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Those who stayed: Stories of Ukrainians who refuse to leave their war-torn towns and villages
Three-and-a-half years into Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, some civilians refuse to leave their homes — even in cities that have been almost completely destroyed. Some don’t have the means to relocate, some can’t bring themselves to abandon the place where they’ve lived their whole lives, and some remain out of principle. The Insider spoke with residents of shattered towns about what it means to survive in a place where almost nothing is left.
Contents- 1.“The roofs were blown off, rockets lay in the gardens. But nobody left”
- 2.“Friends came back and were blown up by mines”
- 3.“Under artillery fire, no one wanted to help bury my husband”
- 4.“Lyman used to be a quiet, green town. Now there’s no Lyman anymore”
- 5.“I’m small and skinny — they can’t hit me”
- 6.“The soldiers come and go, but the grandmothers are always here”
- 7.“Kramatorsk now is a city of old people and soldiers”
- 8.“People aren’t tired of the war — they’ve just gotten used to it”
- 9.“Nowhere is really safe. So it’s better to stay among your own people”
- 10.“People leave and abandon their pets, but I take care of them here”
- 11.“I’ve lost my home twice already — this time I won’t give it up”
- 12.“When I left Bakhmut, I knew I was seeing the city for the last time”
“The roofs were blown off, rockets lay in the gardens. But nobody left”
Valentyna, village of Parnovate, Kharkiv region
Russian soldiers came into our village on the very first day — February 24. Right up until that moment, we didn’t believe the war would actually reach us. Then they started shooting. It felt like they just kept pouring in endlessly, crawling in like beetles. There’s no way to put that horror into words.
In other villages they just passed through, but here they stayed. Planes flew over our homes constantly, from morning till night. We heard stories of men who barged into houses and gunned down elderly people. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that in our village.
Still, there were plenty of strikes — roofs torn apart, rockets scattered across gardens. And yet, from the very beginning, no one left. Everyone here is local, people who’ve lived here all their lives. The old women especially are tough, hardened, already marked by war and hunger in their past.
Izium, Kharkiv region
Then we were liberated. The sappers came in, cleared everything out, and demined the fields. Farmers were worried they wouldn’t be able to sow them, so the guys worked hard, did what they could.
Now, in the village, there are five grandmothers left, all around 85–86 years old, and two families with kids. There’s no store, no pharmacy. The nearest pharmacy is in Buhaivka — fifteen kilometers from here. They say they might organize a bus to Izium, where at least you can go to the hospital. But even getting there is scary.
We’re not planning to leave. My grandmother is very old. Where could I take her? Local volunteers bring us aid once a day. Bread is handed out for free. For now, we’re not short of food. We just pray for peace.
“Friends came back and were blown up by mines”
Roman and Yulia, Izium, Kharkiv region
Why are we still here? The main reason is that there’s no work in other cities, even if it might be safer somewhere else. Here, at least, we have housing and a small income from our business. We run a children’s clothing store. Starting something like that in another city would be difficult.
In 2022, it was very hard. We didn’t understand what was happening at all. And then, when the first planes began flying over, it became terrifying: you’d be standing there, and the school nearby was hit — smoke rising. That’s when we decided to leave, taking the risk. I remember rescuers stopped us on the way out and said, “If you make it out, you make it out. If not — that’s it.”
When we left, we only took documents and a heater. Financially, I we were dirt poor — 5,000 hryvnias ($121) on a bank card, and that was all. No work, nothing. From March to June we lived on that money. But we managed to feed ourselves. We found a house in a village, planted a garden. We grew a harvest there and later brought it back to Izium. It was a good year for crops. Working the land was tough, but it helped keep us from breaking down — some people start drinking, some lose their minds.
We helped the church, and the church helped us. We still keep in touch with the pastor. When there was a strike in Izium on February 4, he called to check on us. He showed us that if you have faith, everything will be alright.
Coming back to Izium was the only option for us — because of the store. The city’s businesses suffered badly. Those who didn’t manage to take out their goods — about 70 percent — lost everything. Shops were looted, shelves stripped bare, everything smashed. And that was our life, something we’d built over 25 years. Now we’re rebuilding it all.
Coming back to Izium was our only option — because of the business
The city needs to be rebuilt, and for that, young people are essential. But not everyone wants to return — especially since it’s still very dangerous here. Probably 90 percent of those who left won’t come back. Especially families with children. Too many already know of the tragedies — friends who returned, stepped on mines, and were badly injured. Few children are being born in Izium these days.
Other than that, there’s enough work. Life goes on, but the war is always close. Soldiers come back from the frontlines and tell how brutal it is there. But as they say, we didn’t start this. Still, if Izium is occupied again, we’ll leave without hesitation. Life is worth more than anything.
