From Georgia to Kharkiv: Lyudmila Gvenetadze and a Lifetime of Volunteering
By Matthew Parish
Monday 2 November 2026
The Lviv Herald interviews a Georgian woman who fled one war, made Ukraine her home and has devoted almost two decades to helping those displaced and impoverished by another.
There is a particular kind of tragedy that belongs to people who have lived through more than one war. Having escaped the first, they establish themselves somewhere else, build new lives and gradually come to regard their adopted country as their home. Then the violence catches up with them once again. For Lyudmila Gvenetadze, a Georgian woman who has lived in Kharkiv for 36 years, this is not an abstract philosophical proposition. It is the story of her life.
Lyudmila Gvenetadze is a longstanding volunteer associated with the Kharkiv Volunteer Centre, an organisation that has been assisting vulnerable people in eastern Ukraine since 2007. She works with displaced families, people with disabilities, impoverished mothers and those whose lives have been devastated by Russia's continuing attacks upon Ukrainian towns and cities. She is one of those extraordinary people whose contribution to the Ukrainian war effort does not involve carrying a rifle or operating a drone, but rather providing the food, clothing, medicines and emotional support without which a society subjected to prolonged warfare might eventually collapse.
The Lviv Herald interviewed Gvenetadze on 1 November 2026 through a written exchange conducted in Russian, the language in which she chose to communicate her experiences. Her responses have been translated into English and lightly edited for clarity and readability, while preserving the substance and character of her words. The resulting conversation offers an unusually personal perspective upon the relationship between Georgia and Ukraine, the everyday work of humanitarian organisations in Kharkiv and the remarkable resilience of people who have made helping others their life's vocation.
A childhood divided between Russia, Georgia and Abkhazia
Gvenetadze's personal history begins in an unexpected place. She was born in Chita, a city in eastern Siberia, thousands of kilometres from the Georgian homeland with which she identifies. Her family moved to Georgia while she was still young, settling initially in Tkibuli, the hometown of her father, Avtandil Silovanovich Gvenetadze.
They subsequently moved to Primorskoye, in the Gali district of Abkhazia, a region that would become one of the principal theatres of the violent disintegration of the Soviet Union. Abkhazia's history is complicated, involving competing national identities, separatist aspirations, ethnic displacement and successive interventions by Russia. For Gvenetadze, however, these historical processes are inseparable from the destruction of her family and the loss of her childhood home.
"I was born in Chita, in Russia," she explained. "When we were little, we were taken to Georgia. That is why Georgia is my homeland. We lived for a while in Tkibuli, where my father came from, and then moved to the Gali district of Abkhazia."
The Georgian-Abkhaz conflict erupted into full-scale war in 1992, following mounting tensions during the final years of the Soviet Union. The conflict culminated in 1993 with the defeat of Georgian forces in Abkhazia and the mass displacement of ethnic Georgians. Russia's role was complex, involving military, political and material support for Abkhaz separatists, although the war also had important local causes and participants. In 2008, another Russian-Georgian war consolidated Moscow's military presence in Abkhazia and South Ossetia, territories internationally recognised as part of Georgia.
Gvenetadze recalls the successive conflicts as episodes in a continuing national catastrophe. She refers to the violence of 1989 and 1990, the wars in Abkhazia and the Russian intervention of 2008 as parts of the same historical experience. Her memories include accounts from relatives of Soviet repression in Tbilisi, where troops violently dispersed demonstrators in April 1989, killing civilians and leaving a lasting scar upon Georgian national consciousness.
"My parents died," she told the Lviv Herald. "My sister fled to relatives in Tbilisi. I went to Kharkiv, in Ukraine."
She was only fourteen when she arrived in Kharkiv, where she enrolled at vocational school number six to train as a quality-control inspector. She subsequently worked at the Malyshev Factory, one of Ukraine's most important industrial enterprises and a longstanding centre of armoured vehicle manufacturing.
The chronology of her family's losses and her departure from Georgia would require further clarification, particularly because the different conflicts she describes occurred over several decades. Nevertheless, the essential significance of her account is clear. Her formative years were shaped by displacement, bereavement and the experience of finding refuge in a country that was not originally her own.
