More than 1,500 days have passed since Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine on February 24, 2022. Around six million Ukrainians have sought refuge abroad, including about 1.1 million in Germany. Four Ukrainian scholars who found their way to Germany and to Goethe University in 2022 reflect on their experiences as the war enters its fourth year.
“Vesná pryide – vse zmínytsia”: Spring will come – everything will change. The old Ukrainian proverb is deceptively simple. Grammatically, it uses the simple future – less a prediction than an expression of inevitability: spring will come, and with it change. And yet, spring means so much more than change in Ukrainian folklore: It stands for survival, rebirth and the beginning of a new agricultural cycle, and constitutes a stark contrast to winter’s long months of cold, darkness and scarcity.
The symbolism of spring runs deep in Ukraine’s culture. In recent years, however, it has taken on a far more complicated meaning, marked by memories of upheaval, uncertainty and resilience. February 2014 is one such moment. After months of mass demonstrations known as the Maidan protests, President Viktor Yanukovych flees the country. Many Ukrainians felt that something new might begin – yet it was precisely at this moment, when institutions were fragile and power was shifting, that Russia moved into the void. Within days, armed men without insignia appeared across the Crimean peninsula, seizing strategic sites and taking control of the regional parliament. On March 18, 2014, Russia formally annexed Crimea. What had begun as a hopeful season of political transformation had suddenly become the opening chapter of a new conflict.
Crimea proved both launchpad and blueprint eight years later. On February 24, 2022, Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, attacking from multiple directions and turning a regional war into a devastating international crisis. In the Russian narrative, the invasion also carried the language of spring. The roots of this so-called Russkaya vesna – the “Russian Spring” – had already been planted in 2014 and centered on the idea of a political awakening among Russian peoples, including those in Donetsk and Luhansk. In the days surrounding the invasion, Moscow recognized these self-proclaimed “people’s republics”, contested since 2014, before later claiming their annexation following internationally unrecognized referendums.
The invasion unleashed what UNHCR recently called “the fastest growing and largest displacement crisis in Europe since World War II ”. By mid-February 2026, the agency recorded close to six million Ukrainians who had fled the country, the vast majority – around 5.4 million – to other European states. More than 1.1 million Ukrainians live in Germany today, two-thirds of them women. Data from the German Federal Statistical Office show that 730,000 Ukrainians sought refuge in Germany in 2022 alone; 400,000 of whom arrived in the month of March.
Goethe University Frankfurt responded to Russia’s invasion quickly and on several levels. Institutionally, the Office of Private University Funding, working closely with the Executive Board, established the Goethe Ukraine Fund. Introduced at the end of March 2022, it provided emergency support for Ukrainian students and researchers. At the same time, colleagues across administration, teaching and research mobilized individually. Beyond practical help, their financial contributions contributed to raising more than €400,000 for the fund (see box). Their commitment helped turn Frankfurt into a place of safety, solidarity and renewed academic opportunity for many Ukrainian researchers.
UniReport spoke to four Ukrainian scholars about how their lives have been transformed since the spring of 2022, what it means to rebuild a future far from home, and what they hope the world might look like by February 2027.
Dr. Nataliia Aliabieva
Dr. Nataliia Aliabieva is originally from Donetsk. When the war broke out in 2022, she happened to be visiting relatives in Frankfurt. “I was sleeping peacefully when the phone rang around five in the morning,” she recalls. It was a family friend calling to inform her that the war had begun and asking about her parents, who still lived in Donetsk. “It took me a long time to fully grasp what had happened; my thoughts were in complete turmoil. Once I turned on the television and saw the news reports, I knew the war had actually started.” In that moment, she says, confusion and fear took hold: “It felt as if they penetrated every cell of my body.” At first, she had no idea how she would bring her parents and her son – then a student at Kyiv University – to safety. The days, weeks, and months that followed were filled with overwhelming impressions. Looking back, she describes experiencing this new reality almost on autopilot, focused solely on functioning and survival – it all feels like a blur. Somehow, she managed to travel to Donetsk. When she arrived, she learned that her father had passed away only hours earlier. Dr. Aliabieva shared some aspects of her flight in 2024; you can read more here.
