberately withholding the exact location and will not describe the nature of the site—even in general terms. My purpose is to uphold international humanitarian law and avoid causing harm. What I can state, based on what I directly saw, is that taking me there and the activities I witnessed inside amounted, in my view, to a direct violation of international humanitarian law—a matter that requires urgent, impartial scrutiny by the international community to halt such practices and ensure no further harm flows from the facts I hold. I am ready to provide full details in confidential, lawful communications to duly authorized international bodies upon request. For the purposes of this open letter, I ask that my claim be taken as it stands and treated with the utmost seriousness. This is a grave matter that demands a swift and careful response.
They rushed me through a series of swift medical exams. First, they handed me a cup and told me to provide a urine sample immediately. A man in military uniform was just outside the bathroom to ensure I complied. Next, I was given a very quick electrocardiogram—maybe 30 seconds long. Then an elderly nurse came to draw my blood. She inserted a needle into my arm without even asking my permission. What followed was bizarre: after the needle was in, no blood would come out. The nurse seemed surprised, even shocked. She tried repositioning the needle multiple times, without reinserting it, confirming verbally to a colleague that the needle was indeed in my vein, yet still no blood filled the syringe. She grew flustered and worried I might faint. In her confusion, she began a kind of torturous procedure: she repeatedly pulled back the syringe’s plunger to try to draw blood, then pushed it back in—all while the needle was still in my vein. I could see the syringe was basically empty, just drawing air. She kept mumbling that nothing was coming out. She even speculated aloud to another medical staff member that she might have caused a clot, and asked that person to be ready to support me in case I fainted.
At that point, I had to put an end to this because it truly felt like torture—the sensation of a needle vacuuming my vein and pushing nothing back was extremely unsettling. I made a conscious effort to finally get blood to flow into the syringe. Once a bit of blood finally entered the chamber, they seemed satisfied and stopped. They let me sit for a moment afterwards, insisting that I must be about to faint. They even gave me some water, saying that in the next exam room I might not have a chance to drink, so I should drink now.
After that, a surgeon gave me a very cursory examination. I shared some of my health concerns, mentioning previous surgeries I’ve had—issues a surgeon ought to consider. I even showed him the surgical scars and explained the related concerns. The commission completely ignored everything I said.
Then I was examined by a psychiatrist. In just the first minute, he looked me up and down and noted that I appear to be a religious person. Within a couple of minutes, he pronounced that I was perfectly sane, with no psychiatric issues—in other words, clear for combat. He even foreshadowed what was about to happen to me: he mentioned that a bus was waiting to take me away that same day, almost directly into action, to locations that, as he phrased it, I “would not want to end up in.” He told me, essentially, that nothing that has happened to me here or before—even all my objections or any health issues—mattered at all, because they were not truly evaluating my health. He repeated that I was about to be sent to places where none of this would matter.
I realized the psychiatrist was not even pretending to examine my health. I knew this beforehand—in fact, I had been warned multiple times by lawyers, therapists, psychiatrists, and military personnel that any health and psychiatric evaluation would be ignored. They told me the only reason a psychiatrist is even included in such commissions is to shield the system: when mentally unstable citizens are unlawfully mobilized and later decompensated, responsibility can be shifted to “other factors” rather than to the system’s failure to identify such cases.
Before I continue with the minute-by-minute account of what happened inside, I need to make a short detour. I know this letter is already long, but the context is essential. What follows is not a digression for its own sake; it is the minimum background a fair reader needs to see the picture as objectively as I can present it—why I anticipated what would happen, how I prepared for it, and the standards I am using to judge what I witnessed.
