If Stalin couldn’t erase Ukraine, how can a diminished and isolated Vladimir Putin hope to do so?

That question is not rhetorical flourish. It is rooted in history—hard, blood-soaked history.

In the 1930s, Joseph Stalin commanded one of the most ruthless and totalizing regimes the modern world has ever seen. Through forced collectivization, mass deportations, political purges, and the engineered famine known as the Holodomor, millions of Ukrainians perished. The Soviet state attempted not merely to control Ukraine, but to break it—its farmers, its clergy, its intellectuals, its language, its memory. Entire villages were starved into silence. Cultural elites were imprisoned or executed. The Ukrainian church was persecuted. Even the word “Ukraine” was treated with suspicion when attached to aspirations of sovereignty.

And yet Ukraine survived.

It survived not because the Soviet state was weak, but because Ukrainian identity ran deeper than state violence. Language was preserved in kitchens and whispered in lullabies. Faith was practiced in forests and behind closed doors. National memory endured in poetry, folk songs, and the stubborn will of ordinary families who refused to forget who they were. Even after decades of Soviet repression, when independence finally came in 1991, Ukrainians voted overwhelmingly—over 90 percent—to leave the collapsing Soviet Union. That was not a manufactured statistic. It was a civilizational statement.

Fast forward to the present.

Vladimir Putin does not command Stalin’s global ideological machinery, nor does he preside over a superpower of comparable scale. He governs a Russia facing demographic decline, economic strain, and international isolation. His invasion of Ukraine in 2022 was meant to decapitate the state in days. Instead, it galvanized a nation.

Cities like Kyiv, Kharkiv, and Odesa did not fold. They resisted. Ukrainian soldiers—many of them ordinary civilians just months earlier—dug in. Clergy of multiple denominations prayed openly in public squares. Evangelical, Orthodox, Catholic, and Jewish communities alike rallied to defend not merely territory but the right to exist as Ukrainians.

Ironically, the invasion has strengthened the very identity it sought to erase. The Ukrainian language is more widely spoken than at any time in modern history. Cultural production has surged. Churches once divided by jurisdictional tensions have found common cause in survival. A generation of young Ukrainians now defines itself not in relation to Moscow but in opposition to it.

History offers a sobering pattern: empires can occupy territory, but they struggle to extinguish identity—especially when that identity is tied to faith, land, and memory. Stalin’s Soviet Union had near-total control over information, borders, and movement. Putin’s Russia does not. In a connected world, images of destruction become testimonies. Atrocities become rallying cries.

If Stalin, with all his brutal power, failed to erase Ukraine, the notion that Putin can succeed is not just implausible—it misunderstands what a nation is. A nation is not only borders on a map. It is shared suffering, shared language, shared prayer, shared graves, and shared hope.

Ukraine has already endured one attempt at annihilation in the twentieth century and emerged independent. The current war may reshape its borders and scar its people, but it is far more likely to deepen Ukrainian nationhood than dissolve it.
Erasure requires surrender. Ukraine fights. You cannot erase a nation that refuses to kneel.

​Ukraine will not be erased.

On January 7, I wrote to a friend of mine in Kyiv, a Ukrainian Greek Catholic priest, simply to check in. I knew he was facing brain surgery, and I wanted to be sure I was praying on the right day.

I’ve been thinking about you and wondering when your surgical procedure is going to happen. Want to be sure I add into the chorus of prayers on that day and after… and before.

A few days later, he replied calmly, almost matter-of-factly. He would see his doctor the following week; a decision would be made then. He promised to keep me informed.

Of course, he wrote.

This is what resilience looks like.

Not speeches. Not slogans. Just prayer, work, prayer again—under air-raid sirens, amid blackouts, in freezing apartments, with brain surgery scheduled in a city at war.

It is a reminder that faith, at its most authentic, is not loud. It is steady. It shows up. And somehow, impossibly, it keeps going.
Moments like this are why I continue to return to Ukraine with a camera and a notebook—why Beyond Bucha exists at all. Not to capture destruction alone, but to bear witness to lives lived faithfully in its shadow, where prayer and perseverance are not abstractions, but daily necessities.

Please keep Fr. Roman—and Kyiv—in your prayers on January 27, and in the days before and after.

