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A sharp escalation in cross-border hostilities has rocked the Russia-Ukraine conflict this week, after Ukraine launched one of its largest drone attacks on Moscow in recent months just hours after Russia pummeled Ukrainian population centers with a wave of ballistic missiles, deepening a cycle of retaliatory violence that pushes any diplomatic resolution further out of reach more than four years into Russia’s full-scale invasion.

Moscow Mayor Sergei Sobyanan confirmed Monday that more than 400 Ukrainian drones were launched at the Russian capital between late Sunday and early Monday. According to official Russian statements, the vast majority of incoming unmanned aerial vehicles were shot down far from central Moscow, with 85 intercepted within Moscow’s immediate perimeter. Andrei Vorobyov, governor of the Moscow Oblast surrounding the capital, reported 10 civilian injuries and damage to multiple residential buildings and critical civilian infrastructure sites.

Yevgeniya Khrustaleva, head of Domodedovo District south of Moscow, confirmed the attack sparked a large blaze at the Yuzhnye Vrata industrial park, located roughly 18 miles from the city center. Unconfirmed reporting from independent Russian outlet Astra also claimed a fire broke out at an oil depot in Podolsk, 12 miles south of Moscow, but the claim has not been verified by official Russian sources.

This major drone attack underscores how far Ukraine’s long-range drone technology has advanced since the full-scale invasion began, creating a persistent security challenge for Russia: the country’s expansive territory makes comprehensive air defense coverage nearly impossible to maintain. Ukrainian forces have increasingly targeted Russian energy infrastructure in these strikes, leading to localized fuel shortages and undermining public confidence in the Kremlin’s ability to secure the home front. The scale of Monday’s attack is among the largest; in May, Russian defense officials reported downing 1,054 Ukrainian drones in a single 24-hour period.

The tit-for-tat strike came on the heels of a major Russian bombardment that used large numbers of ballistic missiles against Ukrainian cities. Ukrainian officials confirmed that Sunday’s Russian attack killed at least six civilians and wounded dozens more. Russia’s Defense Ministry claimed the overnight strike targeted fuel storage facilities in the southern Ukrainian port of Odesa, while Ukraine’s Air Force reported that Russia launched two ballistic missiles and 94 long-range drones in the overnight assault. Ukrainian air defenses intercepted or jammed 81 of the drones, but nine remaining drones and one Russian missile caused damage across nine separate Ukrainian locations.

A Washington-based think tank, the Institute for the Study of War, noted Sunday that Russian forces have fired more ballistic missiles into Ukraine in July than the country is estimated to produce in a single month. The organization concluded that Russia is drawing down its stored stockpiles of ballistic missiles to ramp up strikes, as these weapons have a far higher penetration rate than slower drones or cruise missiles, allowing them to exploit gaps in Ukraine’s layered air defense network. Russia has significantly stepped up ballistic missile use in recent weeks to capitalize on these defensive gaps, as Kyiv continues to appeal to Western allies for more advanced interceptor systems capable of countering the hard-to-stop weapons.

Beyond the frontline escalation, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy is working to navigate a growing domestic political crisis sparked by a major government reshuffle last week that laid bare deep divisions between military establishment leaders and younger reformist factions over the strategy for continuing the war. Zelenskyy announced last week that he would replace 35-year-old former Defense Minister Mykhailo Fedorov, while retaining 60-year-old Soviet-trained General Oleksandr Syrskyi as the head of Ukraine’s armed forces. The decision sparked days of public street protests, with demonstrators rallying in support of Fedorov and calling for the removal of Syrskyi. Zelenskyy has said he will hold “key negotiations” on Monday to shore up public and political unity, as he works to convince Ukrainians that the cabinet shake-up will not undermine the country’s military campaign against Russian forces.

In Kyiv’s historic Lukianivka district, a neighborhood scarred by repeated Russian missile attacks, residents have turned stubborn perseverance into a daily way of life. Facing near-constant bombardment that has left craters pockmarking the urban landscape and iconic landmarks reduced to charred ruins, the people of this heavily targeted area have refused to surrender their home.

Local real estate agent Dmytro Zhekov does not hide the danger when marketing properties to prospective tenants in one of the Ukrainian capital’s most frequently hit districts. He leads with transparency, warning every curious renter upfront that the neighborhood sits firmly in a high-risk strike zone, while also highlighting its unique advantages: affordable monthly rents, unbeatable proximity to Kyiv’s city center, a well-connected metro link, and a rich tapestry of historic sites. “From the beginning I tell them, ‘This is a place in the danger zone. It gets hit regularly. If you are all right with that, then we can see it,’” Zhekov explains.

