In his recent talk at the IWM, Timothy Snyder reminded us that we must make “Ukrainians the [central] subject of the story.” Building on his words, my reflections shift the focus from distant power plays to the everyday struggles of those who stand with Ukraine—no matter where they are or who they are. The phrase kozhen na svoiemu mistsi (“everyone in their own place”), popularized in political and media discourses, conveyed the idea that everyone could contribute to Ukraine’s victory by applying their skills and efforts, no matter where they were. It mobilized not only people from Ukraine (both within the country and abroad) but also nationals of host states and other migrant and displaced communities acting in solidarity. These supporters welcomed displaced Ukrainians into their homes, raised Ukrainian flags on buildings and social media, amplified Ukraine’s struggle in their narratives, donated, and stood side by side with activists from Ukraine in demonstrations and marches.
For displaced persons from Ukraine, the idea of “everyone in their own place” took on an even deeper meaning. Many grappled not only with the trauma of war and displacement but also with survivor guilt. Unsure of their place in Ukraine’s struggle, they searched for ways to stay connected and contribute despite the distance. Even as displaced Ukrainians navigated new lives facing the loss of familiar earth beneath their feet, familiar quotidian routines, social roles, and future plans, they found the strength to support Ukraine’s defense from afar. They coordinated and provided humanitarian aid. They worked and donated. They organized advocacy campaigns and raised awareness.
Attending war-related demonstrations and awareness-raising campaigns in Prague, I found myself drawn into a vibrant community of activists from Ukraine. In August 2022, these activists decided to formalize their community by establishing an initiative called Hlas Ukrajiny (Voice of Ukraine). The initiative comprised not only people displaced by the war but also Ukrainian citizens who had moved to Czechia earlier, as well as Czech citizens with and without migrant backgrounds. Before long, they became Ukraine’s voice in Czechia. Their messages and political claims, often delivered in three languages—Ukrainian, Czech, and English—were not just spoken into the world but shouted. During marches and demonstrations, shouting slogans like “Russia is a terrorist state” at the top of their lungs became a collective expression of both the pain of war and the power of many voices rising in unison.
By standing and shouting together, Hlas Ukrajiny also created a space where activists could share their grief and hopes for the future, make new friendships, and support one another. One example of this support was their crowdfunding campaigns. Through the initiative’s social media, they shared links to donation “jars” (banky) to collect funds whenever someone’s loved ones on the frontlines needed help. These efforts were not only acts of resilience or creative ways to support Ukraine and each other—they were also expressions of deep compassion. As one activist, a young woman who had finished her final year of school in Ukraine at the time, told me, their political activism was not only about advocacy and raising awareness—it also created a therapeutic space of togetherness because “when we were there together, it was easier.”
Acknowledging that my field research with Hlas Ukrajiny took place mostly in the first year after Russia’s full-scale invasion, and that it is impossible to analyze the war as if it were statically rooted in that period, I also want to zoom out from Prague and reflect on the temporality of war and the fractures that have emerged in unity and solidarity. War is a dynamic process, and as it enters its third year—much longer than many had expected—it has not only cost countless lives but also brought new tensions, particularly around mobilization laws and practices. In terms of international solidarity, the prolonged nature of the war has led to activist burnout and a decline in global attention. Even at its peak, this solidarity revealed its racialized nature, as international students and Ukrainian Roma faced discrimination at the borders.
Nevertheless, at least initially (though admittedly not for everyone), the scale of support was immense, inspiring scholars to explore the new forms of solidarity that have emerged over the past three years. One striking example is the political activism that brought displaced people from Ukraine and local activists together in public spaces. By standing side by side with shared political claims while maintaining their distinct identities, they challenged the conventional assumption that political engagement is only for citizens. And while in some places the initial waves of solidarity have waned—fading alongside the perceived urgency of war and shifting global attention—many individuals and initiatives continue to stand with Ukraine, particularly those from regions that still bear the scars of Soviet or other imperial oppressions.
The Russo-Ukrainian War is, without a doubt, a dark chapter in the history of Ukrainian statehood, bringing immense suffering to millions who have lost or been separated from their loved ones. But it is also a story of resilience, unity, solidarity, and hope. My decision to focus more on the latter is not merely born out of the wish to save readers (and, frankly, myself) from re-traumatization. It is a deliberate choice to honor the bravery, creativity, and compassion of those who fought and continue fighting “in their own place.”