Because I lead a very proactive civic life and, as I have said, I have a mission, I take my mental health extremely seriously. I must witness events, endure suffering, and render judgment—and to do that, I have to ensure my mind is sound and recover if it is not. After everything I have seen and endured—twelve years of constant horror, witnessing extreme violence in many forms, facing personal risks where only a miracle at times could save me, from the first days of the revolution to this very moment—not only the fact that I am still alive shocks many who know me, but the fact that I remain active and, to most people who meet me in real life and know the facts, appear sane shocks them even more. I understand that, given the content and style of my communication with you, dear international colleagues and diplomats, you may see it differently—some may even laugh. I accept that. I am not a politician. I receive no income or profit from what I do. I do not seek publicity or personal gain. I accept the reputational risks of being judged by those who have not seen what I have seen, and who do not grasp how grave our situation is. I am living a very serious life with a mission to avert the doom of civilizations. I know what happens when no one is willing to jeopardize everything—including reputation—to intervene. Honestly, I do not care much about reputation in general modern terms; it is a social construct. To me, it is more logical for someone who practices radical acceptance and empathy to accept having a bizarre reputation in a civilization that survives than to have no reputation at all because there is no community left after its collapse.
I don’t take my health—especially my mental health—for granted; I regard my mindset as my primary asset. After everything I’ve endured, I voluntarily sought psychotherapy of my own free will and judgment. I have completed roughly 200 hours of therapy and slowed my activities for a period to ensure I was fit to continue my work. In addition to working with a psychotherapist, I have been consulted numerous times by scientists specializing in psychology, and I have also—again voluntarily—undergone psychiatric evaluations on two occasions.
This gave me a very in-depth understanding of my own mind. Even more instrumental for this commission, I obtained first-hand consultations from Ukrainian doctors about how these commissions operate—their procedures, the statistics they see among their clients, the problems they encounter during such evaluations, and their professional views on the commissions’ practices from direct experience.
I knew this would happen to me, and I prepared as much as I could. As for the “miracles” I have spoken about—I do not take them for granted. My approach is fundamentally scientific, informed by my background in quantum field theory. I do not simply wait for miracles; I work to create the conditions for them. I make sure I have done everything possible on my side, and then I watch as creation—the universe itself—responds to those efforts with what many would call miracles, and what I regard as a natural collaboration with reality and creation.
I share this preparation not to center myself, but to make clear that my account is not accidental; it is the product of deliberate, years-long work. That preparation—therapy, professional consultations, legal and medical advice, and disciplined observation—is a privilege and an edge few people have. I am using it to expose a system so it can be corrected and society healed, to avert the unthinkable. I am willing to spend my own suffering and risk on this so that others who lack these protections and this mindset are spared what for them would be a practical impossibility. The very need to do this—and to do it this way—shows how broken and corrupt the system has become.
When I realized I was not undergoing any real psychiatric evaluation, I pointed out to the psychiatrist that the system they use—Helsi (helsi.me)—records that in 2024 I was diagnosed with PTSD. He reacted with clear displeasure and immediately asked whether I had ever been hospitalized in a psychiatric facility. From my preparations and consultations, I knew he would ask this—yet another red flag. I responded: no, I have never been hospitalized in a mental institution. He immediately declared that this meant the diagnosis was false, insisting it is absolutely impossible to diagnose PTSD without psychiatric hospitalization. He stated this a couple of times, adding that even he could not determine on the spot in this kind of exam whether a person has PTSD—ironically contradicting himself while judging me “fit for combat” after an under-two-minute visual check. He literally said I looked like an absolutely healthy person with no issues whatsoever.
This was my reverse Catch-22. I had waited for precisely this moment; I recognized it as both my potential way out and a point of systemic failure I was there to document. He then launched into an abstract monologue about how none of this mattered and how he alone would now decide whether to send me into combat or commit me to a psychiatric facility—so that a PTSD diagnosis could be “made” while I would be literally deprived of my freedom. Things were going well: he fell into the trap, and he never saw it coming. He kept insisting my diagnosis was a lie and refused to check the Helsi record. My phone had been confiscated, so I had no practical way to authenticate access to my medical file. They simply do not care about the actual state of affairs. The setup functions like a scam: you are pressed to produce proof immediately, and if none is on hand you are judged “fit” and put on the bus. Even if documents surface later, once a civilian is converted into military status there is, in practice, no path back. That is why he refused even to attempt access: any access would be logged and would show he had been put on notice, and privacy safeguards on accessing information psychiatric evaluation require user consent via a one-time SMS code—impossible to receive without a phone. The Catch-22 is engineered into the process. Even so, he kept repeating that the diagnosis was false and that I could be sent on the bus to action. Following the instructions I had received from those who knew how this would unfold, I pressed him to act lawfully.
