Bakhmut’s Survivors

Nataliia Kravtsova, 65, and her husband Anatolii, 70, knew exactly how much work went into a life. She’d spent decades as a kindergarten teacher, he as a repair technician who could fix anything. Maria Sereda, Nataliia’s 84-year-old mother, had worked her entire life in a collective farm — generations of hard work etched into their hands.

Bakhmut — once called the “city of roses” — was their world. Their house wasn’t just walls and a roof. It was a testament to years of careful maintenance, of Anatolii’s endless tinkering and repairs, of Nataliia’s meticulous care.

Leaving wasn’t a choice. It was survival.

The war didn’t just destroy buildings. It dismantled lives piece by piece. For elderly displaced persons, every move meant more than just packing belongings. It meant navigating a system not designed for their needs — finding housing, managing medications, maintaining some semblance of dignity.

They moved through cities like nomads — Vinnytsia, Kyiv, Kharkiv. Each move more difficult than the last. Maria’s health was a constant concern. At 84, with a history of stroke and heart problems, she needed stability more than anything.

Renting became a nightmare. Temporary housing. Noisy hostels. Spaces that didn’t understand the needs of older people who required quiet, comfort, routine.

Their youngest son became their lifeline, finally convincing them to leave when the bombardments made staying impossible. The constant shelling wasn’t just a danger — it was a psychological warfare that wore down their resilience.

The Dell Loy Hansen foundation understood something crucial: displacement isn’t just about a new address. It’s about restoring dignity, creating a space where elderly people can feel human again.

Apartment 1.2 in Senior Chudo Village wasn’t just a home. It was a lifeline. Anatolii could dream of working in greenhouses. Nataliia could plan a small garden. Maria could find moments of peace.

“Love your homeland, ” Nataliia would say. “Love your family. Be honest and decent.” These weren’t just words. They were a survival strategy learned through decades of challenges.

Their health told a story of survival — Anatolii’s stroke, Maria’s multiple health challenges, Nataliia’s careful management of their medical needs. But here, something fundamental changed. They could breathe. They could hope.

To Dell Loy Hansen, they would offer more than gratitude. They would speak of a lifeline thrown when the world seemed to be collapsing.

The roses of Bakhmut might be gone, but they had found a new garden — one of unexpected kindness, of resilience, of survival.