The lives behind the numbers: stories of older Ukrainians adapting to displacement

Iryna, 61 – accountant, caregiver

When Iryna fled Bakhmut in April 2022, she carried more than just the weight of war. She carried her husband’s fate in her hands. Valerii, 73, a survivor of the Chernobyl disaster, had been disabled for decades. But after suffering multiple strokes during their displacement, he became fully paralysed. “He hasn’t gotten up in over a year,” Iryna says. “I believe this wouldn’t have happened if not for the war.”

Now living in a small dormitory room provided by her employer, Iryna, 61, works as an accountant at a higher education institution while also serving as her husband’s full-time caregiver. Every three hours, she rushes home to feed and tend to Valerii, a routine that has taken a toll on her own health. “My back is ruined,” she says. “I have my own medical issues, but there’s no time to care for myself.”

Despite her determination, she worries about the future. She knows that if she ever loses her job, finding another can be nearly impossible. “Not many people my age get hired,” she says.

Her biggest wish is not for herself, but for a system that doesn’t leave people like her husband behind.

Olena, 89 – former teacher

At 89, Olena has spent her life shaping minds and communities. A former teacher, she worked tirelessly for others, long after retirement. Even in 2014, when war first came to Sievierodonetsk, she took in displaced families, ensuring they had food, shelter, and support. Now, a decade later, war has upended her own life.

In March 2022, as bombs fell, she fled to Dnipro with her son and daughter-in-law. Together, they rent an apartment – at 15,000 hryvnias (£288) a month, a sum so burdensome that her son, a teacher, now cleans stairwells to make ends meet. “Pensions are small, expenses are high,” she says. “A person my age should feel financially secure. Instead, we are scraping by.”

Her greatest concern, however, is her health. Hypertension, tachycardia, and a recent microstroke weigh heavily on her. A list of 33 medications keeps her going, but nearly all her pension – 5,600 hryvnias (£107) – is spent on medicine. “If I were younger, I would be helping displaced people myself,” she says. “Now, I just try to stay well enough to survive.”

Yet she refuses to give in to isolation. Every day, despite chronic pain, she walks in the park, encouraging other older people to stay active. She sings in a choir and attends a centre where pensioners craft, knit, and collect aid for soldiers.

She longs for the ability to live a fuller life herself. “I want to be able to walk in the park, go to the theatre,” she says. “But I can’t leave him alone for too long.”

She has rebuilt some semblance of a life, even repainting the walls of their temporary home. “We lost everything – our house, our belongings,” she says. “But we are trying to settle in.” Yet the war follows her, not just in memories, but in the wail of air raid sirens and the ever-looming front line. “I don’t know where we’ll go if it comes here, too,” she says quietly.

For now, she perseveres. “There are people who care,” she admits. “And that makes a world of difference.”

Viktor, 73 – former miner

The war forced Viktor, 73, to leave behind the life he had built. For nearly two decades, he worked in the mines of Dobropillia, a town in the Donetsk region. When the full-scale invasion began, he and his family – his wife, daughter, and son-in-law – made the difficult decision to flee. They now share a rented apartment in Dnipro, dividing the 18,000 hryvnias (£345) monthly cost among relatives to make ends meet.

“We survive as a community,” Viktor says. “Without pooling our resources, I don’t know how we would manage.”

For Viktor, displacement brought more than just financial strain. Years of grueling labour left him with osteoarthritis, requiring a hip replacement that drained his savings. Cataract surgery followed, another financial burden. His pension of 8,000 hryvnias (£153), supplemented by a small stipend for internally displaced persons, barely covers the essentials.

Yet, resilience defines his every step. A walking stick, provided by humanitarian aid, helped him recover from surgery. Conversations with social workers offer solace. When asked about his future, he speaks not of hardship but of hope. “I just want to go fishing again,” he says, recalling his quiet moments by the river, undisturbed by air raid sirens.

Like many older Ukrainians, Viktor envisions a future where ageing does not mean sacrificing dignity.

For now, he adapts, finding moments of peace in the unfamiliar. “I miss home,” he admits. “But here, we endure.”

Valentyna, 68 – teacher

For 68-year-old Valentyna, teaching is more than a profession – it is her anchor in an unsteady world. A lifelong schoolteacher from Volnovakha, she fled under shelling in 2022, leaving behind everything, including her home, her books, and even her pets. “We spent eight days in the basement before volunteers evacuated us straight from there,” she recalls.
Now, in displacement, she continues to teach Ukrainian schoolchildren lessons in world literature and ethics, holding onto the one role that gives her purpose. “We share energy – I with them, and they with me,” she says. “That keeps me going.”

Valentyna’s greatest worry is housing. Initially, she lived in a cramped two-room flat with 13 other displaced people. Today, she shares a dormitory room with her 40-year-old son. “We live here now, but what about later?” she asks. “My son needs to build his own life. I don’t even know where to start to get on a housing list.”

But war has reshaped her daily life in ways she never imagined. Already a stroke survivor, she suffered another mini-stroke after being displaced. Then, in Dnipro, she slipped in the metro and broke her leg. The injury forced her to rely on crutches, making even basic mobility a challenge. “When I was on crutches, it was hard even to get from the second to the first floor of our dormitory. There are no proper handrails or ramps. My son and neighbours helped me,” she says.

Despite the hardships, she adapts. She finds solace in books, reading 20 a month to maintain her sense of inner strength. “I have my places of strength here,” she says, mentioning local churches and cathedrals she visits for peace. One day, she hopes to take up yoga and swimming.

For now, she keeps teaching, keeps moving, and keeps believing in the future. “I don’t know if we’ll ever return home,” she admits. “But if I can still give knowledge to children, then I know I am needed. And that is enough to keep me going.”