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What’s Left After the Flames: Four Years of Full-Scale War in Ukraine

19 Feb 26 | 24 Feb 26

What’s Left After the Flames: Four Years of Full-Scale War in Ukraine

Damir is two months old, he has big blue eyes and a loud voice. In the morning, his crying can be heard from the hallway. Damir has been bathed twice in his entire life: the first one immediately after he was taken from the maternity ward; the second one on a rare day when there was electricity in the shelter. “We use wipes now because it's very cold. The room just doesn't have time to warm up. I'm afraid he could catch a cold,” explains his mother, Kateryna Murashkina, 17. 

She changes her son's clothes as quickly as possible, because he doesn't like to be changed. Her older daughter, three-year-old Sasha, sleeps nearby. “Damir is teething. He cries constantly and needs to be held in my arms,” explains Kateryna. "Sasha is a girl with a strong personality, and she also needs to be entertained. I draw and play with her, but I also must pay attention to my younger son. My family, who live in the next room, help a lot: my brother Vanya comes to babysit the children, and my mother does the laundry and cooks." Caption
Damir is two months old, he has big blue eyes and a loud voice. In the morning, his crying can be heard from the hallway. Damir has been bathed twice in his entire life: the first one immediately after he was taken from the maternity ward; the second one on a rare day when there was electricity in the shelter. “We use wipes now because it's very cold. The room just doesn't have time to warm up. I'm afraid he could catch a cold,” explains his mother, Kateryna Murashkina, 17. She changes her son's clothes as quickly as possible, because he doesn't like to be changed. Her older daughter, three-year-old Sasha, sleeps nearby. “Damir is teething. He cries constantly and needs to be held in my arms,” explains Kateryna. "Sasha is a girl with a strong personality, and she also needs to be entertained. I draw and play with her, but I also must pay attention to my younger son. My family, who live in the next room, help a lot: my brother Vanya comes to babysit the children, and my mother does the laundry and cooks."

Damir is two months old. His mother, Kateryna Murashkina, is 17. Since his birth, he has been bathed twice — once in the hospital, and once on a rare day when electricity briefly returned.

“We use wipes now because it’s very cold,” she says. “The room doesn’t warm up in time to bathe him. I’m afraid of giving my child a cold.”

Kateryna and Damir live in a former scientific institute in Dnipro, repurposed as a shelter in 2022, where MSF teams now provide medical consultations for residents. Around 270 people displaced from occupied areas or cities reduced to ruins now live there. Repeated strikes by Russian forces on energy infrastructure mean residents endure days without heating, water, or electricity — in temperatures that fall to minus 20°C.

MSF’s increased presence in shelters like this one through mobile medical clinics, reflects the growing needs for displaced people as fighting continues to empty towns and villages. Consultations provided through mobile medical clinics more than doubled in 2025 compared to 2024 — increasing from 4,327 to 9,500.

For many people living near the front line, the decision to leave home takes a long time, and is extremely difficult – despite the extreme danger posed by the encroaching front line. With limited financial means and few alternatives, elderly people and those with chronic illnesses often remain in their homes until sustained bombardment and the collapse of infrastructure and essential services, including medical services, leave them no choice but to flee.

The scale of destruction in Ukraine is enormous and has only grown since Russian forces invaded in 2022. The nature of front-line warfare encompassing artillery, drones and missiles, means that nothing and no-one is spared as it shifts. MSF teams have also been forced to adapt – leaving seven hospitals and over 40 locations where they were running mobile clinics – when the situation becomes too dangerous.

Zinaida Babisheva hugs her dog Toshyk. She is 67 years old and was evacuated from Lyman in March 2022. 

When she thinks about home, the first thing she talks about is the people who were around her: “Neighbours were all so nice and friendly. Before, if there was a big holiday, we would take tables out onto the street and celebrate together.” Caption
Zinaida Babisheva hugs her dog Toshyk. She is 67 years old and was evacuated from Lyman in March 2022. When she thinks about home, the first thing she talks about is the people who were around her: “Neighbours were all so nice and friendly. Before, if there was a big holiday, we would take tables out onto the street and celebrate together.”

Lyman, in Donetsk region, is one district where MSF was running mobile medical clinics before insecurity made operations impossible. In June 2024, activities were suspended entirely. Today, approximately 2,000 residents remain in the frontline town, which faces daily shelling.

Lyman was also 67-year-old Zinaida Babisheva’s home, who now lives in the Dnipro displacement shelter. She recalls life before the full-scale invasion. She remembers pulling tables into the street on public holidays to eat with neighbours. She remembers her garden.

