Real support, not applause for resilience and steadfastness

Surely, for religious people the phrase “listen to the sky” is filled with uplift and sounds almost like a biblical injunction to listen to God and His voice that guides life. But in Kherson region, on the frontline territory, spoken at a time of war by a Catholic priest and head of the Caritas Kherson charity foundation, this phrase took on a literal meaning. To listen to the sky means to hear in time whether an enemy drone is approaching.

I travel on assignments not often. But being “in the fields” is extremely important; otherwise what happens is what is called “detachment from context.” In my work, to advocate for aid to Ukrainians among international partners and donors, I must understand and see the situation with my own eyes. And now I am convinced that the humanitarian crisis in Ukraine, to great sorrow, is far from over. Paradoxically, this all-encompassing misfortune continues against the backdrop of a flourishing and life-giving Ukrainian land. Traveling among fields sprinkled with red poppies, purple and white flowers, was incredibly joyful. But we moved under anti-drone nets. And the village where we stopped to put on body armor a few days later suffered shelling — people died.

The crisis peeks out even in those cities that seemed to have adapted and revived. For example, Mykolaiv — its central street is crowded, cafes operate, music plays. Yet I could not shake the sense that the city, while it breathes, still bears wounds that have not healed. Kherson region felt different. In Berislav we spoke with colleagues who themselves endured occupation — some 8 months, some longer. After de-occupation there was euphoria. Then constant shelling began. People live here at risk even now — each in their own way.

Residents of coastal villages have no choice: some walk through abandoned houses next to neighbors and collect remnants of supplies and humanitarian kits once issued to those who dared and managed to evacuate. Some reach registration points for monetary assistance by wandering forest paths because the official road is blocked by a checkpoint. And when they say here, “We are surviving,” they are not exaggerating.

During this assignment I finally settled on the view that the words “resilience” and “unyielding”, as they are often used to describe people in frontline territories, frequently replace an honest talk about having no options. People don’t leave because they are especially brave, hardened, or deeply attached to their land. They stay because of a dead end. They usually have no money to move, nowhere to relocate to, no certainty that someone needs them somewhere, that they will be welcomed and helped. Calling them “resilient” is convenient but unfair. They do not need glory; they need evacuation and prospects. State social support would be extremely helpful for them. Instead, what is common is that they must rely more on humanitarian workers. And the monetary assistance prioritized here in this region, which we launched with the IOM, is intended exactly for them — residents of frontline communities, newly relocated families, and households directly affected by shelling.

After visiting Zelenivka, just a few 4 kilometers from war-torn Kherson, we returned to the hotel almost at midnight. I was struck by the family warmth with which we were received. I was moved by the bitter human stories from Velyka Oleksandrivka and Zelenivka. I could not fall asleep for a long time. Finally I opened my laptop and wrote to our donor partners — asked about next steps in our work. What I saw with my own eyes became the most convincing argument one can make: people need help. And personal help, such as money for food, medicines, firewood for winter, and so on. And at the community level — for rebuilding infrastructure. We must help people not just survive physically, but also try to create conditions in which they do not lose the will to live.

One day we drove out to the highway toward Simferopol. That road sign is well known to me: my grandfather and grandmother moved from Kostyantynivka to Crimea. We last were there after the occupation, in the 2016 year — we had to visit them and other relatives. With the start of the full-scale invasion our communication stopped. And only now, perhaps, for the first time in all this time, I feel pity and bitterness, as if you could just turn and go to Simferopol. But you really cannot.

Pain, anger, confusion were with me almost daily. But at the same time there was a strong gratitude to people who, despite abnormal, inhumane circumstances, work and help one another. So much understanding, so much strength, so much love. We cannot abandon these people. Crises are not visible unless you look from afar. The crisis has dozens of manifestations and thousands of human faces. Therefore aid remains as relevant as in the first months of the full-scale invasion. Perhaps even more.