On a late September day, Andriy Kovalenko made an announcement that was both professional and profoundly personal. After three years at the helm of Ukraine’s Center for Countering Disinformation, a body operating under the National Security and Defense Council, he was stepping down. The news arrived in a characteristically understated way, through his own Telegram channel, and it came with a measure of grace: President Volodymyr Zelensky had already accepted his resignation. Kovalenko did not dwell on the reasons for his departure, nor did he offer a dramatic exit. Instead, he framed the decision as a natural transition, a moment when he knew it was time to move on. Yet the tone was far from detached. He expressed genuine gratitude to the head of state for the trust and the rare opportunity to serve the country during one of the most turbulent periods in Ukraine’s modern history. There was quiet pride in his words, a recognition that the work of the last three years had mattered. The Center itself exists for a purpose that sounds almost abstract in peacetime but has proven to be a matter of survival in wartime: to expose lies, dismantle propaganda, and protect the informational space of a nation under siege. In that mission, Kovalenko was not merely an administrator or a spokesperson. He was a frontline figure in a conflict that is fought with reshared images, forged documents, and fake accounts as much as with drones and artillery. His departure, therefore, was not a routine personnel change. It was a symbolic moment in Ukraine’s ongoing struggle to define truth in an era of manufactured confusion. As he thanked the president and his colleagues, Kovalenko made clear that the decision was his own, reached with the kind of clarity that comes when a person senses that a chapter has closed. He did not promise to disappear; rather, he promised to continue. But first, he wanted to take stock of what had been built, and to let the country know that the institution he was entrusting to others would not start from zero. The team would remain, the systems would keep running, and the mission would endure. For many Ukrainians who had followed his work, the announcement was less a goodbye than a reorientation, a reminder that the fight against disinformation is bigger than any single title or office.
Looking back, Kovalenko’s summary of his three years was not a dry list of statistics but a testament to institutional growth. He emphasized that the Center had succeeded in building a strong system for detecting and responding to disinformation, a far more difficult task than it might sound. In a country where Russian narratives had been woven into social media feeds and local media for years, creating a structure that could identify harmful content in real time required not only technical expertise but also a deep understanding of the adversary. Kovalenko and his team expanded the Center’s media products, transforming it into a source of analysis, commentary, and original reporting that could compete with the very propaganda it was trying to counter. They worked to shape the Ukrainian agenda in ways that emphasized resilience, unity, and factual accuracy, rather than allowing external actors to dictate what Ukrainians should believe. Perhaps most importantly, the Center significantly strengthened cooperation with international partners. In an era of hybrid warfare, disinformation does not stop at borders, and Ukraine could not face it alone. Partnerships with allied governments, technology companies, journalists, and civil society organizations helped expose Russian operations, coordinate responses, and amplify the truth beyond Ukraine’s own borders. For Kovalenko, these achievements were not bureaucratic milestones. They were the foundations of a more sober public sphere, one in which citizens could make decisions based on reality rather than illusion. He made a point to thank the president for the opportunity to serve, but his words also carried a sense of collective ownership: the accomplishments belonged to the entire team. Anyone who has worked in crisis communications or national security knows how easy it is for one false story to spiral into chaos, and how exhausting it is to correct the record every single day. That was the daily reality of the Center. To have built a system that could withstand such pressure is no small thing. It is the kind of legacy that outlasts any single directorship. Even as he stepped away, Kovalenko seemed to be saying, the architecture would remain, the skills would remain, and the relationships built over years of urgent cooperation would remain too. The work, in other words, had become larger than the person who had helped guide it.
Perhaps the most telling part of Kovalenko’s announcement was his commitment to continue the fight after leaving the Center. He said explicitly that he would remain involved in efforts to ensure national security and engage in cognitive warfare against Russia. The phrase “cognitive warfare” is significant, and it deserves careful attention. It refers to the battle for the human mind, the attempt to influence how people perceive reality, process information, and ultimately make decisions. In the context of Russia’s war against Ukraine, cognitive warfare is not a metaphor. It is a central front. Moscow has spent years trying to convince its own citizens that Ukraine is not a real country, that the war is justified, and that the Ukrainian government is illegitimate or controlled by foreign forces. It has also tried to persuade the rest of the world that the war is not going as badly for Russia as it actually is, or that Ukraine cannot win, or that Western support is futile and dangerous. Kovalenko’s work placed him directly against those operations. By continuing in some role, he signaled that his voice and expertise would still be available to help unravel hostile narratives. His departure from the official position did not mean leaving the barricades. He was simply changing his vantage point. In a way, this is a realistic understanding of service: the mission is larger than any title. The same people who had worked beside him would go on, and he would find other ways to contribute. It also reflects a personal sense of responsibility that is common among Ukrainian officials during wartime. Many have refused to stop serving simply because they have left a particular post. They understand that the country’s survival depends on everyone doing their part, and that truth-telling is a form of national defense. For Kovalenko, stepping down was not disengagement. It was a redefinition of duty, a quiet promise that the knowledge he had gained, the contacts he had built, and the credibility he had earned would not be put on a shelf. Cognitive warfare is a long game, and he made clear that he intended to keep playing it.