The neighborhood’s repeated targeting stems from its long-standing connection to arms manufacturing: the Soviet-era Artem weapons plant, located in the district, has become one of Russia’s top priority targets in Kyiv, its roof blackened by wave after wave of strikes. Directly across the street, Lukianivka metro station — the neighborhood’s namesake — has been struck no fewer than eight times, doubling as a civilian air raid shelter between attacks. For locals, the question is no longer if another strike will hit, but when. Still, they have chosen to rebuild, reopen businesses, and carry on with daily life rather than flee.

Steeped in centuries of history, Lukianivka’s main thoroughfare Dehtiarivska Street follows the ancient path of Via Regia, the medieval trade route that brought merchants pouring into Kyiv for hundreds of years. It later evolved into a working-class district packed with factories, public markets, and the historic Lukianivka prison, which once held former Ukrainian Prime Minister Yulia Tymoshenko in a case widely seen as political retribution. In 1997, Ukraine’s first McDonald’s opened its doors here, becoming an enduring symbol of the nation’s post-independence rebirth. Today, even that restaurant bears the marks of war: a plastic sign outside remains permanently warped by the heat of a recent Russian strike. “It’s part of our history now,” says local historian Kyrylo Stepanets.

One of the neighborhood’s most beloved community hubs, the iconic Lukianivka Market that had served local residents since the late 19th century, was completely destroyed in a Russian strike on May 24. What remains is a charred, twisted maze of destroyed kiosks, frozen in the moment of the blast — blackened loaves of bread still sit on the shelves of what was once a neighborhood bakery. For long-time residents, the market lives on in childhood memories, of parents and grandparents leading them through crowded aisles to buy fresh fruit, flowers, and daily necessities.

Alyona Lukianets, 32, spent 11 years building her small produce business at the market. When the strike hit, she returned to find her stall turned to ash. Just weeks later, she was back at work, assembling a new makeshift stall from wooden pallets and tarpaulin just outside the market’s ruins. Every morning, she still arranges baskets of fresh berries and vegetables with the same careful attention she used before the war, even as the acrid smell of burnt destruction lingers in the air from the destroyed market behind her. “I don’t know what it will take for us to leave this place,” Lukianets says. “We are unmovable.”

The Artem weapons plant that draws so much Russian fire has not pushed residents to flee, even those who relocated here after being displaced by the war elsewhere. Julia Sosnovska, who was forced out of her home when Russia seized the southern port city of Mariupol, chose Lukianivka for its low rental costs — studio apartments start at less than $200 a month, with one- and two-bedroom units available for roughly $270 and $310 respectively — despite the fact her apartment overlooks the plant directly.

Founded in the late 19th century as an industrial machinery facility, Artem grew into one of the Soviet Union’s leading arms manufacturers before becoming a key part of Ukraine’s domestic defense industry after the country gained independence. It expanded production in 2014, when Russian-backed separatists seized territory in eastern Ukraine. Following Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022, the plant became a top target for Russian missile strikes, as Moscow claims it still produces weapons for Ukraine’s military. Ukrainian officials cannot comment on the facility’s operations due to wartime security restrictions, and residents note that relocating production would do little to make the neighborhood safer: Russian missiles have struck every district of Kyiv, meaning no corner of the capital is truly immune.

When the latest Russian missile barrage hit on a Sunday morning, Sosnovska was jolted awake by a blinding flash outside her bedroom window, followed by the crash of flying shards of glass. Her dog Perry, who she had finally been allowed to adopt after a May strike destroyed part of the building, bolted from the bed in panic. Clutching the trembling dog, her identity documents, and her laptop, Sosnovska joined neighbors sheltering in the basement parking garage as more explosions shook the area. By dawn, all her apartment windows had been blown out and her car was damaged, but she counts herself lucky. “Glass is the least you can lose in these attacks,” she says. When asked why she stays, she shrugs: “Where else would I go? You never know which place will be next.”

That same defiant resolve runs through every corner of the neighborhood. Vitalii Zhdaniuk opened a barber school in Lukianivka because of his love for the area. The building’s walls are pocked with shrapnel holes, and a chunk of brick thrown from a neighboring auto shop during a 2023 strike still remains embedded in one exterior wall. “No matter how many missiles fly here,” he says, “I’ll stay.”

Even the district’s vibrant cultural life has adapted to war, refusing to be silenced. Tucked behind Lukianivka metro station, Mala Opera — a small theater that has long been a staple of Kyiv’s cultural scene — now stages all its productions in the theater’s basement, leaving the grand upper auditorium empty. When the full-scale invasion began, the theater’s director Mykhailo Miskun made a deliberate choice: the company would only stage comedies, to give war-weary audiences a much-needed break from the stress of conflict. His latest production centers on love, sex, and feuding neighbors, lighthearted themes designed to help attendees forget the war for a few hours.