We miss life before the war. Things were more or less stable. You could make plans. Now you just live day to day, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.
“Under artillery fire, no one wanted to help bury my husband”
Vera Ivanovna, Izium, Kharkiv region
When the war began, I was living in a neighborhood made up of individual homes. Tanks rolled right past our houses, driving along with four soldiers on each side, guns in hand. I’m an old woman. I’ve seen horrors before with my own eyes. Neighbors hid wherever they could — some on rooftops, some in attics, some in sheds. I remember one tank, number 362, got stuck, and the driver was drunk.
Russian soldiers didn’t usually bother people our age. If they saw us going to fetch water or heading somewhere, they just ignored us. But there were others who behaved like scavengers: breaking into apartments, stealing whatever junk they could — jackets, bed linens. Some said they hadn’t even known where they were being sent. They claimed they’d been told it was just for exercises, then suddenly they were brought here.
Izium, Kharkiv region.
I went into the city to get medicine for my husband. Then he died, and I had to go deal with the paperwork. All of this was happening in the Honcharivka district, which was often under fire. At the hospital they told me that if there was shelling, I should cover my face and throw myself to the ground next to a fence.
During the bombardments, no one wanted to help bury my husband. Some people buried their loved ones in their yards or gardens, but I didn’t want that. In the end, I found help — a couple of drunks, I'd say. They found a spot and dug a grave. There was no coffin — just a carpet and a blanket, two layers. I wrapped it all up with torn bedsheets. I didn’t feel anything special. A man had lived by my side for 50 years. He died, and the next day, I buried him.
My son kept saying: “Leave.” But how could I abandon my house, leave everything behind? I had my stove, my boiler, my dishes. Still, in the end, they evacuated us to Kharkiv.
Now I’ve come back to Izium. Where else would I go? This is my home — my cats, my son.
“Lyman used to be a quiet, green town. Now there’s no Lyman anymore”
Vera and Liubov, Krasnyi Lyman, Donetsk region
Vera (left) and Liubov (right).
Life here is anything but quiet. When something explodes, the whole house shakes. You can’t sleep. And it’s cold. Houses stand with no windows, no doors, no roofs. We fire up the stove and sit right on it, warming our backs. We just wait — for the weather to get a little warmer, and for this war to finally end.
It’s always the same: a strike comes, windows and doors are blown out, roofing is ripped off. Nobody bothers fixing things, because another shelling will undo it all anyway. We just call workers to patch the holes so we can survive the next blast.
Almost no one is left here, maybe ten percent, and all of them are elderly. I [Liubov] can’t leave the country — I don’t have a Ukrainian passport, only a residence permit. My old passport was Russian, and I didn’t have time to get new papers before the war began. I have two sons in Russia. One recently passed away. When the war is over, I want to see my younger son and visit my elder son’s grave.
We rarely hear from anyone. No phone, no money, no pension. We survive on humanitarian aid. They hand it out once a month, but honestly, we don’t need anything more. Look at us — we don’t ask for much, just some soup, borscht, or porridge. We share one phone between us. News reaches us only through people passing by. And every day, we pray for our soldiers.
Krasnyi Lyman, Donetsk region.
We’re just waiting for this war to end. What can we do at our age? We won’t take up arms. All we can do is pray. It breaks our hearts — so many lives lost, death everywhere. On our street, a rocket hit a house. Seven people were killed. We just want the bloodshed to stop.
Before the war, Lyman was a calm, green town. Now, there is no Lyman anymore.
“I’m small and skinny — they can’t hit me”
Nataliya, Druzhkivka, Donetsk region
I’m not going anywhere. My health is poor, and my pension is just 3,000 hryvnias ($72.50) a month. The cheapest apartment in western Ukraine costs 7,000 ($170) per month. And if I leave, my house will be looted — only the walls would be left.
When I tell friends about life near the front line, I always put it this way: “I’m small and skinny — they can’t hit me.” I keep in touch with a friend in Sumy almost every day. We call each other: “How are you holding up? The front line is still about two kilometers away from us, we’re okay.” And I tell him: “It’s even farther for us, Konstantin Arkadyevich — we’re okay too.”
When I talk about life near the front line, I always joke: “I’m small and skinny — they can’t hit me”
I’m originally from the part of Sumy region that’s now under Russian control. My husband brought me to Druzhkivka. Refugees live in my house now — from the very start of the war, I said I would take them in. There’s plenty of space, and when I feel unwell at night, they help me. So I’m not alone. I help everyone who comes here, and our soldiers too. How could it be otherwise?
