“I'm a human first and a journalist second”: An interview with Tim Mak, reporter in Ukraine
Plus, a forum for South Asian and Southeast Asian NGOs and a magical kite festival
Hello dear readers!
We’ve been deeply disturbed by this Thursday’s news confirming that the acclaimed Uyghur intellectual and professor Rahile Dawut, an expert on Uyghur folklore and tradition, is serving a life sentence for endangering state security. In an appeal to the Chinese government, her daughter said, “I worry about my mother every single day. The thought of my innocent mother having to spend her life in prison brings unbearable pain." We hope to write more in the future about Uyghur life and the conditions threatening it.
This week, we bring you an interview with Tim Mak, who arrived in Ukraine on February 23, 2022, to report for NPR on the rising tensions with Russia. That night, Russia invaded Ukraine, and Tim quickly emerged as one of the most intrepid and vital voices on the war for the American press. His daily reports early on were crucial to understanding the rapidly unfolding situation. Since then, we’ve followed his reporting, which is truly multi-dimensional: he has covered the broader geopolitics surrounding the war, the humanitarian refugee crisis it’s created, and the process of investigating a war crime. But what’s always impressed us about Tim’s work is his attention to human stories. For NPR, he’s described a jazz club in Odesa that refused to shut down, what civilian life was like in Mykolaiv as it prepared for an attack, and the arrival of Syrian doctors in Ukraine to share their experience.
In May 2023, Tim founded The Counteroffensive, a Substack newsletter that covers the war. It’s essential reading, a mixture of breaking news and in-depth, microcosmic reporting on life in Ukraine. How do soldiers get food in the trenches? How did volunteers save injured animals displaced by flooding? How did the Nova Kakhovka dam breach affect the fishermen who depend on the Dnipro River for their livelihoods? We’re grateful to have Tim and his team of reporters describing the war with such empathy and attention to detail. And on top of it, there’s his running “Dogs of War” series of photos that documents the dogs his team of reporters have come across.
A U.S. army combat medic before he became an investigative reporter for NPR, Tim will soon be expanding his team’s coverage to Taiwan. In a recent post, he wrote about our story of moving here, as well as that of Alex Khomenko, a Ukrainian American living here with his wife and two children. Khomenko was the first to protest at the Russian representative office when the war started, and hasn’t stopped since; he protests every week, and is one of the leaders in Ukrainian solidarity organizing in Taiwan.
In this interview, Tim shares how a political scandal (not his!) terminated his early political ambitions and paved the way for fifteen years of journalism. He describes how humbling it was to be an army medic, opens up about the toll his work can take on mental health, and describes how his friends and acquaintances in Ukraine deal with PTSD. And he shares how “impossibly difficult” it is to try to solve a war crime.
Thanks for reading.
Michelle: What brings you to Taiwan?
Tim: As you know, I started my own company this year, a news outlet called The Counteroffensive. We’re supported only by paid subscribers. We're doing well and have been expanding since our May launch. We now have four full-time members and a group of freelancers. We're considering expanding beyond Ukraine, focusing on human stories of those affected by authoritarianism. I'm here on an exploratory mission to lay the groundwork for future reporting in Taiwan.
Michelle: That’s exciting!
Albert: What was it like to arrive in Ukraine on the eve of the war? What was that like?
Tim: I remember arriving that night and the cab driver scoffing at the idea of an invasion. “See? No one is panicking,” he said, as he drove me from the airport. It was one of the last commercial flights into Kyiv until the invasion broke out. Looking back on it, it’s hard to say how unprepared I was for what would happen next.
Albert: I admire your posts. A recent one that stood out to me was about how Ukrainian soldiers at the frontlines eat. When I read it, I realized I’d always been curious about this basic fact, and wondered why I’d never read a story on it before.
Tim: I think that’s what sets us apart. Some traditional news outlets do human features, but that’s all we do. The Substack allows us to focus on these stories, which people are hungry for. I think most people don’t have any attachment to stories that say, “The front moved from this village you’ve never heard of to another village you’ve never heard of.” The stories we want to tell are about the vegetables you sneak in to make your children eat some greens. [We all laugh.] We’re trying to tell compelling human stories no matter where in the world they’re set. And then we sneak in some information about the war alongside them.
Albert: We thought your coverage on the aftermath of the Nova Khokova dam breach was really impressive.