The company has adapted its process, holding rehearsals online and gathering in smaller, safer spaces to work. After one recent strike, the troupe briefly debated relocating elsewhere, but ultimately chose to stay. “despite everything,” Miskun says. Outside, theatergoers line up to descend the stairs into the basement, where the evening’s performance is about to begin.

As Miskun puts it: “We live. We create. We give birth. Just like any part of Ukraine, Lukianivka is also being restored and continues to live.”

Fifteen years after Norway’s deadliest peacetime atrocity sent shockwaves across the Scandinavian nation, the country has inaugurated a permanent public memorial honoring the 77 lives lost to far-right extremist Anders Behring Breivik’s 2011 terror attacks.

On July 22, 2011, Breivik first detonated a car bomb in central Oslo’s government district, killing eight people before traveling to nearby Utoeya island, where he gunned down 69 more attendees — most of them teenage members of the Norwegian Labour Party’s youth wing, the AUF — at the group’s annual summer camp. Hundreds of others were wounded in the two-pronged attack, which remains the worst act of domestic terrorism Norway has seen in modern history.

Just days ahead of the 15th anniversary of the atrocity, survivors, victim family members, royal representatives, and senior government officials gathered in Oslo’s renovated government quarter on Sunday for the official unveiling of the new memorial, named Upholding. The large-scale contemporary artwork sits steps from the original site of Breivik’s opening bomb blast.

Created by Norwegian artist Matias Faldbakken, who first spotted the small native wading bird that inspired the work during a visit to Utoeya, the memorial centers on a 12-meter-tall stone mosaic of the bird, framed by a massive blue steel structure. The piece also integrates straw, sticks, and mirrored elements reflecting the surrounding environment, and the full names of all 77 victims are engraved into its surface. Per Faldbakken, the work serves a dual purpose: it preserves memory of the lives cut short, and stands as a public act of democratic resilience against the violent far-right ideologies that motivated Breivik’s attack.

Merete Stamneshagen, leader of a national support organization for victims and survivors, emphasized the attack’s broader target beyond individual victims, telling reporters from AFP, “July 22, 2011 was a brutal attack not only on individuals, but also on our democracy.” Norway’s Crown Prince Haakon was among the senior dignitaries in attendance at the inauguration, and he also toured the newly opened 22 July Centre, the country’s national memorial and educational hub dedicated to documenting the attacks and their legacy.

The attack itself continues to cast a long shadow over Norwegian public life more than a decade on. Breivik was convicted in 2012 and handed a 21-year prison sentence — the maximum penalty available under Norwegian law — with provisions that allow for indefinite sentence extensions as long as he is deemed a threat to public safety. Breivik has repeatedly challenged the conditions of his incarceration in the years since his conviction: in 2016, he won a partial ruling in a human rights case against the Norwegian government, only for that decision to be overturned a year later. He was denied parole in 2022, with courts ruling he had not renounced his extremist views and remained a danger to society. Most recently, in 2024, he lost a lawsuit against the government over his separate incarceration, a security measure implemented to prevent him from radicalizing other incarcerated people.

Five years into Russia’s full-scale invasion, Ukraine’s push to mobilize new troops has devolved into a cycle of violence that is tearing at social cohesion within the country, leaving both serving soldiers and civilians injured and exposing deep flaws in the nation’s conscription system.

For Vasyl Krupych, a veteran machine gunner who survived brutal Russian assaults on Ukraine’s eastern Donbas region, the danger did not end when he was reassigned to rear-area duty searching for people avoiding conscription. Last December, he encountered two men who refused to present identity documents and fled the scene. When his patrol gave chase, the pair beat Krupych severely with a crowbar, breaking one of his ribs and leaving him struggling to breathe. He spent six weeks recovering in a hospital, and still grapples with disillusionment over the attack. “What did we fight for, if soldiers can now get beaten?” the frontline veteran asked in a recent interview.

Krupych’s assault is far from an isolated incident. Ukraine’s military ombudswoman has confirmed that attacks on conscription officers are now “regular” and represent a “major problem” as Kyiv races to replenish frontline ranks depleted by years of continuous combat. While the topic is rarely discussed openly in Ukraine, out of caution that it could be exploited by Russian propaganda, official data tells a stark story: Ukraine’s National Police Service has recorded more than 600 assaults on recruitment personnel to date, and has warned that the violence is growing increasingly aggressive.

The first major public outcry over the crisis came in April, when several recruiters were stabbed in a single attack that left one dead. Just this month, tensions boiled over in the western city of Lviv, where roughly 200 protesters surrounded officers attempting to detain a suspected draft dodger. The crowd smashed and overturned the officers’ vehicle, sparking national headlines and drawing condemnation from President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.

