Raisins, a hand with bracelets, Serhiy Sova. The story of one photo and the life of the Hero of Ukraine executed by the Russians

Source: Ukrainska Pravda
Author: Yevhen Rudenko

In the black-and-white picture of war, the only things that stand out are blood and the blue-and-yellow flag.

In the fall of 2022, Ukrainians posted photos on social media of their wrists adorned with bracelets in patriotic colors, honoring those killed by the Russians in the city of Izyum.

"You don’t have to be Ukrainian to support Ukraine," wrote one of the flash mob participants at the time, future Nobel laureate Oleksandra Matviychuk. "You just have to be human."

Serhiy Sova, a 36-year-old from Nikopol and a soldier in the 93rd Brigade “Kholodny Yar,” was such a person; he was posthumously awarded the title of Hero of Ukraine with the “Golden Star.” During the exhumation of nearly 450 bodies from the Izyum mass grave, someone photographed his hand. It looked like a relic. With bright blue and yellow stripes.

Serhiy Sova was Ukrainian. He was shot with his hands tied behind his back, on which were tattoos of the names of his daughter Lina, son Marat, and beloved Oksana. On his wrist were the same bracelets he had never taken off since his children gave them to him.

The wife of the fallen soldier, Oksana Sova, told "Ukrainska Pravda" what her husband was like and how he still keeps her from falling.

What follows is a direct quote.

  I had known about him for a very long time, ever since my youth: there was this Serhiy Sova—a candidate for master of sports, the Ukrainian junior boxing champion.

Our town is small; all the athletes cross paths. We trained at the same stadium. I was in track and field. We were both fifteen years old. I’d seen this boxer, but we weren’t personally acquainted.

And now I’m twenty-one. At the café where we were celebrating my friend’s birthday, my friend Serhiy was also celebrating. The two groups met in the same place at the same time.

At that point, Serhiy had completed his military service and signed his first contract with the Armed Forces of Ukraine. And I was studying at the university. He asked me to dance.

We got to know each other and never parted ways after that (smiles).

In the ’90s in Nikopol, there was a bit of everything: the usual gangs and so on. But athletes were respected there, and people treated Serhiy with respect. Anything that was unfair really bothered him. Temperamental and hot-headed—he couldn’t just stay silent.

When he went into the military, he got into arguments because Sergei knew how to stand his ground. He always stood up for his guys. It was unacceptable to him when someone was being insulted. He always tried to help.

I realized right away when we first met: this is the kind of person I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life (smiles).

 



I always wanted a dog, but my parents wouldn’t let me have one.

When I met the man I love so much, my dear Sergei, my dream came true. After our son Marat was born, I said, “I want a dog!” He replied, “Well, let’s go buy a dog” (laughs). And that’s when it all started for us…

It was a German Shepherd. Black. Our first one. Zeus. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Marat was two years old, and my parents said, “Are you out of your minds?!” But we were building our own life; we had our own dreams. It was then that Sergei developed a deep love for animals.

We trained to become dog handlers. I took a general training course, while Sergei specialized in guard and patrol service. He trained dogs for security. He worked as a service dog instructor at our ferroalloy plant. He often said he felt more comfortable around animals than people.

We grew in this field, had many dogs, and bred them. We had a lot of good things in our lives. And then 2014 came. I remember it very well: it was April, the first wave of mobilization. Our daughter was just a few months old. He came home from work and said, “The company received a draft notice.” The next day, he was already at the military registration office. They gave him 24 hours to pack his things. “Hang in there, sweetheart,” he told me. “I’m going to do my job.”
Early in the morning, he left
for the 93rd Brigade. He always wanted to be with his guys. His friends in the artillery called him to join them, but he replied, “No, my thing is the infantry. The infantry are the gods of war.” In 2014–2015, there was the airport (Donetsk – Ed.). Serhiy delivered ammunition and worked on the “road of life,” which the enemy was shelling. Then came Pisky. Dovhenke was also a tough one.

When he was demobilized, I asked, “Have mercy on me, stay home with the kids.” He lasted only a short while, eight or nine months. He worked with dogs, but he was very worried about his guys. And he started signing contracts again.

He would come home for a while to rest his spirit—this is his very own rear base—and then he would go back to war.

 

Serhiy signed his next contract in 2021. As of February 2022, he was with "Desna," in training. He wanted to become a combat medic. When the full-scale war began, they were deployed to the forests of Chernihiv Oblast to carry out missions.

