Adieu, Antoni! A Farewell Letter to Antoni Lallican, Photographer and Journalist Killed by Russia

For a foreign journalist, who, theoretically, could just spend his life eating baguettes and drinking red wine in Paris, a feeling of moral obligation will only take you so far. You need a bit of madness, a bit of deep-seated irresponsibility. I personally call this the “cowboy spirit”. I think it was Ernest Hemingway, to explain the motivation war correspondents feel, who once said: “Astronauts don't go to the moon because they hate oxygen.” Everyone probably has their own reasons, or a combination thereof. The fact is: You need to be willing to risk your life. To cause your loved ones incredible pain, one that will scar them for decades after you are gone. And while you're alive, you have to be ready to witness a lot of horror and suffering. To listen to a lot of devastating stories about all the despicable things we humans do to each other. They will stick with you, haunt you, sometimes. But you have to be strong. The people who tell you these stories, it's about them, not you.

Me personally, I am sad about your death. But I am not devastated. You and I, Antoni, we started this journey together. Only one of us will continue it. This is the life we chose. I wouldn't have it any other way. 

To anyone reading this, to anyone wondering what war journalists think, feel, and why they do what they do, I hope this letter gives you at least a rudimentary understanding. And I hope it will help cherish the memory of an incredible and unique human being.

To Antoni.

The first time I met you, Antoni, the world around us felt like it was ending. In the mountains of Nagorno-Karabakh, we navigated Azerbaijani drones, artillery, and heavy, Cognac-fueled nights. We slept next to men fighting for the notorious Wagner PMC. We only found out who they were after it was already too late. You had hitchhiked there from Yerevan, the Armenian capital, because you had no car and no money. I thought you were absolutely out of your mind, and I loved it.

For our first story, we drove up the mountain through the thick fog when the Azerbaijanis launched their large and final offensive that would soon end that chapter of the war. We followed the call of an Armenian family who needed evacuating. Upon arrival, we realized the family had brought some friends, and we won't all fit in the car. We would need two trips. Risky business.

Our fixer and driver was, understandably, scared to death. “Drive down with him,” I told you, “and make fucking sure he comes back.” 

You left down the mountain. I calculated. 20 minutes down, 20 up. 10 to unload the car. I set the timer. I opened the bottle of Cognac. We drank. You came back. 

A couple of years went by. You, the fixer, me, we talked, laughed, worked together, and we became friends. Then, in February 2022, when, once again, the world felt like it was ending, we jumped in the car and drove to Ukraine. 

It was the beginning of both the worst and still the most incredible time of my life. I got married, and you came to the party. When you had your “Wedding-like,“ as you called it, I missed it. It was at the beginning of September 2025. Four weeks later, you were killed. Sadly, in a very typical fashion for this war. As it happens every day, countless times: By a high technology drone somewhere on a field.

The stories we experienced in the past years are too many to tell. Some of them are also just not appropriate for outsiders. Anyone who met us along the way will understand, I'm sure. They took place in Bucha and Irpin, in Kharkiv, in Donbas, in Kherson. As always, accompanying people of a foreign country, somewhere between losing and fighting for everything, all at once. They include close calls with artillery, hand-made tattoos, drunk miners, and friendships forged in fire. The most meaningful of those with George Ivanchenko. Baby George, as you called him. He adored you, admired you. He wanted to work only with you. He survived the high-technology drone on the field, and he will continue your legacy, I'm sure.

You used to call me at 3 in the morning. Plastered out of your mind. I got very angry at times. A “Religious Mint” is what you called a praying mantis. You used to send me random pictures. From India, Indonesia, and Brazil. Getting a back massage in Syria, Interviewing gang members in Haiti.

On the 21st September, you sent me a video of you drinking beer in Donbas. Arm in arm with a random local. The caption: “Things went a bit wild”. The people everywhere, just as I did, loved you from the first moment. In the fog of war, you made friends all around the world.

On the 2nd of October, you sent me a picture of you in front of a mountain of salt in the supermarket. The caption: “I think I will leave Donbas in the next days.”

The next day, in the morning, I heard a rumor of a French journalist being wounded. This time, I wrote to you.

“I hope you are OK, you crazy monkey.”

“If you need anything, call me.”

It was too late. You were already dead.

Now, a month later, reflecting on you, your life, and as a result, our friendship and our job, I don't doubt for a second that we made the right career choice. In your 37 years, you lived a full life. You left your corporate job selling pharmaceuticals and your BMW to pursue your mission. You spent it committed, travelling the world, trying to capture, to understand, and to immerse yourself in the absolute misery, the incomprehensible absurdity, and the indescribable beauty of life on this planet. Isn't that what we all really want? To understand? 

When people met you, you gave them hope. And joy. At least for the short time we spent together. Remember the old grandma in Donbas who tried to adopt you? The wounded man you helped walk over the bridge in Irpin? The soldiers in Kharkiv who treated you like a brother?

I can only repeat myself: Me, personally, I am sad. But I am not devastated. You and I, Antoni, we started this journey together. Only one of us will continue it. This is the life we chose. I wouldn't have it any other way.