Hope against exhaustion: July 22, 2025

Hope. Two boys sit in the front row at Mass. Both are utterly exhausted—barely able to stand, grateful for any moment to sit. One of them, around 13 years old, keeps his hand gently on the shoulder of the younger one, about 8. Though fatigue makes it hard to keep his arm raised, he never lets go. He supports the little one—and somehow, you sense, he is being supported in return by his younger brother.

Hope against exhaustion

Current impressions from Ukraine

Burdening fatigue

Two boys sit in the front row at Mass. Both are utterly exhausted—barely able to stand, grateful for any moment to sit. One of them, around 13 years old, keeps his hand gently on the shoulder of the younger one, about 8. Though fatigue makes it hard to keep his arm raised, he never lets go. He supports the little one—and somehow, you sense, he is being supported in return by his younger brother.

It’s a snapshot, and yet it nearly symbolizes the whole situation. When we meet these children from Kherson—one of the most embattled regions in Ukraine, nearly inaccessible to foreigners—they share what they liked most about their 10-day stay at the Dominican Social Center in Fastiv, near Kyiv: the silence. Here, they can finally hear neither the whistling of drones nor the impact of rockets. Both have increased recently, as Russia has successfully ramped up drone production. These children are now military experts, able to identify missiles by sound—knowing which weapon it is and where it might hit: close by or—hopefully!—farther away.

Their presence here is part of a broader initiative led by Fr. Mischa and his many volunteers: not only providing help on-site at the social center but also directly supporting the front lines. They deliver essential supplies—even winter hats and blankets for soldiers, handmade by volunteers in Fastiv. Fr. Mischa travels back and forth with his team, often risking their lives. But far from deterring them, the danger strengthens their resolve, as they see how vital this outside support is—if only as a sign of hope that those on the front have not been abandoned. Again and again during our visit, people tell us how much it means to see that someone—whether a brother from the USA, Germany, or Rome—is here with them. Beyond concrete aid, one thing matters above all: presence. Someone standing with them to push back the greatest danger—not bombs, but the loss of hope. That despair is precisely what the aggressors seek: the breaking of the people, and with them, the collapse of all resistance.

I find myself sitting in a Kyiv bunker once again, early in the morning—for the second time that night. I was awakened by the whistling of drones and nearby explosions. One blast shook the house so violently that plaster fell from the ceiling. The explosions seem unending. The last time I was here, in November, they were rare and distant; now they are frequent, and it seems our very neighborhood is under attack. At 2 a.m., Fr. Jaroslaw, the Vicar of Ukraine, joins us, visibly shaken. A residential building 100 meters away has been hit—we can see it from here. It’s distressing. Had people been inside, they might be dead. We spend the next few hours in the house’s basement. This is unusual; we never used the shelter six months ago. Last November, I had asked Fr. Jaroslaw—calmness incarnate—what to do if the alarm sounded. He simply said: “Go back to sleep.” This night, however, we will not sleep.

A Refugee Center—Made Possible Through U.S. Donations

The reason for our visit is actually a joyful one. Shortly after the war began, Fr. Christopher Fadok, Provincial of the Western Province in the USA, visited Kyiv and Fastiv. Deeply moved by Fr. Mischa’s work and the efforts of his team, he wanted to help. Many others followed his lead—including Olympic gold medalist and skater Brian Boitano, Phantom of the Opera star Franc D’Ambrosio, and renowned artist Agnieszka Pilat. Together, they inspired friends, celebrities, and dignitaries to raise over $1,000,000—covering nearly three-quarters of the cost needed to rebuild the Dominican Social Center in Fastiv, which Fr. Mischa had inherited as a ruin.

Much has changed since my last visit in October 2024. Today, the center is full: mothers and children who have lost their husbands and fathers; soldiers recovering from trauma; people with disabilities who can no longer be cared for near the front; and finally, the children from Kherson, who are being offered “a piece of childhood” for at least these ten days. In one of the buildings, a tree is painted on the wall with the Dominican Saint Martin de Porres—patron of the project—at its roots. Each leaf bears the name of a child helped here. It’s a sign of hope—and of a desire to help many more.

