On warm days in Kramaturk, located near Ukraine’s eastern front, the Svitanok organization opens its doors to provide advice and tea to those socially marginalized in the city.
Individuals living with HIV, recovering from addiction, or involved in sex work are invited to seek medical guidance and a space free from stigma, especially as the Russian army approaches Kramatorsk.
The support offered at Svitanok is vital during this period, as marginalized communities often feel abandoned amid rising anxiety and discrimination.
“They accept me here. I just came for some tea, and they treat me well,” says Oleg Macalia, who is HIV-positive.
Many who visit Svitanok often ignore the air raid sirens that occasionally sound, even though they are only about 12 miles from the front lines.
The 41-year-old Macalia jokes about not looking his age but becomes emotional when reminiscing about his hometown of Donetsk, which has suffered under Russian control.
“I know I can’t go back to Donetsk. It’s just not possible… I feel alone,” he murmurs, tears in his eyes.
Parts of the Donetsk region were seized by Moscow-backed separatists in 2014, setting the stage for the full-scale invasion in 2022, which has displaced around 11 million people according to the UNHCR.
The conflict has created confusion for some of the 250,000 Ukrainians thought to be living with HIV.
“It didn’t break.”
The advance of Russian forces also poses a threat to drug treatment programs. Moscow and its allies prohibit opioid replacement therapies, which help replace dangerous opioids with safer options like methadone.
This type of treatment, endorsed by the United Nations and the World Health Organization, reduces HIV transmission by minimizing the sharing of needles.
Natalia Zelenina, a vibrant social worker who spent five years in Russian detention, embodies resilience. In 2017, she was arrested while carrying legally prescribed medications for her treatment.
“I found out how strong I was,” said the 52-year-old.
Despite efforts to expel her, she fought hard to get treatment for her HIV.
“I endured everything. I didn’t break,” she asserted.
After being released in a prison exchange and returning to Subitanok, Zelenina felt a sense of familiarity was key to her recovery.
Yet, even in the relative safety of Svitanok, the sounds of explosions can be heard in the background.
One staff member shared how she turned to medication to cope with anxiety, only to receive support from colleagues to maintain sobriety.
Iryna Mamalakieva visited with her 4-year-old son, Maksym. This 31-year-old, previously a miner and now unemployed, has relied on Svitanok for medical and legal assistance since being diagnosed with HIV in 2019.
“Some people give up; I’ve known those who, despite having children, resorted to drinking or worse,” she reflected.
“The Melancholy of My Soul”
The stigma surrounding HIV and addiction has worsened during the war, according to counselor Svitlana Andreieva.
“The outside world constantly tells us we’re unworthy, unaccepted,” she explained.
Andreieva recounts her own experiences of being tossed out of a hospital and facing police violence.
After learning law, she now shares her knowledge with those who face similar struggles.
“They often ask, ‘What should I do? Which law can I invoke?'” she noted.
Her patience is frequently tested. Following a disagreement with a client, she found a bouquet of lilacs waiting for her as an apology.
It’s difficult, she admitted, but the workers at Svitanok have encountered another challenge: a reduction in humanitarian aid from the U.S.
Although Svitanok has managed to survive the funding cuts, they are urgently seeking alternative resources to support several essential programs.
The uncertainty weighs heavily on Zelenina. “There’s a kind of melancholy in my soul, you know? I love my job, but I can hardly imagine what’s next.”
