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Sydney Morning Herald
05-07-2025
- Politics
- Sydney Morning Herald
On the edge of danger, children laugh in quiet defiance of Putin and his missiles
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.
The Age
05-07-2025
- Politics
- The Age
On the edge of danger, children laugh in quiet defiance of Putin and his missiles
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.
Globe and Mail
29-05-2025
- General
- Globe and Mail
Satellite data sheds light on Russia's modern-day gulags for Ukrainian children
The maps and data tracking this activity are generated by Hala Systems, a Lisbon-based technology company that received a $2-million grant from Global Affairs Canada to provide high-tech assistance to Save Ukraine, a Ukrainian organization working with sources inside Russia and the occupied territories to help bring the children home. They were shared exclusively with The Globe and Mail with the intent of raising awareness about what is widely considered to be an ongoing war crime. The effort has also revealed what appears to be evidence of something even more sinister happening to a number of the missing and abducted children, some as young as eight. Hala has identified six of the facilities in the network as bases for Russia's 'Yunarmiya,' or Youth Army. Analysts at Hala see proof that an unknown number of Ukrainian teenage boys are being given military training and instilled with anti-Ukrainian and anti-Western propaganda. The likely next step would see them assigned to Russia's regular armed forces to fight against their own country. Mykola Kuleba, the co-founder and head of Save Ukraine, said the network of detention camps for Ukrainian children is reminiscent of the Soviet gulags. 'It's very similar – there's an Iron Curtain now over the occupied territories, and they can do what they want with the civilians, with the Ukrainians there, and the children,' he said in an interview. 'It's very similar to the gulags, but with different goals. In the gulags, they massively killed Ukrainians who did not obey the regime. Today, they massively indoctrinate Ukrainian children to turn them into Russian children.' Unlawful conscription, such as forcing a civilian to fight against their own country, is a war crime under the Geneva Conventions, as is the use of child soldiers. Mozhem Obyasnit, a Russian news outlet funded by opposition figure Mikhail Khodorkovsky, reported last month that Yunarmiya's budget had been doubled to one billion rubles (about US$11-million) for 2025. 'We have seen some children as young as eight that are being sent into very structured military patriotic programs,' said Ashley Jordana, Hala's director of law, policy and human rights. Much of the evidence, she said, was in the testimony of survivors who were rescued by Save Ukraine, as well as photographs of the youth camps that were published by Kremlin-controlled media outlets proudly reporting on the 'patriotic' re-education that Ukrainian children were receiving in the five regions of Ukraine that Russia claims to have annexed. 'There's no shortage of testimony of children who are being indoctrinated and who are being forced to participate in the youth army,' Ms. Jordana said. The full network of centres where Ukrainian children are being held sprawls from the occupied areas of southern and eastern Ukraine all the way to a facility in the Siberian city of Novosibirsk, more than 3,300 kilometres from the Ukrainian border. The map lays out where many of the 20,000 Ukrainian children who have been officially reported as missing – a number that both Hala and Save Ukraine view as the very minimum – have been taken since their homes fell under Russian occupation. Mr. Kuleba said Hala's technology has helped his organization locate, establish communications with, and eventually rescue 129 children since the Canadian-funded project began last summer. The fate of many more Ukrainian children remains in jeopardy. The number being trained for, or already serving in, the Russian army is difficult to estimate, Mr. Kuleba said, 'because this process is constant, of recruiting Ukrainians in occupied territories.' But all Ukrainians living in occupied areas had been forced to take Russian passports, making all males – even those younger than 18 – vulnerable to conscription. Interviews with survivors, Mr. Kuleba said, revealed that 'all boys, especially those who live in occupied territories, clearly understand they could be taken to the Russian army any time.' Ukraine's children, he said, were being treated as 'spoils of war' by Mr. Putin, who used the deported children to both replenish the ranks of his military and to alleviate Russia's wider demographic crisis. In some of the images produced by Hala Systems, little blue dots can be seen clustering in rooms inside the facilities, and sometimes moving in what appears to be military formation. Each blue dot represents the mobile phone of either a Ukrainian child or one of the Russians guarding them. Ms. Jordana said it's Hala's assessment – based on a study of the movements of the mobile phones located with the Yunarmiya bases, as well as the testimonies of survivors – that the cadets are awakened at 6 a.m. each day. They receive a canteen breakfast of eggs and oatmeal before being sent on to classes that include firearms assembly and use, mine clearance and military tactics. In the afternoons, the cadets are sometimes sent into the field to put their military skills to use in mock-combat situations. One satellite photograph shared with The Globe appears to show trenches dug in the yard of the Yunarmiya base in the occupied Ukrainian city of Melitopol. 