From film to war: my journey as a drone operator in Ukraine
This surreal initiation into war etched itself deeply into my mind, forever altering my perspective. Through the camera, I tracked the target—a crumbling building where human figures moved inside. I steadied my breath, adjusted the drone’s altitude, and guided it through a window. When the device detonated, black smoke billowed into the sky. No relief followed, no triumph—just a heavy stillness wrapping around me. The mission ended, but the weight of my actions lingered.
- 4 hours ago
December 21, 2024
Maximiliano, an Argentinian drone pilot and volunteer in Ukraine. | Photo courtesy of Maximiliano Barrientos.
DONETSK, UKRAINE — Before the war disrupted my life, I built a steady routine around creativity and precision. I directed films and operated drones, spending my days capturing perfect shots and weaving compelling narratives. Storytelling and technology grounded my world in stability and focus.
When the conflict in Ukraine erupted, I discovered a new way to channel my skills. I recognized my drone expertise as a powerful tool—not for combat, but for providing intelligence and precision where every second counted. I seized the opportunity to contribute differently. Leaving behind my home, career, and the life I had carefully crafted, I volunteered in Ukraine, determined to transform tools of art into instruments of resistance.
Read more stories from Ukraine at Orato World Media.
Arriving in Ukraine: “I piloted my first drone in combat”
The connection I felt to Ukraine grew from years of friendships and professional ties. I worked alongside Ukrainian artists, models, and filmmakers who spoke of their homeland with pride. Their stories stayed with me, becoming a part of my understanding of their resilience and culture. When war erupted, many of them enlisted to defend their country. Some never returned. Their deaths left a void pushing me to act.
On February 24, 2022, the conflict began. Almost two years later, I arrived in Donetsk to join the 225th Battalion of the Ukrainian army as a kamikaze drone pilot. Winter blanketed the landscape in bleakness; snow, tinged with ash, crunched beneath my boots as I crossed the border. I came not as a tourist but as a volunteer, stepping into a reality far removed from anything I had known.
The weight of the war pressed down immediately. Faces around me, hardened by battle, revealed the toll the conflict exacted. Explosions rumbled in the distance, an omnipresent reminder of death. As an Argentinean speaking about drones, I met surprise and skepticism. But time for pleasantries did not exist. On my first day, I joined my first mission, leaving any illusions of war behind.
In March, near Bakhmut, I piloted my first drone in combat. The city, frozen in devastation, stood as a haunting backdrop. Guiding a modified civilian drone carrying an improvised explosive, I navigated through charred buildings and abandoned vehicles. My heart raced with every movement of the joystick, each second a reminder of the stakes.
The first time I killed someone marked a defining moment
This surreal initiation into war etched itself deeply into my mind, forever altering my perspective. Through the camera, I tracked the target—a crumbling building where human figures moved inside. I steadied my breath, adjusted the drone’s altitude, and guided it through a window. When the device detonated, black smoke billowed into the sky. No relief followed, no triumph—just a heavy stillness wrapping around me. The mission ended, but the weight of my actions lingered.
That night, in a damp bunker, the scene replayed in my mind. I had acted not as a soldier but as an operator, miles away, guiding a machine deciding between life and death. The crushing realization hit: war does not allow time to process—it hardens or breaks you.
The first time I killed someone marked a defining moment. Under attack in a fortified position, I flew my drone low over advancing Russian soldiers. No time existed for deliberation, only action. The explosion on my screen signaled the end of lives. It felt mechanical, distant, yet the impact reverberated deeply. Returning to base, I cleaned the drone’s propellers, but the images lingered in my mind.
I experienced no glory in it, only a cold justification: it was them or us. The weight of that decision felt inescapable. That night, sleep refused to come. Images of debris, bodies, and humanity reduced to fragments haunted me. Yet, the next day, we prepared for another mission, repeating the task as if it were just another job. In war, routine becomes survival, no matter the cost.
