"We must show pain of war, not censor ’overly graphic images.’ Otherwise, West won’t grasp what scourge war is," – Richard Stupart, Professor at University of Liverpool
...The audience of the Kyiv Security Forum listened to this speaker in complete silence and with particular attentiveness. Professor Richard Stupart of the University of Liverpool shared how, upon arriving to visit colleagues in Sumy, he witnessed a Russian missile strike. The very next day, camera in hand, he joined efforts to document the aftermath of the crime committed by the aggressor state.
Richard is 43 and originally from South Africa. He specializes in media and communication studies. In an interview with Censor.NET, Mr. Stupart spoke about that horrific Palm Sunday in Sumy, shared his views on the ethics of journalism amid the ruins left by Russian strikes on civilian neighborhoods, and explained why, in his opinion, many Britons sympathize with Ukraine in this horrific war.
SUMY AFTER THE MISSILE STRIKE. "A SEA OF DIAMONDS" SOUNDED MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN IT REALLY LOOKED — THE ENTIRE STREET WAS COVERED IN BLUE GLASS
- I can imagine your mood that day: good weather, welcoming colleagues, a religious holiday in a charming Ukrainian city — plenty to see and observe, despite the air raid alerts and grim news headlines…
- That Sunday was my first day in Sumy. I had arrived the night before, right in the middle of the spring bloom. I really liked the city — especially Soborna Street with its world’s largest embroidered pattern on the pavement and the whole flower zone.
- How far were you from the epicenter of the two blasts on the morning of April 13?
- I was staying at the Voskresenskyi Hotel, which — I later checked on Google Maps — is about three blocks from where the missiles struck. That morning, I had just returned to my room after breakfast and I remember thinking: so far, it’s not as bad as I’d heard this war could be.
And then the first explosion hit. It felt as if a massive concrete block had slammed down right next to me. You could feel it in the floor and in the air around you.
My initial reaction was instinctive: I froze for a few seconds. And then I did something foolish (even though I knew perfectly well I shouldn’t), I went to the window to see what was happening.
- That’s typical: no matter how often we’re told to stay away from windows during air raids and explosions, we’re drawn to them like a magnet. So, you went to the window…
- Yes, and it quickly became clear I’d made a mistake. My brain was starting to "catch up" with what was happening; I had to decide whether to follow the "two walls" rule — although, in my hotel, the second wall was practically made of cardboard — or to pack my things and head to the shelter.
- ...and then there was a second explosion?
- Yes, and it was much louder than the first one. (I was later told that it detonated in the air, which made the sound "travel" differently than if it had gone off between buildings.) At that moment, all hesitation was gone — I grabbed my first aid kit and went down to the hotel lobby. All the guests and staff were already there, glued to their phones, talking to family and friends. We moved to the shelter and stayed there for 20–30 minutes. Once it became clear that nothing else was happening, we all started crawling back upstairs.
The whole time, you could almost feel the news spreading in real time. Within five minutes, my friends from Sumy messaged me on WhatsApp asking if I was okay. An hour later, a friend from London wrote, and then others from Amsterdam and the United States. I was also in touch with my family. There’s a strange irony in this: my brother in South Africa is a war journalist — he holds a degree from the Royal Military Academy. He knows the details of modern warfare. I didn’t realize at the time that this involved ballistic weapons and how dangerous it really was. Many of my relatives and friends panicked. My brother scolded me for not grasping how serious the situation was. I told him I was fine, and he replied: "Listen, it’s the top story in the media — from the BBC to Sky News. Don’t be an idiot — go read how much coverage this is getting."
- And your brother was right, because hotels with foreigners have repeatedly been targeted by Russian missiles throughout this war. Afterwards, the Russians would claim that NATO instructors had been staying there...
- Yes, he was right. And a few hours later, I realized just how serious the consequences of that shelling really were.
- Were you later able to visit the sites hit by the missiles?
- This needs a bit of context. I came to Sumy because my university has a partnership with Sumy State University. As part of this collaboration, several of their professors from the Department of Journalism, along with some postgraduate students, had previously visited Liverpool. One of the PhD students is Oksana Kyrylenko — she’s also a producer for Suspilne Sumy and a media representative with the Red Cross. Her apartment is located near the area that was hit. When the first explosion happened, Oksana grabbed her bag and ran out to help. Her timing turned out to be perfect: by the time the second missile struck, she wasn’t yet close enough to be injured — but just after that, she was already on the scene.
