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Ukrainian sniper victim sees few signs of optimism

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FILE – In this Feb. 21, 2014 file photo, Olesya Zhukovska lies on her hospital bed in Kiev, Ukraine, after being hit by a sniper’s bullet. The scars are fading now. The exit wound, a narrow, pink line that curves down the left side of her neck, is often hidden by her tangle of dark hair. And Zhukovska, who became a symbol of Ukraine’s protests when she tweeted “I am dying†after the bullet tore into her on that cold February morning, sometimes wonders just what it all achieved. (AP Photo/Maria Danilova, File)

FILE – In this Feb. 21, 2014 file photo, Olesya Zhukovska lies on her hospital bed in Kiev, Ukraine, after being hit by a sniper’s bullet. The scars are fading now. The exit wound, a narrow, pink line that curves down the left side of her neck, is often hidden by her tangle of dark hair. And Zhukovska, who became a symbol of Ukraine’s protests when she tweeted “I am dying†after the bullet tore into her on that cold February morning, sometimes wonders just what it all achieved. (AP Photo/Maria Danilova, File)

In this Monday, May 12, 2014, photo, Olesya Zhukovska, who became a symbol of Ukraine’s protests when she was hit by a sniper’s bullet in February, puts flowers at the place where she was wounded in Independence Square in Kiev, Ukraine. Spring has finally arrived in Kiev and the stink of burning rubber, which hung over the protesters all winter, is largely gone. Zhukovska, a 21-year-old hospital orderly from small-town Ukraine who moved to Kiev when the protests broke out in late 2013, sometimes wonders just what it all achieved. (AP Photo/Sergei Chuzavkov)

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KIEV, Ukraine (AP) — The scars are fading now. The exit wound, a narrow, pink line that curves down the left side of her neck, is often hidden by her tangle of dark hair. The entry wound is smaller than a bottle cap.

And the young woman who became a symbol of Ukraine’s protests — who tweeted “I am dying” after a sniper’s bullet tore into her on a cold February morning, and was suddenly the focus of international attention — sometimes wonders just what it all achieved.

“So little has been accomplished,” said Olesya Zhukovska, a 21-year-old hospital orderly from small-town Ukraine. She moved to Kiev when the protests broke out in late 2013, and spent months working as a volunteer medic in the sprawling protest camp that sprang up in the heart of the capital. “The blood that was spilled here, I really don’t want it to be wasted. Because people are starting to forget.”

“I’m a realist,” Zhukovska said, struggling for a way to describe how she sees her country today.

It can be hard to be an optimist these days in Ukraine.

The economy is a wreck. The military and the police often seem completely powerless. Crimea, the Ukrainian peninsula that juts into the Black Sea, has been annexed by Russia. Thousands of people across the Russian-speaking east voted in a chaotic weekend referendum to break away from Kiev. Pro-Russian gunmen have seized control of government buildings in some eastern cities and clashed sporadically with Ukrainian forces.

Zhukovska is particularly furious at Ukrainians who have demonstrated against Kiev’s rule.

“They should probably have their citizenship revoked,” she said. “If they want to live in Russia, they are free to pack their bags and move to Russia.”

Just a few months ago, things had seemed so clear, so hopeful.

In late February, as Zhukovska was recovering in a Kiev hospital and reading thousands of messages of support, President Viktor Yanukovych fled to Russia as his internal support crumbled. Interim leaders pledged to root out Ukraine’s crippling corruption. Yanukovych’s mansions — clichéd strongman monuments filled with polished marble, gilt fixtures and car-sized chandeliers — were opened to public view.

The protesters, most of them from the country’s Ukrainian-speaking regions, were sure change had arrived. In polls conducted earlier this year — before the separatists’ referendums and spasms of violence in Russian-speaking regions this month — most Ukrainians said they were more hopeful than during Yanukovych’s rule.

“We gained a lot,” said Anton Lubyanytskyi, a hometown friend of Zhukovska’s, who also was shot during the protests. “It was a revolution against apathy.”

Zhukovska was working in a small hospital in western Ukraine when the protests began. Energized by what she saw on TV, she took her basic medical training — she has a junior college nursing certificate — to Kiev’s Independence Square. Demonstrators had taken over the streets there, holding nonstop protests against Yanukovych’s decision to freeze ties with the European Union, his human rights record and his moves to seek financial assistance from Russia.

She volunteered as a medic, doing everything from rushing bandages to people injured in clashes with police to giving aspirin to those suffering from colds.

She quickly found a community amid the dozens of tents, making friends as she warmed herself around the old barrels that protesters used to keep fires burning. But on the morning of Feb. 20, as she was sorting medical supplies in a quiet area on the edge of the square, she was shot in the neck. At first, she didn’t know what had happened.

“Only when I looked down and saw the blood did I realize I’d been shot.” Quickly, people around Zhukovska helped her walk to an emergency first aid station, and then to an ambulance.

And along the way, as had become her habit, she grabbed her phone and sent a quick tweet: “I am dying,” she wrote. She smiles now at the drama of her message. While still causing her some pain, the shooting left no lasting, major injuries.

“I thought that was it,” she said of the moment when she sent her tweet. “I thought it was the end.”

These days, she travels between her parents’ house in western Ukraine and Kiev to see her boyfriend, whom she met during the protests. Her tweet,

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