We're meeting at the beginning of June when people are still finalizing their summer plans. Is summer primarily a working season for you?

I'd like to hope so, yes. My vacation is whenever there isn't any work, but right now it looks like I'm fully booked through the beginning of August.

So if a job offer comes in, you're willing to cancel your vacation plans?

Absolutely. I never plan ahead and decide, for example, that I'll take July off. If I get a call, I have to go.

Over the 40 years you've worked as a cinematographer, how many summers have you actually managed to take time off? How good are you at taking vacations?

I haven't really taken many summer vacations. When the boys were little, we'd make a trip to Jūrmala or visit friends in Finland, but these days it tends to happen more spontaneously.

Last year, I went to Croatia with my partner, but even that came about because I had a huge number of Finnair points left over and needed to use them. We saw that there was a nice gap in my schedule at the end of September and went away for a short trip, but it's very difficult to plan things far in advance.

So you have enough frequent-flyer miles that the points you've earned through work can occasionally pay for a vacation too?

Sometimes, yes, though they're spread across different airlines. I haven't even bothered signing up for loyalty cards with a lot of them.

How many countries have you visited at this point?

That figure stands at 149 presently.

Do you keep an exact count?

Yes. At one point I hoped I'd be able to visit every country in the world — there are more than 200 of them — but no, I don't think I'll manage that. There are still many places I'd like to travel to, but I have no real reason to go there. These days, it's mostly repeat visits to places like Iraq, Afghanistan; not to mention Ukraine.

And you think you won't make it to 200?

No, no, I won't. Though I'll be adding Liechtenstein to the list this summer.

So this summer you'll reach 150 countries. But in how many of them have you actually been able to visit without having to carry a camera on your shoulder the whole time?

At best, six or seven. (laughs)

I really don't want to spend my vacation carrying a camera around and filming things there as well.

But would you go back to every country you've visited? A few years ago, you mentioned that there wasn't a single place you wouldn't want to return to.

There was a time when Albania was the one place I didn't want to go back to. When the Kosovo crisis was unfolding, we were in the mountain town of Kukës where refugees were crossing into Albania every day. I had a large camera borrowed from Filmimees that was stolen — someone simply grabbed it and took off with it. But everything was being stolen there. Seven or eight cameras disappeared and a group of Japanese journalists even had their bus stolen. By a stroke of luck, I managed to get the camera back.

At first, I thought I'd never go there again. But seven or eight years later, I went to Tirana with the Finnish news service and I was amazed by how much the place had changed. It was a genuinely positive surprise.

So you went back and realized it was worth it after all. Are there any other places you'd avoid?

No, there aren't. Every place is interesting. One of the advantages of this job is that I'm not there as a tourist — I go and meet real people. It's not like going to Egypt, being shown some Bedouin tents, taking a few photos, drinking tea, riding camels and then heading back.

Does that mean you've missed out on most of the tourist attractions?

Unfortunately, yes.

You did at least see the pyramids in Egypt, right?

I once went to Luxor with Swiss television, though I think that was because a large number of Swiss tourists had been killed there. So, in a sense, I did get to see the temples of Luxor. There wasn't any blood left by then — it had already been cleaned up. (laughs)

You're probably Estonia's most experienced war-zone cameraman, but we crossed paths on "Aktuaalne kaamera" where you were filling in as a camera operator. We were filming at Fotografiska together and it struck me as a complete waste that someone with your level of experience was filming photographs hanging on walls. Do you ever feel that you'd rather be working in more intense conditions?

You know, it depends. Lately I've also done a lot of sports coverage for the Finns. Since the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, I've worked at every Olympic Games, the Paralympics, the World Athletics Championships and the FIFA World Cup.

I really enjoy sports and that kind of work is a little similar to being in a crisis situation or a war zone.

I've also worked on completely calm documentaries about artists, so I've done everything across the spectrum. It doesn't bother me that I have to film someone else's photographs hanging on a wall. Even there, you still have to think about exactly what angle you're going to shoot from.

But do you thrive in high-pressure situations?

