A dispatch from a “Point of Invincibility” (Point of Warmth) in Kyiv: a story of small gestures, profound solidarity, and how Belarusians became a lifeline for a neighborhood stripped of its heat and its peace.
As evening falls over the Darnytskyi district of Kyiv, shadows move toward the tent—people carrying thermoses and small bags. Someone holds a child’s hand; another walks slowly, cautious not to slip on the icy ground. In the surrounding apartments, it is cold and pitch-black. But here, there is light, warmth, and steaming tea.
Darnytskyi is one of the areas hit hardest by the fallout of the war. While cafes and the metro still hum in the city center, the residents of these "sleeper districts" often face long hours without electricity or heat. Volunteers estimate that about ten apartment blocks in the area suffer from frequent blackouts, and at least six have no heating at all.
"People come even when it’s 5°C outside," says one of the volunteers. "Not because they want to, but because it’s simply impossible to stay in their flats." Often, these are mothers with toddlers, the elderly, or families caring for sick relatives at home.
This aid station operates around the clock. At night, those who cannot make it during the day—whether due to the daytime crowds or sheer anxiety—slip inside. They charge their phones, fill their thermoses with hot tea, and sit in the warmth for a few minutes. Sometimes, they just sit in silence.
The visitors include people with disabilities and those wounded at the front. One woman arrives with her adult son, who uses a wheelchair; the elevator in their building is broken, so she cannot take him far. "For them, even half a kilometer is an immense struggle," the volunteers explain.
The Belarusians started with very little. Just over a week ago, they pitched the tent themselves. "There were three of us: myself, Ira Shchasnaya, and Vitushka from the 'Volat Battalion' unit. We started putting it up on our own," a volunteer recalls.
At first, the locals watched them with suspicion. But that soon turned into a shared effort. People asked where the Belarusians were from and were moved to find they had come to help. Soon, neighbors began bringing wooden planks and plastic sheeting to help insulate the tent. "We were freezing here, too," the volunteers say with a smile.
Eventually, security appeared: local community groups, including Crimean Tatars, sent people to help. Later, the police joined in.
After the shellings, many buildings are left with shattered windows, doors that won't close, and scarred walls. "I have two children, and we are constantly running to the shelters," says one volunteer. "Taking our pets with us. There is no other way."
But the problem isn't just the cold. People come here carrying exhaustion and deep-seated anxiety. "Sometimes they just need to talk," the volunteers say. "To have someone sit with them and listen."
The residents are vocal in their gratitude. They bring sweets and biscuits; they offer hugs. Some even call emergency services just to leave a message of thanks: "The Belarusians are here. They are close to us."
"Ukrainians understand perfectly well what is happening in Belarus and why we cannot go home," the volunteers say. "The grandmothers understand it, and so do the children."
The children bring drawings—decorated with hearts, flags, and the word "Dyakuyu" (Thank you). For the volunteers, this is the most moving part of their work.
For the Belarusians themselves, volunteering has become a way to fight the feeling of displacement in exile. "It makes you realize you can be useful," says one volunteer. "That you aren't here for nothing."
The "Point of Warmth" remains a sanctuary—a place to get warm, charge a phone, and feel safe, if only for a few minutes. The volunteers have no intention of stopping.
"Ukraine is a kindred nation to us," they say. "In a moment like this, you cannot just stand aside. If you don't help today, misfortune might find its way to your door tomorrow."