Before fleeing the country, the internet law expert worked on several international projects focusing on conflict dynamics, including initiatives with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE), and the Norwegian Refugee Council. Her work has consistently navigated the intersection of activism, political education, and applied research (an overview of this field of work is also provided in the report by the Berlin-based Comparative Research Network e.V. and the organization UNAEDI Kyiv, linked here). She also taught at the Department of International Law at the National Aviation University in Kyiv, where her courses covered topics such as the law of international organizations, space law, and related fields.
Today, Dr. Aliabieva lives with her son in the university town of Marburg, where she does not feel entirely at home for several reasons. For one, her research activities and relatives are located in the Rhine Main region. She would like to move closer, but Germany’s regulations governing the distribution of refugees mean the Ukrainian scholar and her son cannot change their place of residence before a three-year period has elapsed. “The bureaucratic procedures involved in moving are extremely difficult for me and – what’s more – still unresolved,” she says. The long distances she must travel daily are physically and emotionally draining. At the same time, Marburg’s small size offers only limited opportunities for professional development, employment, and integration. In larger cities such as Berlin, Frankfurt, or Munich, she believes the situation would be very different, not least because there are simply more opportunities. She is convinced that “working migrants and students could contribute much more in large cities. While smaller towns may work well for older people or young mothers, for people who want to build a career, they come with real obstacles – limited transport connections or infrastructure, for example.”
Her experiences in Frankfurt provide an important counterpoint. “From the very beginning, Goethe University was a place where I received not only support but also genuine solidarity,” she says. She is especially grateful to Prof. Dr. Roland Broemel from the Faculty of Law for supporting her postdoctoral project. “He welcomed me and placed his trust in me, even though I initially spoke hardly any German.” Dr. Aliabieva also emphasizes the valuable support she received from her German teachers, whose innovative methods and commitment, she says, went far beyond the standard integration courses at B1 level. At the same time, the university holds a deeper symbolic meaning for her. “During my early days as a student, I engaged extensively with Goethe’s literature and philosophy. In that sense, becoming part of this academic environment and conducting research at an internationally renowned university was something very special to me.”
On the topic of research, she notes that the war has also profoundly reshaped her academic focus. “The subjects I had worked on in Ukraine became less relevant,” she explains. “At the same time, being part of the German research environment meant I had to concentrate on questions that are relevant here.” She ultimately chose a subject with strong personal relevance: the integration of Ukrainian refugees into the German labor market. Together with Prof. Dr. Iryna Shvetsova, she presented a related study at the annual conference of the Viadrina Center of Polish and Ukrainian Studies in May 2025. She has also presented her research findings – based in part on her own personal experiences – in the form of a policy recommendation to the German Bundestag. “A central focus is the restrictions on refugees’ mobility between federal states and cities and their impact on the German labor market.” She also hopes to resume teaching in the future. “I would like to share my experience from working with international organizations and from practical work in conflict zones and ‘gray areas’ with students who are interested in international law.”
Had the war not broken out, Dr. Aliabieva says, she would have continued her work with international organizations, pursued her academic research, and possibly carried out projects abroad – always with the aim of exchanging experiences and generating new knowledge. For the time being, however, even this basic premise of academic work is only partially possible in Ukraine. The departure of many outstanding scholars has left a significant gap in the country’s scientific landscape. This is bad news for Ukraine and – at least on the surface – seems beneficial for the countries where these experts now reside, as they suddenly gain access to valuable expertise. While this expertise is recognized and supported, including through numerous programs for Ukrainian researchers in Germany, Dr. Aliabieva points out that “many colleagues are not working in their fields of specialization, but in positions that do not correspond to their degrees or qualifications.”
She knows what she is talking about. “Before I started my German classes, I landed small parts in crowd scenes in German TV series. Once I played a forensic pathologist, another time a member of parliament, and on another occasion an employee at a detective agency.” She says she is very grateful for the roles she was offered: besides being close to her professional field and providing a small income, they also gave her a chance to practice her German.
