s the war against Ukraine grinds into its 18th month, the public’s attention is waning. What was near-continuous front-page news has slowly moved from above to below the fold, and on to pages further back. Policy discussions have become increasingly clinical, reflecting decreasing interest. Ukraine’s alleged counteroffensive was barely 48 hours old before pundits and analysts began questioning whether it had stalled or failed. Stories of Russia’s repeated war crimes and purposeful targeting of both civilians and civil infrastructure are met, at best, with 30-second stories on the nightly news. This is, perhaps, inevitable. Public attention, both driven by and reflected by the media, wanes over time as fatigue sets in and other stories become more interesting.
That is a luxury enjoyed in the West and not shared by those on the front lines of Russia’s war of aggression. In his book “The War Came to Us,” Financial Times reporter Christopher Miller brings the war and its impact on Ukraine’s people back to the front page, sparing no details, and in so doing provides one of the best and most insightful narrative histories yet published of the war against Ukraine.
Divided into roughly three sections, Miller’s book details his first experiences with Ukraine through the Peace Corps as he fell in love with the country and its people, before turning to the events leading up to the Euromaidan protests and the illegal annexation of Crimea in 2014. He closes his book with the outbreak of Russia’s expanded invasion of Ukraine. Omitting the period between the opening of hostilities in Donbas and the immediate run-up to Moscow’s “special military operation” may seem odd. Quite a lot happened in those roughly eight years including efforts to end the violence through the failed Minsk I and II accords. Miller’s decision to do so is, however, rather inspired. In shifting the focus from 2014 directly to 2022, from a sort of “phony war” in the West’s view to undeniable outright war, he clearly shows the conflicts are one and the same. The “special military operation” is not a new war; it is merely the continuation of events in 2014.
For policymakers this may be self-evident. This is certainly true for historians, as well. Yet for the lay reader, that connection is more tenuous. The events of 2014 certainly happened. Euromaidan led to the ignominious departure of President Viktor Yanukovych. Russia’s “polite people” or “little green men” did occupy and illegally annex Crimea. The now-arrested mercenary entrepreneur, Igor Girkin, hoped to replicate the success of Crimea in Donbas and fomented an insurrection in Eastern Ukraine. Russian-backed and -armed separatists did shoot down flight MH-17, murdering 298 people. All these events and more took place, but for most people these are simply distant memories or individual points on a timeline.
Plenty of recent histories have provided a coherent temporal connection between the events of 2014 and 2022, but few have done so as viscerally as Miller. His on-the-ground reporting, which spares few details, offers a human face to those events. This is not a book about high politics or the grandees of Kyiv, Moscow, Washington, or London. The main characters of this book are not Volodymyr Zelenskyy, Vladimir Putin, Joe Biden, or Boris Johnson. While all make appearances and are critical to the story, they are bit players to the Ukrainians fighting and dying on the ground. The Ukrainians are the main characters. This is their story.
This distinction is important. Amid coverage of weapons systems, negotiated settlements, offensives, counter-offensives, and politics, the human face of Ukraine is often omitted. In these tellings there are, of course, the tragic stories of love and loss, life, and death—the horrific accounts of missile and bomb attacks across the country. These treat Ukrainians as victims, which they are, but it is a voyeuristic treatment, as if they are merely participants. The actors in foreign capitals appear to be the real characters of the story.
There is also an element of political theater and information warfare in the common portrayal of this war that has not been previously seen. The Ukrainian government has conducted a masterclass on propaganda and information operations against Russia, but just as importantly against the West. It may be passe to articulate it as such, but it is a fact that Kyiv and Zelenskyy have planned, executed, and sustained the active cultivation and manipulation of Western perspectives of the conflict. This is not surprising and is part and parcel of modern warfare, even if it is slightly uncomfortable to consider.
Ukraine’s inspiring propaganda videos portray its citizens and soldiers, rightly, as heroic, and brave, standing up to Russian aggression. By owning the narrative, Ukraine’s government avoids cliches and false characterizations that would risk undermining Western support for Ukraine. This, then, is partially why in some ways the war appears “clean” (though it is anything but), especially one year on into the conflict. This is not to discount the horrific war crimes, willful and purposeful targeting of civilians, ecological genocide, and battlefield losses—far from it; it is to suggest that what is seen online and in public is far more curated than the public appreciates. In a way, this too removes agency from the Ukrainians themselves, making them simply props in an extended pantomime necessary for Western political audiences.
In his book, Miller returns agency to the Ukrainians by showing them not just as victims but as survivors and actors in command of their own destiny, even if it is in their small portion of a wider war. These are the stories of the people who took to the streets of Kyiv to protest the Yanukovych regime and stand against the government’s violence in 2014. These are stories of illegal coal miners and people in Donbas not enamored with Kyiv, but not in love with Moscow, either. These are the men and women who took up arms to defend their country in the face of Russia’s expanded war in February 2022. These are the stories of the explosive ordnance disposal teams who attempted to undo the damage strewn across the country by Russia and the figures who attempted to retrieve the bodies of those lost, to give their families peace and a proper burial.
