Palm Slaughter
A Chapter for Accidental Ukrainians: Book 4
Early Sunday morning (April 13, 2025), the air was crisp, and Philly wasn’t much in the mood for a walk due to his health. That burning smell of some sort of strike lingered in the cool air. Barely anyone was out on the streets in the center of Kyiv. A few people strolled by with the greens of Palm Sunday in their hands. Natasha and I were slow to start but it seemed like it would be ok to leave Philly on his own and head to Liturgy.
We refer to Palm Sunday as the Feast of the Entry of the Lord into Jerusalem. This a day of joyous celebration on our liturgical calendar as we emerge from Great Lent and begin Holy Week on Monday. The strict fasting is a little relaxed on this day, fish and wine are allowed. We celebrate because Jesus, his Disciples, and all his followers did so. Only Christ knew what awaited Him later that week, but He still allowed them joy. On our way to church, you could feel joy in the air. Street cafés were getting ready on this warm spring day for the patrons who would come whether they attend church or not. Many hold the symbolic greens regardless of their dedication to Christianity. Ukraine is a place of green abundance which is apparent in its culture and art.
Natasha and I crossed St. Sophia’s Square as the sun began to warm Kyiv. St. Michael’s Monastery stood guard just a few blocks away and we could hear its bells ringing the faithful to service. Our little church, St. Yuri’s is tucked away in an alley not far away. We could hear singing from the choir as we stopped outside to make the Sign of the Cross. I thought we were late, but we were ten minutes early even though Father Bohdan had started the service. He often has duty after our service at the Sobor (St. Volodymyr’s Cathedral). I quickly venerated the icon and passed through the Deacon’s Door on the right and into the altar area. Only clergy and altar servers are allowed. Altar servers are lay assistants to the clergy and that is my role.
Konstantyn (Kostya), the Altar Captain was dressed in green vestments as was Father Bohdan. These vestments are the ones that represent life, springtime, and growth. We only wear them on very specific days for Palm Sunday, Pentecost, and a few others. I folded my vestment and presented it to Father Bohdan. A blessing from the priest is required before adorning it. We altars servers are basically guardians of the doors although we also perform other duties. Soon enough, the candles were lit and we carried them out into the sanctuary to illuminate the Holy Bible for the daily reading which would be John 12: 1-18. Since, I don’t speak Ukrainian, I don’t always know what the reading is until after I get home, or Natasha tells me after the service.
Father Bohdan opened the gold-encased Bible and began reading. A second later, the air raid siren started. He didn’t skip a beat, and no one ran for the shelter. Kostya and I returned through our doors after the reading, and I took my place on the right side of the altar. My mind wandered to the air raid. We had no way to know if suicide drones or missiles were headed our way. I looked up at the icon of St. Mstyslav whose relics are believed to be buried on our church grounds. He is depicted as a warrior with a sword and shield in battle dress. The thought that ran through my head was that it wouldn’t be so bad to suffer a direct hit and for all of us to die together in church. We are far from good Christians, so maybe dying in church would get us at least a chance at salvation. Then, I thought of Philly. What would happen to him if we died right then and there? Would he starve to death all alone in our flat? Would they find our bodies, my keys, look up our address and go there before Philly suffered too much? (Later, after church, Natasha told me she had pretty much all the same of the above running through her head).
No explosion came for us. No clean death while standing in church. A clean death is one that is quick but also one that catches you so you might be forgiven and enter in where the good people go. Well, at least, the good enough people go. We continued on and had more people in church than usual. Father Bohdan seems to have brought in another family or two. Both families have children, and I hope the keep coming. Every church needs children. Natasha and I both gave our Confession and took Communion. At the end of the liturgy, Father Bohdan blessed the greens and doused us all with Holy Water. The joy on people’s faces during the dousing is something that can’t be imitated. Father gets his own particular joy from being the douser. Natasha and I left and headed home.