Yes, I do enjoy them. When the full-scale war in Ukraine began, I was there for 55 days straight. The reporters kept rotating in and out — I think I worked with five different Finnish journalists during that time.

That was when I realized that I really know how to do this job and that I'm completely in my element. I felt very comfortable there, although it probably sounds wrong to say that I felt comfortable in a war zone.

So after 40 years, you've finally mastered the job?

I think so. Then again, I probably had it figured out long before that. (laughs)

Have you ever gotten bored behind the camera over all these decades? Can a cameraman even afford to be bored?

No, I haven't. What's interesting is that every day is completely different. You can go back and film the same thing again, but the light will be different or the situation will have changed. It's not the kind of job where you're doing the exact same thing day after day.

We were recently at a Tallegg poultry processing plant with "Aktuaalne kaamera." We filmed a production line where one worker's job was to take chickens as they came down the line and hang them on hooks. Imagine doing that all day, then going home in the evening and thinking, "Damn, I did a really good job today and I can be satisfied with that."

Would you want to be the one hanging chickens on hooks?

I don't think I would.

What about an office job? Would you be willing to sit behind a desk for eight hours a day?

That depends on what kind of job it was, but probably not.

The reason you've been working on "Aktuaalne kaamera" (ETV news program —ed.) and spending more time in Estonia again is that, although you worked with Finnish media — especially public broadcaster Yle — for decades, there doesn't seem to be much work for you there anymore after their major budget cuts. Is that right?

That's right. I'm a freelancer and they no longer hire people from outside the organization for regular work. The only exception is major projects, such as the Olympics, where they still brought people in.

After the Paralympics, I did one more project with them — a one-hour documentary in Serbia about Russians who had moved there. I used to make a lot of those documentaries, but one of the journalists I worked with was 63 and he was told to take early retirement. They gave him six months of pay and then basically told him to get lost.

When it came to work, did you sometimes find yourself thinking more in Finnish than in Estonian?

Yes. Quite often, when I was working on something in Estonia, I'd have to stop and think for a moment about what the Estonian terms were for a close-up or a medium shot.

What kept you working in Finland for so long? Could you be described as a Kalevipoeg — an Estonian who goes abroad for work?

No, I always lived in Estonia.

You've never lived in Finland at all?

No, never. In fact, I haven't done that much filming in Finland. Most of the time, plane tickets would arrive in my inbox and I'd fly to Vantaa, Frankfurt or Amsterdam, meet up with the reporter there and then we'd continue on to wherever the assignment was.

And you never wanted to move there?

No. Home is home.

In addition to Finland, you've worked extensively internationally. Was that something you had to do because there wasn't enough work at home or was it simply that good offers kept coming your way?

In the past, money was definitely the deciding factor — it was a strong motivator. If I could do the same kinds of projects in Estonia, I'd be happy to do them with Estonians, but the reality is that there's still more money in working abroad.

Is it easy for you to say no? Are you good at turning down assignments?

No. If at all possible, I've always accepted the work. There have even been times when I've arrived back from one assignment on the last flight of the evening, had another flight leaving at six the next morning and thought to myself, "Technically, that's still doable."

I also have a rule: if I've already committed to someone and then, ten minutes later, an offer comes along that's ten times bigger, I can't go back and tell the first person, "Actually, I won't be working with you after all because I got a better offer." If you do that, people simply stop trusting you.

Are you still getting offers these days?

Not many. There are some from Estonia, but nothing really from Finland. A few opportunities come up here and there, but they're all along the lines of, "We'll see whether we can secure the funding or not." Things have been cut back so much over there.

If the reality now is that most of your work will have to be in Estonia, what does that mean for you? Does it take a financial toll as well?

A little, yes. But rates in Estonia have gone up too — they're actually quite competitive now.

So it's worth working in Estonia?

Yes, absolutely. And on top of that, I get to live at home instead of constantly being on the move and flying somewhere.

What's the reality of being a freelance cameraman in Estonia today? You've worked in the field for a long time and seen different eras — have things gotten better or worse?

