5 days after Iryna Zarutska’s killing, friends and family gathered outside of the public glare to remember her, with art, music and memories; ‘Paint something, kiss a flower … she would want that’
by Tony Mecia
You could see the blond hair poking up from inside the open white casket. The young woman’s artwork displayed on easels. The family and close friends in the front row, talking quietly.
A slideshow played on a screen near the casket, with photos of her goofing around with friends, taking selfies, playing with a dog, painting.
Then, the music started: a song in Russian, by the Ukrainian boy band The Quest Pistols, called Ты так красива, or “Ty Tak Krasiva.” That translates to “You Are So Beautiful.” It was one of her favorite songs.
It was a quiet Wednesday afternoon in a small funeral home behind a shopping center in Huntersville. There were no banks of TV cameras, no politicians or dignitaries, no attention to it on social media or the national news.
Just a few dozen people at James Funeral Home, doing what you do at a funeral: signing the guestbook, sitting solemnly and listening to loved ones remember the deceased — in this case, Iryna Zarutska, a 23-year old who had emigrated from Ukraine with family members to escape the violence there.
The service was held on Aug. 27, five days after her death, and at the time, information was just starting to emerge about what had happened on that Blue Line light rail train. The funeral was publicly advertised. I sat in, to learn more about the short life of the young woman whose name wasn’t yet nationally known.
“We have gathered ourselves together today to celebrate the life, to mourn the death and honor the memory of Iryna,” began John Hill, the funeral director. “She passed from this life into eternity just this past Friday, on August the 22nd. No one here expected to be here today. This is tragic and most difficult, to say the least.”
He highlighted Iryna’s hardships as a Ukrainian immigrant and her ability to find happiness despite challenges. And, perhaps from conversations with her loved ones, he recalled her smile most of all.
“She loved having a good time,” he said. “She smiled. As a matter of fact, her smile was infectious, and it was contagious. Anytime she smiled, she lit up the room. Anytime she smiled, she got the attention of everybody.”
The service was live-streamed. Iryna’s father, Stanislav, watched from Ukraine.
There were two other speakers. Iryna’s sister, Lerka, praised Iryna’s boyfriend, Stas, briefly in English before switching to Ukrainian.
“I just don’t know the words to tell you my gratitude for making her happy,” she told him in Ukrainian, according to a later translation. “… You are part of our family forever.”
She urged people to love each other — and to be sure to tell those you love that you love them: “It is very important to tell a person once more.”
Reflecting on her sister’s death, she said: “Something was torn out of me, something that will never return, something very precious and great. That’s all. Thank you for coming. Thank you for supporting us.”
Iryna’s cousin, Vera Falkner, rose to thank Iryna “for the late-night conversations, every laugh, every cry.” She said, “Grief will look like a random Tuesday night, when a stranger passes by wearing your favorite perfume. Grief will look like listening to your favorite music without you. Grief will find you in conversations or the shower or while you sit in traffic or attending an art exhibition.”
At the end of her remarks, she paused, then added: “And please, she would hate this. She would want you to dance or listen to music, smoke a cigarette — do something. Paint something. Kiss a flower. This dance of life is so fragile,” she said, slowing down the words. “And she is way too young for this. And you all know it. We all know it. Do something with your life. She would want that.”
Hill pointed out that the name Iryna means “peace.” Her life was taken too soon, he said, but she made the most of her 23 years.
“She took the hardships and the struggles of the life that she had, and instead of being down and out, she overcame them,” he said. “She experienced joy. She experienced happiness. She still had a smile, and she’d want you to have that tonight.”
In the weeks since her death, much of the public focus has centered on the violence of Iryna’s final moments, and on questions of safety and accountability. The man charged in her random stabbing, DeCarlos Brown Jr., has a long criminal history and had been diagnosed with mental illness.
But in that small room in Huntersville, the focus was on something else. It was on Iryna’s laughter, her artwork, her smile that could brighten a room.
