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Perfect refugees: how the mass relocation of Ukrainians is different from past migration crises in Europe?
Russian invasion of Ukraine has caused one of the largest humanitarian crises in Europe since World War II. Massive flows of people have become a tough challenge for European countries’ economies and social protection services. But Ukrainian migration is different from the ones that have occurred in the world before. How exactly?
According to Eurostat’s data, there are 4,3 million Ukrainians under temporary protection in Europe right now
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On June 20th the European Commission against Racism and Intolerance (ECRI) published an annual report with positive feedback towards the European countries’ efforts in Ukrainian people protection. However, it encouraged them to provide proper protection and support to all seekers of refuge regardless of their ethnicity. Are Ukrainian refugees really more desirable in the EU than emigrants from other countries? Does the attitude towards Ukrainians change? Will they send Ukrainian men of conscription age home, and why, despite the scale of migration, they don’t consider the Ukrainian migrants a problem in the EU? Sestry asked a historian, lawyer and migration specialist about it
The EU never called it a crisis
From the perspective of EU residents, the situation that arose after the start of the full-scale war had an entirely different dimension compared to the migration crisis of 2015, as it did not concern African or Middle Eastern countries, but rather close neighbours, citizens of a country that had the status of an EU-associated country and openly declared its intentions to integrate into the European Union, explains Polish historian and political scientist Łukasz Adamski. Two main factors, from his words, were strong sympathy from Europeans, and Poles in particular, and the desire to help: - Something similar might have happened in the 1990s after the wars in the Balkans.
The first factor - is that this crisis came from Europe to Europe, the cultural similarity has become very important. The second factor - the lack of purely geographical barriers
Many Ukrainians went to Poland, Slovakia, Hungary - these countries have shared borders with Ukraine. When discussing past migration crises, there has always been a physical barrier - the Mediterranean Sea. And Turkey - a kind of buffer zone, a NATO country that separated Europe from lands where war was waging and where refugees were coming from.
When Ukrainians arrived in EU countries in large numbers at the beginning of the war, none of them called it a crisis. Similarly, such a definition has never been heard in the broader circles of the European Union, notes Başak Yavçan, head of research at the Migration Policy Group in Brussels.
- There can be many reasons for this. Political - EU’s active engagement in the conflict due to the Russian threat, social - acceptance of Ukrainian refugees’ cultural similarity, and also organisational - immediate growth of capacities and solidarity networks for better settlement of the refugees after arrival. And we see that crisis discourse only really appears when there is a management crisis.
Dozens of volunteers meeting Ukrainian refugees at the railway station in Wrocław, 2022
Additionally, the reaction of countries that accepted Ukrainians showed what the EU is capable of when it is willing to do something. This has also affected the advancement of integration policies of the recipient countries, especially in Central and Eastern Europe. Even though these countries have been accepting refugees very reluctantly in the past, they turned out to be quite hospitable towards refugees from Ukraine. This deserves praise but obviously leaves a lot to be desired. If such policies only apply to certain groups of people, they conflict with the equality principles and create double standards towards other groups.
Fascination with Ukrainians that is slowly fading
Immediately after the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, the European Commission provided Ukrainians with temporary protection - a unique legal mechanism that gives Ukrainians the rights to residence and employment, social services and freedom of travel within the EU. The Europeans have opened this mechanism for the first time for Ukrainians, and it was a very successful idea, says an immigration lawyer, officer of the Armed Forces of Ukraine Oleksii Skorbach:
- If we are talking about the refugee status or additional protection that exists in Europe, then those are individual protection options. Meaning the person arrives individually, and their documents, story and country are inspected. And the individual has to undergo a slow and difficult process of explaining personally to foreign officials that they are being persecuted or are in danger at home.
All this is not needed for temporary protection. The sole objective situation in the country the person has fled from already proves the danger. And what is important, temporary protection is provided en masse, meaning one does not have to prove individual endangerment. In this way, countless formalities are put aside, as in such global catastrophes or occupation, the person is often not able to collect the necessary amount of documents or even take their belongings with them. This is why this mechanism is a huge advantage and is genuinely a sign of democracy since it is designed for large numbers of people forced to flee from objective threats.
Although temporary protection has its technicalities - primarily it does not provide subsequent legalisation in the residence country.
At the same time, the EU is interested in the most effective integration of Ukrainians possible. Here too there is a difference between the perception of Ukrainian citizens and emigrants from other countries, says Başak Yavçan, head of the Migration Policy Group in Brussels, referring to research data collected by their centre:
- Ukrainians are considered to be more integrated, their integration policies are more supported - and generally they are more supported. And their relationships with the community that accepted them are assessed as better compared to refugees from non-EU countries.
Although it is not only about Ukrainians themselves in this case, Başak Yavçan notes and reveals an interesting conclusion of her research:
The more effective the local integration policies are, the more favourable attitude towards refugees the people in the communities have
Therefor, the effective reaction mechanisms for refugees’ problems form an overall better attitude towards them.
At the beginning of the full-scale war, there was a massive wave of solidarity with Ukraine, it could even be labelled as Ukrainophilia, believes the Polish historian and politologist Łukasz Adamski. Everyone sympathised, everyone wanted to help. Now the understanding remains that people had to leave Ukraine due to Putin’s criminal war, and we need to help, but the longer the war continues, and the longer the Ukrainians stay abroad, the more mundane problems there are: - In Poland, for example, if you ask average Poles (and it is stated in various social surveys) they often say that they lack gratitude from Ukrainians and that they do not like the attitude of «You must do something for us, you must give us something». It is hard for me to judge how justified these claims are, but this general opinion comes from sociology.
The protection does not have retroactive effect
At the same time, Lukasz Adamski is convinced that despite all the similar sociological data and occasional public discontent, both the EU in general and Poland in particular have the resources and willingness to help Ukrainians if the security or energy situation worsens and the EU receives a new wave of migrants from Ukraine: - I try not to be overly optimistic, but it seems to me that there is a readiness to help here. Firstly, we all understand that it will not be a massive wave; even if it happens, it will be at the level of one, two, or three million Ukrainians, and both the EU and Poland can manage it. There is also a belief that the Ukrainian state will endure even under difficult conditions and that the Ukrainian population will be able to survive the winter. Moreover:
I would say that Ukrainians - are perfect migrants, and they do not create threats
In this context, in Łukasz Adamski’s opinion, it is rather Ukraine that is facing a threat, as a new wave of migration can undermine the inner Ukrainian endurance and add to the number of problems within - since someone has to work for the army to be able to fight.
Additionally, Ukraine has been urging EU countries for several months to consider ways to facilitate the return of Ukrainian men to their native land. Consultations regarding those who left illegally are ongoing, as stated by Ukraine's Minister of Internal Affairs, Ihor Klymenko, in an interview with Radio Liberty at the end of June.
Ukraine can make any appeals and proposals to the European Union, explaining that we lack people, however, there is international law that prohibits returning people to countries where events threatening their safety are taking place, emphasises Oleksii Skorbach, an immigration lawyer and officer of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
- Men of conscription age have a constitutional duty to defend their country, but this duty pertains to Ukraine. When it comes to another country, the question arises: why should that country decide for them how they should fulfil their constitutional duty to Ukraine?