There are more cameramen now and the job is easier to get into. Back in the day, we used those big Betacam cameras. Now you can buy a good DSLR or mirrorless camera, invest in quality lenses and start filming. So there are many more people trying to break into the business and hoping to get a foot in the door, but that's not just an Estonian phenomenon.

When Ukraine retook Bucha in 2022, the authorities organized press tours for three days to show journalists what the Russians had done there. On the first day, 10 buses carrying about 120 journalists went through and we didn't make it in. But we got in on the second day, along with some other Estonians. Again, there were 10 buses and around 120 journalists, but half of them were filming with their phones.

There were bodies lying in the streets and we were filming them. But some of the others were filming themselves in the foreground, holding their phones out at arm's length and saying, "I'm here in Bucha. The Russians killed Ukrainians and burned them." Everything was filtered through themselves. At the same time, those YouTubers had received journalist accreditation just like the rest of us.

How do you view the fact that conflict zones are now increasingly filled with YouTubers and influencers as well?

I don't know. They're trying to do their own thing too, I suppose. But they can be a major distraction. In Bucha, for example, there was a street where Russian military equipment had been destroyed. All the journalists were taken there at the same time and when you're trying to get a shot, some guy with a phone just walks straight into your frame.

They dilute the whole thing... Then again, maybe that's not entirely fair to say. They have their own audiences and they could just as easily ask me why I'm standing around there with my camera.

"Why are you filming stuff for TV when I have more viewers on YouTube?"

Exactly. Some of them have hundreds of thousands of followers.

You wouldn't head out on an assignment yourself using only a phone as a camera?

We've done live broadcasts using a phone, but otherwise, no. There has to be a certain level of professionalism, even though the image quality you can get from a phone keeps improving.

Feature films are being shot on iPhones these days too.

Yes. Some people put them on a gimbal, the camera movements are smooth and everything looks great. It all depends on what you're making because you can certainly create something very artistic with a phone.

Does that interest you?

Not at the moment, but never say never.

Now that opportunities from Finland have largely dried up, have you started thinking about changing careers?

Well, I'm not exactly young anymore. What would I switch to at this point? My career is probably closer to the end than the beginning.

You could become a tour guide.

I can't be bothered. I once made a documentary called "Scars of Afghanistan" where I took sculptor Seaküla Simson, double amputee Leino and Margit Kilumets to Afghanistan. They asked me whether it was safe there and I said, "Of course it is, let's go."

Later, I started thinking, "Damn, that's not exactly normal — taking on that kind of responsibility." Fortunately, everything worked out fine.

So far we've talked about you mainly as a war-zone cameraman, but you're also a documentary filmmaker. This year marks 20 years since "Scars of Afghanistan" was released and you've also made "Chernobyl Samurai," as well as more recent films like "Women on the Frontline" and "Hero of the Future." Do you think of yourself as a documentary filmmaker at all or have those projects simply come your way?

I don't really know. First and foremost, I still see myself as a cameraman.

There isn't much money available in Estonia, but I'd love to make a follow-up to "Women on the Frontline." I stopped filming it in 2018 when the fighting was still confined to eastern Ukraine, but I'd like to go back and see what has become of those women.

I'm still in touch with them, but that would mean starting to write project applications and look for funding again. It's very difficult to get money for that kind of work in Estonia. If someone simply said, "Go make it, I'll cover the costs," I'd be happy to do it.

Do you already have any ideas in the back of your mind? Any projects you'd like to develop?

I've been quietly thinking about that Ukraine project. There's another funding round coming up this summer, so maybe it'll work out, but at the moment it doesn't look very likely.

You've generally worked in either news or documentary filmmaking. Do scripted productions simply not interest you that much?

I've worked on those with the Finns as well — projects where everything is scripted and the roles are written out in advance. But those involve larger crews, a lot of waiting around and doing the same scene over and over again. After ten takes, the excitement is gone.

I definitely prefer documentary work. Sure, for television programs we'll sometimes do two or three takes, but not the kind of thing where a scene is rehearsed dozens of times. It's better when the action is real.

What motivates you as a cameraman and documentary filmmaker? Is it curiosity or is there also a deeper desire when working in conflict zones — say, to make the world a better place?

