Four years into Russia’s full-scale invasion, millions of people in Ukraine are still living without safe homes, stable income, or the basics of daily life. Humanitarian aid reaches many of them. It does not reach everyone.
This project is about the people the system does not count. Thirteen LGBTIQ people across Ukraine, telling their own stories. They are not asking for special treatment. They are asking to be seen.
Why some people go unseen
Humanitarian aid was built on a simple promise. Help goes to those who need it most. In practice, it does not always work that way.
Aid is often distributed per family. If your relationship is not legally recognized, you and your partner are counted as two strangers.
Compensation requires legal ownership of damaged property. If the deed is in a parent’s name or a late partner’s name, your loss does not show up on paper. Distribution points can become spaces of harassment for trans and visibly queer people. Some people never apply at all, because the cost of being identified feels heavier than the cost of going without.
These barriers are not accidents. They are built into eligibility forms, vulnerability frameworks, and family definitions that were not designed with LGBTIQ people in mind. In 2025 and 2026, the situation grew worse. The United States government cut funding for programs that served LGBTIQ communities worldwide, opening what aid workers now call humanitarian deserts. In Ukraine, that gap shows up in the stories on this page.
The principle is not complicated. Aid should be based on need. Safety, food, housing, medicine. These are rights, not rewards for fitting a category.
Thirteen stories
Each story below is told in the words of the person who lived it. Names, locations, and photo references are listed at the top of each block. The photos are processed so that each portrait has the face partially faded or obscured. That is the visual metaphor of the project. People who have been made invisible by a system that should be helping them.
“I just want our basic needs to matter.”
My name is Kaya. I am a transgender woman living with my mother in a small house. In winter, we heat the house with firewood. After the constant power cuts and rising prices, things became very difficult.
I work as a ticket inspector on a tram, but my salary barely covers utilities. It is hard to find another job. After interviews, they often just stop calling back.
My mother has chronic health issues and needs regular medication. Sometimes we have to choose between buying medicine and buying firewood. When I applied for assistance, I was told we do not fall under priority categories.
I am not asking for special treatment. I just want our basic needs to matter. But it feels like our situation simply does not count.
“In official records, we are strangers.”
Alina and I have been together for many years. When we evacuated, the displacement center told us we could not stay in the same room because we are “not a family.”
Humanitarian aid was distributed per family, but we were counted as two separate individuals. Renting housing became more expensive for us because of that.
We survived the war together. We support each other every day. But in official records, we are strangers. And that makes us feel like we simply do not exist.
“It felt like our life together was erased.”
I lived with my partner for more than 12 years. After shelling, she was seriously injured.
At the hospital, I was not recognized as next of kin. I could not receive full medical information. I could not access certain benefits. The law only recognizes family members.
We shared a life together. But when it mattered most, I was treated as no one. It felt like our life together was erased.
“But that was my home.”
Our home was damaged during shelling. The documents were in my late father’s name and were destroyed when we evacuated.
Now my mother and I rent a small apartment in another region. We cannot apply for compensation because I am not the official owner. On paper, I have no right to claim anything.
But that was my home. When officials say they cannot help without proper documents, it feels like our loss disappears. As if it never happened. As if we are invisible in the system.
“We constantly have to prove that we are a family.”
We are raising our six-year-old daughter together. After the evacuation, part of the assistance was denied because only one of us is listed on the birth certificate.
Landlords often refuse to rent to us once they learn we are a couple. We have had to move several times.
We just want stability for our child. But instead, we constantly have to prove that we are a family. It is exhausting to feel unseen in every official form.
“I lost my mother and my home at the same time.”
My name is Lala. I am genderqueer. Before the war, my mother and I lived quietly together in our apartment. I sang in an LGBT choir in Kharkiv and was involved in the Ukrainian LGBTIQ movement. Life was not perfect, but it felt stable.
When the full-scale invasion began in spring 2022, Kharkiv was heavily shelled. Our apartment was partially damaged. My mother was already ill, and we were simply trying to get through each day.
In 2023, my mother passed away. After that, I tried to resolve the housing issue, but I was told the apartment remains municipal property. Because of that, I cannot apply for compensation for the damage or for repairs. I was told I would have to wait until the war ends, and maybe then something could be restored.
Now I am alone, living in a damaged home that I cannot legally repair or claim. It feels like I lost my mother and my home at the same time. And in this situation, I do not seem to exist in any system that is supposed to help.
“Silence makes you disappear.”
I am 58 years old. I have never been open about my sexual orientation. After my house was destroyed, I moved to a small village to stay with acquaintances.
