Tyhra the cat. Image credit: Courtesy of the author.

LET ME INTRODUCE you to Tyhra. She’s an ordinary domestic short-haired cat, a beautiful brown tabby. Just a couple of years ago, she was living with her owners in Ukraine, where she was born. She spent her days lounging on the couch and looking out the window of a one-bedroom apartment, waiting for her humans to return from work. When they travelled to the countryside to visit their relatives or for long holidays, she went with them, safe in her carrier on the bus or train. 

Tyhra is my cat, and all of those moments are from another life, a different life – life before Russia’s invasion of my country in February 2022. 

The war has physically disrupted the lives of millions of people as well as the fabric of Ukraine’s social and economic life. The missiles and drones of Russia’s army have reached every corner of the country, but the impact is especially significant for the residents of the eastern and southern regions. Here, the bloody materiality of a war fought with missiles, glide bombs, artillery strikes and landmines has become an everyday reality. By mid-2024, around 6.6 million Ukrainian refugees had been recorded globally. Inside Ukraine, around 10 million people have been displaced and a third of the population requires humanitarian support.

The war has also had a devastating effect on animals. Many pets have been left behind by fleeing owners; some animals were already living on the streets and struggling to survive when the war began. According to one study, more than 10,000 cats and dogs – some of them strays, some pets – were transported from Ukraine to Poland in 2022 alone.

But this story is about one animal in particular. Tyhra, like so many other pets in Ukraine, has had to travel across country borders, time zones and continents because of the devastation and uncertainty of this horrific war. And she is one of the lucky ones.

IT’S FEBRUARY 2022, and the roaring sounds of Russian military planes signal that something has profoundly changed for Tyhra, my family, the whole country. I’m studying abroad; while I’m away, my relatives in the Kharkiv region are looking after my cat. 

Within days of the invasion, and despite the courageous efforts of the Ukrainian Armed Forces, Russian troops occupy the area where Tyhra and my family live. No one is prepared. 

The occupation lasts for more than half a year. Supply networks are disrupted and local grocery stores quickly run out of goods, including cat and dog food. During those first weeks of the war, local social media channels are flooded with requests from animal owners desperately looking for any remaining supplies. (Thankfully, Tyhra is familiar enough with eating human food that she won’t go hungry – it turns out this bad habit is a good one in wartime.)

During the occupation, time seems to move both slowly and quickly at once. For many days and weeks in a row, there is no electricity or communication. Tyhra can no longer bask in the sun or ask to go outside. She can no longer sit by the windows, as these are now covered to prevent light from revealing the location of the house. When the fighting draws closer and more intense, as the Ukrainian Army liberates the region, the house shakes, the windows shatter and the ceiling cracks from Russian bombs and artillery. 

Tyhra starts hiding in the cellar. Like many people and animals in these frontline regions, her days are defined by the sounds of war. She may not understand what’s happening or why, but she feels that life now is about trying to stay safe.

AFTER YEARS OF travelling to and from the countryside, Tyhra knows when her people are planning to leave home and take her with them – the first clue is the sight of the cat carrier. But as the region is freed from occupation and her carers evacuate to the closest big city in search of safety, there’s no time to find the carrier. Instead, she’s placed in a big shopping bag and tucked under the front car seat. 

The road to safety is long and exhausting; it takes nearly a full day. Yet Tyhra senses that something important is happening and does not meow once during the entire journey. A few months later, when I’m reunited with my relatives and am able to take Tyhra back, she flies with me across the Atlantic and again does not make a sound. 

But my cat’s journey is not over; next, we move to Australia. The process of securing Tyhra’s export permit and preparing her paperwork and vaccinations must begin about nine months before the actual day of travel. Luckily, by this time, Tyhra has been abroad for more than half a year; according to export regulations, she couldn’t have travelled directly from her country of origin. How could anyone have predicted that this would need to be accounted for when fleeing a war zone? 

Yet Tyhra managed to escape and find safety. Millions of others across the globe – people and animals – whose lives have been disrupted by war are not so fortunate. 

THESE DAYS, TYHRA is gradually returning to her old routine. She’s found a perfect spot by her new window, but she’s still adjusting to a new climate, new smells, new sounds. The war back home still rages on, now with growing intensity. Russia’s invasion has already taken from us our homes, our sense of security, the precious lives of loved ones. We can never take our safety for granted, but we must strive to protect those we care about.