Unfortunately, not anymore.

Was there ever a time when you did feel that way?

I don't think there really was. It was more that I found it fascinating to go and see things with my own eyes.

That said, people do say that with a camera you can do more damage to the enemy than you could by picking up a rifle yourself.

Have you ever felt that your work can make a difference?

Yes, definitely. In Ukraine especially, we've been able to show the aftermath of attacks on homes and put people directly in front of viewers. Ukraine may also feel closer to my heart — you want it to end with some kind of reasonable outcome.

Quite often, the farther something is from home, the less personally it affects you. I was in Rwanda during the massacres there. I wouldn't say I was indifferent to it, but it still felt more distant. At the same time, the war in Bosnia somehow felt closer.

Over the years, you've seen some of the most horrific and brutal places in the world. How frightening is the world we live in today?

When it comes to making predictions, I've been wrong every time. I was at the Winter Olympics in Beijing when Russian troops were massing on Ukraine's border and my colleagues at Yle kept asking me every morning, "You've spent so much time in Ukraine — what do you think, is there going to be a war or not?"

I told them there definitely wouldn't be. I thought Putin would station troops at the border and then eventually say, "All right, we're not invading, but we're taking Donbas." The world would strike some sort of deal, everyone would congratulate themselves and people would be saying, "Great, we managed to avoid a war."

On the very day the war began, I flew to Honduras. On my way to the airport, a Finnish colleague called and asked whether I'd seen what was happening. I turned on the television and the BBC was already showing missiles flying into Ukraine.

While I was in Honduras, I constantly followed the news on television and on my phone. When I got back, I spent two days in Estonia and then headed straight to Ukraine.

I went there without knowing who I'd be working for. At first, the Finns said they wanted some footage, but then they started thinking the risk was too great and decided not to commission anything. They were worried that if something happened to me, they would be held responsible.

But I decided to go anyway. Then, at some point, another person from Yle called and said, "Just start filming and take it easy. We'll sort out the details afterward."

So you're not willing to make any predictions about what happens next?

People often ask whether Russia will attack Estonia. One thing I'm sure of is that as long as the war in Ukraine continues, they won't. What happens afterward, I don't know.

We're now seeing drone-related security incidents near Estonia's borders almost every week. Despite that, do you think Estonia is still a safe place to live?

I don't really want to make any definitive statements, otherwise it'll turn into, "Well, Ivar said so, therefore it must be true." But personally, I'm not afraid right now.

I know plenty of people who have been looking at apartments or houses in Spain or Italy, just in case. My concern is that if things really were to escalate here, there might not be many places left to run to anyway.

You haven't bought yourself a villa in Italy, then?

No. If things ever come to that here, I'll grab my camera and head to the border to meet them. (laughs)

You've already talked a little about the things you've seen, but is there anything that can still shock you? When was the last time you saw something that really gave you chills?

The worst thing is seeing that something has been done to children. Sometimes animals too. There's been a lot of that in Ukraine — some have been deliberately abused by people, others have been hit by shrapnel. Those are the things that really stay with you.

But if I see that an elderly man has died somewhere — this may sound awful to say — it doesn't affect me the same way. I've seen it so many times.

So is that something that comes with time — that certain things simply don't shock you as much anymore?

Yes, definitely. Once you've smelled a decomposing body, you recognize that smell anywhere.

When everything started in Ukraine in 2014, during the first year we were able to stay in Donetsk on the separatist side. Since we had all the necessary accreditations, our fixer would call each morning and ask, "Are we doing a story on the Ukrainian army today or on the other side?" We were constantly crossing back and forth and filming everywhere. We could still do that in the spring of 2015, but after that, foreigners were no longer allowed into the Russian-controlled parts of Donbas.

On our first day of filming there, we were told, "Let's go to the morgue. They're bringing bodies in." We went inside and a man took us into a room where bodies lay on tables — autopsied, blue from decomposition, some of them having been left outside for a long time.

After that, a van pulled up. The doors were opened and black body bags began to be loaded inside. One of the bags split open and decomposed remains and white maggots spilled out.