I stayed in contact with Oksana and asked if there was anything I could do to help. I told her I had a first aid kit, I knew the basics of emergency care, and I’m pretty handy with a camera — I used to be a photojournalist in a previous life. And if she needed a brain, well, I do come from academia (smiles —Ye.K.).
She replied, "Listen, you could be really helpful if you come to the site in the morning — once the sappers are done and it’s safe — and document everything thoroughly. These photos will be important both morally and as evidence in the future."
So that’s what I did. On Monday morning, we spent two and a half hours walking through each of the buildings, photographing the destruction.
- Did you see the burned-out bus?
- Yes, by that time it had already been towed away from the street. But we did see rows of destroyed cars. The street itself was covered in shattered glass from hundreds of nearby windows. "A sea of diamonds" sounds more beautiful than it actually looked — the entire street was layered with pale blue glass.
Ceilings in the damaged buildings had collapsed, and webs of cables were hanging everywhere. Classrooms and office spaces looked as if they’d been covered under snow.
"If, in the West, you say: ‘We won’t publish these images because they’re too graphic,’ then the audience in the West will never grasp what a scourge war is."
- What did you feel when you saw the groups of journalists arriving at the site of the tragedy to report for their outlets? I’m asking this because in Ukraine, we’re having a very active public discussion about the role of journalists who document the aftermath of Russian crimes against civilians in this war. This discussion revolves around the ethical boundaries of such reporting — especially when it comes to visual images of the bodies and faces of those killed or injured in missile strikes.
- I was surprised by how quickly international media got there. For example, the BBC correspondent in Ukraine — somehow he managed to be in Sumy just four or five hours after the strike… But that matters — the fact that they responded so fast. Because honestly, these attacks concern us not because some buildings were destroyed, but because they caused human suffering. The same goes for the war in general: what makes war morally horrifying for society is the fact that people suffer. And I believe it’s important for the media to document that suffering. If you want people to respond to why war is horrifying, then that’s what their attention needs to be focused on. And that requires the media to be on the ground as quickly as possible.
In my view, it was a good thing that both international and local journalists were present at the scene in Sumy. Suspilne Sumy was there, as well as the private digital outlet Kordon — and among the journalists from both were graduates of the Journalism Department at Sumy State University. That’s something that inspires me — the fact that students who have only just finished studying journalism are going out and doing the kind of work that, in the United Kingdom, people spend years preparing for. Conflict reporting is one of the most difficult forms of journalism. And to see graduates going out to cover events like these explosions — that’s genuinely inspiring. Especially considering how professionally they conducted themselves.
Overall, I believe the actions of journalists immediately after the strikes deserve respect. I stayed in Sumy for another two or three days after that. And on the day I was leaving the city, more journalists were still arriving — but this time to photograph the funerals and speak with grieving families. I don’t want to criticize anyone in particular, but at that point, it crossed into more ethically questionable territory.
- Questionable how? Because some were trying to "capitalize" on it?
- Yes.
- That happens. But on the other hand, people who call journalists covering such tragedies "piranhas" or "hyenas" are often the same ones who later complain about the world being tired of our war — and are angry that no one abroad feels our pain.
Should we refuse to publish images of the dead and severely wounded as a matter of principle, or should we publish them to give the world a window into the reality of a war of aggression and human suffering? Which position is closer to you?
- That’s an incredibly difficult question. I believe that if you want to show the horror of war, you have to show people the pain of war. Yes, there are people — I’m not one of them — who argue that, based on principles of dignity and good taste, we should censor certain types of images. But if, in the West, you say: "We won’t publish these images because they’re too graphic," then the audience in the West will never grasp what a scourge war is. What you’ll see instead are more polished landscapes, or more aesthetically pleasing shots of a missile exploding — a war that looks like a technical problem...
In my view, it’s not only the job of photographers, but also of those who write about war or film it, to push people to see things they’d rather not see.
