The night of May 24, 2026 became an occasion of interest for various reasons. Some people watched the red carpet of the Cannes Film Festival. Others applauded during a championship boxing fight. Someone had already fled the city and started to relax somewhere far away. Meanwhile, Ukrainians passed this whole night in subway stations where they used them as bomb shelters.

The morning revealed the results of the night’s smoke: a totally burnt market, ruined schools, broken windows of the Chornobyl Museum, damaged Kyiv Opera, and a headquarters of Ukrposhta at Maidan Nezalezhnosti.

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Cannes

Under the spotlight of France, the Grand Prix of the Cannes Film Festival went to the film of the Russian director Andrey Zvyagintsev entitled Minotaur. He delivered an intellectual plea to Vladimir Putin urging him to end this war. Applause burst out. Western elite people could feel relieved. They just saved humanity.

At that very moment, the citizens of the director’s native country were pressing the launch button with renewed energy. Global media outlets hadn’t even finished publishing the director’s quotes when the Ukrainian Air Force confirmed the news: Russia had launched an RS-26 “Rubezh” medium-range ballistic missile, known as the “Oreshnik,” at the Bila Tserkva district. It was five hours of a non-stop, combined aerial assault.

Social Media. Raw Reality

The cynicism of this reality wasn’t captured in diplomatic notes; it lived in social media feeds where people wrote blindly from under the rubble.

“Our building was hit. The apartment is completely destroyed. I managed to drop to the floor in time. The windows were blown out. The floor above us is on fire. The front door is jammed. But we managed to get outside. No idea what to do next. Shock.” This was posted by Olena Zakharchenko, who found herself on the street in the morning with her two children.

It was the same story in other parts of the capital. Olga Skotnikova wrote: “The smell of smoke is filling both the parking garage and the apartment. Lukyanivka is completely covered in smoke. The explosions are inhuman.” Walls shook, and interior doors flew off their hinges. The world was trembling.

Giza. The Surrealism of Resistance

Right alongside the terror came a pure, almost unbelievable surrealism. Despite the roar of air defense, thousands of Ukrainians in shelters were hunting for a weak cell signal just to watch Oleksandr Usyk defend his undisputed heavyweight champion title in Egypt, right by the Pyramids of Giza.

In the eleventh round, a knockout. Dutchman Rico Verhoeven went down. Usyk won, and his first speech was about his family in the shelter under attack.

Back in the Kyiv basements, people screamed with joy. That cheering mixed with the sounds of car alarms blaring in smoke-filled courtyards.

Just two hours later, at dawn, the owner of a newly opened coffee shop in the Podil neighborhood was sweeping shattered glass off. The windows were completely gone, but he turned on the espresso machine anyway. He brewed coffee for sleepless, quiet Kyivites rushing past broken storefronts on their way to work. Life goes on, no matter what.

Washington

The most significant and coldest outcome of this day was the total collapse of preventive diplomacy.

Just before the attack, the U.S. Embassy in Kyiv issued a routine warning about a high probability of a massive strike. They announced it almost like a forecast for rain or hail. Ukraine’s Foreign Minister, Andrii Sybiha, directly called out the partners’ passivity at the time: “The main warning shouldn’t be heard in Kyiv... It must be heard in Moscow by the Russian regime. Warn them about the price.”

Marco Rubio confirmed that the United States is stepping back from its role as a mediator in peace talks between Ukraine and Russia. Donald Trump’s promises to “stop the war in a few days” proved to be nothing more than a campaign slogan. Faced with real escalation and a Russian “Oreshnik” missile, Washington simply shut down this diplomatic track, quietly shifting the responsibility onto a worried but toothless Europe.

The night of May 24 proved one thing: the international security architecture isn’t just damaged. It has been completely dismantled. Speeches by Russian dissidents in Cannes will remain a self-soothing tool for Western elites who buy tickets to a movie about someone else’s war so they don’t have to face the real one.

This night showed that real sovereignty isn’t measured by signatures on press releases. Today, it’s all about having the air defense to hold your sky, the grit to win on the world stage, and a barista who keeps the coffee running even when the windows are smashed.

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Today, as the world watches Russia’s brutal war in Ukraine, many see it as a contemporary crisis. But the violence unfolding today is actually the continuation of a century-old imperial project. At its core, it is the story of a regime that uses the erasure of entire nations as a tool of state power.

​To truly understand the depth of this tragedy, one must look at the fate of the Crimean Tatars — the indigenous people of the Crimean peninsula.

Canada has spent years navigating its own complex national conversation about the historical trauma inflicted on its own Indigenous populations. While the geography and politics are entirely different, the fundamental human catastrophe is the same: an empire attempting to rewrite history by removing the people who belong to the land.​

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The machinery of this modern terror was perfected in 1922, when the Soviet Union rose from the ruins of the Russian Empire. To maintain power and transform conquered nations into a broken, obedient workforce, the Kremlin turned to a brutal weapon: mass forced deportations.

​This policy of “great population transfers” was designed to wipe out national elites, force different ethnicities to blend in, and punish entire groups based on fabricated accusations of “disloyalty.” The scale of this state-sponsored terror was staggering. During the forced collectivization of 1929–1933 alone, the Soviets deported 1.7 million people from mainland Ukraine. When World War II started, the same brutal machine swallowed up Poles, ethnic Germans, and the peoples of the Caucasus.

​But it was in May 1944 that this machinery of erasure was unleashed upon the Crimean Tatars with absolute, radical fury.

The Climax of Terror: May 1944

The deportation of the Crimean Tatars, which began at dawn on May 18, 1944, and lasted three days, was no accident. It wasn’t a random wartime decision. It stands out for its absolute, military cruelty. In just a few days, the Soviet state completely cleared the Crimean peninsula of its indigenous people, baselessly accusing the entire nation of collaborating with the Nazis.

They branded everyone as traitors - even the Crimean Tatar men who were fighting Hitler on the front lines in the Red Army at that exact moment. When these soldiers returned home with combat medals, they found their families gone and were forced into exile themselves.

Because the men were away fighting, over 86% of all those deported were women and children. They took the heaviest blow.

