The Forgotten Victims of the War

Warning: this post may be very triggering and upsetting for pet owners

I got off the bus in Kyiv with a single backpack, my camera, and the vague intention of documenting everything—whether it was tanks rusting in the streets, families fleeing with their arms full of children’s toys, or the bullet-scarred walls still echoing last night’s bombardment. I’d been here barely 24 hours when I first stumbled across a scrawny, matted dog sniffing around a puddle of filthy water. At first, I wasn’t sure whether to crouch down and call to him or keep my distance. But something in those eyes told me I couldn’t just walk away.

He was skinny enough that you could trace every rib beneath his dull, patchy fur. In any other city, in any other life, I might have mistaken him for another neglected stray. But here in Ukraine, in the ashes of a war that uprooted millions, including me on this journey, everything felt magnified. Every face—human or animal—bore the weight of a loss too deep for words.

I’d seen the documentary Us, Our Pets and the War (2024), about the animals left behind, and I couldn’t shake the heartbreak. There were scenes of dogs pacing abandoned apartments, meowing echoing in empty hallways, the echoes of children’s laughter long gone. It reminded me of that dreadful story of Pripyat after the Chernobyl meltdown, when soldiers were ordered to cull the pets left by evacuees—only this time, the devastation was neither accidental nor contained; it was inflicted by human hands.

So, I lifted my camera to snap a few shots, thinking maybe people back home needed to see this: the lesser-known victims of a war no one wants to remember. The dog stood still, ears drooping, as if surrendering to the lens. He didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He just watched me with that hollow, waiting gaze animals get when they know there’s no point in protesting. Through my viewfinder, I caught the reflection of my own tears shining in his eyes, a perfect reflection of my guilt for having the luxury to leave any time I wanted.

I knelt down, trying to coax him with my hand. He stepped forward cautiously. I saw up close just how raw his paws were, how the hair on his tail had thinned so much it was barely there. And in that moment, it was as if our roles flipped. I was no longer the photographer, no longer the newcomer documenting his life. I was the Russian in his world. A world of terrifying nights, leftover explosions, and empty doorways that once held families. A world he had navigated alone, hoping that one day he’d see his human bounding back through the smoke.

I started to feel his hunger in my own belly, a lingering ache that gnawed at me when I couldn’t find food. I feel sting of cold concrete against my ribs when I tried to curl up in a doorway that gave no protection from the wind. In the chaos of sirens, when people sprinted to shelters, I found myself scrambling after them with no place to call my own. And the question that haunted my every waking moment wasn’t “Will I survive this war?” but “When will my human come back?”

My camera lens became a blurry afterthought—I could barely hold it in my paws as I tried to cling to the last memory of soft hands scratching behind my ears. Each day bled into the next, one cold dawn melting into a tremor-filled dusk, and the smell of gunpowder in the air replaced the comforting warmth of cooking meals.

Some nights I dreamed of a faraway place—maybe Canada, maybe anywhere but here—where a kind voice called me by name, where a bowl of clean water waited, and a soft blanket was laid by a crackling fireplace. I woke to the crash of mortars and the taste of rubble in my mouth. Then, I padded back onto the streets, my nose leading me through tangles of barbed wire, my limbs stiff from sleeplessness, searching for scraps left behind by humans who only had time to save themselves.

By the time I saw the Canadian man again—camera slung around his neck like a burden he couldn’t set down—he looked different. Tired, hollowed out. I’m certain he saw the same changes in me. My eyes are dimmer now, my tail barely wags. But for a moment, we locked gazes. And in the reflection on his lens, I realized I was no longer just a subject in his photo essay. I was telling his story just as much as he was telling mine.

His lips trembled as he whispered something I didn’t understand, but I felt its warmth. He raised his camera, clicked once, twice, then lowered it—like someone paying silent respect to a friend’s grave. If I could speak, I would’ve thanked him for seeing me, for acknowledging that I still exist in this tattered, forgotten place.

But here’s the truth: I don’t have a voice, not in any language he comprehends. I’m just a dog, left behind in a war-torn city, clinging to the faint hope that maybe—just maybe—my human will come back. Or maybe a new soul will adopt me, a lifeline amid the chaos. In the meantime, I shuffle through ruins alongside those too broken to run, quietly reminding anyone who looks that this war hasn’t just destroyed homes and futures—it’s broken hearts that once beat for each other, human and pet alike.

He turns to walk away, but glances back, tears streaking his cheeks. And I watch him go—caught somewhere between wanting to follow and unable to leave behind what remains of my old life. Because, in the end, I am just a stray, wearing the scars of a war I never asked for. And he, a stranger who snapped a photo and tried to understand.

I am the forgotten casualty of this conflict. And this, this moment we shared through the viewfinder, is all the proof the world has that I was ever here at all.