How she will mark the next anniversary of the war in spring 2027 remains uncertain. “Given the military and political developments, it is difficult to make long-term plans,” she says. “If things unfold as I hope, I will be able to continue pursuing my academic goals – ideally here at Goethe University, or at least somewhere in the Rhine-Main region.” She firmly believes in that possibility and says that every encounter on campus reminds her how inspiring Goethe’s “temple of science” continues to be.
Dr. Nataliia Medzhybovska
Dr. Nataliia Medzhybovska holds a doctorate in economics and brings many years of professional experience in university project management and teaching. Before fleeing to Germany, she lived in her hometown of Odesa, a major Black Sea port that played a strategic role during the first phase of Russia’s invasion. Although the city was never captured, it continues to face regular attacks to this day. For her, February 24 carries a particularly personal significance – it is her husband’s birthday. “When Russia invaded my country in the early hours of 2022, my husband’s milestone birthday celebration turned somber,” she recalls. Messaging services first alerted them to the outbreak of the war. “Although we expected the war, we didn’t quite believe it would happen.”
Twelve days and roughly 1,650 kilometers later (measured in a straight line), she and her youngest son arrived in Frankfurt. The date is March 8, 2022. At the time, solidarity with Ukrainian refugees was strong, and a German family offered them a place to stay. The experience of such human kindness left a lasting impression. “We lived with the von Rundstedts for six months, and they still support us today.” In September that year, Dr. Medzhybovska joined the Faculty of Economics and Business at Goethe University as a research associate in the team of Prof. Dr. Oliver Hinz. Over the following three years, until September 2025, she studied the influence of social media on civil society. “My research focused on the activities of an online community dedicated to countering Russian propaganda and supporting Ukraine. The group emerged immediately after the outbreak of the war with the aim of mobilizing support for Ukraine.”
In addition to her German host family, Dr. Medzhybovska is deeply grateful to Prof. Hinz and the Faculty of Economics and Business for their support over the past several years. “He placed his trust in me and gave me the opportunity to conduct research within his department,” she says.
Alongside new academic insights, her three years in Frankfurt also gave her a deeper understanding of the German academic system. “In my view, research in Germany tends to be more rigorously grounded and more clearly connected to the existing body of literature. In Ukraine, it was often sufficient in an article simply to list scholars without discussing their positions or citing specific references in detail. Here, by contrast, almost every statement has to be carefully justified and placed within the broader research context.” This has been a valuable learning experience for the economist, who, until the outbreak of war, regularly participated in professional training programs – many of them abroad, including in the United States, Germany, Lithuania, Poland, and Bulgaria.
Since the end of last year, Dr. Medzhybovska – who spent nearly 26 years teaching and conducting research in economic cybernetics and information technologies at Odesa National Economic University – has been searching for a new position. “Finding a new job after my appointment at Goethe University ended has turned out to be the most difficult challenge so far,” she says. Part of this lies in the nature of the work carried out by academic staff – many companies tend to look for practical professional experience and place less value on analytical and scientific skills, she adds. However, it is also clear that the public attention given to Ukrainian refugees is declining – both because of the length of the war and because of the growing number of other global crises. “At the beginning, the support for Ukrainians was immense. But during my job search today, I no longer encounter the same level of openness and trust that Prof. Hinz showed me.”
“I feel safe here,” she says, referring to Germany, and adds that, “I hope I will find a suitable job soon – most likely outside academia. If I had remained in Ukraine, I would probably be the department head by now, overseeing a master’s program.” Her home country still plays an important role in Dr. Medzhybovska‘s daily life, also because her eldest son still lives in war-torn Odesa with his family. The promotion of intercultural understanding is a matter close to her heart: in her spare time, she manages a book club and also supports Ukrainian refugees in Hesse.
Olha Huzhva
Olha Huzhva is from Pokrovsk, one of the most important cities in Ukraine’s eastern Donetsk region. Since the full-scale invasion in 2022, the city has been repeatedly struck by missile attacks and relentless artillery fire – and even today, fierce fighting continues on its doorstep.
