Il sole è tramontato su Kiev nel 1493° giorno dell’invasione su vasta scala. Ogni giorno, sulla soglia del dolore, un prete dà l’ultimo addio ai caduti dell’Ucraina.
Il sole è tramontato su Kiev nel 1493° giorno dell’invasione su vasta scala. Ogni giorno, sulla soglia del dolore, un prete dà l’ultimo addio ai caduti dell’Ucraina.
Sunlight pours through the windows of the Garrison Church of Saints Peter and Paul in Lviv, casting a warm glow on the white paper angels that sway gently in the corner. As they do every day, worshippers gather for the morning liturgy, praying, preparing for confession, wiping away tears or simply searching for hope. After the service, the parish priest, Taras Mykhalchuk, promptly changes from red vestments into black. In just fifteen minutes, the church will once again receive a soldier killed on the front line. This time, reporters from Frontliner are there to witness the funeral rite.
A funeral bier stands at the center of the church, flanked by two flags, vases of flowers, and a few chairs meant for the fallen soldier’s family, though no one will sit. Outside, a funeral car pulls up, and the priest steps forward to meet the soldier he will escort on his final journey.
****
Today, on the doorstep of grief, stand the relatives of a soldier from Cherkasy who fought from the very first days of the full-scale invasion. Through the microphone, the cantor’s haunting voice fills the church with a sorrowful chant. Father Taras waits as Viktor Kozakov’s family says their final goodbyes. He rests his hands on a prayer book and watches them with quiet compassion, never averting his gaze.
>*“Once again, we stand before the coffin of a remarkable Ukrainian.*
*Because of him, we can live, think, and breathe,”*
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Behind every story you have read on Frontliner is a person. Andriy. Olena. Nadiia. Diana. And many others. Every story has a name. Help protect their lives so they can continue telling the stories that matter.
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Sunlight pours through the windows of the Garrison Church of Saints Peter and Paul in Lviv, casting a warm glow on the white paper angels that sway gently in the corner. As they do every day, worshippers gather for the morning liturgy, praying, preparing for confession, wiping away tears or simply searching for hope. After the service, the parish priest, Taras Mykhalchuk, promptly changes from red vestments into black. In just fifteen minutes, the church will once again receive a soldier killed on the front line. This time, reporters from Frontliner are there to witness the funeral rite.
A funeral bier stands at the center of the church, flanked by two flags, vases of flowers, and a few chairs meant for the fallen soldier’s family, though no one will sit. Outside, a funeral car pulls up, and the priest steps forward to meet the soldier he will escort on his final journey.
****
Today, on the doorstep of grief, stand the relatives of a soldier from Cherkasy who fought from the very first days of the full-scale invasion. Through the microphone, the cantor’s haunting voice fills the church with a sorrowful chant. Father Taras waits as Viktor Kozakov’s family says their final goodbyes. He rests his hands on a prayer book and watches them with quiet compassion, never averting his gaze.
>*“Once again, we stand before the coffin of a remarkable Ukrainian.*
*Because of him, we can live, think, and breathe,”*
Father Taras says.
[**https://frontliner.ua/en/a-priest-bids-ukraines-fallen-their-final-farewell/**](https://frontliner.ua/en/a-priest-bids-ukraines-fallen-their-final-farewell/)
**___________________________________________________________________**
Support from our community is essential. [One monthly Patreon subscription](https://www.patreon.com/frontliner_ua) can provide a tourniquet, a thermal blanket, or trauma shears to protect out reporters. The larger our community grows, the faster we will be able to equip every Frontliner reporter with an individual first aid kit.
[Support the drive](https://www.patreon.com/frontliner_ua)
Behind every story you have read on Frontliner is a person. Andriy. Olena. Nadiia. Diana. And many others. Every story has a name. Help protect their lives so they can continue telling the stories that matter.
With gratitude,
Yelyzaveta Kovtun
CEO, Frontliner