Yet he said there was no need to check the system; none of it mattered, because he would decide what to do. Even if he found the content of the record persuasive enough to accept that I have PTSD—note: he focused not on the existence of an official diagnosis but on the wording itself—he would simply send me to a psychiatric facility, after which I would still have to return to him so he could decide my fate. He cast himself as the judge whose decision alone mattered. He then added that even if they released me that day, I would be “obligated” to admit myself to a psychiatric facility; if I refused and they later caught me, I would be sent straight into action without any semblance of a commission. He repeated that they were not evaluating my health; they were sending me to the army. I objected, and he became aggressive, saying I “don’t listen to people,” and adding that they cannot account for “this kind of nonsense,” because if they did, the “рашисты” (“rashisty”—his word, in Russian, referring to “Ruscists”) would already be in Kyiv. He thus implied that Ukraine holds not because of the bravery of Ukrainians and international support, but because he is “brave” enough to ignore the law and send everyone who ends up in this facility to battle under his judgment.
He asked why I had never admitted myself to a psychiatric facility if I had PTSD. I replied that I had been explicitly advised not to do so—by many people, including the psychiatrist who made that diagnosis. From what I had been told, such hospitalization would be an abomination. The very idea of using inpatient admission as a tool to “make” a diagnosis is unnecessary and contradicts evidence-based, international practice. I was repeatedly warned that it functions as an oppressive mechanism to force mobilization: they would try to “fix” me with medications that, as I had been told, are not routinely required for PTSD; then either claim I was “fit” because the drugs did not help (so I must be faking PTSD to avoid mobilization), or, after whatever might happen to me under drugs and confinement, use it to justify a worse diagnosis and keep me detained until a court order—or declare me “treated” and fit to serve. I was warned that nothing good for my health would come of this; PTSD can and should be diagnosed without hospitalization, and funneling people with PTSD into inpatient wards in this way is a form of cruelty.
He again refused to check the system. I should note: at no point in this interaction did he even attempt to assess my condition or ask why I had been diagnosed with PTSD, or why I had voluntarily sought psychiatric care in the first place. He acted convinced it was all a lie. He asked nothing about my life or any symptoms—only repeated that I “look great” and that this was nonsense. Eventually he asked whether I had documents on my phone showing the content of the evaluation so he could decide whether it warranted any review. I said I might have something, though I wasn’t sure. Only after a series of exchanges—during which I remained calm and polite, even allowing his view of me as someone without PTSD to stand—did he agree to send a man in military uniform to fetch my phone so I could show any documents I might have. As the man went to get the phone, I was immediately sent to the next exam, and the psychiatrist said he had to consult with the chief doctor about the matter.
Next, they took me to a neurologist. Like the others, the neurologist barely listened to my history or concerns. The doctor noted that I seemed very alert and conscious, and within a minute or so the neurological “exam” was over.
After that, an oculist (eye doctor) had me read an eye chart on the wall, and that exam was over in a couple of minutes as well.
Then an ENT (ear-nose-throat) doctor looked at me. This was perhaps the most absurd exam: he stood about a meter and a half away from me and asked me to tilt my head. From that distance, without any instruments or even a direct light, he peered at my ears and throat. There’s no way he could have seen anything meaningful from that far. I mentioned to him that I had undergone some ENT-related surgeries in the past. He didn’t move any closer or use any tools; he simply told me to breathe quickly through my nostrils from where I was standing. I did so, and since he could hear air passing, he concluded that as long as I can breathe through my nose, “everything is fine.” As far as I could tell, his main concern was keeping a safe distance—perhaps so I wouldn’t cough on him or give him COVID or some other disease—rather than actually determining if I had any medical issues.
