In New Delhi, two young Ukrainian badminton players stepped onto a world championship court not merely to compete, but to insist on their country's continued existence. Polina Buhrova and Yevheniia Kantemyr, both exiled to Italy while their families endure bombardment in Ukraine, carried something heavier than rackets into that arena — the weight of a war now in its fifth year, and the quiet defiance of showing up anyway. Sport, for them, has become a form of testimony: a way of saying that a nation under siege still moves, still strives, still refuses to vanish from the world's sight.
Ukrainian badminton players compete amid war, question normalcy as bombs fall
Ukrainian civilians face mounting casualties from escalated long-range attacks; athletes separated from families in active war zones with ongoing bombardment.
How can you feel normal when bombs are falling?
Mark
When you say playing badminton is an act of defiance, what does that actually mean in practical terms?
Mimi
It means showing up. It means that when the world could easily forget about Ukraine, or move on to the next crisis, these athletes are saying: we still exist, we still compete, we still have a future. They're not hiding.
Mark
But they are hiding, in a way—they're in Italy, not Ukraine.
Mimi
True. But that's the paradox they're living in. They had to leave to survive, to train, to have any chance at a career. But by competing internationally, they're bringing Ukraine back into the conversation. They're making people ask: why are these athletes displaced? What's happening at home?
Mark
Do you think the badminton result matters at all to them?
Mimi
Probably not in the way it would for an athlete in peacetime. Losing in the first round would normally be devastating. But for Buhrova and Kantemyr, just being there, just competing while their families are under bombardment—that's the victory.
Mark
What about the Russian players competing under a neutral flag? Is Buhrova's position fair?
Mimi
Fair is complicated. From her perspective, there's no neutrality in a war. Russia invaded her country. Her family is in danger. Asking her to compete alongside Russian athletes, even without flags, feels like asking her to normalize something that destroyed her life.
Mark
So where does this end?
Mimi
That's the question no one can answer yet. The war grinds on. These athletes keep competing. And the debate about who gets to play, under what flag, will probably continue as long as the fighting does.
Le Pouls
- Four years into a grinding war, Ukrainian civilians face their highest casualty rates since the invasion began, as both sides turn to long-range missiles and drones striking deep into populated territory.
- Buhrova and Kantemyr carry the psychological fracture of displacement — training in Italy, competing globally, while their families remain in cities under active bombardment.
- Their first-round loss in New Delhi went almost unremarked; what mattered was the act of arrival itself, a deliberate refusal to be erased from international competition.
- The presence of Russian athletes competing under neutral flags at the same championships sharpened the tension, with Buhrova calling the compromise a serious mistake — arguing that neutrality is impossible when the bombs are not neutral.
- The two athletes press forward through matches and tournaments, each appearance framed not as athletic ambition but as national statement: Ukraine is still fighting, and so are we.
In New Delhi, two young Ukrainian badminton players stepped onto a world championship court not merely to compete, but to insist on their country's continued existence. Polina Buhrova and Yevheniia Kantemyr, both exiled to Italy while their families endure bombardment in Ukraine, carried something heavier than rackets into that arena — the weight of a war now in its fifth year, and the quiet defiance of showing up anyway. Sport, for them, has become a form of testimony: a way of saying that a nation under siege still moves, still strives, still refuses to vanish from the world's sight.
Polina Buhrova posed a question from the badminton court in New Delhi that no rulebook could answer: how do you play a sport normally when bombs are falling on your country? She and her doubles partner Yevheniia Kantemyr, aged twenty-two and twenty-one respectively, had traveled from Italy — where both now live in exile — to compete at the world championships. They lost in the first round. It didn't matter.
By August 2026, the war Russia launched in early 2022 had entered its fifth year. The front lines had hardened into stalemate, but the violence had shifted rather than subsided — long-range strikes on civilian areas had pushed the death toll to its worst levels since the war's opening months. Buhrova's hometown of Kharkiv remained under relentless attack. Kantemyr spoke plainly about the fear: 'It's not easy for us to be like this outside of the country without our families.'
