Vyacheslav Kaystro
Glib Stryzhko Alright, let’s start with an introduction. Please tell us a little about yourself and your military service experience.
Vyacheslav Kaystro My name is Vyacheslav Kaystro, I’m 58 years old. I’ve been doing photography my whole life, grew up Russian-speaking. In Dnipro, sadly, everyone is still speaking Russian. I hate it. Life was good until 2014, but then, everything changed for obvious reasons. I started doing some light volunteering in 2014-2015, and even though everything has died down and localized in the East, I still monitored every piece of news since Maidan. I started getting rid of everything Russian in myself. In early 2022, I already had this feeling. But when they started pulling blood banks to the border, I went straight to the enlistment office. It was 10 days before the full-scale invasion. I couldn’t get in that day — it was Monday. And Friday, it all went down. The day after that, I could barely get through the amount of people volunteering to protect their country. This is such a strange thing to say in 2025, when the army is being replenished solely through forced conscription. They told me they would call me, but I couldn’t wait, so I joined the 128th Territorial Defence Brigade, and we moved out right away. At first, we were stationed at the border between Dnipropetrovsk, Donetsk, and Kharkiv Oblasts — a sort of triangle — and by July, we had reached the front line. To be honest, I couldn’t have imagined that at 50 years old I’d find myself at war. Our battalion moved into Vuhledar with practically nothing but small arms: in other words, we had nothing. We walked right into heavy fire; we were getting hit so hard it was insane. We suffered heavy casualties right away, it was impossible to even lift your head there. We stayed there for two years with no rotations. We were holding the line, with trenches stretching ten kilometers, if not more, but we had fewer and fewer men. We were short-handed, and we weren’t getting any reinforcements.
Glib Stryzhko So, you’ve served for two years? How come you resigned?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I’ve been at war since the very beginning, but in July 2023 I was wounded on enemy positions. The 72nd Brigade pushed out the orcs, and we were supposed to hold the line of defence. We worked in shifts of two days each, I was planning the shifts and working them with my guys, even if I didn’t have to. I was explicitly told not to: “You’re in charge of this platoon, but you’re not going anywhere.” But how could I send the guys out while I just sat in the dugout? Once, I came out of the trench at night with a night vision device, because I thought I saw something. For a split second, I thought about landmines, but then I was like, come on, I just need to make one single step. And as soon as I thought that, I stepped on a landmine. One leg got torn off, the other badly injured. My guys carried me on the road of death across an open field. We were lucky they didn’t catch us.
Glib Stryzhko Am I right in understanding that one of your legs was saved and the other is a prosthesis?
Vyacheslav Kaystro Yes.
Glib Stryzhko So, after you were wounded, you decided to leave the army?
Vyacheslav Kaystro It was really hard. I spent nine months in the hospital. Waiting, getting fitted, then one prosthesis; then another. Realistically, I wouldn’t be able to do what I used to do. I can’t dig, or put on a prosthesis and run when there’s a combat alert. It just doesn’t work. I’m getting used to it every day, despite the pain.