There is a rule that you may choose not to provide protection from the outset, but if you have already granted it, it should not have retroactive effect. The cancellation of such protection could turn out to be a much bigger problem
Because all these people received temporary protection precisely because there is a danger in our country. The question is how to address this issue if the danger has not disappeared? Photos from Shutterstock
Ukrainian journalist. She worked as the Chief Editor of the Ukrainian editorial office of RFI and in the international editorial team of TSN (1+1 TV channel). She was an international correspondent in Brussels and collaborated with various Ukrainian TV channels. She also worked in the news service of Ukrainian Radio. Currently, she is involved in information and analytical projects for Ukrainian YouTube.
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Nothing survives without words. Together, we carry voices that must be heard.
Olga Pakosh: In light of what is happening today, how can we talk about building bridges?
Krzysztof Czyżewski: We first need to realize how few of them we have actually built.
Why?
We were given time—time we largely failed to use. Today comes the test of what we did with it, and it turns out it could have been much more. Too few bridges were built—between Poles and Ukrainians, but also many others. Because all these bridges are interconnected. Fear of the other very easily turns into scapegoating—of the foreigner, someone of another nationality, culture, or skin color. And this shows that we could have done far more, especially from the bottom up, at the grassroots, organically. We lacked investment in local government, in education—from primary school through every level—in cultural and community-building activities. Had we put more effort into these, we would be in a completely different place today.
That’s why the work of rooting is so important—in a place, in oneself, in our identity. When the full-scale war in Ukraine broke out, refugee children came to Krasnogruda. One of the first projects we did with them was an animated film.
The children called it Pokój (“Room/Peace”), because they discovered that in Polish the word has two meanings: “absence of war” and “my space to live.” It was precisely this space they had lost—their room, their home—and that’s what they longed for. They also understood that the one who starts a war is the one who has no room of their own.
People deprived of rootedness and a sense of community are more easily swayed by ideologies that lead to hatred and violence. That’s why we need time to rebuild this rootedness, which our region still lacks because of its history of wars and regimes. We simply wasted the time we were given.
We invested in roads—because that’s easy, because every politician wants to boast about them. But investments in schools, cultural centers, civic organizations—in people—were never a priority. And yet those are precisely the investments that could give us the strength to stand against hatred and war.
The Comfortable Role of the Victim
What is hatred? No one is born with hatred. It always has a source, usually in the early stages of life. Something must have happened in our environment—in the family, at school, in the community. Something that made us susceptible to this illness called hatred.
To confront it, we must go back to its beginnings. To the moment when a child or young person found themselves in a situation where no one defended them, protected them, or taught them how to cope with harm. It’s the environment that shapes a person, and if it is not built on peace, it creates space for hatred. Hatred often grows out of emptiness, resentment, and a sense of loss. A person who experiences pain at the hands of others, lacking the tools to understand it, builds a defense mechanism: they start believing that hatred will make them stronger.
Imagine a young Czesław Miłosz. He dreams of Western Europe, of Paris—and during a trip with friends, he reaches a bridge on the Swiss–French border. There he sees a sign: “No entry for Slavs, Gypsies, Jews.” Such a blow can trigger two reactions. One is to respond in kind: return home and put up a sign against the French or the Germans. But one can also react differently: do everything not to answer hostility with hostility. Yet to choose this path, one needs support—spiritual, moral, found in an authority or a community.
We encounter such “signs” even today—in a metaphorical sense—living in multicultural societies. We often, and unwittingly, hurt others with words or gestures. These are moments when we can take Miłosz’s path: to dedicate our life and work to opposing the philosophy of exclusion. But choosing this path means loneliness. As in the case of Miłosz, who in interwar Vilnius—governed by nationalists—was told that history did not belong to him.
The “signpost philosophy” always builds a fortress. It assumes one must close off, build walls, and cast outsiders in a bad light. It’s the feeling that strength comes from isolation. I have met people who build such fortresses. Today this is very visible in Ukraine. My Ukrainian friends wrote to me after February 24th: “I hate. That’s my state of mind.” I understand this. In the face of aggression, one builds defensive embankments, protects family and community. Perhaps a soldier needs hatred as a weapon—it gives determination and strength.
But the crucial question is about the boundary. Between the person who can treat hatred like a shield, then set it aside after the fight and return to normal life—and the person who becomes its captive. If you can put it down, hatred remains a temporary weapon. If you cannot, the illness takes control. Then hatred doesn’t end with the war—it begins to destroy life, relationships, one’s entire world.
How can we defend ourselves against hatred in today’s world?
Sometimes a person must build a fortress, but a fortress is not a natural environment for life. When a new generation arrives—our children—they will feel curiosity and the need to go out into the open world. Because a fortress, if accepted as a permanent home, becomes a prison—and everyone wants to escape from prison.
So the question is: if I build a bridge to the other side, risking my own shore and the possibility that an enemy may use it—am I acting against life?
Would it be better to stay on my side and live more safely, more comfortably? This is how supporters of extreme, xenophobic ideologies think: that it’s best to be only among one’s own. Except that in human nature such a scenario never proves life-giving. Sooner or later it leads to illness—xenophobia or hatred.
That’s why courage is always necessary. To resist hatred, we must cultivate inner strength to overcome our emotions. And yet we have a tendency to justify our hostility easily: we pick at resentments, repeat that someone wronged us. It feels comfortable to wear the skin of the victim, because then we are always ostensibly on the “good side.” But staying in the role of the victim also leads nowhere. It breeds weakness and fear—fear of opening up, of encountering the other.
What does this mean in practice? If I, as a Pole, am afraid to admit that in Jedwabne, during the Holocaust, a crime was committed against Jewish neighbors and I prefer to conceal this truth—where is my patriotism then? Where is my courage?
There is no courage in falsifying history. Courage is born when I can look into the eyes of those who were victims, when I do the work on myself. It is difficult, critical work of memory. If we want to build bridges with others, let’s start with ourselves. Let us ask: are there not painful places in our own history that we should work through—acknowledge, beat our breast, return the truth to others, or at least try to listen? Paradoxically, this does not weaken us—it makes us stronger.
On the doorstep of the house where Polish writer and philosopher Stanisław Vincenz once lived — Hutsul region, Ukraine.
Pop Culture Pure
How would you explain the shift from the immense openness toward Ukrainians in February 2022 to the current state, where some say that help was unappreciated or that newcomers “give nothing in return”? Is it fatigue, lack of courage, or something deeper in human nature?
What’s missing is something else. What’s very dangerous is what politicians often try to convince us of: that our attitude toward Ukrainians must be conditioned by interest. In my view, the spontaneous, magnificent reaction of people was simply a human reaction. No one asked then what we would get out of it. It was as Pope Francis said in Lampedusa about the Church: it should be like a field hospital.
It doesn’t matter what your faith, nationality, or skin color is—you simply serve a person in need. This is an absolute human duty. Without asking about interest, advantage, or profit.
If we step down from that level—and today many try to frame help for Ukrainians in terms of budgets, gains, or losses—we reduce the field hospital to a marketplace.
And that’s exactly what we see in the world. It used to be unthinkable that states would give weapons only in exchange for raw materials. Today this approach is part of the political mainstream. It’s a moral collapse.
Of course, rationality, logic, and common sense are needed—especially in politics and strategic decisions.
