Visit To A Mariupol Hospital Lays Bare Ukraine War’s Toll

MARIUPOL, Ukraine -- In All Quiet on the Western Front, Erich Maria Remarque wrote: “A hospital alone shows what war is.” 
The hospital here is no exception.

The faces of soldiers, both young and old, recovering from wounds and sickness incurred on the front lines — located only eight miles away from here — speak to the innumerable contradictions of war.  

Some are smiling and joking, enjoying the camaraderie of being in open-bay recovery rooms with up to six of their comrades.

They sing patriotic Ukrainian songs like they’re in the stands at a soccer game.

Yet others, even while surrounded by fellow soldiers, stare ahead numbly.

Eyes fixed on the cracking off-white paint of the tired Soviet hospital’s walls, or out the window at the grey, rainy day; the sounds of artillery rolling through like thunder.

They’re not looking at anything in particular, their minds locked in another time and place.

Some are angry.

They frown and look away when asked questions or become defensive when photos are taken of them. 
“No photo, no photo,” they say, wagging their fingers disapprovingly.

And some are proud.

They smile for the camera but insist they be given time to put on their uniforms and show off their unit patches.

It takes a few minutes for those with serious injuries to slip on their jackets as they gingerly work around bullet or shrapnel wounds.

But the proud ones are eager to oblige.

This day is special, after all, for the nearly 50 Ukrainian soldiers at the Mariupol hospital.

Surprise Guests 

On this rainy early April evening four women from the city have come to bring the soldiers warm meals and sweets.

It was their first time personally interacting with the soldiers sent to defend their city, and the reactions of Tamara and Margarita Oksanichenko, Helen Popova, and Valeriya Korneva to the wounded men highlight the evolving relationship between Mariupol’s citizens and the soldiers sent to defend them.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” Margarita Oksanichenko said.
“But they have such kind eyes. They look so young, so innocent.”

“We had to do something,” Korneva said.

“We wanted to show them that people in Mariupol appreciate what they’re doing for us.”

“Plus, they need a mom to check in on them,” she added.

“They’re just like all boys.”

Upon entering the hospital, the women disrupted the status quo.

They were talkative and noisy; their conversations bounced off the worn-out tile and linoleum floors, carrying down the dimly lit hallways.

They earned annoyed scorns from hospital staff, who, still abiding by strict rules of procedure dating from the Soviet era, were displeased with groups of visitors roaming through the halls handing out goodies.

One nurse, an older woman wearing a stained blue and white uniform and white cap, initially told the women they weren’t allowed to see the troops.

She eventually relented, though, after the smell of home-cooked food attracted a few nearby soldiers who offered to act as guides.

One of those soldiers was Vladimir—nom de guerre “Zahar”—a medic from the Azov Regiment.
He distributed plastic booties—most of which were caked in dirt and worn through in the soles—for the women to wear over their shoes.

“We have to be careful of spreading infection,” he explained.

As Vladimir talked with the women, he cradled a Kalashnikov assault rifle in his tattoo-covered hands.

He had a full beard and thin piercing eyes, as well as the standard Azov Regiment haircut: hair closely cropped on the sides, combed forward on top.

He spoke about combat in a quiet, understated way, as if no part of what he had experienced was all that remarkable.

“Medics are very important soldiers on the battlefield,” he said, while pointing out that he was also an infantryman.

“And we have to do a lot of shooting too.”

He said individual first-aid kits donated by volunteers in the United States and Canada had improved the survivability of wounded soldiers.

“One medic can now take care of 10 people,” he said.
He also said NATO instructors had visited the units in Mariupol, training the Ukrainians in self-aid, giving them the skills to dress their own wounds without relying on a medic.

But the biggest challenge was getting the soldiers off the battlefield and into medical care quickly.

Without the possibility of helicopter medevacs due to the surface-to-air missile threat, and with armored vehicles at a premium, battlefield evacuations are often done in donated civilian cars.

Some Mariupol residents have even volunteered to ferry wounded from the battlefield, braving heavy weapons attacks in old Ladas and Hyundai hatchbacks.

‘So Proud’ 

Vladimir led the women to the first room, where four soldiers lay in bed.

The two men nearest to the door both sat up when the chit-chatty group of women burst in.

The two in the beds at the far end by the window were covered in bandages and casts and could only curiously raise their heads at the unexpected spectacle.


The room was dimly lit, humid and had the musty smell of clothes and sheets that hadn’t been washed in a while.

