stop a Russian bullet
The night Ivan Geshko, a 29-year-old Ukrainian waiter, finished serving at a party, found the results of his search laid out on a bed in Madrid. In the dim light, he opened pages from Amazon and military suppliers and laid out a basic kit: a black bulletproof vest matched with gloves, knee pads, and a thermal change of the same color. The sight of the assembled gear prompted a quick photo sent to his father, with everything neatly wrapped and ready for dispatch. Ivan’s first role has been as a server at family restaurants in eastern Madrid, but he soon became a link in a broader effort to move defense materials toward Ukraine.
That moment sparked a fervent, expansive, and discreet aid project. The first recipient of the photo was Vitaliy, Ivan’s father, a 59-year-old immigrant and physical education teacher who had decided to leave Madrid to join the Ukrainian resistance against occupation. By March, when the vest and elbow pads still hadn’t arrived, Vitaliy sent back a photo showing him dressed in the gear, a small symbol of hope on the other end of the line.
On a February morning, Roman Zaitev, 34, woke up to news that felt like a punch to the gut. His father Vasili, a 58-year-old electrician, had shaken him awake with a tremor in his voice: “Son, what we feared has happened: the war has started.”
Within days, Vasili arranged a plane ticket to Krakow. Forty-eight hours later, he stood in a wooded area, Kalashnikov over his shoulder, ready to contribute to the Ukrainian cause. These two families belonged to a widening circle of solidarity that would soon knit together a formidable network in Europe. The organization United with Ukraine began to grow, coordinating around 150 aid shipments each month by van, truck, and train. The effort translates to roughly 2,831 pallets and more than 687 tons of essentials—diapers, batteries, bandages, food, medicine, soap, and much more—delivering critical relief to those in need.
paused at the dock
In a Madrid office near the Isabel Zendal Hospital, a young man handles a military green helmet. It’s Kevlar and capable of stopping many bullets; the piece comes from veterans across the continent who donate it to bolster Ukrainian defenses. This helmet is among the most valued items in a lineup of pallets waiting to be shipped. The donations come from families, municipalities, companies, the Community of Madrid, the Ukrainian embassy, and logistics partners like a railway company and transport firms. The operation relies on a broad spectrum of volunteers who coordinate across multiple platforms, sometimes even through mobile phone networks that connect hundreds of companies ready to help.
Today, twenty-five additional trucks are in the pipeline. The project requires substantial resources, including roughly 3,500 euros per truck for diesel and other expenses, all covered by the volunteers and wartime supporters who shoulder the costs.
Inside the pallets lie tangible lifelines for bombed towns: rechargeable batteries, energy bars, cans of coffee, rations, analgesics, and supplies to manage bleeding and other medical needs. Soap, in particular, is essential. The message from those on the ground is blunt: people lose everything when their homes are struck, and every small item—a pillow, glasses, a spoon, a toothbrush—can make a big difference in the days after the blast.
without sleep
The pressure never eases. A restless executive gives up his day job to focus on logistics, his former career in retail becoming a daunting memory. United With Ukraine has grown as a network of volunteers who help bear the weight of this mission. The story is not just about a single person; it’s about a community that chooses action over doubt when a real emergency appears. When his partner, Iván, can slip away from the bar, they join others in Madrid to coordinate food, medicine, and supplies with the Ukrainian community.
Ivan often searches for equipment and technology online, looking at options like a DJI Mavic 3 drone with 15 kilometers of autonomy and 46 minutes of flight time. His father never pressed him, but Vitaliy eventually asked him to consider sending a bulletproof vest when a suitable option appeared. This simple request echoes the core aim of their association: to purchase and dispatch security and defense equipment to the Ukrainian army.
At the Polish border, minibuses run by Roman and his volunteers shuttle loaded loads toward the battlefield. The Ukrainian community’s collective response grows with each convoy, as they spread aid like a network across the country. Cargo from Madrid, Málaga, Zaragoza, and Almería travels onward through Odessa, Kharkiv, and Bucha. Yet, in Kherson, authorities sometimes return certain items such as diapers and jars, explaining that some areas have suffered such devastation that basic supplies are scarce or unavailable.
new life on the way
Over the course of a year, Oleksandr, a volunteer driver, treats a city park video as a personal relic. The footage, recorded by the City Council, captures a moment in Mariupol as Violeta glides by on a skateboard near flower beds while neighbors marked with Cyrillic letters watch the sky, hoping for mercy in the missiles. March 16 saw a brutal bombardment that killed hundreds, a stark reminder of the war’s reach.
Oleksandr, a Donbass native, carries these memories into the spring as he travels with fellow caravans heading toward Ukraine. He shares his homeland with a growing chorus of volunteers who, despite hardship, continue to push forward. The contrast between his hopeful video and the charred remains of Mariupol underscores the stark reality of life during conflict. The “orcs” he mentions are the invaders, and he recalls the destruction they left behind—the looting, the shattered homes, even the floors taken in their wake.
Separated from his wife and daughter, Oleksandr clings to the memory of everyday life—family dinners, walks with a golden retriever, and the simple joys of life by the sea. His account of the war is lucid and painful, a reminder that this is not a distant conflict; it touches real families who must endure loss while carrying on with hope.
3,399 kilometers
Nykola, a Ukrainian truck driver who has spent thirteen years in Spain, watches another long-haul convoy head north from the Isabel Zendal quay. Three thousand three hundred ninety-nine kilometers separate his current life from the one he once knew at his parents’ home in Ternopil. To measure distance, he began by setting the odometer to zero when he left his house, a quiet ritual that marks the span of years and memories.
Nykola’s family chose to keep their names private for safety. This is a common thread among many involved in the relief effort: trust built on the shared aim of helping those in need while protecting the vulnerable. At a busy M40 service station, he speaks of strategy and purpose, asking why some people prefer surrender when freedom hangs in the balance. The answer, he believes, lies in unity and persistent effort. As he heads back to his car and the bustle of refueling continues, the warning remains stark: Europe must stand with Ukraine, or future generations will bear the cost of inaction.