When Russian tanks rolled into the Ukrainian city of Kherson, Olha fled with her children and pet cat, Venera. The family travelled across the Polish border, through Germany and Sweden, before arriving in London. Now she faces yet another challenge: bureaucracy.
‘I feel bewildered by the inefficiency of the authorities’
When we escaped the war, we were dreaming of somewhere where we wouldn’t hear the bombs or live in fear of being killed by Russians. So, on one hand, we have achieved our goal and should be happy, but it is not always that easy or simple.
First, we lived for weeks under Russian occupation. Then we travelled through Europe as we waited for a British visa. Now we are faced with the overwhelming challenge of getting set up in Britain, which has left me conflicted.
‘I burst into tears in the hostel corridor’
When we arrived in Brussels to travel on the Eurostar to London, we were told: “Sorry, cats are not allowed.” They don’t let any animals on the train, not even a goldfish. We were told to go to Holland or France and to get on a ferry or bus instead. I tried calling the ferry company time and time again but no one ever answered.
In Calais, everywhere was closed but a woman I met in the street said she would introduce me to another Ukrainian woman, who had also applied for a pet passport. She was staying at a hostel and, amazingly, when we got there I saw it was my friend Alina. We knew each other when I worked in the Kyiv region and our daughters even went to the same school.
“You need a European passport, with stars, for a cat,” she told me. “Otherwise they won’t let you on the ferry.” Once I applied nobody was able to tell me how long the wait would be. Maybe tomorrow, maybe five days, no one knew. The uncertainty over if and when we could actually go to London knocked me completely. I burst into tears in the corridor of the hostel.
A vet suggested blood tests on the cat to test for antibodies and expedite obtaining the cat “visa”. They offered this service free of charge but Venera is not a simple cat. After many attempts and a lot of scratches, they said she would have to be sedated.
After that visit, I cried all day as Venera eventually dozed peacefully in her carrier.
After many calls and emails to the UK’s Animal and Plant Health Agency (APHA), we finally got the licence and with it the go-ahead to travel to Britain.
‘My children are very lonely’
One of the first questions I asked the local council was about the school. My children haven’t been able to study since the war began on 24 February. I imagined that my kids would go to school immediately after arrival as there were more than two months left until the end of the school year. But no. I was sent a page with a list of schools, but it’s not easy to choose from the list of something you know nothing about.
After waiting for replies, we began visiting schools in our neighbourhood but were turned away. I asked the council for help several times. Getting my kids into school is the main priority right now. Some schools suggest waiting until September to see if they have places but my children are very lonely, they can’t speak with peers, they can’t integrate.
Finally, my daughter received a letter. It was a card with a clear inscription in capital letters: “Work permitted.” Has the world gone mad? After five weeks of waiting, a 12-year-old received not a school admission but a work permit.
The school situation has a knock-on effect on my ability to find work too. The jobcentre staff know my kids are not at school until September and I am unable to work until then. I’ve got three diplomas in different specialities and the jobcentre staff have told me to apply for cleaning jobs or shelf stacking at Tesco.
‘The world is just grey’
It would seem that the system should work according to an algorithm – in order to get A, you need to do B, and in extreme cases C. Psychologically, it would be easier if there were at least a warning about hitches and some kind of timeframe. Instead of the supposed “a couple of days”, the expectation becomes “week after week” without a definite end point.
If I had come to London a year ago, I would have been mesmerised by its beauty and architecture but now I feel nothing. The world is just grey. Every morning is a struggle to get out of bed. Then I remember I have so much to do for my children. Constant forms, writing emails, attending appointments. If I have a free day, I try to find Ukrainian books (I visit the library but there are none in my language) or access the local gym, which is free for Ukrainian refugees.
I worry I won’t see my parents again. The worst days were when the Russians cut off communication for people in Kherson and I couldn’t speak to my family. But now the internet is restored, we can talk. I send pictures of their grandchildren. In return, they send me a photo of a burnt-out car outside their house. It was shot at with people inside it for breaking a curfew.
I am becoming more and more frustrated with forced idleness. It is impossible to find comfort when your friends and family are on frontlines and occupied. I feel the overwhelming desire to do something useful and help Ukraine even from here. I take part in different demonstrations, helping with translation and collecting money for the war effort. It’s volunteer work so I don’t get paid, but until I’m able to work it is all I can do to help my people.
