Russian forces hit Ukraine 'with Iskander missile'
Russian forces have hit a Ukrainian troop position in the northeast Sumy region with an Iskander missile, state news agency TASS cited the Russian defence ministry as saying.
Reuters could not independently confirm the battlefield report or determine exactly when it took place.
The Russian defence ministry did not provide the date of the strike but said the area around city of Konotop was targeted.
Ukrainian authorities in the region reported an Iskander missile strike on Konotop on Monday.
The local administration said on Facebook that it had damaged flats in several multi-storey buildings and that there were no casualties.
Ukraine in recent days has been trying to drive Russian forces from the northern Sumy region, where border areas are gripped by heavy fighting.
Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskiy said on the weekend that Russia has amassed 53,000 troops in the region.
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Beneath the shattered streets of Ukraine's second-largest city, Kharkiv, children gather to learn. Crayons and chalkboards replace missiles and sirens, if only for a few hours. It's here, in these makeshift underground classrooms, that young Ukrainians cling to fragments of childhood amid a relentless war raging just above. Less than 40 kilometres away, the Russian border marks the edge of danger – where Vladimir Putin's missiles and drones streak through the sky, giving barely minutes from launch to impact. Since February 2022, Kharkiv has been under near-constant bombardment. Every night, sirens wail, explosions shake buildings, and the knowledge that no place above ground is truly safe hangs in the air. Yet, amid the rubble and ruin, life persists. And nowhere is that tenacity more visible than in the children of Kharkiv – their laughter, their lessons and their quiet defiance in bunker classrooms. 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Beneath the shattered streets of Ukraine's second-largest city, Kharkiv, children gather to learn. Crayons and chalkboards replace missiles and sirens, if only for a few hours. It's here, in these makeshift underground classrooms, that young Ukrainians cling to fragments of childhood amid a relentless war raging just above. Less than 40 kilometres away, the Russian border marks the edge of danger – where Vladimir Putin's missiles and drones streak through the sky, giving barely minutes from launch to impact. Since February 2022, Kharkiv has been under near-constant bombardment. Every night, sirens wail, explosions shake buildings, and the knowledge that no place above ground is truly safe hangs in the air. Yet, amid the rubble and ruin, life persists. And nowhere is that tenacity more visible than in the children of Kharkiv – their laughter, their lessons and their quiet defiance in bunker classrooms. With most schools boarded up and having shifted online, these subterranean spaces aim to provide mental health and psycho-social support, and non-formal education services to children, adolescents and their families while missiles fly overhead. When it is safe, the children and those supporting them venture above ground instead. For many children here, this is a lifeline. Artem, a shy boy who recently finished grade four, is one such child. His mother, Svitlana Martynova, gently explains that Artem has grown quieter since his father was wounded on the front line in Donetsk, losing a leg in combat. 'These classes give him safety, routine, a chance to be with other children again,' Martynova says. 'After so much isolation, it matters more than anything.' She spent months by her husband's side at a hospital in Chernivtsi, nearly 1000 kilometres away, where he is still rehabilitating. 'For three months, my children had no parents at home,' Martynova says quietly. 'It was the hardest time.' She brings Artem to school not just for lessons but for connection. 'He's still shy. Still closed. But he has one friend here, Misha,' she says with a small smile. 'It's something. It's the beginning.' In these fragile moments, the classroom offers safety, routine, and the chance to be with others – a world apart from months of isolation. When asked what he wants to be when he grows up, Artem whispers he wants to be an IT specialist – smart and capable, like the people helping him now. He is just one of the city's children to find refuge in these child-friendly sites, almost 100 of which have been established across Ukraine by World Vision and its project partner, Save Ukraine, with funding from the European Union. Their subterranean spaces are a grim necessity. In the suburbs, beneath a concrete Soviet-style building, a long staircase descends into one such classroom. At street level, war is ever-present; below, it is temporarily forgotten. Walk downstairs, and you hear the murmur of a lesson in progress – Ukrainian grammar, maths or a story. It could be any school, anywhere – if not for the blast-proof doors, reinforced ceilings and constant reminders of the danger just beyond. On a sunny day like today, there's some hopscotch or soccer outside. But everyone remains on alert. Not far from Artem's story is that of Olena, a mother whose young daughter struggled to find her voice. For years, her daughter had never spoken a word. 'She was so afraid,' Olena recalls. Doctors once feared she might never speak. The terror had roots both at home and in war: Olena's older son faces serious psychological challenges, his outbursts frightening his little sister. Above them all, drones hum, explosions echo and the fear of losing one another lingers. 