Latest news with #Leonid
Yahoo
5 days ago
- General
- Yahoo
‘Without your mum, something is missing': The children left behind by migrant parents
In the village of Salchia, in southern Moldova, 14-year-old Mihail misses his mother. At lunchtime and in the evenings, he calls her on Viber or WhatsApp. But it's not the same as having her at home. 'Without your mum, something is missing, right?' he says. When Mihail was just a baby, both of his parents left the country to find work – a necessity in a poor rural region where opportunities are scarce. He was raised by his grandparents and aunts. Now that he's older, his parents take turns staying with him while the other works abroad. At present, his mother is employed on a farm in Italy. 'He's at a sensitive age now, so one of us is always at home with him. But if neither of us went abroad, it would be hard for us to make ends meet,' says Mihail's father, Leonid. There are millions of children like Mihail around the world, kids whose parents leave their impoverished home regions in Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, China or South America in search of work, higher wages and better prospects. Academics refer to them as 'children left behind'. In Moldova, more than 20 per cent of all children are estimated to have at least one parent working abroad. In China, tens of millions of children are believed to have been left in the care of relatives in rural areas while their parents migrate to cities in search of jobs. In the Philippines, one of the world's leading labour-exporting countries, nearly a quarter of children are growing up without one or both parents at home. In Indonesia, over 11 million of the country's 84 million children are thought to live in similar circumstances, while in Venezuela the figure stands at 800,000 out of a total child population of nine million. It's a situation that was once common in Western Europe, particularly during the industrial revolution, when the migration of adults from rural areas to towns and cities – a pattern of development – took off. Weighing up the pros and cons of parental labour migration for the children left behind is no simple task. In many cases, children in these families enjoy better material conditions than their peers. But a large body of research – much of it conducted in China – shows that they also seem to face significantly higher risks of anxiety, depression, and antisocial behaviour. When 29-year-old Moldovan Ecaterina Grati was a child, her father left their home country to work abroad. By the time she was eight and her brother three, their mother had also gone, to Russia. The two siblings were left in the care of their grandmother. 'It was scary, being without both mum and dad,' she recalls. 'I felt very sorry for my little brother. He cried a lot when mum left. We tried to distract him, saying she'd be back soon, and so on. But overall, we both probably felt fear.' Her childhood was tough. At the time, she couldn't understand why her parents had gone, but she now recognises they had no real choice. There were simply no other means of making a living and giving their children a decent life. 'For my parents, it's still a painful subject,' she says. 'Mum always cries when we talk about that time.' Growing up, she more or less raised herself and took on a big share of responsibility for her little brother. But the hardship also brought strength. She developed a strong sense of initiative and independence, traits that have served her well in adult life. Today, at 29, she runs her own cleaning business. 'My childhood taught me that you have to rely on yourself,' she says. The ability to take responsibility and act independently is a trait that sociologist Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri and her husband and colleague, social scientist Áron Telegdi-Csetri, have also observed in children left behind by migrating parents. The couple, based at the CASTLE Centre for the Study of Transnational Families at Romania's Babeș-Bolyai University, have studied children in Romania, Ukraine and Moldova. 'Many of them even tend to view children whose parents stay with them as spoiled,' says Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri. The children were often also understanding of why their parents had left. Áron Telegdi-Csetri recalls interviewing a Ukrainian teenager who was asked whether his parents had involved him in the decision to work abroad. 'There was nothing to discuss, not even for our parents. They had no choice,' he replied. Because the phenomenon still carries a degree of structural stigma in parts of Eastern Europe, the researchers sometimes encountered what Áron describes as 'a peculiar reflex' among the children. 'I've noticed that they'll say other parents might have abandoned their children – but 'my parents didn't abandon me.' There's a strong impulse to defend them,' he says. In the early years after her parents left, Ecaterina Grati could barely speak to them at all, a silence that only deepened her sense of abandonment. 'Phone calls to Russia were expensive, and this was before video calls became common,' she says. Later, as communication technology improved, keeping in touch became easier. But even today, many parents can't afford mobile data for video calls in the first months after migrating, says Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri. Until they've earned their first pay cheques, contact with children back home can be sporadic at best. That's why the CASTLE project has proposed that local authorities provide emergency communication kits to transnational families. 