The Junior Professional Officer (JPO) programme provides young professionals, sponsored by their respective governments, an extraordinary opportunity to embark on a career within the UN system. Jersey was the 19th country to join the programme and through Jersey Overseas Aid, has funded two-year placements for islanders with UNHCR in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh; Tyre, Lebanon and Cairo, Egypt.
And so it continues...
After 18 months in Kyiv, and as Ukraine troops on through its fourth year of war since the start of the full-scale invasion, I have seen as much change as continuity. There have been missiles and drones in their tens of thousands, political reshuffling, flip-flopping, round-abouting, and aid-cutting in abundance. In the time since my arrival, Russia's ability to conduct mass missile and drone attacks has increased exponentially, targeting regions all the way from the frontline to Ukraine’s western borders. Records are broken every day, with Russia now capable of launching as many drones in one night as it did over an entire month last summer. As a result, the remaining constant, as always, is devastation. Millions of Ukrainians continue to live through the chaos every day, picking up the pieces (quite literally) after each deadly strike from Russia shatters and destroys their homes, businesses, schools, and infrastructure. It's currently estimated that approximately 13% of the housing stock has been damaged or destroyed, affecting 2.5 million households. Beyond the statistics, each damaged or destroyed home represents irrevocably altered lives.
What does this chaos look like in reality? Each time Russia launches a mass strike on Ukraine, a torrent of Shahed drones - each packed with 90kg of explosives - as well as missiles and glide bombs, is unleashed from the sky, falling like hail on water. On impact, each warhead sends out rippling blastwaves that shatter glass and shake walls far beyond the strike zone. Not to mention what happens at ground zero of each impact: apartment blocks crumbling on families still asleep in their beds.
Post mass attack smoke over city
In one of the last mass attacks, hundreds of drones poured down on cities across Ukraine in waves. Russia’s pattern is almost ritual: first, a swarm of reconnaissance and suicide drones to overwhelm air defences, followed later by missiles of various types and sizes, all capable of taking out entire buildings. In those hours, cities shift either underground or continue unabated by the warnings, so frequent these days that life often proceeds as usual. Underground, people sleep on cold floors in metro stations or cellars, waiting to go to work or school the next day. Above ground, blasts make windows shatter two hundred meters away in every direction; people are thrown from their beds in the middle of the night or cower in corridors while the sound of air defence and aerial strikes booms out.
Sheltering in the metro with friends
That night in Kyiv, the evening began with the wail of air raid sirens—a sound so familiar that conversations abruptly cut off with a collective groan as phones blared the warning. The first large wave of drones ominously whirred in at 10:30 p.m. For a few minutes, my flatmate and I hesitated on the sofa, but the nearby blasts that followed the siren ended the debate—we ran for shelter in our local metro ‘Zoloti Vorota’ (‘Golden Gate’), under the loud buzz (more high-pitched jumbo jet than bee) of shaheds flying above us. Deep below ground, there is a stark contrast between the well-versed pros of these nights and those simply caught in the middle of whatever they were doing before rushing to take shelter. Some families pitched tents, unrolled bedding, and unpacked snacks, in it for the long haul. Others (including all in my group save myself, whose shelter bag happens to contain a very comfortable air mattress) sat huddled on the floor waiting out the alarm, eyes heavy with fatigue. Friends from our neighbourhood joined our group, and we entertained one another until 3:30 a.m., when the sirens finally stopped and we trudged back up the endless static escalator to our beds.
Two hours later, my flatmate pounded on my door and jolted me awake. A new alert: “Elevated air threat.” This time, there was no chance to reach the metro - a reality experienced every day by those living closer to the frontline, where air alarms sound after the missiles have already made their mark. Russian missiles can strike Kyiv in a few minutes, reaching speeds of up to 12,000 km/h depending on their type. We crouched in the corridor as the city shook around us, each deafening blast a reminder that tomorrow, as always, Kyiv and Ukraine would mourn again.
Sheltering with book in bathroom
The following week, I left Ukraine for a summer holiday. I travelled by train across the country, drove through the border into Poland, and flew to the UK for a festival, where the contrast with Kyiv’s underground metro scenes was immediately noticeable - tents, sleeping bags, and snacks in a very different setting. Meanwhile, the sound of air raid sirens (much to my horror) blared out of speakers remarkably often in the DJs’ songs. It was both a little jarring and sad, as well as somewhat relieving, to see people living normally while life continues day after day in the same way for millions of people globally in active conflict zones. This is a sentiment shared by many friends living here in Ukraine, at least those who can leave the country for occasional breaks in the outside world. In reality, life in peace should not be jarring; it should feel normal, something we all try to remember as the war continues.
Kyiv residents assess the damage following a deadly overnight Russian aerial attack: © UNHCR/Oleksii Barkov
As it does so, it has become clear that the double-edged sword of public and media fatigue regarding long and bloody conflicts, compounded with drastic and widespread funding cuts over the past few months, has transformed the global humanitarian response landscape. After the announcement of USAID cuts a few months ago, many NGOs providing much-needed aid to frontline regions had to turn their trucks around mid-journey, with some organisations closing overnight. In the same period of time, I saw more friends across all sectors in our Kyiv circle lose their jobs than I can count, from humanitarian and development workers to journalists. As a result, everyone has had to adapt quickly, trying to fill the gaps and prioritise the most vulnerable among the vulnerable in an increasingly difficult situation.
Kyiv residents assess the damage following a deadly overnight Russian aerial attack: © UNHCR/Oleksii Barkov
In the meantime, we continue our work with the hope that the war may eventually end. In the aftermath of attacks, following the initial shock of evacuation, or during the grind of daily life in frontline communities, activities such as protecting the most vulnerable from freezing winter temperatures in the absence of power (Russia regularly targets energy infrastructure), providing emergency cash, psychosocial support, legal aid, and shelter to those whose homes have been destroyed or who have been displaced, do make a difference. At the same time, efforts are ongoing to rebuild with longer-term solutions and support the Ukrainian government in creating a national system that can protect the most vulnerable. This effort depends on donors like Jersey to keep going. Beyond funding, it’s definitely true that every time we speak to people here who have received support from UNHCR, they are not only grateful for the humanitarian aid but also comforted by the knowledge that the world hasn’t forgotten what is happening here. I encourage people to keep supporting in any way they can.