This past Sunday, January 4th, I attended the Divine Liturgy at St. Jonah Orthodox Church in Spring, Texas, just a few days before Orthodox Christmas, which this year falls today, January 7th.

While much of the Christian world has already dismantled nativity scenes and returned to ordinary time, this small Orthodox parish north of Houston was still moving toward Christmas. That sense of being out of sync—celebrating later, differently, and largely unnoticed—felt emblematic of Orthodoxy’s place within the broader American religious landscape.

St. Jonah’s describes itself as an English-language parish of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR), a body formed by clergy and faithful who fled Bolshevik Russia and lived for decades apart from the Moscow Patriarchate. The parish itself began as a small mission community and gradually took shape as families gathered around a shared commitment to Orthodox life in English. That lineage matters. It situates St. Jonah’s within a Russian Orthodox tradition shaped by exile, memory, and distance from state power—even as contemporary geopolitics complicate those inherited narratives.

The 9:00 a.m. liturgy lasted nearly two hours, all of it standing. At least seven clergy in full vestments participated, processing through a modest sanctuary with deliberate precision. The service was conducted in English, yet much of it remained difficult to follow. Orthodox worship does not aim for clarity in the modern evangelical sense; it seeks immersion. Scripture, chant, incense, and ritual blended into a sung, Eucharist-centered liturgy anchored by a disciplined, well-rehearsed choir. This was not a sermon-driven service; it demanded patience and submission to form.

The congregation numbered roughly one hundred or so. Many women wore headscarves, and several families presented an aesthetic that felt closer to Mormon communities than to either mainline Protestantism or American evangelicalism. This was not a political gathering.

The pastor, John Whiteford, offered a brief sermon on Matthew 1:1–25, the genealogy and birth of Christ. Whiteford joined the parish after converting to Orthodoxy in the early 1990s and has been associated with St. Jonah’s for decades. Online, he is a controversial figure, known for sharp critiques of Western culture, outspoken political commentary, and unapologetic Orthodoxy. In person, however, the sermon was restrained and textual. Whatever controversies surround his public persona, they were not evident from the pulpit that morning.

That gap between digital reputation and physical reality matters. Whiteford’s online profile is often amplified by a broader phenomenon sometimes labeled the “ortho-bro” movement—young men drawn to Orthodoxy less through parish life than through social media, podcasts, and culture-war aesthetics. Online, that world can feel loud, combative, and far larger than life. Inside St. Jonah’s on a Sunday morning, there was little evidence of it. What existed here was not a movement, but a parish—small, multigenerational, and decidedly ordinary.

What is often overlooked in discussions about Whiteford is his religious background. He was raised in the Church of the Nazarene before converting to Orthodoxy. That detail resonated personally; I, too, was raised Nazarene in my childhood years. The Nazarene Church is an evangelical denomination widely regarded as socially and theologically conservative Christian tradition that stresses moral discipline and visibly lived faith.

This visit also connects directly to the work I’ve been doing on Beyond Bucha, which examines faith communities in Ukraine as they navigate war, occupation, and ecclesial fracture. In Ukraine, Orthodoxy is not a niche tradition; it is the religious majority, embedded in national identity and daily life under fire. The tensions playing out throughout Ukraine now echo—quietly and imperfectly—even in places like Spring, Texas.

​Orthodox Christmas in Spring, Texas arrived without spectacle. No cameras, no slogans, no audience beyond those who stood there that morning. What remained was a small community practicing an old faith—and quietly collecting support for Ukraine, directed toward the historic Orthodox Church in Ukraine, the network of parishes traditionally recognized within global Orthodoxy and long embedded in Ukrainian religious life. In an age shaped by amplification and outrage, that modest act offered a reminder that some of the most meaningful responses to global crises unfold far from the noise, where conviction is measured less by volume than by presence.

​The film will weave together intimate, character-driven moments from both Ukraine and Rhode Island, including:

• Archival and contemporary footage of the family in Odesa
• Everyday life in Jamestown unfolds through classrooms, playing fields, after-school pursuits, and even nights around the Boy Scouts campfire
• Aerial drone cinematography piloted by Sasha
• Viktoriia’s woodcraft training at IYRS in Newport
• The family’s origin story in Rhode Island through the Naval War College in Newport
• Interviews with leaders from the Jamestown and Aquidneck Ukrainian Relief Projects and key community sponsors
• Sasha’s All-State flute performance
• An in-depth exploration of Sasha’s medical journey
• A potential visit to Ukraine’s front lines and to meet the rest of the family including daughter/sister Yana and Holly, the family dog, in Ukraine

This multi-location structure emphasizes resilience, displacement, community, and the enduring bonds of family under wartime conditions.

