The MOTHER of Azov’s fighter.

I didn’t ask her if I could write about her today. I hope she won’t be angry.

Although she has a beautiful name - Olha - when I tell people about her, I’ve gotten used to calling her Azovets’ mother.

For some reason it always felt right to me.

The first time I went to meet her, I think I shuffled down a standard, old Soviet‑era corridor, putting one foot in front of the other. I didn’t want that apartment‑block hallway to ever end; I didn’t want her to open the door because I didn’t know how to begin speaking. I didn’t know how to talk to the mother whose son has been cruelly held by a ruthless enemy for months. In captivity, and with no news of him.

An Azov fighter. AND HIS MOTHER.

During our conversation I was nothing but a mother, asking and listening to another mother. Unable to truly understand her, because even all the empathy in the world won’t let you utter that meaningless, absurdly timed “I understand you.” I didn’t understand then, I don’t understand now, and I never will understand what that mother went through, banging on every possible door and trying to extract even a tiny scrap of knowledge. Knowledge that maybe her child is alive.

That day I was returning from Ukraine, when the lists of exchanged prisoners were officially published. I marched over those lists again and again in a frenzy; from stress I couldn’t find his surname. And then her message came: “he’s been exchanged and is coming back.” I remember that moment. I stared blankly out of a passing car’s window for a long time. I didn’t know what I felt, because I couldn’t imagine what she felt.

Last week we ate shakshuka with the children in Vilnius. While waiting for it to be brought to the table, an image of her came to my mind: how she, hosting me, cooked shakshuka for me in her Kyiv apartment kitchen. Probably the tastiest I’ve ever eaten. She didn’t eat it herself; she cooked oatmeal for herself. That’s what the doctors had told her to do after she was released following examinations. Her health, sadly, keeps reminding her of that nightmare she endured. And, like always, she just smiles about it  “I’ll survive.”

If a monument had to be built for a mother, the prototype for it would be her: firm, unbreakable, self‑controlled. Never complaining. Carrying that incomprehensible, from the outside seemingly unbearable burden with dignity and head held high. With a strong spine and a steady gaze.

Now and always.

Olha.

I thank the Media Support Fund for supporting the post series “War in Ukraine: The Gap Between the Military and Society”