'Because the first months of migration are the hardest,' says Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri. China is believed to have the world's largest population of left-behind children – a result, in large part, of the hukou system, a household registration policy that restricts access to public services for rural migrants working in cities. As a consequence, many parents are forced to leave their children behind in home villages while they seek employment in urban areas. Xiaojin Chen, a sociologist at Tulane University in the United States, has spent several years studying China's left-behind children. Unlike the Romanian researchers, he hasn't observed a trend toward greater independence and sense of responsibility among these children. Rather the opposite. 'A lot of times, the grandparents become very protective. They know that they have the responsibility to make sure the children are safe,' he says. Many studies have highlighted negative psychological effects experienced by China's left-behind children, such as depression. But results vary and Xiaojin Chen argues that psychological well-being is difficult to measure. 'On average, compared with children who live with both parents, these children may be a little more isolated, and they're probably not as active as other kids,' he says. Yet, he often observes that the social bonds with grandparents can, in many cases, almost entirely replace those with the parents, who may only see their children once or twice a year. 'In Western culture, we tend to assume that the emotional bond must come from the nuclear family. But in more traditional rural China, a strong emotional connection with grandparents can be enough. If that bond exists, the child should be fine,' says Xiaojin Chen. From time to time, moral debates flare up in China, where migrant families are stereotyped as dysfunctional. Parents are cast as neglectful, their left-behind children traumatised and with grandparents ill-equipped to care for them. It became especially clear last spring, after three 13-year-olds in the Hebei Province murdered another 13-year-old whom they had bullied for a long time. Both the victim and the perpetrators were children of migrant workers and had been left in the care of relatives. Xiaojin Chen has not found any strong evidence that left-behind children are significantly more prone to criminal behaviour, although some studies suggest otherwise. What he has observed, however, is an increased risk for some of these children to become victims of bullying or sexual abuse, particularly when no strong guardian is present. Overall, it is children who grow up with both parents absent and only a single grandparent – often elderly and frail – who are most at risk, Chen argues. 'That is a huge risk factor,' he says. When Xiaojin Chen reflects on the long-term social consequences of millions of Chinese children growing up without their parents, he sees one threat in particular. What will happen to the intergenerational informal contract – the long-standing expectation in rural China that children will care for their parents in old age? 'The emotional connection between parents and the children left behind is very weak. Will they really take care of their migrant parents when they become older? We don't know that yet.' In Moldova, Ecaterina Grati sees how children who, like her, grew up without their parents often end up following the same path. 'Most children in such families grow up believing that the only way to earn a decent living is by going abroad. They have no role models who've succeeded at home,' she says. Even though she now understands why her parents made that choice, she could never bring herself to leave her six-year-old daughter behind to work in another country. 'I don't want my child to go through the same thing.' But 14-year-old Mihail has already made up his mind. He plans to do exactly what his parents did when he's older. 'I will leave,' he says. 'There's nothing here. No jobs, no people. Everybody already left.' Protect yourself and your family by learning more about Global Health Security Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
Telegraph
5 days ago
- Business
- Telegraph
‘Without your mum, something is missing': The children left behind by migrant parents
In the village of Salchia, in southern Moldova, 14-year-old Mihail misses his mother. At lunchtime and in the evenings, he calls her on Viber or WhatsApp. But it's not the same as having her at home. 'Without your mum, something is missing, right?' he says. When Mihail was just a baby, both of his parents left the country to find work – a necessity in a poor rural region where opportunities are scarce. He was raised by his grandparents and aunts. Now that he's older, his parents take turns staying with him while the other works abroad. At present, his mother is employed on a farm in Italy. 'He's at a sensitive age now, so one of us is always at home with him. But if neither of us went abroad, it would be hard for us to make ends meet,' says Mihail's father, Leonid. There are millions of children like Mihail around the world, kids whose parents leave their impoverished home regions in Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, China or South America in search of work, higher wages and better prospects. Academics refer to them as 'children left behind'. In Moldova, more than 20 per cent of all children are estimated to have at least one parent working abroad. In China, tens of millions of children are believed to have been left in the care of relatives in rural areas while their parents migrate to cities in search of jobs. In the Philippines, one of the world's leading labour-exporting countries, nearly a quarter of children are growing up without one or