Ukrainians mourn 11-year-old girl killed by Russian missile: NPR

KHARKIV, Ukraine – It was a time when there was a buzz of excitement in northeastern Ukraine. It was mid-September. Ukrainian troops had just launched a major counter-offensive. The relentless Russian bombardment that had pounded Kharkiv for months had finally subsided.

Iryna Grycenko and her husband, Andriy, proposed to their 11-year-old daughter, Anastasiya, to leave Kharkiv for a few days and spend the weekend at their dacha, a traditional country house, in nearby Chuhuiv. “Nasta”, as the girl’s family called her, was enthusiastic about the plan. She had a bike in Chuhuiv that her parents let her ride.

Shortly after their arrival, Andriy and Iryna went out to deliver food parcels to local elderly residents. Nasta stayed at home. Then three big explosions shook the city.

“That’s where she was lying,” says neighbor Mychailo Kantemyriv, who found Nasta after the missile hit. He says she was still alive and conscious, lying next to the crater where the house once stood.

“And she said, ‘Why did this happen to me? I didn’t do anything wrong to them.'” The burly man who says he’s the boss of this street holds back tears as he recalls Nasta in his last moments before his death. .

On the other side of town, her parents heard the explosions. They could see the smoke. Iryna’s first thought was “Nasta!” and she ran towards their cottage.

Every day, local officials in Ukraine announce grim statistics about the war. This number of people were injured. This number of people died.

United Nations human rights experts have verified at least 6,221 civilians killed over seven months of war – including hundreds of children – but say they believe the true civilian death toll is much higher.

Nasta’s father Andriy is convinced that his 11-year-old daughter is not just a statistic.

A stat isn’t someone you pick up from the Kharkiv morgue loading dock.

Andriy and Iryna stood in the cold, drizzling rain behind the city’s main public hospital. The loading dock is a concrete slab that drops sharply to make it easier for trucks and ambulances to unload their cargo. It could be the loading dock of a commercial kitchen.

Eventually, a satin-lined pink coffin containing Nasta’s body is made. Iryna throws herself on the coffin, moaning. Finally, Andriy gently pulls Iryna back. Family friends carry Nasta’s body from the loading dock and slide the coffin into the back of a waiting white van.

Leaving the morgue, NPR translator Polina Lytvynova notes that the scene there was incredibly difficult to watch. And she says listening to a mother sobbing over her daughter’s body was even harder.

“I could hear him say [in Russian], ‘Forgive me. Forgive me, ”said Lytvynova.

“She said, ‘I don’t want to live without you. Who will meet me when I get home from work?'”

The white van carries Nasta’s coffin through a complex of simple Soviet-era buildings. The Grycenkos’ apartment is on the fourth floor. Nasta grew up here. Despite the rain, his open coffin is placed on the walkway leading to the building.

Neighbors lay bouquets of flowers on his coffin. A girl who looks about Nasta’s age, 10 or 11, cries inconsolably.

One of the Grycenkos’ downstairs neighbours, Valentina Ovcharenko, who says she has known Nasta since birth, hands out small packets of candy. Ovcharenko has an apartment two floors below the Grycenkos and says people in the neighborhood have been mourning Nasta’s death for days. But she says it’s the worst for Nasta’s mother.

“His mother wanted to jump off the balcony,” says Ovcharenko. “But she was saved from that.”

Nasta’s parents both work for a clothing manufacturing company. Their apartment is not luxurious. Their cottage in Chuhuiv, with its apple trees and vegetable patch, was also a simple, unassuming home before it was knocked down. It was not on prime terrain. It was backed by an oil storage depot.

The same Russian missile barrage that killed Nasta also blew up several large fuel tanks.

Like most children in Ukraine, Nasta took lessons online.

Sitting on benches in the playground outside their building, Nasta’s parents say she always wanted a dog. This year, her 23-year-old brother found her a white Labrador that she adored. She also enjoyed singing and watching patriotic YouTube videos of Ukrainian soldiers.

“Every time I came home from work, she showed me videos,” Iryna says of her daughter. “And she said, ‘Mom, look at them. They are having so much fun. She really believed they would protect her.”

Iryna looks away talking about her daughter.

Ukraine’s second largest city, Kharkiv, is about 30 miles south of the Russian border. The city is predominantly Russian-speaking and had close economic, cultural and social ties with Russia before the war. Iryna and Andriy back and forth between speaking Russian and Ukrainian as they talk about their daughter being killed by a Russian missile.

“You know, I believe not all people in Russia are as cruel and horrible as Russian soldiers,” Iryna says. She stops as if thinking about all the Russians, about all the soldiers. Then she adds: “But I just want the war to stop.”

Nasta’s funeral takes place in freezing rain at a sprawling cemetery named Cemetery 18 in Kharkiv.

A few hundred meters from his grave, a funeral is also taking place for a soldier in a section of the cemetery adorned with yellow and blue Ukrainian flags.

After the nails are driven into Nasta’s pink coffin and she is lowered into the ground, Andriy comes towards me and Lytvynova. “Tell the world what the Russians did to my daughter,” he said.

Iryna can barely walk. Her sister gets her into a car as they leave.

A few days after the funeral, Iryna says she is still trying to come to terms with the fact that there was someone in Russia who pressed the button that launched the missile that killed her daughter.

“I don’t wish them death,” Iryna said slowly. “Because I never wish death on anyone.” She seems to be trying to picture the killer in her mind. “But I wish them to suffer,” she adds. “To suffer as we suffer and to feel all our pain, as we feel this pain.”

Iryna wipes her tears as she speaks. Staring at the void in front of her, she said, “Because losing a child is the worst pain in the world.”

Polina Lytvynova contributed to this story.