The man who taught Avdiivka to love

KievOleksi Savkevich taught to love Avdiivka, a ruined city that It was captured by the Russian army in 2024 after long and bloody battles. "He was the brightest person in this damned war"; "he looked like an angel"; "he was the heart of that city"; "a brave man with music that sounded louder than Russian bombs." This is how journalists, soldiers, and residents remember him. Oleksí died this week as a soldier in the 157th Brigade, nicknamed "Maestro."

Before the full-scale Russian invasion, he organized cultural events, festivals, and supported youth music projects. He spoke about his ideas without pomp, with a modest smile. He seemed untouched by the war, although, in his hometown, the war had begun in 2015.

Journalist Yulia Surkova recalls the winter of 2017: Avdiivka was cold and terrifying. There was no light or heating. But in one apartment, candles burned and guitar and violin music broke the darkness. Oleksi organized a concert to distract children from the war. That same night, shelling killed two people, but she says she never forgot the warmth of that moment.

If the towns on the Donetsk frontline had to be described in a few words, it might be this: a fragile and fluid border between two armies, villages and towns devoured by shellfire, and civilians who, against all logic, refuse to leave. Life in these places was sustained by volunteers and aid workers. From the beginning of the war, Oleksi was one of them. Thanks to him, Avdiivka continued to breathe, even under the suffocating weight of the bombs, as those who knew him remember.

Before the full-scale war, Avdiivka flourished. Then came a slow and painful agony: the access road became a deadly corridor, the wreckage muffled the screams of the trapped, the thunder of the attacks drove the survivors mad. Yet some stayed. They were despised, and even journalists who spent a few hours wondering why they were staying there, couldn't help but judge them.

"When the war is over, we will rebuild Avdiivka"

Yet the spring of 2023 brought a faint hope. Not just in the greenery sprouting among the ruins or the tulips pushing through the rubble, but in the people who still believed in the city. Oleksi believed in his city. His family was deeply rooted: his mother was born in Avdiivka, his grandmother was a teacher, his wife worked in the library, his children attended the local school. Despite the tiredness etched on his face, he repeated over and over again: "When the war is over, we will rebuild Avdiivka." But then he looked around, saw the scale of the destruction, and admitted he didn't know how they would do it.

Oleksi went into the hardest-hit neighborhoods, where even the Red Cross refused to go. He brought food, medicine, and tried to convince people to leave. On May 9, despite enemy fire, I accompanied him to distribute humanitarian aid and materials to rebuild destroyed houses. The front line was just a few hundred meters away. In the first house, a woman was looking after a neighbor's home to protect it from looters. "If I leave, nothing will remain of my house," she said. Her neighbor, Olena, approached on crutches and proudly pointed to some sprouts peeking out of the rubble of a bus stop. She planted them to "make it look pretty." No buses passed by; only explosions and the whistling of bullets could be heard. But she believed they would return one day.

"That's what surprises me most about these people," Oleksí said. She smiled and added, "I'll show you a house that will leave you speechless." There, in a surprisingly untouched garden, Tetiana lived with her husband. They invited us over for tea and cookies, and amidst the chimes of wind chimes, she told us about her youth, how she met her husband, and the nights she danced. When we said goodbye, I thanked Oleksi for showing me her Avdiivka. She smiled sadly and said, "When the war is over, it will be even more beautiful."

Sad music for the soldiers of Avdiivka