I do not apply for assistance because I am afraid of stigma. In a small place, everyone talks. Sometimes it feels easier to stay silent, even when you need help.
But silence makes you disappear.
“On paper, I am not officially a victim. But I no longer have a home.”
My home in the Donetsk region was destroyed. The property is registered under my parents’ names. They remain in occupied territory.
I cannot apply for compensation because I am not the legal owner. I cannot return home because it is unsafe for me there.
On paper, I am not officially a victim. But I no longer have a home. And sometimes it feels like my loss is invisible.
“It feels like our family is simply not seen.”
After the shelling, our rented apartment was damaged. The landlord asked us to leave. We were not eligible for compensation because we were tenants.
Humanitarian aid was calculated separately for each of us. We live together. We share expenses and responsibilities. But for most programs, we are treated as two unrelated people.
It feels like our family is simply not seen.
“We just want to be counted together.”
After heavy shelling, our rented house was left without heating. We moved to the countryside and rented an old house with a wood stove. We buy firewood ourselves.
Assistance is calculated separately for each of us because we are not recognized as a family. We are not asking for more than others.
We just want to be counted together.
Instead, it feels like our relationship does not exist in the eyes of the system.
“Our reality does not fit the system, and because of that, we remain unseen.”
We evacuated with our daughter, who has cerebral palsy. Finding housing was extremely difficult. When landlords found out we are partners, many refused to rent to us. Eventually, we found a place, but it is expensive.
One of us lost her job. The other works part-time while caring for our child. Assistance is based on formal criteria. Our real medical and caregiving expenses are not taken into account.
It often feels like our reality does not fit the system, and because of that, we remain unseen.
“I fit every category, and still no one truly sees my situation.”
My name is Toma. I am a transgender woman from the Kherson region. When the full-scale war began, my hometown was occupied, and I was forced to move to Kyiv. With great difficulty, I managed to find a job. I work as a pharmacist.
I registered as an internally displaced person. All my documents are in order. I officially have a disability status. It would seem that I fit into the category of vulnerability.
But I cannot restore the documents related to my housing in the occupied territory. Because of my medical condition, I need expensive medication on a regular basis. The cost is high, and there are no reimbursement programs that cover everything I need. I work mainly to pay for rent and to cover my basic needs.
Recently, due to the progression of my illness, I have started losing my voice. My job depends on communicating with customers all day. If I lose my voice, I may lose my work.
On paper, I meet all the criteria for support. But in reality, I am surviving alone, balancing rent, medication, and my health. Sometimes it feels like I fit every category, and still no one truly sees my situation.
“Today, they are no longer alone.”
Hilda is a transgender girl from Sloviansk in the Donetsk region. She grew up with religious relatives who could not accept her identity, and faced gender-based violence at home. The only person who supported her was her mother, who lived abroad and could not be there during the hardest moments.
As the city grew more dangerous, the constant surveillance at home left Hilda with no real space to feel safe. When she learned of a shelter that could take her in, she hesitated. She had never left her hometown before. After her first conversation with the shelter administrator, she deleted the messages. Her phone was being watched, and she understood that if her plans became known, the chance to leave might disappear.
The first days at the shelter were difficult. Unfamiliar faces and a new rhythm of life brought anxiety. It took time before Hilda could trust the space around her. Slowly, that began to change. She felt for the first time in a long while that she could simply be herself without fear of judgment.
While living at the shelter, Hilda legally changed her documents. The process required time and inner strength, and it gave her a sense of wholeness she had not known before. Regular therapy helped her stabilize and work through her trauma. In her free time, she returned to anime and drawing.
At the shelter, she met Alec, a transgender boy. Trust between them grew slowly through quiet conversations and shared experience. Today, they are a couple, building a life together. Through the shelter, they received food, hygiene supplies, and seasonal clothing alongside the safety they needed most.
This is what aid looks like when it is built to see everyone. Hilda and Alec look toward the future together, with hope and with the knowledge that they are no longer alone.
Aid that sees everyone
Outright works alongside LGBTIQ communities in Ukraine and around the world. Where aid systems leave people out, our partners on the ground build the safety nets that catch them. Shelters. Emergency cash assistance. Medication. Legal support. Documents. Therapy. The basics.
Your support helps make sure no one in this gap has to face it alone.
Photography and editorial production by Denys Kratt, with additional work from Vitaliy Zakharchuk. Project led by the Outright Ukraine team. Published by Outright International to mark the fourth anniversary of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine.
Thank you to every person who shared a story with us. You are the reason this page exists.