Portraits from Ukraine: “This cannot be called life”

“This cannot be called life,” said 80-year-old Olena, as she reflected on the past four years of the ongoing war in Ukraine. 

We met Olena earlier this month at a humanitarian hub in Kherson, where she had come to receive bread and hygiene supplies delivered earlier that morning. Outside, distant shelling interrupted the fragile quiet.

“It is not life when every day, every moment, there is shooting and you are frightened. It feels like there is a ‘hunt for people’ with drones, a human safari,” - she said. “Is that life? No.”

And yet, Olena wakes up to meet every morning. She makes breakfast for herself and her daughter. She waits for news from her family. It is her daily ritual which she helps her hold on.

For families in Kherson and other front-line communities, survival has become an act of quiet endurance.

The first year 

Before Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022, Olena and her husband had built a quiet, steady life in a close-knit neighbourhood in Kherson. They worked hard, raised three children and gradually built homes for them nearby. Their children remained close. The grandchildren grew up within walking distance. Sundays meant family gatherings. The future felt predictable.

That world collapsed in March 2022, when Russian forces occupied parts of Kherson, including their neighbourhood. Electricity, water, mobile communication — everything stopped. Checkpoints appeared. Armed men patrolled the streets. People stayed indoors, speaking in whispers, measuring each movement against fear.

When Ukrainian forces de-occupied the city in November 2022, relief swept through the streets. There were tears, embraces, disbelief. For a moment, hope returned.

But Kherson never truly left the front line.

The city lies on the western bank of the Dnipro River; Russian-controlled territory begins immediately across the water. In some places, only one to three kilometres — the width of the river — separate the two sides. Artillery and drones can reach within minutes.

The second year

In early 2023, Olena recalled, "the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation began shelling the city with white phosphorus munitions." In July, one of the shells struck the street where she lived. Her older son, Volodymyr, who lived nearby, managed to extinguish the flames in her home, his own, and in three neighbours’ houses whose owners had fled after the full-scale invasion.

In June, the destruction of the Kakhovka Dam shook the entire Kherson Region. Although their home was not directly flooded, the disaster devastated communities across the region and beyond, forcing many families to leave and disrupting water supply, agriculture and daily life.

Third year

In 2024, the fighting intensified again. Shelling returned with force. Homes were damaged. Sirens became routine. After repeated mass shelling, gas pipelines were damaged and electricity lines were torn apart. There was no gas, no power. They had to cook food over an open fire in the yard.

“Life turned into hell,” Olena recalled.

That same year, tragedy struck again. Her older son, who had lost his wife earlier, died at the age of 55 after his heart gave out. An ambulance never came — it was too dangerous for medics to enter the area. Even on the day of the funeral, the family was not allowed to go to the cemetery because of constant drone attacks.

Soon after, Olena’s daughter and her grandchild were hospitalized.

When they were discharged and returning home in early December, another drone struck. The munition was dropped on their car just 100 metres from their gate. They survived — but after everything they had endured, they made the decision to leave.

Fourth year

Thanks to volunteers, Olena and her daughter found an apartment in another part of Kherson. In early February, heating pipes burst, and they have been without heating since. The windows are shattered and boarded up. This winter, temperatures dropped to minus 20°C. 

Olena’s husband chose to remain in their damaged home without proper heating. The house now has no heating, electricity or communication. Windows, doors, the roof and walls have been damaged by repeated strikes. Repairs only lasted until the next attack, and materials can no longer be delivered. Inside, temperatures have dropped below zero. 

He has maintained: “I built this house with my own hands. How can I just leave it?”

Fifth year

Today, Olena lives in a rented apartment in Kherson with her daughter. Their pension barely covers expenses. 

“I don’t mourn the loss of property,” Olena’s daughter said. “I mourn the people the war has taken. Everything else can be rebuilt. But lives cannot be returned.” 

She added that she stayed to care for her parents and continue her work as a civil servant, despite the risks.

“Everything we built over a lifetime is gone,” Olena said. “It is hard, very hard.”

Surviving with support

“If it were not for humanitarian aid, we would not have survived,” Olena said matter-of-factly.

Across front-line regions, humanitarian partners provide food, cash assistance, medicines, psychosocial support and emergency repairs of homes. 

Four years into the full-scale invasion — and nearly 12 years since conflict began in eastern Ukraine — an estimated 10.8 million people remain in need of humanitarian assistance.

Under the 2026 Humanitarian Needs and Response Plan, humanitarian organizations aim to support millions of the most vulnerable people across Ukraine with life-saving assistance and protection services. 

For families living within range of artillery and drones, war is measured in sleepless nights and shattered homes. “This is not life,” Olena repeated as if to herself.

And yet, every morning, she gets up. To meet a new day.

By Viktoriia Andriievska, UNOCHA