Such nuance and insight are not just of literary value. They provide granularity to what are inherently complex stories. Yes, there are some elements that are clear cut and morally black and white: Russia did illegally annex Crimea in 2014 and invade Donbas, and it expanded its war in February 2022. Of that only the most ardent propagandists disagree. But the complex sweep of history and politics tends to be reductionist, and in that reductionism, lost nuance means the loss of the full story and greater understanding.
Zelensky’s heroism is now unquestioned, but he was not always a universally loved figure, and there is nothing to guarantee he won’t face a Winston Churchill-like exit once the war is over. The pressures that saw many in Eastern Ukraine either disinclined toward Kyiv or partially inclined toward Russia have not gone away. How Kyiv deals with those people if and when it retakes the territory could presage a resumption of hostilities in the long run. The underlying challenges and economic disparities have only grown: how will the Donbas recover to its pre-war levels let alone flourish as coal is no longer an attractive export? Each of these stories are too often papered over or conveniently ignored at a macro level, but on-the-ground accounts like Miller’s expose those bits and pieces in a vivid and necessary manner.
“The War Came to Us” manages to show readers the Ukrainian forest by showing it the trees: the people. Miller likely didn’t set out to write a comprehensive history of the war against Ukraine, but he managed to do so, nonetheless. It is akin to unintentional learning from a teacher who conveys a complex lesson over the course of a lecture indirectly, through stories, anecdotes, or even memes. This type of story and lesson stays with you far longer than rote learning.
Miller’s book may well become one of the best Western books on Ukraine precisely because of what it is not—it is not another history seeking to put the war in Ukraine in some grander scope. It is also not a book that attempts to divine what Putin was thinking or how Ukraine fits within his warped, ahistorical worldview. It is not a book about the West and NATO’s response to the war. There are superb books on each of these subjects, many of which have been reviewed in the pages of this journal. Yet, Miller manages to address all these things precisely by not addressing them. That is as impressive a journalistic feat as could be achieved in this febrile environment.
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On the Front Lines with the Ukrainian People
Downtown Kyiv, Ukraine. Photo by Glib Albovsky on Unsplash
August 5, 2023
Interest in the war in Ukraine has wained in recent months, but those in Ukraine don't have the luxury of losing interest. In his latest book, Christopher Miller brings the war and its impact on Ukraine's people back to the fore by telling the stories of Ukrainians themselves, writes Joshua Huminski
A
s the war against Ukraine grinds into its 18th month, the public’s attention is waning. What was near-continuous front-page news has slowly moved from above to below the fold, and on to pages further back. Policy discussions have become increasingly clinical, reflecting decreasing interest. Ukraine’s alleged counteroffensive was barely 48 hours old before pundits and analysts began questioning whether it had stalled or failed. Stories of Russia’s repeated war crimes and purposeful targeting of both civilians and civil infrastructure are met, at best, with 30-second stories on the nightly news. This is, perhaps, inevitable. Public attention, both driven by and reflected by the media, wanes over time as fatigue sets in and other stories become more interesting.
That is a luxury enjoyed in the West and not shared by those on the front lines of Russia’s war of aggression. In his book “The War Came to Us,” Financial Times reporter Christopher Miller brings the war and its impact on Ukraine’s people back to the front page, sparing no details, and in so doing provides one of the best and most insightful narrative histories yet published of the war against Ukraine.
Divided into roughly three sections, Miller’s book details his first experiences with Ukraine through the Peace Corps as he fell in love with the country and its people, before turning to the events leading up to the Euromaidan protests and the illegal annexation of Crimea in 2014. He closes his book with the outbreak of Russia’s expanded invasion of Ukraine. Omitting the period between the opening of hostilities in Donbas and the immediate run-up to Moscow’s “special military operation” may seem odd. Quite a lot happened in those roughly eight years including efforts to end the violence through the failed Minsk I and II accords. Miller’s decision to do so is, however, rather inspired. In shifting the focus from 2014 directly to 2022, from a sort of “phony war” in the West’s view to undeniable outright war, he clearly shows the conflicts are one and the same. The “special military operation” is not a new war; it is merely the continuation of events in 2014.
For policymakers this may be self-evident. This is certainly true for historians, as well. Yet for the lay reader, that connection is more tenuous. The events of 2014 certainly happened. Euromaidan led to the ignominious departure of President Viktor Yanukovych. Russia’s “polite people” or “little green men” did occupy and illegally annex Crimea. The now-arrested mercenary entrepreneur, Igor Girkin, hoped to replicate the success of Crimea in Donbas and fomented an insurrection in Eastern Ukraine. Russian-backed and -armed separatists did shoot down flight MH-17, murdering 298 people. All these events and more took place, but for most people these are simply distant memories or individual points on a timeline.
