Ukraine: Nowhere to go — internally displaced persons struggle with limited access to housing
In 2024, nearly 163,000 people were displaced from eastern and southern Ukraine as intensifying hostilities prompted large-scale evacuations coordinated by the government. In Sumy Oblast, many fled border areas but remained within the region, seeking safety inland.
With front lines shifting unpredictably, further evacuations loom. Yet, shelter is scarce — collective centres are full, and larger towns struggle to cope. Many are forced into remote areas with little transport or means to rebuild their lives.
Nadira*, 43, knows this reality all too well. Of Roma descent and a mother of 11, she has fled war three times — first from Luhansk, then Kharkiv, then Uhroidy, a village in Sumy Oblast just seven kilometres from the border with the Russian Federation. Each move brought the same uncertainty: where would they sleep next? Now, in a damp, overcrowded dormitory in Sumy, she wonders if they will ever have a place of their own.
"We are like birds in a cage," she says. "Even if we repair things, it’s not our place. One day, we’ll have to leave."
She and her children have been living in dormitories for little over a year, unable to find a landlord willing to rent to a family of 12. "They just hang up when they hear how many kids I have."
Damp walls, musty air — shelter, but hardly a home
The dormitory provides shelter, but little else. Mould creeps up the walls. The air is soggy, making clothes turn musty if they aren’t aired out daily. The improvised kitchen is too small, so Nadira stores tea and coffee in the microwave to keep them dry. The toilets are old and broken. For 100 residents, there are only seven showers — one on the fourth floor and six on the ground floor.
With financial support from the European Union, the Danish Refugee Council has improved some of the conditions, fixing the roof and making the space a little more comfortable. "Now it doesn’t leak," Nadira says.
Nadira is no stranger to hardship. During the occupation, she was taken captive. She does not speak much about it. She would rather show the dresses she has managed to keep throughout her displacements. “They make me feel good,” she says, holding them up with a rare smile.
For now, she and her children survive on state aid — small payments for displaced persons and disability benefits for one of her children. It is barely enough to cover food, let alone rent, especially as inflation accelerates. She once tried to rent dormitory rooms, managing to pay for a month before being forced to leave when more displaced families arrived. "So where was I supposed to go? Not back, right?" she asks.
At one point, she paid an astronomical 18,000 UAH (around 420 EUR, equivalent to 2.5 minimum wages in 2024) for just one month in another collective centre. The bill left her struggling to make ends meet, and she was soon forced to move again when new families arrived and the management asked them to leave. After that, she returned briefly to the border village but eventually had to evacuate again.
With no other options, she turned to the Sumy Service for Children, who helped her find a place in the dormitory where she now lives. The conditions are harsh, but at least there is heat and water.
Nadira once had a home. In Luhansk, they lived in a house, not a dormitory. A place where her children could play outside, where she could feel grounded. But that was before the war took everything from her. The house, now demolished, is located in a territory occupied since 2014. Even though she was promised compensation for large families, Nadira could not receive it.
Still, Nadira holds on to hope. “I just want to live somewhere close to the ground again. One day we will have a place to call our own home.”
Beyond the destruction, war’s quieter toll is displacement, instability, and prolonged uncertainty — a hidden cost that lingers far from the battlefield. For Nadira and thousands like her, it is not just about surviving today but finding a place where they can finally stop running.