“We had apples, plums, cherries, pears, peaches. So many roses and lilies,” she says. “Now my daughter grows flowers, but I no longer feel like doing anything.”

Liubov Kuzmenko, 65, from Siverskodonetsk also lives in the shelter with Zinaida, Kateryna and Damir. She says her apartment was looted after Russian forces took control. But what weighs most heavily on her is separation from her family.

“My parents stayed under occupation. My father died in 2024, and I couldn’t return to bury him. I send my mother video messages — it hurts that I cannot be there.”

Zinaida's neighbour, with whom she kept in touch, said that during the occupation, Russian soldiers who entered Lyman robbed her house. He saw them carrying things out of it. But Zinaida managed to save several photo albums which she took with her.  

“I still have dreams about my home,” she says. "We had a garden where everything grew: Symyrenko’s apples, plums, cherries, pears, and peaches. I invited friends who lived in apartments to come and pick some fruits for themselves. And there were so many roses! And lilies, marigolds! We had everything... Now my daughter grows flowers in pots, but I don't want anything anymore." Caption
Zinaida's neighbour, with whom she kept in touch, said that during the occupation, Russian soldiers who entered Lyman robbed her house. He saw them carrying things out of it. But Zinaida managed to save several photo albums which she took with her. “I still have dreams about my home,” she says. "We had a garden where everything grew: Symyrenko’s apples, plums, cherries, pears, and peaches. I invited friends who lived in apartments to come and pick some fruits for themselves. And there were so many roses! And lilies, marigolds! We had everything... Now my daughter grows flowers in pots, but I don't want anything anymore."

As the war grinds on, hospitals, pharmacies, schools and shops have been destroyed or closed. Entire communities have become uninhabitable. As fighting continues, displacement has risen — and the humanitarian needs grow more complex and prolonged.

MSF continues to provide medical and psychological care across Ukraine: supporting hospitals near the frontline, running ambulances for war-wounded patients, and operating mobile clinics in shelters and communities hosting displaced people and in locations where people are trying to remain despite collapsing services and encroaching frontlines.

 

Accompanied by a series of photos by Julia Kochetova, winner of the World Press Photo Award 2024, with testimonies below. 

To see full collection go to https://msf.exposure.co/life-above-all

 

When she left Lyman, Zinaida took almost nothing with her — she was sure she would return soon. However, she kept the rings on her fingers, which are very memorable and valuable to her.  

"I have been wearing one of the rings for 45 years. My mother gave it to me when my daughter turned one year old. The other was a gift from my late husband on our wedding anniversary—I think it was our 15th. Another one was a gift from my family when my grandson finished elementary school. And this one was a gift from my daughter on my 65th birthday." Caption
When she left Lyman, Zinaida took almost nothing with her — she was sure she would return soon. However, she kept the rings on her fingers, which are very memorable and valuable to her. "I have been wearing one of the rings for 45 years. My mother gave it to me when my daughter turned one year old. The other was a gift from my late husband on our wedding anniversary—I think it was our 15th. Another one was a gift from my family when my grandson finished elementary school. And this one was a gift from my daughter on my 65th birthday."
Sunday morning at the shelter for displaced people in Dnipro begins early. The kitchen is bathed in sunlight, and right now it is the only light available to residents, as there is no electricity. Yuliia Murashkina (39) begins to make pancakes: her granddaughter Sasha, who has just woken up, asked her to.  

Several clean electric stoves now stand uselessly along the walls. Yuliia takes out a small burner with a red gas cylinder and heats up some water. Other residents start to gather in the kitchen: they heat food using the same red cylinders and wash dishes in cold water. When they speak, clouds of white vapor escape from their lips—it is so cold in the room that their breath is visible in the sunlight.  

“We have been living here in the shelter for four years, and we have become like family to each other. Sometimes I think that peace will come and we will have to move to different cities, and it makes me sad,” says Yuliia. Caption
Sunday morning at the shelter for displaced people in Dnipro begins early. The kitchen is bathed in sunlight, and right now it is the only light available to residents, as there is no electricity. Yuliia Murashkina (39) begins to make pancakes: her granddaughter Sasha, who has just woken up, asked her to. Several clean electric stoves now stand uselessly along the walls. Yuliia takes out a small burner with a red gas cylinder and heats up some water. Other residents start to gather in the kitchen: they heat food using the same red cylinders and wash dishes in cold water. When they speak, clouds of white vapor escape from their lips—it is so cold in the room that their breath is visible in the sunlight. “We have been living here in the shelter for four years, and we have become like family to each other. Sometimes I think that peace will come and we will have to move to different cities, and it makes me sad,” says Yuliia.
The ceiling of the shelter's assembly hall has begun to collapse. Repairs would require a lot of money, so no one enters this room at the moment. However, residents used to celebrate holidays here.

