"I don't send messages to my deceased son."

He is 56, an entrepreneur and a volunteer. A father of four children, one of whom died on the front lines in July 2023. He hopes that one day he will be able to uncover all the circumstances surrounding his son's death, whom he buried in a sealed coffin...

“You are the first person I’ve talked to about this since my son passed away, and it’s been almost a year and a half. Will you be… discreet?” — he doesn’t lift his gaze to meet mine.

We arrived at Andrey’s place in Izmail. His family has deep roots here, and it is where his children were born. In a suburban village, Andrey runs a snail farm, where he hosts people scarred by war for relaxation. At the city cemetery, there is an Alley of Glory, where the father comes to sit in silence by his son's grave. Each time, with the hope that the nightmare will end, the phone will ring, and he will hear his beloved voice again...

Only Love and Respect

The father suggests we talk in the car. This was his son’s car, bought in 2022 for volunteer work.

When the full-scale war began, Andrey Jr. was on a voyage in the Black Sea. A routine matter: a foreign cargo ship with a Ukrainian crew. The team is still sailing.

Andrey, however, disembarked in Romania, asking his father via phone to meet him at the Romanian-Ukrainian border. This was in April 2022. His son wanted to join the Armed Forces of Ukraine.

“Our family is ethnically Russian; our ancestors settled here back in the days of Catherine II. But since they stopped indicating nationality on our passports, we identified ourselves as Ukrainians.”

“We are Ukrainians; this is our Ukrainian state, and no outsider has the right to dictate here. My wife and I raised our children this way. And Andrey. He is our firstborn, born in 1993. He carries my name not for any show, you know, but simply because it suited him very well.”

Andrey was only able to achieve mobilization at the beginning of 2023. Before that, with his father’s help, he opened a café on the highway, preparing food for checkpoints and gathering necessary supplies for the fighters on the front.

“He was very active since childhood, always at the center of some activity. He started earning at 16 while working in construction. Not out of greed for money; stinginess is not in his nature. If he had two hryvnias in his pocket, he would give them to someone reaching out, without thinking about his own financial situation.”

Suddenly, the father clarifies: “He gave them away.” And he falls silent. He still isn’t used to speaking about his son in the past tense.

“I don’t like talking here; let’s go somewhere else,” — he stammers.

Then he remains silent for a long time, staring through the windshield as the wind plays with the leaves in the park. I rustled my notebook to remind him of my presence.

“I always wanted my children not to fear me, because fear cannot be the basis of normal friendship and healthy relationships. I do not accept any dictation within the family, manipulation, or humiliation. Only love and respect.”

“There were times when Andrey distanced himself from us as a teenager. I felt it deeply and tried to show him that he had a loving family that would understand his problems and offer help. Sometimes, we would just look through family photo albums in the evening, recalling pleasant memories so that everyone could feel part of the family.”

The father catches his breath now, as the relentless Facebook reminds him with photos of his son about events from years ago. Here is Andrey diving, here he is on a motorboat, here he is with a freshly caught fish. There will never be new photos.

For the second year now, a horrific still frame haunts the father's mind: Andrey, whom he identified in the Izmail morgue...

“We could have fished together, built or dismantled something, just walked along the Danube's shore, skipped stones into the water, and talked. For me, that was never wasted time. I always had something to discuss with my son.”

“He had a sharp mind. Not a traitor. Not a coward. Never betrayed anyone. And he despised people who did that. Even teachers said he was straightforward and open.”

Familiar faces passed by the car; a man stepped out to greet. He returned to the interior — the vivacity with which he had just embraced his friend instantly vanished.

“I often hugged my son. I never hid my affection for him. Why would I? Hugs do not disgrace a father. And he hugged me too, never shy about it.”

Suddenly, Andrey abruptly exits the car. For a minute or two, he faces away from me. He resolutely states: “I can’t stay here anymore. Let’s go to Andrey.”

So Parents Don’t Converse with Photographs

“To Andrey” — that means to the Alley of Glory. Neat paths along and between the graves, flags of uniform height, identical configurations of tombstones and stelae with the inscription “Heroes Do Not Die,” large photographs of the fallen. There is no shame in the local community.

The row of graves where Andrey Jr. rests is still being arranged. Perhaps, in the days that have passed since our trip to Izmail, the work has been completed.

The son in the photo is dressed in winter camouflage with a sniper rifle in hand. He smiles childishly, radiating happiness.

“I always feel like I didn’t give Andrey enough love and attention. And that can never be fixed.”

“When parents send their children off to war, they understand the sacrifice they are making. And our children understand that they are sacrificing themselves for others, so that they can live, so that they have a country. But I talk to people and understand that many of them don’t need these sacrifices for three hundred years. They have their own lives.”

“When I hung the Ukrainian flag in 2022, many asked me if I was afraid of attracting the attention of certain individuals, as not everyone would appreciate it. We have plenty of waiters here. And many people who do not differentiate between the Ukrainian idea and the Ukrainian government with its questionable patriotism.”

Andrey collects only the trash from his son’s grave that only he notices. He gently touches the tombstone. And I sense that we, along with the photographer, are now superfluous here...

“My wife and I have become even closer after Andrey’s death. In hardship, you shouldn’t blame each other. You need to understand that your wife is your friend, that she also suffers and needs support.”

“My wife wrote messages to Andrey on social media for a long time after the funeral. It made it easier for her. But I didn’t write. What could I say after what I saw in the morgue? But how do you carry all of this within you?”

“There should be some state service to support parents. Just to call them or visit them someday. Maybe these parents now spend months looking at their child’s photo and talking to the picture because they have no one else to talk to.”

Yellow flags on the Alley, yellow leaves on the trees, the sun shines like yellow gold. I once read that in Japan, yellow symbolizes courage, while in Egypt, it signifies mourning. Courage and mourning have converged at the Izmail cemetery.

“Let’s go to the farm. Andrey loved it very much. It’s nice there; you will feel it,” — the father says. But a moment passes, then another, and some more time until he finally steps away from his son’s grave after these words.

Gentle Calmness

I truly felt it. Calmness. A safe tranquility and gentle silence. It turns out there are such places in Ukraine now.

Andrey Shirenko’s farm is called “Snails of Bessarabia.” The houses for the exotic snails descend the hill to Lake Safyany, with fruit trees, grapevines, and yucca bushes on both sides, comfortable tables under canopies. You sit on a swing — the green-yellow foam of the trees by the lake, overhead — a blue sky woven with sunlight.

“These yucca bushes Andrey planted. And these walnuts and apr