Loneliness in wartime Kharkiv. How Rescue Now helps the elderly

The Kharkiv charity organisation Rescue Now also provides regular assistance. Through the Patronage project, the team supports about 600 people monthly by delivering over 7,000 aid packages containing food, medicine, and hygiene products. People in need, their neighbours, relatives, and sometimes friendly social centres or organisations, contact the project’s hotline to report those who need help.

This report covers a day spent with Vasyl, a Rescue Now volunteer who delivers these aid packages. In just one day, we met six elderly women whose experiences of pain caused by the war, along with their worries and love, could fill several lifetimes.

Daily work of volunteer Vasyl

Rescue Now’s hub is located at the Mekhanika art factory in eastern Kharkiv. Previously a locomotive factory, it now hosts cultural events and rents out space. The charity organisation occupies one of the premises, with plenty of space for packing and loading aid. We begin our volunteer trip around Kharkiv from the art factory’s grounds with Vasyl. He is over fifty, with dark hair under a cap, drives skilfully, and jokes often. He has been working with Rescue Now since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, travelling both within the city and to frontline areas — “wherever needed”. Currently, he is participating in the Patronage project.

We pass streets lined with buildings destroyed by Russian shelling. Vasyl says it pains him to see Kharkiv like this. A local, he knows the city well from his days as a taxi driver in his youth. We navigate with GPS, but it isn’t always reliable, so we sometimes rely on Vasyl’s memory.

Today, there are six addresses on the list, which Vasyl wrote down on a piece of paper before our trip. He tracks all the necessary information — addresses, phone numbers, and details — on his smartphone using a special app provided by Rescue Now’s partners. While en route to one of the women awaiting aid, Vasyl shares his story: when the full-scale invasion began, he evacuated his father from northern Saltivka, the most affected area of Kharkiv, and helped his grandfather and grandmother — the parents of Kharkiv artist Polina Kuznetsova — to leave. This started another story: the white car we are driving belonged to this couple. They decided to leave it to the Rescue Now volunteers.

Vasyl’s work seems simple at first glance: he arrives at the specified address, hands over the aid package, and takes a photo with the person for reporting purposes. However, he deeply cares about the people he is responsible for, establishing an emotional connection with them, which is not always easy in these times:

“Sometimes it’s so sad, such women… There was one on Blahovischenska Street; I called the call centre [Rescue Now], saying, ‘You forgot to put this address down, I went there before too. The old woman is so nice, always greets me.’ And they tell me, ‘She died back in January.’ It’s a pity that they have no one to talk to; some don’t like being pitied, and I don’t like it either. So, I joke with them, and they remember me too.”

He meets different people: some have difficulty walking, others speaking or remembering friends. But, there are also people with good memory, Vasyl says:

“God, how I wish I had such a clear mind at that age. With humour, with fun, I really admire such people.”

The only one on the landing

First, we visit Valentyna. She lives in an old building with high ceilings adorned with stucco and floors covered in skilfully laid tiles. Her neighbour, Liuba, who was already waiting for us, opens the door. We meet Valentyna in the common corridor. She is a short woman with short grey hair, dressed in a new plush robe, leaning on a walker — it’s difficult for her to move. Despite her challenges, Valentyna is in good spirits, visibly brightening when Vasyl affectionately calls her a star. He uses this term to cheer up his charges warmly.

Valentyna modestly shares about herself: she is 75 and has lived in this building for over 50 years because her husband was given an apartment here. She survived two strokes. Born near Vovchansk, she worked at a factory in Kharkiv. She loves Ukraine.

“I am all alone. I have no one. Buried my parents. Worked all my life.”

She says they had just started living when the full-scale invasion began. The building’s residents evacuated; only an 85-year-old neighbour stayed on the first floor. Valentyna remained the only resident on her landing. She just sat in her apartment — alone. There was no one to even open the door if someone came to help with groceries or something else.
But people slowly started returning. When I ask Valentyna what she likes to eat, she shyly answers, “Kholodets”.

“I used to be okay with Russia”

We arrive at the next address, home to another Valentyna. The yard is lush with greenery. She meets us on the path near the entrance, walking with a cane. Her face is lined with wrinkles but beams brightly. Vasyl tells her he barely recognised her this time because she has prettied herself up, and she laughs in response.