Tim: Thank you. That story highlights our approach. Instead of just reporting what’s happening, we want to show people experiencing the news. These fishermen on the Dnipro were watching as the water levels dropped and their livelihoods were destroyed by this Russian act. There was so much attention paid to the flooding downstream, but very little paid to the people going through it right near the dam.
Michelle: Can you tell us more about yourself? Where did you grow up?
Tim: I’m a secret Canadian. [We all laugh.] I'm originally from Vancouver, British Columbia. I later studied in Montreal, Quebec. I had no intention of pursuing journalism when I was in college. What I really wanted to do was work in politics, on Parliament Hill, Ottawa. I got an internship working for the Minister of Foreign Affairs in 2008, and then the most ridiculous scandal happened. The Minister left classified documents at his girlfriend's house, and they had some sort of falling out. She held a press conference saying she had the documents. So he had to resign, and that was pretty much the end of my brief career in politics.
It's funny, at the time I thought not succeeding in politics was the worst thing in the world. But then I moved to DC, where I began working for David Frum, who was starting a political website. He suggested I become a reporter. That was fifteen years ago, and I've been in journalism ever since.
Michelle: What drew you to politics initially? Did you have role models or experiences that influenced your choice?
Tim: I was attracted to politics because I enjoyed challenging and debating with others. It's not too different from journalism, where I get to challenge people's preconceived notions and discover new information. Journalism, however, focuses more on finding new ways to present events and introduce lesser-known characters to the world. I still try to be a bit mischievous, as investigative reporting often requires pushing boundaries and confronting individuals involved in wrongdoing.
Michelle: How do you define mischief in investigative reporting?
Tim: Investigative reporters can't afford to be overly courteous. Our job is naturally confrontational and adversarial. We often have to approach people with tough questions and demand explanations, which doesn’t always come across as polite. It's a job that requires a willingness to push boundaries and challenge the status quo.
Albert: Are your parents from Vancouver too?
Tim: My parents are Canadian, but they grew up in Hong Kong. They moved to Canada for college.
Michelle: Did they ever try to dissuade you from pursuing journalism, or were they supportive?
Tim: They never told me not to do it. I've always been quite independent-minded, so it would have been tough to sway me. But they never discouraged me. Although maybe they should have, considering that I'm now an unemployed struggling-actor type. [We all laugh.]
Albert: What led you into investigative journalism, particularly into the realm of national security and right-wing politics?
Tim: It truly took off when I joined The Daily Beast in 2014. There, if you showed up to a Monday meeting without a compelling story or angle, you’d have a tough day. I had some fantastic editors who pushed me and taught me the ropes of investigative journalism. The ethos at The Daily Beast was different from that of traditional news outlets. We didn't just report events; we aimed to uncover wrongdoing, corruption, hypocrisy, or any other aspect relevant to the news. It was a real challenge, but it changed the way I thought about journalism. Once you stop taking political figures at their word and start fact-checking claims, it becomes a different ballgame.
Albert: When did you start working there?
Tim: I started in 2014, and had my trial by fire during the 2016 presidential election.
Michelle: How did you become interested in covering the National Rifle Association (NRA)?
Tim: My interest in the NRA began when I broke the story of Maria Butina, a Russian agent who had deep ties to that organization. After I published those initial stories, I pitched a book about Butina, but it was rejected by every New York City publisher who thought Russia was passé. However, one publisher suggested that the real story was an inside account of the NRA itself, with Butina as a central character. I went back to the drawing board and pitched a book on the NRA, which garnered interest from multiple publishers. I spent four years working on it and it was eventually published by Dutton.
Michelle: How did you gain access to the inner workings of the NRA, given its reputation for being guarded?
Tim: People have various motivations for talking to the press. Some want to avoid blame; others simply hate someone enough to risk talking to a reporter about them. Some people love attention, and others feel compelled to speak out after witnessing wrongdoing.
I did have one trick. When someone I wanted to talk to declined, I would research everyone who had ever sued that person, and contact those individuals. Then I would approach the initial person again, mentioning that I’d spoken to counterparties and offering the opportunity to set the record straight. It doesn't always work, but it can sometimes persuade people to talk.
Albert: Was working on the book substantially different from reporting individual stories?
Tim: For one, it took four years to finish. It was much longer and significantly more challenging than reporting single stories. Cultivating sources within the NRA proved a tough nut to crack. There were definitely dark moments when I doubted I could complete the book. It was an enormous project that amplified everything.
Albert: Do you perceive any links or continuities between far-right or right-wing politics in the U.S. and the politics in Ukraine? Also, in terms of methods, how different is reporting in a war zone from infiltrating an organization like the NRA?