At the same time, we must act on a human level. Because we are Christians, Poles, Ukrainians, people. There are no narrow categories here. It’s not about nationality or religion, but about a human being in need.
The first wave of refugees from Ukraine made this very clear. I remember Viktoria Amelina [a Ukrainian writer who died in hospital on July 1, 2023, from injuries sustained during a Russian attack on Kramatorsk—ed.] in Krasnogruda telling me that at the border she felt treated better than refugees from other countries. She was privileged simply because she was Ukrainian. That shows the limit of our wonderful Polish–Ukrainian period of solidarity—right next to the Belarusian border, the symbol of non-solidarity.
When such selection creeps into our responses, we see a symptom of illness: our assistance and attitudes are no longer fully true or natural. It’s not about judging people—we’re all in the same boat; we all have oversights and limitations. But it’s also part of a great moral decline, a degradation we’re witnessing worldwide. It shows how much fear, anxiety, and uncertainty we harbor, and how little of the peace that children talk about. And how easily populist politics can lead us astray.
Why does hatred take root in us so easily? Is it politics, ideology, indoctrination (imposing certain ideas and beliefs on a person — Ed.)?
Or perhaps pop culture? And culture? How is it possible that in a democratic society we separated pop culture from culture—that pop culture is meant to reach people who “won’t understand” culture because it’s too difficult, not for them?
If we accept that conversations about values, morality, and understanding the other are intended only for those in that “other” culture and not for everyone, the tragedy begins.
The tragedy is that in a democracy we don’t trust people. We don’t believe they can make difficult decisions themselves, hold values, and take responsibility for them.
We persist in the belief that we must speak to people in a simplified way, otherwise they “won’t understand.” Politicians and the media often take this path. They create a “pop-cultural mush,” and we pay the price. We’ve created pop-cultural politics, pop-cultural politicians, and politics characterized by leveling down. It’s the result of our underestimating culture and failing to understand that conscience—our spiritual culture—is an obligation for everyone, without exception.
Szewczenko or Miłosz are for everyone, and with everyone we can talk about values, demand reflection, action, and responsibility. It’s like the wisdom of the Gospels—they are not reserved for the chosen. We have lost faith that this has anything to do with everyday life. Even people who consider themselves Christians often craft their own “life-gospel,” at odds with the true Gospel, while politicians offer a discourse full of xenophobia and hatred.
Here lies a serious neglect, for which we are now paying the price. A vast arrogance and paternalism that we have allowed to speak. As a result, we’ve lost many citizens—people who felt utterly marginalized not only in terms of material well-being but also in terms of trust and co-responsibility for the world’s affairs. Pushed aside and often stigmatized as xenophobes.
I never use such labels for anyone. Because when you call someone a chauvinist or a xenophobe, you put them against a wall. You strip them of the ability to move—and thus the chance to change. Culture should provide space and time for us to change, learn, and mature. That’s what our culture often lacks: patience for process, the understanding that change takes time.
The history we come from, and the new tragic circumstances, place demands on us that often exceed our strength. Sometimes we are too weak to bear them. But does that mean we are immediately bad—and forever? Perhaps we can still be partners—for conversation, for cooperation, for living together—even if we handle our emotions differently.
We are very good at cornering people. “You are this—period.” Meanwhile, we should learn to understand ourselves and others, to transcend our own limitations, to practice the art of dialogue—because only then is true transformation possible.
You speak of empathy, which was so visible at the beginning. But haven’t you noticed that today the word “neighbors” has practically disappeared from the media when we speak about Ukrainians?
“Neighborhood” is a good word, isn’t it? A neighbor is already part of our life. And if we drive them out, a feeling arises… that there is no threat, and no need for effort or even sacrifice, because a neighbor demands more from me.
A neighbor is someone you can rightly offer hospitality to, someone you can share with, someone you coexist with and share responsibility for something with. Simply by existing, a neighbor touches deeply rooted values in us—and puts them to the test.
If we succumb to confrontational, hateful ideology, we push out words like “neighborhood,” “kinship,” “the common good.”
I won’t even dwell on the fact that politicians try to convince us that it’s in our interest to cut ourselves off from Ukraine—which is absurd, because Ukraine provides us with security. If we were rational and sober about what is truly good for us, we should do everything to make our neighborhood as deep and as close as possible.
Anna Łazar, Yuri Andrukhovych and Krzysztof Czyżewski. Private Archive
Meanwhile, we allow ourselves to be ruled by what is irrational or aimed at short-term effects (which amounts to the same). We let weakness work within us and perceive threats where they do not truly exist.
I would also like to address Ukrainians—to understand that sometimes it’s not worth attaching too much importance to these momentary crises—just as in the life of an individual, so in a collective body we sometimes succumb to weakness, and politicians draw out the worst in us. We should not believe that this is a permanent state, nor should we immediately put Poles against the wall, assuming that “this is how they are now.”
Of course, we should set standards for ourselves—now I’m speaking about Poles in the context of the situation in Ukraine. But at the same time, it is worth giving ourselves a chance to change: to be more understanding, more empathetic, to trust that change is possible. I also don’t attach excessive importance to momentary gusts in social media—those winds change very quickly.
I would rather focus on long-term, grassroots, organic building—creating things that won’t bear fruit today but will do so in a few years. Because trust has extraordinary power. If I, Ms. Olga, believe that even if you (purely hypothetically) feel prejudice, resentment, or hatred toward me, it won’t be forever—and I don’t close myself off to our mutual presence—and if I believe our relationship can change—then you will not remain indifferent to that. You will sense in me not an enemy, but a person open to change. That is precisely what releases positive energy between us.
Sometimes it demands more of us than we could realistically expect—greater generosity than daily life calls for. And that’s what builds a person, gives extraordinary strength. For me, beauty lies in the Ukrainian word peremoha. When I travel the world, I always urge people to learn it not in translation (“victory”) but in its Ukrainian meaning.
Peremohty, mohty—it means the ability to act beyond one’s own capacities. Even if we have limitations, traumas, weaknesses, there is such a thing as peremohty: to be able to do more than we can. And that is true victory.
To achieve this, we must extend ourselves a credit of trust, create good energies that allow us to do more than we believe possible. Two years ago our borders opened, solidarity emerged, and suddenly we were able to show a better face—better than before, in the context of the Belarusian border. Even those who previously stood for radical confrontation and closing the border to refugees could not silence their own consciences in the face of need—children in the Białowieża Forest who needed a simple glass of water. You can’t calm your conscience that way. Ideological arguments aren’t enough.
And suddenly Ukrainians appeared, toward whom we could be entirely different. It was a moment when we became better than ourselves, though such moments never last long. Our wisdom should lie in knowing how to appeal to what is best in us, building on that, and not giving up the work of maturing into those values.
There Are More People of Good Will
After the president vetoed the law on assistance for Ukrainian mothers and as a wave of hatred grew, one of my colleagues asked: what should I do now? Where should I go? I chose to stay in Poland, and I don’t know what I should feel or how to live, if I’m even afraid to speak Ukrainian with my child on the street.
For a moment I thought that it’s increasingly difficult today to advise your colleague where she might go to be better off. There are fewer and fewer such places in the world. Of course, that is no excuse for what’s happening in our country. But it is one of those painful lessons we receive from the modern world. I return to the idea that we are part of communicating vessels. What happens here is interdependent with other places in the world, and we often struggle to cope with that.