Glib Stryzhko Tell me a little about what you’re up to these days, what brings you joy right now?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I was involved in sports all my life before the war: cycling, ping-pong, swimming. Then the war started, and I lost my leg… In the hospital, I was strongly supported by volunteers from Lviv, people from Dnipro, friends, and fellow soldiers. A close friend of mine, a tennis player, told me: “Come back to tennis.” I said: “Lena, what tennis? Look at me, I don’t even have a leg.” Then I was invited to the “Warriors’ Cup” while still in hospital. I went, played a bit here and there, and eventually thought: I can’t change what happened, but I have to keep living fully. I started playing again little by little, then applied for the Invictus Games and somehow made it into the national team, even though I never thought I would. About 380 people were at the selection camp, and I thought: only 35 make the team — no chance. While we were rowing on the Dnipro with other veterans, I got a call: I was in the team. My teammate sitting behind me in the boat made it too. After that everything changed. My life fully revolved around training camps: one after another. I’d travel, come back to Lviv to adjust my prosthesis, then leave again for the next camp. And that cycle continued until February, when we went to competitions in Canada. At first, I felt depressed. During war, I didn’t have to think much about what to do, I mainly thought about others. Same at the hospital: you don’t have to think, you lay there, get your food, your procedures. Then, the Invictus Games. Three years went like that. And then you end up in real life, and you don’t know what to do. Retirement. At least, when we were training for Canada, I had some sort of goal. After that, I felt like I was in a vacuum. You seem to be alright, you’re alive, but… this hit me hard. I’ve spent my whole life doing photography, especially wildlife photography, mostly birds. It was a mix of ornithology, birdwatching, and photo wildlife work. But during the war I completely shut it down. I even tried not to take photos on my phone, thinking: what if I photograph someone and something bad happens, like I “jinx” it. So I consciously stepped away from it. After I left service, I basically forced myself to pick up the camera again and go out and shoot, because when you do nothing, you stop wanting anything at all. That passion was always there, but I had turned it off. It was also psychologically hard, because my friends were still there. One of my closest comrades, now with Azov near Kramatorsk, writes every night about attacks and fighting. I worry about him, and there are more like him. And I just think: I go out to photograph birds in beautiful fields, while they’re still at war.
Glib Stryzhko But you said you’ve gone back to photography and are still taking pictures here and there. So, sports and photography are what bring you joy in life right now?
Vyacheslav Kaystro Exactly. I’ve gone back to photography full-time; I want to go out and take pictures, but I don’t exhibit them anywhere. I lost some of my physical abilities, but I try not to focus on that. It already happened—I won’t become someone else, the leg won’t grow back. Complaining about it feels pointless, especially when I’ve been in hospital and seen young guys with high amputations—some without one leg, some without both, some without arms. Compared to that, my situation isn’t what I’d call “hard.” It’s nothing. Later I went to visit my children in Norway, and there I forced myself to pick up the camera again. Then slowly, little by little, I started shooting again. I even took my camera to Canada. But there’s still a psychological barrier: I can’t publish photos the way I used to before 2022, because I can’t fully switch out of the war mindset. Before, I couldn’t even travel or look at anything properly—my thoughts were completely stuck in the war. I even had a frightening realization at the front once. After a hard day, sitting in a dugout, I lit a cigarette and thought: I actually like this. And that scared me, because moving through death, blood, destruction… and I was getting used to it. That sense of knowing exactly what to do, what’s flying where, where to run, where to lie down, where to shoot — that familiarity is dangerous. It creates a feeling of invincibility. My injury is the consequence of this.
Glib Stryzhko I’d like to go back to the time when you were in the military. Do you remember a moment during your service when you burst out laughing? What made you laugh?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I don’t think there was anything. When we had time, we would sit in the trenches with the guys and drink pu’er tea. Of course, there were funny moments, but not like that.
Glib Stryzhko Pu’er in the trenches? Fancy!
Vyacheslav Kaystro Not just that. In July 2022, we had a guy with the callsign d’Artagnan who had set up a coffee corner. Everything there is flying around, huge craters getting torn up, tanks shelling us for seven hours straight. And this guy had a little sign hanging up that said: “At D’Artagnan’s.” And he would brew coffee over trench candles. There were some interesting moments. When you asked, I realized I hadn’t even thought about it. You know, I spent a lot of time with animals, but in the army I blocked all of that out. But there was this little animal: a grey hamster, a very rare species. There’s almost no information about it. It’s wild, but calm and trusting, not really afraid of anything. The guys even had one in their dugout. And I was jealous:why do they have this grey hamster and I don’t? I’ve always been into animals. People would bring it to me: “Red, look.” I tried taking photos on my phone. But in my last dugout, the one I never returned to, the grey hamster showed up for me too. And I was like: this is happiness. I made it a little “home”: a box lid, some corn, nuts, dry food, whatever we had, bananas, cookies, like a little buffet. On the third day… the little bastard actually came.