Tim: I don't see a direct connection between the two. In a war zone, you need to approach things delicately, because people there have often experienced traumatic events. Some may be driven to share their stories with the world, while others are too shocked to speak. It's a very different environment. The stress of investigative reporting is distinct from the stress of working in a war zone. And I’ve also done investigations in war zones, which presents a whole new set of challenges. However, there are commonalities in terms of stress, anxiety, and fear.
Michelle: Have you ever feared for your life in these situations?
Tim: Not in a direct sense. You get accustomed to it. I've never experienced the acute "I'm going to die right now" fear. In Ukraine it's more of a cumulative anxiety that never really leaves you as long as you're in the country. It can be draining, but it's less about acute fear and more about daily stress. There have been moments where I’ve thought, "This might be enough," but not where I’ve felt a sense of imminent mortal danger.
Albert: I remember you left Ukraine for a while.
Tim: I did leave Ukraine for a period. I thought, "I'm never going back." Ironically, I now live there, which perhaps says something about me and my wisdom.
Michelle: What made you decide to leave?
Tim: Well, last fall, I just felt I had accumulated an overwhelming amount of exhaustion, stress, and anxiety. I realized I had put so much stress on myself. I needed to step back. Like many war correspondents, I found myself drinking excessively. Alcohol can momentarily relieve stress, but it tends to compound anxiety over the next twenty-four hours, leading to more drinking. During my rotation into Ukraine in the fall of 2022, I recognized that I’d been drinking too much. Stepping back made me realize I needed to address those issues before I could continue my journalism work in Ukraine.
Michelle: How did you address those issues?
Tim: In general terms, I sought help and talked to individuals who guided me toward a better path. They helped me understand that my experiences were normal reactions to being in a war zone, living through an invasion, and constantly being on the move without taking proper care of myself. While I haven't resolved all my problems, I believe I’m in a better headspace now.
Albert: It must not be an easy process.
Tim: It's challenging. Many of the things I'm experiencing are felt by average Ukrainians. But for them, the trauma is magnified by the severity of their experiences. One privilege of being a correspondent is that theoretically I can leave anytime. However, there are real people out there losing friends and family members to the war. In Ukraine, I've observed a general decline in the mental health of my friends and acquaintances over the last year and a half.
Albert: What kinds of symptoms have you observed?
Tim: The symptoms are what you'd expect from individuals with PTSD: anxiety, depression, sudden outbursts, hypervigilance. These are prevalent among many people.
Albert: I can imagine that drinking was also a way of building a sense of community in such challenging circumstances.
Tim: Yeah, it was. You'd find yourself at a hotel bar… I've always said that the greatest challenge in life is between your third beer and your fourth. Once you've had three, there's that voice in your head urging you to have just one more. But that fourth beer often leads to more than you intended.
Michelle: How did you decide to return to Ukraine after getting on the path to recovery?
Tim: I'm not an adrenaline junkie who seeks thrills by skydiving or bungee jumping. But I recognized that some of the most important stories I've ever told were from Ukraine. It's hard to describe the decision-making process, but I wanted to continue doing meaningful work.
Albert: You mentioned mass PTSD among Ukrainian friends. Has the ongoing war affected their determination or optimism about the situation?
Tim: It varies from person to person. I don't think there's a willingness to give up, politically or otherwise. However, over time, as the conflict continues and fatigue sets in, people may become less optimistic than they were six or twelve months ago. Optimism might not be the driving force now; it's more about anger. Ukrainians initially had a lot of optimism when the war started. However, when the atrocities in Bucha were exposed, the widespread anger made it clear that a negotiated settlement was unlikely. People have different motivations behind their actions, including anger, not just optimism.
Albert: You mention in your bio that you trained as an army medic. Could you tell us about that?
Tim: I joined the U.S. Army in 2017. I tell my friends I realized that, during a zombie apocalypse, no one would be like, “I need a reporter right now! Bring me a journalist!” [We all laugh.] Anyway, I wanted to learn to do something practical with my hands. Joining the Army was a humbling experience. I've always done well in school, but being a medic was about more than just learning emergency medicine from books. It was about how you function when you're tired, hungry, and someone's yelling in your ear. You have to think through emergency medical scenarios efficiently in very limited time and under extreme stress. While I excelled in the book stuff, there were a lot of Montana farm boys who outperformed me in hands-on testing.
Michelle: What was a hands-on test that stuck with you?