"A man and a woman from different cities met here, in the shelter. They decided to get married, and we threw them a real wedding. We also celebrated New Year's Eve here in the assembly hall. We danced so hard that I don't know how the floor didn't collapse under us," recalls shelter administrator Anastasiia Kravchenko. Caption
The ceiling of the shelter's assembly hall has begun to collapse. Repairs would require a lot of money, so no one enters this room at the moment. However, residents used to celebrate holidays here. "A man and a woman from different cities met here, in the shelter. They decided to get married, and we threw them a real wedding. We also celebrated New Year's Eve here in the assembly hall. We danced so hard that I don't know how the floor didn't collapse under us," recalls shelter administrator Anastasiia Kravchenko.
Zinaida Babisheva is 67 years old and was evacuated from Lyman in March 2022. 

When she thinks about home, the first thing she talks about is the people who were around her: “Neighbours were all so nice and friendly. Before, if there was a big holiday, we would take tables out onto the street and celebrate together.” Caption
Zinaida Babisheva is 67 years old and was evacuated from Lyman in March 2022. When she thinks about home, the first thing she talks about is the people who were around her: “Neighbours were all so nice and friendly. Before, if there was a big holiday, we would take tables out onto the street and celebrate together.”
Damir is two months old, he has big blue eyes and a loud voice. In the morning, his crying can be heard from the hallway. Damir has been bathed twice in his entire life: the first one immediately after he was taken from the maternity ward; the second one on a rare day when there was electricity in the shelter. “We use wipes now because it's very cold. The room just doesn't have time to warm up. I'm afraid he could catch a cold,” explains his mother, Kateryna Murashkina, 17. 

She changes her son's clothes as quickly as possible, because he doesn't like to be changed. Her older daughter, three-year-old Sasha, sleeps nearby. “Damir is teething. He cries constantly and needs to be held in my arms,” explains Kateryna. "Sasha is a girl with a strong personality, and she also needs to be entertained. I draw and play with her, but I also must pay attention to my younger son. My family, who live in the next room, help a lot: my brother Vanya comes to babysit the children, and my mother does the laundry and cooks." Caption
Damir is two months old, he has big blue eyes and a loud voice. In the morning, his crying can be heard from the hallway. Damir has been bathed twice in his entire life: the first one immediately after he was taken from the maternity ward; the second one on a rare day when there was electricity in the shelter. “We use wipes now because it's very cold. The room just doesn't have time to warm up. I'm afraid he could catch a cold,” explains his mother, Kateryna Murashkina, 17. She changes her son's clothes as quickly as possible, because he doesn't like to be changed. Her older daughter, three-year-old Sasha, sleeps nearby. “Damir is teething. He cries constantly and needs to be held in my arms,” explains Kateryna. "Sasha is a girl with a strong personality, and she also needs to be entertained. I draw and play with her, but I also must pay attention to my younger son. My family, who live in the next room, help a lot: my brother Vanya comes to babysit the children, and my mother does the laundry and cooks."
“Even after so many years, I could walk down my street with my eyes closed,” says Yuliia Murashkina. She has twice left her life behind because of the war. First, in 2014, she and her family left Fashchivka, in the Luhansk region. They moved to Kreminna, but after the full-scale Russian invasion began in 2022, they had to flee again.  

When asked what home means to her, Yuliia recalls Fashchivka, where she grew up. She remembers the park, overgrown and wild, like a forest. She remembers the ponds with cold springs at the bottom and the mine hills where they used to sled in winter. “I understand that the territory has been occupied for more than thirteen years now, and I doubt I will ever get to go there again, even to visit my parents’ graves. I’m not even sure if the cemetery still exists, or if our house is still standing. But I still feel my home is there.” Caption
“Even after so many years, I could walk down my street with my eyes closed,” says Yuliia Murashkina. She has twice left her life behind because of the war. First, in 2014, she and her family left Fashchivka, in the Luhansk region. They moved to Kreminna, but after the full-scale Russian invasion began in 2022, they had to flee again. When asked what home means to her, Yuliia recalls Fashchivka, where she grew up. She remembers the park, overgrown and wild, like a forest. She remembers the ponds with cold springs at the bottom and the mine hills where they used to sled in winter. “I understand that the territory has been occupied for more than thirteen years now, and I doubt I will ever get to go there again, even to visit my parents’ graves. I’m not even sure if the cemetery still exists, or if our house is still standing. But I still feel my home is there.”