It’s an icy February morning in Vinnytsia, a city in western Ukraine where families displaced by the war have found refuge. For Maryna, 42, the struggle to rebuild a life shattered by conflict is far from over. A mother who fled from Kherson with her son describes the emotional and physical toll of displacement. “After moving to Vinnytsia, I was looking for any opportunity to adapt. The war took away my home and my sense of stability and the hardest thing was seeing my child suffer,” she told Newsweek.
Maryna found solace in programs supported by NGOs like Spring of Hope, which helps internally displaced people. These initiatives provided vital psychological support and a space for healing through group activities and family events. “It was a way to stay afloat, not lose myself and help my son adapt,” she recalls. But now, with USAID shutting down, these critical services have vanished. “We no longer have a place to come to, where we felt understood, where we could at least briefly distract ourselves from constant anxiety,” she adds. Without that support, she worries that her son will retreat into the isolation he endured at the beginning of the war.
President Donald Trump announced on Friday that his administration plans to eliminate nearly all the remaining positions at the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). With programs already suspended, over 90 percent of staff either on leave or terminated and lawsuits piling up, Secretary of State Marco Rubio announced earlier this month that the cuts had already canceled 83 percent of U.S. foreign aid contracts. These reductions are unraveling the fragile support systems that have helped prevent many Ukrainians from falling into despair.
In a small town on the outskirts of the frontlines, Yuriy Boyechko, the chief executive of the NGO Hope for Ukraine, tells Newsweek that one of the areas most impacted by Trump’s freeze is firewood programs serving frontline villages. “We delivered a pickup truck full of firewood to an elderly woman’s yard. She came out, took a piece, kissed it and cried—because that’s how much it means to her,” he recalls. Firewood, a simple necessity, is now more precious than bread to the residents of Marhanets, a town just 10 kilometers from Russian-held territory.
The nearly 45,000 residents of the town have been facing daily bombings and drone strikes. The situation in March remains dire as the residents anxiously await confirmation of a ceasefire, yet they are still forced to seek shelter, trapped in the crosshairs of conflict. On 25th March 2025, Russian forces launched a massive drone assault on Dnipropetrovsk oblast, including Marhanets and Nikopol, marking one of the largest and most intense attacks of the war to date.
With the region’s infrastructure destroyed and bombings a constant threat, these volunteers are the only hope for families trying to keep warm in the brutal winter months. Boyechko’s team drives truckloads of firewood from the western part of Ukraine to these ravaged communities. “When we delivered firewood to a couple in their 70s in Marhanets in the Dnipro region, the husband’s eyes welled with tears. Without it, they would have had no way to stay warm,” Pavlo Golub, a volunteer with the charity, shares.
But the halt of USAID funding is taking its toll. “Once the freeze fully takes effect, their funds will run dry and they won’t be able to operate,” Boyechko says. The small NGOs stepping in to fill the gaps are struggling to mobilize without the resources they once relied on. Boyechko’s team is trying to find alternative ways to get firewood to these communities, but without enough money for gas or logistics, the efforts may soon come to a halt. “We’re talking about small sums—around $3,000 to $5,000 for a truckload of firewood,” he adds, emphasizing that for these volunteers, every penny counts.
According to current estimates, Boyechko states that approximately 40 percent of the Ukrainian population—about 14.6 million people—require some form of humanitarian aid.
The psychological wounds of war may be less visible, but are apparent. Oksana, who fled the occupied territories with only herself, left behind a family she fears she may never see again. “In a new city, I felt lost, didn’t know where to begin, had no one to talk to,” she recalls. Her decision to leave was agonizing, torn between the hope of safety and the guilt of abandoning her loved ones.
It wasn’t until Oksana reached out to Spring of Hope that she began to heal. The support she received included informational counseling, individual psychological assistance, a food package and a hygiene kit. Seeking further help, she joined four mutual aid groups and attended training sessions on psychological self-help, combating gender-based violence and financial literacy. “They pulled me out of the darkest thoughts and brought me back to life,” she says. But like Maryna, Oksana fears for those still struggling with no support. “I don’t know how others will manage without this help… so many people still desperately need it,” she worries. Every day, new displaced families arrive in the city, their futures uncertain. “How will they cope without this support?”
The halt in USAID funding has left critical mental health programs, like those from The United Help Ukraine (UHU), in jeopardy. Maryna Baydyuk, UHU’s executive director, speaks about the expanded programs that were helping families like Maryna’s. “We are training more therapists to expand our reach and have introduced specialized training and coaching sessions tailored to the unique needs of adolescents,” Baydyuk says. Yet, with the funding freeze, these programs are now severely limited.
Boyechko, founder of Hope of Ukraine, who has seen firsthand the impact of the freeze, points out that, while the decision may not make much of a difference in the United States, on the ground in Ukraine, even small sums of aid can make a life-or-death difference. “Cutting it won’t make a difference in the U.S., but here, even $5,000 can change everything,” he says.
The cuts to mental health support are profound. Without these services, the psychological toll of war will only deepen, according to Baydyuk, president of UHU. She states, “It will take decades and generations to recover fully. This is in housing, rebuilding of cities, homes, lives, health, mental health and education.”
Another major consequence of the aid freeze is the impact on facilities for adults with special needs in Ukraine. Boyechko said that before the war, a facility called Hrushkivsʹkyy Psykhonevrolohichnyy Internat, located in Yaktoriv in the Lviv region, housed around 120 to 150 residents, but conditions were poor. “When the war escalated, about 200 internally displaced people with special needs were moved there from the east, Boyechko told Newsweek.
In response, USAID helped rebuild the facility, allowing it to accommodate over 300 people. Without this aid, these individuals would have faced difficult conditions with no space for the additional displaced people.
Similarly, in Kharkiv, a northern city just 19 miles from the Russian border, many children are attending school underground to shield themselves from air strikes. These underground schools, which were constructed with the help of USAID, are vital for ensuring children’s safety while maintaining their education. The aid has proven indispensable in safeguarding both the safety and the future of the residents of Kharkiv and Yaktoriv in the Lviv region.
Even with the court’s recent interventions to stabilize USAID, including reinstating access to critical systems and halting further staff terminations, the agency faces significant hurdles. Boyechko said that even if the situation stabilizes in the coming months, it will take months, and likely longer, to restart vital programs like those aiding displaced Ukrainians. “This means we’re looking at a delay of six to nine months before essential services and support systems are fully restored.” For Ukrainians, the immediate impact is clear: aid delays and program interruptions will only worsen their already fragile situation.
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