Meet the Pinchuks: Impact
Beyond documenting one family’s journey, Meet the Pinchuks seeks to deepen Americans’ understanding of Ukraine and of a people who have become our newest democratic allies. By placing viewers inside an intimate, transatlantic family story shaped by war, displacement, resilience, and community, the film humanizes a global conflict through the lens of childhood, sacrifice, and hope.

The impact strategy for Meet the Pinchuks builds on the proven success of the Trek to Bucha trilogy and is amplified through a multi-platform distribution and engagement plan that includes:
​

• Curated in-person and virtual community screenings
• Pursuit of a national broadcast distribution via PBS and partner networks
• Strategic film festival participation to drive awareness and reviews
• Availability across streaming platforms
• Targeted educational distribution for schools, universities, and civic organizations

​Together, these outlets position Meet the Pinchuks to reach broad national and international audiences while fostering dialogue, empathy, and sustained engagement with Ukraine’s ongoing struggle for freedom.

Join Our Cause!
Stand with us in telling this urgent story. Your support helps bring Beyond Bucha to audiences around the world—through screenings, broadcasts, education, and advocacy—amplifying the voices of Ukrainian families living through war. Whether through a donation, a partnership, or hosting a screening, you become part of a growing movement using film to inform, inspire, and mobilize. Together, we can ensure these stories are seen, heard, and never forgotten.

The Director
Steve Richards directs and produces all of TheoEco’s documentaries. He first traveled to Ukraine in March 2022 to film Trek to Bucha, returned in January 2023 to shoot Back to Bucha, and completed additional production shoots there in 2025 for Beyond Bucha. With seven documentaries to his credit, he co-founded TheoEco in 2015.

This past summer marked the beginning of our Beyond Bucha release. As we move into the winter and spring of 2026, our focus turns to sharing it more widely. Alongside that effort, we’re releasing a short video about my June 2025 trip to Odesa—to visit Sasha and Viktoriia Pinchuk and to premiere the film in Ukraine.

The story opens aboard a crowded bus heading south from Kyiv—my backup plan after every train seat sold out. Soon after, we’re greeted by a small surprise in the garden—a curious hedgehog making its rounds.

Next, we reconnect with Sasha and the Sunrise Flute Ensemble—familiar faces from the Odesa segment of Beyond Bucha—as they take the stage at the film’s premiere inside the historic Cossacks Museum.

Odesa remains, in many ways, a front-line city—home to Ukraine’s navy and key shipping facilities, roughly 400 kilometers
northwest of occupied Crimea across the Black Sea. As a result, it has endured relentless drone and missile strikes over the past year.

But this video isn’t about the destruction—it’s about life in between the sirens. Much of it is told from the vantage point of the Pinchuks’ country home, a refuge outside the city where they can escape the constant threat of bombardment. They bought it mainly for Sasha, to give him peace and safety as he continues to recover from a brain injury caused by a nearby missile blast that sent a shock wave through his neighborhood.

We find Viktoriia at the grill, turning skewers of pork destined to become both dinner and several days’ worth of meals. Between the sizzle and laughter, she talks about the difference between life at the summer house and their condo in town.

But someone is missing. The man of the house—a career naval officer—is on the front line. His absence is deeply felt, a quiet reminder of the sacrifices behind every Ukrainian soldier’s family’s resilience.

Next, we step into the garden—lush, sprawling, and ambitious. I’ve never seen two “non-gardeners” create such a thriving patch of paradise. It’s both sanctuary and statement: life goes on, and it’s beautiful.

We return briefly to the Odesa premiere, where outside the museum Sasha and the curator recall how a recent drone strike shattered the windows and brought down part of the roof. Later, we visit Sasha’s rehab clinic, which was also hit earlier in the summer.

Still in his teens, his developing brain is healing from trauma few could comprehend. We join him during a rehab pool session on the outskirts of Odesa—hope floating just beneath the surface.

