Unfelt Grief

A Russian woman thinks of the lost.

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My body was cemented by silence.

I did not feel anything. I hung up the phone. In my mind, my mother’s voice kept pulsing, hitting me again and again like a hammer on an anvil, striking for a spark.

“Ruslan died.”

I wanted to smoke so much, but I had denied myself that relief long ago.

It felt like I wasn’t living or feeling, just watching a bad film. I had to do something with this information.

I could not find supportive words and muttered:

“That was to be expected.”

Died?

Is that the right word for someone who dies in a war?

Killed.

For me, he was killed by his own government, which sent him to another land to kill. By him, Putin.

My soul is full of hatred. So, I could still feel something. I felt rage when I thought of the monster. Ruslan died for his golden toilet brush. I had never known that I could hate so deeply. It burned through my body, like fire with no way out.

My cousin was thirty-five years old. A young and handsome, simple guy with a wide smile. He worked in a supermarket as a security guard. In the first year of the war, he received a military summons, went to the recruitment office, and disappeared. No one could reach him.

His mother called mine in tears, begging for help to find him. My mother told her about the mothers’ committee and began searching. She asked her to call my brother to use his connections.

“I cannot ask my son to do that,” my mother told me. “I want a calm life for him. I am afraid that if he starts asking questions, he will attract attention. I just pray they forget him. He does not want to be a part of that.”

“I understand,” I said then.

I hated, but felt her fear, the terror that gripped our hearts like a cold hand, made us heartless.

Hatred. It had a name. Putin.

I will never call him my president. I never voted for him. I remember the first time I saw him on TV, when Boris Yeltsin introduced him as his successor in his annual New Year’s speech. It was my first year at university. I thought, “Is this real democracy?”

At the university, professors still had a habit of speaking freely, explaining to us modern history and how Russia was moving toward authoritarianism before our eyes. But every year their voices became quieter, until they dissented in new slogans. And we continued living in the illusion of democracy, where information is a useless book and a liberal is an invective word. The king had gone mad and started the war. His fear of losing his crown infected people with the fear of losing him.

The war split Russia. Society. Families.

My mother and I were always on the same side. My brother was not. For fifteen years, he hadn’t spoken to me because I was part of the Liberal Party, a bad influence that could damage his career. He stood guard over the regime. We stayed connected only through my mother.

Then, on the fifth day of the war, he quit his job, his high salary, and his respected position in state security.

“I don’t know how I could look into my son’s eyes if I stay,” and he added, “I think Lena should leave Russia.”

Later, we learned that my cousin had signed a contract and went to the war voluntarily. Whether there was any pressure or not, we will never know.

His mother called different offices to get any information about her son. But the doors were deaf to a mother’s tears.

“You should be proud! He is a hero.”

“But I just want to talk to him. To see him. Why can’t I?” she asked men in expensive suits.

They answered her with cold silence. Then with shame.

“It’s not the time to be selfish. Your country needs him!”

Her little boy with fair curls did not belong to her anymore; he was ripped out of her embrace to stain his hair with blood.

She pounded the pavements, went from door to door until finally, someone told her the city in Ukraine where he was. She took all her money and went there.

They met briefly. He smiled like nothing happened.

“Don’t cry, Mum, everything will be fine. I will just drive. Logistics. It is not dangerous. And they pay good money. I will buy you a new coat soon.”

He spoke casually about his new job, as if it were a promotion.

“Mother, we will soon start living!”

Her eyes sparkled at the numbers. It sounded like a chance for a decent life, but she did not ask what the price of that money was.

“I would never make such money in freedom,” he blurted out, like the war had become his prison.

She came back with a calm heart and called my mother.

My mother listened in silence.

“She sounded like she was inside a dream,” she said to me later.

I was in Vietnam. In my voluntary exile. Safe. Far from the war. I tried not to watch the news. I focused on building another life. I wanted to leave Russia behind.

But …

“Ruslan died.”

“Why am I so numb?” I asked, surprised by my coldness. I felt shame that I could not shed a tear.

I strained my memory to see his beautiful smile, but I could not remember it.

I opened VK, Russian Facebook, and read our messages to wake myself.

It was hard to believe he would never write to me again.

He came into my life later, when I was already an adult. I was trying to reconnect with relatives. My mother introduced me to her side of the family. We didn’t have a chance to meet often. We lived so far from each other. And now we would never meet again.

He no longer existed.

Only our messages stayed, where I had asked about his mother, his sister, told him about my life, sent kisses and hugs. He always said everything was fine. Only complained about his sister, who was a lazy student.

“The bird chirped that you are going to marry!”

“Ha-ha, I need to fix the relationship first. I don’t want a divorce. But she does.”

“No need to rush.”

“We’ve been together three years, but we live like a cat and a dog.”

“Quarrels are okay, if not every day.”

“We fight for domination. Now we haven’t spoken for two days.”

“That’s how we live, in silence.”

We talked about the weather and family. He asked how to get a passport, wanted to travel, and see beautiful places.

But he did not. And now he never will.

“You know, I’m afraid to fly. Planes crash.”

“They will give you a parachute.”

“Really? That’s much better!”

“Of course!”

He sent me rap music. Photos.

We did not have much in common, but we were family. Part of each other. One blood, one history. We tried to keep that bond.

Our last conversation:

“Hey, what’s new?”

“Everything is okay.”

“Did you get married?”

“No.”

“How’s the weather?”

“Still cloudy…”

“Hello to your mother. Hugs and kisses.”

“And you say hello to yours!”

So weird, ugly, empty, and fast. Where was I rushing to?

I could not resist the wish to send him something, what if… but nothing came to my head, and I texted “Bye.”

I typed: I love you

And deleted it.

One lonely tear ran down.

I went to the bar and said to my friend,

“My cousin died in the war.”

“It was his choice!” she said.

“Was it?”

As if that settled everything.

I wanted to scream, but I just took a sip of beer.

We did not talk about that. It was not acceptable. We had left our country not to carry that blood with us. But it was impossible. We were already inside it.

At night, I was looking at the ceiling.

Do I have the right to mourn him? And how? I chose my side when I left Russia. He could have left, he could have hidden, but chose not to go. He chose to kill. Does death wash away sins? Can I still feel compassion if I understand his way?

After Bucha. After what Russian soldiers did there. What did he do? Who was he? A killer or a victim? Or someone who believed? Someone who was sent there with beautiful slogans of a free Ukraine, with lies? Or someone who wanted to get easy money?

The feeling did not come. Only emptiness.

His mother received millions for his death. She bought a new coat and dresses. Took her mother to a health resort. Bought a summer house. This is what Ruslan became. She fell in love again. She still blames my mother, believing that my brother could have saved him. Another fracture in the family. His sister is trying to survive, to find her place in this broken reality. My mother is in Russia, goes to bed every night with a light heart, knowing her children are far away but safe.

I am still in Vietnam, not knowing what will come next. The burning sun, the salty wild ocean, and the loud karaoke music.

Our lives go on.

Ruslan does not exist anymore.

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