Bahlik Family
Hanna Bahlik is no stranger to upheaval. As a single mother of three teenagers in the city of Popasna, Eastern Ukraine, she had already faced the upheaval of displacement. With Russia’s second invasion on February 24, 2022, the old fears and challenges of being an internally displaced person (IDP) resurfaced. She had lived through such uncertainty once before, during the first invasion in 2014, when enemy forces pushed perilously close to her hometown, forcing her and her children to seek refuge with her father, sixty miles from the life they knew.
The morning of the invasion found Hanna’s children scattered across Ukraine, igniting a desperate mission to gather them together. Fifteen-year-old Kristina was battling an illness that had stumped doctors during a six-month stay in Kharkiv. With no diagnosis in sight, Hanna took her to Lviv, seeking answers. They arrived to the chilling blare of air raid sirens at four in the morning on February 24, 2024—the day the invasion unleashed its fury. Hanna’s thoughts immediately turned to her other children: Veronika, a 16-year-old technical college student in Bakhmut, and 11-year-old Nikita, safe with Hanna’s mother.
Despite the chaos, a hospital in Lviv took Kristina in, the sirens a grim backdrop to their visit. But the pull of a mother’s concern for all her children was strong. With Veronika and Nikita in the east, where the Russian army loomed, Hanna made the wrenching decision to leave Lviv without a diagnosis for Kristina. The next day, they set out for Popasna, a journey back to uncertainty, not knowing that the answers they sought for Kristina would remain elusive.
The return trip to Popasna was a nightmarish journey. They boarded a train that slinked towards Kyiv under the cloak of darkness, while the city itself was succumbing to an assault. With lights off to avoid drawing any attention, the train inched forward amid the tension, passengers pressed to the floor, hoping for invisibility. The engine’s hesitant dance—advancing, then withdrawing—mirrored the uncertainty of the night. Suddenly, amidst the chaos, the train halted in an open field on the outskirts of Kyiv, and a burst of urgent instructions followed: “Get out and run.” Hanna, Kristina, and fellow travelers scrambled for their belongings, but before panic could fully take hold, orders were reversed. They were herded back onto the train, destination rerouted to Kharkiv—the uncertainty of safety trailing them like a shadow.
Arrival in Kharkiv brought no respite; they were met with a city in turmoil, under siege. From the train windows, Hanna and Kristina witnessed the sky ablaze with the terror of bombs descending upon Ukraine’s second largest city. Kristina, frail from her illness, could do little but stay aboard while Hanna, fueled by desperation, scoured the bombarded streets for a ride out. Her search was fruitless, and she returned to the station, only to learn the train decided to carry on to Slavyansk.
From Slavyansk they secured another train to Bakhmut where fortune finally favored them—a car was secured for the last leg to Popasna. But time was an unyielding enemy; Veronika had already moved on from Bakhmut, seeking safety elsewhere. There was no moment for reunions—Hanna’s focus, secure in the knowledge her oldest daughter was safe for now, narrowed to protecting Kristina and checking on Nikita, her youngest. The urgency of a mother’s love guided them through the perilous landscape back home.
Back in Popasna, the foreboding feeling that the city might soon fall under occupation gripped Hanna. Without wasting a moment, she rushed to gather food supplies, anticipating a siege. For two days, the distant clamor of conflict grew ominously louder. Then, on March 3, 2022, the Battle for Popasna erupted, forcing Hanna and her children to seek refuge in a bomb shelter beneath the city, their new grim residence for the next three weeks.
Each day, Hanna ventured out into the perilous unknown to deliver food to her parents in a neighboring village. During one of these treacherous trips, the earth shuddered as a Grad missile struck merely half a mile away. The blast left her stunned, but her resolve quickly returned, pushing her to head back to her children. It was then that the skies wept with phosphorous, marking one of the many atrocities Russia levied upon Ukraine. That moment crystallized Hanna’s determination: she needed to lead her family away from the horrors of war.
Hanna learned of a bus evacuating people from Bakhmut, a lifeline 20 miles to the west. She managed the journey with her two children in tow, and there, she persuaded Veronika to join them in their flight to safer grounds. Together, they traveled to Kramatorsk, a transit point humming with the anxious breaths of those waiting to escape. It was from here, on March 18, 2022, they boarded an evacuation train bound for Uzhhorod—seeking the solace of distance, as far west as they could go within the borders of their homeland.
Little did they know, their departure was shadowed by fate. Three weeks later, the very station they’d fled from would suffer a merciless attack, with bombs claiming the lives of 52 Ukrainians who had huddled there, clutching tickets to safety that would never come. Hanna and her children had escaped just in time, but the tragedy that unfolded at Kramatorsk station would remain a harrowing reminder of the narrow line between survival and despair.
In the midst of upheaval, Hanna and her children found solace in a newfound faith. Veronika, at fifteen, had embraced faith in Jesus first, her own spiritual awakening leading the way for her family. It was her influence that guided Hanna, and then her siblings, toward their collective faith.
When they arrived in Uzhhorod, drawn by a shared sense of community and hope, they sought refuge at the local Baptist church. There, they found not just shelter, but a temporary home—a sanctuary offering mattresses on the floor for the weary bodies of internally displaced persons. The church had become a beacon of temporary reprieve, offering two weeks of respite for families like Hanna’s as they planned their onward journey to Europe.
During this time, Kristina’s health took a turn for the worse. Hanna, ever vigilant, took her to Mukachave for further tests. Although a definitive diagnosis eluded them, they uncovered that Kristina was also battling diabetes. This new revelation compounded the uncertainty and adversity they faced, yet Hanna’s faith provided an anchor in the storm, a sense of peace amidst the turmoil that surrounded them.
