Africa ordered me restaurant dinners from his dugout. Then they offered him discharge. He said no.
In Ukraine, you should always be gentle with a sad woman. You never know what's in her heart. It is mainly men who die; women are left to carry the grief, silently, invisibly, while life demands they keep moving.
But Tetiana, a recently-widowed young woman with a one-year-old baby, refuses to mourn. "Mourning would be about me," she says. "I want this to be about his life.
These are her memories — so her daughter knows whose child she is.
Serhii Matiiasevych was born in Kyiv in 1989 into an interesting family. His father was a well-known roboticist who lectured in South Korea during Soviet times. His mother was an artist. His grandmother was a chemistry professor.
In school, he won many city olympiads and some national ones. Teachers would say, "Serhii, stop tiring us with your knowledge." But he wasn't one-dimensionally smart. He was passionate about mountaineering, skiing, and academic rowing. He drew so beautifully that his works were always taken for city exhibitions. At fourteen, he wrote a book. Dedicated it to his grandmother. Published it. Talisman of the Warrior.
The first breaking point was his father's death when Serhii was fifteen. It affected him so deeply that he decided to become a geneticist. He had an idea that he could resurrect his father. That's why he chose biology.
Kilimanjaro in one day
At twenty-six, he went to Africa alone with a backpack. He dreamed of climbing Kilimanjaro in one day—considered nearly impossible. He did it. That's where his callsign came from: Africa.
He understood physics and foundational sciences deeply. Not superficially — meticulously.
He knew Ukrainian history perfectly. Serhii designed games and sewed climbing shoes for rock climbers. As an experienced hiker, he patented a special quick-release buckle. That's who he was: thorough, deep, never superficial.
Bookworm and romantic
We're all romantics somewhere in adolescence, but he preserved this romanticism — not about love affairs, but about ideals, dignity, heroism. It seemed like he stepped out of a book.
What amazed me was how grandly he dreamed. He dreamed of his own research laboratory—but that was incidental. His real dream was to build dirigibles to lift cargo to space stations. He talked my ears off about it. Dirigibles were in our family plans, so to speak.
We met in 2019 at the Dovbush rocks. He was working on one route that wouldn't yield to him for almost three years — Elephant. He finally climbed it, and I was belaying him. That's his persistence: to climb a route is more mental than physical work.
Volunteered from day one
On the eve of the invasion, I asked: maybe we should pack some bags? He said: "We're not leaving Kyiv anyway. Relax."
When the invasion started, he'd just come home from his night shift from the laboratory at 7 a.m. Said, "Well, kitty, the war has started," — smiling — took me to the basement, and went to the recruitment office. Volunteered from day one.
I asked him later about that morning. You were so calm, smiling, almost elated — what were you feeling? He said: "I was on adrenaline. I understood I'd probably be killed, but somehow...I felt excitement."
He told me once: "I allowed myself to die in my head. And I stopped being afraid. I just do the work."
I remained sane because of him. And I think many of his brothers-in-arms held together because of his energy of confidence, and optimism. He knew how to support and reassure.
I've heard stories about soldiers whose psyches can't withstand the pressure. But Serhii became even calmer. I can't say he was born for war — he had so many plans, I don't have as many plans for my whole life as he had for a week. But he was proud of what he was doing, and he was at peace.
Baby dormice from the dugout
A funny story. One morning I call, he says: "Wait, I'm warming milk for my little ones." I thought he meant his brothers-in-arms - God, how tenderly he speaks of them. Turns out he meant it literally: baby dormice. He was feeding them with a syringe. They came to Kyiv later and lived at our friend's place.
He also—such a romantic—ordered restaurant food delivered to me from his dugout. I often had delicious lunches thanks to Serhii. When I thanked him, he always replied, "I serve the Ukrainian people"—a quote from the Ukrainian military oath.
The Louvre
In 2024, I got pregnant, we married, and I went to give birth to France [a safer location than Ukrainian cities under Russian missiles - ed]. The baby was born on 19 September. He came to France for two weeks.
Very happy weeks. He really wanted the Louvre. But what Louvre after childbirth? He was upset without visiting it.
When he went home, it was straight to new positions. Someone had hung a painting in the dugout and named the position Louvre. So Serhii came from France to a blindage called Louvre.
Just before France, his close brother-in-arms was killed. They'd switched schedules by chance—it could have been Serhii. He left that position two hours before. Everyone in that blindage died.
His comrade's widow came. After their conversation, Serhii called me: "She regrets they never discussed death. It was taboo. She doesn't know how he wanted to be buried."
Then he told me his testament. His family is at Berkivtsi Cemetery — there's a family crypt. But he said: "I don't want to be buried with them. I want to be with my brothers at Lisove Cemetery."
On his shield
They didn't release him for our daughter's birthday in September. We agreed he'd come home after this combat mission.
He came home on his shield. Nineteen days on positions. He was wounded first. During the evacuation, they came under fire. At least we could retrieve him.
I don't want to mourn. Mourning would be about me. I want this to be about his life and the happiness that I met him. I want to celebrate his life.
Because he's such a bastard — everything went exactly as he wanted.
He wanted to enter history. He entered it.
I learned later that he was offered discharge, especially with a newborn. He refused. Said: "No, I'll be with my brothers until victory."
I have no resentment. None.
"For me, happiness is to live consciously"
In a moment of weakness, I once asked him, "Perhaps those men who left the country are right? I want to live as a family. I want to see you every day, not once in half a year''
He said, "That's not happiness. For me, happiness is to live consciously."
Until Russia collapses, our war won't end. No agreements will change that. It's painful—people with great power don't fully understand, or don't have the resolve to make a decision.
We pay in blood for their indecisiveness.
Over the years of war, Serhii served as combat medic, mortar gunner, aerial reconnaissance operator, and strike drone crew commander. He was awarded the President's "For the Defense of Ukraine" distinction, the Minister of Defense's Golden Trident, and Commander-in-Chief Syrskyi's Golden Cross.
He was 36. He is buried at Lisove Cemetery in Kyiv, with his brothers.
From his notebook, spring 2025:
I want so much to live.
It's spring 2025. Before my shelter, which goes underground and smells of raw earth — a whole field of poppies. Bright red, impossibly beautiful. They grow in clusters — the field looks stained with bright arterial blood.
Sleep is shallow — adrenaline won't let go. No matter how long I sleep, I can't rest, but the dreams are vivid.
Life is like a held breath, bursting outward into dreams. So much postponed — and so much will happen when I return.
If I return.
Wherever I am, I will always remember this field covered in death, wind, and poppies.
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