The other frontline: displaced Ukrainians with disabilities adjust to new lives in new towns

Coordinators from the National Assembly of People of Disabilities during their team gathering. Photo: National Assembly of People with Disabilities of Ukraine.

“Transport is a significant barrier. Or rather its absence,” says Maria Hlod.

“Several villages in the community are very remote, and there are no regular buses or alternative means of transportation,” she adds.

Hlod is a regional coordinator for the National Assembly of People with Disabilities of Ukraine. Originally from Kherson, she fled west after Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022. Now she works in Torchyn, north-western Ukraine, helping displaced people with disabilities navigate the maze of bureaucracy and survival. Her work is part of the Empower Ukraine, a wider network of solidarity reaching into the country, implemented with support from the Christian Blind Mission and funding from the German Federal Foreign Office.

“Some people have been living in temporary accommodation for years,” she says. “They still don’t know how to access support, and they often can’t even get to the nearest office. International funding is what allows us to help them the most.”

In Torchyn, a small town surrounded by farmland, Hlod spends most of her week making phone calls and collecting data for the Assembly. Her role is not just administrative.

“Sometimes it’s as simple as helping someone reach a hospital or get proper documentation that can make a difference — because some people are not even provided with that,” she explains. The job, she adds, is not about charity, but more about persistence: finding transport, confirming medical records, and making sure people are not forgotten.

Counting those displaced and in need 

Across the country, that quiet persistence keeps tens of thousands of Ukrainians afloat. Before the full-scale war, Ukraine officially recorded around 2.7 million people with disabilities — about six per cent of the population. That figure, drawn from pre-war data, is now hopelessly outdated. The fighting has left tens of thousands injured, displaced, or cut off from medical care. Nobody knows how many now live with permanent disability or limited mobility.

In Ukraine’s rural communities, especially those far from major cities, accessibility remains minimal. Pavements are uneven, clinics are often upstairs, and public transport is scarce. Even before 2022, Ukraine lagged behind European standards on inclusive infrastructure. The Russian war has pushed the issue even further down the agenda.

“There’s limited transport, and with Russia attacking Ukraine’s energy grid, there’s also no reliable electricity — that’s the reality,” says Hlod. “People with disabilities are often the last ones to receive any help.”

Five hundred kilometres east, in the Poltava region, Nataliya Pruhlo faces similar problems. She arrived in the town of Opishnya after fleeing from eastern Ukraine and now works as the local coordinator for the National Assembly of People with Disabilities in her small community.

“I had no idea this is where I’d end up,” she says. “As a person with a disability myself, I am happy to advocate for change, but it’s not easy.”

Pruhlo coordinates volunteers, helps distribute mobility aids, and assists displaced families with paperwork. Her office occupies two small rooms in a community centre, with the walls lined with wheelchairs and walking frames.

“Some people who came from the east haven’t left their homes in months,” she says. “It’s not about fear. It’s about logistics. There’s no accessible transport, no easy way to travel.”

She gestures toward a list of names she is working with.

“This one needs a new prosthesis. That one is still waiting for a ramp outside her building,” she explains. “You solve one thing, and three new problems appear.”

The situation exposes the limits of Ukraine’s disability system, which still relies heavily on in-person medical commissions and paperwork issued by regional authorities. For displaced people, those documents often remain in occupied or destroyed towns. Without them, they cannot renew disability status or access benefits.

“You can’t get a pension or medical aid without papers, and you can’t get papers without travel,” Hlod says. “That’s the loop. Now, there are digital options, or ways to get your documents in the new localities, but it’s difficult for people with low digital skills or mobility issues.”

Both Hlod and Pruhlo work through small grants and donations, connecting with other coordinators by phone. Their networks – such as the European Disability Forum – supply everything from crutches and orthopedic mattresses to small folding ramps built by volunteers.

“We sometimes store the equipment in people’s garages or schools,” Pruhlo says. “It’s improvised, but it works.”

Despite the hardships, the two women see their work as part of Ukraine’s broader recovery. Since applying for EU membership, Kyiv has pledged to align with the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities and the EU’s accessibility standards. In theory, this means barrier-free design in new housing, transport, and public buildings. In practice, progress is slow.

“Paperwork moves faster than construction,” Hlod says. “We still have clinics where you can’t even enter with a wheelchair.”

Inclusive reconstruction?

The Ukrainian authorities have announced “barrier-free reconstruction” as a guiding principle of rebuilding, but local activists say they are still waiting for visible results. The challenge is not only physical — it is also bureaucratic. Many displaced people remain outside official registries and receive no benefits at all.

“There’s no unified database,” says Pruhlo. “Each region has its own procedures. Everything depends on individual effort due to these inconsistent procedures.”

The numbers highlight the gap. According to the National Assembly, thousands of internally displaced persons with disabilities are living in makeshift shelters or rented housing without adapted bathrooms or heating. Many rely on volunteers for food, medical care, and mobility devices. A 2024 report from the Ministry of Social Policy acknowledged “systemic barriers” in providing services for people with disabilities during the war — especially in rural areas — and promised digital solutions. But online registration requires stable internet, which is often unavailable.

“Everything assumes connectivity,” says Hlod. “When the power goes out, we go back to paper forms.”

Both women have learned to manage expectations. In Opishnya, Pruhlo recalls a small victory: volunteers raised money to lay 40 metres of concrete path between two houses where wheelchair users live.

“Now they can visit each other,” she says with a smile. “That’s progress, even if it’s not visible on a national scale.”

Hlod tells a similar story. One of her clients, a woman displaced from Kherson, had been unable to travel to the regional hospital for months because the bus stop was too far and the road too uneven. A local volunteer offered weekly rides, and eventually the woman received a folding wheelchair through the Assembly’s network.

“She told me it changed her life,” says Hlod. “But the truth is, it shouldn’t take this much effort for basic mobility.”

The National Assembly has been lobbying the government to ensure that reconstruction funds include mandatory accessibility standards. The organization, which works closely with the UN Development Programme and European partners, argues that inclusion must be treated as a national security issue — because resilience depends on everyone’s ability to participate.

Their advocacy, through Empower Ukraine, also targets a broader audience — urging European donors and institutions to ensure that humanitarian aid is disability-inclusive, and that funding aligns with international standards and accountability mechanisms. One of the project goals is to go beyond short-term relief, and work to change how aid systems include persons with disabilities throughout their policy and programming.

“If people with disabilities are excluded from rebuilding, we lose part of the workforce, part of the community, part of the future,” Hlod says.

The scale of reconstruction ahead is enormous: by some estimates, more than 200,000 residential buildings have been damaged or destroyed since 2022. For advocates like Pruhlo, the opportunity lies in rebuilding differently.

“We have to plan accessibility from the beginning,” she says. “It’s cheaper and smarter than trying to fix it later.”

Yet for now, most progress remains local — improvised, underfunded, and dependent on determination.

“There’s a lot of talk about the future,” Pruhlo says. “But our job is to make sure people survive the present.”

In Torchyn, as the winter approaches, Hlod locks up her office, her notebook full of names, phone numbers, and addresses. Tomorrow she will start again, calling mayors, tracking deliveries, and arranging rides.

“It’s not heroic work,” she says. “It’s just the basics. But the basics are what people need most.”

Anna Romandash is an award-winning journalist from Ukraine and an author of Women of Ukraine: Reportages from the War and Beyond (2023).

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disabilities, Russian invasion of Ukraine, Ukraine, Ukraine at war, Ukrainian society, volunteers