“If Caught in the Rain, He’d Smile”: In Memory of Kostiantyn Huzenko, Soldier, Artist, Friend

It is with deep sadness that we learned of the death of Kostiantyn Huzenko, killed in a Russian missile strike in eastern Ukraine on November 1, 2025. A soldier, an artist, a friend. Hundreds gathered in Kyiv to mourn him, first at St. Michael’s Cathedral and then at Independence Square, among colleagues, brothers-in-arms, and friends.

I first met Kostya in Kharkiv in April 2022. My wife and I were introduced to him through a mutual friend, Nana, and the four of us ended up sharing a small apartment. We spent our days walking around the city, working, talking, and getting to know one another.

On the first day, it was just him and I. Photographers can be funny when they first meet; there’s often a quiet competitiveness, a sort of testing the waters to see what the other is about. But we quickly moved past that and found ourselves in long conversations about Ukraine and its history. I learned so much from him during those days.

What struck me most was his combination of seriousness and gentleness. There was compassion in him, and courage too, but also a wonderful silliness. He had a certain smile that would appear just beneath his beautiful mustache, and it’s one I’ll never forget.

Fast forward to April 2025. I was heading to an assignment with Ukraine’s 35th Separate Marine Brigade on the outskirts of Pokrovsk, Donetsk region. Communication with the brigade had been the usual back-and-forth, and my colleague mentioned that the press officer’s name was Kostiantyn. Something sparked in me, and I asked to see a photo. Of course, it was Kostia. We exchanged messages, excited at the thought of catching up in person after what seemed like too long.

Seeing him in uniform didn’t surprise me; it filled me with pride. That night we spent together was cold, as we had a ten-hour shift with one of the brigade’s mobile air defense units. There wasn’t much time for reminiscing, but we didn’t need it. We simply picked up where we had left off, deep conversations mixed with laughter as we tried to stay warm through the night.

I’ll always carry those memories of him: his warmth, his wit, his unwavering spirit. And I am not the only one who carries memories of him.

Below are reflections from three of Kostya’s close friends.

Larisa Kalik

Journalist and close friend of Kostia

We all lost a wonderful friend. His name was Kostya. He was 28.

We will all grow older, but he will remain forever young — brave, beautiful, and so deeply loved.

The hardest thing is to accept that Kostya is gone.

There will be no more of his kindness, his laughter, his long and beautiful eyelashes, no more of his photographs.

I’m deeply grateful for how many people knew and loved him — and I feel sorry for those who never had the chance to meet him, to see what an extraordinary person he was. His light didn’t fade—it simply scattered among us.

He loved Ukraine, the Ukrainian language, cats, nature, and tea. He was an example of a truly good young man—one who carried compassion, empathy, laughter, and tenderness in his heart. Conversations with him were something you never wanted to end. He could listen, and he could speak—and he always saw the world from unexpected angles, much deeper and clearer than most.

I still see you standing with your camera, quietly watching the world — always searching for beauty even in ruins.

If you never met Kostya, imagine someone who, if caught in the rain, wouldn’t be upset — he’d smile and lift his face to the sky. Someone who would always offer you the more comfortable seat. Someone who would notice when your heart was a little heavy—and make you laugh again. Someone who treated the world with gentleness and people with care.

We will keep telling his story, because love like his doesn’t vanish—it takes root. It grows through us, reminding us to be kind, to stay brave, to live the way he did—with open eyes and an open heart.

I’m so sorry, dear Kostia, that we will never hug again. I’m so sorry that Russians took your life.

George (Heorhii) Ivanchenko

A fellow photographer who shared Kostia’s path from the first days of the Russian invasion to the front lines. Alongside his friend and mentor Antoni Lallican, he was recently targeted by a Russian FPV drone. Lallican was killed, and Ivanchenko gravely wounded.

Night. The beginning of the full-scale invasion. Lviv train station, full of displaced people. I am lighting fires in barrels and see the glow of the flames reflected in a pair of brown eyes, then notice thick, dark mustaches and a camera hanging around his neck. That was Kostia—that’s how we first met, and we kept meeting again over the next three years in different parts of the country.

A young, sharp-minded man—always calm and thoughtful. He had his own strong opinions, a clear stance, and a deep sense of national dignity. Incredibly kind. It hurts deeply to lose someone like Konstantin.

I think everyone already knows about the circumstances of his death, and I hope a proper investigation will be carried out.

It feels as if Kostya just went somewhere into the mountains, to a wooden cabin, picking apples in the garden.

My deepest condolences to all his family and loved ones. This is a difficult trial that we all have to go through.

Karina Piliuhina

A photographer and close friend of Kostia, with whom she often worked.

Kostya loved good Chinese tea, cats, dogs, the steppe, and flowers. He treated people with special tenderness. Especially those he photographed. I am surprised by what a metamorphosis he underwent when he joined the army. His kindness and tenderness became a source of courage.

We worked with him in many situations where we thought we wouldn’t make it out alive. But Kostya always knew how to react to it all, with ease and humor. I adored his jokes and his sense of timing. You can talk endlessly about how wonderful he was, but no words can describe it. Kostya was one of the best representatives of my nation, my generation—my friend, a talented photographer, and an artist. I sincerely hope that all Russians, even the so-called “little people,” will bear equal responsibility for his murder.