The kindness of strangers
What makes Gvenetadze's story particularly striking is the explanation she gives for becoming a volunteer. She did not begin her humanitarian work because of a political ideology, an institutional appointment or a sudden enthusiasm for charitable activities. She began because, when she was young and vulnerable, other people helped her.
"When I came to Kharkiv at fourteen, volunteers helped me with clothes, shoes and medicines," she recalled. "That is why I started volunteering myself. I worked with different organisations, and I have been with the Kharkiv Volunteer Centre for almost twenty years."
There is a powerful moral simplicity in this explanation. Someone helped her when she needed assistance, and she decided that the appropriate response was to spend her life helping others. In an era when charitable organisations sometimes become preoccupied with fundraising strategies, institutional branding and the bureaucratic requirements of international donors, it is worth remembering that the underlying impulse towards volunteering can be as straightforward as gratitude.
Her account also illustrates a characteristic feature of Ukrainian civil society. Networks of mutual assistance did not suddenly emerge in February 2022, when Russia launched its full-scale invasion. They have existed for decades, often operating with modest resources and little international recognition, sustained by people who understand from personal experience what it means to have nothing.
Gvenetadze's association with the Kharkiv Volunteer Centre places her within this longer tradition. It is a tradition in which helping other people becomes not merely an occasional charitable activity but a permanent part of one's identity.
The Kharkiv Volunteer Centre
The organisation with which Gvenetadze has worked for almost twenty years is itself an interesting institution. The Kharkiv Volunteer Centre was established in April 2007, long before the full-scale Russian invasion and indeed before the outbreak of the war in eastern Ukraine in 2014. It is a non-profit civic organisation led by Svitlana Sitnik, whose work has evolved from encouraging youth volunteering and assisting disadvantaged groups into a broad programme of humanitarian relief, social inclusion and support for people affected by the war.
According to its published figures, the organisation has assisted more than 90,000 people since February 2022, mobilised more than fifty volunteers and implemented over thirty projects. These are the organisation's own figures, but they give some indication of the scale of its activities. The Centre has also developed institutional partnerships, including projects supported by UN Women and the Women's Peace and Humanitarian Fund, while maintaining the local relationships that enable humanitarian assistance to reach people who might otherwise be overlooked.
The organisation's work extends beyond distributing humanitarian supplies. It has developed programmes concerned with women's safety, gender equality, youth participation and the integration of vulnerable groups into community life. These programmes reflect the reality that humanitarian crises are not simply shortages of material goods. They also involve the destruction of social networks, the erosion of personal security and the loss of the confidence that people require to rebuild their lives.
Gvenetadze describes her own responsibilities as principally involving clothing distribution, psychological support and practical workshops for children and adults. She says she has completed relevant training and works alongside other organisations, including groups she identifies as Yednist ta Syla and Obiymy, or Embraces.
"Every day is planned out," she explained. "I cooperate with different organisations. We help people with disabilities, internally displaced people, the Ukrainian Armed Forces and everyone in need. We provide psychological assistance, food, clothing, shoes and medicines."
Asked to describe her particular role, she replied:
"I am responsible for the clothing sector and psychological support. We have training certificates, and we organise workshops for children and adults."
The distinction between material and psychological assistance is especially important. Someone who has escaped a bombardment may need a winter coat, but they may also need reassurance that they have not been abandoned. A displaced child may require food and shelter, but also opportunities to participate in ordinary childhood activities. Humanitarian assistance is most effective when it recognises that people have emotional and social needs as well as physical ones.
The people behind the statistics
When asked who most urgently needs assistance, Gvenetadze identifies internally displaced persons, mothers with large families and people with disabilities. These are among the groups most vulnerable to the cumulative consequences of war, particularly when displacement is accompanied by unemployment, illness or the loss of family support.
"I help everyone, but internally displaced people come first," she said. "Then there are mothers with many children, people with disabilities and anyone else in need. The people of Kharkiv and the surrounding region need medicines, food, hygiene products and clothing."