Tim: I had many failures. I couldn’t help but overthink it. My mind was flooded with possible solutions, which isn't how emergency medicine works. In one case we had to call a helicopter for evacuation, but to call in a helicopter you have to do something called a nine-line MEDEVAC request: you have to provide nine pieces of information for the helicopter to come and pick up your casualty and bring all the right gear. I had called it in and the helicopter was already in the air. But as we were waiting, I realized that the casualty had burn marks on their face that necessitated a ventilator. I hadn't called in for that. I hesitated and wasted precious time before approaching another person for help. He promptly took the radio, corrected our mistake, and called for the ventilator.
I had a tendency to seek the textbook answer, which became a limitation when improvisation was required. It was humbling to learn how many different ways there are to be smart.
Albert: Have you had the chance to apply your medical training since then?
Tim: Fortunately, nothing too severe. I've helped treat patients, but the worst-case scenarios I’ve imagined haven't occurred.
Albert: How do you navigate the line between your role as a journalist and helping in a war zone? Are there ever ethical dilemmas about whether to jump in or not?
Tim: It's a controversial issue, right? Some journalists argue that as observers they shouldn't intervene. My stance is that I'm a human first and a journalist second. I’ll provide medical assistance if I have the ability to do so. It seems ethically required in such situations. It’s true that not every medical incident is life-threatening: do you intervene, for instance, if someone passes out due to dehydration? Do you intervene if you know someone feels a little dizzy and has low blood sugar? Where is that line? For me, I have no problem teaching basic medicine to anyone who asks and rendering aid to those in need.
Albert: Do you view your reporting as a form of activism, especially in the context of this war, which is morally egregious in so many ways?
Tim: I don't think you run into a lot of journalists in Ukraine, at least from the Western mainstream press, who would say they don't have a dog in the fight. And you won't see me saying, “Here's Ukraine's view, and here's the equally valid but different Russian view.”
I don't think there's any way to say I'm objective in this war. But I think I stop short of being an advocate in a number of ways. I strive to avoid explicit advocacy for a particular outcome. While I hold personal opinions, I make an effort to remain fair and objective regarding secondary questions surrounding the politics of Ukraine’s future. However, on the primary question of whether Ukraine has the right to defend itself and fight for its survival, there's no strong debate in my mind. I know where I stand on that issue.
Michelle: Have you encountered individuals in Ukraine who disagree with you on Ukraine's right to exist? Or, put another way, have you witnessed personal transformations from those who previously identified as pro-Russian?
Tim: Absolutely. There have been numerous instances of personal transformation. Many people in Ukraine had strong connections to Russia, spoke Russian primarily, consumed Russian culture, felt an affinity for the country. However, the war has brought clarity to many of these stances. It's challenging to find individuals who are unabashedly pro-Russian at this moment. Some politicians who were once considered friendly toward Russia have either disappeared or radically shifted positions since the full-scale invasion.
Albert: Could you share your insights about investigating war crimes and conducting investigations in a war zone?
Tim: We were interested in showing what it was like to find information about an atrocity while the war was still happening. We had heard about this person who was killed in a small village about two and a half hours outside of Kyiv, and when we first got to that village we didn't really know anything about the case. We didn't know the name of the person, we didn't know who killed him or how he was killed. We didn't know what he had been doing when he was killed. Could it have been the Ukrainians? Could it have been the Russians? Basically, we started with nothing.
We found the wreckage of his car on the side of the road. It had burned for a long time. The body was no longer there, but it had been there for over a month, during the Russian occupation of the area.
Over a period of months, we figured out who the victim was and what he had been doing. He was a guy named Oleksander Breus, and on the day of his death he was driving to Kyiv from his hometown to evacuate his girlfriend and sister to the west. But he had the misfortune of entering this village—to which he never had any ties—at the same time as the Russian column, which was also headed in the direction of Kyiv. He got out of his car and was shot in the back of the head. His car was blown up by a Russian armored vehicle.
Over a long investigation, we found people who heard the killing and described the events of that day in that village. We found a single individual who had seen the killing, and a couple of people who videotaped the aftermath. We tried to put that all together to get a sense of what had happened.
And that was an enormously difficult process. Even more difficult was trying to figure out who had killed him. There were no Ukrainian forces in the area that day. But a woman who we met in a furniture store in Kyiv had a video of the troops coming by just after the murder. In that video there was an armored vehicle called the BTR-82A. It had an O marking on it, which meant it came from the Central Military District of Russia. After a lot of work, we learned that the Central Military District of Russia had only two units that fielded the BTR-82A, and we were able to figure out which one could have been responsible for the killing of Breus, as well as the unit’s commander. We were able to narrow it down to about fifty people who had been in the area at the time.
