Crossing into Ukraine is never simple—especially when you discover your vehicle has no spare tire. (Pro tip: “parking included” in Ukrainian apartment listings is a… flexible concept.)
But what starts as a comedy of errors quickly transforms into something far more profound: a front-row seat to the extraordinary courage of everyday people doing impossible work in impossible conditions.
I’d assured Ron that Lviv was safe. “You’ll rest easy,” I said. Famous last words.
At 4 AM, air raid sirens shattered the quiet. Major missile attack. Critical danger alerts. For five hours, we huddled in the shelter with local families and their children as explosions shook the building. The acrid smoke that followed marked the biggest attack on Lviv since 2022 began. A family of five was killed that morning.
Welcome to Ukraine.
The delay meant we barely got two hours at the Azov Family Medicine School in the stunning Carpathian mountains (no time for sightseeing—though we did buy mushrooms from a roadside babushka). Some great connections made with inspirational leaders in family medicine. The founders of this school started on the Azov Sea but had to move to escape Russian occupation as the Russians invaded and now, despite being internally displaced still lead reform in their country under war. An honour to connect with them and explore ways we can help.
Some planning meetings were held in Lviv with our NGO partners.
Days later in Dnipro we met volunteers who’ve given up literally everything to be here.
We’d connected with them online recently and had provided some small support. This trip, we brought a couple of small things—including refurbished iPads from Isaac, our board member, to help with their refugee evacuation work. It was a privilege to meet these extraordinary people face-to-face.
There’s the American who was among the first into Bucha after liberation—helping to find and identify bodies in March 2022. He saw horrors that would break most people. But it wasn’t the horrors that gave him PTSD.
“He said it was the constant alerts and explosions that caused the PTSD,” Cedric explained. “He started getting panic attacks and thought he was having heart attacks. He is now on medication to help.”
This “very normal” volunteer speaks fluent Ukrainian now. He’s promised his wife they’ll live in America for a time, so he’s going back tomorrow. But he’s heartbroken about it. “He is very sad to leave Ukraine. He doesn’t want to go back to America and his ‘terrible president,'” Cedric said. Daryl said Ukraine feels to him like the America of 30 years ago with more family values.
Daryl believes Ukraine’s survival is a turning point for the entire world. “It would be a very dark turning point in the world if Russia was allowed to win in Ukraine,” he agreed with Ron.
And then there’s Cedric.
Cedric is a volunteer from New Zealand who works with evacuation teams across Ukraine’s danger zones. What he told us should make the world pay attention.
The Deliberate Targeting
“The first drone strike I saw was on the markets in Pokrovske,” Cedric began. “The drone circled twice—deliberately. It wasn’t confused; it was hunting. There were soldiers nearby, but it didn’t go for them. It aimed right for the market, full of civilians.”
The drone struck the roof. One person was wounded by shrapnel. It could have been much worse. But the intent was clear.
Living in the Crosshairs
The White Angels—the police evacuation unit they work with—all carry shotguns now, trying to shoot down drones or at least defend themselves. “Everyone needs one, really,” Cedric said. “We’re constantly tracked from above.”
Every week, there are new “fried” cars along the road, destroyed from above.
“The drones are scarier than artillery,” Cedric explained. “Especially the FPV types. You never know who or what they’re targeting. The thermobaric grenades are the worst—the pressure wave can knock you out even under cover. You can’t imagine what it’s like when the big ones hit Ukrainian positions—concussion injuries everywhere.”
The People Making It Possible
Cedric works alongside an extraordinary network of Ukrainian and foreign volunteers—British truck drivers, Swedish instructors, everyone pitching in where needed.
“Simon, a Swede I know, teaches police and soldiers how to use shotguns and other small arms,” Cedric told us. “He’s helped train the White Angels and special police who do extractions under fire.”
Here’s the crucial detail: these units aren’t military—they’re special police. “That means we can fundraise and buy gear for them legally,” Cedric explained. “Night-vision scopes, radio detectors, protective kits. We can’t donate directly to the army, but we can help the police who save civilians.”
The Reality of Evacuations
Evacuation drivers do 12 to 18 runs a day, catching a few hours’ sleep before starting again. Routes get destroyed or mined.
“Once we turned off what we thought was the main road and found ourselves in an open field—no landmarks, frozen ground, GPS useless,” Cedric recounted. “You just keep driving and hope it’s the right way.”
FPV drones make it worse—they track movement, so even stopping can be risky. Some teams carry radio detectors to pick up signals, giving a few seconds’ warning to dive for shelter.
The Aid That Never Arrives
Here’s where it gets frustrating: aid is arriving, but distribution is broken.
“There are many organisations working here—British, Ukrainian, mixed missions. I join whichever needs help at the time,” Cedric explained. “We’ve got containers of equipment arriving in November: PPE, generators, hospital gear. They should reach the hospitals by January.”
But there’s a massive bottleneck: “Aid arrives faster than it’s distributed. The Lviv regional authorities, for example, are sitting on nearly a hundred trucks – emergency service vehicles—just parked, collecting dust. They’re supposed to go to communities, but the paperwork and bureaucracy hold everything up.”
