‘We have nothing to return to’ Trump may strip legal status from hundreds of thousands of Ukrainian refugees in the U.S. Here’s what some of them told Meduza.
In early March, Reuters reported that President Donald Trump is planning to rescind protections granted to migrants who entered the U.S. under Biden-era humanitarian parole programs — including Ukrainian refugees. Now, roughly 240,000 Ukrainians who came to the United States after Russia’s 2022 invasion risk losing their legal status and face possible deportation. Pressed on the fate of Ukrainian refugees, Trump said he wasn’t “looking to hurt anybody” and promised to issue a decision “pretty soon.” At Meduza’s request, journalist Elizaveta Kirpanova spoke with Ukrainian refugees about moving to the United States, the challenges of starting over in a new country, and their fears in the face of an uncertain future. Here’s what they said.
All names in this article have been changed at the request of the interviewees, who feared drawing unwanted attention from both U.S. and Ukrainian authorities. Some are afraid of being prosecuted in Ukraine for leaving the country during wartime; others worry that criticizing the U.S. government could affect their immigration status. Meduza’s editorial team knows their real names.
Mykyta Abrosimov
38 years old, formerly lived in Lysychansk, Luhansk region; currently in Atlanta, Georgia
I was born in the city of Lysychansk in Ukraine’s Luhansk region. When the fighting began in Donbas in 2014, it was a shock to all of us — military vehicles, soldiers, the so-called “Anti-Terrorist Operation.” It was all happening right next to us. Things calmed down somewhat after the front line moved further away, of course, but the situation remained unstable. We never made long-term plans because we had no idea what might happen the next day.
I’ve always had pro-Ukrainian views. Back in 2004, when I was still in school, President [Viktor] Yushchenko insisted that we embrace our own traditions and language, and I even started speaking Ukrainian. But in the Luhansk region, where about 95 percent of people speak Russian, that was seen as something almost radical. Some people were openly hostile toward me, and I stopped speaking Ukrainian.
When Russian troops entered Ukraine and the [self-proclaimed Donetsk and Luhansk “people’s republics”] began to break away, I think about 60 percent of the Donbas population supported Russia. I viewed it all negatively — but to the rest of Ukraine, we were automatically seen as separatists, just because of where we were born. I remember once walking along Khreshchatyk [the main street in Kyiv], just as the Maidan protests were beginning. People were gathering in the square, concerts were happening. A group of teenagers in camouflage stopped me and asked where I was from. That’s a common conversation starter in Kyiv, kind of like small talk in the U.S. I said I was from Luhansk region, and without saying a word they grabbed me and dragged me into the subway, which had already been closed off. They sat me in a chair and started hitting me in the head. Eventually they got distracted and left one guy to watch me — and he let me go.
Just across the river from Lysychansk is the large city of Sievierodonetsk. For a while, it wasn’t being bombed. But after Russia launched its full-scale invasion in 2022, it came under heavy shelling. In June, the occupation of Lysychansk began. I remember hearing the explosions — we ran to the basement and stayed there for nearly 24 hours. When we came out, we saw that a rocket had hit the roof, and every apartment in the building was burning. That’s when we knew Russian troops were entering the city. A few friends and I realized that with our pro-Ukrainian views, we had to leave immediately. Otherwise, we’d be tortured, killed, or forced to fight against our own — against Ukrainians.
There was only one possible escape: through Russia’s Rostov region. We arranged transport, but had to wait four more days because of the shelling. It was terrifying to go in the direction of Russia, but we got lucky. There were only Russian border guards at the crossing, and they didn’t even stop us for checks. They just twirled their fingers [to indicate, “you’re crazy”] — maybe because of the shelling.
In Voronezh, we all went our separate ways. I went to Minsk, then to Vilnius, and from there to Poland — since that’s where most Ukrainians were at the time. I had only the bare minimum of documents that I’d grabbed before the shelling started. I had no money at all. But again, I got lucky: the day I arrived in Warsaw, I found work right at the train station. I got a job at a Bonduelle canning plant and worked there for a month and a half. Once I’d saved a bit of money, I traveled to Germany. I’d heard they were actively helping Ukrainians with legal protection, housing, and work — and that skilled trades like construction were in demand. I’ve been working in construction since I was 18.
But I only stayed in Germany for a couple of weeks. Shortly before that, I’d met a girl from Bakhmut — another city in Donbas that’s been destroyed. We worked together at the factory. She told me she was about to leave for the U.S. through a special program, with the help of a sponsor who supported Ukrainians. She invited me to come with her. I knew nothing about these kinds of programs, but I thought, why not? You can earn more [in the U.S.] than anywhere else.
