“What are your plans for today?” – “To not die.” One of the young people connected to our brothers in Khmelnitski tells me that this phrase, laced with gallows humor, is often heard in Ukraine at the moment. Two contrasting sides repeatedly greet me in Ukraine: humor, warmth, and great kindness – but also profound sadness stemming from a chasm of fears and experiences that are hard to fathom from the outside. Today, 80% of Ukrainians are considered traumatized by the war – one can only imagine what this means for the future. Soldiers return home unable to speak about their experiences; one even interrupted a St. Nicholas celebration for children, shouting that it was impossible to celebrate St. Nicholas given what was happening on the frontlines. All of this gives but a faint impression of what people at the front must have endured.
However, it is not confined to the front. One of the first indelible images is of cemeteries around churches, where Ukrainian flags mark the graves of fallen soldiers. At some cemeteries, like in Kharkiv, the number of graves is almost unbearable. Standing in the vast fields of graves bearing pictures of young, and in some cases older, soldiers is a heartbreaking and bewildering experience. Behind every single fate, behind every family, lies immense suffering. On one such cemetery, the mother of a deceased soldier offers us sweets – something she can no longer give her child, but at least she can offer it to others who are still alive.
The brothers tell me that almost every family is directly affected by the war, through the death of a soldier on the frontlines. On the one hand, the war seems distant, and normal life continues in the streets: people laugh, shop, and live their daily lives. On the other hand, the war feels close and omnipresent – not only in the posters calling for support for the soldiers and new recruits. This is not to mention the bombings that systematically target cities, particularly at night. In Kyiv, alarms go off at least twice every night – a devilishly calculated rhythm designed to prevent rest and serve as a constant reminder that the “great neighbor” will not stop until Ukraine is broken. Unlike me, who wakes up each time to the sound of sirens or explosions, the brothers have become so accustomed that they no longer hear or react to them – yet the alarms still leave an imprint on their hearts and souls.
Despite the weariness I encounter in people, one thing stands out most prominently: their will for freedom and self-determination. At the memorial site in Bucha, we read the defiant phrase: “The Will wins”—a motto that seems to be the driving force behind all the energy of this people and sustains their fight. A brother who has lived in Ukraine for a long time tells me that this unyielding desire for freedom may be the biggest difference between the mentality of Russians and Ukrainians.
During my first sermon in Ukraine, I preached about the Gospel of Bartimaeus (Mark 10:46-52). It struck me as an image for Ukraine: Bartimaeus, crying out and pleading with Jesus for help, is rebuked by those around him, told to keep quiet and accept his fate—but he cries out all the louder until Jesus hears him. This cry seems to echo in the hearts of Ukrainians, but also in the West, where some argue it is futile to stand against Russia and that one should submit. I still recall how surprised I was at the beginning of the war that Ukraine was not simply overrun but resisted so bravely and cleverly, stopping the military advance on Kyiv, Kharkiv, and other parts of the country. During my stay in Ukraine, it became increasingly clear to me that it is this will for freedom that Putin cannot tolerate in the vicinity of his country—a will he seeks to break with all his might. It also became clearer to me that this war is about breaking a people; it is not just about annexing them into his empire but about defeating something far more dangerous to him.
If I were to seek the source of this inner strength, my various encounters provide different answers: alongside the will for freedom, many people display a deep spirituality. Our Dominican laity in Khmelnitski tell me they could not endure the situation without this relationship and rootedness in God. The head of our schools in Fastiv says that daily Eucharist gives her the strength to support others and not lose hope. It is impressive to see how faith becomes a central anchor in such a situation, how it demonstrates its power, and how strongly people here confront their circumstances. One thing becomes very tangible here: in faith, there is strength and freedom.
The bishop of Kharkiv gifts me a badge with the famous emblem of the Ukrainian army, inscribed with the word “Freedom” in Ukrainian—planted in the center of the emblem is the Cross. It feels like a deeply personal experience when he explains to me that true freedom is found in Christ and his Cross (cf. Galatians 5:1).
And this, despite repeated attempts to break precisely this freedom and strength—as if there were a master plan behind the many inhumane actions of the aggressors we learn about. When we—the French provincials Fr. Nicolas Texier and Fr. Olivier Donjon de Saint Martin, and the Polish provincial Fr. Lukasz Wisniewski—stand in Bucha at the monument for those cruelly and often entirely arbitrarily murdered by the Russians, and see pictures of the atrocities in the nearby church, we are left speechless and continue our journey in silence.
In Borodyanka, however, we encounter another side. In breathtaking speed, this place—where similar atrocities occurred, and where, for example, the main square was largely destroyed—has been rebuilt, with its external wounds repaired. One destroyed residential building has been left in its ruined state—deliberately so—as it has become a symbol of Russian destruction in the media.
Here, the renowned artist Banksy has subtly opposed the destruction, leaving behind works of art that, in a witty yet profound way, aim to bring hope. One of these is “David and Goliath”: a small boy who brings an adult (bearing the features of Putin, who in the past often presented himself as a symbol of strength, notably as a karate fighter) to the ground.
Another depicts a girl (with a tragic, real-life backstory) performing gymnastics on the ruins. Both are images of hope—perhaps what Ukraine needs most right now. Another artist, likely a local one, has painted a violinist in the hole created by shells in a residential building. She plays the song of hope, and the notes stream into the ruins in the colors of Ukraine’s flag, proclaiming something other than destruction and rebuilding souls amid the devastation.