And then there’s the darker side. Some people hoard food or try to sell it back to locals. One so-called “Texan humanitarian” from the USA gets free food through NGO contacts, posts it on TikTok claiming “look at all your donations at work,” then asks for more money. “He’s under investigation but still operating—protected by the fact that he’s foreign,” Cedric said with obvious frustration.
“It’s hard to watch because genuine volunteers lose trust over these scams. I’ve seen donors send tens of thousands of dollars to frauds. Then when the truth comes out, everyone’s disillusioned.”
This is exactly why direct, accountable support matters so much.
Medicine in the Shadows
“There are mobile hospitals in Ukraine—but they’ve never been used,” Cedric revealed.
Why? My friend in the First Medical Battalion explained it: the moment you set one up, it’s targeted by Russian weapons. Real medicine happens underground—basements, garages, old shelters. So I understood.
Mobile clinics only operate in safer zones, often inside damaged houses or community halls. The mobile dental unit is the most popular—people line up before it even arrives. “When the dentists come out with us, they’re treated like heroes,” I told him. Cedric smiled.
It’s a stark reminder: in modern warfare, even trying to heal people can make you a target.
The Children Who’ve Forgotten Normal
One of Cedric’s Bavarian sponsors recently collected toys, clothing, and supplies for a children’s centre being rebuilt. “They turned up with everything—TVs, hygiene kits, even materials for classrooms,” Cedric said.
When they played a movie for the kids for the first time, “they all sat silent, wide-eyed. You realise how much normal childhood they’ve missed.”
The support didn’t stop there. “They’re already organising another shipment—books, warm clothes, and hygiene products. We’re finding safe places to store and distribute them,” Cedric added.
Small acts of normalcy in a world turned upside down.
The Poisoned Land
“We don’t drink water on the road,” Cedric warned. “Rivers in places have been poisoned by the Russians—it kills everything downstream.”
Then he told us a story that made our blood run cold: “I remember one reservoir fed from across the border was poisoned by the Russians. The British truck driver I work with—his Ukrainian wife was poisoned. A perfectly healthy 40-year-old lady, but now all her organs are failing. He is desperately trying to get her to the UK to get specialised treatment.”
Why They Fight
“You can’t believe a word of Russian media,” Cedric said, his voice hardening. “They call it liberation—from Nazis, Satanists, whatever today’s excuse is. But look around. Cities flattened, families killed. That’s not liberation.”
“This war could have ended long ago, but it’s become a global machine now—oil, weapons, manufacturing. Too many people profit from it. The Ukrainians fight on because they must. They’ve got nothing else left to lose.”
What Keeps Them Going
Faith. Community. History.
“Churches are active, though sometimes they compete instead of cooperate,” Cedric observed. “Still, faith keeps people going.”
He’s visited Saint Sophia’s Cathedral in Kyiv three times. “It’s incredible—ancient, built around the 11th century. The foundations are still visible through glass floors. When you stand there, you understand what Ukrainians are defending: their history, culture, and identity.”
It’s not just about land. It’s about centuries of existence, of culture, of being.
At night in the big cities, around 10:30 or 11 PM, everyone starts heading to the shelters. The metro stations fill with families, pets, bags.
“The escalator down always works, but the one up never does at night,” Cedric noted with a wry smile. “You walk back up in the morning when the sirens stop.”
“It’s the deepest metro system in the world—feels like descending into another planet,” he described. “Down there, it’s quiet. You can almost forget the war, for a few hours.”
But only for a few hours.
On the drive to Dnipro, we stopped at a forest to stretch our legs. Two women were picking mushrooms. I approached them (in my terrible Ukrainian) and asked if they were picking mushrooms. (Yes, obviously. Great question, right?)
When I explained I was from Australia, their faces lit up. “Thank you for coming to help!” They hugged me, reached into their car, and pulled out a pot of flowers as a gift.
These moments remind you why this matters.
The volunteers we met—from New Zealand, America, Australia, Britain—have given up everything to be there. They’re evacuating families under fire, delivering medical supplies to the front lines, rebuilding children’s centres, training protection units, and providing hope in impossible circumstances.
The specific needs are urgent and real:
- Night-vision scopes and radio detectors for evacuation teams (giving precious seconds of warning)
- Protective equipment for first responders
- Fuel for hospital deliveries
- Materials for classrooms, TVs, and hygiene kits for children’s centres
- Basic support for the families being evacuated from danger zones
The work is dangerous. The logistics are messy. The corruption is real. But so are the lives being saved.
Every donation that reaches genuine volunteers like Cedric means one more family evacuated from a danger zone. One more evacuation driver with the tools to detect incoming drones. One more child with a warm coat and a book. One more person who knows the world hasn’t forgotten them.
This isn’t about politics. It’s about people—the ones doing the evacuations, and the ones desperately waiting to be evacuated.
The world is watching Ukraine. But watching isn’t enough.
Want to support frontline humanitarian work in Ukraine? Look for direct, accountable organisations working with verified volunteers on the ground. ( or let us find them for you!) Every bit of genuine support matters—and every bit of accountability ensures it reaches those who need it most.
