‘We delivered babies, what else could we do? Blasts everywhere’: Giving birth in maternity ward near front line
A large male hand gently covers a tiny one. The baby has just been born, and its father, dirty and carrying a rifle, has rushed from the front line.
A woman gives birth accompanied by her mother-in-law because her husband was killed in combat.
Another mother constantly asks about her baby’s condition. During her pregnancy, she endured profound grief: her father was killed by a collapsing building wall after a strike. These are stories from a maternity ward in Zaporizhzhia, a city 30 kilometers from the front line, with four maternity units.
hromadske visited one of them.
We are in Zaporizhia, we are in Ukraine!
Oksana Sukmanovska is the deputy medical director for maternity and childhood at City Hospital No. 9. She’s also a doctor who, over 34 years, has delivered tens of thousands of babies. We talk in her office, where a paint-by-numbers picture of a mother and child hangs on the wall.
Oksana Petrivna shares memorable cases: a 15-year-old girl, her youngest mother; a woman so large no operating table could hold her, and no ultrasound could detect a heartbeat through layers of fat. During that delivery, the medical team doubled, with some holding fat folds by hand.
She recalls COVID times:
“People were dying by the hundreds across the city, but a pregnant woman’s death was seen as the worst crime in society’s eyes. We faced all sorts, but our biggest issues were patients with hemorrhages and high blood pressure. Overall, we had it good. They called us the ‘homey maternity ward’—quiet, cozy. We held open days, mental health relaxation days, celebrated Mother’s Day, and ran a responsible parenting school. Then the war came…”
Explosions hit nearby residential buildings and the DniproHPP dam, but the scariest sound was the low-flying planes. People panicked, scattering in all directions.
It took about a month to adapt the facility. Windows were covered with sandbags, flashlights were purchased, evacuation routes were mapped, power outlets were installed in the basement, a new operating room was set up, and generators were acquired.
Now, processes are streamlined: during air raid alerts, women can choose to move to a corridor with cribs or descend to a bomb shelter in the basement.
Interestingly, men who’ve become fathers and are allowed to stay with their wives in the wards are the most insistent about seeking shelter. So are sisters, grandmothers, and other relatives.
“Fathers have triple responsibility: for their wife, child, and themselves,” says Yevhen Averchenko, head of the maternity ward, joining the conversation. “But women who came from shelled areas go to the shelter without prompting. I remember spring 2022, when people from Mariupol and nearby areas reached Zaporizhzhia. They smelled of smoke, like from a factory. They arrived in overcrowded cars, taking 16 hours to cover 80 kilometers. They’d exhale: ‘Finally, we’re in Zaporizhzhia, we’re in Ukraine.’”
Mothers began to abandon their children
I ask both doctors, who are obstetrician-gynecologists, how childbirth has changed over the past three years.
“There are more children with infectious diseases. While a mother’s immunity is strong, it’s fine, but when it weakens, infections in her body reach the child through the placenta,” Oksana Petrivna says. “Also, the rate of C-sections has risen. The natural programming for normal delivery doesn’t kick in. Women, stressed, fear something will go wrong.”
“Births have dropped significantly. We used to have 1,600-1,700 babies a year; now it’s 800. Many women have left, and many don’t want to give birth. Interestingly, those who decide to have a child during war often already have two and a husband in the military,” Yevhen Hryhorovych adds.
Both sadly acknowledge that mothers have started abandoning newborns. This didn’t happen in 2022-2023. Last year, two children were left; this year, two already. That’s high for their ward.
Reasons vary: one mother, labeled “troubled,” had abandoned children before; another was in a common-law marriage, left the child, but the father wanted to take it. Since their relationship wasn’t formalized, he must go to court with a DNA test to prove paternity. A third woman’s husband was killed.
Mothers can sign a refusal or leave without explanation. After a month, the child is sent to an orphanage.
The ward staff is frustrated: they name the children, but orphanages change the names.
Women themselves choose which room to give birth in
Yevhen Averchenko gives a tour of the ward. No one’s giving birth now, so the four delivery rooms are empty except for equipment. On the first floor, there’s a windowless room inside the building, naturally protected. Women deliver there during air raid alerts and explosions.
If labor is advanced in a regular room, the mother stays put, no matter what’s happening outside. If it’s just contractions, she can choose: a regular room or the protected one. She has a few hours to decide.
Likewise, a mother decides whether to take a baby from intensive care to the basement. There’s a special bag for that.
Valeria Stolyar, 28, was lucky. She’s preparing for discharge with her daughter, and no missiles struck during her stay, so she didn’t need the shelter.
“They explained where to go if something was incoming,” the young mother says. Her daughter is so tiny, the bundle barely noticeable on the large bed.