“The soldiers come and go, but the grandmothers are always here”
Tatyana, Druzhkivka, Donetsk region
My father lives in Kramatorsk, but I can’t take the risk of going there. I inherited an apartment from my grandmother in Druzhkivka. It’s calmer here, so we moved in last November. I have three children — all depending on me. I get state payments, but it’s not much. My ex-husband doesn’t help much either, and I don’t want to burden my father — he’s already old. My current partner is a soldier. I don’t read the news, I listen to him. If he says Druzhkivka is safer, then that’s where we’ll stay.
In my building, I’m the only one left. In the next building, there are two grandmothers. The soldiers come and go, but the grandmothers are always here. Where would they go? They’ve decided to stay, whatever happens. My dad is the same way — he’s staying in Kramatorsk, even though a strike already hit our building there.
Druzhkivka, Donetsk region.
We’re not planning to move anywhere else. We have an apartment here. My family is here. I’ve got three kids. My partner is a soldier. My eldest son is studying online now. I’m just waiting for the cities to be rebuilt. That’s the most important thing. The rest we’ll get through. As long as we have our apartment, we can live here.
“Kramatorsk now is a city of old people and soldiers”
Valeriy, Kramatorsk, Donetsk region
I left Kramatorsk in March 2022, but by December I had come back. People treated me well in western Ukraine. I didn’t have to pay for housing, but it was still someone else’s home. Here it feels calmer, more comfortable psychologically. Of course, the strikes are terrifying — everything inside you tightens up, I’m no superman. But running won’t save you.
Kramatorsk now is a city of old people and soldiers. There are some young people, but not many. We’re not leaving, because we can’t afford to rent elsewhere, and free housing isn’t the same as your own place. My sons are sappers, working now in the fields on de-occupied territories. I don’t worry about them. And even less about myself.
Kramatorsk, Donetsk region.
It was frightening when the war entered a new phase in 2022, but since 2014 I’ve lived with the understanding that Russia will collapse. I read economist Vladimir Milov — he writes that even inside Russia’s top bureaucracy they speak openly of crisis.
I’m already retired, but I still have my work. I preach — in my own community and in two others. Pensioners from our congregation come to me, and I feel responsible for them. I’m glad for everyone who comes back.
People always ask me: “When will this end?” And I tell them: “I just know it will. Even Stalin seemed eternal — but in the end, he died in his own filth.”
“People aren’t tired of the war — they’ve just gotten used to it”
Serhiy, Chernihiv
I was sure the Russians wouldn’t enter Chernihiv. When the city started to be surrounded, locals fled to Kyiv, and along the roads, civilians were shot. I remember a young mother traveling with her baby and daughter — only the daughter survived.
Tanks fired at our homes. Later, locals defending their homes captured one of the tank drivers.
My brother lives in Germany. I would like to go to him, but now it’s impossible to leave, and western Ukraine isn’t any safer than here. Kyiv is hit the most. Perhaps only Kharkiv sees more strikes.
Chernihiv region.
People here aren’t tired of the war — they’ve adapted to it. When something is hit, they rebuild it. Life is lived day by day. We’re alive, thank God, and what tomorrow will bring, nobody knows.
If the conflict is frozen now, Russia will strike again later. We held our ground in 2022. They underestimated us. Yes, we’re under fire, but we won’t give up our land. I was in the ATO [anti-terrorist operation in the Donbas] in 2015, and if need be, I’ll defend this country in 2025, in 2030, for as long as it takes.
“Nowhere is really safe. So it’s better to stay among your own people”
Kremenchuk, Poltava region
Tamerlan, 21 (left) and Roma, 17 (right).
Why would we go anywhere else? Everything we had was here — our work, our lives. Nowhere is truly safe. You think Lviv doesn’t get hit? It does. So it’s better to stay here, among people we know. Our café, Buffet, was completely destroyed during the shelling on June 6. We had a beautiful green area, a big kitchen and bar, and hosted so many celebrations.
At the start of the war, we fed refugees for free. People have to live somehow. Locals loved our place and supported us through the hard times. Yes, the shelling is intense now, the café is gone, but we’re doing everything we can to find a new space and reopen in September. Many people have offered to help. How could we let them down? It’s so important to keep living. People need hope.
“People leave and abandon their pets, but I take care of them here”
Iryna, Poltava
Where could I go? I have no one. All I have left is a medal for long and faithful service. My son died of COVID five years ago. There’s no one even to bury me. I’ve lived in this apartment building for 47 years. Even now, with half of it destroyed, I stay. I look after the cats.