As if walking into a breaking wave, the demeanor of the women changed the moment they passed the threshold of the door into the room.

A hush fell over the group.

Since last summer, more than 1,000 soldiers have been deployed to Mariupol to defend the city of half a million residents from a separatist attack.

But the soldiers have mostly stuck to their barracks at the Mariupol airport, or out at the defensive perimeter of trenches and hardened positions built around the city like a fortress wall.

Last April’s separatist takeover of Mariupol has some Ukrainian commanders worried about inadvertently sparking an incident that might reignite civil unrest.

Soldiers, therefore, spend very little time interacting with civilians and are infrequently seen on Mariupol’s streets.

Military convoys zip through town, mostly at night, avoiding stops as much as possible.

The Ukrainian military’s sparse footprint inside Mariupol is also meant to spare civilian casualties if the separatists launch an all-out attack on the city.

“We have two priorities: Defend the city and save the population,” said Ukrainian National Guard Capt. Ruslaw Muzychuk in an earlier interview.

“Our positions are on the outside of the city because we don’t want to draw fire on civilians.”  

Consequently, like most people in Mariupol, the four women had hardly interacted with any of the soldiers sent to defend them.

Except at checkpoints where the soldiers are armed and edgy, and usually wearing a balaclava to conceal their identity.

Now they were up close with the men, who were no longer standing tall in their uniforms with weapons slung over their shoulders, but lying helpless in a hospital bed in plaid flannel pajamas.

The women handed out food to the soldiers.

And then, one by one, the women began to cry.

The four soldiers, only days removed from the gritty battle for Shyrokyne, seemed shy and reserved, showing the dutiful respect a young man might show his mother.

The two who could sit upright had their hands folded on their laps.

The women, for their part, slipped into familiar habits.

Korneva, 49, (who has two grown sons) sat beside Oleg—nom de guerre “Sukhar’”—a red-bearded Azov soldier in his early twenties who was wounded near Shyrokyne.

As he talked, Korneva put one hand on his knee and used the other to wipe tears from her eyes.

“We’re so proud of you boys,” she said.

“But you need to eat more.”

Oleg’s battlefield nickname comes from the Russian word for a piece of dry bread.

He said he got the name from his friends because he worked in a bakery before joining the regiment.

He was anxious to get back to fighting.

“We will go back soon,” he said.

“There’s too much work ahead to sit around much longer.”

Another Azov soldier in the room, Artur—nom de guerre “Gimli” (after the dwarf warrior from Lord of the Rings, whom his friends think he resembles)—said it was “pleasant” to see the women there.  

When asked how the hospital food was, Artur replied, “Normal, OK.”

He then segued into a conversation about how much better American MREs were than Ukrainian battlefield rations, eliciting enthusiastic nods from the other soldiers.

Quesadillas with cheese were his favorite.

Led by Vladimir, the women went from room to room in the hospital, delivering food, and taking a moment to chat with each soldier.

Some of the wounded seemed like they were hardly hurt at all, standing upright, pacing in their rooms.

One soldier even picked up Korneva in a big bear hug.

But other injuries were less concealed.

A 22-year-old Finnish soldier from the Azov Regiment was wheeled into one of the rooms as the women chatted.

A nurse lifted him into bed.

He had only been in Ukraine for a month before artillery shrapnel tore into his legs in Shyrokyne.

He was adamant that his name not be used or his photo taken.

He wasn’t scared of the enemy discovering his identity, only that his mother back in Finland would find out he was fighting in Ukraine and become worried.

“I wasn’t lucky to get hurt so soon,” he said.

“But when I get better I want to get back to the fight.”

In one room, which was relatively spacious with only three soldiers occupying it, an intelligence officer from the Donbas Battalion named Igor—nom de guerre “Monolit”—pulled out his cell-phone and flipped through photos of him and his men on the front lines in Shyrokyne.

He was particularly proud of a photo of him holding a sniper rifle.

The women crowded around to see.

Lying in bed as Igor showed his photos was Vadim—nom de guerre “Bird”—a machine gunner for the Donbas Battalion who was bald and looked older than most of the soldiers.

He had been shot through the lower back.

He didn’t want to give his last name, but he wasn’t shy about being photographed.

He painfully sat up and put on his uniform jacket for a picture, insisting that the Donbas Battalion patch be visible.

“We are fighting for our motherland and no enemy will pass,” Vadim said as the photo was taken.

Afterward he painstakingly took off his jacket and got back in bed, lying on his uninjured side.

‘Come and See’ the Soldiers 

Room after room the women delivered their meals.