- Yes, because people respond to people. What strikes the human heart is not the shattered house itself, but the calamity that has befallen those who lived in it.
- Exactly. And that’s what we’re asking the audience to respond to: that someone else is in pain, and those people need your help — your solidarity.
There are aspects of your question I find hard to answer. It’s one thing when you are Ukrainian and you know firsthand what it means to come under fire in Kyiv or Sumy, or to fight at the front. You understand—physically and emotionally—what life in that reality feels like. But the moment you try to communicate with someone in the United States or the United Kingdom who has never feared for their life during a missile attack, you run into a gap between you. A soldier will instantly grasp another soldier’s story because they share lived experience. Yet if you speak to someone who has spent generations in the safety of a middle-class peace and try to convey your sense of mortal fear… You can try—and truly great journalists, artists, writers sometimes come close—but there is always that gap: the person you’re talking to simply lacks the experience you are describing. That’s no reason to stop trying, but it is a real challenge to convey the realities of war to an audience in, say, Germany or the Netherlands that has never lived what you are trying to explain.
"A COLLEAGUE IN LIVERPOOL ONCE ASKED ME: "WHY ARE YOU SO INTERESTED IN UKRAINE?" PART OF MY ANSWER WAS THAT IN UKRAINE, I FEEL A KIND OF INTERNAL SOCIETAL CONSENSUS ABOUT WHAT THE EXISTENTIAL PURPOSE OF THE MOMENT IS"
- Richard, this was your first visit to Ukraine, wasn’t it?
- Yes, my first. I’m originally from South Africa, but I now work in the United Kingdom. And in my upbringing in South Africa, there was almost no European history at all — we didn’t study it. Sure, we covered the key events of the Second World War, but, for example, we never touched on the Soviet era.
- We have the same blind spots when it comes to African history in general. And even with South Africa — if you ask an average Ukrainian about it, older people might recall apartheid and Nelson Mandela. Others might associate it with diamond mining or wine production — and that’s probably it.
- It’s a similar story on our side. Our arrangements with colleagues from Sumy came about six or seven months ago. Before that, I knew Ukraine existed — through my work, I’d heard about some media-related things — but I didn’t really know anything about the country or its people. Then out of the blue, I got an email from Dr. Anna Chernysh from the Department of Philology and Journalism: "Hello, we’re planning to visit you…" I replied politely but cautiously: "Who are you? What is this about?" (laughs —Ye.K). And after that visit, I started reading more and more about Ukraine. Eventually, the trip to Sumy became my first ever journey to the country.
- After receiving an invitation from the organizers of this Forum, you came to Ukraine for a second time. Of course, both then and now, you’ve been observing Ukrainians in the fourth year of full-scale war. What have you noticed in how we act in this war, in what motivates us? How does our behavior differ from that of people living in peaceful countries? There are simple things we no longer notice about ourselves — which is why your observations may be valuable to us.
- I say this with full awareness that I’m, in many ways, an outsider. You know, when I got back from my first trip to Ukraine, a colleague in Liverpool asked me: "Why are you so interested in Ukraine? I know you’re not someone obsessed with war — so why this?" And part of my answer was that in Ukraine, I felt a kind of internal societal consensus around what the existential purpose of the moment is.
- And what is that purpose?
- It’s a combination of things. It’s the need to resist invasion and the attempted takeover of the country. But at a deeper level, it’s the question: who are we as a nation? What are our values? In Sumy, I had a conversation with a journalism student who was particularly interested in how journalism connects to these questions. From what I understand, in Ukraine these answers are closely tied to the ongoing process of decommunization, and to the broader question of what a decolonized Ukrainian society — free from Russian influence — should look like, and what authentic Ukrainian values really are.
Conversations on these topics really inspire me. Back in 1992–1994, in South Africa, after apartheid was abolished, we found ourselves in a similar situation: "OK, you’re free — now who are you? What do you believe in? What are your principles?" And now, seeing a country where a similar discussion is taking place (unfortunately, under such circumstances) around questions like "Who are we?", "What do we believe in?", "What kind of nation do we want to become?"… you know, it’s something very rare in a nation’s history, when moments like this come along. Looking at the United Kingdom, for instance, I get the sense that there’s no clear idea of what it’s about. You wouldn’t even ask that kind of question, because there’s no ongoing societal conversation around it.
