The Phoenix Center, located in the Lviv Oblast and run by the Volunteer Action association, provides temporary shelter for internally displaced people (IDPs) fleeing the fighting. A hybrid of a kibbutz, a hippie camp, and a phalanstery, it operates on a participatory model and aims to become self-sufficient without external financial support. An original project intended, its founder says, to become a replicable humanitarian model.
All expenses are covered; a hospital offering free consultations is nearby; the site is accessible by bus; and animals—including farmyard animals—are welcome. In addition to the 3,000 square meters offered by the building it occupies, the shelter, which opened its doors in August 2025, has a farm building and several plots of land. This is what Jay Rivera, an American volunteer who founded the shelter, explains enthusiastically during the tour, before stopping in front of a pixelated reproduction of a painting by Polish artist Aleksander Raczyński, displayed at a turn in the hallway. Wearing a plumed helmet and a saber at his side, surrounded by a crowd of officers and children, Emperor Franz Joseph advances through the crowd. In the background, imposing neo-Gothic buildings can be seen. The year is 1880, and the monarch is visiting one of Europe’s largest charitable institutions: the orphanage and hospice in Drohobych, founded according to the last will and testament of a wealthy Polish count.
These buildings, Rivera explains, are those now occupied by the Phoenix, which he has been working to open for nearly three years and which currently houses some forty IDPs. Intrigued by the site’s original philanthropic purpose—which their project seemed to echo—the American volunteer and his partner, Alina Kozik, also a volunteer, conducted their research and eventually discovered that this mysterious aristocrat’s institution, once situated in one of the northernmost provinces of Austria-Hungary, was organized around a fundamental concept: autonomy. Financial autonomy for the institution, which was endowed with several thousand hectares of forest and farmland; autonomy for the orphans, who were provided with a basic education and vocational training throughout their stay.
Dwindling financial support, long-term housing needs
If the history of the place fascinates our interviewee so much, it is because, in a very different context, the autonomy of his shelter and the IDPs is precisely what concerns him; for in Ukraine, the gradual decline in international attention, as the conflict drags on, is accompanied by a growing difficulty in raising funds for volunteer organizations.
However, Rivera argues, the way traditional refugee reception centers operate makes them entirely dependent on external financial contributions, since acquiring the resources necessary for their operation relies almost entirely on spending money and on the performance of daily tasks by external personnel, whether paid or volunteer. From his perspective, this organizational model is not compatible with long-term sustainability. “People end up settling in and stop thinking about moving on,” he explains. “And the reception centers fill up. And then, what do we do? We end up with a resource-draining structure, even as donations decline and government support dwindles.”
In the volunteer’s view, the situation is concerning, given that the need to accommodate internally displaced persons remains pressing. For the past year and a half, with the exception of last month, the Russian army has continued to advance, causing fresh population displacements. Furthermore, he believes it would be prudent to maintain a robust reception capacity in Ukraine’s border regions to cope with a potential new wave of departures. “In October 2022, Russia launched the first wave of large-scale attacks across the entire Ukrainian territory […]. This caused a massive influx of refugees,” he recalls, noting that some of them had to spend the night outdoors. Our interviewee emphasizes that he speaks from experience. Between April 2022 and July 2024, he helped establish and operate various volunteer-run reception centers in Przemyśl, Poland.
Even if “the war were to end tomorrow,” Rivera reasons, “there would still be a huge number of displaced people. Many will try to return to Ukraine without having anywhere to go. So we’ll continue our work even after the war ends.” The end of the war… What our interviewee anticipates is that it will likely be accompanied by an even sharper decline in donations and grants for humanitarian projects in Ukraine. Also, trying to fund a long-term project by relying on external funding is “simply not viable,” explains the man who, just a few years ago, held the position of account manager at an American communications agency. “So when we set up the Phoenix, the first question was: how do we create something that is financially viable? That’s the key element.” Rivera therefore worked to identify the main operating costs of his future shelter, in order to find a way to minimize each one and achieve “a form of self-sufficiency”.
Financial frugality
“At the Phoenix, we had a well dug so we no longer pay water bills […]. We have pigs. One sow is pregnant and we plan to slaughter another pig, which will provide us with meat […] . Then there are also chickens, which provide eggs.” Furthermore, our interviewee continues enthusiastically, “we brought in a baker who taught the residents how to make bread. So we bake our own bread every day, which costs about a quarter of the price of the same amount of bread bought in a store.” The lesson has borne fruit, and the refugees seem to be making full use of the large communal kitchen where our conversation carries on: the bread, fresh out of the oven, is excellent.
