Colin Freeman

It is 2026, and in a downbeat speech at the Kremlin, Vladimir Putin finally announces a withdrawal from Ukraine. Russian troops have done their best – or worst – but a fresh influx of well-trained Ukrainians have finally prevailed. The Donbas is now in Kyiv's grip, Crimea’s fall only days away.  What has turned the tide, though, is not just the long-awaited F16s, or Washington switching the funding back on. Instead, it is the presence of thousands of European troops across Ukraine's western half, protecting cities, ports and borders, making Ukraine feel reassured and Russia unnerved. As Kyiv celebrates, Europe quietly pats itself on the back too: after 80 years clutching America's coat-tails, it finally stepped up to win a war in its own backyard.

When Hamas murdered 1,200 people on October 7, I was in eastern Ukraine, researching a long piece for the Telegraph on how the summer's counter-offensive had gone. The death toll in Israel's 9/11 was equivalent to just a week or two's heavy fighting in the Donbas. Yet immediately it was clear that the massacre 3,000 miles away would mark a new phase in Ukraine's conflict: no longer would it be the sole international crisis in western leaders' in-trays.Until now, one of things that has buoyed morale here is the sense that the world is cheering Ukraine on, and that despite the privations and bloodshed, a glorious Victory Day awaits. Since October 7, the narrative has changed.

Journalists love being put on blacklists. In a profession that prides itself on holding the powerful to account, there’s no better accolade than being banned from a politician’s press conferences, put on some spin doctor’s dossier of ‘unfriendly’ hacks, or better still, declared persona non grata by some tyrant’s regime. It’s the hack’s equivalent of combat spurs, to be gathered alongside Pulitzers and war wounds. So what greater backhanded compliment could there be than to be banned by Vladimir Putin from visiting Russia? This was the honour conferred on me last week, when myself and 14 other British journalists were put on a Kremlin sanction list for our allegedly hostile coverage of the war in Ukraine.

At a small army field clinic outside Bakhmut, I watched as the body of a dead soldier was carried in. Two more soldiers followed, this time seriously injured – and this was what troops described as a ‘quiet day’. Ukraine doesn’t talk about its military deaths much and refuses to reveal any figures. There’s little in the way of victim culture here; the emphasis is on how brave its troops are, not how many have perished. Most people know someone who’s died in action, but treat the collective trauma as something to worry about when the war is over. In the meantime, there’s vodka. While Russia has used the conflict to drain its jails, Ukraine is losing its brightest and best Here and there, though, glimpses of the nation’s best-kept secret emerge.

The first hint that my audience with Volodymyr Zelensky might not be what I’d hoped for came with the emailed invite. A few days before I’d been told I’d made the shortlist for a select presidential news conference marking the anniversary of the war. Not quite an exclusive interview, granted, but given current Zelenskymania, a decent second best. Images of a cosy roundtable in the secret presidential bunker beckoned.Alas, when the email from his office finally arrived, it was notably bereft of the cloak and dagger one might expect. No orders to leave my phone at home. No secret rendezvous with a blacked-out van. Just an order to report at 3.

At his base near the frontlines outside of Kherson, an ex-British soldier named JK shows me a video of what looks like a scene from the world war one film 1917. It shows him and two other volunteer fighters walking through a burning, smoking treeline, having spent two hours pinned down by artillery and sniper fire that killed three Ukrainian comrades. It was a grim, exhausting day – and, as soldiering experiences go, far more rewarding than life in the British army.  ‘When I first signed up for the British army, there was drill and discipline, and if you were punished, your instructor would make you do press ups – that keeps you fit and toughens you up,’ said JK, whose own great-great grandfather won the Victoria Cross in world war one.