Ukrainians’ hopes and fears as Trump’s presidency approaches

Anastasiya Fedchenko, 36, weeps in agony – her agony echoes around the gilded walls of St Michael’s Cathedral in Kyiv.

She sits with her hands resting on either side of her stomach. She is heavily pregnant with her first child, a baby girl. Her husband Andrii Kusmenko is only centimeters away, in uniform – in an open coffin.

The Marine commander was killed in action in eastern Ukraine on January 4 this year. He is now and forever 33. While Andriy was fighting in the war, Anastasia was writing about it as a journalist.

His brothers-in-arms walk past him, dropping red roses into his casket. As the funeral prayers end, Anastasia leans forward and kisses the “love of her life” for one last kiss.

Outside the cathedral, she pays tribute to her “most beautiful husband” who died for his country.

“I’m sorry that my daughter will never see her father,” she told the BBC, “but she will know that he was a soldier, an officer, and that he did everything possible to keep Ukraine alive for her and for other generations. ”

“This war will last as long as Russia. I am really afraid that our children will inherit it from us and have to go and fight.”

Not according to Donald Trump, who claimed he could end the war in a day and who returns to the White House next week. He is already pushing for peace talks between Ukraine and Russia.

This would dishonor the dead, according to Sergeant Dmytro with the call sign “Smile”, who fought alongside Andrii and came to the cathedral to mourn him.

“Let the people in power decide, but I don’t think the fallen would want them (Ukraine’s leadership) to sit around the table,” he says.

“After the funeral, we return to work. We will fight for every fallen Ukrainian.”

Many here believe – like Anastasia and Dmytro – that too many Ukrainians have been killed to try to make a deal with Russia. But public opinion is shifting and others believe there is too much death and destruction for a deal to be made.

As Ukraine struggles through its third winter of war, one word is being bandied around a bit now – “victory”.

In the early days of Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022. we heard it everywhere. It was a rallying cry for a nation suddenly faced with columns of enemy tanks. But the past really is a foreign country – and one with more territory.

Moscow now controls almost a fifth of its neighbor (including the Crimean peninsula, seized in 2014) and says any peace talks must take that into account.

Ukraine from 2025 is a place of cold, hard reality – where cities are empty, cemeteries are filling up, and many soldiers are leaving their posts.

Six hours away from the capital, in the heart of Ukraine, a young soldier is in the dock.

Sergey Gnezdilov, a burly 24-year-old, is locked in a glass cubicle in a crowded courtroom in the city of Dnipro. He was tried on desertion charges and was one of many.

From 2022 about 100,000 cases were filed against soldiers who left their units, according to data from the General Prosecutor’s Office of Ukraine.

When Khnezdilov was absent without leave, he went public with demands for a clear time frame for ending military service. He says he’s ready to fight, but not without a demobilization plan. He has already served five years, including two before Russia’s full-scale invasion.

“We have to keep fighting,” he told me during a break in the meeting, “we have no other choice.”

“But soldiers are not slaves. Anyone who has spent three years or more on the front line deserves a break. The authorities have long promised to set conditions of service, but they have not done so.”

In court, he also complained of corruption among commanders and deadly incompetence.

After the brief procedural hearing, he was handcuffed for the return trip to prison. If convicted, he faces up to 12 years in prison. “Help Ukraine,” he told us as he was led away.

Many other Ukrainian soldiers are still straining every sinew on the front line, trying to at least slow the Russian advance.

Mykhailo, 42, the drone commander, fights every night, fueled by Non-Stop, a Ukrainian energy drink.

He is part of the 68th “Eger” brigade, which is fighting for the retention of the eastern front-line city of Pokrovsk – a key transport hub. The Russians are approaching from two sides.

Mihailo drives us to a Ukrainian position – a journey we can only risk after dark and in an armored car. And the Russians have eyes in the sky. Their drones are a constant threat. He is alert and tired.

“The first days, I went to the conscription office – he tells us – and I hoped that everything would pass quickly. Honestly, I’m tired. Vacations are rare (with him a total of 40 days in three years). The only thing that saves me is that I can video chat with my family.”

We arrive at a disused house where Mihailo and his men are unloading their equipment and setting up a position for a pop-up drone. Screens are ported and cables are connected.

Outside, troops erect an antenna taller than a two-story building. They work quickly in light from torches – they use red beams, not white, as they are harder to detect. They then assemble bombs to arm their ‘vampire’ – a super-sized attack drone.

For the next few hours, we have front-row seats as Mihailo – nicknamed “Administrator” – controls the drone, his eyes darting from screen to screen. First, he drops supplies on the front line of Ukrainian troops and then drops an anti-tank mine on Russian forces underground. It falls a little wider than its target.

He faces high winds and Russian jamming. All the while he is alert for approaching enemy drones.

Mikhailo discovers a Russian military plane in the sky. Minutes later we hear the distinct thud of three Russian planning bombs. “It’s far,” he tells us. This turns out to be two or three kilometers away.

During a lull, I ask Mihailo if he thinks a peace deal is possible. “Maybe not,” he says. “This (Putin) is a completely unstable person, and that’s putting it very mildly.

“I hope that at some stage the enemy will stop because they get tired or someone with common sense will come to power.

He would not comment on President Trump.

While Mihailo is a veteran of this war, one of his men is a novice. Twenty-four-year-old David joined up last September as the Russians closed in on his hometown. Now he spends his time working with explosives – although he would rather be at college studying languages.

“No one knows how long the war will last,” he says, “maybe not even the politicians.”

“I would like it to end soon so that civilians don’t suffer and people don’t die anymore. But with the way things are now on the front line, it won’t be soon.”

He believes that if the guns fall silent, it will only be a pause before Moscow comes back for more.

The winds pick up and the vampire drone crashes. So far it’s not working. The squad packs up and leaves as quickly as they came. They will return to action at nightfall, resuming the duels in the sky.

But on the ground, the Russians continue to push forward, and a Trump presidency will mean pressure for a deal. And here is another hard truth: if it comes, it will hardly be on Ukraine’s terms.

Additional reporting by Wietske Burema, Goktay Koraltan, Anastasiia Levchenko and Volodymyr Lozhko.