“When I think of home today, I hear not only sirens, but also Shchedryk – the melody the world knows as Carol of the Bells.” The work of composer Mykola Leontovych – who was murdered by a Soviet agent in 1921 – stands among the country’s most treasured cultural legacies and is deeply intertwined with the idea of a Ukrainian spring. She is mindful of language. The term “Donbas,” she explains, is often used too broadly, as it refers to a wider geographical area than the territory of Ukraine itself. “Russia uses the term to blur Ukraine’s actual administrative borders. We still call it Donetshchyna – the region around the occupied city of Donetsk.”
For the lawyer, the history of her homeland has played a key role ever since she can remember. Although she was still a child at the time, she vividly recalls the Maidan protests. “I joined initiatives organized by that movement – the one we call the Revolution of Dignity – in my hometown. I remember our teachers encouraged us to take part.” Olha Huzhva’s understanding of how deeply the past shapes the present developed early on. To her, Ukraine has always been part of Europe. She points to Yaroslav the Wise, after whom her later alma mater in Kharkiv is named. His daughters became queens of France and Hungary, forging dynastic ties in the 11th century that continue to shape Ukraine’s understanding of itself as part of Europe.
Her decision to study law and history grew out of a fascination with coexistence, self-determination, and freedom. “I was interested in how states are structured, how societies function, how rights are protected, and how responsibility is assumed.” At Kharkiv University, she says, she grew up. Alongside her studies, she completed internships with the police, the courts, and in legal practice before taking a position at a recycling company. By the age of 23, she had already assumed leadership responsibilities, representing her employer in court and in dealings with public authorities. “I worked hard, and I believed in what I was doing – and I felt my life was moving in a clear direction.”
At the same time, Russia’s aggression had long been part of her reality. “For me, the war did not begin in 2022. Since 2014, my region has lived with the front line nearby, with constant threat, and with the feeling that violence could move closer at any moment.” Her studies in history made her aware of how long Ukraine has been exposed to this pressure. “At first, I wondered how it was possible that we were living through a war in the 21st century. But then I realized: Russia has taken from me not only houses and cities, but entire years of my life.” Her family home was destroyed, her hometown severely damaged, as were large parts of Kharkiv.
For Olha Huzhva, war is not only about weapons. It is also about language, culture, and history –about what she describes as a “slow normalization of something that must never become normal.” Even shortly before the full-scale invasion, she encountered people who underestimated the threat posed by Russian propaganda and imperialism. She and her family were not among them. “Even before the war, we made a conscious decision to rely entirely on our own language – including when it came to our sources of information.” As the risk of a larger invasion grew, the family ended up leaving for Kyiv a week before the outbreak of war, guided by a growing sense of what was to come.
“We baked bread at home. Everyone slept in one room, ‘between two walls.’” A phrase that had hardly been used before suddenly became a rule for survival: two walls might offer protection from shrapnel. In the event of a direct hit, the family knew, there would be no real safety anyway. Kyiv came under attack in the first days of the war – an experience she describes as deeply formative. At the same time, she remembers the courage of ordinary people who continued to supply supermarkets despite the bombardment. “War shows you how thin the layer is that we call everyday life.”
Shortly before the full-scale invasion, her father died. “Our family had just suffered a profound personal loss when the country was plunged into another catastrophe.” She began learning to drive so she could evacuate her mother and aunt herself if necessary. “But first you had to find gasoline. That, too, suddenly became part of daily life.”
When the three women fled to Germany in the spring of 2022, Olha Huzhva initially thought it would be temporary. “But months turned into years.” The journey took several days. “We took an evacuation train to Lviv. There were countless people in the carriage – along with cats and dogs. Next to me sat a large German shepherd.” In Lviv, they spent several nights in a gymnasium, supported by volunteers with food, tea, and simple familiar meals whose taste briefly restored a sense of normality.
The onward journey remained uncertain. Eventually, they accepted help from Lithuanian volunteers and traveled via Poland to Germany. “To this day, I am deeply grateful to the people at the border. They gave us our first sense of safety.” In Wiesbaden, they found shelter with an acquaintance. “After days of traveling in fear, even something as ordinary as a shower becomes unforgettable.”