Refat Chubarov, the head of the Mejlis of the Crimean Tatar People, shares a chilling statistic: in the first few years of exile, 46.2% of all Crimean Tatars died. Almost every second person perished. The entire operation was designed to physically destroy an entire ethnic group.

People were packed into locked, filthy cattle cars and shipped to harsh, unlivable regions of Uzbekistan, Siberia, and the Urals, where they were kept under strict guard. Instead, Soviet authorities quickly moved settlers from Soviet Russia into these empty homes, letting them live in houses that weren’t theirs and use things left behind by the victims.

Erasing Identity and the Story of Saide Arifova

The crime didn’t end with the physical expulsion. The Soviet regime wanted to erase the very memory of the Crimean Tatars. Right after the deportation, the term “Crimean Tatar” was completely removed from Soviet records. In passports, people were simply labeled as “Tatars” to wash away their unique identity. Their language, traditions, and customs were banned. Crimea’s autonomy was canceled, and historical towns and villages were renamed with Soviet names.

Amidst this horror, the story of a kindergarten teacher named Saide Arifova became a symbol of incredible courage. During the Nazi occupation of Crimea, Saide took a deadly risk in Bakhchysarai. She hid Jewish children, got them fake IDs, and passed them off as Crimean Tatars, saving nearly 90 children from the Holocaust.

When the Soviet secret police (NKVD) arrived, they didn’t care about her heroism. Saide was brutally deported to Uzbekistan along with everyone else. Right before she was forced onto the train, she had to save those same children again, but this time from the Soviets. She showed the officers the children’s real documents to prove they were Jewish, not Crimean Tatars, saving them from exile.

For decades, Crimean Tatars fought a grueling political battle just to return home. In the 1960s and 70s, some tried to come back on their own, but faced “secondary deportations”. They were caught and forced out again.

Crimean Tatars were finally able to return en masse only 45 years later, in late 1989. But even back on their own land, they faced quiet, bitter discrimination from local pro-Russian authorities who tried to suppress their culture in daily life and schools.

My colleague, Kateryna Lavrishcheva, who grew up in Yevpatoria, remembers how a new girl joined her class in the year 2000. The pro-Russian teacher immediately tried to humiliate the child and erase her identity:

— “What’s your name?”

— “Medine.”

— “You’ll be Masha from now on. It’s easier for everyone.”

This wasn’t just a rude comment. It was a symptom of a deep disease: Russian chauvinism in Crimea never left. It was just waiting for its moment.

From Soviet Terror to Russian Occupation

Today, history is repeating itself clearly and terrifyingly. In 2014, Russia illegally occupied part of Ukraine — the Crimean peninsula — and brought back the old, totalitarian methods of crushing the indigenous people. For thirteen years now, the Crimean Tatars have been the primary target of the Kremlin’s repressions.

Moscow’s current methods look a lot like Stalin’s: night raids, fabricated criminal charges, the arrests of activists and journalists, and forced disappearances.

According to human rights groups and Ukraine’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as of 2026, Russia is illegally holding about 160 Crimean Tatars in prisons and penal colonies.

The occupation forces banned the Mejlis (the Crimean Tatar representative council), shut down independent national media, and are destroying the peninsula’s cultural heritage. A painful example of this is the barbaric “restoration” of the Khan’s Palace in Bakhchysarai, which is actually a deliberate attempt to ruin unique architecture.

The leadership of the Mejlis states that these modern crackdowns are a direct continuation of Russia’s old genocidal policy, aimed at driving the indigenous people off their land once again.

What’s worse, since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, Russia has unleashed these exact same practices — filtration camps, mass deportations, torture, and the kidnapping of children — against the entire Ukrainian nation. Unpunished evil always returns.

The Legal Front: The Fight for Justice

To stop this cycle of violence, we need a clear legal verdict. The Kurultai (the Crimean Tatar national assembly) recognized the deportation as genocide back in 2005. In November 2015, Ukraine’s parliament officially did the same, making May 18 the Day of Remembrance for the Victims of the Crimean Tatar Genocide.

The world is slowly joining this fight, and Canada has been a key political leader in this global effort. In 2019, the Canadian House of Commons passed a historic, unanimous motion officially recognizing the 1944 deportation of the Crimean Tatars as an act of genocide. For the global Crimean Tatar community, including those who have found a safe refuge in Canada over the years, this step by Ottawa was a massive milestone. It proved that the international community can see through decades of Soviet and Russian propaganda.

Along with Ukraine and Canada, seven other nations have officially recognized the genocide: the Netherlands, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Poland, the Czech Republic, and the Parliament of Luxembourg, which explicitly linked the crimes of 1944 to Russia’s current human rights violations in occupied Crimea.

Meanwhile, Ukrainian law enforcement has been investigating this genocide case since 2015. The Crimean Tatar Resource Center (CTRC) has played a huge part in this, tracking down and recording the stories of the last remaining eyewitnesses of 1944.

Lawyers say they now have more than enough archival documents and evidence to take the case to court and get a final verdict from the Prosecutor’s Office of Crimea.

An official court ruling will be a powerful tool to hold Russia accountable on the world stage.

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Every two years, a unique artistic energy takes over the Giardini della Biennale. People from all over the world come to Venice in search of fresh ideas and unconventional visions, seeking answers to questions that will shape our global future.

Traditionally, the Golden and Silver Lions are awarded amidst thunderous applause, in recognition of art that truly moves the world. But 2026 is different. This year, the Biennale is proceeding without an international jury, who resigned in a collective act of protest against judging alongside a country whose leader is subject to an ICC arrest warrant. The event will also proceed without €2 million in EU funding, amid sharp condemnation from Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni, with awards to be decided solely by public vote.

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This is all because, despite EU sanctions, the Russian pavilion has reopened its doors after years of gathering dust.

It wants to be at the heart of the creative world. It is a grotesque paradox: the destroyers masquerading as creators. But their presence goes deeper. Russia is donning lace gloves — to look elegant, to remain mysterious, and... to leave no fingerprints — while it probes the weak spots of Western democracy.

Like mercury, it manoeuvres around obstacles, poisoning everything in its path. You might not notice the toxicity immediately, but it will catch up with you eventually.