As they wandered the hallways, curious faces poked out from doorways, and frowning nurses stood at intervals along the walls with arms crossed.

The men they visited were from a patchwork of military units, underscoring the cobbled-together defense of the city.

They were from the regular Ukrainian army, marines, special forces, National Guard, and civilian volunteer battalions like Azov and Donbas, which have only recently been incorporated into the Ukrainian National Guard.

The men were mostly young, usually in their early to mid-twenties.

Although, there were a few men in their thirties and forties.

Vladimir spoke proudly about the women who served as medics in some of the units, declaring they were just as brave as the men and fierce fighters in their own right.

But there were no injured women in the hospital on this day.

Near the end of the visit, the women stopped in a room that held six soldiers.

They were a mix of National Guard and Ukrainian marines.

And there was one older man at the back of the room smoking a cigarette.

He wore all black and had on black leather cowboy boots.

He said he was from an intelligence unit, but declined to give more details.

The room was packed with both men and stuff—uniforms and bags of personal items were scattered around in piles.

The soldiers were thankful for the visit and the food, and they joined the women in singing the Ukrainian national anthem.

One of the National Guard soldiers, who declined to give his name, said he was relieved to see that kind of support from the local population.

A few days ago he had been turned away from a café downtown because he was in uniform.

“They told us we had brought the war here,” he said.

Mariupol is a divided town.

According to an October 2014 poll conducted by New Mariupol, a pro-Ukraine civic group, 75 percent of the city’s nearly 500,000 residents support remaining a part of Ukraine, while 25 percent support separating and becoming part of Russia (many of those in Mariupol who support separating from Kiev see joining Russia as the best alternative, not forming or joining a breakaway republic).

Although, in private conversations and around dinner tables many people in Mariupol admit that the percentage of people who want to split from Kiev is much higher, perhaps even the majority.

“But those are the people who are just waiting for help,” said Popova, a university professor.

“They aren’t very active politically, and not likely to be out protesting. They think Russia will come and fix all their problems.”

Mariupol’s divided loyalties (provoked by Russian propaganda and intelligence operatives, some residents claim) spurred an uprising that began in April 2014, in which separatists briefly took over the city.

The Ukrainian military re-established control in May after weeks of deadly skirmishes that left the city administration building and police headquarters in ruins and at least 50 people dead.

Pro-separatist leaders claimed the number killed was much higher, a charge Kiev denies.

Since last year’s uprising, Mariupol has remained a key objective for the separatists.

Their stated reasons for taking the city range from establishing a land connection from Russia to the breakaway region of Crimea, to remaking Novorossiya, an allusion to the 18th century Russian empire of Catherine the Great.

When the four women left the hospital, their conversation was notably more subdued than when they had entered.

For them, up until this point, the evidence of war had mostly been its sounds.

Now the visual evidence of broken young bodies and the distant looks on some of the soldier’s faces offered the women more poignant proof of the sacrifices made by those sent to defend them.

As the women left the hospital, stepping out in the quickly darkening dusk sky and light rain, Popova said, “I wish everyone in Mariupol would have to come and see these soldiers. Then maybe they’d think twice about the war.”

Ukraine Conflict Enters Second Year – And Death Toll Keeps Climbing

DONETSK, Ukraine -- The road between the last Ukrainian checkpoint and separatist-controlled Donetsk is desolate. 
Empty, wet fields line the crumbling road, which is sporadically marked with handmade signs whose painted red skulls warn of the unexploded land mines in open areas between the territories.

The first checkpoint of the self-proclaimed Donetsk People’s Republic comes into view, easily distinguished by the red, blue and black striped flag that struggles to remain attached to its makeshift moorings in the wind and rain.

It’s been a year since the pro-Russian rebels declared their independence from Ukraine.

While Ukraine — like the rest of the international community, with the exception of the Republic of South Ossetia, a partially recognized state in the South Caucasus — does not recognize the self-styled entity, it does stamp the passports of foreigners transiting from Ukraine into rebel-held territory.

Cars slow down and wait to be searched at the first checkpoint of the insurgents.

The heavily guarded, deeply trenched spot forms part of the frontline between the separatists and the Ukrainian army.

“Hello from Moscow!” A young militiamen shouts.

He laughs, raising and opening his arms wide and stumbling backward slightly.
His face is red from the stinging-cold air, and presumably also from the strong potato vodka he exhales with every breath.

He waves the car forward, into the Russian-backed, separatist-controlled region.

