I spent over six years working and living in different parts of Ukraine, but returning a few months after the full-scale Russian invasion was perhaps the most difficult experience of all. I came back to familiar places, but the way of life had shifted dramatically. From constant air raid alerts to frequent power outages, and streets increasingly filled with people in military uniforms. The normal I had known was no longer there. However, I was always aware that I could leave; I had an organisation with evacuation protocols, a warm bed and my worried family waiting across the border. The women I worked with often didn’t have that option and the way they coped with the new reality often surprised me.
The moral dilemma of happiness
The night before I travelled to Zaporizhzhia for the first time, several missiles struck the city’s outskirts. My phone blared one air raid after another throughout the night, but the hotel’s thick walls provided just enough reassurance for me to get a few hours of fragmented sleep on the bathroom floor, where I’d made an improvised bed. When I started to prepare for the journey the next morning, it was still unclear whether we’d receive permission to proceed. At the office, Tetiana, one of the senior officers in charge of cooperation with international staff, was already checking the equipment, following the strict protocols for travel outside Dnipro’s green zone. By 9 a.m., we got the green light. Finally, I would meet the team I’d been supporting remotely for months. Undoubtedly, during COVID, we all adapted our way of working to video calls and shared online documents, but a handshake or a hug still carries weight, especially for those who cannot leave, or choose not to. I truly believe in these small gestures, I think they can help people carry on with selfless work under these impossible circumstances.
As we crossed the city limits, Tetiana joked, «Most people get excited to visit New York or Paris, but I’ve never seen anyone so happy to visit industrial Zaporizhzhia.» And controversially, I was excited. Not to see the impact the war had on the city, but to get closer to the everyday reality of people I’d worked with from afar.
Whenever we travelled outside of the base in Dnipro, our visits were limited by the inevitable approach of sunset. After the initial greetings in the office, we began planning activities for communities near the frontline, where group sessions were impossible due to the lack of appropriate shelters. As Natalia, one of the coordinators, listed possible options, the air raid siren started to wail. No one moved. «We only run if the rotten cherry says so,» she joked. Unsure if I had misunderstood since my Ukrainian language skills were still quite limited, I asked for clarification. Instead of explaining, everyone pulled out their phones and started sharing reliable Telegram channels. In Zaporizhzhia, it was «the rotten cherry», in Dnipro, they followed «the hedgehogs». «If the hedgehogs run under the bed, we shelter too.» Their calm wasn’t numbness; it was resilience built into routine. In this strange way, cherries and hedgehogs offered the smallest bit of lightness in the daily terror these women had to face.
Later that afternoon, I was meant to meet the head of a local organisation. She apologised, explaining she had to attend another meeting. She was a well-respected woman, supporting her family, running an organisation with hundreds of volunteers, often barely sleeping. Pulling me aside, she confessed: «I’m organising my daughter’s wedding. People think we’re mad,» she laughed, «but if we stop marking life, what are our people fighting to protect?»
Her decision to organise a wedding for her young daughter made me reflect on what are the moral dilemmas of joy in the context of war. In this case, a wedding did not feel like escapism. It was resistance. Just like a small year-end gathering or a birthday pizza in the office, which I would join whenever possible. Yet, even in celebration, a moment of silence always marked the occasion to honour those who made it possible, and those no longer with us.
Since the full-scale invasion, joy has felt complicated. Conversations around what is acceptable have grown more polarised. Some evenings, I’d come home overwhelmed with emotions. Other times, I’d share a coffee and a smile with a colleague, and guilt would follow. How can I laugh when someone else is suffering?
But I’ve learned something from the Ukrainians I’ve worked alongside: It is precisely because we are devastated by the surrounding circumstances that we must find moments of happiness. Occasionally, some strangers would thank us foreigners for standing with them. Others would criticise the humanitarian system’s inefficiency. Both were right. And still, the work went on.
The vanity of normalcy
One of the subtler moral dilemmas I’ve encountered was the question of appearance. How we present ourselves in a place and time defined by destruction. Is it vain to wear lipstick while others are mourning? Does painting one’s nails diminish the gravity of war? Can a haircut be an act of resistance?
Over the years in Ukraine, I came to appreciate the many ways my local colleagues expressed themselves through appearance. Some chose simplicity including practical clothing or minimal grooming. Others found joy in the details such as an immaculate manicure, a carefully chosen outfit, or even a pair of heels worn just because. Prior to the full-scale invasion, these things were routine. But in a war zone, they became charged with meaning. I’ve seen women in frontline towns adding their names to long waiting lists for a manicure or borrow a bit of mascara before a community event. One aid worker told me, «My nails are a reminder of normalcy. If I can keep this one small thing in control, maybe the rest won’t unravel.» Another added, «I wear lipstick before every shift. Not for others but to remind myself that I am still me.» These rituals became quiet acts of rebellion, signalling that even in wartime, women still wanted the freedom to choose for themselves, just as they had before, on their own terms.
Dancing as resistance
One thing many people don’t realise is that Ukraine’s cultural life didn’t stop. Opera and ballet performances continue to be sold-out. Concerts were organised, artists kept creating, and schedules got adjusted to the curfew hours. There is something rebelliously human in continuing with these activities while the world around you burns.
Dancing, for example, isn’t denial or disrespect. In many ways, it is survival. I think of the women I’ve met: medics, aid workers, counsellors. Some dance at weddings, some in their kitchens, and some only in their minds. People choose to dance because they’re still here. Not to celebrate the war, but to remember the life that came before it and the one they hope to reclaim.
One of the lessons I’ve learned is not to judge people for how they hold their joy. Some chose silence, some sing. Some dance not to forget the war, but to remember they are alive. Some lighten up a serious situation by a small joke while in the shelter and some come to the aid distribution site with their lipstick on. We all cope in different ways. There are still days when I question my own brief moments of joy. But I’m slowly learning to stop judging myself for them too.
This war has taken lives, homes, and futures but not everything. Not the laughter, not the lipstick, not the right to dance and not the hope.
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Miriama Hudakova is a humanitarian professional with over a decade of international experience supporting complex emergency and development programmes in conflict-affected settings. She has worked with a variety of organisations including with the Red Cross Movement, OSCE and several international NGOs, leading projects in challenging environments such as Ukraine, Iraq, Somalia, Colombia, and Uganda. Miriama is also an advocate for democratic and feminist values, actively promoting these through her role as an EU election observer.
Please note: Names have been changed to protect the identities of individuals.