The fear did not disappear – not least because her sister continues to live in Kyiv. At the same time, a new life began, one that initially felt unfamiliar. “For me, migration was first a vacuum. You lose not only your work and your daily routine, but often part of your identity.” Despite limited German, the family navigated administrative procedures and residence requirements. Temporary protection was granted, but the waiting dragged on. “In Ukraine, ‘temporary’ means weeks or months. Here, it became a new reality.”
To give her life some structure, she took a job in a café and enrolled in intensive German courses. “My life as a lawyer had come to a standstill.” Gradually, she began building a network, and initial contacts developed into friendships. Yet the feeling of having to catch up remained. “Professionally, I am starting almost from zero.” What marked her most deeply was the need to prove herself all over again. “I knew who I was and what I could do – but no one could see it.” Bureaucratic barriers, the lack of recognition for qualifications, and automated hiring systems made the situation even more difficult. “You are often seen as both overqualified and underqualified at the same time.” This, she says, is one of the most painful aspects of migration: not only starting over but having to explain that you once were someone already. At the same time, she emphasizes that Ukrainian universities provide precisely the skills that are needed across Europe.
Alongside a new understanding of what it means to be patient – “the word Geduld is one of those German words that has most strongly shaped my life here” – that sense remains. “If I had continued my path in Ukraine, I would have moved step by step toward becoming a lawyer. In Germany, the same goal means an entirely new long-distance journey” – around eight years before qualifying to practice law. Beyond navigating the system, it requires time, resilience, and long-term planning.
At the same time, she highlights the support she has received, including from the Federal Employment Agency, which led her to Goethe University’s Academic Bridge Program (ABP) (read more here). She also takes part in the “Fast Track” program for young Ukrainians in Germany run by Deutschlandstiftung Integration. “Experiences like these show me that integration is not just about paperwork – it is also about encounters. That is how I see my role today: helping to build these kinds of bridges in social, academic, and professional life.” For her, the ABP is more than an educational program: “It is a bridge back into a professional and academic environment.”
A degree of normality has returned – and yet her sense of the world has shifted. “What once felt clearly separate – safety here, danger there – now overlaps. I often feel I am living in two realities at once, and that they have long since merged.”
Olha Huzhva is acutely aware of how severely science and education in Ukraine are affected by the war – and at the same time proud that education has not been pushed to the margins, even under these conditions. In Kharkiv, she says, schools have been relocated to metro stations, and soldiers take university exams at the front. “Education should not be taking place in trenches,” she says. Perhaps that is why it matters so much to her how the war is perceived in academic environments. Despite many empathetic and supportive encounters, she still has the impression “that for some students and young people in Frankfurt, the war remains something distant – an event ‘from outside.’ But this war is already in Europe, and it calls into question the security of Germany and of Europe as a whole.” Stability, she adds, is not a given. If she could wish for one thing, it would be “that more people recognize how fragile the line really is between their everyday life and our front. The war should be understood not only through empathy, but also through analysis – not out of fear, but out of responsibility.”
For her, the project Unity Net, which she initiated, shows that even the smallest contribution can matter. Camouflage nets are woven in public spaces; anyone passing by can tie a single knot – and in doing so, help protect lives. Looking ahead, she hopes she will not have to spend yet another year attending demonstrations against the war. “I would be happy if the support already being given were sufficient – so that years do not turn into decades.” Her thoughts often return to the people in her homeland – women and men alike – who are defending values such as peace, democracy, and freedom, and many of whom are paying with their lives. “I often ask myself: are democracy, the rule of law, and freedom an active commitment of the European academic community – or is there a risk that they remain largely theoretical concepts?”
The most important concept for her future is “Надія” – Nadiia – hope. She quotes Ukrainian poet Lesya Ukrainka: “Contra spem spero” – “I hope without hope.” She says she returns to those words often. “Despite everything, I do not plan to give up. I hope for a free Ukraine, for stronger connections between Ukraine and Germany, and for greater security across Europe.”