We then pass the once-grand Hotel Bristol, which made headlines after a missile strike gutted it. From the street, the façade still stands tall, but the missing roof tells a different story.

Back in the garden, I try to help by picking cherries—so many cherries!—before we head to one of Odesa’s stunning public parks. There, amid fountains, flowerbeds, cafés, and children’s laughter, Sasha sits for a caricature. The artist’s quick lines capture not just his face, but his spirit—cheerful, brave, and unbowed.

​We are now filming another documentary that will pick up the Pinchuks’ story here in New England. The next time we see them, it will be far from the Black Sea—on the shores of Rhode Island.

The other day, an Evangelical leader in the Southwest said something that stopped me cold.

I’d heard it before—but it still made my stomach turn. He claimed Vladimir Putin was somehow a defender of Christianity, a champion of “traditional values” standing up to a godless Ukraine and its supposedly secular president, Volodymyr Zelensky. The idea would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous.

It’s easy to see why some find that claim seductive. In an age of moral drift, many believers crave firm spiritual leadership and a culture that still honors faith. But this narrative—crafted and amplified for years by Russian Orthodox Patriarch Kirill—is not a defense of Christianity; it’s a weaponized lie. It hijacks the language of faith to mask imperial ambition and seduce well-meaning Christians in the West—all while Russian forces kill Protestant pastors, level churches, and fill churchyards with mass graves, as in Bucha.

The truth is, Ukraine has been a cornerstone of Christianity for over a millennium. It embraced the faith in 988 AD under Prince Volodymyr—when Moscow was still a swamp. Across Ukraine, church domes crown every skyline; shrines and crosses stand proudly in public squares. Schools welcome prayer. Faith shapes daily life. From Lviv to Kharkiv, the church isn’t a relic of the past—it’s the living heart of the nation.

Russia’s record on religion tells a darker truth. After 1917, Lenin and Stalin waged open war on faith itself. “Militant atheism” became state doctrine. The so-called League of the Militant Godless spread its gospel of disbelief through schools and propaganda, hunting down believers of every kind—Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist. Churches, mosques, synagogues—boarded up or destroyed. Priests and pastors hauled off, shot, or left to freeze in the gulag. By the late 1930s, faith in Russia survived only underground, whispered in fear.

When Nazi Germany invaded in 1941, Stalin suddenly discovered his “faith.” Not out of belief—out of desperation. He resurrected the Russian Orthodox Church, not to worship God, but to weaponize Him—turning priests into mouthpieces for the state under the iron grip of the NKVD, later the KGB. Other faiths remained crushed beneath the boot. In 1946, he outlawed the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church, jailing its priests and forcing its flock into Moscow’s fold. Protestants and Jews were surveilled, harassed, and driven underground. Stalin didn’t spare Orthodoxy; he enslaved it—using a hollowed-out religion as camouflage for tyranny while extinguishing real spiritual life across the Soviet empire.

For forty years, the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church survived only by miracle. Its clergy met in cellars, kitchens, and forest clearings—whispering the liturgy, baptizing in secret, burying their dead by night. Faith became an act of resistance. Only in the late 1980s, under glasnost and perestroika—and with the bold encouragement of Pope John Paul II—did the Church rise again, a resurrection after four decades in the catacombs. Protestants, too, endured in the shadows. In Kyiv and beyond, pastors still speak of grandfathers who were jailed, beaten, or vanished simply for preaching the gospel.

Since independence in 1991, religious freedom in Ukraine has flourished. I’ve interviewed Pentecostal, Charismatic, Presbyterian, Catholic, Evangelical, Baptist, and even Orthodox pastors across the country—none feel persecuted. They laugh at the notion; it’s pure Russian disinformation.

Meanwhile, Putin and Patriarch Kirill parade as defenders of Christianity—but only their own, state-approved brand of it: a weaponized Russian Orthodoxy chained to the Kremlin. Every other expression of faith is treated as a threat. Protestant and Evangelical churches are smeared as “sects” or “cults.” Even Ukraine’s own Orthodox Church is punished simply for breaking free from Moscow’s grip. In Putin’s empire, faith isn’t sacred—it’s scripted.

