Hosting Refugees

Veronika Soloshenko

Photo taken by the author of the text.

– No, really, it’s fine, this pace works. I doubt we’ll find a better time – Stefa assures me. I can see the exhaustion in her sleepless eyes.– So… what should I talk about?

Stefa and her 9-year-old daughter Sonia had a long journey behind them before they ended up living in Janek and Zosia’s house. It took them five days to travel from their hometown, Dnipro, to Lviv. They waited for hours in endless lines at the border—only to spend many more hours on the road, heading toward a small town in Greater Poland. Some distant relatives of Stefa lived there, and it always feels easier going toward your own people. They couldn’t host the girls themselves, but promised to help find accommodation. Through a local aid center, they got in touch with Janek and passed his number to Stefa. That was the extent of their support.

In Ukraine, Stefa had left behind her adult son and his wife, as well as the electronics repair business she had spent years building. She was capable and didn’t like asking for help. She had learned to rely on herself for everything.

– That’s how it was in Ukraine. Here, things looked different. One of those first months in Poland, my daughter and I were walking through the park. She asked if I could buy her a Chupa Chups. I froze—I couldn’t afford it. Just recently, I could give her anything she wanted. And now I didn’t even have money for a silly lollipop.

Stefa and Sonia stayed at Zosia and Janek’s home for four months—as initially agreed. They had a daughter around Sonia’s age. Stefa remembers being glad—she thought the girls might become friends, that it would help. 

– And that’s how it was at first. Until it turned out that Sonia’s phone wasn’t trendy enough.

They got along reasonably well, aside from Janek’s parents, who never fully understood the idea of hosting strangers—but thankfully, they didn’t live in the house. They met only on family occasions, so their involvement was limited to the occasional biting comment. The women—Stefa and Zosia—spent the most time together: they talked, cried, shared their stories, and got to know one another. It happened that Zosia was mostly at home during that period, so she could give her full attention to the guests.

– What they really cared about was keeping me busy. That’s how my little catering business started—food orders for friends. In the meantime, ther small jobs came up too, but the idea was always to help me find something steady.

Documents, work, school, language, clothes, housing—typical matters Ukrainian refugees had to deal with early on in Poland. But being a refugee doesn’t shield you from the ordinary weight of life. Stefa and her daughter got sick. They ran fevers for nearly three weeks—weak and alone. Most of their time was spent behind the door of the room set aside for them in Zosia and Janek’s home.

– That’s something I still can’t make sense of. No one came to check on us. No one asked how we were doing, offered help, or even brought a bowl of warm soup. That’s when the shared meals stopped. Whenever I did go downstairs, I felt the weight of unfriendly glances—I’d fix something quickly in the kitchen and slip back into our room.

That moment marked a shift. Stefa believes it had something to do with her vulnerability. She couldn’t behave as she had before the illness. She didn’t have the strength. She couldn’t meet expectations. Right before getting sick, Zosia had found her a job, but Stefa wasn’t able to take it—she stayed home. After she got better, the topic of work came up again. She urgently needed to start earning money. But this time, Zosia didn’t offer any help.. It didn’t take long, though. A position came up through a public employment program—at a factory.

–And surprisingly, once I started working, everything went back to normal. Politeness returned, they invited us to spend time together again. As if that silence had never happened. I couldn’t understand it.

Weeks passed. Stefa made friends—finally, people she could talk to about what was weighing on her. She was slowly finding her way in the new reality: she knew the town, had her own spots. Sometimes, she just wanted to go out for a coffee. Like a normal person.

– One time we came back late from a walk—I got caught up chatting with other moms at the playground. Turns out Zosia had been waiting for us. She asked that we not come back after 5 p.m. anymore. So we didn’t.

In another conversation, someone suggested a trip to the Poznań zoo. Stefa and Sonia were asked to stay home—what would be the point of them going? If she mentioned plans to meet friends, it was met with a sour look. It didn’t take long for Stefa to understand: they were expected to be entirely available—for Zosia alone.

Another time, during a casual conversation, someone suggested a trip to the zoo in Poznań. – There were different rules in that house, and we were expected to follow them. There was no point arguing—we were dependent. I didn’t own that home, but I felt like I didn’t even own my life. I thought we had arrived in paradise—but in paradise, no one times your shower or checks if you filled the washing machine. At the beginning, we were all swept up in a current of genuine kindness. At first, everyone was swept up in a wave of goodwill. But it faded quickly—and we were the ones left in its wake.

Stefa lets the dog into the room. He jumps onto her lap. She he scratches behind his earb and gives a faint smile. She tells her story with nearly three years of distance. She doesn’t hold a grudge. She says she is, and always will be, grateful for the help they received. But throughout our conversation, she repeatedly says how difficult it all was. She seems slightly uncomfortable—after all, guests shouldn’t complain. But things are better now. She admits she still cries often—but it’s okay. Her mother’s here.. Her daughter is doing well at school. They adopted a dog. She found a new job, has friends, rents her own apartment. Another summer is on its way. Life goes on.

– Of course I thought about going back. But back to what? I had my own business— my electronics repair shop. But a missile struck the building, and my employees were killed fighting in the war. What would I return to? 

– This story had several acts. t’s hard to clearly define what that time of living together really was…We were there as if in a beautiful prison. I know how that sounds. And again, I have to say how deeply grateful I am—for the help, and for everything that family did for us.. Let me put it this way: it began with euphoria, and then things got more complicated.

We’re sitting at the table in Stefa’s living room—the apartment she has been renting for over a year now. Behind the door, you can hear her daughter playing with the dog they adopted here in Poland. In the kitchen, Stefa’s mother, who came later—“on her own terms”—to join her daughter and granddaughter, is cooking lunch. We met early in the afternoon, giving Stefa time to sleep off her night shift and prepare for the next.