both parents at home. In Indonesia, over 11 million of the country's 84 million children are thought to live in similar circumstances, while in Venezuela the figure stands at 800,000 out of a total child population of nine million. It's a situation that was once common in Western Europe, particularly during the industrial revolution, when the migration of adults from rural areas to towns and cities – a pattern of development – took off. Weighing up the pros and cons of parental labour migration for the children left behind is no simple task. In many cases, children in these families enjoy better material conditions than their peers. But a large body of research – much of it conducted in China – shows that they also seem to face significantly higher risks of anxiety, depression, and antisocial behaviour. When 29-year-old Moldovan Ecaterina Grati was a child, her father left their home country to work abroad. By the time she was eight and her brother three, their mother had also gone, to Russia. The two siblings were left in the care of their grandmother. 'It was scary, being without both mum and dad,' she recalls. 'I felt very sorry for my little brother. He cried a lot when mum left. We tried to distract him, saying she'd be back soon, and so on. But overall, we both probably felt fear.' Her childhood was tough. At the time, she couldn't understand why her parents had gone, but she now recognises they had no real choice. There were simply no other means of making a living and giving their children a decent life. 'For my parents, it's still a painful subject,' she says. 'Mum always cries when we talk about that time.' Growing up, she more or less raised herself and took on a big share of responsibility for her little brother. But the hardship also brought strength. She developed a strong sense of initiative and independence, traits that have served her well in adult life. Today, at 29, she runs her own cleaning business. 'My childhood taught me that you have to rely on yourself,' she says. The ability to take responsibility and act independently is a trait that sociologist Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri and her husband and colleague, social scientist Áron Telegdi-Csetri, have also observed in children left behind by migrating parents. The couple, based at the CASTLE Centre for the Study of Transnational Families at Romania's Babeș-Bolyai University, have studied children in Romania, Ukraine and Moldova. 'Many of them even tend to view children whose parents stay with them as spoiled,' says Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri. The children were often also understanding of why their parents had left. Áron Telegdi-Csetri recalls interviewing a Ukrainian teenager who was asked whether his parents had involved him in the decision to work abroad. 'There was nothing to discuss, not even for our parents. They had no choice,' he replied. Because the phenomenon still carries a degree of structural stigma in parts of Eastern Europe, the researchers sometimes encountered what Áron describes as 'a peculiar reflex' among the children. 'I've noticed that they'll say other parents might have abandoned their children – but 'my parents didn't abandon me.' There's a strong impulse to defend them,' he says. In the early years after her parents left, Ecaterina Grati could barely speak to them at all, a silence that only deepened her sense of abandonment. 'Phone calls to Russia were expensive, and this was before video calls became common,' she says. Later, as communication technology improved, keeping in touch became easier. But even today, many parents can't afford mobile data for video calls in the first months after migrating, says Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri. Until they've earned their first pay cheques, contact with children back home can be sporadic at best. That's why the CASTLE project has proposed that local authorities provide emergency communication kits to transnational families. 'Because the first months of migration are the hardest,' says Viorela Ducu Telegdi-Csetri. China is believed to have the world's largest population of left-behind children – a result, in large part, of the hukou system, a household registration policy that restricts access to public services for rural migrants working in cities. As a consequence, many parents are forced to leave their children behind in home villages while they seek employment in urban areas. Xiaojin Chen, a sociologist at Tulane University in the United States, has spent several years studying China's left-behind children. Unlike the Romanian researchers, he hasn't observed a trend toward greater independence and sense of responsibility among these children. Rather the opposite. 'A lot of times, the grandparents become very protective. They know that they have the responsibility to make sure the children are safe,' he says. Many studies have highlighted negative psychological effects experienced by China's left-behind children, such as depression. But results vary and Xiaojin Chen argues that psychological well-being is difficult to measure. 'On average, compared with children who live with both parents, these children may be a little more isolated, and they're probably not as active as other kids,' he says. Yet, he often observes that the social bonds with grandparents can, in many cases, almost entirely replace those with the parents, who may only see their children once or twice a year. 