But the whole process served to show just how impossibly difficult it is to try to solve a war crime. There are currently a hundred thousand—and growing—open war crimes cases in Ukraine. And we spent months and months and months exhaustively trying to dig into this particular one. It raises the question of how elusive justice is going to be for the average person who's lost someone to an atrocity.
Albert: Michelle was teaching an online course in Kharkiv, and some students discussed various forms of war crime tribunals.
Michelle: They were divided on whether a truth and reconciliation–style tribunal could happen in Ukraine. What are your thoughts after witnessing these events? Are you pessimistic about achieving full justice?
Tim: I take the pessimistic view that achieving a full measure of justice may be challenging given the scope and breadth of the injustice. Justice can take many forms, including truth and accountability, financial reparations, and criminal prosecution. However, it's unlikely that justice will fully restore the shattered situation.
Michelle: What do you think will be the most important piece?
Tim: I think holding those at the highest levels accountable, such as senior military officers and political figures, will be crucial. Yet those cases are the most difficult to prosecute.
But my pessimism is tempered by talking with a lot of war crimes investigators who have been doing this type of work a lot longer than I have. They say time has a way of changing the environment. Governments open up archives. Documents are discovered. Things you thought could never connect A to B become public knowledge.
Albert: A source from a furniture store suddenly surfaces…
Tim: Exactly. It’s challenging to imagine the smoking gun—that document signed by a commander that says “From road A to B, kill everyone.” It’s hard to imagine that document existing. But that doesn't mean it’s not out there.
If you’ve enjoyed this piece, you can also read our interview with Oleksandr Shyn, a Korean-Ukrainian student living in Taiwan. Here’s Part I and Part II. You can also read the interviews in Mandarin. Part I, translated by 李穎琦, is here. Part II, translated by 李穎琦 and 何雪菁, is here.
The first NGO forum for South and Southeast Asians in Taiwan
In October Taiwan will host ten professionals from NGOs from South Asia and Southeast Asia. They’ll stay for a month, embed themselves in NGOs here, and trade ideas on how to create social change effectively.
For so long, as organizer Linus Shang-lin Lee told us, Taiwanese NGOs have tended to look to the U.S., Europe, or Australia as models for building civil society. “We somehow always assume they’re more advanced,” he says. But Lee believes this inferiority complex is finally dying. Taiwanese NGOs now have deep experience in just about every field related to social and political rights: community education, feminist organizing, disability rights, environmental protection, HIV/AIDS, international rescue, and LGBTQ rights. This new fellowship for NGOs aims to create deeper and cross-border relationships among activists, educators, and professionals.
Take a look at the inspiring list of NGOs coming to Taiwan. These include Bonhishikha – unlearn gender, which protects gender equality in Bangladesh; Outrage Magazine, an LGBTQ+ outlet in the Philippines; Nidisi Nepal, an organization that teaches menstrual health to children, as well as conservation, water rights, and more; and Mashal Girls Foundation, which (among other things) builds schools for impoverished kids in Pakistan. Other countries represented are Vietnam, Thailand, Myanmar. How amazing that these folks will come to Taiwan, meet their “counterparts” in their respective areas of activism, and forge new relationships.
If you’d like to hear them speak, you can register for the open forum on October 6th. I can also connect you to Lee, who is the Secretary General of the Taiwan AID (Alliance for International Development), the umbrella group for NGOs in Taiwan.
Magical Kite Festival in Hsinchu
We traveled with friends to Hsinchu for a magical kite festival, which features the world’s largest whale kite. This annual event marks the end of summer, when winds blow in from the northwest. Fifteen kite teams from six countries attended the festival, and amateurs (like us) flew our kites alongside them. Street vendors sold kites, too; Pikachus and Spidermen kites were especially popular. Our kites kept getting tangled with others, which led to problem-solving and social mingling.
Book Club: Demon Copperhead and Greek Lessons
Our next book club is Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead. It will take place Friday, September 29th at 6:30 PM EST (Saturday, Sept 30th at 6:30 AM Taiwan time). For October, we'll read Han Kang's Greek Lessons, translated by Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Won. And in November, thanks to the recommendation of reader Ashish Valentine, we’ll read Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s This Earth of Mankind, translated by Max Lane, a classic Indonesian novel about anticolonial movements.