Glib Stryzhko Like me, you’re a veteran who has left the service. How has your sense of joy changed since leaving the service? Has it increased, decreased, is it the same? Did you notice any changes? Did your approach to humor change?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I’ve always had a good sense of humor, that hasn’t changed, but mentally I’m still not fully back. Sometimes I dream about the war, wake up shouting. Still, almost everything gives me joy now. I see birds, I’m happy. I went to Kryvyi Rih to photograph birds, cutting through reeds to hide, carrying stones, building setups for a heron to sit. It was hard, it was hot, but it brought me joy. People don’t get it, ask me how I can lie in an ambush for six hours without moving — which by the way helped me a lot in war. But even that gave me something. Even discomfort, heat, insects in a tiny photo hide I built myself, it still brings me joy. I guess I’m someone who sees the glass half full. What really triggers me is how people get used to the war, how unaware they seem. The Russian language everywhere especially bothers me. I was in Poland recently, and almost everyone in line for the train to Kyiv was speaking Russian. This honestly upset me. I even snapped at a young guy in my train compartment. He greeted me in Russian, and I asked: “Are you a katsap?” (derogatory colloquial word for a Russian person). He said no, he was from Dnipro. And I just didn’t know what to say! That kind of thing really gets to me. Overall, it’s hard to feel joy when you read the news and stay in touch with people crushed by the war. Still, I keep going. Training in tennis, heading to competitions, planning new photo trips, looking for ideas.
Glib Stryzhko You mentioned your family lives in Norway, and you recently spent about a month in Canada. Do you feel more inner ease or happiness when you’re abroad, in a calmer environment without the constant war-related noise? Compared to Ukraine, are you happier in places like Canada or Norway?
Vyacheslav Kaystro Canada is impossible to compare, it was something extraordinary. I didn’t think about anything there, just immersed myself in the environment. The people, my team, they felt like family. I’ve lost close ones and comrades, but in return I got them. I know I could go anywhere in Ukraine, meet any of those guys, and they’d have my back. That experience was unreal. Norway is different. I spent a month there recently with my kids and grandson, but still wanted to come home. Even with all the frustrations here, it’s still home. I try to do what I can to change things, though a lot of people here and in Europe stay indifferent. Life there is calm, comfortable, no sirens, but you feel like an outsider. Honestly, my ideal now is simple: a house by the forest, some quiet, and friends, my comrades, visiting sometimes. City life isn’t for me anymore.
Glib Stryzhko You said Canada was very special. What exactly did you remember most?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I can’t single out one moment, there were too many. The whole experience was overwhelming: the scale, the competitions, the way people treated us, the incredible support. Maybe with time it’ll sort itself out, but for now it’s one continuous happy memory — from arrival to departure. Everything amazed me: the crowds, the attention to Ukraine, even small moments like trading jerseys after a match or training in Whistler with Canadian instructors. There was this street concert in Whistler. A local band was playing music, people were dancing, just pure energy. We joined in, laughing, having fun. And it was there I fell and crashed my helmet. Later on, my coach helped arrange a discount, but instead, a Ukrainian woman who’d lived in Canada for years simply gave me a brand-new one. I was stunned. The people there were incredible. Before, after leaving the hospital with a prosthetic, I used to hide it. Then I realized that people needed to see this. There are so many of us now, but others don’t notice. In Ukraine, people often just look past you, like the war isn’t there. But in Canada, even without showing the prosthetic, just wearing a “Ukraine” jacket, people would greet you, support you. In Stanley Park, strangers would come up just because they saw “Ukraine.” That kind of reaction… It makes you feel proud to be Ukrainian.
