The remains of Dmytro Gubariev have been lying unmoved in his bedroom for 10 months. That’s how long his mother waited to bury his ashes.
His mother, Iryna Gubarieva, 52, is determined to ensure that her son, who died defending the Ukrainian city of Mariupol, is buried as a hero in a long-promised National Military Memorial Cemetery – and says she knows many other families are doing the same.
“We go to funeral ceremonies of his comrades-in-arms who have been identified, and basically everyone remains unburied,” Ms. Gubarieva said, her voice beginning to tremble. “Families wait in this cemetery.”
Thousands of families have buried fallen soldiers in common cemeteries all over Ukraine, the graves, decorated with tributes, form “Alleys of Heroes”. But Ms. Gubarieva and others in similar situations say not only are those sites filling up after 17 months of war, but only a memorial similar to the U.S. Army’s Arlington National Cemetery outside Washington befits the sacrifices of their loved ones.
“They are defending our Ukraine, they are doing a heroic act, they are dying,” Ms Gubarieva said, pressing a fingernail into her palm. “We want it to be a worthy memorial.”
Plans for a Ukrainian version of Arlington have been in the works for over a decade. In May 2022, about three months after the start of the war, the Ukrainian parliament passed a law providing for a national military cemetery. Last March, the government said a site had been chosen – 20 hectares of forest in the outskirts of Kiev – but construction has not yet started.
Families like Ms Gubarieva’s have attended meetings, written letters and protested. They say promises have been made and delays complicate the grieving process.
“It is very difficult, because the ritual is not completed as it should be,” said Ms. Gubarieva.
Ukraine’s Veterans Affairs Minister Yulia Laputina said in written responses to questions that the speed of construction depended on resolving a land allocation issue. She gave no further details, but she said she and her colleagues “communicate regularly with the families of fallen heroes and understand their needs” and “will do whatever it takes to carry out this project.”
It is impossible to know how many families persist in burying their dead with the honors they believe only a national cemetery can provide; the recent protest in Kiev attracted about two dozen people. But their anguish reflects the complicated reality of remembering soldiers who have died in an ongoing war whose history has not yet been fully written.
Dmytro Gubariev was killed on April 15, 2022 in Mariupol, where he had been fighting with the Ukrainian Azov regiment.
“We didn’t know if we would be able to get his body at all,” his mother said one afternoon recently. “It was a very long procedure. There were body exchanges.”
His remains were not identified until late August last year. The family then had him cremated, with the intention of burying him in the designated national military cemetery. They couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him in the crematorium, Mrs. Gubarieva said, so they brought his ashes home.
The black urn sits on a shelf in his bedroom, along with some of his books, cologne and a flag presented on behalf of President Volodymyr Zelensky. Some nights, Mrs. Gubarieva crawls into the single bed underneath where her son used to sleep, resting her head on the fluffy cat pillow.
September will mark a year that her son’s ashes have been awaiting burial, Ms Gubarieva said.
“This is not normal,” she sighed, lamenting the lack of a grave for his loved ones to visit.
The Ukrainian Ministry of Veterans Affairs is no doubt overwhelmed by the rehabilitation of hundreds of thousands of veterans as the ranks continue to grow.
And Arlington, which inspired Ukraine’s project, had complex origins of its own: It was initially created during the Civil War, more to deal with overcrowding in existing cemeteries than as a unique August memorial.
That’s little comfort to Viktoria Krasovska, who sometimes carries her husband’s remains in a backpack to his mother’s house and places them on a mantle that has become a small shrine.
“They already promised,” she said. “Let them keep their promise for once.”
bury her husband, Vitaliy Krasovkyin a civilian cemetery would not only be disrespectful, Ms. Krasovka said – there is also a question of space.
“Every day our soldiers are killed and we don’t know where to bury them because everything is already overcrowded,” she said.
The Ukrainian army has not released figures on the number of victims of the war. Leaked Pentagon documents estimated that up to 17,500 Ukrainian soldiers had been killed in February. Fighting has continued to rage since then, with Kiev launching a counter-offensive last month to retake Russian-held territory in a campaign that has claimed many casualties.
The breaking ground on a National Military Memorial Cemetery designed to hold 50,000 dead could send a chilling message about losses in a war with no end in sight.
But Mrs. Krasovka scoffed at that idea, saying the toll was already clear.
“Anyone who lives in the city or in the countryside sees cemeteries with military flags everywhere,” she said, adding, “Just look at the flags on Independence Square” in Kyiv.
Ms Krasovka said she understood Ukrainian officials had other priorities – but not why the cemetery could not be tackled at the same time.
“Why not parallel?” she asked. “After all, the war is on and will continue for who knows how many years. Why not take this step now so that the families of the fallen soldiers and the soldiers themselves can be honored and buried?”
For her and Mrs. Gubarieva, it comes down to promises made and respect for the fallen.
Vitaliy was already a soldier when they met, through a classmate.
“It was love at first sight,” Mrs. Krasovka said, beaming at the memory. “I felt something – a fire,” she added, tapping her chest.
They were legally married on October 10, 2021, and her husband returned to his base with the Azov regiment in Mariupol three days later. They planned to celebrate last summer, but the full-scale invasion of Russia on February 24 last year threw their plans into disarray.
Within a week it was clear that Mariupol was in trouble, Ms. Krasovka said. The city was bombed daily.
Her husband climbed onto a roof to get phone service, with only 40 seconds for each call. But on March 18, they spoke for five minutes; Mrs. Krasovka said she was alarmed.
“I tried to support him, tried not to cry,” she said. “I asked him if he could promise to come back. He said he couldn’t promise, but he would do his best.”
Two days later he was murdered. It took three months to recover his remains through an exchange of bodies; Mrs. Krasovka identified them by one of her husband’s eight tattoos, a skull on his leg.
“There was almost nothing left to bury, so we had it cremated,” she said.
She echoed Ms. Gubarieva saying that her husband and his fellow Azov fighters had discussed their wishes: “They wanted to be buried together, just as they served.”
A National Military Memorial Cemetery would provide that, plus space to reflect and visit. Equally important, she said, is that it would help protect their legacy.
“We must bury our army properly so that they are remembered, because they gave the most important thing, their lives,” said Ms. Krasovka as her voice began to falter. She sighed and swallowed deeply.
She called the delays around the cemetery frustrating, but insisted she wait.
“We have to do this for them,” she added. “We shouldn’t sit and cry. We have to get what they deserve.”
Anna Lukanova reporting contributed.