Ukrainian refugee groups decry trickle of U.S. help

“The need is overwhelming” but there are a limited number of funds going directly to refugees in search of housing, food and employment.

July 8, 2022 Reuven Blau, THE CITY

Inna Malamura, 36, and her daughter, Polina, 10, came to Brooklyn in June after fleeing Vinnytsia, a city near Kiev. Photo: Hiram Alejandro Durán/THE CITY

‘There’s Not Really Robust Support’

In New York, many are struggling to pay for basic necessities like food and housing, according to advocacy groups. The challenge is particularly difficult for people living in New York City where the price of housing has spiked to record highs since the pandemic.

And the issue isn’t unique to Ukrainians: immigration advocates point out. Social service groups have for decades been stretched to the seams trying to help immigrants from Afghanistan, Haiti and various other countries.

“This is not a new phenomenon,” said Kelly Agnew-Barajas, director of refugee resettlement at Catholic Charities.

Sheepshead Bay residents displayed their support for Ukraine, March 11, 2022. — Sheepshead Bay residents display their support for Ukraine, March 11, 2022. Photo: Hiram Alejandro Durán/THE CITY

Some of the slow rollouts are due to bureaucratic red-tape holding up federal funds and how that money will be distributed, according to social service groups.

“Part of the problem is that the [federal] assistance is piecemeal,” said Alex Caudill, assistant director at HIAS NY, a nonprofit that’s been helping refugees for 140 years.

She noted that about a month ago the federal Office of Refugee Settlement got $5 billion from Congress to help Ukrainian immigrants.

Ukrainian immigrants are eligible for some financial assistance for employment help and case management. But that doesn’t cover housing or furniture costs.

“That’s been a struggle for refugee resettlement agencies because we’ve had to adjust how we provide assistance,” Caudill said.

‘All the Resources Are Spread Out’

Many are primarily just left to seek help from friends and family.

Inna Malamura, 36, and her daughter, Polina, 10, came to New York City after fleeing from Vinnytsia, a city in west-central Ukraine near Kiev.

Now they live in a one-bedroom apartment with three other people in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, where they share the tight living space with another Ukrainian immigrant. Everyone — aside from the unit’s owner — sleep on makeshift beds.

It’s a far cry from Malamura’s cozy apartment back home — located near a military base that has been shelled — which is now being watched by a neighbor.

Before fleeing, the 36-year-old worked as a top manager in charge of the country’s ambitious street repaving and expansion plan.

Now, she spends her days trying to navigate a maze of bureaucracy.

A Ukraine supporter rides a Q train from Brighton Beach, March 11, 2022. Photo: Hiram Alejandro Durán/THE CITY

“The main problem is the paperwork,” she said through a Russian interpreter. “There’s no manual on how to legalize our status. There’s no step-by-step instructions. All the resources are spread out.”

Shortly after Russia invaded, Malamura, her daughter and 17-year-old son spent days racing to a nearby bomb shelter. The sirens seemed to go off all the time, she said via a Russian interpreter.

To get away from the onslaught she drove to her parent’s home in the countryside along with her kids and parents. They thought it would just be for a weekend so only took a few items.

From there, she and the two children eventually drove to the Polish town Ostrów Wielkopolski, where they found shelter with a family in the area that was taking in refugees.

Her son is staying in Poland to get an affordable college education while her parents and brother — who is now in the army — remain in Ukraine.

In Brooklyn since June 10, she’s received $1,000 from Catholic Charities, which is also partially funded by the city’s new initiative for Ukrainian refugees.

She’s also looking to begin taking classes in English and trying to enroll her daughter in some summer camp.

“I like living in big cities,” she said, noting she’d like to continue to live in New York despite all the challenges.

They’ve also gotten some financial help from other Ukrainian immigrants who have lived in New York City for years.

Meanwhile, a call to amend a federal law to make it easier for Ukrainains to come to the United States remains in limbo: The Lautenberg Amendment — legislation first enacted by Congress in 1990 to make it easier for Jews from the former Soviet Union to resettle with family in the states — has not been touched since the start of the war.

There are currently at least several thousand Ukrainians in the Lautenberg pipeline whose applications have been submitted or they’re at some stage being processed, according to HIAS NY’s Caudill.

As for the broader influx of Ukrainian immigrants, some activists are worried that their plight will be forgotten or garner less attention as the war drags on.

“It’s been over four months since the war started and it seems like many people in the West moved on with their lives and forgot about the existential threat that Russia is causing to the rest of the world,” said Violette Matevosian, development coordinator for RUSA LGBTQ+, a group assisting Malamura.

“We should keep trying to do as much as we can and remember that even small efforts can impact lives of those who are suffering from this war right now,” they added. “Routinization leads to dehumanization. We cannot afford to routinize this war on humanity.”

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