LINCOLN, Neb. (KOLN) – I remember the faces—wrinkled from the weight of war and worried, but still bright, still smiling.

In the shattered town of Orikhiv, within 10 miles of the front lines, a humanitarian aid depot and shelter I visited last June was the beating heart of civilian life.

“Washing their clothes, taking a shower, watching TV,” Nebraska State Sen. Tom Brewer said. “Everyone listened to the music, and it was just a happy place.”

It was an ironic point of light in a world that lost the sound of children: the kid s all fled to the cities long ago.

“It was just one place in big city where old people can get all of this,” Gennady Mokhnenko, a military chaplain said. “But Russia sent two air bombs and completely destroyed this building and killed many people there.”

That bombing happened last July. This year, the road to Orikhiv is dangerous and ever-changing.

“If you go 10 kilometers from the front line, they can see you,” Mokhnenko. “They can attack you.”

Mokhnenko has made the journey part of his routine for years, bringing physical and spiritual aid. He leads his followers in prayer, knowing full well this could be his—and their—final trip.

In one hand—he carries a bag with a bible; in another, a rifle. Mokhnenko says the Russians have a bounty on his head. We pull out of his compound and head toward the front.

Mokhnenko—born in now occupied Mariupol—is no stranger to headstones and carnage.

“Often when I sleep, I’m thinking about my city,” he said. “I sometimes, in night, I feel the smoke of the sea. I dream about the day when I can come back to my lovely city. Russia killed my city.”

Orikhiv, now, just another notch on the long list of leveled cities. Mokhnenko tells me he’s grateful for the curtain of clouds; drones stalk in blue skies.

“This is an absolutely new situation,” Mokhnenko said. “Now, we must be very, very careful with drones.”

When we arrive in Orikhiv, the streets are empty—scattered mounds of brick and metal make an alien architecture.

Up the steps of a blasted church, coins collect dust in an offering plate and a panorama of the apocalyptic city.

Down below, the shelter is almost unrecognizable. Its entrails spill out in piles. Mohknenko came the day he said dozens were buried beneath its rubble.

“I just pray and cry there when I saw this place,” he said.

Now, the only sounds are rain and roosting birds.

“Nothing but destruction, and for no reason,” Brewer said. “They were elderly. They were no threat to anyone. So it just makes me sad. I wish we could do more to help.”

There are no lessons here—no patterns in the shattered glass. As Mokhnenko mourns another year of war ministry, he says far too many have suffered for us to look away.

“I understand people who just watch TV and say, ‘Oh, more terrible stories from Ukraine. I will change the channel for humor for movies,’” Mokhnenko said. “I want to push the button and change my life. But it’s not possible. It’s not TV.”