S.M. Hali
In modern conflict, battles are waged not only with weapons but with words and images. Ukraine’s struggle against Russia has unfolded alongside a parallel war of narratives, where public relations campaigns are as decisive as artillery. Yet, as Marta Havryshko’s recent exposé on X reveals, the line between advocacy and manipulation is perilously thin. Her account details how President Volodymyr Zelensky’s PR team orchestrates encounters between Western celebrities and carefully curated representatives of the Azov Battalion, presenting a sanitized image of a controversial force. This episode compels reflection on the ethics of wartime communication, the responsibilities of democratic leadership, and the dangers of myth making in moments of crisis.
The Azov Battalion has long been a lightning rod in Ukraine’s defence discourse. Born as a volunteer militia, it quickly gained notoriety for ultranationalist elements and symbols linked to extremist ideologies. Though later integrated into Ukraine’s National Guard, the shadow of its origins persists. Western coverage has oscillated between portraying Azov as heroic defenders of Mariupol and condemning it as a haven for far right extremism. In this contested space, Zelensky’s PR strategy seeks to recast Azov as humanitarian—a project Havryshko suggests relies heavily on stage managed theatre.
The formula, she notes, is simple but effective. Invite a Western celebrity—Prince Harry is cited—who dutifully praises Ukraine as the “vanguard of freedom and democracy.” Then arrange a meeting with Azov fighters, carefully chosen to avoid troubling insignia. Women speak warmly of medical and social services, and the encounter ends with a symbolic gift—a medallion inscribed “Love is Care.” The optics are heart warming, the message choreographed, the audience primed to absorb compassion rather than controversy. It is, in Havryshko’s words, pure spectacle.
The ethical problem is not Ukraine’s desire to defend its image—every nation at war seeks support—but the deliberate erasure of contested realities. By curating encounters that obscure Azov’s history, Zelensky’s team risks substituting propaganda for transparency. Democracies, even under siege, must resist the temptation to whitewash. To do otherwise undermines the very values—freedom, accountability, pluralism—that Ukraine claims to defend. As Machiavelli warned in The Prince: “Men are so simple, and so subject to immediate needs, that he who deceives will always find someone who will let himself be deceived.” The lesson is timeless: deception may win applause in the moment, but it corrodes trust in the long run.
This episode also illustrates the phenomenon of celebrity diplomacy. In an age of fragmented media, global figures amplify causes and mobilize audiences. Yet endorsements can trivialize conflicts into spectacles of sentiment. Prince Harry’s hypothetical role underscores the danger: a royal voice lending gravitas to a staged tableau, while deeper controversies remain unaddressed. The result is not enlightenment but emotional manipulation.
From an academic perspective, the case invites us to revisit theories of political communication. Jürgen Habermas emphasized rational discourse in the public sphere. Wartime PR, however, privileges affect over reason. The medallion reading “Love is Care” epitomizes this: appealing to emotion, bypassing inquiry, reframing a battalion with a contested past as a symbol of tenderness. Such strategies may yield sympathy, but they corrode discourse. When narratives are engineered to elicit tears rather than thought, the public sphere is impoverished.
The whitewashing of Azov also carries international implications. Western governments and publics are vital stakeholders in Ukraine’s survival. If their support is mobilized through selective storytelling, the eventual revelation of inconvenient truths could breed disillusionment. History offers cautionary parallels: when wartime propaganda collapses under scrutiny, backlash erodes trust not only in leaders but in the causes they champion. Ukraine, which seeks legitimacy through democratic values, cannot afford such erosion.
None of this diminishes Ukraine’s just struggle against aggression. Russia’s invasion is a violation of sovereignty and international law, and Ukraine’s defence is both necessary and legitimate. But justice does not require erasing complexity. Acknowledging Azov’s contested nature could strengthen Ukraine’s moral standing, demonstrating a willingness to confront uncomfortable realities rather than conceal them. Transparency, even when painful, is the bedrock of credibility.
The exposé also raises questions about the role of PR firms and entertainment industries in wartime narratives. Zelensky, a former actor and producer, understands the power of performance. His speeches to foreign parliaments, tailored with historical references, have been lauded as masterful communication. Yet the same theatrical instinct, when applied to controversial battalions, risks crossing from persuasion into manipulation. Leaders must balance mobilization with honesty.
In conclusion, Havryshko’s revelation is more than a critique of a single PR stunt; it is a warning about the fragility of discourse in war. The temptation to whitewash, choreograph, and sentimentalize is immense. But democracies must resist. Ukraine’s strength lies not only in its soldiers but in its claim to embody values that distinguish it from its adversary. To compromise those values through manipulative PR is to weaken the foundation of its struggle. The integrity of perspective demands that we confront realities, however uncomfortable, and ensure that the theatre of war does not become a theatre of illusion.