The bottom line couldn’t be clearer: Ukraine lives religious freedom. Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim—all free, all respected, all thriving side by side. It’s not propaganda; it’s reality. And it’s one of the very freedoms Ukrainians are bleeding to defend. Even priests of the Russian Orthodox Church are free to hold mass in Ukraine so long as they don’t engage in espionage or act as tools of Russian propaganda.

Good luck finding that in Russia—or anywhere under its boot. That’s not propaganda. It’s witness—the living faith of people who refuse to bow, even as bombs fall and churches burn.

Ukraine marks its 34th Independence Day today, Sunday, August 24, 2025.

On this day in 1991, the Ukrainian parliament declared independence from the Soviet Union — a decisive step that helped bring the USSR crashing down. Ever since, war criminal Vladimir Putin has seethed, calling the collapse of the Soviet Union “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the 20th century.” His lament exposes his imperial ambitions and his refusal to accept Ukraine’s right to exist as a free and sovereign nation.

No doubt the same sinking feeling Santa Anna had when Texas bolted in 1836 — or King George when his colonies slipped away in 1776. But I digress.

I know a bit about Texas, as I travel there often. Both my sisters moved there long ago, and all my nieces and nephews were born there. Just recently I was in Dallas helping my 87-year-old mother settle into a lovely assisted living facility near my sister. Christmas in Texas has been a family tradition for as long as I can remember. I truly love the place. Fittingly, the first draft of this piece was written while visiting Texas megachurches last summer, with the idea taking shape at the Alamo in San Antonio — itself once a church.

When I do Q&A after screenings of my Ukrainian documentaries, I often compare Ukraine to Texas. For Americans, especially Texans, this analogy offers a clear framework for understanding Ukraine’s fight for freedom.

First off, Ukraine and Texas are roughly the same size (Texas covers about 268,600 square miles, Ukraine about 233,000). And here’s another surprise: In 2024, Russia’s nominal GDP is estimated at about $2.1 trillion, while Texas’ real GDP is roughly $2.2 trillion. Russia may look enormous on a map, but in terms of economic power it’s no bigger than a single U.S. state—a reminder that appearances can be deceiving.

Their struggles for independence as sovereign republics are strikingly parallel. Texas won its freedom from Mexico in 1836 before joining the United States in 1845. Ukraine declared independence in 1991, confirmed by more than 90 percent of its people in a national referendum, and has defended that sovereignty ever since.

The principle is timeless: it doesn’t matter who once claimed the land. What matters is the people’s right to a government that protects their liberty. As our Founders wrote in 1776:

Ukraine, after centuries of attempts to erase its culture, simply seeks to raise its children in its own homes, land, and traditions. That is why so many mothers have returned home despite the threat of missiles and drones.

Like Texas, Ukraine is defined by conservative values: family, faith, and freedom. Evangelical life thrives there. During my five-week tour in the fall of 2024, I visited many churches and interviewed pastors for my new documentary Beyond Bucha. An evangelical from Texas would feel right at home in Lviv, Kyiv, or Kharkiv. I even met one in 2023 — Pastor Doug Shepherd from Dallas — leading a church in Lviv. Prayer is welcome in schools and public spaces, and churches remained open through COVID. Religious freedom in Ukraine is not only alive, it is flourishing.

Despite constant missile and drone strikes, Ukrainians refuse to be intimidated. Predictions of Russia’s inevitable victory have proven as hollow as Mexico’s claim over Texas or Britain’s attempt to retake America in 1812.

In 2022, the world braced for Kyiv’s fall. Instead, Ukrainian soldiers armed with U.S.-supplied Javelins forced Russia to retreat. The atrocities at Bucha became Ukraine’s Alamo — where defiance met brutality and inspired lasting courage. The Javelin itself has deep Texas roots: originally developed by Texas Instruments in Denton/Lewisville (now part of Raytheon) with Martin Marietta, and still built in part in Dallas, where DRS Technologies produces the infrared assemblies that power its Command Launch Unit.

Traveling across Ukraine in 2024 and again this summer, I found a nation remarkably resilient. Shopping malls, grocery stores, restaurants, even its vast rail network all function under bombardment. Life goes on. Borders may shift, but Ukraine endures.

Just as Texas sought U.S. statehood in 1845, Ukraine seeks integration with Europe today. Like Texas, it is blessed with beautiful cities, vast lands, and proud, resilient people. These are natural allies who share our values — and our determination to be free.

