This war has not gone on for 1,000 days; it is simply the case that we here, in the rest of Europe, tend to mark anniversaries which have round figures.

It should not be forgotten that the war in Donbas only really entered the global consciousness on February 24, 2022.

For the Ukrainians, however, the war has lasted for a decade.

For myself, the full-scale war actually began earlier than February 24 – I was in Belarus with news editor Anton Aleksejev covering the [Russian] Zapad military exercises, on February 19, 2022.

I had filmed Zapad before.

How did that typically go? Russian and Belarusian forces demonstrate their cooperative capabilities.

First, both sides display the capabilities of their weapons of war: Missiles, shells. The planes bomb. The tanks, they always finish off. It is a brutal show, of devastating force.

This time around however it was a bit different.

The military vehicles and equipment did not come back. For me, that was the first alarm bell, a sense that things were not right.

Usually, all the equipment returns to the training area, after which there is time for interviews.

It always takes a bit of time for the equipment to come back in any case, but this time was different. We had a planned assignment next in Kazakhstan, and had to fly there from Belarus. I suggested to colleagues and editorial chiefs that perhaps something unusual was happening here at Zapad, and perhaps something was about to happen. Maybe we should travel to Ukraine right away?

Unfortunately, no one at the time found this suspicion to be overly realistic or compelling.

It is worth noting that NATO observers were also there, observing the exercises. They observed, but did not say anything. Yet, most of the EU still did not believe that a war would be about to start.

Why was it just the U.S. and little Estonia that were being the Cassandras, saying a war was on its way?

On the evening of February 23, we had already arrived in Kazakhstan, at Nur-Sultan (in Astana, Kazakhstan's capital).

In the middle of the night, 3:30 a.m. local time, I was watching Russia's RTR TV channel, and saw Vladimir Putin giving his speech where he outlined why the military equipment had not returned to the training area in Belarus this time.

It had started...

Death is not the most terrible thing

The most common question asked of war correspondents is: "Do you see the war in your dreams? Do the bodies haunt you?"

They do not haunt me. I do not see them in my dreams.

Rather, the worst thing is seeing the horrors experienced in the eyes of women and children fleeing the war.

The Irpin bridge has been hit several times, yet it remains the only way to cross the river, even if just by climbing over rubble.

The worst images burned into my mind are from that place. The worst is seeing the horrors experienced by women and children fleeing the war – the days-long bombings and shellings, the death, and terror.

It is strange even now to see how events in Ukraine get covered elsewhere. As if viewing Ukraine from the outside. As if it were not that Ukraine where we are right now, in the present.

Thousands of kilometers away, nestling between sofa cushions, things look different. It is easier to write about it from there, than to witness what people in the war truly feel and experience, first-hand.

In the first months of the war, there was the violence, horror, and death. But feelings fade. As of now, we have seen how people first adapt. Then they grow fatigued. War has become the new norm, in everyday life.

The story of the man who Never Washed Himself

Almost all major Estonian media houses regularly send their journalists to cover the war in Ukraine: ERR, Postimees, and Delfi. Each cover it in their own way and for their respective media outlets. We produce TV coverage, while most of the others primarily write.

This is vital because it allows for a more diverse coverage, while not every story fits every channel equally well. The tale which follows is perhaps the best illustration of this.

In May 2022, a train full of refugees set off from the platform at Pokrovsk, with beds on either side. Things were packed in tightly. The temperature was 34 degrees Celsius, and the windows could not be opened.

We traveled on that train for a full 26 hours. At one point, an electricity substation was hit, and the train stopped. Fortunately, rail repairs get done quickly there.

There was a delinquent man on the train, soiled and unclean.

Every time he passed by, women gagged because the stench was so overpowering. We even broke open a window, but it did little to help.

Eventually, people forbade him from getting up from his spot.

There were people with so many different stories on board that train. A Roma family; the younger girls cared for the even younger children. Most were women and young boys. There were ordinary families there. Everyone spoke about someone who had died, about how they had decided to leave. This was before the forced evacuations, when people left when the bombing of civilians began.