The Russian “cultural landing party” in Venice is far from artistic. They are genuine representatives of Russia’s military and security apparatus. Hidden behind the guise of London-educated art dealer Anastasia Karneeva are the epaulettes of an FSB general. Her father, Nikolai Volobuev, is a retired FSB general and the current deputy head of the state defence giant Rostec — the very conglomerate producing the missiles currently raining down on Ukrainian museums, theatres and homes.

Karneeva’s business partner, Ekaterina Vinokurova, is the daughter of Russia’s foreign minister, Sergey Lavrov. When such individuals lead a national pavilion, “art above politics” is no longer an excuse; it’s a calculated rebranding operation funded by sanctioned oligarchs.

Knowing their presence would be controversial, the Russians played a cunning hand. They opened the pavilion for only four days of “previews”, strictly for insiders, friendly press and quiet backroom deals. For the general public, the doors remain locked. Instead, a video performance titled ‘The Tree is Rooted in the Sky’ is shown on screens visible through the windows, safely separated from the real world by a glass wall.

Despite a diplomatic boycott by 22 EU culture ministers and a public snub from Italian culture minister Alessandro Giuli, the Russians are carving a path through a legal “grey zone”. According to an investigation by the Italian outlet Open, Russia’s return was meticulously planned. Leaked correspondence between the office of Biennale President Pietrangelo Buttafuoco and Commissioner Karneeva reveals that the leadership of this prestigious forum essentially acted as legal consultants for the Kremlin. The emails detailed strategies for bypassing EU sanctions and funnelling money through shell companies such as Smart Art, ensuring that Russian ‘blood money’ remained under the radar of banking regulators. Who owns the company? Surprise! We already know: Karneeva and Vinokurova.

The organisers’ mantra-like defence is “Biennale autonomy” — supposedly a neutral space for the coexistence of all cultures.

Furthermore, they exploited the technicality of private property. Russia has owned the pavilion since 1914, yet they ignore the fact that Bohdan Khanenko, a prominent Ukrainian philanthropist, actually funded the building. This is the height of cynicism. Moscow appeals to “sacred property rights” for a building established by a Ukrainian while simultaneously erasing Ukrainian cities and denying Ukrainians the right to exist.

The legal reality is grim: under Italian law, the Biennale cannot simply seize the property of a state with which it has diplomatic ties. The Russians exploited this loophole to perfection. What we are witnessing is a blatant case of sanctions evasion, whereby a leading European cultural institution has effectively paved the way for Russian hybrid influence to infiltrate the Giardini.

The Ukrainian response: An Evacuated Deer Suspended Between Worlds

In stark contrast to the FSB-backed Russian pavilion, the Ukrainian project “Security Guarantees” offers a gut-wrenching truth. The sculpture Origami Deer by Zhanna Kadyrova was created in the city of Pokrovsk, which is on the front line. It was created with the belief that it would remain there forever. However, as the Russian front line advanced, the deer had to be rescued from a scorched-earth policy that seeks to incinerate all living things.

Now, the deer is an internally displaced person — a refugee wandering through different countries, currently ‘suspended’ in Venice.

Throughout the Biennale, the sculpture will be suspended from a truck crane. This is Ukraine’s reality: art in a state of evacuation, an international security system in disarray, and millions of lives in limbo.

By launching this war, Russia has violated almost 400 international agreements, including the UN Charter and the Budapest Memorandum — the document that promised Ukraine peace in exchange for its nuclear weapons.

But Ukrainians are not just talking; they are taking action, undermining the foundations of Venice’s aesthetes. The streets of Venice, which are usually covered in vibrant gallery posters, are currently plastered with notices announcing the cancellation of events.

These posters advertise readings by writers Victoria Amelina and Volodymyr Vakulenko, discussions with filmmaker Ihor Malakhov and an exhibition of art by Nika Kozhushko. However, a massive stamp covers every poster: “CANCELLED: Because the author was killed by Russia”.

This action by Network Associazioni per Ucraina hits viewers with the force of reality: the Russian culture being “rehabilitated” next door is the same force that physically eliminated the people who should be here today.

Another performance was quiet yet powerful. Yuriy Gruzinov, a documentary filmmaker who survived Russian captivity in Crimea in 2014, entered the Russian pavilion with a red notebook. He spent his time there documenting everyone he saw.

The title on the notebook was eloquent: ‘The Registry of Bastards’ (referring to those who betray humanity). This was not just an emotional outburst, but a precise log of individuals who, under the guise of art, are servicing a murder machine. It was the documentation of a crime.

Behind the curtain of their Venetian performance, the marble of the Giardini is already stained with innocent blood.

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The biggest buzz at this year’s TUFF (Toronto Ukrainian Film Festival) surrounds a film that has already made a profound impact on the global stage. To the Victory! secured the prestigious Platform Award and a $20,000 prize at last year’s TIFF.

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However, the film’s true power lies beyond its accolades. Its theme is simple yet complex: Vasyanovych dares to look past the current frontlines to explore what happens after the final shot is fired.

The film is set in a post-war Kyiv of the near future and offers a quiet, haunting look at the wreckage war leaves behind — not in brick and mortar, but in the human soul. Director Valentyn Vasyanovych poses painful questions we often avoid: “How will millions of refugees return? Can broken families ever truly reunite? Can a nation heal its internal fractures?”

As producer Volodymyr Yatsenko noted after the TIFF premiere, the opportunity to film a “possible reality” gave the team creative freedom to confront these anxieties head-on. The result is a rare profoundly moving work — a film that feels heavy yet strangely healing.

​Interestingly, Vasyanovych describes this story as a comedy, though not in the traditional sense. It offers a dark and ironic perspective on a world turned upside down. By finding humor in tragic situations, Vasyanovych highlights a Ukrainian trait: the ability to laugh at darkness to survive it. It’s a masterpiece of irony that proves the human spirit remains stubbornly, and sometimes hilariously, resilient, even in the bleakest of futures.

But how do you capture the essence of “victory” when the battle is still raging outside your window? In our interview, Valentyn Vasyanovych talks about the terrifying personal experiences that shaped the script, the necessity of stepping in front of his own camera, and why the work itself became a psychological refuge for his crew.

