Tatyana Sklerova daily visits the grave of her son Sergiy, a Ukrainian Armed Forces volunteer, in the Dnieper Credit : Colin Freeman for The Telegraph
Now Thunderstorm midday at the Krasnopolsky cemetery in the Dnieper, then sultry heat, then a downpour.
Bad weather does not prevent Tatyana Sklerova from visiting the grave of her son Serhiy, a volunteer of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, every day.
Since he died in April last year, despite the debilitating summer heat, winter blizzards and Russian air raids, she has been by his side.
“More than a year has passed since since I lost him,” she said, wiping her tears. “But during that time I haven't been here for only two days.”
In front of her is a photograph of Sergei on a wooden cross and a Ukrainian flag, one of hundreds that flutter in the cemetery's military wing, known as Heroes' Alley.
Sergey's grave at the Krasnopolsky cemetery in Dnipro graveyards of Ukraine, from large cities such as Dnipro and Kiev, to small provincial villages.
While the government does not publish statistics on soldiers who died in battle, military cemeteries give a rough picture.
In Dnipro, home to about one million of Ukraine's 43 million inhabitants, The Telegraph counted about 800 new graves dug since the beginning of the war.
If this figure were reproduced roughly throughout the country, this would mean that the death toll topped 30,000, far more than most current Western estimates.
According to a report leaked by the US Defense Intelligence Agency in April, the total number of Ukrainian military dead was about 16,000, compared to about 40,000 in Russia.
Despite his patriotism, the narrative of the nation's collective sacrifice means little to Sergei. mother. She says that losing her son in the war is a lonely experience that others will never understand.
“Of course I’m proud,” she adds. “But if this is life now – well, in that case, I'm just existing.”
And yet here, in the cemetery, among the dead, she found a new life, striking up friendships with other women who mourn the graves their sons.
A friendly club of mothers exchanges stories, coping mechanisms and, when everything becomes too much, on the shoulders to cry.
“Our life just stopped”
With Ms. Sklerova, 67-year-old Larisa Nabok, 53 years old , whose son Dmitry lies in a nearby cemetery.
At his funeral in March, Mrs. Sklerova came to console her, and since then they got to know each other well.
“Our life just stopped,” Ms. Nabok said. “You can go into the city of Dnipro and see people smiling and joking. But for us, it seems like a completely different world.”
Today, the couple while away the hours together on a wooden bench that Ms. Sklerova built next to her son's grave, bringing snacks and drinks with her. .
They exchange greetings with a wider group of mourners: mourning widows with children and soldiers from other military units, some of whom have funerals here so often that their faces are now familiar.
“Because we are.” There are so many of us here, we know all the other families and brigades,” Ms. Sklerova said. “There are new funerals here every day, and we mourn them as we mourn our own sons.”
Ms Sklerova and Ms Nabok help tend to the plots of other war dead, often adorned with bottles of under beer. favorite drink of the deceased and packs of cigarettes for the afterlife.
They also visit graves marked “Unknown Defender of Ukraine”. They contain the remains of as yet unidentified soldiers, sometimes because only fragments of their corpses have been recovered. “They have no one else to mourn,” Sklerova said.
With Ukraine now embarking on a major new counteroffensive, the Alley of Heroes could well expand significantly in the coming months, raising the question of how much more pain the country can endure.
Some Western leaders are already questioning the merits of Kiev's all-out drive to regain all its lost lands, especially if the counter-offensive is yielding slow results.
But no one among Ukraine's political elite has yet stepped out of line to call for peace talks, which could include the cession of Crimea or Donbass.
“We're still waiting for them to call”
That's the question we've been asking ourselves and Ms. Sklerova and Ms. Nabok. While both are proud that their sons volunteered to fight for Ukraine, both admit that at times they tried to talk them out of it.
“I tried to talk Sergey out of joining the army, but he didn't listen,” Ms. Sklerova said. “At some point, he got injured, and I said: “Son, now you have a reason to leave the front line.” But he told me, “No, I have to go back there to help my comrades.”
At his funeral, she added, she tried the same advice on one of his wounded comrades. He replied: “If I stop fighting, then who will answer the enemy for the death of your son? Who, if not us?”
Thus, the war became more than just a territory; soldiers fight out of solidarity with their comrades and to avenge their deaths.
And for all their grief, both Ms. Sklerova and Ms. Nabok show little interest in a peace deal that puts lives above the ground.
Both from Severodonetsk, a city in the Donbass that was occupied last summer after several weeks of heavy fighting.
Both want to go back there one day, which is why both want the goals of the counteroffensive to be achieved, especially with so many soldiers already dead.
“If we leave those bitches behind — Having occupied our cities, why did so many other Ukrainians, like our sons, lay down their lives?” Miss Nabok asked. “That would mean that all their sacrifices were in vain.”
With these words, the couple leaves the cemetery for the Dnieper, their home in exile. Until they return there, the graves of their sons are the only place where you can feel at home.
“You know, we still can't believe they're dead?” added Ms. Sklerova, looking at her cell phone. “We still expect them to call and hear their voices.”
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