I remember the day of the full-scale invasion vividly. At the time, I was working as the chief nurse in a hospital in Avdiivka, Donetsk region. It was February 24th, 2022, and that morning, my assistant was scheduled to receive a COVID-19 vaccination—as vaccination efforts were still actively ongoing.
At 6 a.m., while I was still in bed, she called me and said:
"Nataliia, what should we do? Should we still go for the vaccine? The war has begun."
I was in disbelief. "Tetiana, what war? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, we have to go—we need to vaccinate people," I replied. She urged me to switch on the television. "You'll see what's happening," she said.
It was only when I arrived at work at 9 a.m.—and the hospital was bombed—that I fully grasped the reality. A full-scale war had begun.
That day was supposed to be just another ordinary shift, another routine clinic.

Fear, Shortages, and Survival
Everyone was terrified—medical staff and patients alike. Small groups of us huddled together in the offices, anxiously discussing what might happen next. We had already lived through the war in 2014, and we kept asking ourselves: how will this end?
People were too afraid to go outside. Only two shops remained open—for a city of 30,000 people. Can you imagine? But fear kept people indoors.
At the hospital, we saw a surge in patients with hypertension, and many came simply to request medications, as nearly all pharmacies had shut down. Within days, those who could evacuate had left. Only the elderly and the most vulnerable remained, desperately seeking essential medicines—especially insulin.
Often, as we treated patients, shelling would begin, forcing us to flee to the basement. There was no electricity, no water, nothing—we worked by candlelight.

Close Calls and a Life-Changing Decision
One evening, I came home and started washing the windows on my balcony. Suddenly, shelling began. I have no idea how I managed to run to the corridor in time—but because I did, I escaped unscathed. A moment later, every single window shattered. The glass I had just cleaned was gone.
It was in Avdiivka that I first saw Médecins Sans Frontières. I watched them work in frontline areas, bringing medical care to people in desperate need, despite the constant danger. I was moved beyond words. These doctors don’t forget about people, even here, I thought. I knew then—I wanted to be part of this.
When the city lost all communications, and our hospital was evacuated, I realised it was time to leave. There would be no more medical help for those who stayed behind. I had elderly parents who relied on medication—I couldn’t risk staying any longer.
I evacuated to Sloviansk with my parents. Our hospital had shut down, and for a while, I stayed at home. But I kept searching for a way to help people, to make myself useful. I had lived through what so many others were now experiencing—I understood their pain. That’s how I found my way to Médecins Sans Frontières.

MSF Family
Now, with MSF, I travel with a family doctor or a gynaecologist, running mobile clinics across Donetsk and Dnipropetrovsk regions. Our main patients are elderly people who have stayed behind in frontline towns.
In Pavlohrad, we treat patients evacuated from frontline cities. I’ll never forget one day in particular—an evacuation from Kostiantynivka.
We received seven wounded patients with shrapnel injuries. Their wounds were a day or two old—they had delayed leaving, even though they were injured. Why? Because, as people always say: “My home is my fortress.”
Listening to their stories was heartbreaking. I understood them completely—I also want to go home. But I know I never will. There is no home anymore.

Editor’s Note:
Natalia’s hometown has been under Russian military occupation since February 2024. Satellite images and international reports confirm that Avdiivka has been completely destroyed—not a single house remains intact. Before the full-scale war, the city was home to 30,000 people.