I arrived in the U.S. in September 2022. My first impression of America was that the country was unbelievably vast, on a completely different scale than Europe. There’s this condition called agoraphobia — the fear of open spaces — and I never understood how that was even real. But when I came to America, I got it. At first, I felt like I’d stepped into a Hollywood movie. Everything was unfamiliar. But the people were wonderful — kind, helpful, incredibly patient. Even without speaking my language, they would listen, help, and point me in the right direction. Over time, of course, the routine of daily life took over.
When I was getting ready to come, my friend warned me that our sponsor — who lived in Idaho — was already helping eight Ukrainians and didn’t have room for another. So I reached out to volunteers from Nova Ukraine, a group that helps Ukrainian refugees. They found me a place through a small Baptist church in Georgia. I did an interview, and they invited me to Atlanta. They gave me temporary housing while I waited for my paperwork, which took about six months.
After that, I got a job doing hotel renovations, which came with lodging. I did that for three months, but when the work dried up, I needed to move on. I saw a job ad in Atlanta looking for internet installation technicians. I thought it would be a good opportunity to learn something new. They required basic English, which I didn’t have — that turned out to be a major challenge.
At first, I used a translation app to talk to everyone — clients, dispatchers, everyone. But my English improved a lot, and I’m grateful for the experience. Still, right before New Year’s, I quit. The job was extremely stressful, with high demands. I returned to construction. Right now, we’re installing windows in homes, and I’m planning to work on a hotel renovation project in South Carolina. If everything goes well with work, then maybe I’ll buy a home.
The current situation with documents... it scares all of us. I applied for re-parole back in March of last year, but it’s still under review. In the meantime, I was advised to apply for TPS [Temporary Protected Status] as well. That status was approved in January 2025, but I had to submit for a renewal almost immediately. My case is still pending.
Recently I saw a video from an immigration lawyer who explained that some Ukrainians might qualify for political asylum. It turns out I meet one of the criteria — I’m from an occupied territory. In any Ukrainian city now, I’d be seen as a traitor, especially since I speak Russian.
If I don’t apply for asylum, I don’t see any other way [to stay in the U.S.]. I’ve already been here nearly three years — that’s not a short time. I came here and started building a new life. I’ve made a lot of good friends. I have no one left in Ukraine. Maybe some Ukrainians can go back, but I can’t. My apartment burned down. My city is still occupied. My life in Ukraine is destroyed.
Mariia Avdienko
49 years old, formerly lived in Kyiv; currently in Atlanta, Georgia
I had a very comfortable life in Kyiv. I worked as a cosmetologist and massage therapist. My husband — we were married for 27 years — and I also invested in real estate development. I have two children: my son is 27 now, and my daughter is 17. We had everything planned out. I imagined myself traveling during my retirement, and we had made sure each of our kids would have their own apartment. And then, in one day, I lost everything. I had to leave it all behind, flee, and start over from scratch.
I didn’t believe, right up until the end, that war could actually happen in Ukraine. I remember that on February 23, [2022], we went to a concert and got home late — and then, at 4:00 a.m., the bombing began. I was in shock. We thought it would all be over in a week. But...
My daughter turned 14 on March 1, [2022], and my birthday present to her was a pair of train tickets out of Kyiv. By then, no one had gas anymore. Leaving the city by car was impossible — people were being shot at on the roads. We decided to take the first train we could find, just to get out of Ukraine. We had no idea where we were going. The trip took 24 hours. There must have been 20 people packed into our compartment. We were brought to Uzhhorod, and from there we made our way to Poland. We stayed there for about a month and a half before deciding to return to Kyiv. The conditions in Poland were excellent — we were in a hotel with three meals a day and insurance coverage. But I’m someone who’s used to working all the time. In Poland, I had nothing to do. I couldn’t find decent work, and I didn’t want to live at the expense of the Polish government.
Going back was terrifying. The bombings were happening just three kilometers [less than two miles] from our home. We saw explosions with our own eyes. My son went to western Ukraine — he’s of draft age and didn’t want to be taken [into the army]. I stayed in Kyiv with my daughter. To her, it all felt like a movie, like it wasn’t real. Not long after, the U4U program [Uniting for Ukraine] launched, and my parents and my sister have been living in the U.S. for about 20 years. They invited us, handled the paperwork, and we flew to Atlanta.
My husband didn’t support our decision — he refused to come with us. We’d visited the U.S. many times before. It’s a country where you have to work hard, and he just wasn’t used to that. Back home, we owned multiple properties that brought in steady passive income. That was the life he chose. I chose to save my son’s life.
Right before the [full-scale] war, we had put nearly all our money into our latest real estate project. When I came to the U.S., I had maybe $5,000. I thought that would be enough to buy a car, but prices were sky-high, even for used vehicles. My mom loaned me money on the condition I would pay her back once I got on my feet. She lives in a senior home, so we couldn’t stay with her. My sister has a family of her own and didn’t have space for us either. My daughter and I ended up renting a basement apartment. I opened a small massage studio and started working bit by bit. At the same time, I got a job caring for elderly people.
