Kyiv – Saturday, January 21, 2023

Dear sisters, dear brothers,

« I’ve been waiting to send this letter until Father Misha and his volunteers from the House of Saint Martin de Porres were safely on their way back to Fastiv. They left yesterday with the humanitarian transport to Kherson.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t join them, so I’m only receiving reports over the telephone. These days, Kherson is very dangerous because both the city and its vicinity are being shelled daily. According to Father Maksym from the Kherson parish, yesterday was one of the worst days yet. Apart from multiple attacks from across the Dnipro River, where the Russian army is stationed, one could also hear shots in the streets. It’s no wonder that many inhabitants have recently left Kherson.

“In the morning, we were distributing food in the neighborhood close to the river. Within the fifteen-apartment section of the building, only three families remained,” says Father Misha. »

One might ask whether it’s worth risking one’s health and life to travel to these places. After all, humanitarian supplies can be delivered in other ways. With the help of trusted local volunteers, one could still provide aid to those in need. It would be simpler, cheaper, and certainly safer.

However, anyone who has experienced a face-to-face encounter with people living near the frontlines—where regular shelling, lack of electricity, cold, and uncertainty about tomorrow are daily realities—anyone who has seen their joy at being visited, knows that one should, and must, go to them. It is a mandate of the heart and of love.

Food, medicine, and warm clothes can be delivered through others, but hope in difficult times can only be brought by a personal presence.

Father Misha told me about a meeting with the inhabitants of Chornobaivka, where a heavy battle was fought a few months ago between the Russian and Ukrainian armies. This village is considered the northern gateway to Kherson, and its airport has become a symbol of Ukrainian tenacity.

One of the women was celebrating her birthday. Apparently, she had been awaiting guests since the morning—with a bottle of champagne!

The war has also created its own dress code—ways of dressing in these difficult times. For instance, the t-shirts worn by President Zelenskyy have become legendary. And then there are the sweatshirts for the volunteers of the Foundation and the House of Saint Martin de Porres.

“Get one like that for me,” I asked Misha, noticing his new black shirt with the inscription ‘Jas. 4:17’. “Just make sure it’s at least triple XL!”

“What quote is that from the Letter of Saint James?” I added.

“For one who knows the right thing to do and does not do it, it is a sin,” responded Father Misha.

Strong words! I will remember them for a long time.

I notice that people often hug each other when they meet. During wartime, this form of greeting has become very popular. Before the war, only very close relatives would dare to make such a gesture publicly in Ukraine.

It seems to me that we have simply realized how important we are to each other and how much we need one another. We have also come to understand how fragile and uncertain life is.

Some time ago, as I was saying goodbye to a married couple who had been our guides—somewhere near Izium, on a dark, foggy road leading to Kharkiv—we hugged. I had only known them for a few hours, but the experience of the road we had traveled together and the bread we had shared with the needy had brought us close.

I wrote my previous letter before Christmas. A lot has happened since then.

For instance, we were visited by Cardinal Krajewski, who brought supplies from the Vatican to Ukraine. This time, it was power generators and thermal underclothes—so essential in the winter. We hadn’t planned to meet, but when we learned that he was traveling to Kyiv, I called him and invited him to Fastiv.

During one of his previous visits, the cardinal had already met the Dominican community from Kyiv. The papal almoner spent Christmas Eve with the sisters, brothers, volunteers, and refugees from the House of Saint Martin. During the midnight Mass, he delivered a deeply moving homily. When he spoke of Jesus’ invitation: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest” (Mt. 11:28), he emphasized the word “all.”

It is so true that war can open us to one another and lead us to serve those in need together. I believe this is what the cardinal experienced in his conversations with the refugees and volunteers.

On the Solemnity of the Epiphany, we opened another house—this time for those uprooted by war. It is a source of great joy in these difficult times and an even greater reason for gratitude to all who contributed to its creation.

More than a dozen people are already living there, including mothers with small children. This is now the third house we are running in Fastiv to help those in need.

Archbishop Visvaldas, the apostolic nuncio in Ukraine, came to bless the building. He and I spoke with Oksana and her nine-year-old son, Zhena. They had arrived from Bakhmut at the beginning of the war, fleeing the bombings. Oksana’s husband—Zhena’s father, who shared his name—had died fighting for a free Ukraine.

Another person who took part in the opening of the house for refugees was Bartosz Cichocki, the Polish ambassador in Kyiv, who was accompanied by his wife, Monika. They have been personally involved in our work for a long time.

Happy that another good initiative had succeeded, we joyfully agreed that this ‘Fastiv experience’ has changed us. This is how mercy works.

I was very impressed by the benefit concert given by the youth choir of the National Academy of Music in Kyiv, which was organized in the great hall of the Dominican Institute of Saint Thomas Aquinas last night. A group of young artists performed ten pieces by Ukrainian composers.

One of them was the traditional song “I go by mountain and by valley,” beautifully performed by Oleksandra Stetsiuk. This song, sung in the dialect of the Carpathian Lemkos, tells the story of a girl crying after losing her love:

“I go by mountain and by valley. I don’t see anyone. My heart cries. My heart cries. Out of great sorrow.

The war takes the lives of great people every day and breaks the hearts of their loved ones. As I was browsing the news that my friends share with each other, I came across the obituary of Victor Onysko, a film editor who became a Ukrainian soldier a couple of months ago. He died in battle on December 30, at the age of 40.

I never met Victor, although I knew him, in a sense, through many great Ukrainian films that he co-created. His wife, Olga, shared her memories of him on Facebook. She also shared her pain, which is so common now in Ukraine. I have to admit that I cannot read Olga’s words without emotion.

“My heart will always remain in this terrible 2022. Because you remain
in it. My hero. My love. My everything. I don’t know how to continue
living and breathing without you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to
dream again.

The only thing I want now is for this Russia-ist [In modern Ukraine, they created a word that combines the words Russia and fascism.] evil to be punished as soon as possible and for the fewest people as possible to feel this unspeakable and burning pain of loss.

I didn’t write much about you here; I was afraid, I’m ashamed to admit, of causing harm. FB is not the best place for sincerity. And you always told me that your field reports from the Ukrainian front were only for me.

You were supposed to edit movies, but instead you ‘edited’ a military reality as a company commander. Twice, in ground zero—in the Kherson region and Donbass. Without any possibility of seeing each other.

You were very tired, but you took care of your brothers. You survived every single loss. You told me that there is no greater torture in war than informing the families of their loved one’s death. Now, I felt it myself.

It broke my heart when your soldier sobbed into the phone and swore to me that he didn’t know a better person or a better commander.

They say heroes never die. Unfortunately, they do. They are dying now by the thousands, forever leaving their relatives with incurable wounds in their souls.

I would be grateful for injury, disability, amputation, PTSD… or anything, as long as you’re alive. But unfortunately, we weren’t that lucky. I will never be able to hide in your arms, hear your voice, laugh at your jokes, or argue for hours about movies.

The only thing left of you is a 9-year-old girl with your gray eyes. Thanks to you, she had a fantastic childhood—with motorcycles, bicycles, tents, skis, music, the Balkan mountains, and concerts in Berlin.

And when I couldn’t breathe through my tears for the whole day on the train, she patted me on the head and said that Dad fought for our freedom and we would never forget him, and that Dad would always be in our thoughts.

My and your adult little one. One of thousands of innocent children whose parents were killed by the damned Russism.

It hurts. It hurts beyond words…”

With greetings and request for prayer for those whose loved ones were
taken by war,

Jarosław Krawiec OP,
Kyiv, January 21, 2023, 4pm