Ë®¹ûÅÉAV

Six months later, she's walking the halls of Auburn High School.

Svorin, 20, is one of 24 refugees from Ukraine who have come to Auburn since the country's invasion by Russia began last February.

Five of those refugees sat with Ë®¹ûÅÉAV recently to share their stories of the war in the basement of SS. Peter & Paul Ukrainian Catholic Church, the same place they're taking English lessons twice a week with Literacy Volunteers of Cayuga County. Some were able to speak directly to Ë®¹ûÅÉAV, and some were translated by the church's pastor, the Rev. Vasile Colopelnic.

However they shared their stories, the stories themselves were similar. Colopelnic told Ë®¹ûÅÉAV he selected the five refugees, all women, because they experienced the devastation of the war the most directly of anyone who's come from the country to Auburn. They abruptly left behind full lives and family for safety in a strange land — but one that has welcomed them warmly.

The women

The youngest of the five refugees, Svorin graduated from college with a specialty in tourism a month before the Russian invasion.

The closing of Ukraine's borders made her degree useless, so Svorin began working as a photographer and videographer in Vinnytsia. Both are hobbies to her, along with hiking and traveling, and she'd eventually like to work in movies. Watching ones from America gave her a positive impression of the country and its people before she lived among them, she told Ë®¹ûÅÉAV. 

"I had the idea that here people have the greatest space for development, creativity and creation of new projects," she said. "People are very open, creative, humorous, enterprising." 

A few hundred miles southeast of Vinnytsia, in the southern port city of Odesa, Tetiana Malyshko was working as an assistant regional manager for confectioner Roshen at the beginning of last year.

Like Svorin, Malyshko also enjoys travel, as well as swimming and taking classes at her gym. She saw America as a place with a stable future, one where she now hopes to earn helpful work experience. 

For mother and daughter Hanna and Elizabeth Tseitlina, it's painting and information technology that they want to work on while in America.

Art is one of many hobbies for Hanna, who managed a bookstore for Ukrainian publisher Knygoland in the eastern industrial city of Dnipro, along with embroidery, reading and do-it-yourself home decoration and repair. Elizabeth was an IT support specialist for home and beauty retailer Eva.yua, and enjoys learning about IT, watching movies and cooking worldly cuisine. 

The closest of the women to the country's capital, Kyiv, was Olena Abramova. She lived with her husband in Bila Tserkva, "White Church," a 1,000-year-old city about 10 miles south. 

A former journalist, Abramova was running a humanitarian volunteer organization in Kyiv when the war began. 

The war

For all five women, the morning of Feb. 24 will never be forgotten.

Hannah remembers Elizabeth waking her up, saying, "It's started." They could see smoke on the horizon.

Three days later, the mother and daughter heard their first air raid sirens in Dnipro. They searched the city for bomb shelters, and the basement of any building raised after World War II would do. There, as many as 100 people would huddle together for as long as five hours, as often as a few times a day. Some people brought food and blankets for the mothers and children, who made up most of the shivering masses. One person would often stand near the doorway, where they could connect to the internet, and relay updates to the rest. 

After the first bombs fell, Abramova said, no one slept anymore. That was also because of shock — the war itself was "impossible to believe." Soon, however, that shock gave way to solidarity. People came together to plan how they would respond to the Russian invasion, from territorial defense groups to those who posted signs outside their homes offering free cups of tea.

One member of one of those defense groups is Abramova's husband. He remains in Bila Tserkva, living in the bathroom of their house because it's the safest room from bombs. She still talks to him every day. But he insisted she leave the country so he could concentrate on his duty, she said, and saw her off on a train to Poland Feb. 27. There, she remembered seeing people from the city of Mariupol, since decimated by bombs, still wearing their pajamas. Some were clutching pets. The train was greeted in Kraków with clothing for those who needed it.

Life was less disturbed in centrally located Vinnytsia, where Svorin continued to work. Then, the morning of July 14, the city was . Unlike prior bombings that targeted military sites there, this one targeted civilian buildings — including the one where Svorin was working. Most of it was destroyed, she said. At least 28 people died in what has been as a war crime. 

"In that moment I understood I can't even stay in my country," Svorin said tearfully. "I was afraid of every moment, every second."

As the war ravaged Ukraine, more responses were being planned around the world.

Auburn and Cayuga County were no exceptions. About 2.3% of the population has Ukrainian ancestry, the highest percentage of any county in New York, according to U.S. Census data.