Let’s have no illusions: we live in an era of moral decline, a degradation of humanism.
Of course, I would like people like the one you describe to remain in Poland—because we need them. I don’t mean this in terms of budget revenue, though that’s obvious. That’s not the logic I’m using. These people are needed so that we can grow into the maturity demanded of us by the situation in the world—and so that we have a chance to change our own attitudes. Your colleague, experiencing intolerance in Poland yet still engaging in building good neighborliness, has a chance to be part of a process of change—one that won’t happen overnight and will surely bring her suffering, but in the long run it carries hope.
Because in this process there is strength and potential—we change the world where we are, not by endlessly fleeing elsewhere.
My philosophy largely rests on changing the world from within. There is a growing temptation to flee from various environments, institutions, religions, or countries because something seems unbearable or contrary to our beliefs. But that’s escape. Then we become perpetual nomads.
The answer is to stay, to find a room, to take root, and to work—with an understanding of all the conditions that come with it. Such rootedness is not the same as returning to a lost place (though may such returns be possible). It is staying within a new situation and learning it mutually—this gives a chance for growth.
A second reflection is that there are more of us than we think: us, people of good will. We live in a world that often minimizes our presence because it amplifies drama, conflict, pain, and injustice. The voice of harm reaches the media; it is harder to express good and positive emotions. This is also my work: to help people give voice to the good emotions that, I believe, dwell in everyone—even in those who hate deeply. In everyone there is a spark of a need to do something good. The problem is often how to do it, how to give it form.
We lack holidays, language, and culture for this—and politics even more so—because we live in a world where harm, pain, and hatred are easy to express. Sometimes it’s about a wise perspective: perhaps there are more of us than it seems; perhaps the politician who has won and seems monstrous does not, in fact, have all our votes.
Where is that other half of Poland? It exists—and there are ways to reach it. It’s difficult, but it gives hope.
I’ve lived in Poland for 10 years, and I’ve heard from various people that humans are inherently good—which I never heard in Ukraine. Two Poles also told me that even if people do something bad, they later regret it.
What I’m talking about is close to what I earlier called the spark of good in every person—something hard to bring out. I speak of it because it was passed on to me by people who went through real hell. Starting with Miłosz, who survived two world wars; with Holocaust survivors; with Bosnian Muslims whose relatives lie buried in Srebrenica. They could have said that the world is evil, that our actions are meaningless in the face of the destructive forces of dictatorial regimes, that building bridges is weak against military and ideological violence. And yet it was precisely they who taught me not to lose faith in the good—in that small light present in every person, regardless of which “side” they are on.
They taught me that it’s worth working to help others and ourselves—to free the good within us, to find words and time so that our conscience can be spoken, not stifled. And despite the “sober skeptics,” whose voice I respect, and despite having witnessed the core of darkness revealed by wars, I stand with my teachers, who allowed themselves neither nihilism nor agreement that good in this world is doomed to defeat.
Because if they weren’t right, would we be able to have this conversation at all, Ms. Olga?
On August 25, the President of Poland announced a veto of the government bill that was meant to regulate protection and support for families fleeing the war. This decision, and the language that accompanied it – promises to make aid for children conditional on their parent’s employment, prolonging the path to citizenship, reigniting historical disputes – is not a matter of mood, but of cold political calculation.
It strikes at Ukrainian refugee women, at their children, at the elderly and the sick; it also strikes at our schools, doctors, and local governments. Instead of certainty, it brings fear; instead of calm, it threatens family separations, secondary migration, and the erosion of trust in the Polish state.
Imagine that you are the ones at war defending your homeland – and a neighboring country treats your wives, mothers, and daughters as hostages of politics.
After the President’s decision, thousands of homes across Poland were filled with shock, bitterness, and a sense of betrayal. Mothers who fled with children and sick parents from cities and villages turned to rubble now ask themselves: where are we supposed to flee next? Women who chose Poland out of love and trust now feel that this love has not been reciprocated.
A child is not a lifeless entry in a statute, and the aid granted to that child cannot be used as leverage against their mother. Solidarity is not seasonal, it is not a trend. If it is true in March, it must also be true in August. Memory is not a cudgel. A state that, instead of healing the wounds of history, reaches for easy symbols does not build community. A state cannot be a street theater. A serious state chooses responsibility, not political spectacle: procedures, clear communication, protection of the most vulnerable.
We, Polish women – mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, and grandmothers – say it plainly: no one has the right to impose conditions, in our name, on women fleeing war. We will not accept the pain and suffering of people in need of our support being turned into fuel for political disputes. We will not allow the destruction of the trust on which community stands. This is a matter of national interest and of our common conscience. It is bridges – not walls – that turn neighbors into allies, and it is predictable and just law, together with the language of respect, that strengthens Poland’s security more than populist shouting from the podium.
Europe – and therefore we as well – has committed to continuity of protection for civilians fleeing aggression. It is our duty to keep that word. This means one thing: to confirm publicly, clearly, and without ambiguity that the families who trusted Poland will not wake up tomorrow in a legal vacuum; that no child will be punished because their parent does not have employment; that the language of power will not divide people into “ours” and “others.” For a child and their single mother, the law must be a shield, not a tool of coercion into loyalty and obedience. Politics must be service, not spectacle.
We call on you, who make the law and represent the Republic, to restore certainty of protection and to reject words that stigmatize instead of protect. Let the law serve people, not political games. Let Poland remain a home where a mother does not have to ask: “Where to now?” – because the answer will always be: “Stay in a country that keeps its word.”
This is not a dispute over legal technicalities. It is a question of the face of the Republic. Will it be a state of the word that is kept – or a state of words thrown to the wind? Will we stand on the side of mothers and children – or on the side of fear?
Signed: Polish women – mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, grandmothers.
As of today, the letter has been endorsed by over two thousand women from across Poland — among them three former First Ladies of the Republic of Poland, Nobel Prize laureate Olga Tokarczuk, and internationally acclaimed filmmaker Agnieszka Holland. Their voices stand alongside those of hundreds of other women — mothers, daughters, sisters, grandmothers — who have chosen to sign as a gesture of solidarity and moral responsibility.
The full list of signatories is available at the link below:
<frame>"More knowledge, less fear" is the slogan of our new publication series. Safety is based on facts, verified information, and solid arguments. The more we know, the better we will be prepared for the future. <frame>
Is Poland ready for a crisis? In an era of geopolitical uncertainty, the war in Ukraine, and rising tensions across Europe, education and societal organisation are crucial. By welcoming over a million Ukrainian refugees, Poland has not only gained new residents but also unique knowledge and experience from people who have learned civil protection under the harshest conditions—under bombs and rocket fire. This is capital that must not be wasted.
The new law on civil protection and civil defence, in force since January 1, is a concrete response to real threats. At the same time, it offers an opportunity for deeper integration, allowing Poles and Ukrainians living in Poland to prepare together for crises.
Poland has learned from the tragic events of recent years. The new law emphasises three key areas: modernising and constructing shelters and hiding places, improving alarm and notification systems, and launching widespread civic education to ensure every citizen has basic knowledge of how to act during a crisis. The context of the war in Ukraine makes this even more urgent.