Still, they came to play. Their presence was the point — a declaration that Ukrainian athletes could still train, still travel, still stand on a world stage and say: we are here, and Ukraine is still fighting. Buhrova acknowledged how difficult it was to concentrate on sport under such conditions, but framed the effort as obligation. 'We must focus on our job and show that Ukraine is still strong as a nation.'
The championships also featured two Russian players competing under a neutral flag — a compromise increasingly accepted by international sports bodies. Buhrova rejected it without hesitation. For her, the framework of neutrality collapsed against the reality of what was happening at home. The war was not neutral. The strikes on Kharkiv were not neutral. She and Kantemyr would keep competing, carrying Ukraine's name into every tournament — separated from their families, burdened by what they could not control, and refusing, match by match, to disappear.
Polina Buhrova stood at the badminton world championships in New Delhi on a Monday in August, thousands of miles from home, and asked a question that hung in the air like smoke: How do you play a sport normally when bombs are falling on your country?
Buhrova, twenty-two years old, and her doubles partner Yevheniia Kantemyr, twenty-one, had traveled to India to compete. They lost their first-round match. But the result barely mattered. Both women were based now in Italy, exiled from their families, trying to build careers in badminton while Ukraine burned. They had come to the championships anyway—not to win, but to be seen. To say: we are still here. Ukraine is still here.
The war had started in early 2022. By August 2026, more than four years had passed. The fighting had settled into a grinding stalemate along the front lines, but the violence had not stopped—it had only changed shape. Both Russia and Ukraine had shifted to long-range attacks, raining missiles and drones deep into each other's territory. The civilian death toll had climbed to its highest point since the war's opening months. Buhrova was from Kharkiv, in Ukraine's northeast, a city that had endured relentless bombardment. Kantemyr feared for her family too. "The situation is quite bad there," Kantemyr said. "It's not easy for us to be like this outside of the country without our families."
Yet they had come to play badminton. They had come to compete in singles matches as well, to represent Ukraine on a global stage. The act itself was defiance—a refusal to disappear, a statement that their country's athletes could still move, still train, still show up. "Our country supports us a lot and we are really pleased and thankful for that," Buhrova said. "We are just trying to show our best and show that we are here, and Ukraine is still fighting, and this is the main goal."
Buhrova did not hide the cost of this defiance. Staying focused on badminton felt impossible. How could it not? "How can you feel normal when bombs and drones are falling down on your head?" she asked. But she pushed forward anyway. "We must focus on our job and show that Ukraine is still strong as a nation and everything is going well."
At the same championships, two Russian men's doubles players—Rodion Alimov and Maksim Ogloblin—were also competing. They had to play under a neutral flag because of their country's invasion. This was the compromise some sports organizations and the International Olympic Committee had begun to accept in recent months: allow Russian athletes to compete, but strip away their flag, their anthem, their national identity. It was meant to be a middle ground.
Buhrova rejected it entirely. "I think it's very bad," she said of the softening stance toward Russian participation. "I absolutely don't support this decision and I think it's a big mistake." For her, there could be no neutral ground. The war was not neutral. The bombs falling on Kharkiv were not neutral. How could sport be?
She and Kantemyr would continue to play, to compete, to carry Ukraine's name into tournaments around the world. They would do it separated from their families, carrying the weight of what was happening at home. They would do it knowing that every match was also a message: we have not surrendered, we have not disappeared, we are still here.
Citations marquantes
How can you feel normal when bombs and drones are falling down on your head? But we must focus on our job and show that Ukraine is still strong as a nation.— Polina Buhrova
The situation is quite bad there, so we don't live there now because it's impossible to manage. It's not easy for us to be like this outside of the country without our families.— Yevheniia Kantemyr
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