In the backwater villages of the Ukrainian countryside and in bombed-out Kyiv, Jewish souls are making their way back to their Father

Ukraine. A country synonymous with war; with shelling, destruction, and death. And yet, it’s there, amid all that, that a flame has been kindled. Through the efforts of the chief rabbi of Kyiv, Rabbi Yonatan Markovitch, and his wife, Rebbetzin Elke Inna, the pintele Yid spluttering inside the soul of Ukrainian Jewry is slowly being turned into a blaze.

The Rabbi and Rebbetzin have been running Kyiv’s bustling Chabad House for 25 years, but their mission goes far beyond the city limits. There are hundreds of elderly Jews scattered throughout the backwater villages that dot the Ukrainian countryside. And in wartime in particular, they, as well as the senior population of Kyiv, rely on the Chabad House for their physical and spiritual needs.

“Our grandmothers,” the Rebbetzin calls them in her warm voice. “We collect them like precious pearls, one by one, plucking them out of the spiritual darkness of their remote villages. Every Jewish woman we come across is a treasure, and it’s our privilege to illuminate her life with the light of Yiddishkeit.”

Together with Rebbetzin Elke Inna, I travel to the village of Vesele, two-and-a-half hours from Kyiv.

Silence and Secrecy

As we approach Vesele, our driver leaves the main road and turns onto a rough dirt path. It’s at that moment — as the low-rise houses appear before us, visibly gnawed by the teeth of time, and I see a flock of geese honking beside an old shepherd, a scene straight from a shtetl story — that I realize I’ve traveled backward through history, landing in a place that froze in time after the Holocaust.

The driver carefully navigates the car along the village lanes, between crumbling stone walls that skirt picturesque wooden houses. Adjacent to the road is a moss‑covered well; next to it is an elderly man carrying two rusty buckets hanging from a wooden yoke.

“Just like in the days of the Chofetz Chaim,” I say in excitement, recalling the well‑known tale of the town’s water carrier.

The Rebbetzin smiles. “The women we’ll meet today are pure souls,” she tells me. “Some remember the vibrant Jewish life that once was here, but they’re afraid to speak about it. In this village, as in others in the area, when it comes to openly acknowledging their Jewishness, near total silence reigns. It makes for a challenging task: to identify the Jewish women and ignite their Jewish spark.”

The car continues up the path. From the window, we see a village woman walking slowly. She’s wearing a thick coat, a brown kerchief on her head.

“Is she Jewish?” I ask.

“You never know.” The Rebbetzin lifts uncertain hands. “When we discover another Jewish woman, it’s never simple to get her to admit to it — the women are afraid to speak of it because of this place’s painful history and what they’ve personally experienced.”