Everything changed for Ukrainians when Russia launched its full-scale invasion in 2022.
Few gave the country much chance. Yet years later, much of Ukraine has settled into a semblance of normal life, even as deadly attacks remain a constant threat.
For the country’s tech workers, that means learning to cope with uncertainty, less sleep and the ever-present threat of another attack. Some have moved abroad; others have made the difficult decision to stay.
So how do you keep a team going when the circumstances are anything but normal?
Sifted spoke to six Ukrainians — and one American who spends much of his time in the country — to find out how they keep spirits up in difficult times.
Mykhailo Rogalskyi, cofounder, Fintech-IT Group (a company developing software for digital banking and e-commerce sites)
I haven’t seen anyone go to a bomb shelter in a long, long time. The coffee shop near me is always open, no matter what kind of night we had.
Still, there are always triggers. Every day at 9am we have a minute’s silence for the dead. I was in a restaurant recently and everyone stood up for this. It was a very painful feeling knowing that two of our colleagues have died on the frontline.
Surprisingly, when I go on holidays outside Ukraine, I feel worse. I feel less in control; I feel everyone’s in danger.
We do a lot of normal things at work: we play sports, we have picnics, quiz nights. We sometimes have parties. We’re 800 people and many have been working remotely since Covid.
I go to sleep dreaming about how the war will end. But we have to continue doing what we do; we have to expand our business. Our headcount has increased threefold since the invasion started.
Anastasiia Shevchuk, PR lead at Taimi (LGBTQ+ dating app)
I finally moved to Valencia, in Spain, earlier this year because it had become too much.
Back in Ukraine, I’d started sleeping with big headphones to drown out the drones. I still wear them.
I was abroad when the invasion began but made the difficult decision to come home because I couldn’t imagine a comfortable life outside Ukraine. It’s worse, somehow, to read the news from afar than being at the epicentre of it.
So many things have changed. We used to complain about the 40 minute journey to the airport: we miss it now. Leaving requires a two day journey by train through Poland.
During blackouts last winter, it was lovely to do crosswords and quizzes with my parents. For a while, I was never so happy. Also, our dogs were our anti-depressants.
I work for a dating app. Dating in wartime is very different — curfew starts at midnight — but also comforting. Everyone’s exhausted but everyone’s equal. They have more empathy. You don’t expect too much from people.
Still, there are a lot of triggers. It’s scary when you see that the map on your air-raid warning app is red for two hours, then three hours, then five hours. Some of my friends don’t bother with the app, it's too exhausting for their mental health.
I feel nothing when I see Trump on the TV meeting Putin or when President Zelensky meets the European leaders: no hope or emotions. I can’t influence things. But I’m a dreamer. I think about a brighter future: everyone deserves it.
Anna Pechenina, global PR lead at Kormotec (e-commerce site for pets)
My daughter and I relocated to Riga. I feel safe and welcomed here. My daughter goes to the local school, where they fly a Ukrainian flag. These small things give me a lot of support.
Workwise, we always double check to see if everyone is safe and okay. Some of my colleagues are on the frontline; some have been killed. If you had a bad night because of nearby attacks, you can message your head of department and then work from home. Everything is negotiable, we’re super flexible with schedules.
It’s crazy how people can keep working and not be broken by the news. Somehow, our minds are able to recover. People keep living, working and dreaming.
Nataliia Loza, senior PR consultant at Black Unicorn PR (startup comms agency)
We’re tired but we keep going: we have no choice.
I live in the centre of Kyiv, so I’ve seen a lot of scary things. Some nights, the city might get 800 drones. We live in a building that has 24 floors and a lot of my neighbours take sleeping bags and go down to the parking garage to sleep.
Half of my family is in Donetsk, which are now occupied territories. It will be so hard to get this territory back. I also don’t believe that there will be some deal any time soon; I don't think Russia will stop or that this will get resolved during the Trump presidency.
Companies let people come in late. My colleagues might say, “Take a day off today” if it’s been a bad night. I follow a lot of military and air defence channels on the Telegram app. I’m always texting people to ask: “How are you?”
Dmitry Khanov, cofounder of Allbionics (startup developing prosthetic arms)
We are a prosthetics manufacturer, while our charitable partner, Dopomogator, raises funds to cover the cost of prostheses for injured service members and civilians.
Our manufacturing is based in Chernivtsi, in western Ukraine, which has meant some challenges. Power outages are manageable with backup systems and supply chain disruptions happen, but those are usually solvable. The hardest challenge is talent retention.
For us, motivation comes from a very clear sense of purpose. We work with people who have already sacrificed enormously for their country. Our mission is to help them regain independence, confidence and quality of life.
The moments that stay with our team are often deeply personal. Seeing someone hug their child with both arms again, holding a pet or closing a hand for the first time after losing a limb can be incredibly emotional.
Mike Richardson, visiting scientist, Fraunhofer (German research lab)
I’ve made perhaps 25 visits to Ukraine in the last few years. A few things strike you.
The noise of the drones: they’re lawnmowers from hell. They generally attack between 2-4am, so everyone’s in a permanent state of sleep disruption. I was at a defence conference in Dresden a few months ago and some joker flew a drone over us. That caused me great distress. In Ukraine, that sound means death is six seconds away.
The Ukrainian villages are emptied out of men of a certain age. I almost went into a unit myself, but backed out at the last minute. You’re not drafted until you’re 25 and I think that’s great: 18 year-olds have to volunteer.
There are still mobilisation units that drive around in vans and they can basically snatch recruits off the street. I think this will create faultlines in Ukraine: when the war ends, I don’t know how some of this will get resolved.
At 9am every morning, there’s a minute’s silence to remember the dead. Every village and town has a war memorial. To practice my Ukrainian, I'll read the names on graves. I found one guy recently who was the same age as me, born in 1966. Another guy was a tax inspector, who presumably had a comfortable job before he went to the frontlines.
The winter was grim: now that summer is here, there’s genuine joy. People are smiling. I see the occasional newborn and some birthday parties. I spend a lot of time in the farmer markets in the villages. People are doing their best to live a joyful life.