'If states knew how much time and effort and resources Russia was putting into mobilizing and training a new generation of what are now children as eventual soldiers, I think that there would be a lot more concern,' Ms. Jordana said. Ms. Jordana, a 40-year lawyer from Ancaster, Ont., who is now based in Barcelona, has served as both a legal advisor to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime and as a member of the defence team at the trial of Jovica Stanisic, a key henchman of former Serbian President Slobodan Milosevic. A UN tribunal found Mr. Stanisic guilty of war crimes, including the forced transfer of non-Serbs from parts of Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, and sentenced him to 15 years in jail. Now Ms. Jordana hopes she is helping build the case for a future trial of Mr. Putin and those who followed his orders. 'A lot of what we do now, it's not just useful for Save Ukraine,' she said. 'The information gets sent to the regional prosecutors, the Office of the Prosecutor General, to the ICC, and National Police of Ukraine.' The maps of the facilities where Ukrainian children are being held were built by aggregating and analyzing what Hala calls 'open source' information, but require sophisticated technology to access and assemble. The first and most important source of information are the testimonies provided by those children and teens who managed to escape with the help of Save Ukraine. That gave Hala and Save Ukraine a starting point, allowing them to zoom in on suspected locations using satellite cameras. Many of the Ukrainian children and teens also appear to have mobile phones, a somewhat surprising development that allowed Hala and Save Ukraine to track groups – while also allowing the Russians to monitor the children's communications and social media postings, too. Deeper profiles of the facilities, and the Russians working there – whom Ms. Jordana refers to as 'the perpetrators' – was done by tracking the movements of mobile phones belonging to those involved in the network. 'In a few cases, we followed the truck drivers. We knew they stopped at certain gas station locations,' she explained, referring to specific drivers that were involved in the movement of the Ukrainian children, as well as supplies for the network of Russian camps. 'Once you understand the mapping and the networks, you can apply change-detection capabilities so that you're actually alerted beforehand for activity that might be interesting for you.' Additional information was gathered via social media – using bots developed by Hala Systems that combed the Telegram feeds of Ms. Lvova-Belova, among others, for tidbits about where the Russians were taking kidnapped Ukrainian children – as well as radio communications on unencrypted channels gathered via a network of sensors Hala has set up around Ukraine. Eventually, Ms. Jordana said, Hala was gathering so much data that it was able to spot the creation of new youth camps before the Russians started moving children into them. The work by Hala Systems has become even more important since March, when the U.S. government slashed most foreign aid programs. Among the cuts was funding to a research project by Yale University that built a database tracking the whereabouts some 35,000 Ukrainian children who had been illegally adopted by Russian families since the start of the war. Mr. Kuleba said the Trump administration's decision to pull funding from the Yale project sent a 'dangerous message' that the U.S. government no longer cared about the fate of those children, or prosecuting those who had committed crimes against them. Mr. Kuleba said Yale's database included more victims than the 20,000 figure used by the Ukrainian government because the latter figure covers only those who have been officially reported as missing by their families. Yale's list included orphans as well as children whose parents or guardians never reported their disappearances. (Ms. Jordana suggested some parents and guardians may be worried they could face punishment after intentionally sending children to schools and summer camps in Russian-occupied areas of Ukraine, believing the children would be safer on that side of the front line.) Save Ukraine, Mr. Kuleba said, counts all 1.6 million Ukrainian children who now live in areas controlled by the Russian military as victims who should be given the chance to return to Ukraine. Mr. Kuleba praised Canada for continuing to support the effort to bring Ukraine's children home. 'For us, it's very valuable to hear that Canada understands us. That they understand how every innocent child's life is valuable,' Mr. Kuleba said. The year-long Canadian government grant that funded Hala's work with Save Ukraine expires in September. It's not the first time Ottawa has turned to Hala Systems to help it advance a foreign policy aim. During Syria's 13-year civil war, Hala used open-source technology to develop an app called Sentry that would track the takeoffs and trajectory of Syrian government warplanes and then send a warning to the mobile phones of civilians living in their paths. Sentry was partially developed with funding from Global Affairs Canada, though John Jaeger, the co-founder and chief executive officer of Hala Systems, said Canada gradually stepped back from its leading role in supporting the work as Syria became 'less popular' with not just Canada but donors around the world. Still, Hala's successes in Syria laid the groundwork for the partnership in Ukraine. 'I'm sure it's helpful that we've passed audits and have put Canadian money to work responsibly and with impact,' Mr. Jaeger said. For Ms. Jordana, coming from the slow-moving world of international justice, it was an awakening to see how technology could accelerate the process of gathering evidence. But she also had to bring her legal eye to the work, helping draft a 187-page manual for how to treat evidence, such as scratchy radio intercepts, so that it remains admissible in any future court proceeding. 