This article contains distressing details and references to suicide. Some of the names have been changed to protect identities.
Kateryna cannot talk about her son, Orest, without tears. Her voice trembles with anger as she explains how she found out the news that he had died on the front line in the eastern Donetsk region of Ukraine in 2023. According to the official investigation by the army, he died by a self-inflicted wound, something Katernya finds hard to believe. Kateryna has asked for her and her late son to remain anonymous due to the stigma that surrounds suicide and mental health in Ukraine.
Orest was a quiet 25-year-old who loved books and dreamed of an academic career. His poor eyesight had made him initially unfit for service at the start of the war, his mother says. But in 2023, a recruitment patrol stopped him in the street. His eyesight was re-evaluated and he was deemed fit to fight. Not long after, he was sent to the front as a communications specialist.
While Ukraine collectively mourns the loss of more than 45,000 soldiers who have died since Russia's full-scale invasion in 2022, a quieter tragedy unfolds in the shadows. There are no official statistics surrounding suicide among soldiers. Officials describe them as isolated incidents. Yet human rights advocates and bereaved families believe they may be in the hundreds. Orest was caught, not summoned, Kateryna says bitterly. The local recruitment centre denied wrongdoing to the BBC, saying impaired vision made Orest partially fit during wartime.
Once deployed near Chasiv Yar in Donetsk, Orest became increasingly withdrawn and depressed, Kateryna recalls. She still writes letters to her son every day - 650 and counting - her grief made worse by how Ukraine classifies suicide as a non-combat loss. Families of those who take their own lives receive no compensation, no military honours and no public recognition. In Ukraine, it's as if we've been divided, says Kateryna. Some died the right way, and others died the wrong way.
Her only source of support is an online community of women like her - widows of soldiers who took their own lives. They want the government to change the law, so bereaved families have the same rights and recognition. Oksana Borkun runs a support community for military widows, noting that her organization now includes about 200 families affected by suicide. If it's suicide, then he's not a hero - that's what people think, she says. Some churches refuse to hold funerals. Some towns won't put up their photos on memorial walls.
Olha Reshetylova, Ukraine's Commissioner for Veterans' Rights, says she receives reports of up to four military suicides each month and admits not enough is being done: They've seen hell. Even the strongest minds can break. She notes the importance of systemic reform and the need for families to receive the truth regarding their loved ones' deaths. These people were your neighbors, your colleagues. They've walked through hell. The warmer we welcome them, the fewer tragedies there will be.\
Kateryna cannot talk about her son, Orest, without tears. Her voice trembles with anger as she explains how she found out the news that he had died on the front line in the eastern Donetsk region of Ukraine in 2023. According to the official investigation by the army, he died by a self-inflicted wound, something Katernya finds hard to believe. Kateryna has asked for her and her late son to remain anonymous due to the stigma that surrounds suicide and mental health in Ukraine.
Orest was a quiet 25-year-old who loved books and dreamed of an academic career. His poor eyesight had made him initially unfit for service at the start of the war, his mother says. But in 2023, a recruitment patrol stopped him in the street. His eyesight was re-evaluated and he was deemed fit to fight. Not long after, he was sent to the front as a communications specialist.
While Ukraine collectively mourns the loss of more than 45,000 soldiers who have died since Russia's full-scale invasion in 2022, a quieter tragedy unfolds in the shadows. There are no official statistics surrounding suicide among soldiers. Officials describe them as isolated incidents. Yet human rights advocates and bereaved families believe they may be in the hundreds. Orest was caught, not summoned, Kateryna says bitterly. The local recruitment centre denied wrongdoing to the BBC, saying impaired vision made Orest partially fit during wartime.
Once deployed near Chasiv Yar in Donetsk, Orest became increasingly withdrawn and depressed, Kateryna recalls. She still writes letters to her son every day - 650 and counting - her grief made worse by how Ukraine classifies suicide as a non-combat loss. Families of those who take their own lives receive no compensation, no military honours and no public recognition. In Ukraine, it's as if we've been divided, says Kateryna. Some died the right way, and others died the wrong way.
Her only source of support is an online community of women like her - widows of soldiers who took their own lives. They want the government to change the law, so bereaved families have the same rights and recognition. Oksana Borkun runs a support community for military widows, noting that her organization now includes about 200 families affected by suicide. If it's suicide, then he's not a hero - that's what people think, she says. Some churches refuse to hold funerals. Some towns won't put up their photos on memorial walls.
Olha Reshetylova, Ukraine's Commissioner for Veterans' Rights, says she receives reports of up to four military suicides each month and admits not enough is being done: They've seen hell. Even the strongest minds can break. She notes the importance of systemic reform and the need for families to receive the truth regarding their loved ones' deaths. These people were your neighbors, your colleagues. They've walked through hell. The warmer we welcome them, the fewer tragedies there will be.\