Valentyna shares about herself: she is 87 and lives alone. She owns a home library of four thousand books, which she avidly reads through. Currently, she’s into detective stories, although she previously enjoyed historical novels. Her lifelong love for books began in childhood when she would run to the local library, eventually starting her own collection.

“I love reading. I can’t do anything else. I can’t do laundry. I can’t do anything. But I can read.”
Although Valentyna understands and writes in Ukrainian, she finds it harder to speak, so she talks to us in Russian. However, she insists her feelings towards Russia have changed:

“My niece lives there; she married a Muscovite. I used to be okay with Russia. Now I can’t stand them. So many people died. They destroyed Kharkiv.”

She lives with a dog, Minka, and a cat, Mila. Valentyna rarely goes outside, except for slow walks with Minka. Her face lights up even more when she talks about her pets. She adopted Minka in 2014 from volunteers; the dog was just a two-month-old puppy then, black with white fur on its chin and brown paws. Mila, the cat, has been with her even longer, taken in after her grandson’s tenant abandoned the animal.

Kharkiv is Valentyna’s native town, but now she finds it frightening. She can list the addresses hit by shelling from memory — close by, but not here. Her voice starts to tremble, especially when she mentions Putin. Vasyl interjects, joking, “Don’t wind yourself up, your blood pressure will spike!”

“Valia, you live in paradise”

Acacia blooms along the road, its scent fills the car. The street is lush with greenery and deep puddles from a recent rain. We arrive at the next address on the list, where Valia (short for Valentyna) lives.

A large, spreading chestnut tree grows near her building. The sound of a lawnmower hums in the background. Valia slowly exits her entrance — Vasyl has called ahead to announce his arrival, as he does with all his charges. She is 86 and lives with her 96-year-old husband. They have no children and live alone. She worked as an assembler at a nearby factory her entire life and points in its direction. Her short grey hair frames a face where the eyes seem either on the verge of tears or recently dried. She speaks quietly and shares that she didn’t leave her home when the full-scale invasion began:

“I stayed here. Where would I go? With what?”

Many people did leave. However, the yard still has people who support her: they bring food and take her to the clinic. Valia has diabetes. She complains that her legs don’t want to walk, and her eyes don’t want to see.

While we talk, pigeons scuffle in the yard, and cats wander around — Valia says they are all pets that roam here. She also has two cats, both 14 years old. She recalls a black cat named Chornushka, a good black kitty. She brightens a bit when she remembers:

“I picked up a cat on the street, and my husband said, ‘Bring it in the house.’ So it would come home at night and knock. I didn’t understand at first; I thought, who’s knocking at night? I opened the door — and it walked in.”

She also picked up greyish Semen from the entrance because other cats were beating him. She also has Pushok, who is yellow like a dandelion. Valia says the cats sleep with her: one at her feet, the other under her arm.

She looks up at the chestnut tree. It was planted here when she was still working. People told her, “Valia, you live in paradise.” Now, in this paradise, she sits from morning to evening on the bench or walks nearby. However, now, this paradise is in the middle of a full-scale war.

The world from the balcony

To enter Olena’s apartment, Vasyl stands under her balcony as she drops the keys down in a plastic bag — she can’t meet us on the street, so we enter the narrow hallway of her home. Vasyl makes sure not to forget to return her keys, as he did once before.

Olena is dressed in a pink home suit, neatly combed, with glasses holding her hair like a headband. She leans on a crutch and a cane. Unable to hold back her tears, she says she can’t stay in these walls any longer. Her husband was paralysed for 15 years before he passed away, and a year ago, she buried her son who had cancer. During the day, she manages to get by, as she goes out to the balcony, talks to her parrot Kosha, and watches people walking by. But at night, she doesn’t know what to do with herself:

“Maybe it would be easier for me if it weren’t for the war.”

After so many losses, this apartment, which Olena now despises, has become her entire world. She can’t go to the store because her legs won’t carry her. She worked in trade until she was 68, standing in drafts almost all day long, lifting heavy items. The only connection left with the outside world is her neighbours and volunteers.