After the ENT exam, a man in military uniform returned with my phone. We went into the psychiatrist’s room, and I was allowed to search my phone for any documents that could prove I have PTSD. The man in uniform stood behind me the entire time, watching what I was doing so I wouldn’t contact anyone. I didn’t try—I knew they wouldn’t allow it, and that would have meant the end of the psychiatric examinations; my phone would have been taken again immediately and I would have been finished. So I searched for the document, knowing it was there—I was prepared for this. I showed the PDF to the psychiatrist, and he actually read it. After that, his tone and line of argument shifted.
At one point during all this, I had asked a psychiatrist how they could possibly operate this way—sending people into combat without genuinely checking their health or circumstances. He basically admitted that, yes, sometimes it ends very badly. He said it’s common for men sent in this manner to go AWOL, to desert, or even to turn violent once they are armed and realize what has happened to them. But, he shrugged, no one really cares about that outcome because once the person leaves this facility, it’s not their problem anymore. They are just a local cog in the machine; after the brief “exam,” each person is shipped off and becomes somebody else’s responsibility (or problem).
This doctor told me outright that it was a miracle he happened to be there that day. He even remarked that 13 must be my lucky number—since it was September 13th—because he was present. He literally framed himself as my savior as if not him personally I would be shipped into places without any chanse to solve or prove anything.
Now I need to emphasize why I think he actually changed his mind—and why that change is so disturbing. He all but demanded that I be grateful he had “even read” the document. He refused to hear my story, insisting I was just trying to evade mobilization. But the document is my story—only a brief part of it, yes, but grave enough to make clear I am not someone angling for comfort while a war rages. It records trauma endured through my civic work, including experience under occupation. From years of interactions with medical professionals, lawyers, journalists, and military personnel, I know my story is one of extreme horror and resilience that few have witnessed, let alone survived. I have many friends in the army; even they regard my path as a brutal testament to endurance in service of humanity, and they treat it with respect. The closer a person’s own service is to combat, the more respect they show when they hear the details—and that I am still fighting. I have always acted on my own resources; I did not need mobilization to serve from the first days. I have willingly put my life at risk in circumstances that many I speak with find unbearable.
The PTSD dimension is crucial—especially to those in uniform—and it is exactly what motivated me to endure this unlawful mobilization attempt in order to expose the system. Soldiers understand what it means to survive the places I survived: the shockwaves of thermobaric blasts nearby; the sight of mutilated and beheaded bodies; and far more. I have stood in locations where even military personnel were absent—inside a literal wall of fire. And I know the effect of my demeanor: I remain calm, aware, polite, present, soft—a gentleman. In the sham exam, the doctor initially read that calm as deceit. That was projection. He, the one cheating the process, saw a mirror and labeled me “a cheater.” He has seen nothing, sits in Kyiv, quotes Soviet-era phrases—“in the Soviet Union we called this…”—and sends young men to die with no real evaluation, no sympathy, no conscience, telling them to their faces that they are nobody and that he alone will decide their fate. He would not give me even a minute to speak. Only when he was nearly forced to read the document did my calm, courteous bearing against the backdrop of horror register as a personal threat to him. He realized I am not a cheater or even a “typical PTSD patient.” I am a survivor, a machine of resilience and action who has endured more than he can imagine—after he had already threatened to throw me into battle with no evaluation.
He must know how PTSD often presents: many cannot defend themselves as cleanly in such coercive settings; some struggle to concentrate enough to make their case; some, under manipulation, react with anger—making them easy to dismiss to a mental ward as a supposed danger, or to be pushed back into combat. By contrast, I carry a certain advantage even relative to active-duty personnel: I was preparing exactly for this meeting, I can hold my ground and articulate a stand that frontline soldiers themselves might support. He had no idea who I am, what life I lead, how this could end for me, or who and what might be waiting for me if I were pushed into the ranks. In an instant, I shifted in his eyes from “cheater” to personal risk—someone who could eventually bring him to account through the same unlawful pathways he was about to use on me. Men like this fear free men. So the option to consign me to a psychiatric facility—to destabilize me, to label me “crazy” or a “faker” by someone else’s hand—became his personal exit. He flipped from oppressor to supposed savior: not sending me directly to the front, but insisting I was now “obligated” to admit myself to a mental institution. He promised that, after my return, if PTSD were confirmed, he would deem me unfit for combat.
