#BeingHuman. My dear brother Andriiko, this is my last letter to you, and I will send it to your email as well, though I will go on writing to you now and then in the messenger and in my diary.
It is hard to believe that you are no longer here with us on this silent planet. We were six brothers, and now there are five. When the news of your death came, it felt as though a large part of our family’s world had shattered.
You were so young, with a whole life ahead of you and countless plans in medicine and anaesthesiology, and we discussed all of it so many times, dreaming together with God. It still seems that in a week or two you will call, or turn up on short leave, and that we only need to wait a little longer and pray.
I want to tell you, Andriiko, what I felt when I was beside you for the last time, alone in that van on the way to the Alley of Heroes at Nove cemetery. H. and our niece N. were with me. After the ceremony on the Maidan I got into that van to accompany you on your final journey as your older brother, to record a video with you for Dad and Mum, and to pass on their words of love and sorrow and hope to you once more.
THE COFFIN
Looking at your dark brown lacquered coffin, covered with that familiar blue and yellow flag, which is with your parents now, Andriiko, I feel a searing pain that goes straight through my heart and mind. It burns so strongly that I cannot take in the reality of what happened, and every cell in my body still protests against this loss and refuses to accept that you are gone.
I know I am not alone in that pain. Every member of our family, whom you loved so sincerely and tried to shield from the terrible stories about the war, is feeling the same thing now. With you gone, we are left with an emptiness that nothing can fill, and although the pain seems unbearable at the moment, I know that in time we will find, and we must find, the strength to go on living with it.
THE WHITE RIBBONS
The white mourning ribbons wrapped around your coffin, silent witnesses to a pain we cannot speak, wind themselves around our souls too. They remind me of our large, close family, which is now going through the hardest days of its life.
Dad and Mum. I cannot even imagine what it is to lose a son. For the last five years they had dreamed of seeing you, of holding you, of watching you start a family of your own and succeed in medicine. Your portrait, which I am holding in my hands right now, is already in their living room, and you look at them every day with that gentle smile.
Our five sisters. You were a real friend to them and not only a brother, and how often you supported them, gave wise advice, or simply stayed close when they needed it.
And now there are five of us brothers, Andriiko. We were always a close and strong team, and you were part of it, with so many happy moments we lived through together and so many difficulties we got past side by side. Without you our brotherhood will never be complete, and you will always be one of us in the present tense.
Your nieces and nephews loved you so much and always looked forward to seeing their favourite uncle on Hrushevsky, whenever you came from Odesa or from the front. You knew how to reach each of them, how to cheer them up and hold them steady. We will help them keep your memory in their small hearts.
The spouses of your relatives, your comrades in arms, our friends. You were more to them than a relative or a fellow soldier, and they valued your sincerity, your openness, and your ability to be there in hard times. We cry together with them, Andriiko, and every tear shed for you is a tribute to how much we loved and respected you.
THE WOODEN CROSS
A light brown wooden cross, wrapped in an embroidered towel, with a plaque engraved with your name, lies in front of me like a silent witness to our shared faith in Jesus Christ. That faith is our hope and our support in this dark time, and it gives us the certainty that death is a passage into eternity rather than an end. This simple cross is the symbol of that faith and a reminder of your new life, and later of ours.
I know that you are already with Him now, in eternal joy and peace. You have left this imperfect world, broken by sin, this silent planet, as we call it after the books of C. S. Lewis that you loved. Here on earth we still have to struggle with sorrow and pain and loss, and your soul is already free of all of it.
It is so hard to speak about you in the past tense, Andriiko. It seems as though you have simply gone somewhere for a short while and will come back soon with your open smile and your warm hugs. And I know that is not so. You will never return to this earthly world, and you go on living in another and better place.
Looking at this cross, I seem to hear a quiet voice reminding me: Taras, the cross is empty, Christ is risen. Those words fill my heart with hope and with the understanding that one day you will rise, just as our Saviour did, so the name Andrii engraved on that plaque is a symbol of your new life with Him rather than only a tribute to your memory.