So many of these stories could have been conveyed in text but not through pictures, as these people were not willing to talk on camera. We should have gone to Kharkiv. A bombed-out city, with intense fighting. So many visuals...

Postimees' front-line reporter Jaanus Piirsalu was supposed to be on that train. Both of us would have gotten some great stories. But since we went our different ways, neither of us did.

This is where the differences in the media plays a part. The vagrant would have made for a great article, titled "The Man Who Never Washed Himself."

Is the journalist just there on the spot, or the main focus?

Then in March 2022, again on the Irpin bridge, another realization hit home. It was the first time it became clear that the Russians would deliberately target journalists.

The highly visible "Press" logos quickly disappeared from our helmets and bulletproof vests, as well as those of other colleagues, because they made us conspicuous targets. The press was no longer untouchable.

Is it worth asking what value there is in a journalist covering the war on the ground? Better still, the question should be how best to do it.

At a distance, information gets distorted, especially in situations clouded by the "fog of war." It must always be bone in mind that in war, everyone tells lies. This is but a natural part of the struggle.

The goal of war correspondents should be to convey as directly as possible what is happening on the ground; what people are experiencing, seeing and coming to believe.

Propaganda has a much harder time getting in the way of this than it does with well-prepared soundbites and narratives, delivered by three war bloggers, or "vojenkors."

But when on the ground, it cannot be forgotten that the journalist is not the main player in these stories.

Yes, Anton Aleksejev and I have come under fire, repeatedly.

We have felt the muzzle of a Ukrainian gun pressed to our temples, a round in the chamber, when we naively entered Kyiv's defensive ring, during the war's early days.

But despite all this, these stories are not about us. No matter how terrifying or sensationally gripping they may seem, we are there to cover the stories of those whose lives truly are at stake in this war.

The Võsu shop and the war, at home and away

Every time I step into my local country store in the village of Võsu, the shopkeeper, Silvi, shouts: "So, you were allowed home as well!" In reality, TV viewers probably do think that Anton and I are always on the front-line in Ukraine. But that is not the case.

We go to Ukraine on two-week rotations, on average, every few weeks. Then we come home. We leave the war behind. We leave the place those we cover cannot leave. They cannot take a break from the war.

The Ukrainians we meet on the at ground zero, or in the trenches on the front line, cannot leave. Why do they do it? Why do they stand up for Ukraine?

At first, they said they went to war so that the Russians would not reach their homes, their wives, and their children.

Most of those who went to war as volunteers are no longer with us. This too is part of the wearing down process. There are new soldiers in the trenches now, holding areas over which Western leaders pontificate about keeping or relinquishing.

At the start of the war, everyone, including the Ukrainians themselves, thought Ukraine would surrender, and all would be in Russian hands within about three days. But seeing what this nation is truly capable of raised hopes tremendously.

It was, after all, the most experienced army in Europe: The war had already lasted eight years for Ukraine. Meanwhile the Russian army was not as invincible as it had portrayed itself to be.

The recapture of Kharkiv and the Kherson area brought about a strong sense of confidence. We were among the first journalists there. It was impossible to convey that euphoria in pictures or in words. It was a high point. Just as the capture of the Kursk region was.

Languishing in a trench with a scarcity of ammunition is highly demoralizing.

Waiting for pledged ammunition from Western countries that does not arrive… Meanwhile, Russia continues to hit civilian infrastructure, killing people. This brings the lows.

There have been many highs and lows over these past one thousand days. And there will be more to come.

Every time we go home, I say to the soldiers: "Ви воюєте за нас" ("You are fighting for us").

Shopkeeper Silvi always asks the same thing as well: "When will this all come to end?" I always answer the same: "I don't know."

I only know that if we had even a tenth of the will to defend as Ukrainians do if war reaches here, it would already be very good. Do we have that?

See also the gallery of photos above.

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