The requirements may sound elementary, but their simplicity is precisely the point. After years of warfare, thousands of Ukrainians continue to depend upon charitable networks for goods that would ordinarily be purchased in a supermarket or pharmacy. The destruction of homes and workplaces, the disruption of local economies and the repeated displacement of civilian populations have created a humanitarian crisis that cannot be resolved by a single delivery of emergency supplies.
Asked whether there was one family whose circumstances had particularly affected her, Gvenetadze described a woman named Lyudmila, who is suffering from advanced breast cancer.
"All the families we have helped have been terribly unfortunate," she explained. "We continue working with them and helping them. I particularly remember Lyudmila, who has stage-four breast cancer. We helped her with everything we could. Her determination to keep living was extraordinary, and things became a little easier for her."
But the story did not have an entirely satisfactory conclusion.
"Unfortunately, I could not overcome the system to help her obtain the necessary documents for internally displaced persons, find housing or undergo an operation. Those things were beyond my power."
There is something particularly moving about this admission. Humanitarian workers are frequently portrayed as heroic figures who arrive, distribute supplies and transform people's lives. The reality is more complicated. Volunteers encounter problems that cannot be solved through goodwill alone, including bureaucratic obstacles, inadequate housing provision and medical needs beyond the resources of charitable organisations.
Lyudmila's circumstances illustrate the limits of individual compassion when confronted with institutional shortcomings. Gvenetadze could provide practical assistance and emotional support, but she could not necessarily persuade the relevant authorities to issue documentation, allocate accommodation or arrange specialist medical treatment. Whether the difficulties arose from administrative procedures, eligibility requirements, shortages of resources or some combination of these factors is not established by her account.
Nevertheless, her frustration is revealing. The volunteer's task is not merely to distribute what has been donated. It is also to confront the uncomfortable knowledge that, however much one does, there will always be people whose needs exceed one's capacity to help them.
The Georgian connection
For Gvenetadze, the relationship between Georgia and Ukraine is not primarily a question of diplomatic relations between governments. It is a relationship between peoples whose histories have been shaped by the same powerful neighbour and whose experiences of displacement have created a sense of mutual obligation.
"Georgia and Ukraine are one whole," she told the Lviv Herald. "Ukraine always helped Georgia. Now Georgia has welcomed displaced Ukrainians, and Georgian men are defending our beloved Ukraine, which has become my second homeland. I have lived here for thirty-six years."
Her reference to Georgian volunteers serving in the Ukrainian Armed Forces is significant. Georgian citizens have participated in Ukraine's defence since the war began in 2014, some motivated by their own experiences of Russian military intervention and others by broader commitments to Ukrainian independence. The Georgian Legion and other formations involving Georgian volunteers have become prominent symbols of solidarity between the two countries, although individual Georgian fighters serve in a variety of military structures.
The political relationship between Georgia and Ukraine has not always been straightforward. Georgia's government has pursued a more cautious policy towards Russia than many Ukrainian officials would prefer, and the country's internal politics have become increasingly contentious over questions of European integration, democratic governance and Russian influence.
Yet Gvenetadze's account suggests that the relationship between ordinary Georgians and Ukrainians cannot be reduced to the positions adopted by their respective governments. Her own life crosses the boundaries of national identity in ways that make conventional categories inadequate. Born in Russia, raised partly in Georgia and Abkhazia, and resident in Ukraine for most of her life, she identifies with both Georgian and Ukrainian experiences of national suffering.
The fact that she gave her interview in Russian adds another dimension to this story. Russian remains a language of everyday communication for many inhabitants of Kharkiv, including people whose commitment to Ukrainian independence is unequivocal. Gvenetadze's testimony illustrates the distinction between a language and the political ambitions of the state most closely associated with it.
It is a distinction that matters in a country where Russian-speaking Ukrainians have suffered enormously from Russian military aggression. Language does not determine political loyalty, and the Russian language can be used to express the strongest possible condemnation of Russian imperialism.
Volunteering under fire
Kharkiv's geographical proximity to Russia has made it particularly vulnerable to missile attacks, drones and other forms of bombardment. The city has endured years of attacks upon residential buildings, commercial premises, transport infrastructure and energy facilities. The consequences are felt not only by those directly injured or bereaved but also by the humanitarian organisations responsible for assisting survivors.