I believe the day will come when we all meet again, the Day when Christ returns you to us and us to you, and we will be able to hold you again, in a new and perfect body, where there will be no more tears and no more separation. And for now, Andriiko, we have to go on with our earthly life without you. Forgive us for that.
THE WREATH
Andriiko, I see a wreath standing in the far left corner of the van, behind your wooden cross. For some reason I cannot remember who brought it, though that hardly matters now.
The dark green cypress branches woven into it remind me of eternal life, since this tree has long been a symbol of the soul’s immortality, its evergreen leaves refusing to wither even in the fiercest frost. Your earthly life was cut short by the hands of russian criminals so unfairly early, and looking at these branches I remind myself that our physical death is a passage into another world, God’s world, rather than the end.
Part of the cypress is covered with something that looks like white snow, and for some reason it makes me think about purity and sinlessness, and I remember Christ’s promise to wash our souls clean with His blood through our trust in Him. I know you lived a life worthy of Christ’s call, Andriiko, and that your soul always reached toward Him even in the hardest moments, so looking at these branches I know the Lord has taken you into His embrace and given you eternal peace.
THE PEOPLE
Looking out of the window I see hundreds of people gathered on the Maidan to see you off on this last earthly journey, to the place where your body will rest until the First Resurrection. They came because they sincerely loved and respected you, and among them are your friends, your comrades in arms, your acquaintances, and simply people of this city who care.
Together we shed tears over your going into eternity so early. Our hearts are full of pain and bitterness at the knowledge that you, so young and so full of life, were treacherously killed by russian occupiers, in the way Cain criminally took Abel’s life.
We are endlessly grateful to you, Andriiko, for fighting alongside hundreds of thousands of other soldiers for our right to live without fear and humiliation, in a country free of the illusory and demonic “russian world”. As our cousin Roman Korniichuk put it, your sacrifice will stay engraved in our family’s heart: life for life.
THE ROAD
Andriiko, time is relentless, and we have to move on from the Maidan. I am sorry. Our procession begins to move slowly away, and the coffin with your body, along with the wreath and the cross, sways a little.
As we move along the central streets of Rivne, I notice that all the traffic on both sides of the procession stops, and drivers and passengers get out of their cars and kneel to honour you. Seeing this, I suddenly thought: will there ever come a time when so many people kneel in prayer before Christ, honouring His suffering and death and Resurrection for our salvation? You so often prayed to Christ on your knees in your prayer corner, little brother.
The eyes of the people standing on both sides of the street are fixed on the procession, and on their faces are tears and pain mixed with respect and gratitude. They take off their hats, make the sign of the cross, and see you off on your last journey. Looking at them, I feel an unbearable pain taking hold of my chest, because they are sincerely sharing our grief.
THE ALLEY OF HEROES
Andriiko, we have arrived. The doors of the van are already opening, and many people are waiting for you here too, with tears and silent prayers. I will say goodbye to you now, my dear brother, since we will not have another chance to be alone together.
I promise never to forget your example and your thirty-three years. You were faithful to God until death, and in place of the crown of thorns you carried here you received the crown of eternal life. Wait for all of us, Andriiko, and give our greetings to all our relatives and friends in the Community of the Living. We miss you beyond measure. And for now, brother, rest. Sleep. Take your time. Rest.
We will miss you every day. We will remember your open smile, your kind heart and your boundless love of life, and we will hold each other up as one large family. Thank you for everything, my dear, for being with us, for loving us, and for leaving so many bright memories behind.
I do not want to, and I cannot, brother. My whole being is screaming and burning. And I know that I have to let you go, not to forget you, but to let you go into the embrace of our Heavenly Father, and to live and finish what I still have to live and finish here on the silent planet.
Rest in peace, Andriiko. Your older brother, Taras M. Dyatlik, Ukraine
17 August 2024, Saturday
906th day of the full-scale russian aggression and of the full-scale silence of russian evangelical Christians
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