Zone of Alienation

KAREN DAY

At a recent demonstration at the Idaho State Capitol, Ukrainian-Americans and allies raised awareness of the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

Ukrainians in Idaho watch in horror as Russia invades their home

HARRISON BERRY

In the south Boise home where Oleksandr “Alex” Solodovnik lives with his family, the remains of his 21st birthday celebration hang over the fireplace, juxtaposed with the mood in the room. “It’s mostly [between] the civilized countries, the civilized part of the world, and Russia,” Alex says about the Russian invasion of Ukraine, which escalated dramatically just a month earlier, on February 24.

Seven people and a lot of feelings sat at a circular kitchen table meant for four. The Solodovniks had recently welcomed several family members from Ukraine, including Alex’s grandparents Taisa Baranova and Anatolii Baranov, and an aunt, Yelisaveta Volianyk. Taisa was undergoing treatment for cancer and on March 3, a Russian bomb had killed Igor’s father in his home. Every day they receive reports from friends and family in the war-torn country about deaths, the destruction of cities and other atrocities, and mourn the people they’ll never speak with again.

A good word to describe the sentiment isn’t English, but German: heimweh, which translates to “homesickness,” but with added emphasis on tension and longing. While hard numbers are scarce, people involved in relief work estimate that between 150 and 200 Ukrainians have left the Eastern European country for the Treasure Valley in southwestern Idaho. Often, they come into the homes of friends and family who live in the Gem State, sometimes with little more than the clothes on their backs, and they’ve received scant resources from the government to find housing, employment, or basic necessities.

Oleksandr “Alex” Solodovnik (left) discusses the arrival of several family members fleeing the violence in Ukraine.

KAREN DAY

This does not perturb Ukrainians like Alex and his family, in part because their eyes are fixed on the conflict tearing their homeland apart. “It’s really hard to see what is happening right now, and that you are not able for some reason to be there,” Yelisaveta says. “You have a job, you have a car, you have a family, a whole life, and now, because of other people, if I can call them this way, you have to leave this place. It is just really hard for everybody.”

Popular Ukrainian support of closer ties to the West have been a source of tension between Ukraine and the Russian Federation since the early 2000s. The situation escalated in 2014, when Russian troops took control of the strategically significant Crimean Peninsula, the location of one of the few warm water ports available to the Russian Navy. That same year, Russian-backed separatists seized two regions in eastern Ukraine. Russia’s stated goal of the present invasion is to permanently orient Ukraine toward Russia, and away from the European Union and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO).

Russian aggression against its neighbors is old hat. What’s new are the casualties, the refugees, and the leveled cities. Approximately 25,000 civilians are dead and 3.7 million people have fled the country. The United States plans to admit 100,000 of them. By the dictionary definition and popular understanding, they are refugees — people who have left their homes because of war or persecution. Instead, the U.S. has admitted thousands, notably under the umbrella of humanitarian parole. It’s a distinction with important consequences. Unlike holding refugee status, which only comes after a lengthy process, humanitarian parole is a way for people to rapidly enter the country during a crisis. It’s a temporary solution. When someone’s term of two-year lawful stay expires, the U.S. Customs and Immigration Service may deny applications to extend their stay, leaving those who can’t return to their home countries in legal limbo. Adjustment acts, like those passed after the Vietnam War and the Cuban Revolution, create a pathway from parole to permanent immigration status; but with peace in Ukraine a far-off dream, there remains the possibility that the window opened by President Joe Biden at the start of the war could close.

A Russian bomb hit the home of Igor Solodovnik’s parents, killing his father.

COURTESY IGOR SOLODOVNIK

Another difference is that parolees are ineligible for the state-sponsored benefits given to those who come to the U.S. through the refugee resettlement process. That leaves this wave of displaced people outside the mandates of organizations like the College of Southern Idaho Refugee Center and the Idaho Office for Refugees. Instead, traditional refugee-oriented organizations have directed people interested in donating or assisting to groups like the Idaho Alliance for Ukrainian Refugees and Immigrants, which have started providing newcomers with essentials. “When we saw that it was only a matter of time before Ukrainians came here, we felt like it was our responsibility to make sure they had a chance to settle and recover, first and foremost, from what they experienced there,” says Alliance Director of Outreach Tina Polishchuk. The Alliance has longstanding partnerships with Slavic churches across the Northwest to coordinate access to Ukrainians coming to Idaho and host families, develop local resources, and make them accessible to Ukrainians, and communicate news and information. By the end of April 2022, the Alliance had interviewed more than 75 people, managed almost 25 cases, and begun collaborating with outside organizations to expand its efforts.