"Volunteers are constantly risking their lives," Gvenetadze observed.
She explains that the Kharkiv Volunteer Centre travels to communities throughout the surrounding region, delivering whatever assistance it can. She personally sends parcels across Ukraine to displaced people and others in need, illustrating the geographical reach of volunteer networks that may be based in one city but maintain relationships with beneficiaries scattered across the country.
"Our organisation travels around the communities of Kharkiv oblast and helps wherever possible," she said. "I send parcels all over Ukraine, to our displaced people and everyone who needs assistance."
This work requires considerable logistical organisation. Donations must be collected, sorted, stored and distributed. Beneficiaries must be identified, their needs assessed and the available resources matched to those needs. In a region exposed to repeated attacks, humanitarian operations also involve decisions about personal safety and the risks associated with travelling to communities closer to the fighting.
The most striking feature of Gvenetadze's description, however, is the diversity of the people who participate.
"We have volunteers who are as old as eighty-five," she explained. "They sew underwear for soldiers, knit socks and camouflage nets, and share food with the troops, thanks to donors and sponsors from abroad."
The image of elderly volunteers sewing and knitting for soldiers is a familiar one in wartime Ukraine, but familiarity should not obscure its significance. These are people who might reasonably expect to spend their later years enjoying retirement, yet instead devote their time to supporting a military struggle upon which they believe their country's survival depends.
Nor are their contributions merely symbolic. Warm clothing, basic personal supplies and other everyday necessities remain important to soldiers living in difficult field conditions. Civilian volunteers help fill gaps that military supply systems do not always address promptly or comprehensively.
The psychology of endurance
When asked how the war has changed her, Gvenetadze did not describe despair or resignation. Instead, she spoke of solidarity and an increasingly uncompromising sense of responsibility.
"The years of war have made us stronger and more united," she said. "We have no right to rest. Knowing how our boys and girls are fighting for freedom, we have no right to give up."
This is a sentiment frequently encountered among Ukrainian volunteers. The sacrifices made by soldiers at the front create a powerful moral obligation among civilians to continue supporting them, even when exhaustion becomes overwhelming.
There is nevertheless a tension within this philosophy. Human beings require rest, and prolonged humanitarian work can produce psychological exhaustion, compassion fatigue and burnout. The conviction that one has no right to stop may sustain extraordinary efforts, but it can also impose an almost impossible burden upon people who have already endured years of personal sacrifice.
Gvenetadze's account offers a glimpse of how this burden is managed. She describes a network of organisations undertaking different kinds of work, from building repairs and the provision of hot meals to medical assistance and psychological support.
"Everything depends upon volunteers," she said. "Every organisation helps in its own way. Some undertake construction work, others provide hot meals or medicines, and others offer psychological assistance."
The strength of such networks lies partly in their diversity. No single organisation can meet every humanitarian requirement, and the distribution of responsibilities between different groups allows resources and expertise to be applied where they are most useful.
There is also a psychological benefit to collective action. A volunteer who feels powerless in the face of war may recover a sense of agency through helping another person. This does not eliminate trauma, but it can provide meaning and structure amid circumstances that otherwise appear chaotic.
Gvenetadze's own biography suggests that this process began long before the present war. Having once received assistance as a displaced young person, she found a purpose in providing similar assistance to others. The act of volunteering became a means of transforming personal suffering into practical solidarity.
A message to Britain
Towards the end of the interview, Gvenetadze was asked what she would like to say to British readers and other international supporters of Ukraine. Her response combined gratitude with an urgent appeal for continued humanitarian assistance.
"To British and other foreign organisations, I offer my deepest thanks, and to everyone who continues helping us," she said. "Everyone is exhausted, but we must continue helping whenever possible with food, medicines and clothing, because every day innocent people suffer from attacks upon civilian infrastructure. They run out of burning homes with nothing."
Her description of people escaping burning buildings without possessions captures a recurring humanitarian problem. Even where emergency services successfully rescue residents, those residents may immediately require accommodation, clothing, medicines, identification documents and basic household supplies.
