Saints of My Own

;Strange, invisible threads weave themselves between things that, at first glance, seem utterly incompatible. You couldn’t make it up if you tried. Reality always outdoes fiction.
;Take me, for instance. Born in Tomsk, baptized a Catholic, and currently living in a Buddhist country—yet my makeshift home iconostasis is made up entirely of Orthodox icons. "How did that happen?" you might ask.
;It’s simple, really. Catholics, who don’t have an icon-painting tradition of their own, deeply revere Eastern icons, despite the complicated history between the confessions. As for how Shurik and I—Siberians by birth—ended up living on a tropical Thai island in the Pacific Ocean, well, I’ve already written a whole book about that. But that’s a story for another day.
;Every single icon I own is precious to me. None of them entered my life by chance; each carried its own story. Every saint whose image I gaze upon and honor daily in this foreign land has become like family to me.
;Blessed Domna of Tomsk is my compatriot.
;I’ll go even further: not long ago, I discovered that for almost my entire life, I lived on the exact spot where this famous holy fool was buried, completely oblivious to the fact. After all, I belong to the "Pepsi Generation." I spent my pioneer childhood in a bustling student neighborhood, on a street appropriately named Studgorodok (Student Campus).
;Tomsk is a city of contrasts. In the summer, the songs of The Beatles or Mashina Vremeni would blare from the open windows of the polytechnic dorms. Meanwhile, in the dilapidated shack directly opposite my five-story apartment building, local alcoholics routinely engaged in loud, rowdy brawls. Back then, in that thoroughly Soviet, youth-dominated district, nothing hinted at a Orthodox past—or an Orthodox future. With those memories, I left my hometown and moved to Novosibirsk to study at the conservatory.
;...Then, returning to Tomsk for winter break years later, I was walking from the train station when I suddenly spotted a small chapel right by my old house. It glowed softly, magically, in the evening twilight, revealing itself in an instant as if it had always been there. Stunned, I froze in my tracks, unable to believe my eyes. I just stood there, my suitcase plopped in the snow, oblivious to the frost tightening around me as night fell.
;Well, what do you know! As it turned out, my apartment building had been constructed on the grounds of a former convent. Of the sprawling monastic complex, only a few buildings survived: the refectory—which happened to be that very same shack full of alcoholics, who would have thought!—a wooden military infirmary, a guesthouse for pilgrims, the abbess's quarters, and the dormitory for the seamstress-nuns who used to sew linen for the royal family itself.
;It was in this very convent that the famous wanderer, Domna, found refuge and spent the final years of her life. And here she was buried, according to her last wishes.
;Somewhere on this plot of land, beneath the soil, rest her remains... What did that mean? That all those years, Blessed Domna had been invisibly present right beside me? That my entire childhood, I had been trampling over her relics?
;Since that discovery, I never miss a chance to pop into the chapel, bow to Domnushka, and light a candle. I went to say goodbye to her before leaving for Thailand, too. The church attendant, a lady in a headscarf, gasped, hugged me, and handed me a small icon of the saint:
"May Domnushka stay with you, even in a foreign land!"
;We also brought with us an icon of Holy Elder Theodore of Tomsk.
;Another compatriot of ours, but no ordinary one...
;Historians are almost certain that the famous elder, Feodor Kuzmich, and Emperor Alexander I of All Russia were the exact same person. Rumor has it that the Tsar faked his own death: from Taganrog, instead of his own body, he sent a coffin to St. Petersburg containing a soldier who had died of a cold and happened to look like him. Meanwhile, the Tsar, disguised in a rough coat and holding a walking staff, set off on foot all the way to Siberia, just like an exiled prisoner.
;In that harsh frontier, he was deeply revered for his wisdom, humility, and piety. The holy elder became famous for his miraculous prayers, healing people from illnesses and misfortunes. He also mysteriously intervened with the authorities on behalf of the wrongfully accused, sending dispatches from Tomsk to the capital via a merchant trusted with his secret. Naturally, these royal pleas never went unanswered.
;On a personal note, it means a lot to me that he is the exact namesake of my husband—so I actually gave Shurik an icon of his saintly fellow Siberian and protector.
;And there is another thread connecting us to Holy Theodore, or Alexander Pavlovich, Emperor of All Russia.
;...During his world tour, Tsarevich Nicholas visited our province and stopped in Tomsk. He was seen praying in the church of the convent right next to my house. He also visited the grave of the holy elder—who was, in reality, his own flesh and blood.
;Afterward, the future Tsar continued his journey, heading to Siam. There, he formed a deep friendship with the King of Thailand, and the fruits of that royal diplomacy still bless the relations between our nations today.
;A century later, destiny brought Shurik and me from freezing Siberia to sultry Thailand. Naturally, the icon of our compatriot and patron, Theodore of Tomsk, came with us.
Holy Theodore, pray for us!
;And here is another greeting from the Homeland: a small icon of the Iveron Mother of God hangs in a place of honor in our Thai home.