The Alliance’s response to the crisis has had to adapt as displaced people arrive and settle in Idaho. Newcomers may have material needs like shelter, documentation, transportation, and financial assistance; but those who have been in the country longer have different problems. One new arrival, Polishchuk says, was able to stay with a family member already renting a home in the Boise area, but when the landlord cited the rental agreement that said only the renter could stay longer than two weeks, the Alliance stepped in to find new accommodations.

COURTESY IGOR SOLODOVNIK

The problem of American bureaucracy is at least on par with that of fulfilling the base of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Before finding employment, displaced people must obtain a stable address, transportation, and a Social Security number, and these proceedings often cost money and are conducted in English. Polishchuk says a lot of the people she works with have Ukrainian driver’s licenses, and significant academic and employment histories, but struggle to get around in automobile-centric Idaho. The housing affordability crisis affects them doubly, too. “Housing in Idaho, and the Treasure Valley specifically, is really challenging, even for people who have really good jobs and have been around for a long time. So how do you make housing a possibility for people who are here on a temporary basis or starting out from scratch?” she says.

Other aid groups have different priorities. In late March, the Idaho Ukrainian Lions Club met at the offices of the Lions Club in south Boise, where the items on the agenda ranged from providing for the most immediate needs of those arriving in the Treasure Valley from Ukraine, to where they should celebrate Easter. Sometimes the members broke into folk songs. Like the Alliance, the Lions Club group raises money and supplies for people displaced by the war — but its almost entirely Ukrainian-American membership does the same for people and relief efforts in Ukraine.

The Idaho Ukrainian Lions Club arranges aid for Ukrainians who have come to Idaho. Julia Marten (left) says that a pillar of the group’s mission is also to raise awareness about the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

KAREN DAY

Keeping the public’s gaze on the war is an important piece of that effort. Reports of Russian attacks on civilian centers abound: the bombing of a maternity and children’s hospital, and the destruction of a theater in the city of Mariupol that investigators say left 600 dead. These and other news items are burning reminders of Ukrainians’ loved ones in peril and homeland under attack. Public support for the group’s work is strong. At an April demonstration on the steps of the Idaho State Capitol, hundreds of people, including a large contingent of students from nearby Boise State University, came to express solidarity and advocate for a stronger American response to the invasion.

Communicating the urgency of the war, both among its members and to the public, is one of the pillars of the Idaho Ukrainian Lions Club. Julia Marten, the club’s president, speaks with friends and family in Ukraine daily. What she hears contrasts sharply with what Russian state-run media presents to its viewership. Holding demonstrations, bake and garage sales, and increasing the visibility of her group keep eyes trained on the conflict. “We’re trying to remind people that there is a war, there are people dying. There are kids dying. This is what we are doing: We’re trying to support Ukrainians in any way we can, and we are trying to keep people informed and reminded,” Marten says. It’s also how she and others assert moral truths about the invasion.

Idaho Ukrainian Lions Club member Oleksandr Tarasenko has lived in Idaho for the last six years. His sister Ina arrived in April on humanitarian parole after passing through Poland, Spain, and Mexico. He came to study at the College of Idaho — he now works at Franklin Building Supply — and she fled war. “She lived at her mom’s under the air defense sirens in our city, and she lived in a region that was actually attacked,” Oleksandr says. “When Russia started to shower the place next to her [with bombs], they had to leave the city. My mom told me that they were shaking after hearing any loud sound. It was a terrible experience.” Meanwhile, Oleksandr has raised money and material in support of military operations in Ukraine. He, like many others in Idaho’s Ukrainian community, believes that a Ukrainian victory is inevitable. The Russians are demoralized, he says, and the momentum is behind the underdog.

This kind of patriotism and optimism are common among people close to the war in Ukraine — counterpoints to the horrors they see and hear about from friends and family, and the displaced people they now support. And Oleksandr has one request to make of Americans.

“The only thing that I would ask the American people to do is just not to normalize it. It’s getting worse and worse, and [the Russian military is] killing more and more people,” he says. “Just be as informed as possible.”