Olha Vashchenko
Olha Vashchenko was studying for her bachelor’s degree in chemistry at Kyiv University when the war broke out in February 2022. In the months leading up to the invasion, speculation about a possible attack had already been widespread. “But given that Russia had carried out military exercises near the border several times before, public opinion was divided,” she recalls. “Some people thought a war in the 21st century was simply impossible. Others felt it was becoming more likely with every passing day.” She belonged to the latter group. For weeks the atmosphere had been tense, the news uncertain, and the 20-year-old student from Kharkiv worried not only about her family in the border region. “I was living in a student dormitory and had absolutely no idea what the outbreak of a war would look like,” she says. “I feared tanks would roll in and bomb our dorms. Looking back, those thoughts seem almost absurd.”
When her phone rang in the early hours of the morning on February 24, 2022, – sometime between four and five – she answered half asleep. It was her father telling her the war had begun and that they could hear the explosions. “I still remember how my brain refused to understand,” she recalls. “One of my first thoughts was: why is he waking me from a deep sleep with such a terrible joke?” With nerves already stretched thin from weeks of uncertainty, her body wants her to fall back asleep. “It may sound unimaginable to many people,” she says, “but when the war officially began, some of the tension I had been carrying actually eased.” For weeks she had been worrying about when, how, where – and whether – war would break out. In a strange way, the young scientist explains, it was easier to face a reality than to live with constant speculation. “Suddenly it was no longer a theory. It was a fact.”
After speaking with her mother and her younger brothers, she ends up walking through the corridors of the student dormitory in Kyiv. “Everything was quiet. My friends were still asleep. It all felt unreal.” She began waking them. Together they decide, as a precaution, to seek shelter in a nearby metro station. “We were in a strange state of quiet panic,” she recalls. Making matters worse was that they initially couldn’t find any news confirming the outbreak of war. Official confirmation through the media arrives only after she and her fellow students are already sitting in the station. They have brought several bottles of water and a little food with them – she remembers packing sausages in haste. Four hours later they return to the dormitory. By then, some parents have arrived to pick up their children and take them home or to places that seemed safer. It is clear that returning to Kharkiv – directly into the unfolding war – is not an option. Instead, Olha Vashchenko spends the next week and a half with the family of a friend in the west of the country. “There were frequent air-raid sirens, and we spent many hours in protected basements,” she says. Underground, new social bonds begin to form – many of them with elderly women who share the shelter. It is time that leaves a lasting mark.
The family, now reunited in Frankfurt, often reflects on that time. “Being separated from each other was hard for all of us,” she says. “But the situation for my parents was much more difficult. The supermarkets were empty, and they didn’t know what to do. Every conversation with them was accompanied by the sound of shelling in the background.” After seeing Russian tanks on the streets and having city hall destroyed on March 1, the family flees to Dnipro. With ongoing fighting and worried about their proximity to the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant – Europe’s largest, located just 120 kilometers southwest of the city – Olha Vashchenko’s mother decides a month later to take her two sons to safety in Germany. It will take her father another two years before he joins them, together with his parents. “My maternal grandparents are still living in Kharkiv,” she says, her voice carrying a mixture of sadness, pride, and affection. “Leaving their home was never an option for them, even during the war.” Giving up their familiar surroundings – their house, their garden – she understands why that is something Babusia and Didus could never imagine doing.
As her family flees their hometown, she initially stays with her friend in the west of the country. “One day I found a list on Facebook of laboratories offering help to Ukrainian students and researchers,” she recalls. “Since I had already completed a laboratory internship in NMR in Kyiv, my search was quite specific. One of the results was the lab of Professor Harald Schwalbe.” It is already evening when she sends her request. The positive reply arrives shortly before six the next morning. With just a single bag containing the few belongings she had managed to take with her – “when we fled Kyiv, we still thought we would return in a few days” – she sets out for Frankfurt. The journey unfolds in several stages: a brief stay with friends here, a night in a monastery there, followed by the long train ride through Poland. On March 11, 2022, she finally arrives in Frankfurt.