'She couldn't stand even a metre away from me,' Olena explains. 'She thought a missile might kill me. Or her. She wouldn't let go.' But two years ago, they discovered a child-focused centre – a quiet sanctuary tucked safely underground where children could play, learn and simply be children again. Here, Olena's daughter began to speak, to connect with other children, and to feel safe enough to leave her mother's side without tears. 'This place gave her back her voice,' Olena says, voice steady but full of emotion. 'It gave me peace. I'm so grateful – to the staff, the teachers and everyone who makes it possible.' The war's scars run deep, but so does hope. 'We are tired. But we are waiting – waiting for peace,' Olena reflects. 'And in the meantime, we smile for the children.' Elena, just 6½ years old and dressed like a little princess, beams with youthful energy in the same centre. She is among the first volunteers to talk to the visitors today to tell them how much she loves her school and her teachers. She loves painting, reading fairy tales and learning her ABCs. Though the night before had been disrupted by drone flights and sirens, and though she often clings tightly to adults when the sky feels unsafe, Elena finds solace in play and routine. 'She comes every day,' a translator says. 'She loves the mornings – there's more time to play.' War has become a constant, uneasy backdrop for all children here. Across the country, one in seven schools has been damaged by the fighting, many in areas taken over by Russian forces. But Ukrainians are ensuring learning continues. Many children have endured years of interrupted schooling – first the COVID-19 pandemic forced isolation and online lessons, then the full-scale invasion fractured education further. For some, learning stopped altogether. Teachers such as Olena Yeroshkina are on the front lines of this silent battle, striving to restore normalcy in abnormal times. Yeroshkina's classrooms are places of hope and healing. She teaches a generation of children whose lives have been upended. 'We can do nothing with missiles,' she says simply, 'but we can do something with children.' It is a line that echoes throughout the city's underground schools – a rallying cry amid devastation. 'Many have seen things they shouldn't have,' Yeroshkina says, referring to trauma, loss and relentless fear. The boundary between learning difficulties and psychological scars blurs. 'We go to the bunker every day,' she says. 'Every single day.' One girl in grade five began the year convinced she was stupid, unable to count or write properly. Months later, her confidence grew, and she began to ask for extra classes. Her small victories, like scoring seven out of 12 on a test, became milestones in healing. 'That kind of growth isn't just academic,' Yeroshkina says. 'It's emotional. It's about recovering pride and motivation.' Yet the challenges persist. In some occupied areas, Russian forces imposed their curriculum, banned the Ukrainian language, and turned schools into military bases. Rebuilding education is about reclaiming identity as much as it is about lessons. Still, Yeroshkina sees resilience in her students. 'These children adapt. They want to learn. They inspire us.' In another classroom, siblings Masha, 10, and Mikhail, 12, laugh shyly as they talk about their favourite games and subjects. Masha loves Ukrainian, maths and English; Mikhail prefers IT. Both adore their teachers – a small but meaningful victory in a city under siege. They laugh as they list favourite games: Who Am I?, Twister and a phone-based game called Avatar World. Masha has dyed her hair blue, 'just because I like the colour,' she says shyly, then grins when someone compliments it. But like most children here, their daily joy is shadowed by fear. 'She gets scared during the sirens,' Mikhail admits, glancing at his sister. 'I usually sleep through them.' A baby is expected in the family soon, and with it comes hope for new beginnings – a quiet defiance amid uncertainty. Masha dreams of visiting Australia, though 'not if there are spiders', she laughs. Slava Bondar, who helps run one space, says he is driven to help the next generation because his own life was shaped by hardship. Loading 'I grew up needing help – social services, food programs. I know what happens when no one steps in,' he says. 'We can't control the war, but we can make sure these children don't grow up feeling alone. That they have adults who care.' World Vision's Ukraine crisis response director, Arman Grigoryan, explains that children in Kharkiv often face bombings every night, with parents frequently on the frontline or injured. 'Without World Vision's safe spaces, these children would be stuck without seeing another child for five whole years and counting,' he says. At the heart of this effort are people like Serhii Poltavskyi, a hospital chaplain and father of seven. His children, once shy and uncertain, now play guitar, lead youth groups and teach younger kids at a local centre. 'This place – it's not just keeping them safe,' he says. 'It's where they grow and become.' His words reflect a community that has endured flight and fear yet remains anchored by hope and unity. 'Many left Kharkiv at the start of the war,' he says. 'But those who remain? They are the strongest. We are a concentrated core, thinking fast, acting together, helping each other.' Loading In a city where the sky can rain missiles at any moment, these children remind us of what remains unbreakable: hope, resilience and the will to grow. The author travelled to Ukraine as a guest of World Vision Australia.