As the service concluded, those in attendance were asked to place flowers beside her in her casket. They were symbols of grief — but also reminders of a young life full of beauty.
Shadows in the Sound: The Eerie Cut-Off in Iryna Zarutska’s Voice Recording at Her Vigil
Beneath a canopy of flickering candles and Ukrainian sunflowers at Charlotte’s East/West Boulevard station, the September 18 vigil for Iryna Zarutska pulsed with the warmth of memories—laughter echoing off the light rail tracks, the scent of honey cake wafting from shared platters, and the soft strum of a guitar weaving folk melodies from Kyiv. Over 400 gathered for the 30-day mark of the 23-year-old refugee’s murder, her image projected on a makeshift screen: radiant smiles from barbecues, sketches of neighborhood cats, and Polaroids with boyfriend Stas Nikulytsia. Friends, clad in vyshyvankas embroidered with her designs, took turns sharing relics—a photo album ending in “Not tomorrow,” the teddy bear Mishka hiding “Wait,” an unsent text from Stas, a baking video capped by her whispered “Ya tebe lyublyu.” Then came the voice notes, played from Olena Kovalenko’s phone, midnights captured in audio: Iryna’s giggles over English tongue-twisters, dreams of veterinary school, and playful teases about Stas’s cooking. The crowd leaned in, hearts swelling—until the final recording. It started with her voice, bright and breathy: “And tomorrow, we’ll drive to the beach, just you and me…” A pause, then a low, metallic scrape in the background—like a train door hissing or a knife flicking open. The clip cut dead. Silence swallowed the vigil, faces frozen, as if the tracks themselves had whispered her doom.
This exclusive detail, shared first with WCNC Charlotte by Olena during the ceremony’s aftermath, has cast a fresh pall over Iryna’s story—a Ukrainian artist’s odyssey from bomb shelters to pizza ovens, severed by systemic shadows. The recording, timestamped 11:47 p.m. on August 21, 2025—just hours before her fatal commute—was one of dozens Iryna sent to her group chat, a lifeline of late-night confessions after grueling shifts at Zepeddie’s Pizzeria. “She’d ramble when insomnia hit,” Olena explained, her hands trembling as she replayed it for reporters. “War flashbacks, excitement for classes, always ending with hope.” But that scrape—verified by audio forensics shared with the family last week—mirrors the surveillance timestamp: the Lynx Blue Line’s pneumatic doors at Scaleybark station, or worse, the subtle click of Decarlos Dejuan Brown Jr.’s folding knife. Played publicly for the first time at the vigil, it silenced the crowd mid-breath, tears turning to shudders. For Stas, clutching Mishka, it was unbearable: “Her voice, then that sound—like fate eavesdropping.”
Iryna Zarutska embodied unyielding light. Born May 22, 2002, in Kyiv, she graduated Synergy College with a degree in art restoration, her sculptures mending war’s fractures long before she fled them. Russia’s 2022 invasion crammed the family into a shelter’s damp embrace, Mishka her talisman against the thunder of shells. Father Stanislav, bound by martial law, urged escape; Iryna, mother Anna, sister Valeriia, and brother Bohdan arrived in Charlotte that August, trading sirens for suburbia. Huntersville welcomed her with open arms: English honed at Rowan-Cabarrus Community College, where she’d practice phrases into her phone; pizzeria dough funding vet dreams, her love for strays blooming in walks with neighbors’ pets. Stas, her Heathcliff in embroidered jeans, taught her to drive—their tiny kitchen alive with medovik layers and voice notes plotting ocean trips. “She sent them at 2 a.m., giggling,” Stas told WCNC, echoing the baking video’s tender close. “Her dreams were my lullabies.”