BT: To the Victory! feels incredibly intimate, almost like a private diary, especially considering your own family’s experience with displacement. Did this story emerge slowly from your reflections, or did the urgency of the situation force you to start filming immediately?

VV: I was scared seeing the families of my friends and colleagues falling apart. My own family was abroad, which made me anxious. I feared the country might disappear if women and children didn’t return. Inspired by this dystopian reality, I started working. The film isn’t cheerful, but it is a comedy. Sometimes, we need to laugh at sad things, too.

BT: In this film, you are both the director and the face of the story. How did this shift change the narrative?

VV: We initially cast Ukrainian actor Zhenya Chernikov in the lead role, but then he left to fight in the war. I realised that, since the film was about me, I was the only person who could play me. Then the decision was made to film our whole group of six, sometimes eight, people

BT: Your production model seems incredibly streamlined. How did working with a small, versatile team impact the filming process?

VV: I am a director, screenwriter, actor, cameraman and editor. My team is made up of multi-skilled professionals. Misha Lubarsky was both cameraman and gaffer, Vladlen Odudenko handled art, production design, and props. We were comfortable working in such a tight setup. When someone left for another project, we waited, which slowed us down, but also gave space to reflect and grow ideas.

BT: Independent films usually rely on a complex network of backers. How did you balance the various funding sources to maintain progress on the project and secure a budget of €400,000?

VV: International partners played a key role in making this film happen. The Netflix Academy funded the scriptwriting, and the European Solidarity Fund for Ukrainian Films also contributed. We co-produced with Lithuania and received 70,000 euros from Eurimages. However, I initially used my own savings specifically for filming, since most of the co-production funds were allocated to post-production.

BT: Your shots often last six minutes or more. Why is this stillness necessary for this story?

VV: I feel comfortable outside established frameworks. This style is part of who I am. I like to examine the shot closely, and right now, I feel most at ease when it lasts about six minutes. There are shorter shots in this film too, some three to four minutes long, but they still feel unfinished to me.

BT: Which scene was the most challenging for you?

VV: It was a difficult break-up scene where my wife (Marianna Novikova) says she won’t come back. I had to reach the right emotional state. We rehearsed the key moments, but during filming, Marianna suddenly began to cry real tears, it caught me off guard. Everything felt natural. The viewer sees a man whose world is falling apart who doesn’t know what to do.

BT: The film captures the sense that life is unfolding unexpectedly. To what extent did you leave room for spontaneity, and how did that change your original script?

VV: All our actors were non-professionals, so we relied on improvisation. We lost parts of the script but gained spontaneity and real connection. I set the structure, but dialogue and details emerged in rehearsal.

Interestingly, the roof fight scene from the very first rehearsal ended up in the final cut. Misha Lubarsky and I set up the camera and filmed without dialogue, just reacting and searching for words. We later shot the scene with scripted lines, but the rawness of that first take felt more real.

BT: Filming during blackouts and air raids sounds like an impossible task. Looking back, was the drive to finish the film a matter of professional duty, or did the filmmaking process itself become a psychological refuge for the crew?

VV: Actually, we had already adapted to those conditions in Ukraine. We had a generator that needed occasional recharging to keep us supplied with electricity. Yes, we were sleep-deprived after the shelling, but we had been through it before. We did everything we could to complete the film given our circumstances. We tried not to focus on the difficulties. The work itself kept us going, both practically and psychologically.

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Despite the ongoing war, Ukrainians continue to stand strong on the cultural front. Year after year, Ukrainian voices resonate at prestigious festivals, from Cannes to Rome, proving that stories are as vital as shields. This April, the Toronto Ukrainian Film Festival (TUFF) returns for its fourth edition, further establishing itself as a cornerstone of Toronto’s vibrant spring cultural calendar.

For a city that prides itself on being a global hub for cinema, TUFF has become more than a niche event. It is a powerful testament to the resilience of art and an unyielding love for life. From April 16 to 19, the historic Royal Cinema — a beloved fixture in the heart of Little Italy — will transform into a sanctuary for new narratives.

This isn’t just about the screen; it’s about the people of Toronto coming together to experience the renowned Ukrainian “vitality” – that indomitable spirit to live, create, and persevere, even in the face of daily challenges and the defense of their homeland.

This year’s program features a variety of new perspectives shaped by war. These perspectives are showcased through seven feature films and a curated selection of documentary shorts.

As Roman Lysiak, founder of TUFF, puts it: “This year’s program showcases filmmakers whose work stands among the most powerful voices in contemporary world cinema. They are acts of cultural resistance that safeguard memory, challenge disinformation, and ensure that Ukrainians tell their own story”.

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The TUFF 2026 Program: Featured Screenings

Thursday, April 16

7:00 PM — Sanatorium, dir. Gar O’Rourke. A visually hypnotic journey through Soviet-era wellness retreats.

Friday, April 17

6:30 PM — Cuba and Alaska, dir. Yegor Troyanovsky. A gritty yet humorous look at frontline medics who use wit as a shield against trauma.

9:30 PM — The Fatigued, dir. Yuriy Dunay. A raw, honest drama about veterans fighting to rebuild their lives.

Saturday, April 18

1:00 PM — Documentary Shorts Program offers a kaleidoscope of perspectives, from intimate personal reflections to urgent frontline reports.

5:00 PM — Militantropos, dir. Yelizaveta Smith, Alina Gorlova, and Simon Mozgovyi. A striking exploration of how war becomes an inextricable part of civilian life.

8:30 PM — Do You Love Me?, dir. Tonya Noyabrova. A poignant reflection on coming of age amidst the ruins of the Soviet Union.

Sunday, April 19

1:00 PM — To the Victory!, dir. Valentyn Vasyanovych. A TIFF sensation and winner of the Platform Award. This hauntingly intimate drama navigates the pain of family separation and the search for identity in post-war Kyiv.

4:30 PM — Flowers of Ukraine, dir. Adelina Borets. The story of a Kyiv woman defending her home against both greedy developers and foreign invaders.