Many Ukrainians living in Poland have priceless experience in civil protection - whether as survivors, organisers, or leaders of evacuation and shelter operations.
This is an opportunity Poland must not miss. When war strikes, no system is ever fully ready. What matters then is how effectively we can use what we already have.
What can serve as a shelter? A practical approach to civil protection begins with this question. Knowledge—that is our first "shelter"!
April 19, 2024 - Children entering a bomb shelter at the Perspectiva Gymnasium in Novovasylivka, Zaporizhzhia region, where classes are held in a hybrid format. Photo: Ukrinform/East News/Dmytro Smolienko
According to the new law, every basement, underground garage, or tunnel can serve as a hiding place. It’s worth taking a moment to look around and ask yourself, "What would I do in case of danger?"
It’s better to know in advance than to scramble during chaos.
Here, the experience of Ukrainians in Poland becomes invaluable. Those who have survived bomb alerts can share practical knowledge with Poles, including how to organise life in shelters, secure water and food supplies, address the psychological aspects of survival, and utilise mobile alert apps that have become critical tools in Ukraine. This is not theory. These are real-life experiences from people who face the consequences of war every single day. Their testimony is more valuable than any textbook could be.
Education in this field is the key to safety. Poland must harness the knowledge of Ukrainians and launch a wide educational campaign as soon as possible. According to the new law, local governments and fire services will play a central role in civil protection. However, in practice, the system will only function effectively if hundreds of thousands of people are involved.
Ukrainians who have faced real threats can become instructors, educators, and leaders of this change. NGOS are already playing a significant role in organising training for both Ukrainians and Poles.
This will benefit everyone. Polish municipalities urgently need practitioners who understand the realities of crises.
Every citizen on the front lines.
The new law places local governments in charge of implementing the civil protection system, meaning the battle for the effectiveness of this law will be fought where Poles and Ukrainians live nearby. It is essential to acknowledge that women played a vital role in Ukraine’s civil protection efforts, from rescue workers and volunteers to leaders of humanitarian organisations. They ensured survival amid chaos.
In Poland, too, women can become the driving force behind such changes, joining local governments, NGOS, and educational teams.
Is Poland ready for a crisis and civil protection?
Poland is better prepared today than it was a few years ago. The new law represents a significant step forward, but infrastructure alone will not be sufficient.
What will truly matter is the genuine engagement of citizens in education and crisis response, the effective application of Ukrainian experience, and practical cooperation among local governments, NGOS, and the central government.
Today, Poland is in a better situation than a few years ago. The new law is an important step, but one infrastructure is not enough. The real involvement of citizens in training and the elimination of the consequences of emergencies, the wise use of Ukrainians' experience and effective cooperation between local governments, organizations and the government will be crucial.
April 1, 2024 – Zaporizhzhia. Two workers in a new modular underground bomb shelter for 100 people, being built in the courtyard of a five-story residential building damaged by a Russian S-300 missile on October 6, 2022, now under repair. Photo: Ukrinform/East News/Dmytro Smolienko
This isn’t a Hollywood disaster movie scenario. It’s reality—a reality we must understand and prepare for. In the 21st century, security isn’t just about armies; it’s about conscious, organised societies. And building them starts with education—education based on facts, not fearmongering.
Security is our shared responsibility.
It’s not just the domain of the state. It’s not something the government can "provide" like a service. It’s something we build and give to each other. Of course, institutions, regulations, alarm systems, and shelters are vital. But what truly determines survival during a crisis is people—their relationships, willingness to help, ability to act under stress, and the awareness that, in challenging moments, we are not alone. Every one of us is part of the security system—from the teacher who teaches first aid, to the neighbour who knows the nearest shelter location, to the volunteer who helps newly arrived refugees adjust to a new reality.
The strength of a nation lies in the strength of its society—and society is strong when its members know they can count on one another.
In the past, those who realised that the best defence wasn’t walls or bunkers, but well-prepared, united people, were the ones who prevailed. In Ukraine, social mobilisation saved thousands of lives. In Poland, we have a chance to learn from this experience before a crisis forces us to.
Kaja Puto: History shows that war is an opportunity for the emancipation of women. During the Second World War, European women began to work in industries previously dominated by men, such as railways and the military sector. Are we witnessing something similar in Ukraine today?
Liliya Faskhutdinova: Undoubtedly. Sectors where men previously dominated are now lacking workforce, and more and more women are being employed in them. This is due to the fact that many men are fighting on the frontlines, and thousands have already died there. Some have also refused to work because they are hiding from mobilisation.
You can increasingly see women behind the wheel of a bus or truck, in a mine or on a construction site. However, I would not call this emancipation. Women in Ukraine have been economically active since Soviet times, as employment was mandatory then. After the collapse of the USSR, wages became too low to survive on one income. Therefore, I see it differently: the war has made society more open to women taking on more diverse roles in the labour market.
It also works the other way around, because some men have taken up jobs in sectors dominated by women, such as education. This protects them from conscription, as teachers are considered critically important to the state and are not subject to mobilisation. Perhaps this is not the noblest motivation, but likely some of these teachers will remain in the profession after the war. This could have a positive impact on the gender balance among staff in Ukrainian schools.
And what about politics? Women play a huge role in the Ukrainian volunteer community, which supports the army and state institutions. This community enjoys public trust, which may translate into political success after the war. Are new female leaders already emerging?
Undoubtedly, after the war, new faces will appear in politics, and among them will be volunteers. However, I am not certain that they will be primarily women. Society is aware of the enormous contribution they make to volunteering - helping to raise funds for military equipment, medical supplies and so on. A certain image of the female volunteer has been entrenched in the collective imagination: an older woman weaving camouflage nets for soldiers. However, she usually remains unnamed. In my view, the most recognisable volunteers are men. They are the ones most often awarded and interviewed, and whose faces are known.
Recently, I asked my acquaintances whether they could name any female volunteers. Almost no one could. But everyone knows Serhiy Prytula or Vasyl Baidak. War or no war - it is harder for women to be recognised. Nevertheless, the trend of female activism in Ukrainian politics is on the rise. In the 2000s, women accounted for less than 10 per cent of parliamentarians, now it is over 20 per cent. This may be helped by the quotas introduced in 2019 in electoral lists. We have not had the opportunity to verify this, as no elections have taken place since the Russian invasion, except for local government elections.
A woman walks past sandbags installed for protection against Russian shelling in central Kyiv, Ukraine, Tuesday, June 7th 2022. Photo: AP Photo/Efrem Lukatsky, APTOPIX
Quotas were introduced to bring Ukrainian legislation closer to EU standards in the field of women's rights. Is this argument still convincing for Ukrainian society?
Yes. Ukrainians generally have an idealistic view of the West and want to be part of it. This makes it easier to promote progressive values. Tolerance towards LGBTQI+ people is growing - for many Ukrainians, it seems, precisely because they want to be Europeans. They do not want to resemble Russians, who persecute homosexuals and at the same time decriminalise domestic violence.
We have discussed positive trends that give hope for progress in the field of Ukrainian women's rights. Unfortunately, war also brings dangers in this area.
What do you mean?
