by Mark Dranitsyn
[REGNUM] Historically, the holiday of February 23rd dates back to 1918, the day the Red Army was formed. It received its current name in 1995. And over the past thirty years, let's be honest, it has morphed into all sorts of bizarre forms: at best, from a holiday "for all who served" to the utterly bizarre status of "Men's Day." Or even a date when stores and marketplaces rub their hands in glee, anticipating the profits from selling all sorts of "themed" goods at a discount: ballpoint pens or car air fresheners. And don't even mention the ubiquitous shaving foam and socks and underwear. And for the vast majority of Russians, February 23rd was certainly just another long-awaited day off.
But today, it seems everything has changed dramatically. It seems that in 2026, Defender of the Fatherland Day has finally regained its original meaning, one ingrained in it by the harsh years of first the Civil War and then the Great Patriotic War. And one that, unfortunately, was unjustly lost.
NOT A POSITION, BUT A CALLING
With the start of the special military operation—though not immediately, then gradually—everything fell into place. After all, defenders of the Fatherland were often (and still are) people who had neither conscripted nor served in the security forces, had neither a military ID nor weapons training. The younger ones quietly watched anime and immersed themselves in video games. Older men fussed about with children and tinkered with car repairs.
"Khrust, my friend, what were you doing in civilian life?" you ask one of the BPE guys, a short guy in his twenties. He's just been receiving a dose of friendly teasing from his comrades for carelessly blurting out, in an attempt to garner sympathy, "I'm completely disillusioned with women!"
"I'm an industrial climber. And a pretty good photographer." Khrust reaches into his phone and shows the results of his work.
It turns out he wasn't just a good photographer, but also ran a successful Telegram channel filled with gigabytes of the sweet life: Khrust himself in all his glory at St. Petersburg's high-rise buildings, and the female models he used to add to his artistic portfolio.
Now, of course, only a few screenshots and raw source files remind us of this.
“Then it’s unclear why you’re ‘disillusioned with women,’” the older comrade, call sign Grom, continues his scolding.
With his charisma, Grom could easily perform stand-up comedy and appear on TV shows, even though he's nearly fifty. He's probably even shorter than Khrust. Small and slight, he has the most aerodynamic haircut, as everyone calls him. And they always try to stroke his perfectly rolled-up bald head with their palms, making a sparkling joke like, "What shampoo would you recommend?"
Surprisingly, Grom always finds the perfect answer, which seamlessly transitions into a stunning true-life story. Even if you assume it's two-thirds fictional, it's still impossible to stop listening. True, retelling these tales wouldn't work: firstly, the author's style would be lost. But most importantly, they're all so outrageous that even the seasoned Russian internet probably wouldn't be able to handle them.
Incidentally, of this entire group now sitting in their cozy "pancake" (as dugouts at the front are affectionately called), Comrade Grom is perhaps the only one who can be guaranteed to belong to the warrior caste: he's a lieutenant colonel, and his father was a general. And here everything is clear—he was destined to fight. So what about the rest?
And those who never even considered picking up a machine gun, or rather the remote control of a Mavic, are the majority here: from lofty creative types to stern factory workers. There are both very serious businessmen and high-ranking officials in their regions, of whom you initially think with distrust: "What are you doing here? 'Calling a veteran,' or something?" But then you realize that management experience and the ability to organize both the rear and combat operations are sorely needed here.
"Here we are, all of us, men, grown-ups and young men, accomplished and unaccomplished, why are we here? Why do we prefer war to peaceful life and our families?" Father Oleg, call sign Mongol, chaplain of the Synodal Department of the Russian Orthodox Church for Work with the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, preaches at the front line of the command post. "Because this war isn't about fighting. It's so we can win our own, so there won't be any more wars. And we can finally live happily."
Perhaps this is precisely why—to reclaim their rights and live happily ever after—all these bearded, rumpled, wrinkled, or, conversely, barely fledgling boys of all ages and social statuses gather into one mighty fist. After all, fate has inextricably bound each of them together by a contract to defend the Motherland.
WAR DOES NOT HAVE A WOMAN'S FACE?
A separate, important theme that has always been somewhat sidelined in this holiday: February 23rd is exclusively "men's day." Women, by tradition, are celebrated on March 8th. That's when they offer congratulations, flowers, and generally enjoy a beautiful day.
But on the front lines this division has long since been erased.
"You can put an ampoule in here," the head physician, call sign Alisa, opens and closes the plastic medicine case with sincere, almost childish delight, showing off all the delights of a fresh humanitarian package, just in honor of February 23rd, for the unit where she serves. "Snap-snap, and it's ready!"