In doing so, he gave the game away. He said plainly there was no job in the army for people like me: all off-frontline positions were already taken by those who want safe roles with a state salary. He told me I could not get what should be my right if I have PTSD—a role away from the meat grinder. Meanwhile, they grab men off the street and, through a swift, fake “medical exam” that breaks every rule, funnel them to death to fill gaps—knowing they can always abduct more. This is a blood business, and he is directly part of it. So he offered me a “way out”: when I come back from the mental facility, he, the “good judge,” will mark me unfit; then the system will say it has no need for me anyway—and send me home.
They do not care who I am or what I can do. They do not care that I know quantum physics, nuclear physics, rocket science, classical cryptography and quantum cryptography; that I hold a degree in telecommunications engineering; that I can code and solder; that I work in machine learning and computer vision; that I understand architecture, negotiations, and international humanitarian law; that I have emergency-medicine experience as a leader of an RDRT squad; that I can produce 3D and 2D work; that I have deep experience in video and photo production; that I speak multiple foreign languages; that I have taught—including first aid—and that I know international politics, protocols, and other specialized fields. Any one of these skills can be invaluable to real military recruiters—let alone all of them in one person. Yet there I sat before him, and all that mattered to him was whether I could be sent to be killed. The moment he grasped that I am a survivor who would not go quietly, I was “done” in his system. There was “no place” for me, everything “booked,” “no need” for more men. After a stint in a mental facility, I would simply be sent home. What kind of mobilization is this? And why did he want to see me so badly in a mental institution?
I need to highlight a few very important things: I do not believe the promise that I would be sent home. The whole premise is paradoxical—abduct a man off the street, violate every protocol, funnel him through a psychiatric ward, and then simply send him home. It sounds absurd because it is. I know how people are lured into compliance. This is a setup to push me into a mental ward and then either “fix” PTSD in ten days, declare I’m faking and send me to the meat grinder, or break me and brand me “crazy”—removing personal risk for the actors involved and protecting the system.
I know many stories of men who fought on the front being denied a normal way out of the meat grinder, despite serious physical or mental injuries. The very system that should rehabilitate its own soldiers is used as an oppressive mechanism to force them back to battle or funnel them into psychiatric wards, shattering their lives and making everything worse. It is pure horror. Positions away from the front are, very often, simply bought. With enough money and the will to game the system, it is relatively easy for a man to avoid both mobilization and a frontline assignment. But if you are an honest man, you are doomed: you serve, you fight, you end up mentally or physically wrecked—and even then the “way out” is most often tied to corruption.
For those trapped in the meat grinder there is especially no way out. Those who abuse power and use the war for self-interest do not want men who have seen the sometimes horrific realities of army management—where men are treated as war slaves—walking free, in good standing, sound of mind, and placed away from the front. The choices become stark: psychiatric ward, return to the front, or join the corruption. A free-minded man with no leverage on him—someone who knows his own worth and the worth of every still-living comrade—holding any position inside the military is a threat to this system. So the options are reduced to: die, be broken, AWOL, desertion or join the evil. It is a terrifying system, and it fears resilient men with PTSD who remain active; they are treated as a primary threat to the survival of the corruption.
In my previous letter, I drew your attention to the scale: over 250,000 criminal cases for desertion and unauthorized abandonment (AWOL) have been opened since 2022, according to Ukraine’s Prosecutor General’s Office. This staggering number shows how corrupt and dehumanizing the system has become. This is not real mobilization and not a lawful medical-commission process—it is a machine that destroys genuine mobilization, weakens Ukraine’s defense, prolongs the war, and traps people in a cruel funnel: if not killed, or broken in a psychiatric ward, or bound into corruption, a person is pushed to go AWOL or desert. In every outcome, the system sheds responsibility—branding abuses as ‘procedural errors’ or ‘unfortunate events’—when in fact this is a designed abuse of power that violates Ukrainian law, international humanitarian law, and basic human rights.