This is not only about Ukraine. It is about us. Imagine if American leaders saw Ukraine not as a burden but as an opportunity: a partner in freedom, a place where American investment and ideals can flourish. Any president who helps secure Ukraine’s freedom would be remembered not only as a statesman, but as a champion of liberty itself.

Ukraine’s fight is America’s fight — for freedom, family, and the future of democracy itself. Texans said it best: Don’t Mess With Texas.

​Today the call is just as clear: Don’t Mess With Ukraine.

By Steve Richards

This trip to Ukraine has been unlike any of the others I’ve taken in the three years since my first, back in March 2022.

After taking the Kyiv Express and spending a couple of days in Bucha to check on friends I headed to Odesa. I’ve been here for the better part of a week.

But this time, I didn’t stay in a hotel. Instead, I was a guest of Viktoriia and Sasha at their relatively safe summer house outside the city, far from Odesa’s frequent targets. Now thirteen, Sasha’s no longer a tween and is a huge soccer fan.

Here at the summer house, Viktoriia and Sasha tend daily to the flowers and vegetables, making sure everything is watered and maintained. They even had me picking cherries from their trees—loaded with fruit! My favorite time of day? Morning walks through the garden, which bursts not just with roses (my favorite) and a rainbow of vegetables, but also with butterflies and pollinators of all kinds. Ukraine’s legendary soil is clearly doing its work here—as it does in fields all across the country.

Highlights of the trip?

The two screenings of Beyond Bucha are certainly near the top of the list.

But perhaps even more memorable is the chance to experience life here in such an intimate way. Viktoriia and Sasha have made me feel like family. It’s remarkable to think how this all began—with a conversation with John Andrews of the Jamestown Ukrainian Relief Project, who had seen my last film Back to Bucha on the recommendation of Alex Kuzma of the Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv. I met Viktoriia and Sasha at a charity polo match in Newport, invited by Linda Gaitonde of the Newport Ukrainian Relief Project. And the rest, as they say, is history.

There was a beautiful borscht dinner (complete with vodka shots) after they picked me up at the bus station, ending my six-hour ride from Kyiv last Friday. There have been endless cherries from the garden—and even a delicious rabbit dinner (my first), all prepared by Viktoriia.

Holly, their brilliant and incredibly lovable dog keeps an eye on me, carefully navigating the house and stairs a step ahead. She even roams the streets of Odesa without a leash—like so many other dogs here.

​My much-needed and long-delayed haircut was another high point—especially for the price: six bucks, ten with a generous (and unexpected) tip.

I also visited their apartment in the city. I wanted to see the site where Sasha experienced the shockwave from two ballistic missiles that caused the concussion he still suffers from. His condition is a constant concern for everyone who knows him, including friends from the Jamestown/Newport area. His father attended the Naval War College when Sasha was in kindergarten, and the family left a lasting impression. Now redeployed to the front, “the man of the house” is never far from anyone’s thoughts.

We stay updated on the news—including rising tensions with Iran—though of course Ukrainian news dominates. Everyone here lives braced for the next attack. Explosions and anti-aircraft fire are part of daily life.

Remarkably, power and internet have remained rock solid. A real testament to the country’s resilience.

I also conducted an interview for a future film with a doctor from a rehabilitation clinic here. A medic in Mariupol and a former Russian captive, his stories are harrowing. I was even interviewed for The Ukrainian Review.

​There was even time for a bit of sightseeing, including a two-hour tour of Odesa’s vast catacombs. Most were dug out of limestone in the 19th century for Odesa’s construction. During the Cold War, they were repurposed as bomb shelters against nuclear attack. The irony is never lost on me: America and the USSR—of which Ukraine was once a part—each had ICBMs pointed at the other. Ukraine gave up its nuclear weapons under the 1994 Budapest Memorandum in exchange for security guarantees from Russia, the UK, and the USA. Sadly, America’s assurances have proven unreliable. And Russia’s? Always laughable.

Today I head to Moldova for a flight back to the U.S. tomorrow—my first time returning home without passing through Warsaw. Since Moldova is much closer to Odesa, I’m glad to avoid the long train or bus ride.

It’s been an unforgettable trip. While I hate leaving my friends to face the daily realities of life here, I have to admit—I’m a bit envious of the summer house life they’ve created.