There is a risk that when men return from war, they will be so revered that women will be expected to forgive them everything, to show gratitude, to bear them children, even more so than before. In the traditional image, a woman is a protectress, a caring goddess, a martyr who patiently endures all the hardships of family life.
In my parents’ generation, many women supported their husbands even if they abused alcohol. They called their decisions care and responsibility
In Poland, this is the «matka Polka», who «carries her cross». Fortunately, this model is receding into the past.
In Ukraine, it had also begun to fade. But then the war came, and everything became more complicated. Men returning from war find it difficult to reintegrate into reality. They have seen death and cruelty, many suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, some are prone to violence.
To this are added broken bonds. Long months on the frontline mean that you often feel a stronger connection with your comrades in the trenches than with your family. After returning, this can ruin your relationship with your wife. Mistrust and jealousy arise, suspicions such as: «You cheated while I was gone». I know cases where men at the start of the war wanted their women to go abroad, but now treat them as traitors.
It is hard for me to talk about this. I am infinitely grateful to all the soldiers who are defending my country. If they behave inappropriately as a result of their experiences - I know it is not their fault. My heart breaks when I think about what they have endured.
This is the fault of Russia, which invaded your country.
Yes, it is the fault of the aggressor. But we, Ukraine, cannot allow their suffering to cause additional suffering for women and children. We all suffer, men and women, and many of us will have psychological problems for the rest of our lives.
The war will also leave its mark on future generations. The task of the Ukrainian state, as well as Ukrainian society, is to mitigate these terrible consequences
Are you not afraid that such a campaign may be perceived negatively? Already during the war, Ukrzaliznytsia introduced women-only compartments on night trains. This provoked the outrage of many men: «We are risking our lives for you, and you make us out to be predators?»
Of course, it will be met with resistance. Not only from men, but also from women, especially those whose husbands are fighting or have already returned from the front. Many problems in the army are already very difficult to talk about - gratitude to soldiers makes them taboo topics. However, if we truly want to be a European rule-of-law state, we must learn to find solutions for these uncomfortable problems.
A woman with her daughter waits for a train, trying to leave Kyiv, Ukraine, Thursday, February 24th 2022. Photo: AP Photo/Emilio Morenatti, APTOPIX
What problems do you mean?
For example, sexual harassment in the army. I am not saying this is a widespread issue, but such cases do occur, and they must be condemned. When, at the beginning of the Russian invasion, a victim of such violence publicly shared her experience, some people responded very critically. They accused her of discrediting the Ukrainian armed forces and implied that women join the army to find a boyfriend. Fortunately, after three years of full-scale war, it has become somewhat easier to talk about problems. We no longer censor ourselves as we did at the beginning.
How can the state help veterans?
Helping veterans is one part - they need psychological support, as well as comprehensive programmes to facilitate their reintegration into civilian life. For some, it would be good to receive a grant to start their own business (such programmes already exist), while others need help with employment. We must not allow war veterans to sit idle at home. This also applies to those who became disabled on the frontlines.
However, support is also needed for families. When a soldier returns from war, they bear a huge burden. They do not know what to expect or how to respond. Moreover, I believe a campaign should be directed specifically at women along the lines of: «You have the right to leave, even if your husband is a hero». Nothing justifies living with an abuser.
Nevertheless, the position of Ukrainian servicewomen has generally improved since 2014...
Yes, absolutely. Previously, they could hardly hold combat positions. They fought on the frontlines, but were officially, for example, cooks. Today, such cases are exceptions. Ukrainian servicewomen are appreciated on a symbolic level too - Defender of Ukraine Day, celebrated on 1 October, has been renamed Defender and Defendress of Ukraine Day. The Ministry of Defence acknowledges the contribution of servicewomen to the country’s defence, and stories like «beautiful women make our service more pleasant» are, fortunately, heard less and less in the media. However, it is still difficult for women in the army to be promoted to leadership positions.
A serious problem also concerns homosexual relationships among servicewomen. They are not recognised by the Ukrainian state. When your partner is wounded or taken prisoner, you will not be informed. When she dies, you cannot see her body.
When a biological mother dies, her partner has no rights to the child. This also applies to male military personnel, except that more children are raised in lesbian partnerships
Alright, but ultimately it is men in the army who face greater discrimination - unlike women, they are forcibly conscripted. Thus, they are deprived of their right to life and health, the fundamental human right...
I often hear this narrative from foreigners. It annoys me just as much as when our defenders are told that «killing people is wrong». Of course, it is wrong, but what are we supposed to do? For those who are not confronted daily with a threat to life, it is easy to theorise and criticise our decisions, and harder to offer alternatives. Surrender to Russia? Send everyone to the frontlines? Draw lots to decide which parent ends up in the army? How will we protect children and the elderly then? Who will work to keep the economy going?
Female volunteers of the women's mobile air defence group «Buchan Witches» undergo combat training in the Bucha area near Kyiv, Ukraine, Saturday, August 3rd 2024. The «Buchan Witches» group operates in the Bucha district to shoot down Russian drones approaching Kyiv. Photo: AP Photo/Efrem Lukatsky
Women, unlike men, were legally allowed to leave Ukraine.
This, in turn, is a huge challenge for the Ukrainian sisterhood. Tension has arisen between the women who left and those who stayed. Some of us blame each other: «You abandoned your country in its time of need, you ran away, you betrayed us». Or: «You stayed, you are ruining your children’s lives».
This is very sad to me. I believe everyone has the right to make the decision they think is best for their family. It is a tragic choice, because every decision is wrong in some way. This tension harms Ukraine because some refugee women may not want to return home because of it. I know women who left, and their families stopped speaking to them.
And will they be accepted back?
I think that when the war ends, this tension will subside, and people will begin to live new lives. But for many refugee women, this will be a reason not to return to Ukraine.
Are you not afraid that the negative impact of the war on the rights of Ukrainian women will outweigh the positive?
I do not know. I am an optimist, I hope the positive will prevail. But I assess the chances as fifty-fifty.
How has the war changed you as a feminist?
Before the full-scale war began, I would have said that above all, I am a woman. Nothing was more important to me in terms of my identity. Today I say that I am Ukrainian. War unites nationality more than anything else. If you do not know war, you will never understand it.
<frame>Liliya «Lila» Faskhutdinova is a feminist and human rights activist with ten years of experience in civil society, anti-discrimination programmes and gender equality advocacy. She received a bachelor's degree in philology from the Sorbonne and a master's degree in human rights from the University of Padua. She has worked with Syrian refugees in Turkey, internally displaced persons in Ukraine, people living with HIV, LGBTQI+ individuals and women. She currently lives in Lviv, where she is working on a women’s empowerment project at an international humanitarian organisation.<frame>
At around four o’clock in the morning, the first whistle of a missile echoed over Fedorivka. It flew so low that Oleksandra’s small dacha trembled. The dogs sprang to their feet, and she immediately understood - it had begun.
The first days of the Russian invasion in this small town in the Kyiv region were shrouded in a fog of chaos. The Russians advanced, seizing more and more territory with every passing hour. They moved forward from the Belarusian border, through Chornobyl, directly towards Kyiv. People fled their homes in panic, seeking safety, though no one truly knew where safety could be found. Shops emptied of food and anything that could provide warmth.
But Sasha had only one thought - there were over three thousand dogs in the shelter that needed feeding.