After a strike hit my home, I had to have eye surgery. Dust and shrapnel had almost blinded me. Without the operation, I would have gone completely blind. The doctor asked who could look after me during treatment — I said there was no one. He went around the neighbors to check, and someone said all the neighborhood cats were under my care. At the hospital, they started calling me “the queen of the Cats.” It’s for them that I keep going. If I don’t, who will help them?
Poltava and surrounding areas.
No one cares about the animals. People leave, abandoning their pets, but I take care of them. I’m not going anywhere. At first, almost my entire pension went to feed the cats, but now volunteers help.
I’ve seen families grow up in this building — children born, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, new residents moving in, the old passing away. Then came the strike — and there were so many deaths in one night. It was a nightmare. I never thought I’d witness something like that. I don’t even know what almost blinded me — the shrapnel and dust, or seeing so much pain that night. I’m Ukrainian. Ukraine is my country. Poltava is my city. And this building is mine. I won’t give it up to anyone — not without a fight.
“I’ve lost my home twice already — this time I won’t give it up”
Vitaliy, Poltava
I’ve lost my home twice: first in Luhansk, then in Pokrovsk. But this time, I won’t give it to the Russians. I told my family that if they want to leave, they can, but I’m staying. I built this house with my own hands, board by board. Sure, I don’t fully agree with our government. Yes, I’m not a fan of Zelensky. But my hatred for the Russians is stronger.
We had a strike near my house, just about 60 meters away. The shockwave blew out all the windows in my home and in that of my neighbors. We couldn’t even breathe. The air reeked of burning. But we rebuilt everything. They claim they’re hitting military targets, but my garage with a car from the ‘90s doesn’t exactly look like a military target, you know.
They claim they’re targeting military sites, but my garage with a car from the ’90s doesn’t exactly look like a military target.
After that strike, my family moved west, but I stayed. I helped them transport their things and came right back. God forbid the Russians get my house. I won’t allow it a third time. I wish I could have rebuilt my home in Pokrovsk — every day I regret leaving. I know in my head it was too dangerous. The house was flattened, but my heart aches for it. Everything I had was there. I especially loved my cherry orchard — the whole family would gather there, and I played with my grandchildren. Now I have a new house in Poltava, and this time it’s forever. I’m not leaving.
“When I left Bakhmut, I knew I was seeing the city for the last time”
Anton, Donetsk region, Druzhkivka
Since 2022, I’ve been working with the White Angel team in the Donetsk region, mostly around the Bakhmut area. We evacuate families with children.
Many people say they have nowhere to go, though we always have options for them. We even provide free housing — homes and dormitories. They say, “This is our home, we were born here.” The work is tough — so many are wounded during shelling, many die. We provide medical aid as best we can.
No one is forced to evacuate. That hasn’t happened. If someone needs help, we respond. We come, pick them up, and take them wherever they ask. The hardest part is convincing people to leave the home where they were born and have lived their whole lives.
Right now, most of our work is with families — with or without children. We talk to them and encourage evacuation, because it saves lives. There were probably five families it was especially difficult with. They kept saying they’d only leave once a strike hit them. And then, tragically, entire families would be killed in shelling. It’s heartbreaking. We tried our best to persuade them, but you simply can’t watch over everyone.
Some kept saying they would only leave once a strike hit them — and then entire families would be killed in shelling
Sometimes evacuees returned despite the dangers. In one family, a young woman was recently killed by a shell. She left behind a son and an elderly mother, who had insisted on returning. After her daughter’s death, the mother said she “understood everything.” The child was unharmed, and that same night our evacuation team took them from the ruined home.
For some, White Angel is linked to Russian propaganda, which claims we harvest organs from evacuated children. People really believed it. They hid from us in basements. Some even threw tantrums or staged full-on performances — a six-year-old arguing that he was born here and would stay forever. Clearly, those were the parents’ words. There were cases when we arrived, spoke to the parents about evacuation, and the child would stand behind them, showing us that he didn’t want to stay, that he was scared. They’re afraid to voice it.
Before the war, I worked as a police officer in Bakhmut and stayed there until November 2022. I had lived there eight years in total. Before 2014, I lived in Donetsk — I last visited there in the summer of 2014. When I left Bakhmut, I knew I was seeing the city for the last time. I even drove through my old courtyard, looked at my windows — and that was it.
Now I don’t know where my home is. I lived in Donetsk, then Bakhmut, then Konstantiivka, and now Druzhkivka. Donetsk in 2014 was still intact, so at first I hoped to return, but eventually I realized it was impossible. Bakhmut is completely destroyed. My home is gone — there’s nowhere to return to.
What do I dream of? Spending time with my family.
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