In my previous letter I have already brought to your attention how this system rendered more than 250 000 men to go AWOL or desert even judging by official numbers of criminal cases opened. This is just a shocking number which shows how evil and corrupt the system is. This is not a mobilization and not an army medical commission system – it’s actually a way to destroy any kind of real mobilization, blow down the defense capability of Ukraine, make war never end, and build the business in which if not dead, in mental ward or tied in corruption man can only go AWOL or desert. In all cases this takes the risk from the system – blaming anything but systematic abuse of power.
After reading my story, the psychiatrist changed the script for these reasons alone. His attempt to cast himself as my savior—pointing to 13 as my ‘lucky number’—was nothing but a projection of his fear. This is exactly why I chose to endure all of this: it is how the system is exposed.
Then he began writing something and went to consult with the others.Then they sent me for a quick chest X-ray, ostensibly to check that I didn’t have tuberculosis. This exam was also done in a matter of minutes. The radiologist took one chest X-ray and then showed me the image on the screen, pointing out that my lungs were clear of TB. I feigned relief and said something like, “I’m glad there’s nothing bad in there—at least I don’t have any tumors or anything.” The doctor responded candidly that it’s actually impossible to see something like a tumor on the type of scan they took, because the machine was operating in a mode that wouldn’t reveal that. “We don’t know if you have any tumors or not,” he said matter-of-factly. I replied, half-joking, that I guess a tumor would show up if it were really huge. He nodded and said, “Well, if it were huge, maybe we’d see it. So at least we know you don’t have a giant tumor,” and then he wished me good luck with what was coming next.
I must note that almost all of these doctors behaved with a certain subdued sympathy towards me—almost like they knew I was essentially on death row. They were polite and somewhat compassionate, but also resigned, as if they knew they couldn’t do anything to help me. When they wished me “good luck,” or commented that I seem like an intelligent, conscious person, I actually felt pity for them—stuck doing this work that they know is wrong. Throughout my time going through these exams, I did not witness any other men being examined. I only saw those two other civilian men waiting in the corridors, guarded by soldiers. They had been there before I arrived and were still waiting as I left the medical area.
When the exams were finished, they had me wait in the hallway for a while. Then I was called in to see the chief doctor—the therapist/general practitioner—who was supposed to give a final verdict. I mentioned to her, as I had to the others, some of my past surgeries and health concerns. She flatly dismissed what I said, claiming that their system showed no record of any such surgeries. Interestingly, this is how they use the system to their advantage: when acknowledging what is in it would undermine their plan to send me to the meat grinder, they refuse to recognize it; when it suits their plan, they argue that no such information exists. To her, the absence of a record in her system meant the surgeries never happened—as if I had somehow given myself these surgical scars. I told her I have documentation of these procedures, but she had no interest in seeing any proof.
And that was that. The “medical examination” was over. The whole thing took around two hours, as best I could estimate (they still had my phone, so I didn’t know the exact time). The vast majority of those two hours was me just sitting in the corridor, surrounded by men in military uniform, waiting for various doctors. There was no real queue or many other patients; the doctors were simply conferring behind closed doors about me. The longest portion of the actual examination was that torturous blood draw attempt. On average, each doctor spent perhaps two minutes examining me. Not counting the absolutely unethical negotiations with psychiatrists.
After the exams, they were prepared to send me off to wherever they had planned—without providing any results, written conclusions, or feedback about my health; nothing. They did not even wait for my urine and blood samples to be analyzed. I was given no opportunity to contact the outside world or to seek legal counsel, and I did not sign a single document at any point in this process.
Then they presented me with a paper stating that I was required to admit myself to a psychiatric facility and, after my stay, report back within 10 days, before September 23.
On my way out, one of the soldiers escorting me expressed open surprise that I was actually walking out of there. He essentially confirmed once more that it was a miracle, and he advised me not to waste the chance I had been given.
And so they let me go. They never provided any formal document explaining on what basis I had been detained in that military facility. I was given no copy of any medical evaluation or commission findings. None of the proper legal protocols under Ukrainian law were followed.