She says there was only one moment during the long journey when fear truly caught up with her. “My destination after arriving was Schwalbach,” she recalls. “A PhD student from Professor Schwalbe’s group lived there and had offered me a place to stay. When I boarded the local train in Frankfurt, a sudden wave of panic came over me. What would be waiting for me? Where exactly was I going? All those thoughts that I had pushed aside during the long train journey through Poland suddenly returned.” The support she received when the door of the house in Schwalbach opened, she says, is impossible to overstate. “She took me in without even knowing me.” When her mother later fled to Germany with her two brothers, the family encountered similar generosity. Through a matching service they found shelter with a German host family. “The willingness to help was remarkable,” Olha Vashchenko says. “People offered support without even knowing us. I arrived with nothing, and I received clothes, shoes – everything needed for daily life. The same was true for my brothers.” Looking back, she emphasizes how much support they received – both from the state and from civil society.
Partially reunited after months of separation, the family still hoped in the summer of 2022 that the fighting would end quickly. “We could never have imagined that the war would still be going on today,” she says. Perhaps it was precisely this belief – that things might soon return to normal – that helped her successfully complete her bachelor’s exams in Germany. “Kyiv University had offered several online options to do so.” When the time came to consider a master’s program, she chose one of the newly established online modules offered by her alma mater. Pursuing a master’s degree in her war-stricken home country also seemed the more practical option, as studying in Germany would have required advanced German language skills. Yet even though most of the coursework takes place online, students must still travel to the university in person to sit their exams. That is also why she returned to Ukraine in December 2023. “I was staying near a research facility and had put in earplugs before going to sleep so I could get enough rest before the exams,” she recalls. But when a rocket struck just 200 meters away in the middle of the night, even the earplugs offered no protection. “The noise was deafening. I sat bolt upright in bed.” The next day she saw the damage: the blast wave had shattered every window of the nearby research institute.
Five months later, in May 2024, the then 22-year-old returns to Ukraine once again – this time to defend her master’s thesis. She passes successfully. Because of the war, she had completed the practical part of her research in the laboratory of Professor Schwalbe. This circumstance also shaped the way she wrote her thesis: it was first drafted in English and only later translated into Ukrainian.
Today, at age 24, she is pursuing a PhD on NMR spectroscopy, in Professor Schwalbe’s laboratory. “My PhD project focuses on investigating a structured bacterial RNA element responsible for metabolism in those organisms. In the long run, this research may lead to novel approaches for antibiotic development.” It is her second year; if everything goes according to plan, she hopes to finish in about three more. What comes after that remains uncertain. For the right job, she says, she would be willing to move again – even though her extended family has now built a new center of life in Frankfurt. Perhaps she will marry one day and start a family. “The patriot in me would like to return home and help rebuild the country,” she says. “But that feels unrealistic.” She struggles to see strong prospects for the future in Ukraine. Sometimes she wonders who will still be needed there after the war ends – “apart from construction companies and psychologists.”
Even before the war began, the research infrastructure she needed for her work was significantly more advanced in Germany than in Ukraine. “When it comes to spectrometers, we were already years apart – not to mention the technological leaps in between,” she explains. The war has only widened that gap. “Last winter was especially harsh, with extremely low temperatures and no heating,” she recalls. “In one of the laboratories where I used to work, the pipes burst. The facility can no longer be used.” As for the long-term consequences for Ukraine’s education system, she admits she prefers not to think about them at all.
By now, she feels more connected to Germany than to Ukraine. “My family is here, and my research is here,” she says, adding that “of all the cities I’ve lived in, I probably know Frankfurt the best.” In Kyiv, she spent most of her time in the student dormitory and did not explore the city very much. Frankfurt, by contrast, feels easy to navigate. “You can walk almost everywhere, and the public transport system is very convenient – there are subway stations everywhere.” Still, some things took getting used to. In Kyiv, metro stations are large underground structures; in Frankfurt, many consist of little more than a small shelter and a couple of benches. “It works,” she says, “even if it isn’t always on time.”
By now she has also learned that the famous punctuality often attributed to Germans is not always quite as strict as the stereotype suggests. Another common cliché – that Germans are distant or reserved – she cannot confirm either. “I have always met friendly people,” she says. “Of course, not everyone is immediately open to strangers, and that is understandable. But ever since the day I arrived in Schwalbach, I know that in Germany, strangers can be welcomed with open arms and offered a place to stay.”