The streets of Donetsk, like the shelves of its grocery stores, are mostly empty.

Only a handful of restaurants remain open in the city, which is now cut off from the rest of Ukraine.

The remaining restaurants, along with the banks, clothing stores, movie theaters, markets, shopping malls and other commerce, closed over the past year as residents fled the frequent shelling throughout the city.

More than 6,000 people have died in the year-long conflict.

To the residents who remained in Donetsk the current cease-fire, which was announced at the end of January, is a dark joke.

Shelling can be heard on the city’s outskirts daily, as insurgents and the Ukrainian army exchange sporadic fire.

Abdelsattar Nassar, a cafe owner who moved to Donetsk four years ago, says he hears the shelling every day.
He says that in the early days of the fighting he tried to flee, but he simply can’t afford to close shop and leave, as many of his neighbors have done.

The cost of living in safe Ukrainian cities, such as the capital, Kiev, has gone up threefold in the year since the war began, Nassar tells Haaretz.

In Donetsk he at least has a roof over his head, if he fled he would be living on the street, he says. “I fear for my children every day in this city,” Nassar says, gazing out of the window of his cafe.

“They say there is a cease-fire, but what cease-fire? We see and hear the bombs every day.”
While both sides were supposed to remove heavy artillery from the frontlines at the start of the last cease-fire, each accuses the other of simply shuffling the armaments around.

Alexander Hug, the deputy chief monitor with the Ukraine mission of the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, says neither side is cooperating with the agency’s investigation of compliance with the demand.

“By now both sides of the conflict should have withdrawn their heavy weapons,” Hug said.

“However the OSCE’s special monitoring mission has been unable to verify a credible withdraw because of a lack of cooperation from both sides.”

While the cease-fire is still holding on paper, violations are common, “mainly in and around the airport area of Donetsk and east of Mariupol,” Hug said.

Nassar says it is these violations that frighten him.

He believes the situation is only weeks away from another escalation.

His cafe, in the heart of the city, is filled with dubious-looking separatist fighters.
They can do whatever they want in this city now, Nassar says, there is no law in Donetsk anymore.  

Outside of the city center, in the Kievsky district, the true dimensions of the destruction wreaked by the conflict are evident.

There are houses that have been leveled, their roofs torn off, and cars reduced to blackened shells.

The few homes and business the war has left untouched are shuttered, abandoned.

Kievsky is also called the airport district.

The city’s adjacent airport lies in ruins.

The site of fierce battles between rebel and government forces in May, October and January, it was closed to civilian air traffic in May.

In late January the insurgents wrested control of the complex from the Ukrainian armed forces in a particularly bloody battle.

The district’s civilian Hospital No. 21 was not spared from shelling.

There is a large gaping hole in the roof of the main building, evidence of a mortar round that smashed through the structure several months ago.
Shattered glass from blown-out windows lies on the ground outside.

The hospital corridors are dark and cold — the power is out — and the pharmacy’s shelves are bare, but patients still come to be treated by members of the medical staff who have not received a salary in months.

Alekseyenko Aleksandrovich, the head of the hospital’s surgery department, is one such physician.

As the low booms of shelling echo through the building, followed soon after by quick bursts of artillery fire, Aleksandrovich tells Haaretz that the situation in the hospital is approaching critical level.

Medical supplies are running dangerously low, and repairs to restore electricity and heating are needed desperately.

“A lot of shells have hit the hospital. Shrapnel has hit my office several times, some has even hit the pediatric ward,” the surgeon says.

“We have limited amounts of medical supplies and food for our patients.”

Hospital No. 21’s situation is not unique in Donetsk.

Medicine shortages and ruined medical facilities are commonplace in the separatist-controlled territory, according to Doctors Without Borders.
The aid organization is trying to fill in the gaps.

The city receives no medical supplies from the Ukrainian government.

Donetsk’s remaining residents are suffering, Aleksandrovich says, whether they were injured in the war or need medical care for preexisting conditions.

Aleksandrovich says he expects the body count to rise significantly over the following weeks and months.

The cease-fire is failing, he says, but the hospital and its staff will do whatever they can to help the people who remain in the city.

“We are ready for emergencies, we have additional operating rooms in the basements. The surgeons and the nurses are ready for anything,” Aleksandrovich says.

Why A Russian Decided To Fight For Ukraine

MARIUPOL, Ukraine -- Even while speaking through a translator, Andrey is a man of few words. When asked why he defected from Russia to join a Ukrainian National Guard regiment, the 22-year-old Muscovite simply replied: “Common sense.” 
After an assurance that his face would not be photographed or his last name used, Andrey opened up, explaining in more detail why it was such a logical decision to leave behind his life in Moscow to fight pro-Russian separatists—who, he claimed, his native country is both arming and sending troops to support.

