She survived war. Then this happened on a bus in Wales

Yuliia Bond

I came back from Ukraine and had planned to write about my trip – about resilience, about people living through war with quiet dignity.

Instead, I am writing about Wales, and about how harmful narratives about refugees and asylum seekers turn into real harm.

Because narratives do not stay on screens or in speeches. When repeated often enough – “they are taking over,” “they get more than locals” “but our veterans are homeless,” “they are taking our jobs” – they enter buses, schools, GP surgeries, and streets. They land on real people.

This is the story of Olha.

Two days ago, on the evening of 14th January, Olha boarded a bus to get home. She lives in Caerphilly.
Olha is Ukrainian. She is a refugee, a student, and a woman in her late fifties. Back in Ukraine, she worked for a local authority.

She was respected, professional, and deeply rooted in her community. She arrived in Wales only last year after staying far too long in a war zone, caring for her dying mother. She lost her mother. She lost her home. She lost everything familiar.

Three months ago, she broke her arm and is still recovering.

Despite this, Olha has tried to rebuild. She studies. She attends community events. She contributes wherever she can. She is humble, kind, and never demanding. She simply wants to belong.

On the evening of 14th January, Olha boarded a bus with a valid monthly bus ticket. She showed it to the driver. What should have been an ordinary journey escalated quickly. The driver said her ticket was invalid. She calmly explained it was not. The engine was switched off. He attempted to take her documents.

Then he grabbed her arm – the arm she had broken recently.

She was frightened but stayed. She asked him to verify the ticket. After a phone call, the driver accepted that the ticket was valid and the bus moved on.

But when Olha stood to exit at her stop, the driver closed the doors on her body. She was trapped, in pain, asking for the doors to be opened. They were not. She had to force herself out.
This is where impact matters.

For someone who belongs – who knows the language, the systems, the confidence of being “from here” – an incident like this is upsetting.

For a displaced person, it cuts much deeper. Refugees already live with fractured safety, lowered confidence, and constant self-questioning: Do I belong here? Am I allowed to take up space?

Belonging is not abstract. It is survival.

When Olha spoke about what happened, she did not begin with anger. She asked, “Would this have happened if I was Welsh?”

That question reflects a wider reality in Wales. Across Caerphilly and beyond, Ukrainian families have reported harassment, bullying, and hate incidents.

Targeted

Recently, two Ukrainian women left Caerphilly County Borough with their children after months of being targeted. They returned to Ukraine – to winter, shelling, and power cuts – because at least there their children were not bullied.

More recently, a young Ukrainian girl, Polina, was beaten by schoolgirls who shouted, “Go back to Ukraine.”

Many more incidents go unreported – because people feel unsafe, unheard, or believe nothing will change.

Why does this happen?

Because harmful narratives create permission. When refugees are framed as burdens or threats, vulnerability becomes something others exploit. People assume refugees will not speak up. Will not complain. Will be grateful for anything.

Some politicians and media figures gain votes and attention by spreading fear and hate. But the cost is paid elsewhere – by children who stop feeling safe, and families who leave communities entirely.

Olha is a woman who survived war, cared for her dying mother, and arrived here hoping for safety and peace. Two days ago, she was physically handled and endangered on public transport. Now she is afraid to take the bus.

Formal complaint

The incident was reported to the police. She visited her GP so that the physical and psychological impact would be recorded. A formal complaint was submitted to the transport company. Her experience did not disappear into silence.

For Olha, this mattered deeply.

After war, displacement, grief, and loss, being told – clearly and without doubt – that what happened to her was wrong, that it mattered, and that she mattered, shifted something inside her. Even if nothing else were to come from this process, that recognition alone changed her inner world.

That is not small.

This is what advocacy does. It interrupts the moment where harm is meant to pass unnoticed. It tells someone who has been made to feel invisible that they are seen. It tells someone who has been hurt that dignity is not something they have to earn.

Advocacy is like planting trees whose shade you may never sit under. It is exhausting, often thankless, and rarely dramatic. But policies shift because pressure is repeated. Organisations change because patterns are documented. Societies learn because people refuse to stop naming injustice.

This is why speaking up matters.

This is a call to action – not only for refugees, but for everyone who lives here.

Speak up when you hear false claims about refugees and asylum seekers. Challenge the language of “they are taking over” when the facts do not support it. Question narratives that frame displaced people as burdens rather than as human beings shaped by war, loss, and survival.

Speak up when you see hate – on a bus, in a school, on a street, or online. You do not have to be a victim to report a hate crime. If you witness it, you can report it. Silence protects harm. Attention interrupts it.
Speak up when media outlets repeatedly show negative stories about displaced people but fail to show the damage these narratives cause. The fear. The isolation. The lowered self-esteem. The families who leave communities. The children who stop feeling safe.

And speak up in small, ordinary moments. When someone is being treated unfairly. When someone is struggling with language. When someone looks frightened but unsure whether they are allowed to ask for help.

Solidarity

Because the impact of harm on a displaced person is not the same as on someone who belongs. For refugees, every incident carries the weight of everything they have already survived. Every moment of injustice reopens old wounds. Every act of solidarity, however small, helps rebuild a sense of safety.

We need to redirect our energy towards creating a world where dignity is not conditional, where vulnerability is protected rather than exploited, where belonging is not something people have to beg for.

Wales can be that place.

But only if we choose to see what is happening.

Only if we refuse to look away.

Because silence is how harm becomes normal.