Hosting Refugees

Veronika Soloshenko

Holiday preparations – photo from the hosted person’s private archive.

Gosia’s house, however, was not where Zhenia ended up at first. She spent her first months on the same street, but in a different house. That experience had a different character—full of uncertainty and misunderstanding on both sides. That’s often how hosting worked when it was done with good intentions but had an expiration date set by the 40+ program. Still, from Zhenia’s very first days in Poland, another important figure appeared in her life—a neighbour, Mrs. Krysia.
“If it weren’t for Mrs. Krysia, we definitely wouldn’t be here anymore.”
In 2022, Mrs. Krysia helped with paperwork, and now several times a week they work on Zhenia’s Polish pronunciation. Social networks—in this case embodied by a kind neighbour—were often crucial sources of both practical and emotional support for hosted people. Mrs. Krysia always knew what needed to be done and how, but she was also someone you could talk to about everything—or simply sit with in silence. She came with sweets for the children and stayed. “Our Polish grandma.”
When the benefits from the 40+ program ended, Zhenia was asked to find a new place to live. She searched, called, wrote—but at that moment there were simply no affordable apartments available for a mother with two children fleeing war. Moving to another town was also out of the question—the children were already attending the local school.
That was when Mrs. Krysia thought of Gosia, who had an empty house left by her grandparents. She hadn’t planned on hosting—she said the conditions weren’t great: an old, long-uninhabited house—but the situation was critical. Only then did Gosia and Zhenia meet, and their first conversation took place while cleaning the house before the move.
“That’s when we really talked—told each other our lives. Each in her own way, but we understood each other.”
This is how Zhenia’s second experience of being hosted by a Polish family began—seemingly similar, just a few hundred meters away, also in an empty house, yet completely different. While the first host family pretended not to know her during chance encounters, Zhenia has now been sharing another year of life with Gosia.
I can hear it too—in the visible relief in Zhenia’s voice when her story reaches the moment she met Gosia. We talk for a long time—both Zhenia and Gosia have countless anecdotes gathered over these years of hosting. Both women speak of closeness—unnamed, but present between the lines: in memories of conversations, shared experiences, trips taken together, and the everyday life they share.
“And we were brought together by a shared passion—puzzles! We used to meet for coffee and puzzles when the kids were at school. Sometimes at Zhenia’s, sometimes at mine. We have a whole collection—just look at these boxes. It started by accident—I had puzzles laid out, and Zhenia saw them and said, ‘Come on, let’s put them together.’ And she got hooked. So much so that later we couldn’t pull ourselves away. When she had her birthday, we bought her a set—so I’d have an excuse to come over and do puzzles together, right? Sometimes here, sometimes there. We live in a way where, if something is needed, everyone knows who to turn to. We became friends. A typical Polish-Ukrainian friendship.”
Another story—also about birthdays—comes from Zhenia: how they came with a cake and candles to wish Gosia’s husband happy birthday. She knew they didn’t make much of such occasions, but they wanted to show their gratitude.“And what are holidays like for you?” I ask.“Together, of course.” Zhenia laughs that they always have to remember to schedule one more visit—in the calendar—at Mrs. Krysia’s, who invites them every year and says, “Just try not to come.”
And so they live together—three different families connected by one story. Toward the end of our conversation, Gosia says that the only good thing to come out of the war is that she and Zhenia met. And, as she emphasizes several times—Zhenia’s mother feels the same way.
“I’m aware that at some point they’ll have to make a decision. You can’t live in conditions like this until retirement. Zhenia is here in Poland with the children, and her husband stayed in Ukraine. The kids will keep getting older—they’ll want to be a family. And I had such a beautiful vision… We once talked with Zhenia’s husband, and they started telling us what they would show us in Ukraine. I remember we all started crying. They said, ‘We’ll take you here and there, we’ll show you our Kyiv.’ We’d go to some park, the places where they used to spend time. We were all so moved by that vision. But it’s fading more and more. It’s becoming less and less likely, isn’t it? Because will it ever be possible to travel peacefully to Kyiv? I’ve never been there. My parents have. All we can do is believe that it will happen one day. That one day it will be possible to go there normally. I tell them, ‘Then it will be your turn to have us—when we come to visit you’.And we started planning. But that was in the first year of the war. Now we don’t have such visions anymore.”
And so, in a small town in Greater Poland, preparations for what would already be their fourth shared holidays went on. I’ve seen photos of gingerbread decorated with white-and-red and blue-and-yellow icing from 2022, and lavish Easter paskas from 2023. In 2024 there were paskas and gingerbread too—and as you can see, in 2025 as well.
Will they still be there next year?

“Lately I’ve been reading nothing but sad posts on your page. And here we are, starting our Polish-Ukrainian holiday preparations. Yesterday was Stollen Day—baking German cake. Greetings.”
I look at this WhatsApp message and smile bitterly. Gosia is right—lately it’s becoming harder and harder to come across a positive post, not only on our page.
A few days pass and I receive another message, this time from Zhenia: “Continuation of Polish-Ukrainian holiday preparations. Today is gingerbread baking day”—with a video attached. Gosia had shown me similar ones, just from the previous year. I’m happy to receive these messages, and at the thought that amid the many overlapping “anti-…” narratives, I can witness a genuinely good relationship.
I met Gosia last spring. We met for a conversation and tea in her kitchen. When I asked her about her experience of hosting, she looked at me with noticeable satisfaction:
“But I’m hosting all the time. Neighbourly hosting, you could say—just around the bend.”