“I heard some whistling, then the rockets,” recalls Oleksandra, a Kyiv resident. “I only had time to grab my cat, laptop, and camera before seeking shelter in the corridor.” Minutes later, her apartment building in the Shevchenkivskyi district was struck, forcing her to escape through a first-floor window.
In July 2024, Oleksandra became one of thousands of Ukrainians whose homes have been damaged or destroyed by Russian strikes.
Out of the 15 residents in her building, only five remained after the attack. Despite evident structural damage, including a tilted wall, bureaucratic hurdles complicated her pursuit of assistance. “The district administration tried to help, but according to their records, they couldn’t confirm whether the building was destroyed, despite verbal agreements,” she explains.
The path to this moment began years earlier. Born and raised in Kyiv, Oleksandra witnessed her city’s transformation from the 2014 Euromaidan protests to today’s full-scale war. Though her mother forbade her from joining the protests, she remembers visiting Maidan afterward: “Everything was burned.”
The days before the 2022 invasion remain vivid in her memory. “In February 2022, I took a picture of me, my mother, and her friends. Everyone thought everything was going to be okay.” Despite relatives urging her to flee to Chernivtsi or Poland, her attachment to Kyiv proved stronger. After a brief two-month displacement, she returned: “I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay.”
Today, Oleksandra, who studied at the Agricultural University of Kyiv and works as an administrative assistant, finds strength in community solidarity. “These are people who support each other, who resist. After shelling, many buildings were destroyed. People try to help each other, cleaning broken glass. Many volunteers helped me when I had to clean my building.”
Her involvement in cultural festivals, including the Kyiv BookFest and the Kyiv International Short Film Festival, along with her photography hobby, offers glimpses of normalcy amid war. Yet the conflict has transformed everyday life and relationships. “I had Russian friends from St. Petersburg, who used to be supportive. They were like brothers to me – not anymore.”
The war has intensified questions of cultural identity, particularly regarding language. Though perfectly bilingual like many in central Ukraine, Oleksandra represents a nuanced view on the language debate: “It’s okay to know Russian, but I believe we should be speaking more Ukrainian.” Her perspective on cultural heritage remains measured. “Some books aren’t bad to read, like Pushkin. It’s history. We can’t change it all. If we don’t know history, we can’t learn from mistakes.”
Oleksandra expresses mixed feelings about international support. While frustrated by weapons delivery delays from Western allies – “The US and the EU often have big delays when it comes to weapons” – she finds hope in individual acts of solidarity: “Some of my American friends repaired drones for a friend. I find it amazing. These people aren’t egoistic, they aren’t blind.”
Her message to those abroad, particularly those questioning support for Ukraine, is direct: “Just come to Ukraine. I’ll show you. Go to Maidan, and go to the flags [which represent the victims]. Just see ’20 Days in Mariupol.’ I think this film shows everything.”
Like many Ukrainians, she insists on the restoration of Ukraine’s 1991 borders, including Crimea, Donbas, and Luhansk: “If we give these regions to Russia, they will consolidate and continue to attack. This is why we need them back.”
Living through missile strikes, bureaucratic battles, and daily uncertainties, Oleksandra’s story mirrors the broader Ukrainian experience – one of profound loss transformed into determined resistance. As she continues her life in a partially destroyed building, her narrative reveals how ordinary Ukrainians have adapted to extraordinary circumstances, finding strength not just in military resistance, but in the quiet determination to remain, rebuild, and resist – one day at a time.