I descend to the basement with Averchenko. There are sofas, cribs, chairs. Not only patients and staff but also local residents from nearby buildings are allowed in.
If, God forbid, there’s a collapse, there’s ventilation, multiple exits, a shower, and a toilet.
We let dad take a shower and fed him jellied meat
Valentyna Bobrova has been a midwife for 29 years, Tetiana Harkusha for 32. They stayed after the invasion and recall the first days of bombings and shelling with horror.
“We delivered babies, what else could we do? It’s booming here, thundering there. One woman was giving birth—when a blast hit nearby, even though the baby’s head was already out, we wheeled her into the corridor in a panic,” Tetiana Volodymyrivna says.
She shares a story of a Zaporizhzhia student whose parents lived in now-occupied Mykhailivka. She gave birth in the city while her mother navigated evacuation corridors to reach her. It was terrifying—her husband and son-in-law were at war, risking execution—but she made it and attended the birth.
Valentyna Oleksiyivna remembers pregnant women from Kharkiv arriving after hiding in basements, bruised and wounded from falling debris.
“It’s heartbreaking to hear women’s personal stories,” Tetiana says. “We’re sitting in the corridor, and she looks into my eyes: ‘How should I tell you? Everything? How it really was?’”
I nod.
“One young woman gave birth; her husband’s in the military,” she continues. “Two hours after delivery, she asked several times: ‘Is the baby okay?’ I said: ‘Everything’s fine. Why are you so tense?’ She said: ‘My pregnancy was so hard.’ I replied: ‘Everyone’s is, everyone’s stressed.’ Turns out, during a shelling, part of a building in the city collapsed. One man died; everyone knew about it. It was her father. Her mother was in another room, and she was called to work that day. Her whole pregnancy was marked by this grief: losing a loved one…”
Another patient declared: “I won’t give birth until my husband’s back from the front.” The doctors exchanged glances: How do you stop labor? But she crossed her fingers and said, “His bus arrives in 10 minutes.”
“We left her alone, especially since four women were giving birth that day. Ten minutes later, he runs in, poor guy, grabbing wet wipes to clean up. I told him: ‘Go shower.’ The ICU girls shouted: ‘Tanya, you’ll get fired!’ I said: ‘Let them fire me.’ He showered, and we all fed him—even with jellied meat,” she laughs. “He came from the Forward Line of TroopsFLOT, starving!”
Many women now give birth with husbands in the army or injured. Some deliver with their husband nearby, only to become widows a month later. Another lost her husband while pregnant and gave birth with her mother-in-law, who held strong but broke down in tears at the end. The midwives cried and hugged her.
“Remember the girl who gave birth, and her husband was killed?” Tetiana turns to her colleague. “She was so distraught, she couldn’t attend his funeral. Another time, a wounded husband came for a birth. His knee was sticking out, bandaged, and it was a tough, long delivery. We gave him painkillers afterward.”
Stories pour out one after another.
“Many men come straight from the front. One got a scene from first-floor staff who didn’t want to let him in dirty. But we allowed it: he’s older, his wife’s first birth, a C-section, she was recovering. She expected him tomorrow. I threw a gown over him (he had his rifle, can’t leave it), and he went to his daughter. He stroked her tiny hand with his huge one. That mother was so happy! Here’s my boss, and I’ll say openly: ‘Hryhorovych, I let men shower, dirty ones into ICU. What else can I do?’”
Averchenko waves it off, signaling it’s fine.
Valentyna adds that in the early months after the invasion, people donated strollers, cribs, and clothes, filling a room. Mothers, though shy, took what they needed.
Love for changing diapers and washing butts
A young man, a father, rushes past. His wife is about to be discharged, and he’s off to get balloons. I catch him on the stairs.
This is Volodymyr Chufus, wearing a T-shirt that reads: “Smile, the worst is behind you.” He’s thrilled: “This is my second child. A daughter, Kamila. I’m a soldier, serving three years, got leave for the birth. I was there,” he beams as he speaks. “They placed her on my stomach—amazing feeling, indescribable. I didn’t have that with my son. I love it all: changing diapers, washing butts. I’ll get my wife balloons and flowers. Probably pink roses.” He hurries off.
The midwives I am talking to smile. They have seen many such fathers, almost all soldiers these past three years. Some patients were servicewomen, too.
“Our doctor Sonya, an anesthesiologist, went to fight. She met her love there and gave birth to a boy here,” Tetiana recalls happily. “Servicewomen are like others—scared, worried. We tease them: ‘What, so delicate? You’re a warrior!’”
Volodymyr races back with balloons and roses.
“Come back for a third!” I call, as maternity staff often do.