In recent years, so much has happened in Ukraine  that human rights activists seem to have adapted to everything… except the need to take care of themselves. Who will save the superheroes who are used to saving others?

We talk to Irina Vyrtosu. Irina Vyrtosu is a human rights activist, expert in non-discrimination and gender equality, and a journalist. She is a co-founder of the civil organizations “BUTY” and “Fight for Right,” and on behalf of the latter, she collaborates with the International Foundation for Electoral Systems (IFES). Irina is involved in the development of an inclusive civic education course for youth called “Democracy through Actions.” She is also a mother.

  On the left is a photo from the family album, and on the right is a picture of Irina at the “Open the Truth Against Violence” rally in support of the ratification of the Istanbul Convention, November 2021. Photo by Natalia Adamovich.

Irina has been advocating for human rights for 12 years. It all started on February 3, 2012. That was when Irina’s first article was published as part of her collaboration with the “Center for Human Rights Information” (now “ZMINA”), marking the beginning of a decade-long partnership. Subsequently, there were many years of fruitful work and struggle, protests and actions, projects, and dialogues with the authorities. During this time, human rights advocacy in Ukraine underwent a profound transformation — both the challenges and the ways of overcoming them became completely different. The human rights activists themselves also changed, and many of them realized that they need the same care that they are accustomed to giving to others. Irina Virtosu is among them.

What has changed in 12 years?

Irina explains that the country has always had problems, but the mechanisms for addressing them remained limited for a long time. Twelve years ago, the maximum one could expect was the opportunity to go out with a placard in the square and hope it wouldn’t end in a police van.

“We then monitored all cases of torture in police departments, had special instructions on how to act at rallies. We had many conversations with activists from Belarus and Russia—back then, there was still hope that something could be done together.”

Since then, through the efforts of activists and human rights defenders, much has changed. The crucial aspect is that it became not just possible to reach out to officials but also to make changes in collaboration with them, be partners, and propose better solutions.

The Human Rights Academy for journalism teachers, 2021 – from the family album.

The human rights movement itself became more professional—more tools of influence emerged beyond “tents and posters.” It became possible to set our own agenda, emphasize what matters to us, convey it to the authorities, and use tools that were once unthinkable.

“I was very happy for colleagues who organized an international human rights conference right in the Kyiv metro (‘Human Rights in Dark Times’ 09.12.22). At that time, Kyiv was under shelling, and it was very dangerous to hold events. My colleagues, in collaboration with the Ombudsman’s Office, organized a conference where they talked about human rights violations during the war, addressed issues in Crimea, discussed human rights protection—all on a partnership level. Ten years ago, this was unimaginable.”

Moreover, numerous civil organizations have emerged that disagree with the old approaches to government interaction. They seek new formats, engage social media, and begin to activate those who are accustomed to working by old rules.

“When you’ve been hitting a wall for 12 years, at some point, you start to notice changes: here was a solid wall covered in grass and mold, and now it’s transparent with the prospect of government accountability to the public.”

How not to burn out?

It’s crucial to separate your activities—be it human rights advocacy, volunteering, or any other—and your personal life. However, saying it is easier than implementing it. Irina recalls how, at the beginning of her career, inspired by numerous opportunities for learning and professional self-realization, she immersed herself entirely in her work, facing burnout as a result.

“There were times when I would come back from one trip and immediately prepare for another, and when I couldn’t find time to do laundry, I would just buy new clothes.”

Then came the birth of her child and maternity leave, bringing with it a real fear of falling out of the work scene and losing connections. However, she had to reduce her work pace to be with her daughter, and balancing both was extremely challenging—until the child started attending kindergarten.

And then came new challenges: working in quarantine conditions, transitioning to a new online work format, and later…

“Then, after a serious illness, my mother passed away. Eventually, by the end of 2021, I realized that my resources were not at zero, but at minus 100.”

Challenges were compounded by COVID, the need to adapt to new work formats. When it finally became clear that there were no more strength reserves, Irina decided to write a resignation letter and take a year off to reflect on everything that had happened and how to move forward. At that moment, a full-scale invasion occurred.

In the first few days, Irina was forced to take her child by the hand and cross the border. They lived there for 8 months.

During the day, she lived in Denmark, learning the language, and at night, she worked for Ukraine. Irina was involved in several projects, researching the evacuation of people with disabilities. There was no talk of vacation at all—there was neither time nor energy. Last year, they returned to Ukraine, and challenges were compounded by the fear for their lives.

“Then I realized that I couldn’t come up with or solve anything. The body says, ‘Come on, you need to rest.’ And there is no perfect time for rest. If you need to sleep, you need to sleep now, not in three years.”

The strength to do something ran out, the meaning faded, and the resources—emotional and financial—were exhausted. In this challenging time, family, friends, and colleagues became her support.

One of Irina’s colleagues advised her to turn to the Human Rights Education House and join the psychosocial rehabilitation program.

“He said, ‘Ira, they are really waiting for you there. You are their client.'”

When and how to ask for help?

The most challenging part, admits the human rights activist, is acknowledging that you need help, that you need someone to take care of you—especially when you’ve been doing it for others for the past 12 years. It becomes truly difficult to stop and recognize where you are.

“You know when it happens? When everything seems ‘fine.’ I took my daughter to Spain, to the warm sea. I’m from Skadovsk, now my hometown is under occupation, and they took away my sea. And here I am in Spain, my child peacefully sleeps at night, and I feel like screaming. Not because I’m in someone else’s Spain but because I could be at home, by my sea, with my loved ones. You go abroad so that your child has a peaceful time for a week or two, to know less about shelling, sleep in the corridor, explosions nearby.”

Irina with her daughter in Skadovsk. Photo from the family album.

Fatigue accumulates and is felt when the body has rested and has the strength for reflection. Then comes the most challenging part—realizing that it’s normal to need help.

Secondly, it’s understanding what you need and asking for it. Following the advice of her colleague, Irina turned to the Human Rights Education House.

“I felt something very valuable—respect for my dignity at different stages of communication with participants and organizers. They called me, clarified my request, and said: even if you don’t take anything from the program, at least you can finally get some rest.”

Irina recalls how she constantly justified herself: it’s not really that bad for her, maybe someone else needs help more. But the trainers quickly explained to her that she needed help, and asking for it is not shameful at all.

She remembers the atmosphere of safety and trust, acceptance of her as she is—an atmosphere in which it was easy to open up.

“I was remembered as the girl who constantly cried.”

Other participants even thanked her for it—thanks to her example, everyone could release their emotions by the end of the program.

She confesses that she went to the program with minimal expectations—just wanted to rest for at least a week. And the program provided that opportunity—unlike her usual training sessions, where everything is scheduled by the hour. In addition to that, it provided new tools for self-care.

“When trainer Nadiia Lokot taught us to greet our pain, it was initially wild for me. And now I constantly say to myself: oh, hello, tension in the neck, long time no see.”