In the wake of the Lviv riot, Zelenskyy’s controversial decision to dismiss Defence Minister Mykhailo Fedorov has thrown efforts to resolve the conscription crisis into further chaos. Fedorov, who was removed over reported disagreements over strategy and leadership with Ukraine’s commander-in-chief, had only served six months in the role and had just begun implementing reforms to address growing conscription tensions. His departure leaves the ministry with only an acting minister, and all planned overhauls of the conscription system are currently stalled. Despite the policy pause, public anger over the current system has reached a breaking point, making urgent action unavoidable.

Analysts and politicians point to multiple root causes of the current backlash. After five years of war, nearly every Ukrainian knows someone who has been killed or injured on the front line, and widespread fear is compounded by a sense that the conflict has no clear end in sight. Enthusiasm for voluntary enlistement peaked only once after the initial 2022 wave of mobilization, during Ukraine’s late 2023 counteroffensive to retake southeastern territory. When that counteroffensive failed to deliver major territorial gains, public willingness to volunteer faded rapidly. Opposition MP Oleksandr Honcharenko argues that the government’s shift to what he calls “brutal mobilization” tactics after the counteroffensive directly sparked the current wave of violence. “These officers are hunting for people on the streets and sometimes using quite violent methods,” Honcharenko explained. “Violence leads to violence. It’s a huge problem and it’s going to get worse.”

Military analyst Ivan Stupak agrees that aggressive tactics are the core of the problem. He notes that mounting battlefield casualties and a growing shortage of manpower forced Ukraine’s high command to adopt the controversial practice widely known as “busification” — mobile conscription patrols that detain eligible men on the street and bundle them directly onto buses bound for recruitment centers. “When they need an extra 5,000 men, they start grabbing them — and if they refuse it turns into fights on the street,” Stupak said.

Accounts of abuse by conscription officers are just as common as reports of attacks on those officers. Ukraine’s Human Rights Commissioner received more than 6,000 complaints about illegal or aggressive conscription practices last year — double the number recorded in 2024. Complaints range from excessive use of force and unlawful detention to poor, dangerous conditions at recruitment processing centers.

Kyrylo Ogdansky, a university professor who qualifies for a legal draft exemption, is one of hundreds of civilians who have experienced this abuse firsthand. Last November, he was stopped on a street in Dnipro by an unaccompanied man in plain clothes who demanded to check his conscription status — a violation of official rules that require uniformed officers and police presence for street checks. When Ogdansky objected, he was violently assaulted. “One of them knocked the phone from my hand and two pushed me into the bus from behind. When I asked what’s happening, one started to beat me to the head. He hit me in the nose several times,” Ogdansky recalled. The recruiters even threatened to ship him directly to the frontline city of Pokrovsk regardless of his exemption. Ogdansky spent two weeks in hospital recovering from a suspected neck injury and severe bruising, and has filed formal complaints over the attack. Like many Ukrainians, he hesitated to speak publicly out of fear his story would be exploited by Russian propaganda, but ultimately decided to go public to force change. “If everyone is silent, then why would it stop? I understand the problem of conscription, but no official has the right to act like this,” he said.

For Krupych, the violence exposes a painful disconnect between soldiers who have fulfilled their duty and civilians willing to use violence to avoid service. The veteran volunteered on the first day of the full-scale invasion, survived an FPV drone strike that killed two of his comrades, and dragged an injured friend to safety. He still bears the physical and psychological scars of the war, suffers from regular nightmares, and wears a neck tattoo reading “Glory to the Ukrainian Armed Forces” as a testament to his pride in his service. His own assault case remains tied up in Ukrainian courts, and he says the anger he feels runs deeper than his own injuries. “We are doing our duty. We fought, we defended our people — and now they are attacking us,” he said.

When asked what could encourage more voluntary enlistment instead of relying on coercive patrols, Krupych pointed to higher salaries for frontline troops, but ultimately acknowledged there are no easy fixes. “It can’t be done differently, it can’t. Our lads need to be replaced. But nobody volunteers,” he said. “Everyone is afraid to die.”

Before his dismissal, Fedorov had begun rolling out incremental reforms to make military service more appealing, including fixed-term contracts with an option to end service after the contract term, and increased pay for troops in high-risk frontline roles. The reforms were still in their early stages, and a full overhaul of the flawed conscription system was still on his to-do list when he was removed from office. Policy proposals still on the table include shifting responsibility for conscription patrols from military recruiters to police officers, who are seen as less likely to use aggressive tactics, as well as requiring formal training and psychological screening for all recruitment staff.

For the first time, the Ukrainian government has openly acknowledged it has a serious crisis on its hands. But with no permanent defence minister in place and no consensus on how to move forward, a concrete solution to the growing cycle of violence remains out of reach.