Philly was ok when we got home. We drank coffee and chatted. Natasha decided to take Philly for his afternoon walk. I decided to check War Monitor on Telegram to see if the lowlife barbarians had shot anything at us when the air raid alarm went off during the Gospel reading. That’s when I saw it. Two missiles had struck the center of Sumy at the exact time that Father was reading the Scripture. “But Jesus said, “Let her alone, she has kept this for the day of My burial.” The horror was on my screen. Ukrainian churchgoers slaughtered on the street by a people who believe themselves to somehow be holy and messianic. Some thirty-four dead, including children. Most holding the greens for Palm Sunday as the missile took their lives, same as us. You have to look when you live in Ukraine. The world can turn its eyes away, but we honor them when we look at the dead. We know it could just as easily be us. They deserve our gaze even if we can only stomach it for a minute. One woman’s body haunted my dreams, her legs splayed out in a straight line, split at the hip, a stream of blood coming from her pelvic area. She was young enough to bear children and the Russians had taken her life and her ability to birth a new Ukrainian. Other bodies were sprawled about. Relatives and friends were screaming in agony. That’s how an allegedly Christian nation celebrates Palm Sunday by slaughtering the faithful. Trump said the Russians had “made a mistake.”
A “mistake”? No, Mr. President, it was not a mistake. This was the purposeful Palm Slaughter. “Trust not in princes, in sons of men.” Well, Natasha and I gave up on that long ago. If you wonder why we simply cannot identify with anyone but Ukrainians and those who vehemently support them, then you are not getting the picture. You can look away, but we can’t, we won’t. Even if we leave Ukraine, we won’t stop looking and honoring them.
I hesitated to even bring it up with Natasha, but she had already seen it herself. Later, Sunday night, Wozza checked in to let us know he would be able to get supplies to Rags of Azov. Natasha and I felt good that some of those who directly destroy the enemy would get assistance that at least we had a hand in. You see the part about salvation now? Here we were on Palm Sunday wishing death on the enemy and celebrating Azov which has a long and colorful history of doing it. By all accounts, we will be condemned to eternal torment. I sometimes wonder if the torment we live in now is actually worse.
That afternoon, I had to run an errand. I chose the route purposely. It would take me past St. Volodymyr’s Cathedral where I stopped to watch the priest dousing the greens and the people out front. A bustle of activity and life. The sanctuary that kept us sane and full of hope back during the Battle of Kyiv. A path through Fomin Botanical Garden which was alive with Sunday walkers and park goers. On down further to Zhylianska Street. This is where I had purpose. Earlier in the war when the Shahed 136 suicide drones were just being used, we had watched one fly directly over us and seconds later the loud explosion of a direct hit. That very drone killed a young couple in a building much like ours. I stopped and made the Sign of the Cross at the location. Maybe they have left the building as a memorial, doors stand ajar as if someone just came home, shelves still stand on walls, balconies undamaged by the blast seem almost like someone could be sitting there enjoying the spring air. We don’t forget our dead. We can’t. They are so close. They are ours
Monday, April 14, 2025. The first day of Holy Week. It’s my mom’s birthday also. The reading for the day is Matthew 24: 3-35. Here is the part that stood out to both of us: “Take heed that no one deceives you. For many will come in My name saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many. And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of sorrows.”
We who live in war can’t help but think that we are living in the “beginning of sorrows”. We also know that it is most likely we will not live to see what the end looks like. Frankly, we are thankful for that. Maybe it is better to love and die in the beginning than at the end? Surely, the level of suffering will be far greater than for us in the beginning. It is not time to run for the hills. However, it is time to look and not turn your eyes away. We in Ukraine know that we may never live in peace again. Maybe we are not part of some Biblical prophecy. Maybe this is just the way the world is and will always be. Who wants to live in that reality? Our eyes are open, and our ears hear. In six days, we will come to Pascha (Easter), the Holiest day for Orthodox Christians. A day of the celebration of victory over death. Even if the Russians manage to slaughter on that day, those of us who live will honor them, raise our glass and feast on the Paschal lamb. And we will not look away.