Tribute to My Friend Maks

February 13. Since 2008, every year on this day, I would call one of my best friends, Maksym Hennadiyovych Babak, to wish him a happy birthday. Never in the morning, though—I do not believe that the earlier you call, the more you love or respect a person. Never seriously—always with ridiculous YouTube video quotes, wishes like "happiness, health, nephews," or something similarly absurd. At my wedding, I only invited my closest friends (we were poor students, there was no other way), about 6-7 people, and of course, Maks was one of those honored guests.

But because fate placed our country next to a pigsty, whose chief has lost all sanity and whose other inhabitants turned out to be not even pigs but, at best, pig shit, today I won't be able to congratulate him. On November 10 of last year, near Kurakhove, he was gone. And we would have had a great reason to drink today—we would have known each other for half our lives. That would have been one hell of a celebration... But no worries, sooner or later, we will all die (don't mistake this for fatalism; it's simply the logical conclusion of any life), and then Maks and I will celebrate today's lost date and ask God (or whoever's up there?) to pull the top brass of the Russian government out of hell for a day so we can have some fun with them. Maks was never cruel or mean, and he loved pranks, so I think he'd come up with something entertaining for them.

As for me, I'd suggest a Hopak battle, a contest for the best performance of the Ukrainian anthem (and until each of them can sing at least as well as Ponomariov, we'll make them practice nonstop), an evening of Ukrainian prose from the "Executed Renaissance" period, and a speed embroidery competition to finish it all off.

It is customary to speak only well of those no longer with us or to say nothing. But even if I wanted to say something terrible about Maks, I couldn't because I tried to remember at least one argument we had—and failed.

Maks was a unique person. He combined things that seemed impossible to mix. We usually hung out at university as a trio—Maks, Ihor, and me. While Ihor and I were generally just goofballs, never having profound moments, Maks was this unreal combination of a highly responsible man who took all his duties seriously (including being the only one in our group who attended military training in full uniform with all necessary patches and even a field notebook for some reason) mixed with an excellent sense of humor and a 100% readiness to support any dumb idea we came up with.

Maks once brought a tear gas canister ("Teren") to the university—do you think he hesitated to test its effectiveness inside the university's main building? Of course not! And what would be the optimal place for such an experiment? The rector's office, naturally. The door opens, gas is released, and three students sprint down the hallway faster than a Nigerian running from a tiger in the savannah.

Or how about when we, as first-year students, considered ourselves mature men and incredible lawyers and went to Warsteiner Pub on Maidan every Saturday? That was something!

And yet, Maks somehow managed to be an honors student (I think he even graduated high school with a medal) and studied on a full scholarship. He never bribed anyone, studied independently, and passed exams easily. He was also one of my four deputy group leaders. A group of 30 people with five leaders.

About those bribes—he was firmly against them. Because of this, he was the last among us to get his driver's license. He was determined to prove to the traffic authority that he knew everything and could pass the tests independently. He took the test about five times—stubborn as hell. Meanwhile, his dorm roommate Ihor (another one of my best friends) got his license seemingly in kindergarten, as if their school replaced talent shows with speed truck-assembling contests. His license has almost every category open.

Maks had so many friends, and everyone considered him their best friend. If we were to ask now who deserves that title, there would be a fight over it—was it Ihor S.? Yevhen P.? Sanya K.? or Andrii? Or his police partner Vlad?

And you know what's the dumbest part? Right, the Russians. But that's not what I meant. Maks was from Donetsk and only moved to Kyiv when he started university. And he was killed by those idiots who came to "liberate" him and his loved ones from God knows what. His childhood memories and family property were still there, stolen by the invading "liberators." Maks knew precisely what he was fighting for. For his wife and child, whom he protected with all he had.

Yesterday, I visited my grandfather in Kyiv. He has bookshelves, one of which holds books labeled "Library of Ukrainian Literature." Among the names of Kotliarevskyi, Nechui-Levytskyi, and Kvitka-Osnovianenko, I noticed an author I had never heard of—Ivan Le. Curious, I decided to take the book and read it. Just an hour before writing this, I read the introduction and realized why I stumbled upon it yesterday and why I read it right before this post.

"The writer proves that the strength of the Soviet warrior lies in his high socialist consciousness and deep patriotic feelings. Selfless and courageous patriots appear in Ivan Le's works—civilians who, by fate's will, found themselves in front-line zones or enemy-occupied territory. The mass heroism of the Soviet people on the front and their legendary bravery and courage were among the key factors in defeating Nazi Germany. The guarantee of victory was also the brotherhood and friendship of the peoples of our multinational motherland."

If you feel nauseous, that's a healthy reaction to Russian propaganda. This is what Maks fought against—against rewriting and distorting history, against the imposition of "brotherly nations" and "one homeland." "Legendary bravery and courage," my ass. We've seen it, thank you very much. Fortunately, this Ivan Le was removed from required reading lists and forgotten—his shameless bootlicking is revolting. But I'll still read this novel to spare you the torture and provide my review. I already have a feeling what the tone will be.

Got sidetracked. Maks had already been wounded a year earlier. But even that didn't stop him—once his rehabilitation was over, he immediately returned to the ranks of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. He even went to Spain for advanced training. But to a shell, it doesn't matter whether you're a private or an officer... He always loved military topics, so I hope he enjoyed himself while serving and defending us.

The last time I saw him was in the summer. He got a day off from his commander, and we met in Odesa and went to my village. The whole ride, he complained about his position and how he had to command his platoon remotely and couldn't help them directly in challenging situations. He just wanted to jump in and run forward with a rifle. I remember saying goodbye that morning. We hugged, and I wished him God's protection. Then I wrote to him later, but he had been offline for two days. Then Ihor called and delivered the awful news.

Maks will always be with us. Every time I see Ihor or anyone who knew him, dinner starts with remembering Maks and thanking him. As long as we remember, our friend is more alive than anyone.

In Buddhism, life and death are just stages in the soul's journey. As Buddha said, "Everything that has a beginning has an end." But in every ending, there is a beginning of something new. May the memory of Maks be a light guiding us forward.