'Ninety per cent of my job is translating what Hala is doing to individuals that can make use of it and apply it to their space,' she said. 'But tech companies also have a lot to learn from the human rights sector, who base their practices in harm mitigation and very transparent type of practices. So, the lessons sort of go both ways, I think.' While Ms. Jordana said she hopes that the material she and her team are compiling will one day end up as part of war crimes trials related to the Russian invasion of Ukraine, that goal remains secondary to the immediate mission of trying to rescue the unknown number of children trapped in the 136 facilities that make up Mr. Putin's new gulag archipelago. 'How many Ukrainian children are still in Russia? Where are they? What happened to them? Are they safe? How many of them need to escape?' Mr. Kuleba said. 'This is a war for our children.' After Russians forces invaded Kharkiv, Ksenia Koldin and her brother, Serhiy, ended up on opposite sides of a new Iron Curtain. In 2023, The Ukrainian teen told The Globe how she rescued Serhiy from a Russian summer camp, a new foster family and the indoctrination he faced. Mark MacKinnon shared her story with The Decibel. Subscribe for more episodes. Anita Anand's Foreign Affairs gig gets praise from Kyiv A Ukrainian graphite mine shows how Trump may be overestimating how much he can get from the war-torn country 'What ceasefire?' Moscow's talk of peace faces incredulity in Kyiv
Yahoo
28-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Eleven Ukrainian children evacuated from occupation, including daughter of Azovstal defender freed after three years in captivity
Eleven children have been brought from Russian-occupied territories to areas under Ukrainian control, among them two orphans and children of Ukrainian service members. Source: Ukrainian charitable organisation Save Ukraine Anatolii, a teenage orphan, was among those evacuated from the temporarily occupied territories. He had suffered physical abuse at the hands of Russian soldiers after he found bullets in the forest. Anatolii was abducted in the middle of a school lesson, a bag was put over his head in the headteacher's office, his hands were tied and he was taken to a basement. A week before his 18th birthday, he received a summons for conscription into Russian forces. Another evacuee was Ostap, who had not seen his family for three years. His father serves in the Ukrainian Armed Forces and his older brother has spent 1,111 days in Russian captivity. Among those rescued was the daughter of a female Azov defender. The girl's mother, Marharyta, and older brother spent three years in Russian captivity. Back in 2022, Marharyta and her son had left the Azovstal steel plant together without knowing what had happened to each other until their release in April 2025. Quote from Save Ukraine: "During the prisoner exchange, Marharyta accidentally encountered her son on the bus. But she had one more dream – to see her little girl again, who had remained in occupation as a baby. Today, that dream has come true: the mother is finally reunited with her children and still can't believe it's not a dream." Read more: Separated by war: Ukrainian soldier reunited with daughter after release from Russian captivity Support Ukrainska Pravda on Patreon!
Yahoo
22-05-2025
- Yahoo
"Didn't step outside for nearly three years": Nine children brought back from Russian-occupied territories
Ukraine has brought back nine more children from territories temporarily occupied by Russia. Their families have endured severe hardship. Source: Bring Kids Back UA and Save Ukraine Details: Among those rescued were sisters Ilona and Tamila (names changed for safety reasons). For nearly three years, the girls did not leave their home or speak with other children, as their school and kindergarten were destroyed within the first six months of the full-scale invasion. Their childhood was overshadowed by constant bombardments, the movement of armoured vehicles and encounters with drunk Russian soldiers roaming the streets. Seventeen-year-old Yevheniia nearly died due to the lack of proper medical care in the occupied territories – ambulances no longer responded to calls, and hospitals lacked diagnostic equipment. "As a result, she was only correctly diagnosed during an emergency surgery. It is unclear whether she would have survived if she had made it to the operating table just a few hours later," the team involved in the children's return said. Ten-year-old Artem and his mother were locked in a basement by Russian soldiers in the middle of the night while his father was beaten in another room – all because he had tried to protect his wife from abuse by a soldier. "Since that incident, the boy often cried and couldn't sleep at night. He was forced to wear a Russian military cap at school, sing the Russian anthem and shout 'Glory to Russia', and the police were called when he said 'Glory to Ukraine'," the Bring Kids Back UA and Save Ukraine teams noted. Fifteen-year-old Khrystyna ended up in complete information isolation and was unable to continue her education. She could not attend online classes at her Ukrainian school because the Russians jammed communication signals, and her mother refused to send her to a Russian school. Background: Earlier, Ukraine had also managed to bring back a 15-year-old boy from Russian occupation who had long dreamed of reuniting with his father. Support Ukrainska Pravda on Patreon!