- I quickly ran out of petrol, so I walked through the nearby villages in search of food. I was away for a long time. When I returned, one of the shelter workers told me in horror that the Russians had entered. They were walking between the enclosures with automatic rifles, digging in. They set up a checkpoint on the road. He forbade me from going there. But I knew that our colleague, who had recently suffered a second heart attack, was still inside the shelter. My beloved pets were there. The adrenaline hit me so hard that I simply rushed towards the Russian checkpoint.
Dogs of war
Animals had always surrounded Oleksandra Mezinova. It was her parents who taught her respect and love for «our lesser brethren». Not only local strays but also wild, wounded animals seeking refuge would come to her family home near Kyiv. They treated them and returned them to the forest. They helped all creatures, regardless of condition or origin. They raised puppies and kittens before finding them homes. Oleksandra clearly remembers that receiving a puppy or kitten as a gift from her mother, a respected and beloved teacher at the school, was considered an honour.
When Oleksandra grew up, she realised she wanted to create a place that could provide shelter for a greater number of animals. A systematic solution - a real shelter, one that had not yet existed in Ukraine. At the time, she did not even know what it should be called, as such places had not existed in the Soviet Union.
The long road to its creation was filled with mistakes and successes. But finally, in October 2000, «Sirius» was founded
- I really like this star - it is bright and beautiful. I love astronomy. Along with history, it was my favourite subject in school. And my mother, a history teacher, told me a beautiful legend about Sirius, Orion’s dog. His master was fatally bitten by a scorpion, and he turned into a star along with him. Today, the bright Sirius shines in the sky in the constellation of the Great Dog.
Oleksandra Mezinova with her beloved pets. Photo from a private archive
The first to arrive was Nika, a dog with a broken leg. Although everything starts with just one dog, «Sirius» grows very quickly. For the first three years, everything is funded from the family budget, with a young son also in the picture. The beginning was difficult, but Oleksandra’s persistence - inherited from her mother - carried her through. More and more animals arrived at the shelter, more volunteers joined, and the work multiplied. The first sponsors appeared, helping to build her dream - a real shelter.
At the end of 2013, the Revolution of Dignity erupted. Quite unexpectedly, in a single night, Oleksandra’s son decided to switch to the Ukrainian language, and when Maidan began, he travelled to Kyiv with his father to stand on the barricades. Sasha could not leave the shelter but tried to be an active participant by bringing food to the protesters. At that time, Oleksandra did not yet know that the events on Independence Square would have such a profound impact on her shelter for homeless animals.
When the war in Donbas began a few months later, many of Oleksandra’s friends volunteered for the army and went to the ATO zone. They turned out to be highly sensitive to the unfair situation of animals, whose numbers grew daily along the front line. The first person they turned to was Oleksandra. This marked the beginning of a chain of aid created by volunteers working in Donbas, «Sirius» shelter staff and soldiers transporting animals from frontline villages to their new, safe home in Fedorivka.
None of us believed there would be a full-scale war
Oleksandra recalls that by December 2021, there was increasing talk that war was inevitable. A real, full-scale war. But no one believed that in the 21st century, in Europe, a neighbour could be attacked with such force. On December 5th, on the occasion of International Volunteer Day, President Zelensky presented awards. Although Oleksandra received the «Order of Princess Olga», what stood out most from that evening was his tense and stressed expression.
- He said that if it happened, we would all stand together, side by side. I remember it felt dissonant. Although I did not want to believe it, it worried me, and I could not stop thinking about it. I even considered stockpiling food just in case... But people reassured me, saying that nothing would happen. And when I heard the first whistle of missiles overhead, I realised I had made a terrible mistake in trusting them and not taking precautions.
First, she heard the war. At dawn, there was the whistle of missiles flying towards Kyiv. It woke her and her ten animals - dogs and cats. Everything around them trembled, the windowpanes vibrated, and her small dacha shook. Frightened dogs huddled together, and Oleksandra had only one thought: the war had begun. Thousands of thoughts swarmed in her mind, merging with images from the Second World War. She thought of bomb shelters, of the panic that was about to begin, of missiles soon to fall on Fedorivka, of chaos, of fleeing crowds, of kilometre-long traffic jams on the roads.
- I sat on the sofa, the dogs trembled, and I thought about how to evacuate 3500 animals. And suddenly, I told myself: «Sasha, stop. Wrap up. Start making a plan immediately. Point one: food»
The territory of the «Sirius» shelter. Photo from a private archive
Early in the morning, she set out in her car to visit the nearest villages. She entered shops, asked neighbours, and loaded her car with anything the dogs could eat. But after a day and a half, powerful explosions echoed - the bridges were blown up, the Russians surrounded the village, making escape impossible for those who remained. Complete isolation began. The explosions grew louder and louder, and Oleksandra began to pray that the missiles would not strike the village or the shelter. She knew that nineteen people had remained - staff members and volunteers who had come from distant regions and had nowhere to flee. She also did not know how much time they had left or how the Russians would approach them. People said the Russians would enter the village and shoot them all on sight. She found out only hours later when a shelter worker pulled her out of her panicked thoughts - the soldiers had just entered the shelter's territory.
- All I heard was that under no circumstances should I go there, that I had to hide. Military equipment had arrived, they were digging in, and there were many of them. They were running around the shelter with automatic rifles, while people had been herded into a tiny room guarded by a soldier with a gun. I immediately said that there was no other way, that I was running to the shelter - what about the people, what about my dogs? I heard that the Russians were aggressive and would kill me.
Sasha, together with the daughter of the manager who had recently suffered a second heart attack, set off running through the village. Adrenaline pounded in Sasha’s temples. From afar, it was already clear that the soldiers had quickly built trenches, and a camouflaged tank stood inside a dugout. There was also a checkpoint, flanked by soldiers with rifles, their barrels aimed directly at them. They slowed their pace and started walking towards them. When, twenty metres from the checkpoint, a soldier reloaded his weapon, they stopped and took their hands out of their pockets to show they were unarmed.
- I started shouting that my name was Oleksandra, that I was the director of the shelter located just beyond them, and that I needed to get there. They replied that no one was going anywhere and that we had to go home. I shouted that my people and my animals were there, but they only shook their heads in refusal. I demanded to be taken to their commander.
Something akin to madness took over her mind - she no longer cared whether or not they would start shooting. She saw her goal before her, oblivious to any obstacles. The Russians must have noticed it - her eyes burned with determination, she was furious, she was not backing down. With a nod of a gun barrel, they signalled her to follow them.
The commander was aggressive, but Sasha ignored it. She started talking about the shelter, about the people, about the shortage of food. She stated outright that she intended to drive through their checkpoint several times a day as she searched the surrounding areas for food for the animals.
Volunteers with their canine friends. Photo from a private archive
- At the end of my speech, he burst into laughter. He asked if I really thought I had come here to set conditions. Had I really come to an armed position, stood before him, counted on my fingers what I needed, and expected him to give it to me? He had never seen anything like it before. And perhaps, that is exactly what worked.
He agreed but noted that any vehicle passing through would be inspected each time and that he would personally visit the shelter to check whether she was telling the truth. As we left him and walked towards the shelter, I felt a tingling sensation in my spine - I was almost certain that I would be shot in the back.
