Introductory Note
The following reflection expands upon a brief passage at the end of my memoir. In the book, I recorded a fleeting encounter with an old Cossack in London, a man who had once served in the Tsarist army and who came to the Ukrainian Association headquarters to die in exile. At the time, I scarcely realised the depth of its meaning. Only now, decades later, and prompted by a friend’s comment, do I see how that moment embodied the compassion I have always carried for those who suffered as my parents did. What follows is a meditation on that encounter, offered here as a companion piece to the memoir.
This site is, in its own way, a living archive. Over time, I hope to add further reflections that illuminate the memoir and its context. These will be gathered in a supplementary section entitled Candle in the Window – Reflections of Witness.
A Meditation on the Old Cossack
At the very end of my memoir, I recorded a brief encounter with an old Cossack in London. He was a man who had once served in the Tsarist army during the First World War, and who had come to the Ukrainian Association headquarters to die in exile, far from family and homeland. I was placed with him in a small garret because the hostel was unfinished, and so, by chance, I found myself in his company.
I scarcely remember what language he spoke to me in, or even the details of his stories. What mattered was not the words but the presence: a young student, full of energy and hope, sitting with an old man whose life was nearly spent. In that dim room, I offered him only a listening ear and companionship, but perhaps it was enough. For a man who had lost everything, even a moment of recognition could be a kind of home. It was, in its own way, a gift of dialogue – not through eloquence, but through shared silence and witness.
It was only today, after a friend reminded me, that I realised the deeper meaning of that encounter. I have always been drawn to those who suffered as my parents did – faces marked by loss, exile, and endurance. The Ukrainian Association became a refuge for such people, and in their tired expressions I saw the cost of history. Yet I also saw my own inheritance: compassion, and the love my parents gave me, which has always been my true home.
That night with the old Cossack was not just a fleeting episode. It was a fragment of witness, a reminder that suffering and love are bound together. His solitude became part of my story, and by sharing it, I hope to honour him – and all those exiles – so that they are not forgotten.
Postscript
This meditation was prompted by a conversation with my friend Maria, whose own Ukrainian heritage gave her a particular insight into what I had written. A single comment from her revealed to me the deeper meaning of that brief encounter with the old Cossack, showing how compassion for those who suffered has always been part of my nature.
It reminded me that the gift of dialogue is rare and powerful. Sometimes it takes another voice to uncover what has been quietly living within us all along. In sharing this, I feel as if I was called to witness such lives, and now that testimony is recorded for others to see. That recognition makes me feel my life has not been in vain, but part of a larger thread of memory and care.