Sitting at the cafeteria in the Azov Regiment’s camp in Mariupol only minutes before leaving for the front lines, Andrey talked about life in Russia under what he called the “Putin regime.”

Andrey described a repressive political environment in Moscow fueled by government-run propaganda and fear.

“Many young people in Russia who have common sense understand they have been deceived by Putin,” he said between sips of tea, casually leaning back in his chair with his Kalashnikov assault rifle propped against the table.

“I have a brain, but there are also many young people who have been brainwashed by the propaganda.”

“There are more of us,” he added.

“Putin is afraid of a Russian Maidan.”

Two brushes with the “Putin regime” and its repressive tactics ultimately spurred Andrey to leave Russia.

The first happened after he witnessed pro-reform protestors handing out flyers in the Moscow metro.

Even though he was just a passerby, Andrey said he was forcibly taken into custody and interrogated by a group of four men who never revealed for which agency they worked.

“They said they just wanted to have a talk,” he said.  
The second instance was at a government-sanctioned peace march in Moscow, in which Andrey was participating to protest Russia’s involvement in the Ukraine conflict.

He said police began beating protestors without provocation.

“Their crime? They were just holding signs,” he said.

Fed up with life in Russia and with no substantial opposition party or movement to join, Andrey said he did “what any sensible man would do.”

He left Russia to fight for Ukraine as a member of the Ukrainian National Guard Azov Regiment.

The Ukraine war has drawn fighters from around the world.

Loose government oversight over civilian volunteer battalions opened a pathway for foreign fighters from countries including the United States, France, Germany, Norway, Sweden, Georgia, Poland, Spain, the Czech Republic, the United Kingdom, Croatia, Italy and Canada to join the ranks of pro-Ukrainian units with virtually no red tape.

There is even a Chechen volunteer battalion fighting for Ukraine named after Dzhokhar Dudayev, the Chechen rebel leader who led a war against Russia in the 1990s.

But recruitment rules were tightened after a push by Kiev to incorporate volunteer battalions into the National Guard, sending many foreign fighters home.

Although, according to an Azov Regiment spokesman, a new law has removed Ukrainian citizenship as a requirement for joining the National Guard.

Unlike the majority of foreign fighters in Ukraine for whom returning home is an option, Andrey said he will never go back to Russia.

“They will never forgive me,” he said.

“I will be persecuted.”
Andrey, however, wasn’t worried about Russian authorities retaliating against his family in Moscow.

In fact, with the exception of his grandmother, he said his family generally supported his decision to leave.

“My grandma went through the Stalin times and it’s difficult to convince her that Putin isn’t right,” he said.

“She watches Russian news and is terrified by what they tell her is going on in Ukraine. It’s all lies of course.”

Years of exposure to Russian propaganda also distorted Andrey’s perception of Ukraine before his arrival.

He wondered whether the country had truly been taken over by Nazis and far-right groups as Russian media reports had claimed, or if the Ukrainian war effort was actually a front for NATO expansionism as Russian media sites had also reported.

“Of course it’s all a lie,” he said.

“When I got here, I realized the situation was totally different.”

One of the key differences was the military training and firepower of the separatists.

“We are not fighting coal miners and tractor drivers, we are fighting trained professional soldiers,” he said, referring to Putin’s characterization of the separatists on Russian TV.  

“And where do these so-called tractor drivers and coal miners buy grenade launchers?” he added.

“From a supermarket?”

Following the interview, Andrey left for the front lines near Shyrokyne, a small town about eight miles east of Mariupol.
His mission that day was to film evidence of separatists using heavy weapons in violation of the Feb. 12 cease-fire agreement.

He said he doesn’t get scared anymore before going to the front lines.

While at the front, amid the constant sounds of mortars, artillery and small arms, he appeared calm, displaying the muted reaction to danger common to soldiers who have spent much time in combat.  

When separatists’ heavy weapons ignited a fire in a residential area, sending up plumes of smoke, he climbed to the roof of the house being used as the Azov Regiment’s combat outpost for a better vantage point from which to film the damage.

He leaned around a corner, exposing himself to potential sniper fire, and filmed.

Asked earlier what he was fighting for in Ukraine, Andrey succinctly replied:

“Justice.”