Hanna’s heart belonged to Ukraine; the thought of leaving her motherland for Europe was an option she reluctantly considered. As their allowed fortnight at the Baptist shelter came to an end, she sought another haven within Uzhhorod’s own walls, finding it in School #19—a makeshift sanctuary among classrooms.
The practicalities of displacement led her to the Social Services office of Uzhhorod, to formalize their IDP status and secure whatever aid they could. It was on her way back across the main square, amidst the buzz of the city striving for normalcy, that a white tent caught her eye. Emblazoned with the word “Salvation” across its canvas, it beckoned her closer. This was where Hanna’s path crossed with Pastor Alexei Rudenko, a friend of the Transform Uzhhorod Alliance and a steadfast companion to those in need.
In this unexpected encounter, Hanna and her children found more than assistance; they found a spiritual refuge, a community of faith at Salvation Church. It became their new church home, a place where they could heal and hope, where they continue to gather and worship, anchored by their love for Ukraine and each other, even amidst the trials of their journey.
As Kristina’s condition worsened, Hanna’s search for stability became more desperate. It was during a visit to the IDP humanitarian hub in Uzhhorod, affectionately known as the Owl’s Nest, that a sliver of hope presented itself: there was talk of an available room in a nearby hostel. But upon arrival, Hanna’s hope was quickly dashed—the hostel was only accepting single college students, not families.
Overwhelmed by the relentless strain, Hanna’s own health buckled, and she collapsed from high blood pressure, an alarming testament to the stress they were under. After a night in the hospital, she was discharged, carrying the weight of her family’s future on her fragile shoulders. But then, in an unexpected turn, fortune smiled upon them. The hostel, perhaps moved by Hanna’s plight, reversed their decision, offering her family the room she had sought.
A month had passed since they’d been forced to leave Popasna, and now, at last, they had something more than a mattress on the floor—they had a room, a space to call their own, even in the midst of uncertainty. It was more than a place to sleep; it was a gesture of humanity that granted them the dignity and comfort they so desperately needed.
In the throes of her own turmoil, Hanna found a measure of peace in the act of helping others. Drawing from her experience working for the national railroad, she started volunteering at the Uzhhorod train station. There, she served food to fellow IDPs, providing comfort to those who, like her, were caught in the tempest of displacement.
As this new chapter unfolded, Kristina’s health sadly took a further turn for the worse. Hanna was relentless, traveling back to Lviv for more medical consultations, yet the veil of mystery surrounding Kristina’s illness remained. It was then that a Ukrainian NGO took notice of their plight. Touched by their story and Kristina’s urgent need for advanced care, they gathered resources and extended a lifeline, raising the funds necessary to send Hanna and her family to the Netherlands, where hope lingered on the horizon for a diagnosis that could change Kristina’s life.
Before embarking on their journey to the Netherlands, Hanna and Kristina were cradled by the fervent prayers of their church family in Uzhhorod, all hands joined and hearts aligned in hope and faith for Kristina’s healing.
Upon their arrival in the Netherlands, the doctors diagnosed Kristina with Stage 4 Hodgkin’s lymphoma—a formidable adversary that had been cloaked in mystery for too long. But the power of their collective prayers was about to be felt. After eight grueling months of chemotherapy, the incredible news came through: Kristina’s cancer was in remission. Miraculously, not only was her cancer gone, but also her diabetes—a double testament to the healing they believed was amplified by the unyielding prayers from their spiritual kin across the continent.
Despite the warmth of hospitality they had received, Hanna’s heart yearned for the familiarity of her homeland. With Kristina’s health restored, they prepared to return to Ukraine. Hanna, driven by a mix of anxiety and hope, sent Veronika ahead to lay the groundwork for their return. True to form, Veronika found an apartment to rent, a temporary anchor from which they could plan their next steps toward rebuilding their lives on Ukrainian soil.
Kristina, having reclaimed her health and vitality, was keen to embrace life’s next chapter. She enrolled in a local seamstress technical school, where she began mastering the craft of sewing. The school offered more than education—it provided a dormitory that Kristina and her family could call home during her studies. There, among fabrics and threads, a sense of normalcy began to weave its way into their lives.
Their bond with Salvation Church remained a steadfast part of their journey. As the conclusion of Kristina’s schooling approached, bringing with it the need for a new home, they sought the prayers of their church friends once again.
It was during this time of seeking that Pastor Robert Hornyak and his wife Lena, leading the daughter church in the Rroma Yama Camp—part of the Transform Uzhhorod Alliance—heard of their need. The alliance, familiar with the plight of IDPs, had recently completed the first two homes in the Velyki Lazy IDP Community, with one still awaiting its tenants.
Moved by Hanna’s story and the family’s enduring faith, the Alliance extended an offer to Hanna and her children for the vacant home. After two long years adrift, they were finally able to settle into a real home, a place where their disrupted lives could begin to reorder, surrounded by the warmth of a community that had held them in thought and prayer.
As Hanna recounted the tapestry of events that her family had weathered, there was an unexpected lightness to her—her face bright with a smile, laughter punctuating even the recounting of moments that once teetered on the edge of peril. Witnessing the shadow of trauma that still clung to many IDPs even after two long years, I found myself puzzled by her buoyancy and asked her about the source of her joy.
Her response was heartfelt and simple. It was the solidarity and support of a loving church family, she said, that buoyed her spirits. Immersed in the act of aiding other IDP families, she sometimes forgot that she, too, was part of that same displaced throng. But above all, it was her faith in Jesus that anchored her. It was this unwavering faith that colored her world with hope and allowed her to find laughter amidst the memories of fear, and strength in the face of ongoing challenges. Hanna’s story, etched with struggle, was also one illuminated by an indomitable spirit and the transformative power of faith and community.