Yesterday’s news from Ukraine again affected me deeply. To say that I was shocked is perhaps not quite the right word. Any decent person is shocked by the suffering and destruction caused by war. Yet there was something particularly distressing about hearing reports of damage to sacred buildings in Kyiv, because these were places that I had visited with Sandra during a much happier period in that country’s history in 2005 and we had truly appreciated those golden domes.
Among them was the Cathedral of the Dormition. The word “Dormition” is the Eastern Orthodox term describing the death of the Virgin Mary, literally her “falling asleep” before her assumption into heaven. This is not a different religion from Christianity but another expression of the same Christian faith and tradition.
What makes the situation especially tragic is that this conflict is taking place between peoples who share the same Eastern orthodox religious and cultural inheritance. We are not speaking of entirely different civilizations confronting one another. We are speaking of peoples who share saints, traditions, sacred places, and centuries of common history. One naturally hopes that religious leaders will seek reconciliation and understanding, for the purpose of faith should surely be to build bridges rather than deepen divisions.
The news brought back vivid memories of my visit to the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra in 2005. The reception I received throughout Ukraine was warm and friendly, yet I remember one curious incident while visiting the underground cave monasteries. As I followed the usual route through the tunnels, a monk addressed me sharply and, through a woman who translated for me, made it clear that he wished me to leave that particular area. I was puzzled because I had done nothing unusual and was simply following the path taken by other visitors.
At the time I found the encounter unsettling. Looking back, I still cannot explain it. Yet it remains fixed in my memory because it occurred in such a profoundly spiritual setting. What I remember most vividly, however, is emerging once more into the daylight from those ancient underground passages. The monastery had survived centuries of upheaval, invasions, revolutions, and political turmoil. Today one can only hope that those caves continue to offer refuge and protection to those who need them.
The events in Ukraine have also led me to reflect on the wider destruction of cultural heritage in wartime. During my gap year in 1967, I travelled widely and had the privilege of visiting Baalbek in Lebanon. Even after all these years, I can still remember the immense scale and grandeur of its Roman temples. They were among the most impressive monuments of the ancient world that I had ever seen. Standing among such ruins, one becomes aware that they belong not merely to a particular nation but to the whole of humanity.
That is why the destruction of cultural heritage during war is so painful. Factories can be rebuilt. Roads and bridges can be reconstructed. Houses can eventually be replaced. But monuments, churches, monasteries, temples, and historic buildings embody centuries of memory, craftsmanship, and faith. Once damaged, something irreplaceable is lost.
Long before aerial warfare became a reality, H.G. Wells explored its possibilities in his remarkable 1908 novel The War in the Air. The original military purpose of bombing was to destroy an enemy’s industrial and military capacity. Yet bombing soon acquired another purpose: the destruction of morale. It became a weapon directed not only at factories and transport systems but also at the symbols that people held most dear.
For most people, the most cherished possession is their home. Beyond that are the places that embody a nation’s memory and identity: churches, cathedrals, monuments, libraries, and historic buildings. During the Second World War, St Paul’s Cathedral became a symbol of Britain’s endurance during the Blitz. Churchill understood that if St Paul’s were destroyed, something more than a building would be lost. The image of its dome rising above the smoke became a symbol of national resilience.
The same principle can be seen elsewhere. Berlin’s Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church was left partially in ruins as a reminder of war’s devastation. For decades the Frauenkirche in Dresden which I motorbiked to in 2001stood as a shattered monument to destruction before eventually being rebuilt. Significantly, many of those who contributed to its reconstruction came from countries that had once been enemies . The rebuilt church became a symbol not only of restoration but also of reconciliation.
What saddens me most is that the destruction of cultural heritage is an attack not only upon the present but also upon the past and the future. It severs the link between generations. It attempts to erase memory itself.
Yet history also offers grounds for hope. Coventry Cathedral, Warsaw’s Old Town, Monte Cassino, and the Frauenkirche all demonstrate that destruction need not have the final word. Communities endure. Memory survives. Buildings can rise again.
As I reflect upon the latest news from Ukraine, I find myself hoping that the same spirit of restoration and reconciliation will one day prevail there. The scars of war may remain visible for generations, but so too can the determination to preserve what is best in human civilization.
In the end, the true significance of a cathedral, a monastery, or an ancient temple lies not merely in stone and mortar but in what it represents: the continuity of human memory against the forces that seek to destroy it.