Maybe I’ll be back when the tomatoes are ripe.

The festivities began with the presentation of a Korovai—a traditional Ukrainian celebratory bread—by singers in traditional Ukrainian garb. They sang their hearts out in a joyful performance that moved me to tears. I could only wish that my Ukrainian-American friends and supporters could have witnessed the passion with which they performed several Ukrainian folk songs accompanied by guitar. I will never forget the love and appreciation I felt from this group for making the journey and for making the film.

Next came a performance by the award-winning Sunrise Flute Ensemble, which is featured in the film. These talented young performers played several pieces, including Moon River by Henry Mancini—bringing more tears to my eyes. Considering the hell these children endure on a daily basis, their resilience—and that of their teachers and parents—is nothing short of extraordinary. That they continue to focus on school and extra-curriculars like this, and made it to an early afternoon performance on a Saturday, is a testament to their strength and community.

The film screening was met with an engaged and thoughtful audience, many of whom stayed afterward for a Q&A session—and to share the Korovai. Most were intrigued by the views of Ukrainian cities that few get to see, and by the evangelical faith practices, which were unfamiliar to them. As Orthodox believers of the Ukrainian tradition, they were already well aware of the Transfiguration Cathedral and its Moscow Patriarchate ties. Some questioned why it was included in the film—until I explained how it became well known in the U.S. after being struck by a missile in 2023.

The day continued with a tour of the museum and a fun moment where they dressed me in authentic Cossack attire. It was truly an unforgettable day.

Today, we held a second screening—this time at the Cathedral of the Nativity, a Ukrainian Orthodox church featured in the film, which was also struck by a Russian drone in November 2024.

Much of the Orthodox congregation squeezed into the parish hall following the Sunday service (which lasts several hours). Once again, they were immersed in the film’s journey through evangelical churches and cities—from Bucha to Kharkiv to Zaporizhzhia—and remained engaged as the story unfolded. The Ukrainian subtitles did their job; I was relieved and happy to see that everyone seemed to follow along.

I wasn’t entirely sure how an Orthodox audience would respond, but I needn’t have worried. Fr. Orobets, who was interviewed in the film, had already seen it and was the one who invited us to screen it here. He was glad not only to see churches and believers from across Ukraine but also to give his parishioners a glimpse of life outside Odesa.

In the end, the reception couldn’t have been warmer.

​My deep thanks to Viktoriia, who organized both events, and also to 13-year-old Sasha, who not only translated Fr. Orobets' interview in the film but also served as my interpreter at both events. It would have been next to impossible to be here without them—and without their husband and father, who has been redeployed to the front lines. He remains constantly on all of our minds.

​This particular trip, however, was very different for me. My compartment companion was on his way to join the International Legion For the Defence of Ukraine. An ex-British soldier who had served three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, Michael felt called to do his part in defending Ukraine. He was hoping to be trained and sent to the front.

What struck me most was how his primary concern wasn’t the danger ahead but simply finding the rendezvous point the next morning. The details provided to him had been sketchy at best. His only contact with the unit had been via someone on Telegram, and he was anxious he might miss them entirely. I was personally glad to have someone in the compartment who spoke English and liked to chat. We hit it off.

When we arrived in Kyiv, I introduced him to the Hotel Ukraine, where I was scheduled to have lunch with Fr. Roman Nebozhuk, a Ukrainian Catholic priest I had met through my mentor, Fr. Yaroslav Nalysnyk, in Boston. I invited Michael to join us, knowing that if anyone could help him find his contact the next morning, it was Fr. Roman.

Sure enough, Fr. Roman recognized the building in the picture from the Telegram chat and provided the details Michael needed to find his unit.

I heard from Michael this afternoon via WhatsApp. Not only had he found the International Legion, but he had also been accepted and was already in training.

I’m not entirely sure I helped him, since there is no greater danger than going to the frontlines as an infantry soldier. But Michael has tremendous experience and was excited to go. It seems to be a shared calling among those of us who come to Ukraine from the West. After lunch, Fr. Roman called us both brave and offered a prayer for us—but honestly, when I think of Michael, and especially the Ukrainian people who face daily attacks and sleepless nights under Russian drones and missiles, I feel like my own efforts pale in comparison.