An enemy drone struck our armored vehicle
Walking through the streets of Ukraine felt like stepping into a post-apocalyptic world. Cities, once vibrant, stood as skeletal remains. Yet amid the rubble, humanity endured. Children played in the streets, their laughter defying the destruction, while mothers offered bread or coffee as gestures of hope. These moments anchored me, reminding me my purpose was not just to fight but to protect the fragile sparks of life war sought to extinguish.
After a mission one day, we passed through a field of sunflowers that had miraculously survived the flames. An old man at a well offered me water in a rusty bowl, his quiet resilience disarming me. That simple act reminded me this war was not just about borders or flags—but about preserving people like him and the everyday moments defining life.
Months later, in a forest in Kursk, Russia, I faced death directly. An enemy drone struck our armored vehicle, killing the driver right in front of me and trapping me inside. Smoke and fire engulfed the cabin as I struggled to free my leg. My comrades pulled me out, and we fled through a field of sunflowers. Minutes after we escaped, the buzz of drones overhead reminded us safety acted as an illusion.
My leg, mangled in the initial impact, responded by sheer instinct, feeling more like twisted metal than flesh. As we ran, I witnessed something unexplainable: the driver walking calmly among the sunflowers, as if guiding us. His presence felt surreal, grounding, and haunting. I stopped, knees trembling. “Max! Come on!” a voice shouted, snapping me back. I shook my head and forced myself forward. The faint light of enemy flares blended with the moon’s glow. Even then, I felt his presence. I never spoke of it, but the image stayed with me.
Lying in my hospital bed, I felt the weight of war pressing down on me
We found temporary shelter in an abandoned Russian bunker, but safety remained an illusion. Shelling began almost immediately, shaking the ground as if the enemy had pinpointed our location. Shouts and frantic orders pierced the darkness, each voice competing with the thunder of explosions.
Then came the realization: the abandoned vehicle behind us teetered on the edge of detonation. Ignoring commands to leave it behind, we made a desperate dash for survival. The ground vibrated beneath us as the deafening blast tore through the air, a stark reminder of how narrowly we had escaped annihilation.
In a makeshift hospital in Kharkiv, the true cost of war surrounded me. Men with amputated limbs, scarred faces, and shattered bodies clung to life with quiet resilience. My injured leg felt trivial compared to the suffering in that room.
Lying in my hospital bed, the weight of war pressed heavily on me. The sounds of healing filled the air: gauze tearing from wounds, muffled whimpers swallowed by pride, and the steady voices of doctors issuing precise instructions as if chaos had become routine. In front of me, a young Ukrainian soldier gripped a crucifix in his trembling hand while a medic tended to his shattered leg. His lips moved in a silent prayer, and I could not help but wonder—was he seeking strength or forgiveness?
I understood rest as a fleeting privilege, but in that unlikely refuge, I chose to pause—if only briefly. Not as surrender, but as a promise to myself to gather the strength needed to move forward. My mind, weighed down by the burden of every mission and every lost face, pleaded for relief.
Preparing to return home
While the doctor examined my leg, I asked how long it would take to heal. “Months” he replied, his eyes fixed on his work. Months felt like an eternity, yet they also felt essential. That night, beneath the fractured roof of the cathedral, I closed my eyes and knew I would return. War does not stay confined to battlefields; it lingers in every scar, every sound, every sleepless night haunted by shadows of the past. The war does not change, but you learn to measure how much of it you can carry.
My comrades and I found solace in shared moments, small acts that anchored us. A cigarette passed between battles, a spontaneous joke breaking the tension, a quiet toast with dirty water in the dim corner of a bunker. War tears so much apart, but it also lays bare what truly matters: connection and the unyielding resilience of the human spirit. That kept me going, even when my body and mind pleaded for surrender.
As I prepare to return home, even briefly, I carry visible and invisible reminders of this war. Each step my healing leg takes feels like a triumph over fear and pain. But the battle does not end when you leave the front lines—it lingers in the memories, the sleepless nights, and the faces of those who will never return.
I know I will come back. The lives I have encountered in this conflict, and the stories I have heard, demand more from me. War creates no heroes, no happy endings. Yet, even in its devastation, being a spark in the darkness—a flicker of resistance or hope—feels like reason enough to continue.