Meduza has condemned Russia’s invasion of Ukraine from the very start, and we are committed to reporting objectively on a war we firmly oppose. Join Meduza in its mission to challenge the Kremlin’s censorship with the truth. Donate today.
Later, my son joined us. He had just graduated from university in Ukraine with a degree in cybersecurity and had started working — and then suddenly there was a war. When he got here, he couldn’t find a job for almost a year. Now he’s working at a company providing IT support, close to his field. Over the course of about a year and a half, the three of us managed to save up enough for a down payment — and we recently bought our own home.
The hardest part has been for my daughter. Outside Kyiv, we had built a beautiful home with our own hands — a place that would easily cost over a million dollars here. And then we went from that to a rented basement. It was a decent place, but still — nothing like what we were used to. She fell into a deep depression. Think about it: war, the breakup of the family, a foreign country, a new language, a new school. I had to take her to a therapist. She’s 17 now, and she says she wants to stay here. She says she’d only go back to Ukraine to visit her father and grandmother. But so far, I can’t find a way for us to stay here.
Our TPS expires on April 19, and our re-parole applications are still under review. At the volunteer center that helped us with our documents, they told us that in the worst-case scenario, we should consider where else we might be able to go — Canada, or somewhere in Europe. There’s the option of applying for a student visa, or starting a business and applying for a work visa, but that takes money. There’s also the talent visa, but you have to “prove” this talent — and that’s no easy feat. I’m in turmoil, because I don’t know what to do next. But I don’t want to stay here undocumented.
My whole family is here. I couldn’t survive another immigration. I’m not young anymore. If I have to move again, it would only be back home — but it’s not safe there, even though I miss Kyiv so much. I miss the life we had. Still, I want my kids to stay here. My daughter’s in 11th grade, next year’s her last. If our program gets shut down, she could apply for a student visa — but again, that takes money. How are we supposed to send her back to Ukraine? She doesn’t have a Ukrainian education. With an American high school diploma, she wouldn’t be able to apply to colleges there — their system is completely different. No one here is thinking about what happens to the kids.
I’m not well-versed in politics, but I saw the news about Trump meeting with Zelensky. My opinion is this: if America were present on Ukrainian soil and investing in our resources, I don’t think Russia would have dared to wage war there. That would have served as a guarantee of protection for our country. I don’t believe Zelensky actually wants to end the war. I think he’s more concerned with his image and staying in power. But the war has to end — otherwise, there’ll be nothing left to fight for. There will just be more destruction. More people will die. We’re running out of resources — and then what? Will they wipe out every last Ukrainian?
Taisiia Zhurba
34 years old, formerly lived in Kyiv; currently in Atlanta, Georgia
I don’t miss my hometown in the Donetsk region. There’s no future for young people there — that’s why I left at eighteen. And also, the war started there. My city has been under occupation since 2014.
But Kyiv will always be in my heart. I love Khreshchatyk, the banks of the Dnipro… I moved to Kyiv in 2009 and lived there for four years. Six months before the Maidan protests, I left for Moscow to earn money (I’ve been working in the beauty industry since I was sixteen). To be honest, I didn’t like Moscow, but when I wanted to return, the war had already begun. I ended up a victim of circumstance.
I lived in Russia for nine years. I got married there. We were married for two years before the full-scale invasion began. I remember my friends telling me their car had been shot at as they tried to leave Kyiv. I told my husband: either we get divorced or we leave Russia. I couldn’t take it anymore — living in a country that was waging war against my people. Even anti-anxiety medication wasn’t helping. I don’t think I slept for three months, not until my sister and her kids escaped to Europe.
On top of that, I was afraid I’d be prosecuted [in Russia] for what I’d posted on Instagram — I’d written that I was against the war. In response, clients would say things like, “Oh, just wait, soon your people will be liberated.” Some even threatened me. One woman wrote, “My grandmother was right — you people should’ve been exterminated back in the 1940s.” The aggression was overwhelming. And these were people I’d been close with — I’d been to their homes, we’d had tea together.
If it hadn’t been for the special program for Ukrainians, I probably would’ve tried to come to the U.S. through Mexico in the spring. But as it happened, my husband’s sister is a U.S. citizen. She and I gathered all the paperwork ourselves — we didn’t even tell my husband at first because he was so afraid of the move.
The first six months were hard for him. He’s now working at a company that designs auto parts. For me, it wasn’t so bad — this wasn’t my first time immigrating. I was in shock for about two weeks. My income depends entirely on clients: I’d built up a client base at home, then moved to Kyiv. Built one in Kyiv, then moved to Moscow. From Moscow, I moved here — and once again had to start from scratch. But over time, through word of mouth, I’ve built up a base here, too.
We received financial assistance from the government for six months. We also got Medicaid for ten months. Then my husband was removed from the program, but mine was extended due to my pregnancy. Here, childbirth can cost $20,000 to $30,000. Some people, depending on the hospital, can get it down to $8,000 even with insurance — but that’s still a lot. In my case, the insurance covered everything. That support made a huge difference.
If our program ends, we definitely won’t stay here illegally. My husband is trying to apply for an EB-3 visa in the field of radio or nuclear physics, but that process takes three to four years. Our son is a U.S. citizen by birth, but he won’t be able to help us with our status until he turns 21.
For now, I don’t know where we’d go. We definitely can’t go back to Russia. And in Ukraine — with my husband being Russian — I don’t think we’d be welcomed. Unless, of course, the government changes its language policy. But if we were to consider a more Russian-speaking region, closer to the Russian border, those areas are actively being bombed. That’s a serious risk. Most likely, we’ll start looking at other countries.
I knew that [with Trump returning], there would be a crackdown on immigration, but since we came here legally, I felt relatively calm. We were all shocked when Trump stopped supporting Ukraine. But at the same time, our program was temporary from the start. No one ever promised us green cards. Of course, it would be better for us to stay here than to be forced to start over again somewhere else.
Ukraine is, in effect, dispensable to both the U.S. and Russia. What they care about is the territory — where they can mine rare earth metals. In my view, the war started in 2014 precisely because of that. These metals exist in the U.S. too, but extracting them harms the environment. Does anyone actually need Ukraine for its own sake? No. The people don’t matter to anyone. It’s just business.
Rustem Musaiev
49 years old, formerly lived near Sloviansk in the Donetsk region; currently in Georgia, U.S.
I still talk to my neighbors back home near Sloviansk every day — the ones who stayed behind, where we used to have our house and farm. They say it’s impossible to live there now. Six or seven Shahed [drones] flew overhead just yesterday, and that’s happening almost daily. It’s terrifying. Honestly, people there no longer care who’s in power — they just want peace.
I remember back in 2016, we were coming home from the market when shells started falling one after another. My daughter was little then, and she screamed so loud from fear we thought we’d lost her. After that, she would wake up constantly at night, terrified of the explosions.
She was the first in our family to come to the U.S. Her husband’s relatives filed the paperwork for her through the U4U program, and then they helped bring us over too. She now lives in Michigan with her family. Her father-in-law had a hard time settling there and recently went back to Ukraine. There’s no electricity, everything’s expensive, and the sounds of war are constant, even though he’s near Kharkiv. Now he’s saying, “Please take me back.” But how? He tried to get a U.S. visa through Lithuania, but it was denied. Now he calls crying, saying he’s going to die alone over there and begging my daughter and the family to come back. But how could they? They’ve got little kids. I don’t want my grandchildren to live through that.
My wife and I live in Georgia with our two sons, and we really like it here. Everything is so clean! People are kind — they smile and say hello when they pass you on the street. In Ukraine, strangers don’t greet you. And in Turkey, where we lived for a few years before coming to the U.S., the norms were different, as well.
The healthcare here has been amazing. Soon after we arrived, my wife was hospitalized with kidney stones. They diagnosed her immediately, unlike in Turkey, where no one could figure it out. And the hospital room was like something out of a hotel. But it wasn’t cheap. The final bill came to $120,000. At the time, our Medicaid application was still pending, and we knew that if it didn’t get approved, there was no way we could afford to pay that kind of money. Thankfully, it all worked out — the insurance covered everything. But as soon as my wife started working, her coverage was canceled.
She works as a baker at a supermarket chain. Recently, she wanted to transfer to a store closer to home, but her manager told her that they really like having her as an employee and they won’t let her go. They truly value her. I used to be a veterinarian, but I’ve fallen out of practice. I’ve since learned a new trade — assembling car parts — and for now, I’m happy with it. The team I work with is good and cheerful. But we don’t know what’s going to happen with work if our documents aren’t extended. Our work permits are valid through June, and my wife’s job has already asked her to confirm that she’ll be allowed to stay.
We’re praying that Trump doesn’t cut off support for Ukrainians. If things were good in Ukraine, no one would have come here. But right now, nowhere is safe — no matter what part of the country you’re in, there’s war.
We have nothing to return to. Our home near Sloviansk, where we lived for thirty years, is half-destroyed. Ukrainian soldiers stay there from time to time now, but it’s beyond repair. We couldn’t stay in Turkey, either. Even though we’re Muslim, our mentality is different — we’re Soviet people, and it was hard for us there. We were never drawn to Europe. What we really want is to stay here. We work, we pay taxes, we don’t break the law. We hope Trump will hear the voices of Ukrainians and won’t terminate our program.