Responding to a follow-on question, he added:

“For Ukraine.”

Putin's Ukraine Gamble Has Largely Paid Off For The Kremlin

MOSCOW, Russia -- A year since the start of the fighting in eastern Ukraine, Vladimir Putin may not have emerged the winner in his showdown with the West but he has not lost either, analysts say. 
By supporting Ukrainian separatists, they say, he took a huge risk but it largely paid off as it allowed him to punish Kiev's pro-Western authorities for seeking to turn their back on Russia and stand up to the West.

Most importantly for the Kremlin, the annexation of Crimea and support for fellow Russian speakers in Ukraine's east have given a huge boost to Putin's popularity ratings at home.

According to a February study from the Levada Centre independent polling group, the number of people who want Putin to seek a fourth term in 2018 has more than doubled to 57 percent since December 2013.

"What Putin wanted was clear a year ago -- he wanted a blocking stake in Ukraine or -- the next best option -- a manageable conflict," Nikolai Petrov, a professor at the Higher School of Economics, told AFP.

"To a large degree the Kremlin has achieved what it wanted."

Ukraine marks the first anniversary of the start of the conflict in a hugely demoralised state with its economy shattered and NATO membership a very distant, if not impossible, prospect.

"They managed to keep Ukraine out of NATO because it is struggling with two unresolved territorial disputes," Alexander Baunov, a senior associate at the Carnegie Moscow Center, told AFP.
If Putin gambled that the West would not move to burn all its bridges with Russia nor engage the former Cold War foe militarily, he was right.

While Washington has been vocal in its assertion that Moscow has been sending troops over the border to buttress Ukrainian separatists, it has held off on supplying Kiev with lethal weapons over fears of escalation.

Economy-wise, the US and European Union have forged a united front, slapping Russia with several rounds of sanctions, but decided against radical measures like cutting Moscow off from the SWIFT banking system.

Russia has withstood the blow, and the government recently declared that the worst was over for the recession-hit economy.

After a shock slump late last year, the Russian ruble has recently rebounded following a lull in fighting in Ukraine and the steadying of oil prices.

Economists have forecast stagnation over the next few years but naysayers predicting imminent financial collapse have been floored.

In a sign that Putin may be getting ready to break out of Western isolation, he is considering whether to travel to New York to speak at the 70th session of the UN General Assembly this fall, the Kremlin said.

It would be his first UN visit over the past 10 years.
Such a move would have appeared unimaginable several months ago when Putin appeared crushed under the weight of international condemnation when a Malaysia Airlines Boeing came down over rebel-held Ukraine, killing all 298 people on board.

The West and Kiev claim that Moscow-backed rebels shot the jet out of the skies by mistake, with a missile provided by Russia.

In a bid to counter raging accusations that he was personally guilty, an ashen-faced Putin recorded an unprecedented nighttime video address, urging the West and Kiev not to exploit the tragedy for political gains.

But as a shaky truce appears to be taking hold in Ukraine, Russia has apparently managed to put the worst of the fallout behind it.

That may explain Putin's jokey mood at the triumphant celebrations marking one year since the takeover of Crimea last month when he quipped that Russia "will overcome the difficulties that we have so easily created for ourselves."

'Putin will not back off' 

To a large extent, Putin has been lucky, after rushing into the confrontation with the West without a well-thought-out plan, observers said.

"There was a set of tasks and Napoleon's famous maxim, 'On s'engage et puis on voit' (Let's jump into the fray and then figure out what to do next)," Konstantin Kalachev, head of the Political Expert Group think tank, said of the president's attitude.

Even if his tactics have often defied comprehension, Putin has made his message abundantly clear: the West should understand that a new, post-Soviet Russia is a force to be reckoned with.

"Putin will neither give up nor back off," Dmitry Trenin, director of the Carnegie Moscow Center, wrote in a recent report.  
"Moscow will continue to defy US global hegemony and act in its own self-interest, guided by its own set of values and without seeking prior US or EU approval."

The fighting has exacted a huge human toll. According to official statistics, more than 6,000 people have died in eastern Ukraine since last April, and human rights activists say scores of Russian troops sent over the border have also perished in the ex-Soviet country.

Ties between ordinary Russians and Ukrainians have also been torn apart, with observers saying years -- if not decades -- will be needed to heal the rift.

While the fighting has largely died down, an end to the Ukrainian crisis is nowhere in sight.

"The crisis is dragging on through inertia, which is dangerous," said Petrov of the Higher School of Economics.

"It has become a necessity to a large number of people."