Science as a way of life in wartime: the testimony of a Ukrainian scientist

"I was once asked what the impact of the war was on scientific activity in Ukraine.
The most obvious answer would be: negative. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this answer was too simple — almost wrong.

Science is not just a profession. For many of us, it's a way of life. And life, even in wartime, doesn't stop abruptly. What I want to tell here is neither an institutional report nor a statistical analysis, but a true story—that of a scientist who continues to work while her country is at war.

A place, a life, a science

My life is closely linked to the city of Zaporizhzhia, a large industrial and scientific city in southeastern Ukraine. I was born in a small military town where my father served, but Zaporizhzhia is the city of my ancestors and where my adult life began. Between Zaporizhzhia and Berdiansk lie many villages that hold the history of my maternal family.

It was in Zaporizhzhia that I studied, entered research, and where science became my life.

Since finishing my studies, I've worked at a small research institute—the same one to this day. I wish I could say "for life." Many of us hoped so. But the war scattered people to the four corners of the world. The science remained, but the community dwindled.

When did the war begin?

For many, the war began in February 2022.
For us, it began much earlier.

In 2012, our institute finally had a progressive director, convinced of the need for development, cooperation between institutes, and integration into European science. For us, it was a breath of fresh air after years of stagnation. We organized field days, conferences with researchers from other regions, and many young scientists defended their theses, published, and envisioned their future.

Then came the year 2014.

At first, the war didn't feel like a war. It felt more like politics, like demonstrations, something distant. I realized it wasn't "just that" when a very politically active colleague left abruptly for Crimea, saying he felt threatened. At the time, I didn't grasp the significance of it.

Shortly after, my former thesis supervisor—who had become much more than just a mentor to me—tried to return to Ukraine from Russia, where he was staying with his family. He crossed the border in mid-July 2014. He never arrived.

After days of calls, searches, and police refusals ("it's not your relative"), I was finally contacted: a body had been found in Melitopol. I went for identification. It was him. Officially: a stroke, the summer heat. No investigation. No answers.

This was my first personal loss related to the war — before the bombs, before the front lines.

Science continues — until it can no longer

We continued working. The crops flourished, the experiments continued, the articles were written. We even went to the seaside for a weekend to mark the end of a hybridization season. But on the roads, military vehicles were becoming more and more common. Something was changing.

At the end of 2014, another war began — an internal war.

A man presented himself as our new director: the son of the former one. No official appointment, no documents. What followed was a three-month occupation of our institute. Armed groups entered the building. Windows were smashed. The police came dozens of times—but never intervened.

We lived in the institute. We guarded the entrances. We wrote articles between shifts. A colleague finished her doctoral thesis during this time, writing chapters on her laptop, sitting in a corridor, near barricaded doors.

It wasn't heroism. It was stubbornness. We refused to abandon science or cede state lands to private interests.

In the end, we held firm. The attempted takeover failed. But the price was high. An academic sent to "resolve the situation" returned to Kyiv by train—and suffered a heart attack on the journey. He never left the hospital.

Another victim of the war, even if no one counted her as such.

Between two wars

For a few years, the situation stabilized. We submitted Horizon projects, obtained national funding, created new varieties and hybrids, established European collaborations, and participated in conferences. Then came the COVID pandemic—another crisis, another adaptation.

A young director was appointed — one of our own, having gone through all the previous trials with us. We had plans, ideas, momentum. Then came 2022.

Large-scale war

On the second day of the invasion, we all met at the institute—frightened, disoriented, but together. Zaporizhzhia was bombed. Territorial defenses were organized. Telegram became our main source of information.

Our institute hosted military units. We brought mattresses, kettles, and food. There was no heating. No guarantees. One of our researchers joined the army and is still serving there today.

The Academy sent us forms to fill out: "How did you help the army?"
We didn't write anything. Not because we hadn't done anything, but because disseminating such information during wartime is dangerous. This, too, is often misunderstood abroad.

Institutional collapse during the war

Our director's contract expired during the war. Elections were forbidden. Contracts weren't renewed. He had a family, young children, and bombings near his home. A university in another region offered him accommodation and a position. He left.

Shortly afterwards, a missile destroyed a neighboring building. Our institute lost some windows, but officially "suffered no damage".

Since then, the direction has been temporary, fragmented, and often far removed from scientific reality.

Meanwhile, we adapted to air raid alerts, power outages, drones, explosions, working in the fields under sirens, and writing reports after sleepless nights. One day, a projectile landed in an experimental field—a crater three meters in diameter. Fortunately, planting had just been completed elsewhere.

What war does to science

The damage is not only material.

Some experiments become impossible. A biotechnology colleague refused to continue a long-term project: without a stable electricity supply, maintaining cultures is futile. Seeing years of work die because of the cold and darkness is devastating for scientists.

Young people are leaving—abroad or for other professions. Specialists are going to the front lines. Managers are finding better salaries elsewhere. What remains are researchers between 50 and 70 years old, working more out of loyalty to science than out of hope.

Science continues. But it ages, becomes exhausted, and slowly disappears.

What remains

We are still sowing.
We are still measuring. We are still harvesting. We are still writing reports.

But the real question is no longer how war affects science .
The real question is: how long can science survive like this ?

And when the war ends, will there still be anyone left to rebuild it?"