The morgue attendant then told me, "Come with me, I'll show you something — but it'll cost you $100." I said I wasn't paying, but he told me to come anyway.

We went down to the basement. I smelled it immediately and pulled a cloth over my face. Then he opened a door. It was a room of about 60 square meters, lit by two bare light bulbs and it was full of bodies piled on top of one another.

I had a large camera mounted on a tripod, but I took it onto my shoulder because I didn't want to set the tripod down. The floor was covered with decomposing matter, blood and sludge.

I filmed for about two minutes and then I asked myself: "Why am I doing this? No one will ever show this footage."

Have you filmed a lot of things over the years that could never actually be shown?

Absolutely.

For example, we once went to Iraq where ISIS was making its last stand. It was 57 degrees Celsius (135 degrees Fahrenheit) outside. We were driving through Mosul's Old City in an Iraqi Army Humvee, then jumped out of the vehicle. Everything had been blown apart and there was dust everywhere. But I immediately noticed the smell and realized there were probably a lot of bodies nearby.

At first, I couldn't see them. Then I went around a corner and found one — a body that had turned completely gray, almost like a seal. I filmed it, but in the end I only used a shot of a hand with blood visible in the dust.

We put the story together and afterward I took a few screenshots and sent them to Yle, asking whether I should leave those images in or remove them right away. They said the shot of the hand was acceptable, but the wider shot — the one where the body looked almost like a dead seal — had to come out.

How much do you let what happens in front of your camera affect you? Can a war-zone cameraman even afford to take it to heart?

If something has happened to children or animals, then yes, it affects me. I can't say that other things leave me completely untouched, but it's not as if I lie awake at night unable to sleep or have nightmares about what I've seen.

When you're filming atrocities, do you start to hate the other side? Do you hate Russians?

Yes, in a way — but not Russians as a people. It's the Russian military that I hate.

A couple of years ago, we interviewed a doctor from the Azov Brigade who had been held captive by the Russians twice. The first time was in a prison in Donetsk run by separatists and the second was after the surrender of the defenders of the Azovstal steel plant.

He told us that many of the soldiers cried when they had to surrender because they had been prepared to die. He also described the torture he endured in captivity. It was so brutal, he said, that people would confess to anything and even invent stories just to make it stop, to avoid being tortured further or having electric shocks applied to their genitals.

I asked him whether he hated Russians. He replied, "I don't even care anymore. That's worse. If I see that some Russian child has died somewhere, I feel absolutely nothing."

During the First Chechen War, I arrived there with a Finnish reporter in 1995, just three days after the war began. On the Chechen side, the streets were full of bodies. Cats and dogs were feeding on them and crows were pecking at them.

When I got back to Moscow, I thought, "Damn, I'm never going back there." But the day after our report aired, another Finnish journalist called and said he had seen it and wanted to go as well. I hesitated for a moment, but agreed. In the end, I went there 15 times.

Fourteen of those trips were on the Chechen side. But once, the Russians gathered seven or eight foreign journalists and showed us their side of the war. We flew to Grozny by helicopter. The journalists were taken to a local brandy factory where large glass jars of brandy were brought out. We did a little filming during the day and then the drinking started. There was a tremendous amount of toasting — to mothers, to world peace, to everything imaginable. At that moment, I found myself thinking that these seemed like perfectly normal guys.

When you end up on what is considered the enemy's side, you try to understand them and understand their motivations. Sometimes you think, "These are decent people." But they've made the wrong choice and are fighting against the right side.

Right now, I'd very much like to get to the Russian side of the war in Ukraine — if it were possible to work there freely, without interference, and speak openly with the soldiers about what they think.

Do you think that's possible?

After all the reporting I've done from Ukraine, I probably wouldn't be granted a Russian visa. But I do know journalists who have managed to go there.

You need Russian accreditation and if your record is clean, they'll generally issue it. They also organize trips to Donbas for Moscow correspondents — not to the front line, but to villages they've already captured where Russian flags are already flying.

You mentioned that there was a lot of drinking on both sides. Do you still raise a glass yourself in order to build rapport with the locals?