Glib Stryzhko Yes, that’s really beautiful. What has been the most unexpected joy in your life?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I don’t know. Joy… As I said, I used to travel and photograph animals all the time, looking for certain birds and animals. So, for me it is joy to shoot an entire series of a bird that you’ve been looking for for a decade. You look at the pictures, and you’re happy.
Glib Stryzhko Ilona showed me your calendar.
Vyacheslav Kaystro I was offered to do an exhibition before the war. There are many other great photographers, first of all. Second of all, I really want to do an exhibition. Maybe even a book. I can’t talk much about it right now, but I already have an idea. I have a friend from Lviv who writes beautiful poems. I want to create a book with her poems and my stories. I used to write short stories before the war, they were published in magazines. I used to ride a lot, mostly mountain biking. What gave me real joy was pushing myself: going up Ai-Petri for 18 kilometers without stopping, without getting off the bike. The first time you fail, and the next year you come back better prepared — and you make it. You’re riding loaded with bags and a backpack, it’s tough, steep climbs, switchbacks again and again. But I loved it. I even rode all around Crimea on my own, through the Arabat Spit and along the whole perimeter. You’re exhausted, soaked, covered in dirt, running on your last strength, but it brings this huge sense of joy. Reaching the top — that’s the feeling. When my grandson was born, that was joyful too!
Glib Stryzhko Is there someone in your life right now who makes you feel joy more deeply and brings you happiness?
Vyacheslav Kaystro Of course, many. Just seeing you makes me happy. I stay in touch with many people. For instance, a friend has recently written to me that they switched positions and are pulling out. I was so nervous. Then, he writes again. I’m nervous again. But he just invited me to come to Kyiv for his wedding in August! But again, my wife, my children.
Glib Stryzhko And now a quick final blitz. Short questions, short answers. Let’s go. What made you a bit happier today?
Vyacheslav Kaystro The thought that at 14:30 I’ll go practice serves, then maybe get some time in the gym to play table tennis. And tomorrow I might go out with my camera and try to photograph a night heron. Those thoughts make me happy.
Glib Stryzhko Nice, thank you. Do you remember the last time you laughed out loud?
Vyacheslav Kaystro Yes, when I was in Norway. My three-year-old grandson says the funniest things. Once I took off my prosthetic, and he just stared. Then he asked, “Grandpa, why don’t you have a leg?” I told him: “You know, I was on the good side, but there’s a dark side with some bad guys. I fought these bad guys and they cut it off.” Later he told his grandma: “Look, grandpa doesn’t have a leg, the bad guys cut it off. But he hopped to the store, bought a new one, and now he has two again.” That part, “he hopped to the store and bought a leg”, that really got me.
Glib Stryzhko Awesome. And the last two. What memory keeps you going during bad days?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I don’t know. I’m an optimistic person. As the Jewish saying goes, it’s never so bad that it can’t get worse, you know? So I try to find small good things, even in the hardest situations. I can’t point to one specific memory that keeps me going. There are tough days, but they pass — and then light comes back. I try to take it more calmly, philosophically. Of course you worry, you feel everything deeply. But it all ends at some point, and something new begins, something that might bring that long-awaited joy.
Glib Stryzhko What is joy like? Describe it in colors, shapes, or details. How do you imagine it?
Vyacheslav Kaystro I don’t know how to put it simply, joy is a mental state. For me, joy is when I leave the city and end up somewhere in the wild, in swamps, reeds, no people around, birds flying by, nature sounds, water flowing. No air raid sirens, just light and sky above you. That’s joy. And also the thought that my friend Petro Tymofiyovych is there by the car, and while I’m out hiding and trying to photograph something, he’ll be waiting for me with food, sandwiches, maybe even a couple of shots of horilka, when I come back exhausted. I already know I’ll have to get up at 3 a.m. again and I think: what if something interesting lands in the blind? That’s joy for me. Joy is life: when your loved ones, friends, comrades are okay. That’s probably it. But lately my anxiety has grown. It doesn’t really leave you, because you’re always waiting for something bad, because of the war.