When I stepped out of that gate, I saw a woman sitting outside waiting. She was waiting for a man who had been taken inside earlier. She looked at me in surprise and asked if I saw the man she was waiting for, and if I knew how much longer it might take, or when he was supposed to be released. I had to tell her the hard truth: I had indeed seen two other men inside, who were already there before I went in, and they were still there when I left. I told her honestly that based on what I witnessed, I didn’t think they would be letting them out at all. It was a devastating thing to have to tell someone.
Now, I realize all of this sounds bizarre—like a nightmare or a scene from a movie. But as I said, I anticipated that this would happen to me. I even dreamt about it: I saw, in what you’d call a vision or dream, that after going through such an ordeal, I would be writing this very letter. It’s taken me three days to recover enough to process everything and to present it in a comprehensive narrative for you.
My friends and colleagues who warned me had seen the system from the inside and taught me how it operates. The system is compartmentalized so that no single person bears full responsibility, and many participants don’t fully grasp the scope of what they’re doing—they are ‘just following orders’ or doing their small part. Beyond exposing the meat-grinder mechanism and the corrupt market for positions, and knowing my activity in opposing the current Ukrainian government, they explained how—through fake medical commissions and other illegal maneuvers (even under Ukrainian law)—people who dare to stand up to the current regime can be quietly neutralized. They are placed under total control, cut off from all outside communication, and simply disappear.
I know for a fact that what I escaped was not a lawful mobilization—I walked off death row. Others who have disappeared through this method before me had done far less to oppose the government than I have. Some were not even opposition figures at all; it is a mechanism that can be abused to remove anyone seen as a problem or rival. It serves as a tool to feed the meat grinder and to abuse power, silencing almost everyone. It is an evil, sophisticated tool with no one actually held responsible. They will call it a procedural error—an unfortunate event—when, in fact, this is a grave abuse of power, a violation of Ukrainian law, international humanitarian law, and basic human rights—designed as a system, not a mistake.
Moreover, this method of so-called “mobilization” is, by any honest account, a form of slavery. It’s not even effective from a military standpoint; in fact, genuine military commanders—true soldiers who try to build real fighting units—do not support this kind of conscription-by-abduction. It results in chaos: I’ve heard that fights break out over these forcibly conscripted people. There’s effectively a bounty system in play, where different units or commanders put a price on the heads of individuals who might be useful fighters. It has even led to corruption where people are literally bought out of this death pipeline. In other words, a conscript who is snatched off the street might be transferred (for a bribe) from a meat-grinder frontline unit to a more “decent” division that actually needs a suited to combat soldiers. Those better divisions often rely on proper recruiting and are disgusted by this kidnapping approach, but they sometimes have to basically rescue capable men out of the grinder—at a price. So yes, there is literally a price tag on those deemed useful.
This whole mechanism of stripping people’s freedom and making them disappear had been described to me many times. Almost everyone who cared about me strongly advised me to stay silent, to not do the things I have been doing, because they were afraid it could only end in tragedy. But their very fear, and the existence of this evil system, is exactly why I had to step forward earlier this year. I knew no one else could do it—no one else would dare try. This mission was mine alone. I came out and took a stand precisely because this horror exists. And now, at this point, that mission is nearing its conclusion. The ordeal I survived four days ago is the final stroke in a long chain of suffering and extreme risks I’ve taken here in Kyiv, and it marks the end of a period of my work here.
As much as I love this country and city, I cannot continue to be part of, or subject to, this war-slavery machine—the never-ending cycle of corrupt war business that has destroyed so many families and killed so many good people. These are people who could have served the country in a truly effective way if that were actually the goal of the current autocratic warlord regime. I have warned the government, ministers, parliament, civil society, and you—dear diplomats—about these issues repeatedly. Starting from the beginning of this year, I have said again and again that Ukraine needs a genuine, lawful mobilization process, not this murderous, lawless, corrupt meat-grinder of a system. I know (and have known) many real soldiers and volunteers who despise what’s happening, but they cannot take a public stand because they would be destroyed for speaking out. This entire scheme is pure evil—a path that dooms everyone. It dresses itself up as heroic governance, but it is deception: brutal, ordinary evil without a face, leaving nothing but bones behind.