Regarding the cost of electricity and ensuring the shelter’s supply, Rivera notes that a solution is being developed. A few months ago, he managed to forge a partnership with an American company representative he met at an international conference dedicated to the reconstruction of Ukraine. The company, our host explains, “has agreed to donate wind turbines capable of producing 300 kilowatts of continuous electricity.” It remains to be decided how this energy, which is intermittent by nature, should be used.
“Then,” Rivera continues, momentarily interrupted by the shrill sound of a video that a little boy, sitting a few tables away, has just played on a phone, “there’s the heating. Heating this winter killed us. It cost us $2,500 a month,” he adds by way of introduction. Given the four-meter-high ceilings in the common areas of this building, which lacks thermal insulation, the figure seems almost modest. Especially after such a harsh winter. “You know what Bitcoin mining is, don’t you?” he continues with a smirk, before pointing out that the computer servers needed to produce cryptocurrency generate a large amount of heat.
This heat “is generally seen as waste”; but in Ukraine, he points out, some companies specialize in installing water heating systems that operate by recovering this heat, which could then power the shelter’s radiators. The project seems as complex as it is intriguing. Rivera explains: in addition to saving money, the goal would be to create a stable source of income for the shelter, which could be achieved by renting out part of the available space to a company, or by launching a cryptocurrency mining operation whose profits would be donated to the shelter.
Daily tasks: routine and therapy
The autonomy so desired by our host and his colleagues also depends on the IDPs’ own involvement. “Cooking, cleaning… all these tasks have to be done every day. So, every month, we ask our residents, ‘Okay, who wants to do what? Team up, form a group, make a schedule, and get the work done,” he explains, pointing to the schedule posted on the door of the large kitchen fridge.
This call for participation in the shelter’s day-to-day management, Rivera continues, after petting his dog—who came with him from the United States and never leaves his side—is not solely driven by financial considerations. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with twelve-step programs,” he continues, before clarifying that this refers to how self-help groups such as Alcoholics Anonymous operate and that this is the model he draws inspiration from. “The primary strength of these recovery groups,” he explains, “is that you find yourself in a group of people who are in exactly the same situation as you.” A sense of community that instinctively drives participants to create “mutual support structures.” Thus, he adds, IDPs “provide a form of therapy for one another, without even realizing it. And they form new bonds. They fled as families and now move forward as a group,” Rivera explains, before adding that he has already successfully implemented this approach in one of the shelters in Poland that he helped set up.
In traditional shelters, he comments, “What do the residents have left to do during the day? Sit around? Brood? Get depressed?” he asks rhetorically. People need to get involved; and we need to ensure they maintain a rhythm [of life] that is close to what they had before, but different enough [that is, with enough free time – Editor’s note.] so they can remain open to the opportunities that come their way.” Rivera is deeply convinced of the effectiveness of the method that inspires him. “As for me,” he confides, “I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober for four years, soon to be five. This [type of] support group saved my life.” While socialization is important for adults, it is equally vital for the twenty or so children living at The Phoenix, whose residence in areas near the front lines has deprived them of interaction with their peers for months at a time. Gardening workshops, outdoor activities, English classes—Alina, Rivera, and the other volunteers do their best to encourage the children to interact, while also encouraging parents to organize activities themselves; and the volunteers try to host a movie night every week – “that’s why we have a popcorn machine,” concludes Rivera, pointing to the curious contraption sitting in a corner of the kitchen.
IDPs Speak Out
When asked to comment on The Phoenix’s participatory approach, none of the three refugees we interviewed had any reason to complain. Lost in their thoughts following a difficult evacuation and consequently not very talkative, they nevertheless seem satisfied with their living conditions. “We were warmly welcomed; we’ve all become very close […],” says Natalia, 33, originally from the Dnipropetrovsk Oblast. “I was worried about how we would fit in here,” she continues, “because [it meant] living with strangers […]. But the fact that other people have gone through similar experiences and are very supportive, despite their own difficulties—because it’s hard for everyone—means we support one another and have become like a family.”