When you're spending time with people, you have to drink with them. The first time I went to Bosnia, all the journalists were given a short briefing that said you should always accept food and drink when it's offered.

If the Serbs offer you šljivovica (a local plum brandy — ed.) and you say, "I don't drink," they'll think, "Oh, so you won't drink with us, but you'll drink with the Bosniaks and the Croats."

You don't have to drink yourself under the table, but you should accept the offer. The same goes for food.

Do you feel fear at all? A fear of death is probably necessary if you're going to recognize the line you shouldn't cross.

No shot is worth dying for. If a tank is firing, I'm not going to step in front of it.

But aside from that, you don't really feel fear?

Fear probably isn't the right word, but there's definitely a sense of tension. You pull yourself together and in a crisis situation your mind becomes razor-sharp. Still, you never really know in advance how you'll react when you're actually there.

During the Chechen War, I worked with a Russian woman who had married a Swedish-speaking Finn and was reporting for Swedish-language news. We went to Chechnya together, met with refugees and filmed things like a herd of cattle that had been shot dead in the street.

But during one interview, she suddenly said, "I can't do this." She stepped outside and started crying. The next day we tried again, but she said she still couldn't continue. It was simply too painful for her to see what her own people had done. So we packed up our gear and left.

I've also met plenty of people who say they're afraid of nothing and can go anywhere. But when they find themselves in a real war — when rifles are firing, artillery is booming and bombs are falling — they realize this isn't a PlayStation game where you have nine lives.

This is real.

Have you had moments like that yourself, when you suddenly realize that life isn't a PlayStation game?

Yes, I've had those moments. But I wouldn't say I've been outright afraid.

Then again, I haven't gone looking for danger just for the sake of it. For example, when I'm embedded with soldiers in Ukraine, they don't let me go wherever I want. It's not as if they take you to the front line and say, "We're not going any farther, but if you want to keep going, be our guest."

You're always under someone's protection and that's true everywhere in the world. No group, militia or army wants journalists to come visit them and then get killed.

What has been the most dangerous situation you've been in? Have you ever been shot?

No, I haven't been hit by a bullet, but I was shot at once in Tbilisi.

It was around 1992, when Prime Minister Tengiz Sigua was trying to take power. We were staying in a hotel near the Georgian Parliament. For the first couple of days there were demonstrations by both sides, but one evening things escalated. People were beating each other with clubs in the streets, though no one was shooting yet.

The next morning, I woke up because the windows of our hotel room had been shattered by gunfire. We were staying on the third floor.

I ran out onto the balcony to film and saw a man wearing a sailor's shirt and a helmet firing a rifle down the street. I thought it was great footage — he was right below us — so I started filming. But then he must have noticed something. The sun was just coming up and perhaps something reflected the light.

Suddenly I saw him turn the rifle toward me.

Instinctively, I jerked my head away and the bullet struck the wall about 20 centimeters from my head.

After that, we wanted to leave the hotel, but armed men were guarding the exits and two of the doors had been blocked. A Canadian photographer pulled out a bottle of whiskey, so we started drinking instead. It was eight in the morning — if you can't leave the hotel, what else are you going to do? (laughs)

People later asked me what it felt like, but honestly, I didn't feel much of anything. My reaction was more, "That was exciting," than, "This is terrifying, I want to go home."

Have there ever been situations where you've realized you needed to leave the camera behind and run the other way? Or do you always take the camera with you?

I always take the camera.

There was one incident in Iraq. I had entered through Kuwait and was in Basra, in southern Iraq. When I tried to leave on my own, I was told at the Kuwaiti border that I needed a visa.

This was during the period when people were being kidnapped in Iraq and having their heads cut off, so I started wondering what I was supposed to do. I didn't have much money with me either. Then some guy with a car said, "All right, I'll take you back to Basra."

I got back there and, fortunately, I knew a Kuwaiti who lived in Finland. I called him and he said he could arrange a visa for me, though it would take about half a day.

The next day, we set off again. I found a driver who told me, "People have just been kidnapped on this road. Here, take this gun. If anyone stops the car, start shooting immediately."