Beyond the Screen: Industry Panels and Global Discourse

In a strategic expansion, TUFF 2026 introduces a dedicated industry track, providing a rare connection between Ukrainian filmmakers and the Canadian film industry. The festival is expanding beyond the screen to explore the influences that shape how Ukrainian stories are told and perceived worldwide.

Key sessions for professionals and media

• Connections with ConneKt Film (April 18, 2:30 p.m.): This inaugural industry panel will bring together leading voices from the Canadian screen industry, including Jen Pogue (Canadian Film Fest), Ryan Boyko (filmmaker), Carolyn Mauricette (Fantasia Festival), and Jenn Kuzmyk (Banff World Media Festival). Moderated by Anna Vagabova, the session will address funding, distribution, and building sustainable creative careers.

• From Frontlines to Headlines: Who Controls the Story of Ukraine? (April 16): Following the opening night, global affairs analyst Michael Bociurkiw will lead a discussion on how narratives around Ukraine are constructed, filtered, and distorted in the age of disinformation.

• Contemporary Ukrainian Cinema: Filmmaking on the Frontlines (April 19, 4:30 PM): A conversation on how filmmakers are defining the global narrative of the war in real-time. Featuring filmmakers Anna Lee and Anastasia Itkin, moderated by Anastasiya Lutyshyn.

In addition to live panels, select screenings will feature live Zoom Q&As with directors working on the ground in Ukraine, including Yegor Troyanovsky (Cuba and Alaska) and Yuriy Dunay (The Fatigued). It is a rare opportunity to engage directly with the creators shaping Ukrainian culture under the sound of air raid sirens.

Today, TUFF 2026 offers something rare: the truth of the human experience, unfiltered and told by those who live it. Whether you are a cinephile, a member of the industry, or a neighbor looking to understand the world better, these four days at The Royal Cinema are an invitation to stand in solidarity with a culture that refuses to be silenced. So, join TUFF to celebrate the art of survival and the stories that keep hope alive.

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Hungary is set to hold parliamentary elections on April 12. What should be a strictly domestic affair has transformed into a geopolitical spectacle in which the Hungarians themselves seem to play second fiddle. When U.S. Vice President J.D. Vance flies across the ocean to campaign for the incumbent prime minister, leaving his own boss in Washington amid a major Iranian crisis, it becomes clear that Hungary is no longer a sovereign player, but rather a staging ground.

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From the podium, Vance praised Viktor Orbán for defending Western civilization. At the same time, he cynically criticized the European Union, accusing Brussels bureaucrats of oppressing the Hungarian people. The irony is palpable, considering it is precisely the billions in EU subsidies that have kept the country from bankruptcy.

The rally felt like a scripted session of political spiritualism. Vance dialed Donald Trump on speakerphone, and thousands of Hungarians heard a voice booming through the speakers: “I love Viktor... He’s doing a great job.”

But what exactly does that job entail? Is it whitewashing Putin’s image and scrubbing the blood from his hands? After all, Orbán is doing everything he can to force the EU to lift sanctions on Russia.

• Orbán’s true work isn’t found in Washington’s praise but in his cold, hard actions. Hungary has stalled a 90-billion-euro EU loan for Ukraine, the first installment of which was expected in April.

• The 20th round of sanctions against Russia’s energy and financial sectors, which target the shadow fleet and crypto-assets, remains in limbo.

• Since 2023, Budapest has systematically blocked payments from the European Peace Facility, which was designed to reimburse EU nations for military aid sent to Kyiv.

• Orbán openly calls for the EU to scrap sanctions on Russian energy, dismissing Brussels’ transition plans as expensive and unaffordable.

However, the data tells a different story. Orbán has become Moscow’s economic hostage. He has personally tightened the noose around his country’s neck by importing 93% of its oil and gas from Russia. Even when the Druzhba pipeline infrastructure is crippled by Russian shelling, Orbán manages to blame Kyiv.

A transcript of an October 2025 phone call between the Hungarian leader and Vladimir Putin, published by Bloomberg, revealed the depth of the Hungarian leader’s loyalty to the Kremlin. Orbán reportedly told the Russian president, “I can help in any way. I am at your service.” He referenced Aesop’s fable about the mouse that saves the lion to emphasize his devotion, a remark that reportedly drew open laughter from Putin.

Orbán isn’t the only one cozying up to Russia. His team is actively leaking sensitive data. On March 21, the Washington Post reported that Foreign Minister Péter Szijjártó called Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov during breaks in closed-door EU meetings to provide live reports.

When Trump passionately backs such a Russian ally, the picture becomes clear: they are in the same boat. Trump benefits from using Orbán to disrupt European unity as a way to spite the EU for its reluctance to follow his lead into an Iranian misadventure. This has forced Brussels to implement an emergency Plan B: investing in its own defense and invoking mutual defense clauses. As Estonian Defense Minister Hanno Pevkur noted:”A divided West is exactly what Putin wants to see.”

To insulate himself from Western democratic pressure, Orbán has turned to China. Hungary is now the only NATO country that allows Chinese police to patrol its streets. This makes Hungary toxic to its NATO partners and feeds into Trump’s rhetoric about the uselessness of an alliance he threatens to abandon. Orbán is essentially the tool Trump plans to use to dismantle Europe’s old security architecture and replace it with chaotic strongman handshakes.

By signing security deals with Beijing, Orbán has traded Hungarian sovereignty for Chinese loans in an attempt to replace funds frozen by the EU. While the prime minister thinks he can be everyone’s friend, he is turning the country into a dangerous testing ground where the interests of three empires collide.

However, Orbán’s 16-year reign is cracking in unexpected places. Despite his promises of stability, the 2025 budget deficit hit a record $8 billion, and debt servicing costs are now the highest in the EU. Hungarians have grown poorer, paving the way for the rise of Péter Magyar.

Magyar is a former insider and defector from the ruling Fidesz party, so he likely knows exactly where the bodies are buried. His promise to end Hungary’s energy dependence on Russia by 2035 and to tackle systemic corruption is resonating with the people who will actually have to live in the country’s future. According to Euronews, independent polls show a striking difference: over 60% of voters under 30 support Magyar’s Tisza Party, while Fidesz, led by Orbán, clings to only 15% of the youth vote.

