A series of articles by instructors of the Ukrainian Federation of Yoga, created at the request of The European Union Of Yoga: about personal experience of using yoga methods and knowledge during the war.
About the Fear of Death and the Moment My Blood Boiled
When the war began, I had already lived for 12 years as a yoga teacher, grounded in 24 years of personal yoga practice. My guiding values were freedom, spiritual growth, beauty, art, and love. I taught my students to live their lives fully, to explore the world from every angle, and to be resilient, determined, courageous, and kind.
Now imagine: in a single day, my way of life started crumbling under bombardment, and the future dissolved into chaos.
In yoga, there is a principle called ahiṃsā – non-harming – a way of life that yogis hold sacred. But how was I supposed to live by ahiṃsā when violence was inflicted upon me, my family, and my world? To preserve my way of life, I would have had to abandon Kharkiv and my yoga studio, resigning myself to the brutality being unleashed on Ukrainians in occupied territories.
As a senior officer in my country’s military special forces, I had cultivated a sense of the noble warrior’s responsibility. Seventeen years ago, I had left the path of the warrior to embrace peace, believing in dialogue, cooperation, and teamwork as the ways to bring harmony to the world. But the sheer injustice I witnessed – seeing the elderly, women, and children dying at my doorstep in my own neighbourhood – burned through me.
I felt it was my duty to stop the killing in my city, to prevent its destruction. My mother, my sister and her children, the woman I love and her child, my relatives and friends – all turned to me for support. I felt fear and confusion, not knowing what to do. But I knew I had to be their pillar, their protector of this land. And so, the Yogi put on the Warrior’s armour.
People were fleeing the city en masse. Panic and terror gripped the streets and train stations. A group of my friends and like-minded men banded together, ready to defend our homes. Armed only with hunting rifles, we stood on the outskirts of the city, awaiting the invading army. We watched as enormous, destructive missiles crashed into civilian buildings and homes, shaking the ground beneath us. The impact of these moments was unforgettable. Yet in the eyes of my comrades, I saw mutual strength and support. Knowing you’re not alone, that your friends shared the same defiance against this brutal invasion was invaluable.
Throughout every mission I undertook in those early months of war, I turned to the methods of yoga. On the battlefield, nothing unfolds as planned, and things are always worse than you imagine. You must constantly, steadfastly control your emotions, no matter the immense stressors you face. These are far more than the papers report or television shows. I understood that, to be effective, I needed to maintain a state of composure, clarity, and focus – a task concentration techniques helped me master.
One day, two of my students – young, strong, beautiful men – came to me for advice. They had been my fellow instructors at the Strength Training School ‘Abhaya.’ They were on the brink of enlisting in the Ukrainian army, despite having no military experience. As a teacher and yogi, I couldn’t influence their decision, knowing full well that their lives would be at grave risk, and there was a significant chance their mothers and loved ones might never see them again. But I couldn’t dissuade them either, because I recognised that the absoluteness of their decision affirmed the values we shared: the right to live freely and to make one’s own choices.
In war, you exist in a constant state of stress and tension. Familiar social structures and supports disappear; the reality around you is unfamiliar, uncertain, terrifying. You witness new deaths. Moments come when fear seizes you, sudden and paralysing. You face a choice: give in to panic and become useless, or work through the fear and carry on with your mission.
You recall every yoga technique you’ve learned to bring awareness to your fear. In the harshest instances, when intense shelling reduces you to a trembling point, you try to gain control over your breath. The practice of prāṇāyāma becomes starkly essential. If you can manage your breathing and slow your heart rate, there’s a chance you can master the fear too.
You learn to fortify your consciousness, seeking ways to shift your mind into a state less susceptible to fear. This can be likened to techniques of extreme vairāgya (detachment).
I began observing my fear, noting when it surged and searching for what eased it. I experimented with changing my perspective, launching an intellectual analysis of the situation. This unlocked me, allowing me to transition into a state of action.
When I returned to shelter, my existential reflections didn’t stop. I found myself in a continuous state of dhyāna (deep meditation), raising the level of my thoughts, reflecting on ever more abstract concepts.
Other times, my sensitivity and intuition heightened. Over time, you start to sense approaching danger, becoming more aware and vigilant. You begin to feel the boundaries of spaces where death is already lurking and where it hasn’t yet arrived.
Every month at war takes a tremendous toll. I can’t say how many years a single year at the front is equivalent to. You grow wise at breakneck speed, understanding what matters and what is fleeting, what the real values are, and what you’d regret leaving undone if you died. In yoga, there’s a practice called ‘meditation on death’, which clarifies your desired path and purpose. War is a harsh, real-life immersion in that practice, one that forces you to realise who and what you love, and what you cannot imagine your life without.
Throughout my service, I kept returning to my chosen path as a teacher and mentor. After a year of service, I was reassigned to a training centre, promoted to lieutenant colonel, and put in charge of a new training battalion. There, I began passing on my combat experience and knowledge.
Perhaps the hardest part of this war is coping with the loss of your comrades. I had to deliver the personal belongings of a fallen officer to his wife, who would never see him again. His body remained on occupied ground. It was agonising. It pains me to see my city in ruins and deserted. I can’t comprehend how we’ve managed to hold our own for a third year against the ‘second strongest army in the world.
I hope the example of Ukrainian courage and willpower is at least partially understood by people in other European countries, inspiring them to be strong. We are holding on, but we need help. And our warriors have become experts at fighting a large, powerful, and treacherous enemy — and winning.
Yoga Instructor, Martial Arts Expert, Director of the Strength Training School ‘Abhaya’,
Founder of the ‘Sadhana Yoga’ Style, Lieutenant Colonel in the Territorial Defence Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine