Inna Biliaieva: "A Path Where People Matter Most"

​​Dive into the inspiring tales of Ukrainian Canadian strength featured here, brought to life through the Voices Across Time Book. These stories celebrate our shared journey and community spirit. The book is available as a gift with any donation—choose between a printed copy or a digital version.

Somehow, war immediately revealed what truly matters—and for me, it's people. That’s the only thing that has real meaning. Everything material can be earned, bought, or replaced.

In the first days of the war, we didn’t quite believe it was real. We all hoped it would be over in a month or two—because surely, something like this couldn’t last. It just couldn’t.

October 2025, Zaporizhzhia, Ukraine

About a week after the war began, a friend suggested we start cooking for the army. Soldiers were passing through our city, everything was chaotic, and they struggled with food shortages. Within days, several families moved into one house, organized volunteers, and began cooking for soldiers and displaced people. Around 20 of us worked 24/7, without days off, and barely any sleep due to constant air raids and the sheer volume of work. Early mornings: shower, peel vegetables, chop, cook, pack, deliver. Even small children helped peel veggies. It was both touching and painful.

We made everything up as we went—no plan, just survival and a desire to help. We relied solely on God and our own strength. Some nights we fell asleep unsure of how we’d cook the next day—money and food had run out, and yet the frontline requests for food kept growing. But every morning, someone would show up: “Hey, the market just donated 50 kg of potatoes.” One day, someone even brought crates of pomegranates—we had to invent dishes with them on the spot.

We got used to the sound of sirens and stopped hiding in the basement. After a few weeks, we were making and delivering about 600 meals a day. We cooked outdoors over a wood fire because the stoves in the house couldn’t handle the volume.

This went on for months, during which our values completely shifted. The unimportant things faded. We became tougher, calmer. We came to deeply understand how fleeting life is—anything could end at any moment. The house shook from explosions, and all we could do was pray. In those moments, God felt closer than ever.

Each day was the same. At some point, we stopped reading the news—just to be able to cope. We focused on the task: cook, deliver, care for others. New, unfamiliar people kept arriving at our house—displaced from towns already bombed to ruins. They had nowhere to stay, nothing to eat. We fed them; others found them a place to sleep. It all felt like a dream—like it wasn’t happening to us. We slept on mattresses on the floor—there weren’t enough beds. After two months, the exhaustion and burnout hit everyone hard, but we kept going.

At the train station, the worst moment was when a new train arrived. People stepped off with empty eyes, blackened by grief, holding random bags—no emotions, just shock. When we handed them a plate of hot food, it was like they slowly came back to life. They would whisper "thank you," as if waking from a nightmare. No one knew what to do next or where to go.

I can’t remember the exact moment my emotions shut off—maybe around month three. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was… astonishment. Yes, that’s the word. We were constantly astonished by what was happening. Eventually, even that faded, and we accepted it: life would never be the same. It might be better, or worse—but never the same. Who we were before the war stopped mattering.

Just before the war, we’d decorated the Christmas tree as a family. It was warm, joyful, peaceful. I remember thinking: “This is the best Christmas of my life.” We were so close, making plans, everything felt in harmony. It was the last Christmas we were all together. The next morning, magical snow fell—the big, industrial city looked like a fairytale. It was too perfect, too still.

There’s a saying that just before a great tragedy, people often feel euphoric—like nothing could go wrong. That was us. On the morning of February 24, 2022, we heard explosions at 5 AM. We thought it was thunder. Then friends from other countries began calling, screaming: “The war has started! Leave now!” I stood there, stunned, watching neighbours pack their cars and drive away. Still, it didn’t feel real.

Then my mom arrived, looked out the window and quietly said, “Oh... tanks. I thought this wasn’t real.” Tanks were driving right past our windows—we lived on the edge of the city, near the road to Donetsk.

I remembered every story my grandmother had told me—about war, hunger, and cold. They ate grass because everything else had been taken. How her younger siblings starved to death. Until the end of her life, she kept stores of rice and wheat in the attic—“just in case.” Every airplane overhead made her flinch. We used to think she was paranoid. She would say: “You’re lucky. You’ve never seen war.” And now I was seeing tanks with my own eyes. My grandmother died a few years before this war. She wouldn’t have survived it again.

Germany

Months into our exhausting daily routine, friends asked if I could help them evacuate with their kids. The children were terrified of the sounds, and the future felt totally unknown. I remember when our bus crossed into Poland and stopped. There was total silence. No one moved. Then a kind young woman opened the door with a smile and invited us out.

Tables were set up with food, SIM cards, and clothing. Polish volunteers welcomed us warmly, offering kindness without question. That was the first day in a long time we didn’t hear sirens—and the children didn’t hide under the table. That silent, compassionate support touched us deeply.

From Poland, we went to Germany. We stayed in a hotel housing about 100 Ukrainian refugees. Honestly, I remember it all in a blur. I had no awareness of where we were or what was happening. On day two, we were told the hotel was self-managed—everyone had to take turns cooking and cleaning. A week later, I was assigned to the kitchen. Then the head chef got sick—and I was told: “You need to cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner for 100 people.” With what? “Whatever you can come up with using what we have.” It was just me and one other person.

I remember standing over a giant pot, unsure how much salt to add. We didn’t even know how many litres it held. So we prayed—and guessed.

It was a distraction from the constant ache: war was still raging at home. People were dying. That thought stayed with us every moment—we’d fall asleep with it and wake up to it. First thing every day: check the news, call family. That double life still exists today—nothing has changed.

Life in Germany was another chapter. In just a few months, I received more paper letters than I had in my entire life in Ukraine. The people were incredibly kind. Communication wasn’t always easy due to language barriers, but their actions spoke volumes: they donated furniture, dishes, food—whatever they had—for incoming families. Their eyes always showed empathy and support.

Germany’s support was remarkable—free housing, financial aid, language classes, and integration opportunities. It wasn’t easy—every Ukrainian had to start from zero—but the help made it possible.

German came to me fairly easily. After a month, I could understand the basics. But I never truly felt like it was “home.” I kept thinking, maybe tomorrow the war will end, and we can go back.

Romania

But fate had other plans. After six months in Germany, I moved again—this time to Romania, where I began working as a UN volunteer. Another new country, a new culture, and thousands of displaced Ukrainians searching for peace. I was assigned to a small town, Târgu Mureș, where I spent a year helping others start over.

So many faces, so many stories. People who had lost everything—homes, savings, loved ones. Many arrived with nothing but what they’d grabbed as they ran. Volunteers brought them clothes and food. I witnessed countless tears, trauma, and deep pain—but also strength. The will to rebuild. To go on. It made everything else in life feel… trivial.

I still remember a six-year-old girl who would hide under the table at the slightest sound. She did it automatically. A beautiful child with big blue eyes, asking me to sit with her because she was afraid something would happen to me. After a year of therapy, she improved, but her family returned to Ukraine. A week later, they messaged me: she was hiding again. It broke my heart.

That year in Romania showed me the unbelievable resilience of people—the power to rebuild from nothing. Not materially, but spiritually. There, I founded a support group for Ukrainian women. Our motto was: “Live. Create. Rebuild.” The word "rebuild" has become central to my life. It means learning not to depend on outside circumstances, but to listen to your heart and accept life as it is.

Canada

Coming to Canada opened a brand-new chapter. I’ve never seen so many kind, generous people per square meter! Grassroots Response showed me a whole new level of humanity. People here don’t just give their time or things — they give their hearts. It’s selflessness that’s hard to put into words. They care deeply about every single Ukrainian who arrives.

Here, volunteers are not just helpers — they become family.

Stephanie, Maryanne, Dave, Karen, Ilguiz, Mark, Rob, Alex, Ihor, Al, Joe, Lisa, Bill, Sergey, Ellen, Oleg, Florence, Lynn, Susan, Carol, Lirondel, Jon, Hisham, Marion, Don, Tanya, John, Robb, Fran, Tracy, Dan, Tom, Michael, Eric, Larissa, Devon, Tracey, Barb, Keith, Blaine, Steve, Stephen, Makayla, Paula, Bonnie, Marlyn, Deb, Diane, Jo Ann, Martin, Donna, Doris, Elena, Gene, Glynis, Jacques, Jennifer, Lori, Mary Ellen, Mellissa, Murray, Nelly, Nick, Paul, Stanislau, Vikram, Will, Lydia… and so many more.

We, Ukrainians, look at you and learn from your kindness, your compassion, your hospitality. You’ve shown us what real mercy looks like — that there are no “other people’s” problems. We are not alone. Your support has inspired countless Ukrainians to become volunteers themselves.

Grassroots Response isn’t just a support system—it’s friendship, a life-changing experience of trust, acceptance, and renewed belief in a better future.

People often ask how I joined Grassroots. Here’s the secret: I landed in Toronto on February 15, 2024. I wasn’t even looking for work, but a friend sent my resume to Grassroots, knowing I had volunteer experience in Ukraine and Europe. I had an interview with Stephanie on February 25, and by Monday, March 4, I was working as a Volunteer Coordinator — dealing, of course, with urgent matters. It was clear: I was in the right place at the right time. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I know this is meaningful work. It’s how I support Ukraine during hard times.

Today, I sometimes wake up unsure which country I’m in. I know I’m safe, but where, exactly? Every day, I smile because of the incredible people I meet along the way. I do my best to help others smile, too.

Every Ukrainian living abroad now leads two lives — one here, one back home. We follow the news, call our families, and try to build a new life. Some of us float through it. Others fight for every step. Some succeed more, some less.

My story is just one among many. It’s not the saddest, not the scariest. But to me, it’s about goodness and people — because in the end, that’s all that matters. I’m always where my heart is — and with the people I love.

Inna Biliaieva.