I remember that call on February 24; it wasn’t even six o’clock yet: “War.” But for him, the war had been going on since 2014, and he knew it would be massive. Even back then, he told me: “The Russians won’t stop in Donbas.” He suggested I pack my things so I’d be ready to leave. But I immediately said I wouldn’t go anywhere, I wouldn’t leave my home or my dogs—we had four of them at the time.

So when he called on February 24, 2022, he didn’t even bring up the topic of leaving. He knew his wife very well. I have a brave husband, but the wife of a combat soldier is a warrior too. I will never leave my eared, tailed children (smiles).

If he found out right now that I’m still at home (Nikopol is under constant shelling—UP), he would definitely… (laughs). When I go to the cemetery, I always tell him: “I’m sorry, but you know me. I can’t leave home.” I know he’s mad at me for this.

In March 2022, when his comrades Serhiy and “Kholodny Yar” were redeployed to the Kharkiv sector, he wanted to join them. He asked several times to be sent to his platoon, where he was a senior rifleman. He was turned down several times.

“Maybe you don’t need to go there?” I asked. “No,” he replied. “I have to be there.”
Before finally joining “Kholodny Yar”
in the Kharkiv region, he came home. Literally for just one day. He couldn’t help but come to hug me and the kids, to kiss us. That was the last time we saw each other.

He was always looking for a chance to let us know he was okay. He’d find some way to send a text, an emoji, a thumbs-up, or even just a period. Our last conversation was on April 19 (2022 – UP). At eight in the morning, Serhiy managed to get through on the phone. We spoke for two minutes. The connection kept cutting out. He said straight out: the situation is very complicated.

My husband and I have always had an open relationship. Serhiy tried to tell it like it is, to hide nothing. So that I would have the information, process it, analyze it, and make decisions—doing whatever was in my power.

Then Serhiy said: things are extremely dire; positions in the forest belt are under round-the-clock tank fire. There are direct hits. As of the morning of April 19, nine guys were “two hundred”—they were simply blown to pieces. There’s almost no command post left.

After that, he didn’t get in touch again. I was told he’s considered missing in action.

  Unfortunately, I am aware of the circumstances of Serhiy’s death. I learned about these circumstances from Russian Telegram channels. He was shot after being surrounded.

Officially, he was considered missing until the exhumation (which began in late September 2022 – UP). But I knew he had died earlier. I started my own investigation, and within a month and a half to two months (after my last conversation with Serhiy – UP), I found confirmation. It was a photo of my husband. Shot. Stripped naked. With his hands tied.

I don’t know how long (they spent—UP) in the forest before being captured. When he last called, he said their order was to hold out until the end, and that they would hold their position until the end.

I understand that there were several men when they were taken prisoner. But only Serhiy was stripped to the waist. Without shoes. With his hands tied behind his back. And it was a shot to the head.

I recognized my husband by his tattoos—he had many of them. On his left arm was his daughter’s name—Lina. On his right—his son Marat; on his forearm, me—Oksana.

On the right side, just below his chest—a large owl (Owl is Serhiy’s last name; the Russians might have interpreted the tattoo as a sign of intelligence—UP). And on the left side—a samurai with a cherry blossom.

They probably stripped him because of the tattoos. Other guys were lying next to him, all fully clothed.

We’ve had those bracelets (the ones that appeared in the exhumation photos – UP) since 2014. Once he put them on back then, he never took them off. One day, when Serhiy was serving in the ATO, we were out walking with the kids, and Marat said, “Mom, let’s buy these. Dad will come home, and we’ll give them to him. One from you, the other from the little one (his sister Lina – UP).”

Marat will be eighteen soon. He’s already studying to become a drone pilot. Do you think he wants to be a soldier or not? (smiles). There wasn’t even any point in trying to talk him out of it. I know my men well—one is stubborn, the other is too.

All that’s left for me is to always support them, to be the home front they can always return to, to catch their breath. I’ve already come to terms with this, accepted it. Although it’s painful, because I understand that the war won’t end anytime soon.

We have two dogs left who remember Serhiy: a German Shepherd named Foxy and a Cane Corso named Margo. It seems they understand his absence even better than the rest of us.

Military uniforms have a distinct smell. Sometimes friends who are fighting come to visit me. Just to hug. To ask how things are going. And before that moment, the dogs act as if they’re thinking: maybe, just maybe, he’ll walk in right now… They’re probably still hoping.

When I’m running out of strength, when things aren’t going well, when something isn’t working out, when I, like everyone else, am tired of the endless shelling of Nikopol, I have the same dream over and over. I’m afraid of heights—both in my dreams and in real life—and here I am, falling. I’m falling, and Serhiy catches me with his hands.

I wake up with tears in my eyes. He still supports me. He’s always ready to hold me.

This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.