Since the beginning of the Russian invasion, Ukraine lives and endures not only through the soldiers in the trenches, but also through the women who, behind the front, keep the country alive. They are around 30 years old – the generation born in a free Ukraine, raised in the chaos of the 90s and matured by revolutions and war. Today they are the ones who collect funds for the army, lead NGOs, advocate for their country in the capitals of the world or wear the military uniform.
Ukrainian women did not hesitate to enlist in the army/PHOTO:X
Unlike their men, who cannot leave the country and can be mobilized in the army, Ukrainian women can choose: to leave or to stay, to fight or not. But each choice comes with a dose of guilt, with fatigue, mourning and questions about the future – if and when to have children in a country bombed daily, writes The Guardian.
“Do what needs to be done, not what makes sense”
Maria Şuvalova, 32 years old, is an academic editor. But in recent years, her life has had nothing to do with the university routine. After the 2022 invasion, she raised more than $40,000 to buy bulletproof vests—the equivalent of the price of her apartment. He converted the money into cryptocurrencies and sent it to a factory in China.
In addition to his day job, he volunteers a few hours a week at a military unit, writes a book, works on a post-apocalyptic novel, and talks to foreign media about Ukraine. “It doesn't make any professional sense to do so many things in parallel,” she says, “but you just do it. Because you have to.”
Born in 1993, Maria was marked by the poor transition of the 90s, when families struggled to put food on the table. “I learned to make ends meet early. Our parents worked around the clock, and we children followed suit. We grew up in a world with no vacations, but with a lot of responsibility.”
Her generation, says Maria, was trained from a young age for the crisis. “Whoever is now 30-35 years old in Ukraine learned from childhood to manage stress, to take risks, to do ten things at once. It was not a choice, but a form of survival.”
“You have to support yourself and the ones you love”
Olena Skirta, also 32, runs an organization that promotes science and helps young Ukrainians, mostly refugee women, learn programming. In a country where anti-aircraft sirens are heard night after night, she tries to plan a normal life.
“I don't know how I could raise a child here in the current conditions. You can't go to the shelter at every alert. You have no sleep, you have no life, you lose your health”she says. However, she does not rule out the idea of becoming a mother. “If it's the same in two years, we'll probably move and build a shelter. That's how life is now – you make half-assed plans, but you go ahead.”
In her office in central Kiev, Olena speaks calmly. White walls, hot tea and laptops hide a cruel detail: “This building was bombed in December. We're just using it temporarily because our headquarters was destroyed last month.”
“Life is not just alarms, dust and funerals”
After a decade living in London, Sașa Dovjîk, 37 years old, returned to Ukraine. She now runs a cultural institute in Lviv, where a young team of women documents the war.
“I want young women to see that they can stay here, that they can create, write, research – that life in Ukraine is not all pain and loss.”
But the pressure to have children follows her daily. “I hear it everywhere: If you're not in the military, why don't you have children? The nation is dying, women have to give birth. Nobody tells men that. If they don't have children, they're pitied. If we don't, we're judged.”
“The perfect life doesn't exist anymore. But our life is here”
Maria Nazarova, 29, a former military doctor, took off her uniform to give birth to her first child. She holds him in her arms and smiles, “If we put everything off, we'll never live again. My mom pushed me not to wait. And I thank her.”
Leaving Ukraine is not an option for her. “Most of those who left are no better off. And military families are falling apart anyway. Wives and children are far away, men on the front lines. I don't want that for us.”
He knows the danger is real. “Yes, you can be killed by a missile, but the probability is still small. We don't live with that fear daily. We live with the decision to stay.”
“The main thing is to save our children”
Anna Demîdenko, 40, a former combat medic, made a different decision after a rocket fell near her daughter's school. “I felt that I can carry dead bodies, but I cannot guarantee the safety of my own child. That was when I sent her to Holland, to her grandmother.”
In Ukraine, Anna continues to work for an organization dedicated to women veterans. On her key ring it says: “I love this country and I want to live here.”
“Too many friends died before they could have children. For us, saving our children is the most important mission”she says.
Years of work and pain have left their mark. “I've had bad periods, depression, alcohol… Now I've stopped. I'm trying to breathe.”
“Millennial women are flourishing, but at the cost of burnout”
Irina Gorlaci, 35, an expert in international cooperation, says that the war redefined the role of women in her generation.
“We lead communities, NGOs, international projects. We speak for Ukraine, because men cannot leave the country. But with this freedom comes a huge pressure – double, triple.”
He fears that Ukraine's next big crisis will be that of mental health. “We are tired, burned out, but still motivated. As long as the idea of justice and dignity exists, we will stick to it,” says Irina.