'In Western culture, we tend to assume that the emotional bond must come from the nuclear family. But in more traditional rural China, a strong emotional connection with grandparents can be enough. If that bond exists, the child should be fine,' says Xiaojin Chen. From time to time, moral debates flare up in China, where migrant families are stereotyped as dysfunctional. Parents are cast as neglectful, their left-behind children traumatised and with grandparents ill-equipped to care for them. It became especially clear last spring, after three 13-year-olds in the Hebei Province murdered another 13-year-old whom they had bullied for a long time. Both the victim and the perpetrators were children of migrant workers and had been left in the care of relatives. Xiaojin Chen has not found any strong evidence that left-behind children are significantly more prone to criminal behaviour, although some studies suggest otherwise. What he has observed, however, is an increased risk for some of these children to become victims of bullying or sexual abuse, particularly when no strong guardian is present. Overall, it is children who grow up with both parents absent and only a single grandparent – often elderly and frail – who are most at risk, Chen argues. 'That is a huge risk factor,' he says. When Xiaojin Chen reflects on the long-term social consequences of millions of Chinese children growing up without their parents, he sees one threat in particular. What will happen to the intergenerational informal contract – the long-standing expectation in rural China that children will care for their parents in old age? 'The emotional connection between parents and the children left behind is very weak. Will they really take care of their migrant parents when they become older? We don't know that yet.' In Moldova, Ecaterina Grati sees how children who, like her, grew up without their parents often end up following the same path. 'Most children in such families grow up believing that the only way to earn a decent living is by going abroad. They have no role models who've succeeded at home,' she says. Even though she now understands why her parents made that choice, she could never bring herself to leave her six-year-old daughter behind to work in another country. 'I don't want my child to go through the same thing.' But 14-year-old Mihail has already made up his mind. He plans to do exactly what his parents did when he's older. 'I will leave,' he says. 'There's nothing here. No jobs, no people. Everybody already left.'
Business Wire
6 days ago
- Business
- Business Wire
Leonid Capital Partners Taps STATION DC to Launch Washington Headquarters, Accelerate Defense-Tech Investment
WASHINGTON, D.C.--(BUSINESS WIRE)--Leonid Capital Partners, the Orange County, CA.-based Trusted Capital Partner to the U.S. Department of Defense, today announced a partnership with STATION DC, the nonprofit tech incubator and members club where frontier-tech founders, investors, military leaders, and policymakers meet. By anchoring its first permanent District office inside STATION DC's Union Market clubhouse, Leonid will accelerate local investment, job creation, and policy engagement—delivering on the spirit of the city's focus on attracting the tech sector, including Mayor Muriel Bowser's Growth Agenda and Tech Ecosystem Fund, which are now before the D.C. Council. 'Washington is where policy meets possibility—exactly where Leonid needs to be,' said James Parker, Co-Founding Partner of Leonid Capital Partners. 'Partnering with STATION DC lets us plant our flag in the capital, expand our checkbook for D.C. innovators, and give defense-tech founders a turnkey gateway to the relationships that move the needle. We're committed to financing more companies here, supporting the local talent pipeline, and helping keep America competitive.' 'The proposed Tech Ecosystem Fund was designed to help spark partnerships just like this that attract world-class investors to DC,' said James Barlia, Executive Director of STATION DC. 'Leonid's capital and operating know-how—paired with our network, programming, and convening power—will shrink the distance between a founder's prototype and a Pentagon contract while keeping the economic upside and jobs right here in the District.' Partnership Highlights: Establishing Leonid's first permanent D.C. workspace inside STATION DC's Union Market clubhouse—providing proximity to policymakers and federal buyers. Increasing capital investment in the region's growing defense and dual-use innovation ecosystem. Co-hosting private salons, roundtables, and strategic convenings with founders, government leaders, and investors focused on accelerating innovation tied to national purpose. Providing mentorship and community support to STATION DC members, including early-stage founders navigating the complexities of federal contracting and scale. These benefits are designed to scale with additional corporate partners and to showcase how programs like the Tech Ecosystem Fund, the District's proposed $2.4 million investment in business accelerators and incubators for start-up tech companies in DC, can unlock a surge of private capital, world-class talent, cross-sector partnerships, and mission-driven innovation—cementing D.C. as the front door for America's tech competitiveness future. About Leonid Capital Partners Leonid Capital Partners is a leading provider of flexible, non-dilutive investments for venture-backed defense and dual-use technology companies. By pairing deep government-contracting expertise with tailored capital solutions, Leonid accelerates growth for founders advancing U.S. national security. STATION DC is a nonprofit members club and convening space accelerating American innovation at the intersection of technology, policy, and capital. Located in Union Market, STATION DC hosts salons, summits, and working sessions that strengthen the nation's competitive edge.