In the days surrounding his resignation, Kovalenko also commented on a familiar theme: renewed rumors in Russia about the possible imposition of martial law. These rumors circulate periodically, often without clear substantiation, and are frequently accompanied by dramatic speculation about internal instability or a major escalation. Kovalenko suggested that such statements should not be taken at face value. In his view, they may be deliberately planted to gauge the mood of the Russian population. By floating the idea of martial law, the Kremlin can observe how citizens react, whether there is fear, support, or resistance. It is a form of social sonar, using media signals to measure the temperature of public opinion without committing to any decision. At the same time, these rumors are aimed outward, at audiences in Ukraine and Europe. The message is designed to create uncertainty and anxiety: perhaps Russia is about to take drastic action, perhaps the war will expand, perhaps Ukraine should prepare for a more aggressive phase. Such ambiguity can demoralize allies and make Ukrainian society more cautious or divided. For Kovalenko, the purpose was not necessarily to prepare the Russian population for an actual decree, but to manipulate expectations and test reactions. This is how disinformation often works. It is not about spreading one definite lie; it is about creating a fog in which many possibilities seem real, and in which people begin to doubt even reliable information. The Center had long monitored this kind of activity, and Kovalenko’s comments were a warning to interpret Russian media reports with a critical eye. Do not panic, he seemed to be saying. Look at who is talking, why now, and what they want to gain from the story. His analysis reflected a deep familiarity with Kremlin tactics, where even a rumor can be a weapon. The discussion of martial law may be real or not, but its function in the informational space is almost separate from its factual truth. It is a probe, a signal, a psychological operation disguised as news.
Another area where Kovalenko offered insight was Russia’s strikes on border checkpoints. He argued that these attacks serve not only military but also informational purposes. On the surface, striking a checkpoint is about degrading Ukraine’s logistics, disrupting the movement of people and supplies, and creating obstacles for the military. But there is another layer. Border checkpoints are symbols of sovereignty, the visible boundary between free Ukraine and aggressive Russia. When they are hit, the effect extends beyond physical damage. The message is meant to be seen: by choosing these targets, Russia is demonstrating that it can reach any point, that no place is safe, and that the very margins of Ukraine remain under threat. It also sends a signal to civilians trying to leave or enter, to international travelers, and to foreign observers who may see the images and understand that the war has no clear boundaries. For Kovalenko, such strikes are part of a larger effort to shape the perception of the conflict. Every attack is a piece of content in an ongoing narrative. The choice of target, the timing, and the way images are disseminated all matter. If a strike on a checkpoint can generate fear among border communities, undermine confidence in the government’s ability to protect its borders, and reinforce a sense of exposure, then the operational gains are amplified. The informational purpose may sometimes outweigh the military one. This is why Ukraine has had to develop ways to counter not just the physical violence but also the stories told about it. By highlighting the dual purpose of these attacks, Kovalenko made clear that the response to them cannot be purely military. It must also involve communication, resilience, and international awareness. The border checkpoints are not just pieces of infrastructure; they are also scenes in a psychological drama that Russia is trying to write, and Ukraine has learned to read the script as well as respond to the bombs.
Ultimately, Kovalenko’s resignation and his parting comments offer a glimpse into the broader nature of Ukraine’s fight. This is not a conflict that can be won solely on battlefields. It is also a war of narratives, emotions, and perception. The Center for Countering Disinformation, under his leadership, became an important guardian of that realm. It took on a task that is often invisible but essential: helping people trust what they see, resist manipulation, and recognize the difference between information and weaponization. Kovalenko’s decision to step down may mark the end of a particular role, but it does not mark the end of the mission. As he said, he will continue to work for national security and remain engaged in cognitive warfare against Russia. The international community, too, has a role to play. It can support Ukrainian institutions, share reliable information, and refuse to treat Russian disinformation as just another geopolitical talking point. The rumors about martial law and the strikes on border checkpoints are reminders that Russia will keep probing, testing, and attacking on every front. The response must be equally persistent. There is something quietly hopeful about Kovalenko’s message. He did not say that the problem of disinformation has been solved. He did not claim that Ukraine had won the information war. But he did say that a strong system is in place, that international cooperation is deeper than ever, and that the work will continue. In a time when so much seems fragile, that is worth holding onto. The fight for truth is long, exhausting, and often thankless. But as Kovalenko’s three years demonstrate, it is not hopeless. It is possible to build institutions, train people, and create a culture of vigilance. It is possible to face a powerful adversary and still shape the conversation. In leaving, Kovalenko reminded everyone that the real victory is not lodged in one person’s position, but in the collective commitment to keep going. And that, perhaps, is the most human lesson of all.