“Please absolutely get out of Kyiv as soon as you’re done with your key interviews.” I received this message from my editor a few hours after the Russian military launched an attack on Ukraine’s capital in the very early morning of April 24th, 2025. I’m in Kyiv to do interviews for a documentary about the last Russian gas pipeline in Europe.
According to the Ukrainian military, 215 death machines were hurled at Kyiv. 68% of cruise missiles were intercepted as well as 44% of drones. 12 people were killed and 90 injured in what a local resident described as “one of the biggest [attacks on Kyiv] in a while.”
The scariest part of this, for me, was that I heard about it all after the fact.
“We are being attacked with rockets, it’s quite loud around us, but nothing much to be worry atm,” the subject of my interviews, who left Bulgaria for a more secure life in Ukraine, texted me at 1:08 a.m..
“For now it is over, but there are 5 more fighter jets in the sky and may strike us again around 04:00.” 1:23 a.m.
I didn’t see these messages until around 7 a.m., but the rocket that killed 12 people landed on a residential building about 15 kilometers from where I am staying in the city center.
To put words to the feeling of mission that I feel as a journalist traveling to dangerous places is why I’m writing this.
I’m very lucky. Not because I didn’t die last night, but because I travel to places like Ukraine and Palestine with the privilege to listen to my editor—and to leave when things get tight. Obviously, Ukrainians and Palestinians don’t have this privilege.
To bring justice to horrible people and amplify voices of the voiceless is why I’m here. But when I wake up knowing I made it out okay, I feel more shaky than confident.
There is so much strength and confidence that comes from traveling for journalism. When you travel for a story, you go for a purpose. Not just a reason. But a purpose. A mission. A goal. Did you get the story or not?
Long congested rides, shitty accommodation, a 40-pound backpack filled with camera equipment and not enough room for underwear. These uncomfortable aspects of traveling with a purpose glamorize instantly the subject of your story as well as your own experience capturing the subject.
I zoom out—my nose and eye-bone in my peripheral vision as I look out the bus window. I picture what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, and what it looks like while I’m doing it. And I feel eternal. Glorious. Powerful.
Some journalists think that “it will never be them” to get killed in a situation. I have no problem believing it could be me. I’m not eternal. To feel and to be are different.
“I don’t want you to get a false sense of confidence.” My partner tells me.
I agree. This is an encroaching terror of mine. I’ll be my worst enemy-not the dictators flying rockets.
So I will leave.
But after I get the interview.
Finn Perelstein is an Investigative Journalist and Filmmaker. He is currently a residential Fellow for the Christo Grozev Fellowship for Courageous Journalism at the Center for Information Democracy and Citizenship.