Once again: it’s genuinely inspiring — something that gives a rare sense of uplift — to see a nation actively building its foundations right now. And I find that deeply interesting.
- Have you been to other war zones?
- I’ve been to South Sudan — a country that was going through a civil war — and to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I’ve also been to Uganda, but during the post-war period. So in some ways, I do have points of comparison. In South Sudan and the DRC, war didn’t have this aerial element. The fighting was mostly on the ground, with all the typical defence lines. In South Sudan, you feel much, much safer when travelling than you do in Ukraine.
- Why?
- Simply because in South Sudan, beyond the defensive lines or, say, outside the protection of the UN, you would still see the threat coming — and the defensive lines would actually protect you. Whereas in wars where both sides have ballistic missiles and Shahed drones, the dynamic is such that there is no place of real safety: the sky is open, and you can be killed. In that sense, the war between Russia and Ukraine is more similar to Afghanistan, where the sky itself is a constant source of threat. There’s a similarity in the psychological dimension as well: even if there is no missile or drone attack, every night you find yourself thinking, maybe it will happen tonight. So even when nothing is happening, you remain psychologically wound-up.
In this sense, I found it particularly interesting to speak with people from Sumy. You’d think the city is practically "guaranteed" to face Shahed attacks every day — and yet, residents keep moving about the city. I was genuinely surprised that on the day of a missile strike, after leaving the shelter in our hotel, we saw people calmly returning to their routines — even going shopping.
- Richard, it’s already the fourth year of the war. People have grown used to the danger; besides, even during wartime, they try to preserve some sense of normal life.
- Has it always been like that during war?
- In Sumy itself (not the entire region), the situation has varied. The early days of the war were the hardest — after street fighting broke out, the city was nearly encircled, and there were severe shortages of food and medicine. Then there was a year and a half of relative calm; over the past 18 months, the threat level has steadily increased, and the Kursk operation sharply escalated the situation. There’s something else I’d like to ask. You work at the University of Liverpool but originally come from South Africa — so in a way, you're an outsider in the UK. That’s exactly what makes your perspective especially interesting to us.
We hear and read a lot about "Western fatigue with this war." From your sharp perspective, what does that look like in the UK? Is it more like: "When will you stop whining already?" — something people think but don’t say out loud? Or is it yet another source of irritation for those Brits who voted for Brexit and now see Ukrainian refugees as the new version of the infamous ‘Polish plumbers’?
- Yes, I’ve heard that expression. You know, coming from South Africa with its long history of racism, I always thought I understood what racism looked like. From my perspective, Europe just seemed full of white people (smiles – Ye.K.). And yet, when I arrived in the United Kingdom, I had this revelation: no, even in Europe there’s a kind of racism — this notion that the farther west you are, the more of a ‘proper’ European you are. That was news to me — something I hadn’t encountered before.
When it comes to Ukraine specifically, I’d say the United Kingdom supports Ukraine more than many other nations.
- Yes, and it’s hard to deny that the United Kingdom has been one of Ukraine’s most committed allies — in terms of military and financial support, as well as political backing.
- And I think that has a lot to do with how the British see themselves — which is very much shaped by their experience in the Second World War. It’s that myth of the brave underdog rising up against a great empire of evil. I believe the British, in their minds, identify with Ukraine. To them, Ukraine in relation to Russia is what Britain was in relation to the Nazis during WWII: a Churchillian nation that is outgunned and outnumbered, but refuses to surrender.
- Since we started with Sumy, let’s end with Sumy. Would you like to visit the city again, or did the danger during your first trip feel like more than enough?
- Oh, I’d really love to go back someday. Unfortunately, over the next few months I’ll be traveling to Tanzania and South Africa — but after that, I’d very much like to return to Sumy.
I’m 100% coming back.
Yevhen Kuzmenko, Censor.NET
Photo: Richard Stupart archive
The editorial team thanks the Arseniy Yatsenyuk "Open Ukraine" Foundation, which hosts the Kyiv Security Forum, for helping arrange this interview.
