Cranes, Tryzubs and Missiles

Before I arrived in Kyiv, I thought the Motherland Monument was just another imposing Soviet relic: a towering figure of steel and concrete waving an enormous sword, staring down over the city like a watchful titan. But there’s something about seeing it in person that changes your perspective. First, you realize this statue is colossal—I’m talking “crane your neck and wonder how many birds accidentally run into it” colossal. Then you notice the shield, where once the hammer-and-sickle emblem proclaimed “long live the USSR.” Except now, the Soviet symbol is gone, replaced by Ukraine’s Tryzub—a sleek trident symbolizing the country’s resilience, identity, and refusal to be overshadowed by any empire, past or present.

How they managed to swap that emblem is a story in itself. Picture crane operators perched high above the Dnipro River, precariously suspended hundreds of feet in the air, with the occasional air raid siren blaring in the background. Missiles from the Russian invasion still threaten the city, yet these workers pressed on, meticulously dismantling Soviet iconography piece by piece and carefully installing the Tryzub. It’s a feat of engineering and collective will that’s almost mythic, especially when you think about how easy it would have been to say, “You know what, maybe now isn’t the best time to do construction.” But for Ukrainians, it wasn’t just an aesthetic choice; it was symbolic —a literal forging of a new era right on top of the old.

Learning the backstory gave me goosebumps. Originally unveiled in Soviet times, the monument was meant to glorify the “Motherland” under the USSR’s version of history. But now, by replacing the hammer and sickle with a national emblem, Ukraine effectively told the world: “We dictate our own future.” Seeing it in person, you can’t help but feel a surge of admiration at the audacity and the timing. Who changes the face of a monument in the middle of a war? Ukrainians do—because for them, authenticity and identity aren’t luxuries, but necessities worth risking everything to protect.

It’s a strange blend of the past and the future stitched together. You still see the Soviet aesthetic in the sweeping lines and sheer size, but the new symbol beams an entirely different message. It’s an odd feeling—standing there, gazing up at this massive statue while a quiet hum of normal city life buzzes around you. A policeman directs traffic, a woman pushes a stroller, and somewhere overhead, the faint whine of an air raid siren reminds you that the danger isn’t imaginary. But the statue stands tall, trident gleaming in the sun, as if beckoning everyone to stare at the triumph of a nation forging its own story.

For me, that moment captured the city’s heartbeat. Kyiv is a place where ancient cathedrals rub shoulders with Soviet architecture, newly minted sidewalk cafés, and now a redefined Motherland Monument shining against the sky. It’s inspiring to see people pressed by war still finding the resolve to preserve and reshape their heritage, even if it means hauling steel hundreds of feet in the air with missiles occasionally screaming overhead. It’s as if the city itself is declaring, “We’re still here, and we’re not afraid to change what needs to be changed.”

If you ever visit, stand at the monument’s base for a moment and soak it all in. The statue is more than a hunk of metal; it’s a living testament to Ukraine’s evolving story. Changing that shield didn’t just remove a Soviet coat of arms; it also replaced a grim reminder of past repression with a proud affirmation of national identity. And if that’s not a powerful symbol of hope in the midst of adversity, I don’t know what is.