Ukrainian with Euro-Roots: Betrayal of Values in Poland

A Ukrainian with European Roots: My Story in Poland

When I left Ukraine, we were in Vinnytsia. Natalia was about to begin her rehabilitation course, but everything changed February 24, 2022, when Russia’s full-scale invasion turned our lives upside down. I told my wife she had to go to Poland — a safe place for our child. She refused to go alone. So I decided to travel with her and our daughter, to support them and stay by their side. It wasn’t an easy road. We weren’t leaving for comfort — we were leaving to protect Natalia’s life and health.

The first days in Vinnytsia were filled with fear and anxiety. Every evening we listened to the news about shelling, evacuation corridors, and people losing everything. I packed quickly: an old suitcase with Natalia’s toys, family photos, documents, the bare minimum of clothes. Each item reminded us of the home we were leaving behind. And at the same time, it was a promise — that if we could reach Poland, we could start life anew.

My family has always lived with dignity and respect for our roots. My father was an ethnic Estonian from Crimea. He used to tell me about the Baltic Sea, about the dense forests of his childhood, about the pride and resilience of his people. Each of his stories was a lesson in strength, patience, and the importance of remembering where you come from. I carry this legacy in my heart. It helps me preserve my dignity when the world feels cold and indifferent.

My family has no connection to the Volhynia tragedy. That chapter of history unfolded during World War II, and much of the blame lies with Hitler and the Nazi forces. I deeply regret that it happened. But I want it to be clear: my relatives took no part in those events. We come from central Ukraine — from Kremenchuk. Back then, Kremenchuk was almost 90% destroyed. Today, Russia is again killing Ukrainians, and the Ukrainian army is defending Europe’s borders. Poland, which once extended a helping hand, now seems to support us with one hand while striking with the other. Sadly, this contradiction today is personified by the President of Poland, who, in my experience, has become the face of this duality.

Arriving in Poland and the First Months

We crossed the border filled with sadness and fear, but also with hope. Hope sustained us — because even though we were leaving home, we wanted to ensure our daughter’s future.
The first days in Poland were difficult. I didn’t know the language, didn’t understand the documents, the rules, the people. Every look, every conversation felt like a test. I started learning Polish day and night, repeating words, reading books, listening to people in shops and on buses.

The first month felt almost unreal: we lived in temporary housing, slept on mattresses in strangers’ apartments, visited hospitals to restore Natalia’s rehabilitation documents. For the first time, I felt completely dependent on a system I didn’t understand — and on people I barely knew but had to trust. Every day was a struggle: how to prepare lunch, how to help my daughter, how to keep my dignity in an unfamiliar world.

Job Search and 1,201 Rejections

I began looking for work immediately. I wrote resumes, went to interviews, tried everything I could. But as of October 22, 2025, I have received 1,201 rejections. That number isn’t just statistics — it represents 1,201 moments when someone said “no,” ignoring my qualifications, my will to work, and my desire to support my family.

On October 21, I attended the Giełda Pracy dla Osób z Niepełnosprawnościami — a job fair for people with disabilities in Poznań. I sat in my wheelchair, holding my documents and CV, ready to prove that I could work. But all I saw were cold stares. One man said bluntly:

“Maybe it’s better to go back to Ukraine.”

Those words hit me like a punch — a denial of my dignity, of my right to be useful, of my right to be a father.
I wrote letters to the ombudsman and departments meant to protect people with disabilities. No one replied. Silence became the cruelest form of violence — silence that destroys hope.

Natalia’s Life in Poland

My 14-year-old daughter Natalia has cerebral palsy. In her Polish school, she suffered from bullying — classmates mocked her for her disability, laughed at the way she moved.

“She hides her tears under her pillow, avoids talking about school, draws less than she used to,” I say.

She once drew sunflowers and laughed freely. Now her eyes have lost their sparkle. Every day I see her fear, and I can’t always protect her. Sometimes it feels like the entire system we ended up in is working against us.

Housing and Finances

Since June 2024, we’ve been paying nearly 2,500 zlotys a month for just 18 square meters. I’m not complaining — it’s the reality of life in a big city with high rent. But it means that both adults must work. My wife and I — we both have to give everything we can to sustain our family, pay for housing, food, and Natalia’s rehabilitation.
It’s a simple economy that teaches patience, discipline, and the art of planning every day.

Every square meter of our small apartment is used efficiently. We cook, work, study, and do rehabilitation exercises there. Space is tight, but it’s ours, and we try to make it warm and safe for our daughter.

Polish Bureaucracy and the Feeling of Being an Outsider

I am humiliated not because of what I do, but because of who I am: a Ukrainian from central Ukraine, a person with a disability, a father of a child with cerebral palsy. I’m rejected not as a worker, but as a foreigner — a symbol of prejudice.
My daughter is hurt by words, and behind those words stands adult indifference. Every rejection, every cold look, every painful comment — that’s my reality.

I remember when I first felt that all our help and efforts since 2022 were being taken for granted — and now even seen as weakness. The cold bureaucratic stare, the indifference of officials — that’s the new kind of trial we face.

Roots and Memory

My father taught me to value heritage, pride, and endurance. I remember his words:

“Dignity isn’t something given to you. It’s something you carry inside.”

That phrase keeps me going every day. Even when the world feels indifferent or hostile, I remember his example.

We are from central Ukraine. We have no connection to the Volhynia tragedy. It happened during World War II, and much of the responsibility lies with Hitler and the Nazi forces. I am deeply sorry for what happened. But I want this to be understood clearly — my family took no part in those events.

A Double War

We fled one war in Ukraine — only to face another war here: a war for the right to live, the right to dignity.
Russia destroys our cities, and the Ukrainian army defends Europe. Poland helped us at first, but now it feels like support comes selectively — and sometimes not at all.

“It’s the feeling of fighting two wars — the external and the internal — when you’re protecting life, but remain unheard in a foreign land,” I say.

A New Life

I’m learning to live with it. I write in Polish, try to build stability, care for my daughter, and continue searching for work. Every day is a battle — sometimes silent, sometimes full of desperate hope.

“My story isn’t a statistic or a political statement. It’s the life of one Ukrainian and his family,” I think.

Sometimes it feels like an endless struggle; other times — like a quiet hope that tomorrow might bring change.
My story is a daily journey to preserve humanity and dignity in a world that often refuses to see them.

Kostiantyn, a Ukrainian from Kremenchuk.
Living in Poland since 2022.
Father of a 14-year-old daughter with cerebral palsy.
Writes about war, discrimination, and dignity.