Tresa Harbin

You absolutely must watch Zelensky’s interview with Stephen Bartlett. On camera, we see a man who is deeply weary—at times on the verge of collapse—someone who has spent nearly five years living under the constant, direct pressure of war. From the very first minutes, his exhaustion is palpable. When asked the standard question, "How are you?", he replies that he sleeps very little, spending his nights on the phone with military commanders, trying to shift the few remaining air-defense assets from one region to another. He shares two particularly poignant stories. The first concerns a missile that struck a playground in a matter of seconds; parents watched, through their windows, as their own children were torn apart before their eyes. The second involves presenting posthumous honors to the families of fallen soldiers: "You hand a medal to a father—you feel the strength in his hand—and he asks, in a hushed voice, 'May we have a hug?' In that moment, I simply cease to exist. Those people are gone, and the survivors will never be the same again." When the host tries to take him back in time—showing him old photographs from Kryvyi Rih, images from his university years in the KVN comedy troupe, his voice work for *Paddington*, or scenes from the series *Servant of the People*—Zelensky looks on with indifference, as if these things belonged to someone else’s life. He also recalls February 2022, devoid of any heroic rhetoric. He describes how, for the first twenty days, he was driven purely by adrenaline—rushing from office to office, making endless phone calls, and scrambling to organize supplies of food and water for Kyiv. The full weight of his fear, and the stark realization of what had truly transpired, only hit him three weeks later, when mass graves containing the bodies of hundreds of residents were discovered in Bucha. It is precisely through the example of Bucha that he explains why he is so deeply irritated by those who advise him to reach a quick agreement with everyone: "Imagine if a mass grave were discovered in the United States or Great Britain containing 500 people who had been tortured, their hands bound. How could one simply forgive all that?" The rest of the conversation centers on the stalemate in which the Ukrainians—and everyone else—find themselves. Zelensky explains the reasons for the war in simple terms: Moscow is attempting to forcibly rebuild the Soviet empire, a project that would be definitively shattered by Ukraine’s move toward Europe. Yet, when he speaks about the present, his words reveal a profound sense of frustration. Nearly a fifth of the territory is occupied, the east of the country is under heavy bombardment, cities are left without electricity, and people are dying every single day. Meanwhile, any discussion of a ceasefire would require Kyiv to withdraw from its fortified positions—with no guarantee that the offensive wouldn't simply resume within a year. Finally, the conversation turns to the subject of Trump and the attacks on oil facilities. Trump has publicly criticized Zelensky for striking Russian refineries, fearing that such actions could lead to a sharp rise in diesel prices for American farmers ahead of the elections. It is here that it becomes clear just how much this attitude hurts Zelensky: his country is in flames, Moscow has rejected his proposal for a mutual halt to attacks on energy infrastructure, and the Americans are sending Patriot missiles—paid for by Europe—to the Middle East—yet he is the one being blamed for fuel prices in the United States. The entire conversation leaves a rather bleak impression. A man trapped between the daily deaths in his own country and the pragmatic negotiations of allies—who have their own elections and political calculations to consider—can no longer distance himself from it all. Look at it. Ayan Sharipbayev