Crosswords for memory

Oleksandra meets us at the entrance door. Vasyl encourages this, saying it’s good that the elderly don’t just stay at home. He jokes that next time he will come to her with wine. The woman smiles and declines the offer, but they agree that they will celebrate Ukraine’s victory in the war together. We go up to her apartment.

Oleksandra used to work as a nurse. She tells us she was born during the war and is living through one now. She is an ethnic Russian from the city of Shebekino, but has lived in Kharkiv for the past 70 years, so she considers herself a Kharkiv native. She has no relatives left in Russia.

Oleksandra lives alone; her daughter is in the United States. She has a granddaughter and two great-grandchildren. Her son-in-law is on the front line. We talk in the hallway of her apartment, and a cat starts rubbing against her legs. It turns out her daughter gave her the cat so she wouldn’t feel so lonely. The cat has no name; she simply calls it “kitty-kitty”.

On 28 February 2022, a car came for her — she was evacuated to Lviv, her daughter took care of everything. Oleksandra lived there until the fall of 2022. She recalls that in the west of Ukraine, people treated her kindly:

“I didn’t feel like I was in Lviv, people welcomed me warmly. And when I went outside, [the neighbours in the yard] always asked, ‘How are you doing, how is everything?’”

The woman says she wasn’t charged for rent, only utilities. But home is home. So, she returned to Kharkiv. Nowadays, she goes out a bit, slowly walks around the house, sits on a bench, and buys herself bread at the local store. Sometimes, a neighbour brings her fresh vegetables from her garden.

Oleksandra doesn’t watch TV to avoid getting upset. She says life is scary enough as it is: the windows shake from explosions at night. But she loves solving crosswords to keep her memory sharp.

Vasyl mentions his 94-year-old father: he solves various puzzles with him too, as his father is developing Parkinson’s disease.

“When dementia begins, you need to exercise the brain. Just like muscles wither with age, so does the brain; you need to keep it active.”

Bread is the most precious gift

The last visit is to Tetiana. She is 75, lives on the ninth floor, and uses a walker. Her broom and dustpan have long handles because she can’t bend over. Other items also need to be high enough for her to reach. We talk in the kitchen, hearing water dripping from a faucet that won’t shut completely. She says everything in her apartment is falling apart, but it doesn’t matter.

She washed dishes from six in the morning until almost noon. Before our arrival, she got herself ready: a grey robe and a hairstyle with curls falling on her face. She beams with a smile, and I realise that Tetiana hardly has anyone to talk to.

“When the war started, I didn’t understand it was war at all. I could still walk with crutches back then. Everyone was running around, neighbours were screaming, and I didn’t understand anything. Suddenly, I saw grad missiles flying out of the window. Then a bomb fell and destroyed a five-story building. Then more bombs fell here, and I was thrown [by the blast wave].”

The elevator in the building wasn’t working then, but medics managed to reach her and provide the necessary help. She says they were in helmets and bulletproof vests and hung an IV on the chandelier.

Since then, it’s been even harder for Tetiana to walk.

“This walker was like a lifeline; I started walking with it, and it even helped me talk.”

Tetiana calls the Rescue Now organisation “Renhaus” because she finds it hard to pronounce correctly. Vasyl says the elderly often shorten the name to “Reskinal”.

Volunteers began bringing Tetiana medicines, even those difficult to find in local pharmacies, and food packages. She admits that a loaf of bread was the most precious gift. She says she was embarrassed by how much she wanted to eat it.

“It’s not about the money, it’s not about the money. My pension was raised, and now I get four thousand hryvnias (a hundred US dollars — ed.). But when the elevator wasn’t working, ‘Renhaus’ volunteers carried bread up to the ninth floor. They don’t understand what bread means when you’ve been eating rusks, and they’re already stuck in your throat (points to her throat).”

Tetiana has always spoken Russian. She says her father was Russian and hated his wife for speaking Ukrainian.

“Ukrainian was never respected in our home. My father would say to my mother, ‘You’ve lived here (in Kharkiv — ed) for so many years and still can’t learn Russian?’ I think he would have understood everything if he had lived to see what ‘Russian’ means.”