Plenty of recent histories have provided a coherent temporal connection between the events of 2014 and 2022, but few have done so as viscerally as Miller. His on-the-ground reporting, which spares few details, offers a human face to those events. This is not a book about high politics or the grandees of Kyiv, Moscow, Washington, or London. The main characters of this book are not Volodymyr Zelenskyy, Vladimir Putin, Joe Biden, or Boris Johnson. While all make appearances and are critical to the story, they are bit players to the Ukrainians fighting and dying on the ground. The Ukrainians are the main characters. This is their story.
This distinction is important. Amid coverage of weapons systems, negotiated settlements, offensives, counter-offensives, and politics, the human face of Ukraine is often omitted. In these tellings there are, of course, the tragic stories of love and loss, life, and death—the horrific accounts of missile and bomb attacks across the country. These treat Ukrainians as victims, which they are, but it is a voyeuristic treatment, as if they are merely participants. The actors in foreign capitals appear to be the real characters of the story.
There is also an element of political theater and information warfare in the common portrayal of this war that has not been previously seen. The Ukrainian government has conducted a masterclass on propaganda and information operations against Russia, but just as importantly against the West. It may be passe to articulate it as such, but it is a fact that Kyiv and Zelenskyy have planned, executed, and sustained the active cultivation and manipulation of Western perspectives of the conflict. This is not surprising and is part and parcel of modern warfare, even if it is slightly uncomfortable to consider.
Ukraine’s inspiring propaganda videos portray its citizens and soldiers, rightly, as heroic, and brave, standing up to Russian aggression. By owning the narrative, Ukraine’s government avoids cliches and false characterizations that would risk undermining Western support for Ukraine. This, then, is partially why in some ways the war appears “clean” (though it is anything but), especially one year on into the conflict. This is not to discount the horrific war crimes, willful and purposeful targeting of civilians, ecological genocide, and battlefield losses—far from it; it is to suggest that what is seen online and in public is far more curated than the public appreciates. In a way, this too removes agency from the Ukrainians themselves, making them simply props in an extended pantomime necessary for Western political audiences.
In his book, Miller returns agency to the Ukrainians by showing them not just as victims but as survivors and actors in command of their own destiny, even if it is in their small portion of a wider war. These are the stories of the people who took to the streets of Kyiv to protest the Yanukovych regime and stand against the government’s violence in 2014. These are stories of illegal coal miners and people in Donbas not enamored with Kyiv, but not in love with Moscow, either. These are the men and women who took up arms to defend their country in the face of Russia’s expanded war in February 2022. These are the stories of the explosive ordnance disposal teams who attempted to undo the damage strewn across the country by Russia and the figures who attempted to retrieve the bodies of those lost, to give their families peace and a proper burial.
Such nuance and insight are not just of literary value. They provide granularity to what are inherently complex stories. Yes, there are some elements that are clear cut and morally black and white: Russia did illegally annex Crimea in 2014 and invade Donbas, and it expanded its war in February 2022. Of that only the most ardent propagandists disagree. But the complex sweep of history and politics tends to be reductionist, and in that reductionism, lost nuance means the loss of the full story and greater understanding.
Zelensky’s heroism is now unquestioned, but he was not always a universally loved figure, and there is nothing to guarantee he won’t face a Winston Churchill-like exit once the war is over. The pressures that saw many in Eastern Ukraine either disinclined toward Kyiv or partially inclined toward Russia have not gone away. How Kyiv deals with those people if and when it retakes the territory could presage a resumption of hostilities in the long run. The underlying challenges and economic disparities have only grown: how will the Donbas recover to its pre-war levels let alone flourish as coal is no longer an attractive export? Each of these stories are too often papered over or conveniently ignored at a macro level, but on-the-ground accounts like Miller’s expose those bits and pieces in a vivid and necessary manner.
“The War Came to Us” manages to show readers the Ukrainian forest by showing it the trees: the people. Miller likely didn’t set out to write a comprehensive history of the war against Ukraine, but he managed to do so, nonetheless. It is akin to unintentional learning from a teacher who conveys a complex lesson over the course of a lecture indirectly, through stories, anecdotes, or even memes. This type of story and lesson stays with you far longer than rote learning.
Miller’s book may well become one of the best Western books on Ukraine precisely because of what it is not—it is not another history seeking to put the war in Ukraine in some grander scope. It is also not a book that attempts to divine what Putin was thinking or how Ukraine fits within his warped, ahistorical worldview. It is not a book about the West and NATO’s response to the war. There are superb books on each of these subjects, many of which have been reviewed in the pages of this journal. Yet, Miller manages to address all these things precisely by not addressing them. That is as impressive a journalistic feat as could be achieved in this febrile environment.