I said, "Wait a minute."

Once you pick up a gun, you have to be prepared to use it. It's no good just waving it around. It's always easier to explain that you're a journalist than to try to play the role of some armed hero.

Imagine it: you hide the camera, sit there with a rifle in your lap, the car gets stopped — and then you're supposed to start firing right away...

So you don't want to pick up a weapon in conflict zones yourself?

I've handled weapons before.

In 2016, I was in Ukraine with a young Finnish reporter. We were drinking with some Ukrainian soldiers and they asked her whether she had ever fired a gun. She said she hadn't.

So they took us outside and let us shoot at utility poles in a village with a Dragunov sniper rifle. We knew there was no one around. First we tried a Makarov pistol, then they brought out the Dragunov and later I think there was an assault rifle as well.

How do you define your role as a war-zone cameraman? Do you simply document events and avoid getting involved or do you help people when they need it? It's the classic example of the photographer who takes a picture of a starving child in Sudan while a vulture circles nearby.

Maybe I'll take the photo or get the footage first, but then I'll help.

It was the same in Mosul. Some women who had been living under ISIS control came out of the Old City and told us they hadn't eaten in a week and asked whether we had any water. We gave them all the water we had in the car.

But first I filmed them walking through the dust, because it looked striking.

I don't want to sound cynical, but I'm there to do a job. I'm not there primarily as a humanitarian aid worker.

You've seen a lot of death and smelled the scent of decomposing bodies. Has that changed the way you think about death?

It's hard to say, but I think it probably has.

Then again, it depends on the context we're talking about. If it's someone close to you, that's one thing. If we're talking about people in Estonia, that's also different.

The farther from home it is, the less it affects you?

... yes, the less it affects me. Ukraine feels the closest. Every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is check all the news to see what happened overnight.

You've spent most of the past few years working in Ukraine. How many days have you spent there altogether?

Somewhere north of 300 days.

Not quite a full year yet?

Not yet, but I'm not far off.

If you had the chance to go right now, would you leave immediately?

Yes, I wouldn't hesitate for a second.

The worst part is getting there. In the old days, you'd fly from Tallinn and be in Kyiv in an hour or an hour and a half. Now you have to drive and it takes about 23 hours just to arrive.

Last summer, Madis Kimmel, Martin Herem and I drove to Odesa. The three of us took turns behind the wheel and did the whole trip in one go — about 2,500 kilometers (1,550 miles).

We were driving a Toyota Hilux from the UK, so the steering wheel was on the right-hand side. Most of the time that was fine, but on narrow roads, when there were trucks in front of us, the passenger had to tell the driver whether it was safe to overtake.

It was surprisingly fun, actually. Thirty-three hours later, we arrived.

You know a lot of people there and you've seen what's happening from the inside. What is the mood among Ukrainians right now? How much change have you seen in their society?

The soldiers are still very determined — they don't want to give up any territory. Most ordinary people feel the same way.

Of course, there are some people who are so exhausted that they think, "Fine, let's just give up the land." But they're in the minority.

Do you believe they'll hold out?

I don't doubt it at all.

Right now, the Russians are carrying out missile attacks, but they don't have an endless supply of missiles either. Ukraine is also an enormous country. For example, I've never gone to a shelter in Kyiv — not once. In fact, I haven't really done so anywhere else either.

The chances of the particular hotel you're staying in being hit are — well, I shouldn't say zero — but they're still quite small.

When the full-scale war began, I was working with two Finnish women. Air raid alerts were going off constantly and in the morning they would say they were exhausted because they had gone from the fifth floor of the hotel down to the basement shelter five times during the night. Meanwhile, I slept soundly.

When the Estonian military officer Eero Kinnunen was once asked what he does when an air raid alert sounds, he said he pulls the curtains tighter, puts a pillow over his ear and goes back to sleep.

Otherwise, you'll ruin your entire day by running to the basement every time you hear a warning. When you're in Kyiv and an alert goes off, you actually see very few people heading down into the metro shelters. Their attitude is that they won't let the Russians dictate how they live their lives.

