| My grandmother, who raised me, was a child when the Second World War came to her home. She always said that anything could be survived, as long as there was no war. This is the most terrifying thing that can happen to a child. Because of her, I always tried to look at life positively, knowing that nothing was worse than war.
When war came into my city again on February 24, 2022, it broke something deep inside me. I immediately understood that this was no place for my children and that I had to save them. I had already lived through this once before. In 2014, war came to Donetsk — my family’s hometown. I remembered the fear, the uncertainty, and the feeling that life could never be the same again.
On that day, it felt as if life had ended — my life, my children’s, my family’s, my neighbours’, and my friends’. The bombing of Irpin had begun. We packed our entire lives into three suitcases — documents, money, a little food, and a change of clothes Everything else — our home, photos, toys, memories, even our lovely cat— we left behind the locked door. We left on the very first day, and within a week the city was occupied by Russian troops.
The first idea was to go to Western Ukraine, but when we arrived, it became clear that the war had spread across the entire country and the housing situation was catastrophic. Panic filled not only Ukraine but all of Eastern Europe.
I was incredibly grateful that at the far edge of Europe, in Britain, there was an opportunity to hide from the horror my grandmother had always warned me about. In just one month, the British government created a special program for Ukrainians, giving families fleeing the war not only a place to live but extraordinary support from the people who welcomed them into their homes and their lives.
When the full-scale invasion began, men were not allowed to leave Ukraine. So my husband and I had to make an incredibly difficult choice. We had to put our children’s safety above everything else. He stayed behind, and I left the country on my own with our two children, who were just 11 and 13 years old.
On 27 April 2022, at one o’clock in the morning, we landed at Stansted Airport with those three suitcases and broken hearts.
A British woman I had never met was waiting for us, smiling through tears, arms wide open.
I didn’t speak a word of English. We communicated with Google Translate, hugs, and many, many tears.
In that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt for two months: I felt safe.
For the next nine months, strangers became family.
Our host family gave us their home, their time, their love.
The local council, the schools, the government, the charities — everyone worked together like I had never seen before in my life.
My children received school places in a month. Someone gave them uniforms. Someone else gave them laptops. Someone invited them to birthday parties. I felt safe enough to study English full-time for three months.
Six months after arriving, I got my first job. Nine months after arriving, I rented my own house. For the first time since the war began, I could breathe. But safety is not the same as peace.
My children’s father was still in Ukraine, in a country under daily attack, unable to see his children grow up. That was hard. I thought that was the hardest thing we would ever face. I was wrong.
On 7th February 2024, he died suddenly of a heart attack.
We could not help him or even say goodbye. My children lost their father. The pain was unbearable. But once again, people appeared.
A Ukrainian community grew around us — people who understand without explanation what it means to lose your home, your country, and part of your soul.
Today, three and a half years after our old life ended, my children and I are safe — and for that, I am deeply grateful. But our future is still uncertain. We continue to live with temporary visas and unanswered questions about what comes next.
I stand here because of thousands of small and large acts of kindness. To the family who took three frightened strangers into their home for nine months — you gave us the gift of a second life.
To every teacher who was patient with my accent and my tears.
To every colleague who waited while I searched for the right English word.
To every charity that bought school uniforms, paid for therapy, sent food and Christmas presents parcels.
To every volunteer who simply smiled and said “You are welcome here.”
Before the war, I thought charity was something distant — a coin in a box, something nice but small.
Now I know the truth:
When millions of ordinary people decide to help, they can save entire lives.
I never knew how to ask for help. I still don’t. But I have learned how to accept it with gratitude that will stay with me forever.
So from the bottom of my heart, on behalf of my children and every Ukrainian who has been carried through this nightmare by your kindness, you did not just help us survive, you gave us hope that humanity is still alive.
Thank you.
** Yuliia shared her story at our Christmas Concert to a well deserved standing ovation.
To help us continue supporting people like Yuliia, please click here to donate today. |