Hindustan Times
25-04-2025
- Health
- Hindustan Times
Russian doctor who cut out his appendix on 1961 Antarctic expedition has a remarkable story. Here's what happened
In a May 2015 interview with BBC News, Russian surgeon Leonid Rogozov's son Vladislav shared how his father successfully performed surgery on himself to remove an infected appendix, using local anaesthesia and a mirror to guide his movements as there were no other medical options available. Also read | Building up India's health: A 1951 essay by health minister Amrit Kaur, from the HT archives This happened in 1961, when the then 27-year-old surgeon – who was the only doctor on a team of 12 – became seriously ill while on an expedition to the Antarctic. He was part of the sixth Soviet Antarctic expedition sent to build a new base at the Schirmacher Oasis. As the polar winter rolled in, Leonid reportedly started to feel tired, weak and nauseous, and later a strong pain developed down the right side of his abdomen. Vladislav recalled: 'Being a surgeon, he had no difficulty in diagnosing acute appendicitis... It was a condition he'd operated on many times, and in the civilised world it's a routine operation. But unfortunately, he didn't find himself in the civilised world – instead, he was in the middle of a polar wasteland.' Vladislav shared that his father's life was in danger, and he had no hope of outside help: the journey from Russia to the Antarctic had taken 36 days by sea, and the ship wouldn't be back for another year, while flying was impossible because of the snow and blizzards. He recalled how his father made the decision that he would perform an auto-appendectomy rather than die not doing anything. 'He was confronted with a very difficult situation of life and death. He could wait for no help, or make an attempt to operate on himself... he had to open his own abdomen to take his intestines out. He didn't know if that was humanly possible... if my father was to fail and die it would definitely put a hard hat of negative publicity on the Soviet Antarctic programme,' Vladislav said. Leonid had two assistants to hold up a mirror, position the lamp, hand him instruments and wipe the sweat off his forehead as he went to work. The surgery was a success and Leonid was reportedly able to resume his duties after two weeks. Upon his return from the expedition, he worked as a doctor in different hospitals in Leningrad. He died in 2000 at age 66. A post shared by History Cool Kids (@historycoolkids) In an April 24 Instagram post, History Cool Kids, an Instagram account that's filled with pictures and touching stories from moments in history, shared Leonid's thoughts gathered in his journal. An excerpt read, 'I did not sleep at all last night. It hurts like the devil! A snowstorm whipping through my soul, wailing like a hundred jackals. Still no obvious symptoms that perforation is imminent, but an oppressive feeling of foreboding hangs over me... This is it... I have to think through the only possible way out: to operate on myself... It's almost impossible... but I can't just fold my arms and give up.' His journal entry continued: 'I worked without gloves. It was hard to see. The mirror helps, but it also hinders—after all, it's showing things backwards. I work mainly by touch. The bleeding is quite heavy, but I take my time—I try to work surely. Opening the peritoneum, I injured the blind gut and had to sew it up. Suddenly it flashed through my mind: there are more injuries here and I didn't notice them ... I grow weaker and weaker, my head starts to spin. Every 4-5 minutes I rest for 20-25 seconds. Finally, here it is, the cursed appendage! With horror I notice the dark stain at its base. That means just a day longer and it would have burst and ... At the worst moment of removing the appendix I flagged: my heart seized up and noticeably slowed; my hands felt like rubber. Well, I thought, it's going to end badly. And all that was left was removing the appendix ... And then I realised that, basically, I was already saved.'
