Traveling from Kyiv to their village home takes about four hours. They provide us with precise directions on the best route, and then, about an hour away from their place, they meet us on the road to ensure we don’t get lost.
An old black VW sedan pulls up, and a man and woman, both wearing matching black t-shirts under puffer jackets, step out to greet us. “Free Mariupol’s Defenders” is written across their shirts.
Later, as we settle into their home, I notice that the back of their shirts reads: “2 years in captivity.”
Surrounded by a flock of cats, a dog, chickens, and a blue parrot that flits around stealing food from the plates, they live in a remote, idyllic village. However, as we enter the settlement from the main road, the first sight that greets us is an alley of portraits of fallen soldiers from the area.
The family had once had cows and other farm animals. But when they learned that their older son, just 23, had been killed in the war, the father began to struggle more and more. Unable to cope with farming, his wife — the mother to their boys — made the heartbreaking decision: no more cows, no more farming.
She has adjusted to this new reality in a way but has never accepted the death of her older son. She takes bunches of autumn flowers from her garden to his portrait in the village park and holds onto the hope that he may return.
When she shows us the framed photos of her boys on the wall — numerous pictures of the two in their military uniforms — she says: “When they come back, they will be happy to see this.”
Among the images, we see the printed screenshot of a text message: “I’m alive.” It’s a message from her younger son, who is currently in Russian captivity. He joined the army for what was supposed to be basic “reserve” training right after school, not for active service. In that training, he wasn’t even a gunner; he was a wonderful cook, preparing meals for his fellow recruits. In Mariupol.
He remains held in some Russian prison, but his family has no idea where.
The parents share stories about their boys, speaking about the sports they enjoyed and the meals they loved growing up, they show us the places where their sons slept in the house.
And they cook for us as if it were Christmas. They strictly forbid us from eating at gas stations on our way to their home; they insist that we must eat with them. We gather around the table and share a meal, feeling the warmth of their hospitality.
They have quit their jobs in the village and no longer live here full-time; they come back just whenever they can. It’s likely the neighbors care for their animals while they’re away.
Now, they spend most of their time in Kyiv, living in a rented apartment. They attend every meeting for families of prisoners of war and sit outside in the city center next to posters that remind the public of their son and all the others in captivity. They hope that by raising awareness, even in Kyiv — among citizens and officials — they might bring his exchange or release closer.
They want to do more. Like so many others, they still long to take action in the face of a disaster that feels beyond their control, a tragedy that defies international humanitarian laws and simple, moral codes. Everything that was created by humanity to live and let live.
At the very least, they will sit in the street with a poster, reminding everyone that this reality exists — that this suffering is happening to them every day.
Because it is.
Lera Burlakova is a Democracy Fellow at the Center for European Policy Analysis (CEPA). She is a Ukrainian journalist and former soldier who served as an infantrywoman from 2014-2017 after joining up following the Russian invasion of Crimea. Her war diary ‘Life P.S., received the UN Women in Arts award in 2021. She lives in Kyiv and works as the Media Officer for the new Amnesty International Ukraine team.
Europe’s Edge is CEPA’s online journal covering critical topics on the foreign policy docket across Europe and North America. All opinions expressed on Europe’s Edge are those of the author alone and may not represent those of the institutions they represent or the Center for European Policy Analysis. CEPA maintains a strict intellectual independence policy across all its projects and publications.