The consequences of an attack therefore continue long after the flames have been extinguished and the emergency vehicles have departed. Volunteers frequently become responsible for addressing those longer-term needs.
Gvenetadze also offered a warning about the importance of choosing trustworthy organisations.
"Of course, people should help organisations that have been properly checked," she said. "There are many fraudsters who have profited from this war, and who continue to do so."
Her caution is worth taking seriously. International generosity creates opportunities for humanitarian assistance, but it also creates incentives for dishonest individuals to misrepresent their activities or divert donations. Donors should therefore seek evidence of an organisation's legal status, activities, financial accountability and actual delivery of assistance.
The Kharkiv Volunteer Centre has a publicly identifiable institutional history and documented programmes involving international partners. Its official website provides information about its projects, leadership and activities, allowing prospective supporters to undertake at least an initial assessment before deciding whether to contribute.
Gvenetadze's final remarks to British readers were particularly generous.
"The British are very strong in spirit," she said. "They are intelligent, wise and generous. I bow deeply to them for their assistance, and to all the countries that have not abandoned the strong-spirited people of Ukraine, a nation made up of many peoples and nationalities."
Her reference to Ukraine as a country composed of different peoples and nationalities is especially appropriate coming from a Georgian woman who has spent most of her life in Kharkiv. Ukraine's national identity has never been exclusively a matter of ethnicity. It is also a civic identity, built around a shared commitment to the country's independence and the protection of its inhabitants.
The meaning of a second homeland
Lyudmila Gvenetadze's story contains several of the defining experiences of the post-Soviet world. There is the disintegration of the Soviet Union, the violence in Georgia and Abkhazia, the displacement of families, the industrial life of Kharkiv and the emergence of Ukrainian civil society as a source of extraordinary resilience.
Yet the most important aspect of her biography may be something simpler. At fourteen, she arrived in an unfamiliar city and received help from strangers. She remembered that kindness, and for much of her adult life she has tried to extend it to other people.
The wars that have shaped her existence have been fought over territory, sovereignty, political allegiance and the future of nations. Her own response has been to concern herself with the immediate needs of individuals: a displaced mother requiring clothing for her children, a person with disabilities struggling to obtain basic supplies, an elderly resident in need of food or a woman with advanced cancer confronting an indifferent bureaucracy.
These are not the dramatic events that ordinarily dominate accounts of warfare. They rarely appear in military communiqués or diplomatic negotiations. Yet they are among the experiences that determine whether a society can survive prolonged violence without losing its humanity.
The Kharkiv Volunteer Centre is one part of a much larger Ukrainian network of civic organisations whose work has become indispensable during the war. Its significance lies not only in the numbers of people it reports assisting, but also in the continuity of its activities over nearly two decades and its ability to mobilise people from different generations and backgrounds.
Gvenetadze embodies that continuity. Her humanitarian work began in gratitude for the assistance she herself received, and it has continued through successive periods of political instability and war. She has made Ukraine her second homeland, and her understanding of belonging is expressed less through political declarations than through the practical work of caring for its people.
There is an irony in the fact that someone who fled the consequences of conflict in Georgia should find herself helping victims of another war in Ukraine. But there is also something profoundly hopeful in the way she has responded. Rather than allowing her experiences to produce bitterness or indifference, she has made them the foundation of a lifelong commitment to others.
At the conclusion of our exchange, Gvenetadze offered a final expression of solidarity: "Glory to Ukraine, glory to Britain and to everyone who continues helping us."
It is difficult to imagine a more appropriate conclusion to the story of a woman whose life has been shaped by several countries, but whose guiding principle has remained remarkably consistent. When other people are suffering, she believes that those who can help have an obligation to do so.
And in Kharkiv, where the war continues to intrude upon the most ordinary aspects of civilian existence, that conviction remains one of the foundations upon which the city's endurance depends.
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Matthew Parish, Editor-in-Chief, The Lviv Herald. Interview conducted by written correspondence in Russian on 1 November 2026. Quotations translated into English and Ukrainian and edited for clarity.
