The group gathers every Saturday to weave nets and assemble FPV drones at a site not far from the Russian embassy in Warsaw.
Standing in a line, they pushed strings of dark green fabric through a large mesh grid.
A signed flag from a Ukrainian battalion they supplied is hung on the wall.
In Ukraine, the nets are draped over cars, roads and equipment — hoping to make them invisible to the daily waves of Russian reconnaissance and attack drones.
The Warsaw group has produced some 35,000 square meters since they started in February 2023 — equivalent to five football pitches.
But lately, they have been struggling.
“Volunteering has become more complicated. Many people have stopped. Donations are harder to find, and there is fatigue,” Poplawska said.
“At the start of the full-scale invasion, many Poles came to help us. Unfortunately, now, they’re almost all gone,” she noted.
The difficulties come amid an uptick in anti-Ukrainian sentiment in Poland.
A December survey by CBOS, an independent Polish research center, found that 48 percent of Poles support accepting Ukrainian refugees — the lowest level since the start of the war.
Half said the level of aid provided to them was excessive.
At the start of the war, Poland opened its doors to people fleeing the Russian invasion. It still hosts around one million refugees, the second most in Europe.
But the 2025 presidential election, won by nationalist Karol Nawrocki, saw a surge in anti-Ukrainian messaging.
And Warsaw-Kyiv tensions erupted in June over World War II history.
New Polish transport rules, introduced in March, make it harder to get humanitarian aid into Ukraine.
Every truck is now subject to cumbersome bureaucracy and form-filling, prompting more and more carriers to cancel trips -- including the one used by the Warsaw group.
The 30-odd regular volunteers are determined to carry on.
Olga, from Kremenchuk in central Ukraine, works as a hairdresser six days a week, devoting her only day off to the effort.
She braids nets, but also cuts Ukrainians’ hair for free, asking that the money be donated to the association.
“Fatigue? Our guys over there are even more tired, but they’re holding the front line. When you think about that, you come here and you work,” she said.
The association, whose logo shows a butterfly against a camouflaged shield, “is real psychotherapy,” coordinator Natalia Kulbatska said.
“Here, nobody feels alone,” added Tetiana, a retiree from Sloviansk in the east, a city which has seen more than a decade of intense fighting.
Living by herself in Warsaw, she calls the group “a little Ukraine in the heart of Poland.”
Gathered round a table cluttered with metal frames, electronic components and cups of tea, about 10 men, women and children -- were busy on different task: assembling drones.
“Drones are constantly needed,” said Wladyslaw Jentz, organizer of a project that has trained nearly 40 people to build them.
His hands steady, he delicately slid small components together.
In handwritten Ukrainian, a message is scorched onto one part: “Not for sale.”
The group have put together about 100 so far -- barely a scratch in the thousands that are used across the sprawling front line every day.
“This is my safety and that of my children,” said the father of three who has lived in Poland for 15 years.
“If Ukraine doesn’t hold out, it will have consequences here.”
Nevertheless, a humanist at heart, he struggles with the idea of building devices meant to kill people.
“It’s hard to accept ... But we live in a time when stopping the occupier has become a necessity to protect lives.”
