Life, loss and love from Lviv

There can be a strange kind of beauty in being pushed to our edges as humans. Or at least, that has been my experience.

At times in the past when fear or sorrow or pain have brought me to my knees I’ve also found an opening -  a crack where the light gets in, as Leonard Cohen so movingly sang about in his song, Anthem. 

I found that light again in Ukraine this week.

I arrived here a couple of days ago and I’ve rented an apartment in Lviv for the next five weeks.

Next month my son - who works for a relief organisation in Ukraine helping victims of the war - is marrying a wonderful woman from a lovely family from Lviv.

Any wedding is hugely special, but one that is taking place in a war-torn country, between two people who met because of the war, has an extra poignancy to it, and I think we’re all getting so much from having such a magical reason to celebrate in the current circumstances.

And by that I mean, in a country that has suffered and continues to suffer so much loss.

I’ve been here twice since the start of the war so I knew what to expect but even so, arriving in Lviv to see the stained glass windows of the beautiful old cathedral opposite my apartment boarded up to try and protect them from shelling was sobering.

As was reading through my Airbnb instructions to find directions to the nearest air raid shelter in amongst how to use the washing machine and where to put the rubbish.

I was woken by my first air raid alert of this trip at 6.20 on my first morning here.

Ukrainians have been experiencing this for over two years now - and hot on the heels of the trauma of the pandemic too. It’s hard to imagine the toll this must be taking on them mentally, although thanks to my son’s work here, I have some insight and I know that levels of depression and anxiety have, understandably, gone through the roof.

My son has been working close to the front line in the east of the country for the past week and whenever he goes to those regions I always feel as if I can never fully exhale. 

Up until this point he’s been based in the safer west of the country and makes trips to the east, but this week he was offered a position based much closer to the front. 

It makes sense in that that’s where the help his organisation provides is most needed, and I’m beyond proud of what he’s doing, but still… Just like so many, if not most Ukrainians, who have loved ones close to the fighting, I know that if he takes the job it will mean many more anxious moments.

On Thursday night my soon to be daughter-in-law’s parents invited me to a meeting at their church.

One of their congregation who became an army chaplain at the start of the war was back from the frontline for 24 hours and was giving a talk about how he tries to bring spiritual solace to the men who are fighting - and all too often tragically dying - in the trenches.

He showed video clips of him with the men while he spoke and it was incredibly moving.

We saw clips of the soldiers all standing in a circle, arms around each other’s shoulders praying before going into battle.

We saw a young man being baptised in a pond right by the frontline, the thud of artillery fire an ominous soundtrack in the background.

And we heard inspiring examples of the power of prayer and how many times the chaplain had witnessed miracles, often in the form of people surviving when they should have been killed - including him.

At the end of the talk he produced two melons that had been growing by the front in a part of Ukraine where the army have managed to repel Russian advances and he said he wanted us to taste them.

So somebody cut up the melons and offered pieces around on a tray. (I wrapped my piece in a paper napkin and put it in my bag for later as I currently have an Invisalign aligner and it was too much of a faff to take it out to eat.)

Then we all gathered around the chaplain to pray for his continued safety when he returns to the front. His wife and young children were there and I was overcome with emotion and awe at the sacrifices they are all making as a family for the greater good of their country. It was a truly humbling experience.

When I got back to my apartment that night I kept the lights off and sat in the window gazing out at the old cathedral and its faded fresco of Mary and the baby Jesus illuminated gold.

the cathedral in daylight

Somewhere down below a group of people started singing a rousing song celebrating Ukraine and I thought back to how my day had started - being jolted from sleep by the ominous wail of the air raid siren.

But the day was ending with the sound of Ukrainians singing defiantly in celebration of their country - a country they are trying so desperately to keep safe from the Russian attacks.

Then I remembered the piece of melon in my bag, so I took it out and took a bite.

It tasted sweet as honey. 

And as the singing in the darkness below reached a crescendo I realised that, against all the odds, I was tasting, and hearing, and feeling the light of hope.

Until next week, if you’re living in a country unaffected by war, I urge you to count your blessings, and if you’ve been moved by what you’ve read here and would like to do something to help there are many aid organisations working here who are always in need of donations. My son works for World Relief and you can find out more about their work here.

Sending love,

Siobhan