Zelenskyy Slams Europe’s Inaction as Russian Drones Pound Odesa

Paul Riverbank, 1/28/2026Zelenskyy condemns Europe's inaction as Russian drone strikes leave Odesa battered and diplomacy strained.

These attacks are rarely random. Russia’s arsenal has grown, shifting to new patterns: jet-powered drones, heavier payloads, swifter, harder to see until the blast. This isn't Ukraine’s first winter under siege, but even so, the timing has a way of scraping nerves raw. The city’s power grid flickers, collapses, groans to life—each cycle shorter than the last. President Zelenskyy, his face carved in blue-white light on Telegram, makes his position unblinking: “The rescue operation will continue until the fate of all people who may be under the rubble is clarified.” Families hunker. The question—who made it out?—is whispered, barely.

Despite the devastation, a grim cadence persists. Odesa, Lviv, Kyiv: UNESCO recently flagged scars across protected facades. The city’s shaped by memory, proud towers now sudden monuments to absence. With every strike, Zelenskyy’s message grows sharper—each explosion, he warns, gnaws not only at stone or wire but at the fiducia driving diplomacy. “Each such Russian strike undermines diplomacy... and hits, in particular, the efforts of partners who are helping to end this war.” His words aren’t for local ears alone. They’re pressure—targeting distant capitals, urging less commentary and more intervention.

In Washington, talk of progress loops the halls, but when it comes to the territory Russia still holds, nothing is settled. The next round of U.S.-Russia talks is circled on calendars—February 1, unless events leap ahead. Zelenskyy doesn’t think talks should wait; he says so, publicly, as if impatience alone might speed the slow-turning wheels. Meanwhile, down on the street, the cold seeps deeper, candles stub out, hands muffle tiny flames hoping for just a little more time until the substation comes back online.

Russia adapts as quickly as the weather changes. The Geran-5 drone—loud, long-legged, bred from the bones of Iran’s Shahed—now ranges across the steppe, dropping 200 pounds of explosives as it goes. Ukrainian engineers scramble in basements, turning out interceptors, hoping to outdistance the next attack with homegrown tech. The arms race is relentless. Each “victory” is just tomorrow’s vulnerability.

Civilians hold the line. Kyiv’s skyline—tall slabs, windows patched with boards, blankets draped across balconies—looks ghostly in morning frost. Hundreds of buildings huddle without heat. Inside, families cluster in stairwells, murmuring about the next delivery of bottled water, sharing rumors about the latest repair schedule no one quite trusts.

Away from sirens, war finds recruits wherever it can. Moscow makes promises it rarely keeps—convicts from Russian jails; men, sometimes boys, from as far as Bangladesh, told they’ll find work, discover instead uniforms pressed into shaking hands. The fighting continues, fueled by desperation thinly disguised as duty.

Maybe that’s why Zelenskyy’s speech in Davos left a mark. He called out hesitation, a continent’s tendency to debate futures while ignoring the red urgency of now. “Europe loves to discuss the future, but avoids taking action today. Action that defines what kind of future we will have.” The audience shifted, some uncomfortable. “Instead of becoming a truly global power, Europe remains... a fragmented kaleidoscope of small and middle powers.” It could have been a rebuke, but it read more as a plea—don’t just stand and watch.

The world responds with familiar tools—sanctions, fresh statements, promises circling back on themselves. Zelenskyy argues for more pressure. Action. Something less ephemeral than hope. In Odesa, rescuers keep digging, the rhythm of their work relentless but uncertain. For those beneath the rubble, and those waiting above ground, patience is wearing thin. Whether the world matches their urgency—well, that’s the story still being written.

When the air raid sirens start up in Odesa, no one bothers to count them anymore. Before midnight, the city was humming—the whir of repair crews, the sharper scrape of shovels, voices echoing off splintered walls. Then, more than fifty Russian drones blotted out the pattern of streetlights, their trails quick and mean, searching for homes, transformers, anything that promised warmth or power. The outcome: nineteen buildings damaged, several crews pulling two men (their ages flanking a lifetime—one decades into retirement, another just fifty-two) from heaps of broken concrete. Local medics lost count at twenty-three wounded. Among them, a child. A pregnant woman. They all wait in the half-dark for whatever comes next.These attacks are rarely random. Russia’s arsenal has grown, shifting to new patterns: jet-powered drones, heavier payloads, swifter, harder to see until the blast. This isn't Ukraine’s first winter under siege, but even so, the timing has a way of scraping nerves raw. The city’s power grid flickers, collapses, groans to life—each cycle shorter than the last. President Zelenskyy, his face carved in blue-white light on Telegram, makes his position unblinking: “The rescue operation will continue until the fate of all people who may be under the rubble is clarified.” Families hunker. The question—who made it out?—is whispered, barely.Despite the devastation, a grim cadence persists. Odesa, Lviv, Kyiv: UNESCO recently flagged scars across protected facades. The city’s shaped by memory, proud towers now sudden monuments to absence. With every strike, Zelenskyy’s message grows sharper—each explosion, he warns, gnaws not only at stone or wire but at the fiducia driving diplomacy. “Each such Russian strike undermines diplomacy... and hits, in particular, the efforts of partners who are helping to end this war.” His words aren’t for local ears alone. They’re pressure—targeting distant capitals, urging less commentary and more intervention.In Washington, talk of progress loops the halls, but when it comes to the territory Russia still holds, nothing is settled. The next round of U.S.-Russia talks is circled on calendars—February 1, unless events leap ahead. Zelenskyy doesn’t think talks should wait; he says so, publicly, as if impatience alone might speed the slow-turning wheels. Meanwhile, down on the street, the cold seeps deeper, candles stub out, hands muffle tiny flames hoping for just a little more time until the substation comes back online.Russia adapts as quickly as the weather changes. The Geran-5 drone—loud, long-legged, bred from the bones of Iran’s Shahed—now ranges across the steppe, dropping 200 pounds of explosives as it goes. Ukrainian engineers scramble in basements, turning out interceptors, hoping to outdistance the next attack with homegrown tech. The arms race is relentless. Each “victory” is just tomorrow’s vulnerability.Civilians hold the line. Kyiv’s skyline—tall slabs, windows patched with boards, blankets draped across balconies—looks ghostly in morning frost. Hundreds of buildings huddle without heat. Inside, families cluster in stairwells, murmuring about the next delivery of bottled water, sharing rumors about the latest repair schedule no one quite trusts.Away from sirens, war finds recruits wherever it can. Moscow makes promises it rarely keeps—convicts from Russian jails; men, sometimes boys, from as far as Bangladesh, told they’ll find work, discover instead uniforms pressed into shaking hands. The fighting continues, fueled by desperation thinly disguised as duty.Maybe that’s why Zelenskyy’s speech in Davos left a mark. He called out hesitation, a continent’s tendency to debate futures while ignoring the red urgency of now. “Europe loves to discuss the future, but avoids taking action today. Action that defines what kind of future we will have.” The audience shifted, some uncomfortable. “Instead of becoming a truly global power, Europe remains... a fragmented kaleidoscope of small and middle powers.” It could have been a rebuke, but it read more as a plea—don’t just stand and watch.The world responds with familiar tools—sanctions, fresh statements, promises circling back on themselves. Zelenskyy argues for more pressure. Action. Something less ephemeral than hope. In Odesa, rescuers keep digging, the rhythm of their work relentless but uncertain. For those beneath the rubble, and those waiting above ground, patience is wearing thin. Whether the world matches their urgency—well, that’s the story still being written.