You just keep living.

You said you don't like making predictions, but when do you think this war will end?

I've thought about that every day.

One possibility is that the Russian economy eventually collapses completely. As for manpower, they still have plenty of that. You can always find some poor soul in a village in Siberia who's willing to go if you pay him enough.

If you're drowning in debt and someone offers you a significant amount of money, your wife might tell you, "Go ahead, maybe it won't be so bad." A lot of people are promised that they won't be sent to the front line, that they'll be doing guard duty somewhere in the rear. But in the end, they often find themselves in the meat grinder at the front.

This war is unbelievably brutal... When the First Chechen War was going on, I thought that was the most horrific conflict I'd ever seen.

And now you think Ukraine is worse?

Yes. The scale of what's happening in Ukraine is on an entirely different level.

People have even said that in no other war have the two sides hated each other as much as they do there.

At the same time, there's a clear sense of war fatigue in Estonian society. Many people no longer pay much attention to what's happening in Ukraine and can't keep up with the constant flow of news. Do you see any good way of reminding Estonians how serious the situation still is?

Those drones flying near the border are probably the best reminder. When there's a tangible threat or you hear a siren, you realize that defense still matters and that it needs continued support.

It's always the same with wars. The first year gets the most attention, but after that people start to tune out. They get tired of it.

Ukraine is no different. When we were there at the beginning of the war, editors were saying, "Send us everything you've got and we'll put the stories together ourselves."

The last time I was there with the Finns was last year. We spent two weeks on the ground, produced two stories, edited them and sent them in. Then we were told, "We're putting these on the shelf for now."

But you don't feel any war fatigue yourself?

No, I don't.

It's still fascinating to go there because every place you've visited before has changed in some way. At the same time, you see how normal life continues even close to the front line. You hear explosions, but five kilometers away people are paying for their groceries with their phones.

At the very beginning of the war, Telia made internet access free in Ukraine. So you can go there and use unlimited mobile data. Near the front line, you set up a hotspot and send your story back.

It's remarkable how well society continues to function despite everything.

What worries you the most personally?

The thing I worry about most is the possibility that the Russians decide they want to send some kind of message to the Baltic states.

I don't think they'd dare provoke Finland. Ukrainians themselves have said that Finland and Poland have the strongest militaries in the region.

But here, they could try some sort of provocation — say, in Narva — similar to how things began in Donbas or Crimea.

At the beginning of this interview, we talked about how you'll soon reach 150 countries visited. Is there any place you still want to get to with a camera?

Maybe the Himalayas or Nepal. I've been to Bhutan and there were mountains there too, but they weren't quite as impressive.

Let's hope someone offers you an assignment there, then. But how does your family feel about all this travel? Do they ever tell you that maybe this time you should stay home?

I separated from my wife at the beginning of the COVID period, but she never really said anything about it. For one thing, she knew what kind of work I did. It's not as though I had worked in a factory and then suddenly, one day, started going off to war zones.

But no, I have never turned down an assignment because of my family. Work has always come first.

If someone reads this interview and thinks being a war-zone cameraman sounds like an incredible job, would you recommend that career to others based on your own experience?

Absolutely. Without question.

I was fortunate with my timing as well because it's very difficult to get your foot in the door. Why would anyone in another country hire someone from Estonia? But if you do good work and word gets around, you can get lucky.

My first jobs with the Finns came about because, in the former Soviet Union, you really needed Russian to get by. Before that, they had to bring an interpreter along. Then they realized that Ivar spoke Russian too, so I could conduct the interviews myself and translate them for the Finnish reporters.

After that, my world started to expand and they began taking me on assignments elsewhere as well — to Bosnia, Afghanistan and beyond.

So yes, if someone has the opportunity, I'd definitely recommend it.

These days, the new generation of war-zone reporters goes to YouTube and films themselves.

Exactly. You build up a following and find sponsors. We didn't have anything like that.

A lot of YouTubers even wear clothes covered with sponsor logos. They're standing in front of dead bodies talking to the camera and the sponsor is happy too because their company is getting exposure. (laughs)

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