Nikolaj Kozlov
Nikolaj Kozlov - OCC soldier, 38 years old, professional chef. For over fifteen years he cooked in one of the largest factory canteens in Omsk, specializing in borscht, pelmeni, pilaf, and anything else that could feed an entire shift at once. Together with his wife Světlá, he is raising two children – twelve-year-old Nastja and nine-year-old Děnka. When he is not in the kitchen, he enjoys grilling at their dacha outside the city or cooking at home for his family – he says that good food is the only thing that can momentarily stop time. For several months now, he has been serving in the rear, cooking for the company and occasionally lamenting that the field kitchen doesn’t have a proper pot for a proper borscht.
My Borscht Will Never Taste the Same Again
February 11, 2026
My name is Nikolai Kozlov, I’m 38 years old and I come from Omsk. My whole life I’ve been cooking — first in a factory canteen, then in a small restaurant on Lenin Street. Borscht, pelmeni, plov, cutlets — that was my language. People ate at my place, smiled, and went on with their day. I had Svetlana and three children: Nastya (12), Denka (9), and little Verunka (4). Verunka always “helped” me taste the dough for dumplings — a tiny finger into the bowl and then she laughed that it was salty. Those were my best moments.Then the war came. I signed a contract. Not because I wanted to fight. Because they said: “If you don’t go, you’ll lose your job, your apartment, everything.” And I had a family. I thought it would be for half a year, maximum one year. That I’d come back, cook a big pot of borscht and we’d all sit at the table again.Now I’ve been in the rear for almost two years — cooking for the company. Every day I chop onions, potatoes, meat. But the onions burn my eyes differently now. Every day I see boys who go to the positions and never come back. I see a twenty-year-old kid from Irkutsk eating my soup and saying: “Grandpa Kolya, this tastes like home.” And then I hear that a drone got him in the evening. He’ll never go home.What hurts the most is when a letter or video call comes from Svetlana. Verunka asks: “When is Daddy coming to make pirozhki?” Nastya almost doesn’t cry anymore, she just stays silent. Denka sends drawings — tanks, soldiers, but mostly Daddy with a big pot. And here I am cooking for strangers’ boys and thinking that my own children are growing up without a father.This war is pointless. It takes fathers from children. It takes sons from mothers. It takes lives from people who never hurt anyone. We’re here “defending Russia,” but Russia now is mostly empty tables, widows, and children who are afraid of the dark. What have we gained? Territory? Yes, a few kilometers of mud. And thousands of families like mine paid for it.I don’t want victory anymore. I want to go home. I want to open the door, hug Verunka who will smear flour on my nose, and cook borscht for my family. Not for the company. For the ones I love the most Because no “great geopolitics” is worth a single tearful look from my daughter when she asks: “Daddy, why aren’t you home yet?”And I have no answer to that question. Just silence and the smell of a field kitchen.Nikolai Kozlov somewhere in the rear, February 2026