If the war reaches its fifth anniversary next February, Olha Vashchenko will most likely be found at a demonstration. “This year I was in Paris, where the Eiffel Tower was illuminated in the colors of the Ukrainian flag. Many political representatives spoke, and people waved Ukrainian flags.” Her parents also regularly take part in demonstrations. “For us, it is important to remind people that the war is still ongoing.” In the family’s own reflections, the anniversary of the invasion plays no conscious role – contrary to the time before the war.
“I’m no longer very optimistic,” Olha Vashchenko admits, “partly because the war has already lasted so long. At the beginning I was more hopeful, but now it often feels as if nothing is really changing.” If Russia were to gain full control of the Donbas, she explains, the road to her hometown would effectively lie open. And even if the war were to end – and under favorable circumstances for Ukraine – the country would still face enormous demographic challenges. “Many young people have left, built new lives elsewhere, and probably won’t return,” she says. It’s something she tries not to think too much about. “Maybe it’s a form of escapism,” she reflects. “But whenever I dwell on it, it only makes me sad or angry. And in the end, there’s nothing I can change about it.”
Spring 2026: Ukraine After Four Years of War
Ukraine’s best-known melody, Shchedryk – famous worldwide as Carol of the Bells – celebrates the arrival of spring. In the song, a swallow returns to herald the end of winter and the beginning of new life. Today, that image of renewal stands in stark contrast to a war that has turned the season into one of destruction and loss.
By the time the spring festival of Easter Sunday had arrived the war had lasted 1,501 days. Estimates suggest total casualties on both sides may now exceed two million. Despite the enormous human cost, the front lines have seen little significant movement; roughly 20 percent of Ukrainian territory remains under Russian control.
Four years of war have taken a devastating toll on civilians. Last winter was particularly harsh. After near-daily attacks on Ukraine’s energy infrastructure, millions had electricity for only a few hours a day throughout much of January 2026. Heating and water repeatedly failed, leaving an estimated 10.8 million people in need of humanitarian assistance.
The war has also profoundly affected Ukraine’s scientific landscape. UNESCO reports that more than 40 universities and research institutions had been forced to relocate by the end of 2024. By mid-2025, nearly one third of the country’s research institutions had suffered physical war damage. Many researchers – UNESCO estimates 10-20 percent – left their homes and workplaces for safer regions of Ukraine or for exile abroad. More than half (54.3 percent) said they could no longer continue their research as they had before the war.
Other long-term structural changes are also emerging. In occupied territories, scientific cooperation has increasingly shifted toward Russia. Institutions in Ukrainian government-controlled areas operate under extremely difficult conditions and with sharply reduced budgets. Many researchers report a growing disconnect from the international scientific community. Fieldwork and regional environmental studies are often no longer possible – one of the less visible casualties of war.
Goethe Ukraine Fund
With the aim of supporting displaced students and scholars, Goethe University established the Goethe Ukraine Fund just two months after the war broke out. Thanks to generous contributions from existing and new supporters, staff, and alumni, more than €400,000 was raised within a short time span. In addition to Deutschlandstipendium scholarships and newly developed “Perspektivenstipendien” for students from war-affected regions, the funds were also used for language courses and virtual high school graduation exams. Starting in September 2023, a series of summer and winter schools was held for medical students from Ukraine, enabling them to complement their virtual studies in Ukraine with the required practical training.
Around 200 donors contributed to the fund, approximately 20% of them university staff. Alongside the Jones Day Foundation, contributors included Merck, a Frankfurt-based Rotary Club, Helaba, and several other foundations. Andreas Eckel, Head of Private University Fundraising at Goethe University Frankfurt, recalls the early phase: “Finding an effective way for Goethe University to support people from Ukraine and others affected by the war did not happen overnight. In the first weeks, political decisions repeatedly changed the framework for action.” Given these challenges, the level of support received was particularly encouraging.
To this day, Ukrainian students continue to receive support through the Jones Day Foundation, including at universities in Munich and Düsseldorf. Andreas Eckel coordinates the overall funding together with Professor Weber-Bruls from the Frankfurt office. The Ukrainian Coordination Center, established by Viktoria von Rosen in March 2022, also remains active. In 2024, the City of Frankfurt awarded von Rosen its honorary plaque in recognition of her commitment to Ukraine.
