Two hundred kilometres north in Ostrava, Czechia, Herbert Myroshnychenko, 19, stands outside an intimidating, modernist building housing the local child protection services. Here he and his girlfriend Anastasiia Mykhailovska, 19, with whom he left Ukraine, collected their humanitarian subsidy when they first arrived. “I was nervous every week,” he says, pushing his thick, shoulder-length hair awkwardly behind his ears. Before the pair’s mothers dropped off the 17-year-olds in 2024, Herbert had previously left Ukraine only once, and Anastasiia never at all.
The pair registered as unaccompanied minors for TPS. Member states set their own laws regarding social benefits for those with the status. In Czechia, Herbert and Anastasija received 3,490 CZK (£124) each and 6,000 CZK (£213) towards rent a month. As they were too young to open bank accounts without an adult, a social worker handed them the cash until Herbert’s eighteenth birthday. At this point, she appointed him as Anastasiia’s temporary legal guardian until she turned 18 six months later, allowing Herbert to receive both of their allowances directly into his bank account and have authority to represent her in matters such as healthcare or education.
The couple met in 2022 when they fell into the same friendship group at school in Odesa. The port city comes under regular Russian assault, but their families stayed, believing the war would end soon. “After school, I understood it would be better for me to go somewhere in Europe – without the drones and missiles,” Herbert explains. The pair dreamed of studying psychology and saved €1,500 (£1,290) for rent.
At first, landlords turned them away: “A lot said they didn’t want Ukrainians in their flat,” Herbert admits. Then they failed to get a place at university. “The problem was the language,” says Herbert. As in many EU countries, Ukrainians can study for free in state universities, but only on local-language courses. Determinedly, the pair stayed, living frugally. They attended free, state-provided language lessons and by September 2025 began BA courses in computer science instead.
Herbert’s phone rings: his mum is calling, as she does every day travelling home from work at a laboratory. He believes she should stay in Ukraine to work, care for her elderly parents, and be near her husband. Herbert’s stepfather was called up to fight in December. “He is now 1km away from the frontline,” Herbert says flatly.
Before his stepfather was drafted, Herbert did not feel at risk of conscription. Now the threat is more real. Ukrainian males are now only allowed to cross the border until they turn 23 (increased from 18 years in August 2025) after which they must remain in Ukraine. The minimum age for mobilisation is 25.
Herbert doubts he will return to his country after the war. “Ukraine has to change its politics,” he says. He wants it to be less corrupt and more like Europe. “I’m very thankful the Czech Republic provides us with this life,” he says.