Soldier Andrii Markovetskyi, call sign HEKTOR

My name is Andrii Markovetskyi, call sign HEKTOR. 
I served in the 75th Battalion of the 102nd Separate Territorial Defense Brigade named after Dmytro Vitovskyi. I enlisted in the military on February 26, 2022, together with my two older brothers Dmytro (call sign LIUTYI) and Ivan (call sign ASKOLD).

We made the decision to go to war together, after two painful days glued to the screens, watching the enemy invade and destroy Ukrainian cities. We couldn’t stand aside. All three of us are historians by education, graduates of Vasyl Stefanyk Precarpathian National University, and we understood very clearly that this was history repeating itself. We knew that the threat Ukraine was facing wasn’t just about losing territory—it was about the potential destruction of Ukrainians as a people. That’s why, after a quick five-minute conversation, we went to the military unit and volunteered to serve.

After two months of training, we were deployed to the combat zone on April 25, 2022. At first, we carried out tasks on the third and fourth lines of defense—digging trenches, building rear fortifications in the Dnipropetrovsk, Donetsk, and Zaporizhzhia regions.

On June 24, the unit was sent to frontline positions near the town of Huliaipole, Zaporizhzhia region, where the 102nd Brigade remains to this day. I spent a year and a half on the front line until I was wounded on December 30, 2023.

During a SPG-9 shelling, a round exploded near the entrance to the shelter. Shrapnel hit me, both arms were broken, my chest was injured, a lung was pierced, and arterial bleeding began. I lost consciousness, and when I came to, there was fire around me, my sleeve started to catch fire, and I couldn’t help myself—my arms weren’t working, and I couldn’t stand up. There was no one nearby. Using my knees and head, I managed to get up and make it about 30 meters to the dugout, where my comrades found me and gave aid. They applied a tourniquet. When my body armor was removed, they found the punctured lung—pneumothorax began, I was suffocating. A comrade with the call sign CHUMAK, Nazar Kozak, applied an occlusive dressing, and I was able to breathe again.

I was evacuated from the position to a stabilization point, then to Pokrovsk, and later to Zaporizhzhia. I don’t remember this part. I was in a coma. I woke up on January 7 at a hospital in Dnipro. Later, I was transferred to Kyiv, and on January 20 to Ivano-Frankivsk, where I completed inpatient treatment and began rehabilitation.

My greatest support was my family and my hobby drawing.

After the injury, I couldn’t move my arms for a long time. The right arm had been amputated, and the left was badly injured. It felt like I’d never be able to do the simplest things again—hold a fork, tie shoelaces, or just hug my loved ones. But during rehab, I picked up a pencil with my left hand for the first time. Hesitant, shaky. That first sketch — not even a drawing, more like an attempt to touch life — felt like a first breath after being underwater for too long.

Drawing became therapy—a silent conversation with myself, a way to regain control over my body and my mind. I’m not a trained artist, but with every stroke, I regained faith that I could live, study, work. In those lines and images, I found peace when there were no words. I drew what I missed: people, my hometown, memories… It became part of my recovery not just physical, but emotional as well.

Right after completing treatment, I enrolled in the master’s program at Vasyl Stefanyk Precarpathian National University, majoring in Secondary Education (History). After the first semester, I began working at the Ivano-Frankivsk Regional Museum of the Liberation Struggle named after Stepan Bandera and switched to an individual study schedule.

I work as a research fellow and tour guide. I give tours to both children and adults, sharing the truth about our struggle past and present.

In August 2024, I received a mechanical prosthesis, which I actively use in everyday life. But during tours, I rarely wear it. The strap system is uncomfortable, especially under clothing. The empty sleeve draws too much attention especially from adults. I’m not ashamed of my injury, but I want people in the museum to see me first and foremost as a historian, a defender, a human being not just my trauma.

That’s why I need a cosmetic upper-limb prosthesis. It has no mechanics or sensors—but it looks like a real hand and allows me to feel comfortable at work, without hiding my arm in a pocket or altering my sleeve. This matters to me. Not as a “wounded soldier,” but as a teacher, a guide, a citizen. That’s why I have to ask the foundation for help.

There are many plans ahead—completing my studies, getting a driver’s license, continuing my work at the museum, new tours for children and adults, and holding on to faith in Victory.

 

COLLECTED AND TRANSFERRED: UAH 34,000