The Deep Roots of Resilience: what a crown taught me about today’s Ukraine

The crown I am talking about is a solid, continuous band. Crafted from a seamless combination of white and yellow gold, it is meticulously encrusted with pink and white diamonds. At the front, the crown rises high like mountain peaks, adorned with large, blooming flowers. At the back, it dips low, its ornament flowing like sea waves. It was forged in Kramatorsk in 1999. This is the official 'Mini-Miss Ukraine' crown. Twenty-five years ago, I won this beauty pageant for minors. The main emphasis of the contest has always been on talent—dancing, singing, or other forms of artistic expression. Back then, I lived in Luhansk, the easternmost regional center of Ukraine, located just 30 kilometres from the Russian border—a city that has been occupied since 2014. Photo: Mini Miss Ukraine Press Service Daria Kalashnikova — Mini Miss Ukraine 2001 A quarter of a century ago, the entire city of Luhansk spoke Russian. Ukrainian was something you heard only in cartoons on national television or in modern music on the radio. Yet, even that brief exposure was enough for me. Immediately after my victory, during the live national broadcast from Kyiv, I began speaking fluent Ukrainian. For me, it felt like the most natural thing in the world; I believed that a 'Mini-Miss Ukraine' simply couldn’t speak any other language. My sudden switch caught my mother completely off guard as she watched the broadcast back home in Luhansk. She burst into tears, and to this day, she recalls that moment with immense warmth. That precise evening became the foundation upon which my entire identity was formed. It explains why, in 2014, I could not stand aside during the Euromaidan Revolution; I became one of its co-organizers in my native Luhansk. To my deep sorrow, my city was occupied by the Russian military later that year. Yet, the experience of that struggle, and the profound value of Ukrainian freedom and independence, are things I carry with me to this day. Photo: Mini Miss Ukraine Press Service National Costume Runway, Mini Miss Ukraine This year, I returned to the pageant, but this time as a member of the jury. The event took place in Ternopil, a regional center in Western Ukraine considered a 'safe city' for a large-scale gathering of young contestants traveling from all over the country. Because there is currently no air travel in Ukraine, my journey from Rīga to Ternopil took 26 hours. Determined to use the time efficiently, I spent the entire journey watching Latvian language lessons on my phone. Perhaps that is why I experienced a moment of total disbelief when checking into my Ternopil hotel: I distinctly heard the Latvian language being spoken in the lobby. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me after hours of listening to Latvian podcasts. But it wasn't an illusion. My hotel neighbor turned out to be Valdis Kušnirs, a volunteer who, alongside Egils Helmanis, regularly delivers vehicles to the Ukrainian army. After a quick conversation, I learned that following their meeting with the Mayor of Ternopil, they were driving their volunteer mission straight to Zaporizhzhia, and then onward to Sloviansk. After thanking them deeply for their support of Ukraine, I began preparing for the competition. Over the next three days, I conducted masterclasses for the young contestants, sharing both my professional experience and insights from my public advocacy work. To prepare for these sessions, I visited a local salon every morning for hair and makeup. This is where the reality of modern Ukraine sets in: whenever the power goes out, salons, cafés, and notary offices instantly switch on fuel generators. When the generator at my salon suddenly ran out of gasoline mid-session, the resourceful makeup artist didn't blink. She simply turned on her smartphone flashlight, propped it up, and finished my makeup in the dark. This is the unyielding, everyday rhythm of the service sector in Ukraine. Photo: Mini Miss Ukraine Press Service National Costume Runway, Mini Miss Ukraine As part of the jury's evaluation, I interviewed the contestants individually. As a traditional gesture, the children brought small gifts from their home regions: beautifully embroidered rushnyks (traditional towels), vyshyvankas, floral wreaths, and local sweets. But one young girl handed me something entirely different: a tactical medical tourniquet used to stop catastrophic arterial bleeding. A staple of any military or rescue first-aid kit, this tourniquet has tragically become one of the modern symbols of safety in Ukraine. Over the past twenty-five years, the rules of the pageant have evolved significantly. Now, both boys and girls participate, and contestants showcase not only their performing talents but also their social initiatives. The diversity of these projects is astounding: some children manage animal shelters, others visit wounded soldiers in military hospitals, and some spend every weekend volunteering at centers for children with Down syndrome, leading arts and crafts workshops. Today’s participants represent an intense cross-section of the country. Some come from regions under relentless Russian shelling; others come from cities where air raid sirens are not a daily occurrence—which, by today's distorted metrics, qualifies as a 'safe place'. The pageant serves as a rare space where children can learn how their peers are surviving under completely different circumstances. Photo: Mini Miss Ukraine Press Service National Costume Runway, Mini Miss Ukraine During our dress rehearsal, a loud air raid alert suddenly blared from a participant's phone. I instinctively stopped the performance and prepared to lead everyone to the shelter. The young girl gently stopped me. She explained that the alert was actually for her hometown of Odesa. She kept the notifications active even while in Ternopil because her family remained there, and she needed to know exactly what they were experiencing in real time. This moment laid bare a heavy truth: every child in that room, regardless of where they currently sleep, intimately understands the terror of living under fire. The national winner will go on to represent Ukraine at the world finals. Twenty-five years ago, when I competed in 'Little Miss World' a young girl from Yugoslavia stood next to me on stage. At that age, I didn't truly understand what war meant, but during our time together, I sensed that she was incredibly kind, yet possessed an unfamiliar, raw vulnerability. Today, having lived through war myself and seeing how it shapes Ukrainian children, I finally understand why that girl from Yugoslavia was so emotional. Only now can I truly appreciate her immense strength. The blinding flash of spotlights, the brilliant smiles, the luxurious costumes, the breathtaking four-octave vocal performances, and choreography worthy of the world's biggest stages—all of it is beautiful. But when you realize that these children and teenagers rehearsed their routines between air raids and blackouts, it becomes something entirely transcendent. That kind of resilience does not care about age; it is forged strictly by life experience. The new generation of Ukraine is incredibly beautiful. I have no doubt they will show their absolute strongest, most dignified side as they represent their country on the global stage, while remaining deeply curious about and respectful of the history and culture of other nations. This beauty, much like the golden crown itself, has profound, unshakeable roots. They stretch from the shores of the Azov and Black Seas to the peaks of the Carpathian Mountains—adorned not just with gold and diamonds, but with the hard-won experience of a war this new generation is overcoming with resilience. This story is also available in Ukrainian and in Russian. LSM.events.bind('PageReady', function () { LSM.articles.prepareVideoWithCover('vc-48076-2026-07-1386255'); });2:30