Orbán may see himself as the clever mouse saving the lions, but it appears that Hungary’s youth are tired of being pawns in someone else’s chess game.

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​​On March 16, 2022, a Russian aircraft dropped a 500-kilogram bomb on the Mariupol Drama Theatre (Ukraine). The heart of the building was obliterated, transforming the sanctuary into a mass grave for at least 600 people.

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Four years later, the survivors are still processing the horror of that day and ensuring that the world does not forget what happened during the siege.

By the third week of the invasion of Mariupol, the city was under a total blockade. With electricity, water, and gas cut off and humanitarian corridors under constant fire, residents were pushed to the brink of survival. In desperation, thousands flocked to the building of Drama Theatre. Built 66 years ago in the monumental classical style, the theatre’s thick walls and deep basements offered a sense of perceived safety. Before the war, the theatre was the city’s cultural hub, staging everything from Boccaccio’s Decameron to the modern rock opera The White Crow.

​Vira Lebedynska, the actress, had fled Russian occupation before. She fled Donetsk in 2016. On March 3, 2022, after her apartment windows were shattered by shelling, Ms. Lebedynska moved into her windowless basement workroom at the theatre with her cat, a colleague, and the colleague’s family.

Dmytro Murantsev, an arts student who had also moved to Mariupol from occupied territory years earlier, had joined the crowd at the theatre on March 5, 2022, after running out of food. Life in the theatre became a communal effort. Men scavenged for supplies while Ms. Lebedynska and her friends cleaned.

“We wore handmade tags so people would know we were theatre staff,” she says. “People constantly approached us with questions, looking for hope.”

By mid-March, at least 1,200 people were packed into every square inch of the building, sleeping on the stage, in the corridors, and between rows of seats.

On the morning of March 16, 2022, that hope vanished.

Ms. Lebedynska recalls her cat arching its back and hissing seconds before the blast. The bomb turned the grand hall into a vacuum of dust and debris.

“Everyone in the hall and the corridors died instantly,” says Ms. Lebedynska. “I remember a pale young girl, motionless, with her parents leaning over her in shock.”

​Survivors emerged into a -10°C apocalypse. Mr. Murantsev, who had been in the basement wearing only his Spider-Man pajamas, remembers the building shaking as if the earth were opening up.

“I was afraid to look back. I just heard voices from under the rubble, crying for help.”

While Russian state media continues to claim the explosion came from within, survivors like Mr. Murantsev and Ms. Lebedynska remain unwavering in their testimony: it was an airstrike. However, today, evidence of that crime is being buried under layers of so-called “restoration.”

For months afterward, residents described in social media the inescapable, haunting smell of decay that lingered over the city center. Once the concrete was poured, the smell vanished, but the bodies remained entombed within the foundation.

​To shield the ruins from public view during construction, the occupiers surrounded the site with massive banners featuring the faces of Russian writers and composers. But behind this facade of “culture,” the building’s original soul was gutted.

The historic theatre had been famously built from white Crimean stone, but according to photos leaked on social media from the construction site, the new structure is a cheap imitation made of ordinary red brick hidden behind layers of plaster.

Even after its reconstruction and reopening in late 2025, the theatre stands today only as a monument to denial.

On the very site where hundreds were crushed, performances now take place for an audience of occupiers and those who have been forced, or those who have chosen to forget the truth.

​Yet, even this “triumph” of occupation is a hollow display. Despite the grand opening, locals report that tickets are still being sold for performances at the Mariupol Philharmonic instead of at the theatre itself. The building isn’t ready at all. It’s just a shell, a prop used to maintain the illusion of normalcy for Russian cameras. The new troupe, comprised of local defectors and newcomers brought in from Russia, continues to play their roles in a city where the truth lies buried deep beneath the concrete.

Today, the spirit of the Mariupol Theatre lives on in Uzhhorod, in the western part of Ukraine. Actors have reunited under the direction of Hennadii Dybovskyi. Their first production, Mariupol Drama, is a raw, documentary-style play in which they share their memories.

On the fourth anniversary of the Mariupol tragedy, the play The Ghosts of Mariupol premiered in Kyiv. Written and directed by Canadian Christopher Morris, the production was staged in collaboration with a Mariupol Theatre that has made the conscious choice to live and work in Ukraine despite the ongoing war. We hope to see the premiere in Canada next year.

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Donald Trump has spent years fixating on the Nobel Peace Prize, yet he is creating a world in which peace is the rarest commodity. He has traded diplomacy for economic blackmail and protection for ultimatums. The Pentagon has effectively become a Ministry of War. From seizing Venezuelan oil rigs to pressuring Kyiv, we are entering a reality in which “might makes right” has completely replaced the rule of law. The Doomsday Clock is inches away from midnight.

Although Trump won the presidency on an anti-war platform, he has already become embroiled in Russia’s war against Ukraine while simultaneously igniting a new one alongside Israel. On February 28, a series of precision strikes eliminated the upper echelons of the Iranian regime, including Ali Khamenei and his inner circle. For now, the dictatorship has merely put on a new mask. The Council of Ayatollahs appointed Mojtaba Khamenei, the fallen dictator’s son, as the new leader.

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The Iranian military hasn’t laid down its arms. Instead, they’ve opened fire on the United Arab Emirates (UAE), Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Bahrain, Oman, Kuwait, Jordan, Cyprus, and Iraq. The conflict in the Middle East has paralyzed the Strait of Hormuz, bringing oil exports to a halt. Fuel prices are skyrocketing, and economists are sounding the alarm about hyperinflation.

Millions of Iranians around the world are celebrating the death of the tyrant. They believe that Trump’s intervention is “too little, too late.” The Khamenei regime had already killed tens of thousands of protesters - the very people who could have led the country out of its tailspin. Now, the people are left in a vacuum. They cheer the fall of a bloody regime, yet they are terrified of a future where the innocent continue to die and all contact with loved ones is cut off.

Trump’s appetite for invading territories beyond his control stems from a total disregard for international law. It began in 2008 with Russia’s assault on Georgia and the occupation of Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Might overrode right. International security organizations failed to penalize the aggressor, giving Putin a green light to continue. In 2014, Russia deployed “little green men” and staged sham votes in Crimea and Donbas. By 2022, Putin launched a full-scale invasion, eventually writing partially occupied Ukrainian lands into the Russian constitution.