;...In the center of Tomsk, right at a major intersection, stands a small chapel. It is an exact replica of the Iveron Chapel in Moscow next to the Historical Museum, down to the golden Angel atop the blue, star-studded dome. There are only two such Iveron chapels in the whole of Russia.
;The one in Tomsk was built not too long ago, after Perestroika. To be honest, people were bewildered at first—especially drivers. Why erect an architectural monument right in the middle of the roadway, in such an awkward spot, especially when a statue of Lenin already claimed that very road?
;The authorities defended themselves by arguing that, historically, a chapel had always stood on that square—right where Lenin stands now. Well, since the rightful spot was occupied, the chapel had to be built right next to it.
;And so now, the Angel atop the chapel extends his hand as if pointing directly at Lenin, while Lenin, in turn, points his outstretched palm toward the gray drama theater building, which bears an uncanny resemblance to a grain elevator.
;The whole composition looks bizarre, erratic, and frantic, made even worse by the cars bustling back and forth, navigating with great difficulty around these mismatched, cross-cultural monuments cluttering the main city square.
;But people got used to it, and so did I.
;Whenever I am in Tomsk, I always drop by the Iveron Chapel on my way back from the Catholic church. The chapel houses a copy of the miraculous icon, painted on Mount Athos in accordance with all the strict canons of fasting and prayer.
;...I remember the buzz that swept through the city when the icon copy arrived from Athos. In the neighboring Peter and Paul Cathedral, the line to see the Mother of God stretched out like the queue to Lenin’s Mausoleum. The chapel wasn't finished yet, but the cathedral—recently reclaimed and restored from what had been a Rubber Footwear Factory—was ready to welcome the beautiful icon.
;This led to a hilarious exchange with a friend of mine:
"Have you seen the Iveron icon yet?" I asked.
"Not yet. Where is she, in the chapel?"
"No, she's in 'the rubber footwear'."
"What do you mean? Wearing galoshes?!" she burst out laughing, picturing the Virgin Mary clad in rubber boots.
;The Holy Virgin in this new icon had a pale, blushing, remarkably youthful face. It took me some time to get used to Her look, but I eventually brought a small replica with me to Thailand.
;We have another image of the Virgin Mary, this one without the Infant.
;On it, she holds her holy sash over... Thailand, as if extending her protection over this thoroughly non-Orthodox country. Yes, indeed—you can clearly make out the Grand Palace of Bangkok depicted on the icon! It was painted specifically for the pilgrimage of the Relic of the Virgin’s Sash through Southeast Asia.
;This icon was given to me by an Orthodox priest, Father Alexei. The sarcophagus with the relic was brought to our island, to the Orthodox church where I used to conduct music lessons for the children's Sunday school. Yes, despite being a Catholic, I was trusted to teach music to Orthodox kids. In Thailand, things like that are possible. Just as it is possible to venerate the Sash of the Most Holy Theotokos without standing in any lines, and even to sing the Ave Maria—written by a Catholic composer—with the children right before the relic.
;Did you know that there are already eleven Orthodox churches and one monastery in Thailand? I can even boast a personal acquaintance with two Thai priests and one Thai matushka (priest's wife)!
;Honestly, many countries could learn a thing or two about tolerance and religious acceptance from Thailand.
;Who else resides in my iconostasis?
;These are, you might say, my "familiar sisters," Blessed Olympia and Laurentia. Two identical small icons, with relics embedded inside, hang one above the other.
;They were Ukrainian Greek-Catholic nuns who, before World War II, were exiled to the depths of Siberia.
;I was personally present in Lviv for the Holy Mass celebrated by the Pope himself. During that liturgy, John Paul II, among other righteous souls and martyrs, beatified these sisters.
;But that was the end of the story. The beginning of my acquaintance with Blessed Olympia and Laurentia dates back to the very turn of the millennium.
;...At the entrance of the Tomsk Catholic Church of the Intercession, after Mass, I noticed two unfamiliar nuns speaking Ukrainian. Curious as to what Josaphite sisters were doing in the depths of Siberia—especially since I was working for the Catholic film studio Kana at the time, always hunting for compelling news—I approached them.
;One of the sisters, Sister Pavla, explained that they had come to search for the graves of sisters from their community who had been exiled to our region during World War II. The nuns had roughly calculated the location in the north of the province but weren't sure if the village, let alone the cemetery, still existed.
;I asked the Ukrainian sisters to keep us posted, promising that if they succeeded, we would send a videographer with them on their expedition.
;...Oh, it turned out to be quite the detective story, complete with getting lost in the taiga and swamps, dangerous adventures, and, of course, miracles of faith and prayer. In the end, the remains of the martyrs for the faith were exhumed and repatriated to their homeland, to Lviv. Their relics now rest in St. George's Cathedral.
;The story was crowned by that majestic Papal Mass in Ukraine, where the sisters were proclaimed Blessed, and by our studio’s film, Blessed Sisters, Pray for Us. I edited it with my own hands.
;By the way, Sister Olympia’s secular name was the same as mine—Olga. I find great comfort in that.
;Koh Samui, 2566 (2023)