Natalia arrived two and a half months ago with three of her four children—aged eight, three, and one—her father, and her sister-in-law. Her mother, meanwhile, died of her injuries following a bombing. As the front line was closing in dangerously on her village, the authorities announced the mandatory evacuation of families with children. Visibly anxious, she tells her story with her head resting on her clasped hands, sometimes speaking with her eyes closed. The shelter’s participatory approach also seems to have won over her husband, Leonid, a 42-year-old volunteer soldier who came to visit his family during one of his rare leaves. “I’m used to it; it’s a bit like the army,” he comments, amused. Formerly a farm worker, he traveled across the country to reach the shelter. “Mutual aid is crucial. That’s why I’m pitching in too. For example, when there are things to load, to move […]. Today, I also helped scrub,” he adds cheerfully, despite his visible fatigue.
Listening to Natalia and Leonid, it’s clear that the future remains uncertain. If the family’s means allow it, perhaps Natalia and the children will return further east to be closer to Leonid. If not, this reserved woman is considering how to enroll her children in in-person classes at a local school. The same goes for Oleksandr and Yulia, originally from Khuliaipole (Zaporizhzhia Oblast), who accompanied Natalia during her interview.
“We miss our home,” says Oleksandr. “We’ll see when the war ends,” adds Yulia. “We have nowhere to go back to. Of course we have land, but what use is it [without a house]?” Having arrived two months ago, our two interviewees have resumed some of their old routines: Yulia takes care of their four children; and Oleksandr has found a job in agriculture. In his free time, Natalia adds, he drives residents who don’t have a driver’s license to their destinations in one of the shelter’s vehicles. “Even at night, to take the children to the hospital, for example,” she says in her soft voice.
Projects and Construction
These initial signs are encouraging; and courage is needed to see the Phoenix project through, as the former orphanage appears to have been left to decay for decades. Fitting out the 12 shared rooms for IDPs, repairing the electrical and plumbing systems, setting up the kitchen, installing surveillance cameras… The projects that Jay and Alina managed to oversee ahead of the shelter’s opening are already numerous; and the work isn’t finished: large toilet facilities are under construction so that men and women, including those with disabilities, can have separate spaces. In the meantime, Jay explains, “we have different shower schedules for men and women. ”
In the coming months, he adds, the second floor of the building will house veterans accompanied by their families, totaling about thirty people. The project, carried out in partnership with two hospitals in Lviv, aims to help war-wounded individuals and their families relearn how to live together, sometimes after years of separation—drawing on the same methods that underpin the operation of the current shelter. To this end, seven apartments are currently being fitted out. The next step: ensuring access to the various floors for people with limited mobility. Another major undertaking, especially since the building is a designated historic monument.
Of course, there’s also the maintenance work and small improvements, as Thierry Willems—alias Captain Sunflower—points out. He’s a volunteer from the Brussels suburbs who joined the project in June 2025. Building a canopy near the entrance, fences for the shelter’s small farm, a dog kennel… nothing seems to faze him. Especially since, once again, the IDPs often lend a hand: “We do everything together,” sums up the former military counterterrorism specialist. Thanks to his personal network and Rivera’s contacts, Willems has the necessary tools and has set up a workshop. When asked about his most complicated project, he answers with that mischievous smile often seen on soldiers’ faces. “This winter, with temperatures of -25°C, the castle got cold. And so did the pipes,” he says, before explaining that the water drawn from the shelter’s well is sent to a tank located on the top floor of one of the towers in the wing occupied by the center.
With such temperatures, he continues, the pipes carrying water from the cistern through the attics began to freeze. “So we had to install systems […]. [With other volunteers,] we wrapped heating elements around the pipes and insulated them. And we did that in temperatures of -13 and -18,” he explains, before leading us into the attic, where the system winds its way over some fifty meters. “It’s a relatively open space,” he comments, pointing to the gaping skylights. So, while waiting for the roof to be repaired, Willems and his teammates had to work in 30 cm of snow. “And so I lay there with the soldering iron to make the connections […]. I’d wrap my hands around the soldering iron while it heated up. Then I’d let go, make my two solder joints […] put my gloves back on [and] move forward a meter or two,” he summarizes, still moved by this incredible experience.
Antoine Laurent is a freelance journalist. A contributor to the Swiss bimonthly Echo Magazine, the Italian media Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso Transeuropa, and other publications on a more ad hoc basis (Le Courrier de Genève, Linkiesta, etc.).