海角大神

Olga Rostovska sits at a tiny kitchen table and shows a picture on her phone of where she wants to be: a partially burned apartment building 400 miles away.

鈥淚 cried when I knew Russians damaged my house,鈥� she says, sitting next to her sister, Lyudmila Skidan, whose family she and her children live with in Kyiv. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why I want to move back home so much. I hope that I can fix all this and live there.鈥�

Ms. Rostovska is from Kramatorsk, a city in eastern Ukraine now less than 50 miles from the front lines. As in cities across the Donbas region, Kramatorsk鈥檚 citizens have a group chat 鈥� where they post news of shelling and prayers for normalcy 鈥� on the messaging app Telegram.

Each day, she hopes to read that her city is safe again. She and her two young children evacuated in April, first to Ukraine鈥檚 west, then to Lithuania for two months, and then back to Kyiv. Now they want to go home 鈥� even if Russian shelling means there isn鈥檛 much home left.

Russia鈥檚 invasion this February began an exodus of refugees to western Ukraine and the surrounding countries. Some 7 million Ukrainians are now displaced within their own country, and another 5 million crossed the border and became refugees around Europe.

But many of them want to come home. Between Feb. 28 and June 21, according to the United Nations, there have been nearly 3.6 million 鈥渃ross-border鈥� movements back into Ukraine. The number of refugees included in that total isn鈥檛 recorded, but cities like Kyiv are gradually recovering their prewar populations. It seems as though many Ukrainian refugees are now returning, at least temporarily.

Especially during war, refugees move according to a number of different push-and-pull factors. On one end, fleeing to a new nation 鈥� with a different language and culture 鈥� can be taxing. On the other, despite brutal missile strikes, most areas of Ukraine are now safer than they were at the beginning of the war, when Russia was attacking on many fronts. Some Ukrainians may be judging that life abroad is too difficult and life back home is safe enough. For many, like Ms. Rostovska, home is worth the risk. 鈥淲e never wanted to leave,鈥� she says.

Relocation after relocation

To Ms. Rostovska, home is Kramatorsk鈥檚 parks and town squares. It鈥檚 her kids鈥� schools and her job at a maternity ward. It鈥檚 the short walk to see her sister, niece, and nephew.

And since 2014, home has also been war.

Kramatorsk was one of the cities threatened when Russia-sponsored separatists began their uprising in the Donbas eight years ago. 鈥淲e got used to this kind of war situation,鈥� says Ms. Rostovska. 鈥淪o we took a long time to decide to leave.鈥�

The number of civilian buildings being hit by artillery eventually convinced her to go. On April 7, Ms. Rostovska went to the Kramatorsk train station with luggage and her two young children. It was packed, and she considered leaving to try again the next day. But a woman on the platform noticed her indecision and convinced her to keep at it, and helped carry her family鈥檚 bags until they got a train out of the city. The next day, the station鈥檚 platform was bombed.

Ms. Rostovska and her children settled temporarily in Kyiv and on Facebook found someone helping evacuate refugees to Lithuania. She contacted her sister, Ms. Skidan, who had already fled to western Ukraine and couldn鈥檛 find work. They met in Lviv with both their families and left the country by bus.

In Lithuania, the two sisters and their four children lived in a rural convent sheltering dozens of Ukrainian refugees. After going to a job fair, they found work at a bottle factory more than an hour and a half away. Locally, their kids continued school and kindergarten.

But the convent only allowed visitors to stay for two months, and rent in Lithuania was expensive. The sisters struggled with the commute and the cold and the area鈥檚 many mosquitoes. Ms. Skidan missed her husband of 17 years, who found a job in Kyiv after they evacuated in April. The two had never been apart so long.

鈥淚t wasn鈥檛 a home,鈥� says Ms. Skidan. 鈥淚t鈥檚 really hard when you don鈥檛 understand the language and another culture.鈥�

鈥淏etter than nothing鈥�

The two sisters鈥� situation is in some ways typical, says Aliona Karavai, co-founder of Insha Osvita, a nongovernmental organization in Ukraine that serves refugees. Transitioning to a new country is hard in the best of times, and a war is nearly the worst. Many people struggle with work, child care, language skills, and community. Those factors can make it hard to stay.

鈥淵ou鈥檙e physically safe, but you are socially unsafe,鈥澛� says Ms. Karavai, whose organization is starting a program to support returning Ukrainians.

There aren鈥檛 clear statistics on the number of refugees now returning. But anecdotal evidence suggests it鈥檚 high. On the Polish border, there鈥檚 a miles-long queue of cars waiting to reenter Ukraine.

In mid-June, Ms. Rostovksa and Ms. Skidan again filled their bags 鈥� some of them weighing more than 75 pounds 鈥� and crossed that border on a bus. They settled in Kyiv, where Ms. Skidan鈥檚 husband had already signed on a short-term apartment near an outdoor auto shop. For the seven of them, there are only two bedrooms.

鈥淏etter than nothing,鈥� says Ms. Rostovska.

Hoping to stay in Kyiv only a month, both sisters wait and watch for good news from home. On the group chat, Kramatorsk鈥檚 teachers recently said they wished students could come back in the fall.

Meanwhile, Russia鈥檚 military recently took Lysychansk, less than 100 miles away. Kramatorsk may be one of the next cities targeted. Ms. Skidan鈥檚 husband tells her, 鈥淭here will be no life in Kramatorsk in the closest years.鈥�

The families are now officially registered as internally displaced.聽None of them are willing to put their children 鈥� who step into their apartment kitchen to hug their mothers or grab a slice of apple pie 鈥� at risk. Kyiv is expensive, they say, but one month may have to become two, or longer.

Ms. Skidan sits next to her sister and 14-year-old son. Magnets hang on their refrigerator, and cinnamon cookies lie untouched on the kitchen table. Her pink shirt says 鈥減ositive thinking鈥� in cursive.

鈥淗ome is your walls,鈥� says Ms. Skidan. In Lithuania, while she and her family adjusted to sleeping in beds after months spending nights in the hallways of their home in Kramatorsk, she imagined coming back to her husband. This is the first year of her life, of her children鈥檚 lives, that they didn鈥檛 celebrate Easter with family together. It鈥檚 the first year they didn鈥檛 visit the cemetery where their grandmother is buried.

Now she, her husband, and her family are all together again. But they鈥檙e not home, she says, starting to cry. Her son reaches back and puts his hand on hers. Often Ms. Skidan dreams they have returned to their apartment and things are safe again. But for now, she still waits.

Oleksandr Naselenko in Lviv and Olya Bystritskaya in Kyiv supported reporting for this story.