What’s been created here is remarkable: high-tech massage equipment for trauma therapy; a “space cabin,” an ice chamber that uses cold shock to reawaken neural synapses damaged by war; a salt chamber with a statue of the Virgin for iodide-based therapy—and also for rest. There is even a hair salon. When asked why, Fr. Mischa explains: “Widows of the war often stop doing anything nice for themselves. They deny their own needs. Taking care of their appearance is a small but vital step back toward life—and toward loving oneself.” He tells us that bereaved wives and mothers are treated in separate groups, so no one feels they have to compete over who has suffered more. It’s something we might never think of—but it’s deeply wise, born of experience.

The project has drawn wide attention—featured in many media outlets and studied by other trauma recovery centers as a model.

Icons on Ammunition Boxes

Another room serves as a workshop. We see icons of Christ and Mary being made. In the chapel’s anteroom, dozens of small icons—painted by the children of Kherson—are displayed: images of Christ, Mary, and angels. These are gifts the children will take back home. At the end of our service, Fr. Mischa blesses them and tells the children: when they look at the icons, may they remember that Jesus and Mary are with them always—in their fear, and in their need.

Behind the children’s icons stand the works of Oleksandr Klymenko, who came here with his wife and son. That evening, we see one of his icons again on the news: presented to Pope Francis during a meeting with the Ukrainian President at the Vatican. What makes these icons special is that they are painted on ammunition boxes. In some, you can still see the military stamps—and determine where the ammunition once used was deployed.

The artist explains his vision: to transform death. What once carried destruction should now bear hope and serve life. These icons, born from instruments of war, become messengers of peace in Christ. Now exhibited across the world, they not only witness to Ukrainian suffering but raise funds for traumatised mothers and children—so that, like here in Fastiv, they can receive care and healing. The artist’s wife adds: the trees used to make these boxes might once have been turned into toys. Painting the icons, in a way, restores the trees to their true purpose: for the good.

Church Service

When Fr. Christopher enters the chapel and sees the coat of arms of his province in the stained-glass windows, he is moved to tears. It is powerful to witness the concrete fruit of the Western Province’s generosity—not just aid for those in need, but a sign of hope to everyone who hears about this place: that they are not forgotten, and that the community of believers knows no national boundaries.

The Mass, celebrated by Fr. Jaroslaw with the children, the adults, and members of other partner organizations, is vibrant and joyful—as the children sing—and at the same time unspeakably sad. On every face are written the marks of what they have lived through. And the exhaustion that comes from years of war.

Fr. Christopher preaches about his family’s Ukrainian roots and about the biblical Joseph—whose story the children know well. Like Jesus, Joseph experienced abandonment and fear in the pit, yet God stood by him, and in time he was able to help his brothers.

At the end of the day, Fr. Christopher and I each receive an icon made in Fastiv—partly by the children. It is deeply moving. The day closes with the blessing of a plaque naming the house the Social Centre of the Most Holy Name of Jesus—the name of the Western Province. Before the blessing, Fr. Mischa declares that this Name should be proclaimed over all who suffer and fight in Ukraine—as a sign of peace and hope.

The day ends with a small celebration: burgers, chips, and popcorn for the children—a simple gesture that captures so much of what Fr. Mischa is doing here. Some might say it’s unnecessary to go to such lengths—but it is precisely this going beyond the necessary that makes this place so unique. And that supports healing. I think of Dostoyevsky’s words: “Beauty will save the world.” A Russian said that, in the midst of this brutal war. Perhaps that’s what makes the social center in Fastiv so special: that, after such inhuman experiences, people are given back some measure of beauty and dignity—and with it, a taste of hope and joy. Fr. Mischa and his team give themselves to this daily, with all their hearts. And they have many more plans—for Fastiv and beyond.

As Fr. Mischa once wrote of a bombed church: “This church reminds me of each one of us. In this war, we may be wounded on the outside—but if we have God in our hearts, we belong to Him.” To remind people of this, they set out anew each day—no matter the cost.

Br. Thomas G. Brogl, OP
Socius of the Master of the Order for Europe

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