Tetiana worked as an engineer in a factory machine room. When she was in her thirties, she suddenly fell ill at work. She couldn’t eat, drink, or walk by herself and was essentially released from the hospital to die. She says she found out later when she managed to recover. Her resilience and optimism helped her recover, and they still help her. Vasyl mentioned in the car how much he admires this woman:

“Her will to live amazes me. She’s almost the only one showing progress in recovery. She was in such bad shape (referring to her health. — ed.). But she says, ‘No, I’ll come down to meet you.’ And she comes down with her walker. I wait for her to go up together. She’s so positive, a cool lady. She meets me with a smile, and I give her compliments. And she just beams.”

Tetiana collects tin cans, washes them, and donates them for trench candles. She says she can’t read anymore, but she watches TV. She can tell when they lie — she points to her heart. She often argues with her neighbours, defending the Armed Forces of Ukraine, but some in Kharkiv still await the occupiers.

“When I got my passport [in youth], it said I was Ukrainian, but my younger sister was marked as Russian. I felt so sad. Now, I think God rewarded me.”

She believes God rewarded her for her kindness. She recalls always trying to help others, like carrying heavy bags.

When I compliment Tetiana’s hairstyle, she eagerly stands up to show me how she did it herself: how she gathered her hair, secured it with a clip, and leaned against the wall to get it right. Even in this simple desire to look good lies a massive zest for life.

“When I walk, I tell myself: ‘Straighten your back, straighten your legs, smile, and smile!’.”

Tetiana remains alone in her apartment, like the other women we met today. They live in their little worlds. Most likely, they won’t leave. Kharkiv stands. And so do they — in their home terry robes, with warm, grateful smiles, with bread that means more than anything. They are such stars.

Dancing and ice cream

On the way to the centre, I hear a strange noise, like buzzing or rattling. Vasyl explains that tanks used to drive on this road, leaving many small dents.

On the centre’s second floor, at the end of the corridor, there’s a dance room. A piece of fabric with “I Love Kharkiv” hangs on the wall. A dozen older people prepare for the class, chatting in small groups. A young woman enters the room. This is Olha, a psychologist who also loves dancing, so she leads today’s Adjarian (Georgian — ed.) dance workshop.

Olha is wearing a black dress, a green necklace that swings to her back as she dances, and ballet flats. Her movements are light, and her smile is radiant. She encourages her students, including one male student, Mykola. No one is ashamed to dance, even if they don’t get it right the first time. I look at these people and see beauty. The beauty of trying, of moving, the beauty of light blush, grey hair, and focused gazes. During the break, one of the women, Tetiana, shows me a photo of her granddaughter, while Liudmyla tells me that she has been dancing and singing all her life because she loves it. In this hall, loneliness dissolves, driven away by the dance movements, laughter, and music.

Olha says she works as a psychologist with both children and adults. During the full-scale invasion, she started teaching dance. Olha’s fiancé is from Sakartvelo (known as Georgia — ed.), so she fell in love with the culture of his native country:

“I am happy to support people and dance with them. I rejoice when I see the fire in their eyes. The most valuable thing is when they start moving beautifully and smoothly and believe they can dance. There have been times when a woman came in and couldn’t even raise her arms. She was over 80 years old, but she slowly began to dance and succeeded. It’s essential to me how dance changes people.”

At the end of the dance class, everyone is treated to ice cream in waffle cones. The flushed dancers chat merrily and decide where to go next. They confirm when the choir singing class starts next week and when the next Ajarian dance practice is. Their lives certainly didn’t stop after retirement; in some ways, it may have even begun.

Rescue Now has been organising events for the elderly since the beginning of spring 2024. They have signed memorandums with social service centres in two districts of Kharkiv. In two months, they have had 130 visits and have managed to host tea parties, art therapy sessions, dance classes, Ukrainian language courses, and smartphone usage lessons.

Vasyl’s father also dances in the local park and even has a partner he jokingly calls a “youngster” because she is 86, and his father is 94. They live in the same district, so Vasyl is considering enrolling his father in the Rescue Now activities. Maybe soon, there will be another dancer here?

You can support lonely elderly people from Kharkiv and the Rescue Now project through donations.