He was tortured so severely that for two weeks he could not even remember who he was. His comrades had to carry him and feed him with a spoon. Yet, even before that—naked, blindfolded, and enduring blows from boots and rubber-soled shoes—he would smile. Deliberately. It was this smile that deeply unsettled his torturers and thwarted their plans. Pavlo Shatokhin, known by the call sign "Shakh," was a Marine. He defended Mariupol, providing cover for the Azov fighters, and eventually broke out of the Azovstal steel plant alongside his comrades. Then came the "brutal" captivity—Olenivka, in the barracks. The food was served so hot it was impossible to eat; the water reeked of a swamp. Taking bread out of the mess hall was strictly forbidden. One of the guards, nicknamed "Kirusha," tortured two Ukrainians to death. Then came an even worse ordeal: captivity in Taganrog, at the Russian detention center in Kamishin. What they called "processing" was, in reality, a gauntlet of torture. Blindfolded and with his hands bound, a prisoner would be shoved through a line of guards. Pavlo suffered a broken rib, and his internal organs were severely damaged. Then, he was given five minutes to undress for a search—a process involving "slashing" and the tearing away of skin—followed by being forced to crawl through the mud while a stun gun was applied to his damp back. Later, in a cell, eight guards demanded he sing the Russian national anthem. He refused. For this, he was dragged out and beaten so viciously that he lost consciousness. This happened the very next day. For two weeks, Pavlo was in a vegetative state. His fellow prisoners fed him with a spoon and carried him in their arms to the medical center. They tortured him systematically—using electric shock devices and plastic pipes with iron keys attached to the ends, striking his legs so severely that he required surgery. They used a rubber mallet, striking him on the head with the handle—a grim joke among the prisoners: "We’ll end up looking like dragons." In that place, a "banya" (bath) didn't mean washing; it meant a beating. Yet, through it all, there was resistance. In their cell, turning away from the security cameras, the men would place their hands over their hearts and silently sing the Ukrainian national anthem. Pavlo recalls: "They were furious because I smiled at them. Driven by adrenaline, I would start shouting and smiling. Sometimes, it even helped me endure the things I had to face afterward." During more than three years of captivity, he received only one letter—from his sister. It contained just seven words, which he turned into a mantra, reading it every single day. He says: "When they turned on the radio and we heard about the Kursk region, it gave us an incredible boost. It meant that Ukraine still exists, that Ukraine is in control and is striking back with a powerful blow." When he was finally released, he weighed 54 kilograms—having lost nearly 80 kilograms during his imprisonment. His sister didn't recognize him in the video; she only knew it was him by his gestures, his eyes, and a scar. Pavlo underwent several surgeries and rehabilitation in Ukraine, Lithuania, and Latvia—and has since returned to duty. He remains an officer in the maritime security forces. And keep smiling.

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