By Anastasiia Shelukhina, LHI Ukraine Partnership Manager
As international aid and funding to Ukraine decline, life near the frontlines grows increasingly dire. Many villages have been cut off from the world—without electricity, heat, clean water, or food. Russian forces are just a few miles away, and the sounds of explosions have become a part of daily life. But we’re still there to help. We’re one of the few organizations still reaching these villages, making sure they’re not forgotten. Anastasiia, LHI Ukraine Partnership Manager, recently joined a distribution to villages across the eastern Donetsk region, and documented their heroic journey in a field journal.
Day 1: March 27, 2025
Spring should be full of renewed energy, but there is little warmth for people in Ukraine's eastern Donetsk region. People haven’t had electricity, heat, water, and gas for months. All the shops and hospitals are closed or destroyed. The only means of transport are bicycles and a few old cars. Water and bread are hard to come by.
Our mission began in Kharkiv City, where we convened with our partner, Ordinary People, before heading to our base in Pokrovske village, Dnipropetrovsk oblast. This time, we were joined by Dr. Vladyslav Mykhailovych—a deeply needed presence in this region where even basic medical support is crucial. With no working hospitals nearby, many people here have been without any medical care since the start of the full-scale war. Dr. Vladyslav is the only doctor working in such challenging conditions on the frontlines.
At our warehouse in Pokrovske, the team loaded parcels—food, hygiene kits, and rubber boots—in preparation for our next day’s distribution in our first stop: Novokhatske village.
Day 2: March 28, 2025
We began early in the morning, joining with the White Angels police unit and heading straight to Novokhatske. This village has about 31 houses and just over 40 residents, including people who’ve fled from occupied territories. Many can't go far—they need to stay close to what remains of home.
We were welcomed to Novokhatske by a St. Bernard dog named Lapa. Over the course of a few days, Lapa’s hometown of Zeleny Hay was completely destroyed by shelling, forcing nearly all of its residents to flee. Lapa's family quickly evacuated from their home, and Lapa settled in nearby Novokhatske.
The locals shared that humanitarian aid vehicles used to pass through their village, but now, we're the only ones still coming. Despite the circumstances, we saw a frontline farm standing strong: more than 100 pedigree kids and 100 adult goats. This farm has been operating for about 15 years, producing many types of cheese and even several new breeds of goats. The owner has no way to evacuate and looks to the future with fear.
We visited several elderly residents, including a 75-year-old woman named Korniyevna, who lives alone. She can barely move due to a stroke, but her house is clean thanks to the help of her neighbors. She is a bright, resilient soul. When I held her hand, she gripped it tightly, as if it were her last chance to feel warmth and human connection.
We met Maryna, an energetic 54-year-old woman who was overjoyed to receive a pillow and blanket—handmade by the Women's Club in Balakliya Community for people in the Donetsk region. She said she had been dreaming of such simple comfort and jumped with joy like a child. In war, happiness really is in the little things.
Later, the local coordinator welcomed us into her home and served a heartwarming lunch: potatoes with cutlets, cucumbers, salad, and homemade compote. It felt like we were her own children. Before we left, she handed us a box of eggs—a humble but powerful gesture of appreciation.
We gave people a bit of hope—and we didn’t say goodbye, only see you soon.
Day 3: March 29, 2025
Our drinking water refill station in Ukrains’k city was lost after the village recently became occupied, forcing us to suspend that lifesaving project for our frontline communities. But thanks to support from Caritas Ukraine and Caritas Norway, this time we were able to bring kits and drinking water to the residents we met along the way to Zirka.
Reaching Zirka isn’t simple. The bridge was damaged by shelling this past winter, and the main road is too exposed and could easily be targeted by drones. We had to take a detour through the field. That’s the reality of humanitarian work in these regions: each journey is a calculation between risk and necessity.
Zirka, located in Donetsk region, is home to about 40 residents. Among them is Tetiana, a 62-year-old woman who fled from Kurakhove city with her husband when the war arrived on their doorstep. Kurakhove was occupied on January 11, 2025.
Tetiana welcomed us into her well-kept yard with quiet strength. She raises chickens, tends to her home, and survives using one of the village’s only three working generators. Her life is modest—and incredibly tough. Tetiana and her husband survive off of $150 per month—barely enough to cover their basic needs.
"Where should we go?" she asks, her voice soft but unwavering.
That day, Dr. Vladyslav began seeing people almost immediately, and a line quickly formed. It was easy to see why. In a place with no access to healthcare for years, his presence offered more than medical help—it offered dignity.
We listened to life stories, personal struggles, small victories. One elderly woman told us something that stuck with us deeply:
"Come even if you bring nothing—just to talk, to notice us. That is enough."
In a world that has turned its back on these communities, sometimes the most powerful gift is presence.
Day 4: March 30, 2025
Our final day brought us to the frontline village of Iskra (Andriivka-Klevtsove), located right on the border between Donetsk and Dnipropetrovsk oblasts. Standing there, it was clear how close the war really was—the broken roads, empty homes, and loud sounds of nearby explosions.
Just a few weeks ago, the last Nova Poshta post office was destroyed—leaving residents cut off from the outside world. The local school is gone. The church where we once distributed coal in winter is now just rubble.
Where there were once about 400 residents, only around 40 remain. And the ones who stayed live every day under threat, surrounded by destruction and uncertainty. The explosions here were louder, closer. But still, the people came out.
We delivered crutches, food and hygiene kits, warm blankets, and drinking water. Despite everything, the locals quickly organized a small distribution point. A particularly heartwarming moment came when people began trying on eyeglasses sent by our partners in Germany—laughter, smiles, squinting into the sun to test the lenses. Even here, joy can still sneak through the cracks.
Dr. Vladyslav again did more than offer medical help—he relieved people’s anger, anxiety, and despair. Sometimes, what people need most is not only treatment, but someone who listens and acknowledges their pain.
As we left Iskra, the silence between explosions felt heavier. These villages are holding on with all they have, and we are committed to holding on with them. Not just through aid, but through presence, solidarity, and care. As long as we’re needed, we’ll keep returning.