When they reached the shelter, they saw terrified staff. The Russians had lined them up and ordered them to surrender their phones so that no one could contact the outside world or relay any information to the Ukrainian army. Not everyone obeyed. When they found a hidden phone, they threw the previously confiscated ones onto the ground and demonstratively shot at them, nearly hitting the workers’ feet.
The vanishing voices
When someone enters the shelter and walks along the rows of enclosures, whether they come to adopt a pet or bring food, the residents erupt in noise. Dogs bark, howl and exchange signals. One can only imagine the racket caused by more than three thousand dogs all at once. Oleksandra always warns visitors not to run between the rows, as it only agitates them further, and the canine uproar carries for kilometres.
- The Russian soldiers entered the shelter armed, aggressive, ready to kill. They ran between the rows and among the dogs... and the dogs fell silent. They simply froze and stared at them. To this day, I do not understand what happened, not even cynologists can explain this phenomenon. When I left the shelter and walked through the village, someone asked me: so, Sasha, did they shoot all your dogs?
At that moment, a deathly silence, unlike anything she had ever experienced before, settled into her consciousness. It was only after liberation that it became clear this reaction had saved the dogs’ lives. After de-occupation, dog owners who had lost their pets - once adopted from «Sirius» - came to the shelter searching for them. There were cases where Russian soldiers, upon hearing a dog bark, would throw a grenade over the fence. They might not have even seen the dog, but they fired blindly to silence it. Many animals were killed this way near Kyiv. But inside the shelter, the silence lasted until the occupation ended.
Sometimes, the dogs howled when they heard a missile or an aircraft flying overhead, but then they would hide in their kennels, curling up - hungry and frightened
- I had a habit with the dogs where I would extend my hand through the fence, and they would push their nose or paw through, and that is how we greeted each other. During the occupation, I also had to walk around the shelter often, checking if everything was all right. I did not want to do it - I could not bear to look at the dogs. Then I learned not to look them in the eyes because, a few times, I extended my hand as always, but they did not understand. They were so hungry, and I was offering them an empty hand... I saw the question in their eyes: where is the food? Why are you treating us like this? The pain tore my heart apart. Today, I think that was the most terrifying and difficult task for me. Even speaking with the Russians was not such a nightmare.
But encounters with Russian army soldiers were far from pleasant. What did it matter that, thanks to the commander, they were allowed to cross the checkpoints daily if the soldiers emerged with raised guns and fury in their eyes? The moment the car window rolled down was a daily test of psychological endurance. One never knew what might set them off that day. Over time, the Russians became increasingly bitter, as their «three-day special military operation» was not going as planned. The soldiers started drinking, taking drugs, and often tormenting people without reason-causing both moral and physical harm.
Oleksandra Mezinova. Photo from a private archive
A particularly difficult moment came when He stood at the checkpoint. Always masked, mysterious, and often reeking of alcohol. Someone in the village had told him that Oleksandra sang beautifully, and since then, he would not leave her alone. He liked her as a woman, making checkpoint crossings a psychological nightmare for her.
- He started calling me Prima Donna. Today, I laugh about it, but it was horrifying. Whenever he saw me in the car, he would bow deeply and say: «Prima Donna, please, please, you are most welcome». Then he decided they would organise a concert where I would sing.
Sasha was to sing for the Russian soldiers. A concert for them in the occupied territory. She immediately understood that ultimately, she could not refuse him because if she did, it might be the last decision she ever made. Though she had struggled with sleep since the invasion began, by then, she was no longer sleeping at all. She constantly had headaches, a racing heartbeat, and dark spots before her eyes. She started thinking about escaping through the forest, knowing that the «boys from the ATO» were there. But if she ran, she would never return here, the animals would starve to death, and everything she had done so far would be lost and wasted. And in that moment, too, she heard growling. Her voice became low, her throat tightened so much that she could barely speak.
She was like a sleepwalker in a nightmare that refused to end. Sasha tried to explain to the masked soldier that her voice was hoarse, that the stress had robbed her of it entirely, and that she could not sing
- One day, I told him: you are not a fool. I am Ukrainian - how can I possibly give you a concert? And in response, he once again invited me for champagne. He insisted that I was so understanding and that he could talk to me about interesting things. That champagne of theirs had likely been stolen from some shop. They were drinking expensive French champagne while occupying my city. I was afraid that one day, this could end very badly for me - when he got drunk, and I refused him again. I started avoiding confrontation in the evenings, hiding in the darkness in the back seat of the car.
In isolation
Information from the outside world rarely reached Fedorivka. Sometimes, text messages came through - even strangers would ask Oleksandra if she was still alive. The local residents knew little about what was happening in the country, about what was happening on the frontline. To contact relatives meant taking a deadly risk. There were only a few places in the village where a radio signal could be found. Sometimes, just sending a simple «I am alive» message was enough, but occasionally, it was even possible to make a brief phone call. The Russians must have received information from someone in the village because they quickly found these locations and began setting up ambushes. They would arrive in civilian cars when no one expected them, jumping out with weapons. One time, even Sasha was caught.
- I was standing with a friend, and there was another woman talking to her son on the phone. When I saw them approaching, I hid mine in my shoe. But one of them noticed. He knew who I was, of course. I was incredibly lucky because he pretended not to see anything. The woman, on the other hand, had her phone confiscated, and she fell into hysterics. She began shouting that it was her only way to contact her son, who... was serving in our army.
One of the soldiers immediately reloaded his weapon, convinced that she was passing on secret information to the Ukrainian Armed Forces. The woman's hysteria irritated them even more. Oleksandra sensed that a tragedy was about to unfold. She decided to approach them and, in a calm voice, said: «Look at her. She is just a simple village woman. What could she possibly know? She is only talking to her child. Does a mother not worry about you?» Then, by some miracle, her life was spared, but Oleksandra never saw her again.
Nor did she ever see the soldier who had lied, pretending he had not seen her hide the phone in her shoe. One morning, at dawn, she drove up to the checkpoint and saw the Russians hurriedly loading all their belongings into vehicles. They were clearly racing against time.
A life saved. Photo from a private archive
- I stopped, rolled down the window, and asked: «Where are you going, boys? Finally heading home?» I said it mockingly, as I always liked to provoke them a little. But they replied that they were going to Donbas. They were furious.
When the Russians fled and the occupation ended, volunteers from all over the world, including Poland, arrived in Fedorivka and the surrounding villages. Although Oleksandra welcomed them, gave interviews, and showed many people the shelter, something strange was happening in her mind. She understood that the occupation was over, but her body, her thoughts, her behaviour were still trapped there. Sasha even stopped at the checkpoints that no longer existed. She lived in this tension for another three months while the world's attention was still focused on this region - after all, Bucha and Irpin, less than fifty kilometres away, were making headlines in newspapers around the world. Volunteers and journalists were already on-site, and local residents were returning.
One morning, Oleksandra woke up and realised that today she had nowhere to go. No interviews, no need to run for food for the animals. And suddenly - all the commotion disappeared. In one second, she realised that she was finally free. Only one thing did not return to its place. Oleksandra cleared her throat loudly.
- I do not know, maybe one day my voice will come back to me. Maybe one day I will sing again, because I love singing. Maybe that will happen when the occupation ends - but across my entire country.
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