Emboldened by the impunity of Russia’s past aggressions, Trump has moved to radical action. On January 3, 2026, U.S. intelligence abducted Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro and his wife. Trump installed Delcy Rodríguez to run the country, effectively seizing control of Venezuela’s oil reserves. With his resource base secured and emboldened by the “smoothness” of the operation, Trump is now threatening Mexico, Colombia, Cuba, Greenland, and even Canada. At the core of it all is a hunger for their natural resources.

Even while promising aid to a bleeding Ukraine, Trump was twisting arms behind the scenes to gain control over its rare earth metals.

If Trump succeeds in grabbing Iran’s assets:oil, gas, coal, gold; he is headed for a direct collision with China. Beijing now faces a reality where every liter of oil for its factories depends on the mood in the White House. Will China stay silent? Hardly. Especially since the U.S. is already moving to dismantle Chinese dominance in microchips and batteries.

By setting the Middle East ablaze, Trump is playing with fire. Europeans are being dragged into the fray, one by one. Those who resist face the threat of economic sanctions. When Spain banned the use of its military bases, the U.S. responded with the threat of a total trade embargo.

If Trump continues this strategy of “blunt force” pressure, the very foundation of collective security will crumble. We are seeing only the opening moves, but the logic is relentless. Dragging Europe into a confrontation with Iran creates the perfect storm for a new migration crisis. A massive conflict in the Middle East will inevitably push hundreds of thousands toward EU borders. This isn’t just a humanitarian issue; history shows that radical elements often travel within these flows, ready to use terror as political leverage.

When European leaders are forced to dump every available resource into counter-terrorism, border security, and quenching domestic social unrest, aid to Ukraine will inevitably fall to the wayside. This is the “attrition strategy” in action where Trump, perhaps even unintentionally, clears the path for Russian expansion.

Legislative moves, like Thomas Massie’s proposal for the U.S. to withdraw from NATO, are already cracking the foundation of Western defense. It’s a signal to every aggressor that the door is wide open. A weakened, fractured, and energy-dependent Europe becomes easy prey. Without American backing, European nations turn into a collection of disjointed players, each forced to cut their own deal with the aggressor. A true gift for the Kremlin.

We are on the doorstep of a global transformation where security is no longer a common good, but a luxury commodity. Security is no longer is building, alliances aren’t sacred vows to shared values. They are temporary commercial contracts that expire the moment the profit dries up.

It is a warning: the old fail-safes are broken. When diplomacy gives way to extortion and missiles replace arguments, midnight becomes inevitable.

The only question left is whether the world still has the will to stop the clock before the final second ticks away.

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The gym held its breath. A fragile girl stepped onto the gymnastics carpet. With the first beats of the music, she started her routine with great confidence and fluid flexibility, performing cartwheels, splits, graceful pirouettes, and balancing on one leg with ease. A genuine smile lit up her face, while her eyes sparkled with excitement.

Nine-year-old Sasha Paskal dreams of an Olympic gold medal one day. But will she be allowed to compete? For now, she isn’t thinking about that yet. Her dream carries her forward. Only taking off the prosthetic leg reminds her of the injustice.

What was this child guilty of, that she had to survive a sophisticated missile strike in the Odesa region at the age of five? Sasha was pinned by concrete slabs and barely pulled out in time to be rushed to the hospital. The girl spent 15 days in a coma. She suffered an open fracture in her left arm, lost her pinky finger, and had broken ribs. She also underwent an amputation.

Eleven-year-old Roman Oleksiv is finally stepping into the sneakers he’s dreamed of after waiting three years for his foot to grow to size 8. These were his mother’s sneakers. She never had the chance to wear them. Roman last held her hand four years ago. She perished in a missile strike right before his eyes. It happened in Vinnytsia while visiting relatives. Roman has undergone 36 skin graft surgeries. Forty-five percent of his body was severely burned. For over two years, his face, arms, and legs were covered by a special compression mask. Today, he practices dance and plays the button accordion, even though it is still difficult for him to regain movement in his fingers and his foot does not obey him. However, this does not stop him. He strives to live a full life.

The captain of the basketball team, 14-year-old Nastia Tsiapalo, is relearning how to walk, brush her hair, and dress herself. In November 2025, she was rescued from the balcony of a burning high-rise in Ternopil, unconscious. She had been hanging upside down for nearly an hour. A Russian missile hit the apartment building, taking the lives of 38 people. That morning, Nastia lost her mother and grandfather, who burned to death. Nastia was taken to the hospital in a medically induced coma and underwent immediate surgery. Nastia endured the terrible pain of her burns. Even changing the bandages required anesthesia. Together with her grandmother, Nastia dreams of returning home. A home that no longer exists.

These are three stories of children from different regions of Ukraine. Like over 3,000 other kids who were killed or wounded, they were caught in the crossfire of Russian weapons. Did these children deserve such pain? Who will take responsibility for their suffering? Who can restore the stolen lives? Evil relies on our short memory and its own gloss. It hopes that scars will heal and that the numbers will be forgotten.

The fates of these children, like those of millions of other Ukrainians, have become prey to Evil. An Evil that has a completely human face. It habitually prepares tea or coffee in the morning, makes cheese toast, or fries pancakes, and from its warm kitchen, wishes darkness and cold upon its neighbors.

Modern Evil does not speak with the voice of Mephistopheles, nor does it have hooves. On the contrary, its shoes are polished to a shine. If it accidentally steps on your foot in line, it will certainly apologize, but then calmly “like” a photo of your destroyed home.

This Evil does not smell of sulfur. It smells like fabric softener and hand sanitizer. Its main weapon is not a sword, but joyful comments under news about a neighbor’s death. Evil can cry over a sick cat or a grandchild’s scraped knee but remains cold when looking at mass graves behind a fence. Every morning, while Evil makes the bed neatly, neighbors try to find their loved ones under the rubble.

But such drops form the storm that swallows entire cities.Evil does not live in hell. It creates hell for others. The same hand that gently strokes a child’s hair is the one that fires the missile.