At the heart of the culture locally is SS. Peter & Paul, where Colopelnic began organizing relief efforts the day Russia invaded. Later that week he met with officials about welcoming the refugees he knew would be coming. The United Nations there are now about 8 million, a quarter of the country's population and Europe's biggest refugee crisis since World War II.

With support from parishioners and the greater public, Colopelnic began to buy plane tickets and work authorizations, and line up sponsors willing to open their homes.

"I was confident I can do this because I know the generosity of our people from Auburn," he told Ë®¹ûÅÉAV. "Not particularly from our church, but everyone." 

The refugees comprise what the reverend called the fifth wave of Ukrainian immigration to Auburn. The first took place in the 1880s, settling mostly in the northwest part of the city, where the Washington Street church opened in 1911. More waves took place in the 1920s as the Soviet Union formed, the 1940s as World War II consumed the continent, and the 1990s as the Cold War faded.

Among the first of that fifth wave to arrive in Auburn was Elizabeth, in September. She was followed by her mother in November. Abramova and Svorin arrived in late October, and Malyshko in November.

The welcome

Abramova is living in the home of Sam and Sheila Giangreco, one of three Auburn families hosting refugees through SS. Peter & Paul. Another seven are staying in the church's former rectory.

The Giangrecos have made adjusting to life in America easier, Abramova said at times in English and at times translated by Colopelnic. Watching American television and speaking with her hosts have helped her learn the language. They enjoy cooking together, comparing notes on Ukrainian and Italian cuisine. This fall, the Giangrecos took Abramova to a Buffalo Bills game.

"She froze to death, but she was so impressed," Sam Giangreco told Ë®¹ûÅÉAV.

Like her fellow refugees, Abramova finds Auburn peaceful and its people generous. But the five women are still getting used to some parts of American life. The sight of city lights at night was novel again to Hannah, she said, after months of blackouts made necessary by Ukraine losing almost half of its electrical grid since the war began. Seeing airplanes fly to and from Syracuse was also startling, she said, after months of air raids. The same goes for fire, police and ambulance sirens. Her cat, which she brought with her, still tries to flee when it hears them.

"One of the children told me when they they heard their first siren that they asked their parents, 'Do we have to go to the bomb shelter?'" Colopelnic said.

Likewise, the women have learned they can call 911 if they ever feel endangered, the reverend said, and they'll be located using their phone's GPS. They walk a little more in Auburn than they did in Ukraine because there's less public transportation. They were surprised to receive letters in the mail as well, as digital communication has all but replaced their country's postal service.

Other surprises have been more pleasant. Elizabeth was able to reunite with a former classmate she hadn't seen in 20 years, meeting them in New York City. At Auburn High, Svorin and her younger sister, Mariia, couldn't believe that students can wear pajamas. She was even more taken aback when they reached out to her, on her first day, to make sure she found her way around.

From the incidental to the intentional, the women are grateful for every kindness. Giangreco said with a laugh that he hears Abramova say "thank you very much" thousands of times a day.

"I appreciate every one of these people," he said. "You have a different outlook on loving your country after you listen to these stories. We take it for granted here."

Svorin, who is transferring to Cayuga Community College, added that knowing English has helped her acclimate. She realized that after living in Germany for two months on her way to America.

For some of the other women, Colopelnic said, the language is the biggest obstacle to finding work. They've met with employers like Loretto, Auburn Community Hospital and the Auburn school district. Malyshko is one of the ones still challenged by English. But as the war continues and her family serves in Ukraine's military, including a cousin, she keeps that challenge in perspective.

"The bigger challenge is the people suffering there," said Colopelnic, translating for her. "She knows she will learn the language and everything will be fine."

No matter how much the women acclimate to life in America, they all hope to return to Ukraine after the war ends. 

Abramova dreams about seeing her husband again every day, she said. Malyshko worries her home might not still be there. But as the country rebuilds there could be opportunity, Colopelnic said.

"It's a big question mark," he said. "They love Ukraine, but they know it'll be a difficult time." 

Until then, the reverend asks Auburn and Cayuga County for their support. He's been uplifted by the donations his church has received so far, and by the people who've told him they recently discovered they have Ukrainian heritage because they were inspired by the war to research it. Whether they have that heritage or not, everyone is welcome to attend Mass at SS. Peter & Paul, or the church's annual summer festival this June. That support, he said, can only strengthen what began in the 1880s and continues with the five women sitting next to him.

"If our predecessors didn't build this church here 121 years ago, who would help them now? No one," he said. "Join us, meet these people. It would help them to honor the legacy of their predecessors."