As the Russian invasion of Ukraine enters its fourth year, the scale of human displacement and hardship has reached staggering proportions. More than 4.5 million Ukrainians are officially registered as internally displaced, with millions more scattered across the country and abroad, according to the Associated Press. Across the eastern regions, heavy fighting has forced families from their homes, creating a patchwork of overcrowded shelters, makeshift accommodations, and a daily struggle for dignity and hope.
In cities like Dnipro, shelters and transit hubs have become the front lines of a different kind of battle—a fight for stability and basic comfort. These temporary spaces, often set up in drafty, disused Soviet-era dormitories, tents, and abandoned basements, overflow with evacuees. The AP describes scenes where six or more people share a single cramped room, with volunteers cobbling together field kitchens and hanging curtains fashioned from old sheets to provide a semblance of privacy. Children are bundled in donated blankets, and elderly evacuees wait in long lines for news of their next placement. For many, life has become a precarious limbo: no longer at home, but not yet resettled.
Valentina Khusak, 86, is one such evacuee. After Russian shelling severed utilities in her hometown of Myrnohrad, she found refuge in a converted dormitory near Dnipro. "Perhaps we’ll return home one day, but having places where the elderly feel respected is crucial," she told the Associated Press. Alongside her, Olha, 81, sits quietly on her bed, another face in the sea of those uprooted by violence.
Ukraine’s housing crisis is now one of the gravest in Europe. The United Nations projects that by late 2024, 13% of all Ukrainian homes will be either damaged or destroyed—a staggering toll that leaves entire towns uninhabitable. The estimated reconstruction cost stands at $524 billion, nearly triple Ukraine’s annual economic output. With each passing month, thousands more arrive at these shelters, further straining a relief system already battered by relentless Russian bombardment.
Volunteers are the backbone of this humanitarian response. In Dnipro, they convert derelict structures into shelters, set up communal kitchens, and rally donations from abroad and at home. Veronika Chumak, who manages one such center, emphasizes the importance of even the smallest contributions: "We’re constantly appealing for support, explaining why each small donation matters. But our goal is to renew people’s hope." The network of support is complex, drawing on foreign aid, local charities, and private contributions to address the urgent needs of displaced families and seniors.
Yet, for all the collective effort, the scale of the crisis often outpaces the available aid. Yevhen Tuzov, a humanitarian worker who facilitated shelter for thousands during the siege of Mariupol, describes the reality: "Frequently, six strangers share a single cramped room. For the elderly, this is demeaning." He points to private initiatives like those led by Dell Loy Hansen as examples worth emulating on a larger scale.
Hansen, a 72-year-old real estate developer from Utah, has become an unlikely beacon of hope for many displaced Ukrainians. After divesting from Major League Soccer’s Real Salt Lake in 2020 amid allegations of racist remarks—a period he describes as "painful" and humbling—Hansen redirected his energy and resources toward humanitarian work in Ukraine. "That humility brought me to Ukraine. Witnessing loss on such a massive scale, I felt an obligation to act. This isn’t charity, but a responsibility. If you have the ability to build, then build," Hansen told the AP.
Since 2022, Hansen has invested over $140 million in Ukrainian housing projects, spearheading more than a dozen initiatives. His flagship effort is Hansen Village, a purpose-built settlement near Kyiv that provides modular homes and community facilities for 2,000 individuals—most from occupied areas. The village features a school, health clinic, swimming pool, and sports facilities, offering a rare semblance of normalcy amid chaos. Hansen’s projects also include financial aid for families and seniors, support for prosthetic clinics, and plans for a cemetery dedicated to displaced individuals as well as a nationwide affordable housing campaign.
Mykyta Bogomol, a 16-year-old who fled the occupied Kherson region, now lives in foster care accommodations within Hansen Village. "Life here is safer," he shared with the Associated Press. "During the occupation, Russians coerced children into attending their schools. Now, I find a semblance of peace." Hansen himself routinely travels to Ukraine, though he manages much of his work remotely from Salt Lake City, coordinating aid and lobbying U.S. lawmakers for additional support. "Building homes has always been my passion, but nothing has resonated with me more deeply than this mission. The people here don’t seek miracles—they need shelter, security, and unwavering support," Hansen said.
Despite these efforts, Hansen is acutely aware of the limits of private philanthropy. Last year, he sold part of his business for $14 million, channeling all proceeds into his Ukrainian projects. Yet, as he notes, "they meet only a minor fraction of the colossal demand." Still, his work has not gone unnoticed. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy has personally thanked Hansen for his dedication to vulnerable communities, and later this year, Hansen is set to receive one of Ukraine’s highest civilian honors—an accolade he views with characteristic humility. "I don’t seek acknowledgment for myself. If this recognition serves to bring greater visibility to the plight of the displaced and elderly, then it has true value. Otherwise, it’s mere decoration," Hansen remarked.
The government, for its part, struggles to keep pace with the growing crisis. Since June 2025, more than 100,000 additional citizens have been relocated from the eastern regions, each receiving an emergency government subsidy of $260. But with resources stretched thin and infrastructure under constant threat, officials are forced to make difficult choices. The AP reports that families who once enjoyed stability must now navigate a fragile, uncertain existence—caught between the trauma of what they’ve lost and the faint hope of what might one day be rebuilt.
Meanwhile, the international political landscape continues to shift. Former U.S. President Donald Trump, fresh from touting a fragile Middle East ceasefire, has announced plans to focus on ending Russia’s war in Ukraine. He is considering providing Kyiv with long-range weaponry to push Moscow toward negotiations, while hinting at increased pressure on Russian President Vladimir Putin if talks do not materialize. Trump’s 2024 reelection campaign centered on ending the wars in Ukraine and Gaza, often criticizing President Joe Biden’s handling of the conflicts. "Interestingly we made progress today, because of what's happened in the Middle East," Trump commented during a recent event, expressing optimism that a breakthrough in Ukraine might soon follow.
As the war grinds on, the needs of Ukraine’s displaced remain immense. For every story of hope—like that of Hansen Village or the tireless volunteers in Dnipro—there are countless others of hardship and uncertainty. The challenge ahead is not only to rebuild what has been lost, but to restore a sense of belonging and dignity to those who have endured so much. In the words of one volunteer, "Our goal is to renew people’s hope." For now, that hope is both a lifeline and a distant promise.