The vigil, evolving from August 31’s candlelit walk at Marshall Park, drew expats, coworkers, and activists under a banner: “Iryna’s Tomorrow.” Sunflowers arched over her photo album’s blank end, the light rail ticket from Wuthering Heights, her diary’s trailing “Tomorrow.” Olena queued the notes on a Bluetooth speaker: one of Iryna mangling “Peter Piper” with laughter, another gushing over a stray she’d sketched—”He’ll be my first patient!”—a third, whispered to Stas: “Miss you. Beach soon?” Smiles rippled, applause swelled. Then the last: her voice, husky from fatigue, painting their weekend—”Sun on the waves, your hand in mine…” A beat of static, then the scrape—sharp, insidious, like metal on metal. Cut. Gasps rippled; a woman sobbed audibly. Anna, beside the ironed floral dress, clutched her chest: “That’s the train. Or… God.” The noise, faint but unmistakable, evoked the footage’s horror: Iryna boarding at 9:46 p.m. on August 22, khakis rumpled, phone aglow with unsent replies; Brown, unmedicated shadow with 14 arrests, lunging four minutes later, knife flashing thrice to her neck.
Extended clips show her agony—a minute conscious, gasping, eyes imploring frozen passengers. Brown’s slur—”I got that white girl”—stokes hate crime fires; his schizophrenia, ignored pleas from family—”Commit him before he kills”—indicts Mecklenburg’s bonds. The recording’s echo amplifies it: a premonition in sound, her “tomorrow” pierced by prelude. Forensics, per federal leaks, peg the noise at 70% match to CATS door hydraulics, 20% to a pocket knife deploy—too close for comfort. “It was her last full night,” Olena said. “She recorded walking home from a shift, near the tracks. Fate hid in the static.”
The moment’s ripple hit X like a shockwave, #IrynaEcho trending by midnight. @Visegrad24 posted a vigil clip: “Her laugh, then that scrape—like death tuning in. #JusticeForIryna.” It surged to 30,000 likes, spawning Warsaw audio tributes—voice notes remixed with hymns. @DogRightGirl, vigil attendee, tweeted: “Crowd went dead silent. That noise? Train to hell. Bystanders failed her twice—once on the rail, once in our hearts.” Poems flowed, casting her voice as Brontë’s wind on moors; Ukrainian outlets like Kyiv Post called it “echoes of stolen refuge,” tying to Zelenskyy’s candle. Moscow’s embassy, ever opportunistic, projected warped clips with anti-U.S. spins, drawing global ire. Locally, Zepeddie’s hosted a “Voice for Iryna” night, patrons sharing notes, $15,000 for cams.
Politically, the audio sharpens the blade. President Trump, screening a sanitized excerpt at a September 19 rally, thundered: “Iryna’s dreams cut by a scrape—and DAs’ failures. Her voice demands death row for Brown.” AG Pam Bondi, voice breaking in a DOJ brief: “That noise haunts us. Federal trial, no escape.” Elon Musk, hiking his $3 million CATS pledge, tweeted: “AI to catch echoes before they strike. #HearIryna.” Mayor Vi Lyles, announcing audio-alert prototypes: “Her recordings teach: Listen closer.” In Ukraine, Zelenskyy addressed the vigil virtually: “Her laugh defies bombs—and knives. We echo her fight.”
Brown’s November trial looms, death penalty shadowed by Stokes’s impeach calls from Rep. Tim Moore. Bystanders brace for suits—the scroller’s face now meme-ified as “Silent Echo.” The Zarutskas, with Stas and Olena, plan a “Voices Uncut” podcast: refugee stories, Iryna’s notes anonymized for healing. Anna, replaying the clip alone, whispered to WCNC: “Her joy, then silence. But we’ll play her loud.”
Iryna’s recordings, once private midnights, now public pleas—laughter laced with foreboding scrape. From Kyiv’s shelters to Charlotte’s vigils, her voice bridges worlds, demanding we tune out the noise for justice’s signal. That cut-off? Not an end, but a cue: listen, act, let her dreams resonate unbroken.
