The Unbroken Line

On February 22, when Russian forces entered Kherson, Valentyna and Volodymyr Lyashko didn’t just lose their home. They lost their rhythm of life.

For 52 years, they had built a world around routine. Mornings in their garden, Volodymyr tending vegetables while Valentyna managed their small household. He, a long-haul truck driver used to mapping routes, now mapped survival. She, a chief accountant who once balanced books, now balanced their survival.

Kizymy village became their unexpected battlefield. Not with weapons, but with silence. Watching their children leave, they stayed. Stubborn. Rooted. Their generation doesn’t abandon home easily.

The hydroelectric dam’s destruction wasn’t just a geographical event. It was a metaphor for their life being washed away. One moment they were preparing coffee on the porch, the next they were fleeing rising waters, medical supplies running low, stress eating away at their already fragile health.

Diabetes. Bone problems. Back issues. The war didn’t just threaten their external world — it attacked their bodies, their independence.

When the Dell Loy Hansen foundation called, it wasn’t charity. It was a restoration. Apartment 10.3 in Senior Chudo Village wasn’t just a room. It was a reclamation of dignity.

“It’s like a paradise, ” Valentyna would say. But it was more than beauty. It was safety. A place where Volodymyr could sit without pain, where Valentyna could breathe without fear.

Their advice to younger generations wasn’t romantic. “Plan, but be ready when nothing goes to plan.” Words from people who had seen plans dissolve like morning mist.

In this village, they weren’t just survivors. They were witnesses. To resilience. To love. To the quiet strength of a generation that refuses to be erased.