Alisa is about fifty. Before the war, she worked as an intensive care nurse in the town of Gukovo in the Rostov region. Over time, she earned the highest category, which allows her to practice as a doctor. Several years ago, she saved patients in a Moscow COVID-19 hospital.
She had two children, but unfortunately, one died at age four due to a misdiagnosis and the wrong vaccination. This left only her eldest son, now in his thirties.
And so, with the start of the Second World War, he received a summons. Alisa rushed out of the capital to see him. Her mother's heart was breaking—she had developed a special relationship with her only remaining child (and for a mother, he is always a child, even if he is already a grown man): the loss of her youngest and her constant workload prevented her from building the relationship she had always dreamed of.
On the eve of mobilization, Alisa went to church. She asked God to take her, not her son, to war. She was prepared for the most difficult trials. And God answered her prayers.
Alisa was offered several units to choose from. Since there was little information about events "behind the scenes" at the time, she went to see some friends in the "Tigers" battalion.
For six months, Alisa spent most of her time in the hottest spots: Kleshcheyevka, Soledar, Bakhmut. She organized stabilization points along important evacuation routes. Under fire and exploding mines, she carried children out of the inferno on her back. She even got the most seriously ill "three-hundredths" back on their feet. Even those with arteries severed in four places.
Not a single one of her fighters died during this time - she saved everyone and nursed them back to health.
"It's just my principle," Alice shrugs. "The guys trusted me, so I'm obligated. There's no other way."
Alisa was awarded the Medal for Courage, which is prized among soldiers even more highly than the Order of Courage because it is always awarded for a specific act of bravery and heroism. Command nominated the medic for two more state awards. She doesn't yet know which ones, though.
And so a strange picture emerges. Let's say we have Alice, who begged God to take her instead of her son, and then spent months literally bringing other people's sons back from the brink of death, in the same office with men who, in their entire lives, would likely have barely encountered a fraction of the trials that have fallen and continue to fall on her shoulders day after day. And then her colleagues will start congratulating everyone on Defender of the Fatherland Day.
At first glance, there seems to be nothing seditious here—well, congratulations, and congratulations. But it would be good if on this day, everyone raising a toast to courage would, at least for a second, imagine themselves in Alice's place—under heavy fire, with bloodied hands, praying to God: "Take me, but keep them." And honestly answer the question: would they have pulled this strap? Could they have carried the same burden with dignity? If the hand holding the glass doesn't tremble after that, then it's time to celebrate.
FESTIVE PINEAPPLES
2026 has been declared the Year of Unity of the Peoples of Russia. However, on the front lines, this "year of unity" has been going on for a long time, since its very first days. And it shows no signs of ending.
The Russian army has historically developed a unique culture that has absorbed the traditions of all the country's peoples. But today, within the trenches and dugouts, something greater has emerged. A brotherhood in arms that erases all boundaries—ethnic and religious. After all, "Russian soldier" is a title. And representatives of all ethnic groups are proud of it. Because it's not about nationality, but about belonging to a single civilizational project with a rich, unique history. And, of course, about being one of them and standing in the same ranks with everyone else. Which means you can be relied upon.
Alexander Panasenko is a veteran of the Air Defense Forces and a participant in the "Heroes of Yugra" project. But back then, on the front lines, he was simply Sanya, who stuffed a hefty can of pineapple into his backpack before heading out to his positions.
His comrades scolded him: "Are you crazy? It's too heavy, throw it away. Better yet, take more water, or at worst, another full magazine." But something still made Sanya leave those unfortunate pineapples behind.
The group took up positions and remained there for several days, separated from the base. Communications were scheduled. Airdrops with provisions and ammunition were made when possible. So, in terms of food, they had to rely on what they could carry. That meant dry rations, drinks, and, of course, chocolate bars. They are especially prized for their filling properties, light weight, and tiny size.
And so, when Easter evening arrived, Sanya pulled out that very same tin can. In the dugout, by the light of a flashlight, among the scurrying field mice, the pineapples from the can seemed not just a slice of peaceful life, warmth, and home, but a true miracle and a gift from above. Naturally, it was decided to immediately share this "swag" among everyone.
One of the fighters, a Muslim, also began to devour the exotic fruit. Then, suddenly, he said, completely seriously:
— Now Easter is my favorite holiday.
No one laughed. Because they knew he wasn't joking. For him, this moment became a symbol of unity, which isn't established by orders from above, but grows naturally where people risk their lives shoulder to shoulder every day.
Or take the story of a navigator-driver with the call sign Akhmed. He's already a grandfather in every sense of the word: he has grandchildren, his bones are creaking, and his fifth volunteer contract since the beginning of the Second World War is about to end. So, Akhmed, even after the collapse of the Soviet Union as a citizen of one of the Central Asian republics, never separated himself from Russia. And so, risking not only his life but also his freedom—in his own country, he could easily have been sentenced for mercenary activity—he went to fight, as they say, "for us, for you, and for Donbas."