However, Evil has miscalculated. It can take away a home, a memory, or a family, but it is powerless against the light that Sasha radiates on the gymnastics carpet, the music Roman creates with his fingers, and every painful step that Nastia takes.

Like thousands of other survivors, these children destroy the darkness every day with their resilience. They are living proof that life continues. They are building a new country today, where Evil will never find a place again. No matter how diligently it polishes its shoes.

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Ukrainian skeleton racer Vladyslav Heraskevych has been prohibited from wearing his custom helmet at the 2026 Winter Olympics. The helmet features portraits of more than 20 Ukrainian athletes killed since Russia’s full-scale invasion began. For Heraskevych, the helmet was a tribute to his fallen colleagues in the Olympic movement.

In response, the National Olympic Committee of Ukraine has maintained that the helmet fully complies with IOC regulations, stating that it contains ‘no political slogans’ and ‘does not express any form of racial discrimination.

The irony of the ban is stark. While the IOC silenced Heraskevych’s tribute to his fallen peers, including children who died before achieving their Olympic dreams, Italian snowboarder Roland Fischnaller continued to compete wearing a helmet featuring the Russian flag. This symbol is explicitly barred from the Games under current sanctions.

By labeling the faces of deceased children as "propaganda" while overlooking a banned national symbol of the aggressor state, the IOC’s application of Rule 50 seems not only selective, but also fundamentally compromised.

The Choice of Defiance

Amidst the controversy, the IOC suggested that Heraskevych wear a black armband instead of his “Helmet of Memory.” He rejected the compromise, stating that the organization “would not have enough black armbands” to honor all the fallen athletes properly.

Despite the official ban, the skeleton racer intends to wear the helmet during the competition.

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The IOC’s ruling effectively erases these faces from the Olympic stage:

Children Denied a Professional Future

• Viktoriia Ivashko (9): Judoka. Killed during a missile strike on Kyiv on June 1, 2023.

• Kateryna Diachenko (11): Gymnast. She was killed when her home in Mariupol was hit by a Russian shell on March 12, 2022.

• Nazar Zuy (13): Boxer and soccer player. He was killed on March 11, 2022, in Mariupol when an aerial bomb struck the building where he was sheltering with his parents.

• Alina Perehudova (14): Weightlifter and promising Olympic hopeful. Killed by Russian shelling in Mariupol.

• Mariia Lebid (15): Ballroom dancer. Killed in Dnipro on January 14, 2023, when a missile struck on a residential high-rise.

Youth Who Traded Stadiums for Trenches

• Karyna Bakhur (17): Kickboxer. Killed during the shelling of her home in the Kharkiv region while preparing for the World Cup in Austria.

• Fedir Yepifanov (18): Fencer. Master of Sports and a member of the Ukrainian national team. He suspended his career to defend his country from the begginning of the invasion.

• Yevhen Malyshev (19): Biathlete and 2020 Youth Olympian. Killed on March 1, 2022, while defending Kharkiv.

• Darya Kurdel (20): Ballroom dancer. Killed during the shelling of Kryvyi Rih while training outdoors with her father.

• Maksym Galinichev (22): Boxer and 2018 Youth Olympic silver medalist. Killed in March 2023 in the Luhansk region.

• Volodymyr Androshchuk (22): Track and field athlete (decathlon). He dreamed of competing in the 2024 Olympics but he was killed in battle a year before the Games.

• Dmytro Sharpar (25): Figure skater and 2016 Youth Olympian. Killed in action near Bakhmut.

• Oleksiy Loginov (25): Hockey player. He joined the front lines as a volunteer. He was an only child.

• Andriy Yaremenko (25): Greco-Roman wrestler and member of the Ukrainian national team. He was killed while on a combat mission in the Zaporizhzhia region.

Veterans and Mentors

• Roman Polishchuk (30): Track and field athlete (long jump). He was killed near Bakhmut while serving in the Kyiv Territorial Defense.

• Mykyta Kozubenko (31): Diver and coach. Served in the National Guard of Ukraine.

• Oleksiy Khabarov (31): Shooter and Ukrainian record holder. In November 2024, he won a silver medal at an international tournament in Romania.

• Kateryna Troyan (32): Track athlete and mountaineer. She was killed on the Pokrovsk front while serving in the paratroopers.

• Pavlo Ishchenko (33): Powerlifter and strongman. A multi-time champion who continued to compete and win during the full-scale war.

• Taras Shpuk (34): Invictus Games coach. He developed wheelchair basketball and rugby for veterans in Ukraine.

• Andriy Kutsenko (35): Cyclist. He returned from Italy to join the Armed Forces of Ukraine.

• Ivan Kononenko (42): Actor and strongman. Returned to the front lines after recovering from a serious injury.

To date, more than 650 Ukrainian athletes and coaches will never compete again. Russia has destroyed over 800 sports facilities. By labeling their memory as “propaganda,” the IOC becomes complicit in the silencing of these losses

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Then, I moved to Canada - and I hit a wall of misconceptions. I realized that, for many, Ukraine was still a “blank spot” on the map, often viewed through the distorted lens of Russian narratives. However, I also saw something else: how deeply Canada and Ukraine are intertwined, and how vital the Ukrainian experience is for the survival of the West.

I created “Back Today” to bridge this gap.

My name is Lidiia. With over 20 years of experience in journalism (radio, TV, and disinformation tracking), I’ve learned that the present is just an echo of the past. Without an understanding of history, you’ll never make sense of the headlines.

On this Substack, we will explore:

The Global Frontline: Ukraine isn’t just fighting for territory; it’s defending the democratic values that North America is struggling to hold onto.

A Mutual Lens: How the Ukrainian and Canadian experiences influence each other: from historical ties to modern geopolitical synergy.

Beyond the Headlines: Analyzing today’s geopolitical shifts through the prism of deep history.

Decolonizing Culture: Reclaiming the artists, thinkers, and innovators whose Ukrainian identity was erased or rewritten by empire.

The world as we know it is changing. To see where we are going, we must first understand where we came from.

Join me on this journey. Let’s look back together so we can see today clearly.