Ukraine is a brave nation. There is no shortage of people willing to defend their homes against the enemy. But because of the corruption and brutality of this internal system, many of those who have been through the military (whether forced or as volunteers who witnessed the corruption) say that Ukraine now faces two enemies: the external invader, and an internal enemy. This situation lays the groundwork for civil conflict. I have worked tirelessly to prevent a civil war from erupting here. Up until now, I have succeeded: there were a couple of moments when tensions nearly ignited into internal violence, but with some foresight and intervention, those crises were averted.
What happened to me on September 13 sets a new precedent. I felt I had to experience it myself—to see it from the inside—in order to clearly expose it and deliver a final judgment on this practice. Only through personal experience can one truly bring this to light; there needs to be someone who not only accuses from afar but can personally attest: my rights were brutally violated by this system. It has taken me years of preparation and anticipation to get to this point. I’ve expended enormous effort and suffered great losses to come this far. Most people who knew about my mission thought it was suicidal. They said no one had ever come out alive or unbroken from challenging the system in this way. And frankly, they are stunned that I am still walking around after what happened. But someone had to do this, and only I could. This was not a simple task—there is no straightforward way to achieve what I set out to do. It requires a very special sense of purpose to endure all this and still be here to write to you now.
This letter is an open letter. I will publish it as soon as I finish writing it, on my websites. I will also send it—via my usual diplomatic communication channels—to over 100 embassies in Kyiv, as well as to several international organizations.
My request now is very simple: I need freedom and security. This time, I am asking for something personal—I need a way out. After everything I have done, I truly don’t have much time left. (In fact, this whole operation of mine was planned as a three-month diplomatic communications campaign, starting around June 18, 2025)
Dear international colleagues, I know this entire communication from me has been bizarre. I have had very good reasons for doing what I do, and doing it in this unconventional way. There were other, more ordinary ways to raise alarms and seek change, but those ways were largely ignored. So I had to endure these past six months—which I view as unfolding in two distinct acts—doing things in this extreme manner. Please understand, these words come from a person who has seen it all. By far, these last months have been the hardest experience of my life. It’s no surprise to me that it had to be me—only I could endure this path. This is the way it had to be.
Now, I need a way out. And all of us, collectively, need to fix this horror. This modern slavery must end.
If my plea to the international diplomatic community—a simple request for personal security—is ignored, it will snuff out hope for everyone else watching. If people see that even I, after all I’ve endured and all I’ve done, was ignored and left to be executed, it will put a bloody cross over any hope for justice or change—a point of no return from which no one will escape unscathed. Well, no one except me perhaps, because I have my ways (as my life has shown time and again). I have a long track record of surviving the impossible.
I’ll be honest: I have always found it hard to pursue goals that were only about my own personal well-being or reputation. I can’t easily separate myself from the collective good—I’m a team player, a cooperative spirit. I’ve been criticized many times for never taking care of myself, for never doing anything just for me. But at this point, I understand that my fate and well-being are intertwined with the fate of both the Ukrainian people and the international community. And—something that is new for me—this journey has taught me to see myself more clearly and to realize that I do deserve freedom, that I should love myself enough to seek safety. It’s hard to explain, but I used to judge myself solely by the amount of bad things happening around me. I felt responsible for all the suffering I saw, and that sense of responsibility blinded me to thinking about what I deserved for myself. Now, I’ve come around to the point of view of those who told me I need to value my own life. I’ve turned some of that radical empathy inward, toward myself. And from this new perspective, it’s actually terrifying to reflect on what I have put myself through for the sake of others.
I must include myself in the equation now. I do deserve freedom and safety, and I realize that securing that for me is actually the only way to secure a positive outcome for all of us. If I become a martyr, it helps no one. If I live and am free, I can continue to help and create.
So I am asking you, dear Excellencies and international colleagues: please do not ignore my request. Grant me freedom and security—a way out of the nightmare I am living. And please do it swiftly; there isn’t much time left. It is within your power—you certainly can achieve this. I truly believe in all of you, and I have love in my heart for you because of the principles you represent. Hugs.
In truth and with profound respect,
Michael Tulsky (Lucid Founder)
Kyiv, September 17, 2025
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