The Ones Who Help, The Ones Who Take, and the Future of Ukraine
Early 2022. Barely a month into war. The tide of people fleeing Ukraine had slowed. Still desperate, still heartbreaking, but no longer an unrelenting flood. Now, seemingly just as many were heading the other way - returning home, or bringing in what was needed to keep the country breathing. Food. Medicine. Generators. The kind of cargo that keeps hope, and people, alive.
I was in Romania, the town of Suceava, just south of the Ukrainian border. A transit point, a place where people caught their breath before moving forward - either toward the unknown or back to what remained. I had been here with my friend and colleague Pappy, photographing aid work and refugee centers, listening to story after story. Of loss. Of survival. Of the stunning, brutal randomness of war.
I decided to link up with a convoy taking aid into Chernivtsi, a city rapidly becoming a hub for aid work and humanitarian workers. As the convoy slowly formed, logistics organised, we headed to the border.
Beyond the checkpoint, Ukraine waited. Not the Ukraine I knew from before, but the one that existed now - hurt, defiant, holding on.
My van was packed full to the brim with food, medicines, and other essentials. Things that, just weeks ago, had been ordinary, unremarkable. Now, they were worth more than gold.
For me, Chernivtsi was only a pause, not a destination. A place to catch my breath, but not for long. The convoy I’d arrived with was heading back to Romania, their vans empty and their job done. Mine wasn’t. Or maybe it was, but I didn’t feel like leaving Ukraine just yet. No plan, no next move, just waiting for something to happen. And even here, miles from the front, war had a way of making itself known.
He wasn’t military. Not a soldier. Just a volunteer, risking everything because there was a need. Because people were trapped, and someone had to go. So he went.
What stopped me cold were the signs still clinging to the van - дети. Children. Bold. Unmistakable. A plea, not a label. And utterly ignored.
I had heard enough to know this wasn’t unique. It was just another story, one of thousands. The kind people tell you with a cigarette in one hand and a blank tired stare in their eyes, like they’re still halfway back to wherever they just escaped from.
Then, by chance, I met a group of Romanians, with a van packed full of water filtration gear. They were headed to Ternopil. My old home.
Perfect.
If we wanted to beat curfew, we had to leave immediately. No time to think. No time to second-guess. I climbed into the back of a strangers van, camera bag on my lap, and we pulled out onto the road.
The stories I had heard throughout the past weeks played in my head - of families torn apart, of impossible choices made in seconds, of children who had seen too much. And now, I was finally here in the place where those stories began. The road was long. Checkpoints. Soldiers. Guns. Inside the van, conversations were tricky, in broken words, gestures, and a mix of languages. But some things don’t need translation.
This was just four guys with a van, some equipment, and some know-how. Doing what needed to be done. Because there was a need. And it was right.
We arrived in Ternopil to a shelter inside a repurposed church, packed wall to wall with families who had fled the east. Women. Children. The elderly. People who had once lived ordinary lives, now stretched out on gym mats and stained mattresses, waiting for news from home. Water was a problem. The filtration system the guys had hauled across the border would change that. A small thing. But in war, the small things matter.
That’s where I took this photo - two kids, drinking clean water from the new system. Smiling. Content. Unaware of the politics that would twist and bargain over so many other drops of aid in this war.
War reveals people. It strips away the excess, the distractions, and shows what truly drives them. Some see suffering and look for ways to profit. Others just show up and do what needs to be done.
Right now, Ukraine’s future isn’t just on the battlefield - it’s on the bargaining table. The U.S. holds the cards, demanding access to the country’s natural resources in exchange for security and support. This isn’t about democracy. It isn’t about freedom. It’s business. A transaction, thinly veiled as morality.
The deal is blunt: If Ukraine wants help, it has to sell off its future. The same resources its people have fought and bled for, defending their land, their homes, their right to exist, will be carved up and handed over to foreign interests. Packaged as aid, but really just another sale. Because in a world run by those who see suffering as leverage, even war comes with a price tag.
That’s the difference. Some people see a crisis and think, How can I help? Others think, How can I profit?
Like so many Ukrainians - and those who stand with them - my new friends did what needed to be done. No speeches. No cameras. No debt to be repaid. Just a working filtration system, a few handshakes, and a van rolling back toward the border, ready to do it all over again.
Because in moments like these, the truth should be clear - not just the brutality of war, but the quiet, relentless kindness that pushes back against it. Strangers helping strangers. No reward. No agenda. Just the best of us, when the worst of times demand it.