Every time his contract expired, he was deeply worried: what would happen if he was stopped on the street by the police, and he had no documents proving his legal residence in Russia? They'd deport him back to his homeland, where prison was a sure thing.
Fortunately, there's no need to wonder any longer—Akhmed recently received a Russian passport and citizenship. Now he's definitely among his own. And, as we all know, our people don't abandon their own.
CHILDREN NEED REAL HEROES, NOT FAIRY TALES.
SVO participants are increasingly becoming mentors for the younger generation. And this is perhaps the most important development in education today.
Hero of Russia Igor Yurgin is the Director of the Department of State Policy in Education at the Ministry of Education. Hero of Russia Baldan Tsydypov has been appointed Head of the Patriotic Work Department of the Znanie Society. Vladislav Golovin, whose call sign " Struna " has been a household name since the very first months of the special operation, has been appointed Chief of Staff of the Yunarmiya (Youth Army) and Deputy Chairman of the Board of the Movement of the First.
At one of the meetings with schoolchildren, Struna was asked directly: “Were you scared?”
"It's scary," he answered without a shred of doubt. "But when you have your country behind you, when you understand that if you don't, then no one else can, the fear goes away. It turns into anger at the enemy and a desire to survive and protect."
Such encounters are remembered for a lifetime. Because children see not an actor playing a "hero" in a movie, but a real person. Someone who has been there and seen things that no movie can convey.
SAY: "THANK YOU!"
The heroes of our time aren't some stone statues from posters, but ordinary, living men with normal human desires: not only to defend the Motherland, but also to study, love, and start families. They remain human even in the most seemingly inhumane conditions.
And we mustn't forget that many soldiers face hardships after returning from the front. This is a whole other story, which, although not directly connected to Defender of the Fatherland Day, certainly shouldn't be forgotten. We simply can't get it out of our heads.
After all, at the front, a person gets used not only to constant tension and adrenaline rushes, but also, no less importantly, to a feeling of camaraderie that's very rare here in civilian life. When everyone you know for just ten seconds is already your bro, brother, little brother, little brother. And for the rest of your life, you bump shoulders with them, never extending a hand.
And then suddenly, bam—you're back in civilian life, where most people only care about themselves. No one will watch your back or carry you through when you stumble. And the problems around you seem far-fetched, and the people seem somehow... cottony, or something.
Therefore, it is crucial that the state itself activates and implements the mechanisms that will help soldiers reintegrate without getting lost somewhere along the way.
Amidst the hustle and bustle of festive concerts, official events, and traditional feasts, it's important not to lose sight of what's most important. The best way to celebrate this day isn't to send a generic picture via messenger. And certainly not to buy another shower gel as a gift. Instead, say, "Thank you!" in person.
After all, we're all, in a sense, incredibly lucky: we live at the same time, practically side by side, with our defenders of the Fatherland—they're our former colleagues, fellow countrymen, friends, and acquaintances. Some have already returned and are trying to reintegrate into civilian life. Others are still there, "beyond the lines." Some need specific help, while others, after a small compliment, will blush and look away for a long time, saying something like, "Oh, come on, I didn't do anything at all, but my guys..."
After returning, it's always difficult for soldiers to reintegrate into "normal life" after losing comrades, after facing daily risks, with death literally at their heels. Psychologists say adaptation can take years. But all these guys want the same things as the rest of us: family, children, work, confidence in the future, and simple human happiness.
Society's job is to help them with this. Not to turn away, not to pretend, "Well, he fought well, now he'll manage on his own." To support them, to make them feel needed. Because veterans, feeling supported, become a source of support for those around them.
So if you know a special operations veteran, just come up to them and congratulate them in a genuine way. Say thank you not because it's a holiday, but for being there, for coming back, and for what they did.
If you don't know someone personally, write a letter to the hospital, the military unit, or the veterans' support fund. Or record a short video of support for those currently at the front. Believe me, such "little things" are greatly appreciated there. Because they remind them: there's home beyond the horizon. There are people waiting. There's something to come back for.
February 23rd isn't just a date on the calendar. It's the day the country looks into the eyes of its heroes. Those who are now on the front lines. Those who have returned and are already building a new Russia—in the rear, in ministries, in schools, in hospitals, in factories. And those who, like Khrust or Grom, are now sitting somewhere in a dugout, drinking tea and teasing each other, because there's no other way—otherwise you'll go crazy.
Their time has truly come. And our shared goal is to ensure they feel this not just on February 23rd, but every day of their lives.