Yahoo
24-02-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Ukrainian emigres face uncertain future in Manitoba on anniversary of invasion
Nearly 30,000 Ukrainians have settled in Manitoba since Russia's full-scale invasion of their country in February 2022. Now, challenges with their documents and hurdles in the permanent residency process have many of the newcomers anxious about their future in Canada. Leonid Isakov, 29, and his wife, Tetiana Isakova, 32, say they try to book an appointment online with the Consulate General of Ukraine in Toronto, but automated messages repeatedly tell them the bookings are full. The couple's calls to the consulate also go unanswered. They need an appointment to renew Leonid's passport, which expires next Decemberr. Without it, he can't extend his open work permit to live and continue working as a heavy-duty mechanic. "I need live here, because if I no live here, I come back Ukraine, and I dead," Leonid told CBC News at his home in Carman, a community about 60 kilometres southwest of Winnipeg. Leonid Isakov and his wife Tetiana Isakova are anxious to have Leonid's passport renewed, so he can apply for an open work permit extension to stay in Canada. (Rudi Pawlychyn/CBC) The couple and their eight-year-old son, Mark, have called the town home for nearly two years. "We want to stay, because in Ukraine … not safe now. Not safe for us, for my son," Tetiana said, adding they're nervous about their future. The Ukrainian Canadian Congress of Manitoba (UCCM) says many Ukrainian newcomers are dealing with a host of paperwork problems, including expiring passports — especially men of military age from 18 to 60 years old. Newcomers who arrived in Manitoba under the Canada-Ukraine Authorization for Emergency Travel (CUAET) program have until March 31 to apply for study visas or work permit extensions. Ukrainian men can't get their passports renewed in Canada unless they're registered with the Ukrainian military through an app called Rezerv+, the UCCM's Ostap Skrypnyk said Thursday. "Some people are having difficulty accessing [the app] … [and] some people are worried that if they do register, they'll get a draft notice so they're caught in a little bit of a situation that they can't get consular services from the Ukrainian government until they have that." Leonid feard renewing his Ukrainian passport because men of military age are prohibited from leaving the country. "We [are] stuck in this situation," Tetiana said. Ostap Skrypnyk with the Ukrainian Canadian Congress of Manitoba says many Ukrainian newcomers — especially men of military age from 18 to 60 years old — are dealing with a host of paperwork problems, including expiring passports. (Rudi Pawlychyn/CBC) Last month, Immigration Minister Marc Miller said that while he would not force Ukrainian newcomers to go back to a war zone, he did not agree to the UCCM's call to automatically renew their emergency visas. Instead, he said, they must apply for student visas or work permits if they are interested in staying longer as temporary residents. Skrypnyk says he's optimistic Ukrainian newcomers won't have to leave Canada if they don't want to. WATCH | Ukrainian newcomers face hurdles in the permanent residency process: "We met with Minister Miller, the immigration minister, a couple of weeks ago when he was in Winnipeg, and I think they're willing to look at solutions within the law or within the regulations to have some understanding of people [who] have these little timing hiccups." Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada (IRCC) has told CBC News it might consider exemptions to the passport requirement under exceptional circumstances, but applicants must explain why. Reduction in provincial nominee slots Last year, Leonid and Tetiana filed an expression of interest with the Manitoba provincial nominee program (MPNP), which offers a pathway to permanent residency, but they say they have yet to get a response. Yuliaa Venhryniuk, 26, is also waiting in the applicant pool. The lawyer arrived in Winnipeg in 2023, and got a job at a laundry company before landing one in her field as a legal assistant. Applicants have to have worked full-time for an employer in Manitoba for at least six consecutive months to be eligible for the nominee program. The province periodically chooses from people who've expressed interest, who are then invited to apply to the program. The draws are not random but determined using a ranking scale, with points awarded for a range of factors. Venhryniuk changed jobs before the six-month mark and says she missed her opportunity under the last Ukrainian newcomer draw last year, despite now having a high score. Getting her legal education recognized in Canada through further studies would be more affordable and easier as a permanent resident, she said. "It's worrying me, because … you want to make some plans for [the] future, right?" Venhryniuk said. Yuliia Venhryniuk says she hopes she's accepted into Manitoba's provincial nominee program, which will help her get permanent residency. (Submitted by Yuliia Venhryniuk) Many Ukrainian newcomers in Manitoba will find the nominee program even harder to get into due to a federal reduction in nominee slots, Skrypnyksaysd. Manitoba is only getting 4,750 slots through the program in 2025, which is half the number it received last year. Manitoba continues to negotiate with Ottawa about its allocations, a spokesperson for provincial Immigration Minister Malaya Marcelino said in an emailed statement on Friday. "It's adding to the anxiety, on top of which then they also have to worry about what's going on in Ukraine, right?" Skrypnyk said. Leonid Isakov, his wife Tetiana Isakova and their eight-year-old son, Mark, play a game of Jenga at their home in Carman, Manitoba. They've called the town home for nearly two years. (Rudi Pawlychyn/CBC) As for Leonid, he says he'll go to the Ukrainian consulate in Toronto without an appointment to resolve his passport woes if it comes to that. Asked what he would do if that doesn't work, he replied solemnly: "I don't know."