In Borodyanka, we also meet Ludmilla, who works closely with our confrere Fr. Mischa Romaniv from our refugee center in Fastiv. She lost both of her children in the war (the body of her son could not even be identified), and yet no words of anger or hatred escape her mouth. Instead, she says that the most important thing is to convey love to people and not let hearts drown in pain. When she meets with us, she appears incredibly cheerful and full of life, yet behind this joy lies immense sadness. These contradictions are what I constantly encounter in Ukraine, and it is striking how enriched one feels coming out of such encounters, despite the deep wounds revealed. But from many of these open hearts, a wellspring of support has emerged for others, as Fr. Jaroslaw described so movingly in his letters at the beginning of the war.
Fr. Mischa, who leads the children’s, disability, and refugee center in Fastiv, wanted the newly canonized St. Margaret of Castello to be a co-patron of the chapel inaugurated that Sunday alongside St. Martin de Porres. Our Master of the Order, Fr. Gerard Timoner, wrote beautifully about her in a letter to the people of Fastiv. He said, “St. Margaret was blind but saw the goodness in people; she was born with a leg-length discrepancy but walked gracefully because she humbly walked in God’s presence. She loved with a generous heart, even though she was unloved as a child. Truly, she was a ‘wounded healer,’ a person with disabilities who helped others heal, an outcast who welcomed the downtrodden. Indeed, she was a beautiful image of God’s transforming love.”
This is precisely what I often witness among the people of Ukraine. Despite all the suffering and personal wounds, they manage to offer moments of beauty, hope, and love, so that amidst all the pain and destruction, “the smoldering wick will not be extinguished” (Isaiah 42:3), and a small light of hope shines through.
Of course, the wounds remain — externally and internally. Even on the streets, they are evident at every step. While Ukrainians strive to heal the external wounds quickly (as a sign of their determination to resist), the internal wounds will accompany this people for a long time, especially the children robbed of the carefree nature of their childhood. I am impressed by how swiftly the Church and the brothers have responded to provide as much help as possible. At our Thomas Institute in Kyiv, there is a one-year training program for laypeople to address post-traumatic stress, and in the Fastiv refugee home, this knowledge is being practically applied.
Overall, I am deeply impressed by how the brothers, with their small numbers (22 friars in the vicariate), are making a significant difference in various areas. These include intellectual training (university-level teaching and catechist formation — with new ideas for institutes at the Thomas Institute, including a historical institute for the Church’s history in Ukraine), pastoral and parish work, and social aid (the St. Martin de Porres Center in Fastiv serves as a children’s and refugee home and offers care for people with physical and mental disabilities while also providing ambulatory assistance in war zones). The brothers’ diligent and well-organized work in Ukraine truly makes an impact. The large group of helpers (including some from Warsaw who are connected to our brothers) gathered around Fr. Mischa extends not only in Fastiv but also to the Ukrainian borders. This group functions as a big family, working together warmly to bring hope and humanity to the world. They also manage to unite different collaborators from various countries for projects like the construction of the new St. Martin Center.
This is thanks to the project’s heart, Fr. Mischa, who is loved and appreciated in Fastiv (and continuously generates new ideas, which are challenging to keep up with), and Fr. Jaroslaw Krawiec, whose letters from Ukraine at the war’s start moved many people. With his warmth, communication skills, and organizational talents, Fr. Jaroslaw connects initiatives on the ground with many parts of the world. For example, the Western Province of the Dominicans in the U.S. was instrumental in raising funds for the refugee home and its chapel, which we inaugurated on the last day of my visit. Their contribution is honored in the chapel.
While much is being built, even more is being destroyed. In Kharkiv, we are greeted by explosions both when we arrive at the priory and at the bishop’s residence. Meeting Bishop Pavlo, whose diocese encompasses the entire Donbas region, is one of the most moving moments. In his chapel is a Madonna from the destroyed church in Bakhmut.
He shares that out of his original 70,000 Catholics, only 2,500 remain, but all priests have stayed. The most important witness, he says, is to remain, which is why he is so grateful for the Dominican presence, even though they now serve increasingly fewer Catholics. One Mass in a prison is attended by just three people, but for the friar celebrating it, this is no issue — what matters transcends mere numbers. Bishop Pavlo himself says he is at peace, emphasizing the essential decision of whether to stand under the Cross or remain in indifference and comfort. This decision is a line and a boundary that runs through our hearts, far more important than any political borders.
Leaving the bishop’s house, a strange sound startles us, and Bishop Pavlo immediately adopts a defensive stance. It turns out not to be a drone or missile, but it reveals the heightened vigilance with which people in Kharkiv move about. During the Holy Mass, we hear explosions that destroy a police station, claiming more lives and leaving countless families in anguish.
Back in Kyiv, a drone strikes near the priory the next morning, waking me shortly before the impact. Yet the brothers remain calm, their composure seemingly stemming from another source.
We visit memorial sites in Kyiv that deeply move us: flags (including those of non-Ukrainian nations) fly in the Maidan square, each bearing the name of a fallen soldier.
At another symbolic site, the rebuilt St. Michael’s Cathedral, a long wall displays photos of soldiers killed in the war. Inside the cathedral, prayers are offered for them. St. Michael, the patron of Kyiv, embodies the people’s spirit of resistance, which is evident in posters throughout the city.
In St. Sophia Cathedral, I encounter the ancient mosaic icon of Mary from the Middle Ages, about which I preached at the war’s start while still a pastor in Freiburg. Unlike many churches destroyed by Mongols, Germans, and Russians, it has endured and holds its praying hands over Ukraine. It is attached to a wall that is 5.5 meters thick. Ukrainians call its wall “indestructible,” not for its material strength but for the intercession of the Mother of God in whom they place their trust.
May her prayer sustain Ukraine through this time and offer hope for the future.
P. Thomas G. Brogl OP
Socius of the Master of the Order for Europa
Photos: P. Radosław Więcławek OP / P. Thomas Brogl OP
