A Childless Essay

Oleksandra Matviichuk · 2026

Commissioned for TRANSLATIONS 19,546.

In a month, there will be another anniversary of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Ukrainians chose to refuse the role of the ideal victim and to resist Russian aggression. The so-called “special military operation,” which Russian and Western analysts believed would end in four days, is now entering its fourth year. In Kyiv, the temperature is minus seventeen degrees Celsius, yet many homes have no heating, electricity, water, or communication, placing a city of millions on the brink of survival. A similar situation exists in other regions. Everyday Russia deliberately destroys civilian infrastructure with drones and missiles—acts that, according to UN experts, qualify as crimes against humanity.

In Kyiv, the air-raid siren howls relentlessly, and near a shop a small girl is crying. Within seconds, a woman runs out of the store, kneels, and hugs the child. She asks why she is crying—after all, her mother was gone for only three minutes. Through sobs, the child says that missiles will fly soon, and she is afraid of dying without her mother.

Children never start wars. Yet they suffer most from their devastating consequences. We document war crimes, and the database of the “Tribunal for Putin” initiative already contains nearly one hundred thousand recorded episodes. A significant portion of these are war crimes against children. War turns people into numbers, because when figures reach the hundreds of thousands, it becomes difficult to grasp every story. That is precisely why it is so important to speak about them.

This is the story of thirteen-year-old Yelisey Ryabokon. In the first weeks of the full-scale invasion, he, his mother, and his three-year-old brother found themselves under Russian occupation in a village in the Kyiv region. Electricity disappeared from homes; there was almost no water or food; they spent entire days hiding from explosions in a cellar. His mother appealed everywhere she could, asking Russian soldiers to allow her to evacuate the children to a safe place. Eventually, they agreed—and even waved goodbye, as if wishing them a safe journey. But as soon as several cars carrying women and children began to move, Russian soldiers opened fire on them. The cars stopped, and people began falling directly onto the field. Among those killed was Yelisey.

Those who survived were forced by the Russians to return. The mother was not allowed to take her son’s body. Later, she was not permitted to bury him in a cemetery. So little Yelisey was buried right beside the house. All his mother was left with was a red hat shredded by shrapnel and a white T-shirt she had put over his jacket so it would be visible that they were civilians.

There was no legitimate reason to treat Ukrainian children this way. Just as there was no military necessity for it. The Russians committed these horrific acts simply because they could.

Ukrainian children have come under direct attack. Crimes against children are an element of the broader genocidal policy carried out by Russia. Putin openly states that there is no Ukrainian nation, no Ukrainian language, no Ukrainian culture. These words translate into horrific practices in the occupied territories. Russians physically eliminate active members of society—mayors, journalists, children’s writers, priests, teachers, business owners. They ban Ukrainian language and culture. They loot and destroy Ukrainian cultural heritage. They forcibly conscript Ukrainian men into the Russian army. They send Ukrainian children to “re-education” camps, where they are told that they are not Ukrainian but Russian children; that their parents or relatives have abandoned them; and that they will be placed with Russian families who raise them as Russians.

For Russian families living in economically depressed regions, adopting a Ukrainian child often becomes simply a way to earn money. These children are left without any protection from abuse in families that do not love or care for them. The tragic story of Oleksandr—separated from his sister and placed with a family in Russia’s Krasnodar region—is a stark confirmation of this. The boy hanged himself. His body was found in a forest belt; his phone was smashed and all data erased. Friends say he wanted to return to Ukraine, but Russian guardianship authorities confiscated his passport. Oleksandr, along with his sister, was among the nearly twenty thousand Ukrainian children illegally deported by Russia from occupied territories.

To destroy a national group, it is not necessary to kill all its members. One can forcibly erase their identity—and the entire national group will disappear. This is precisely the policy being applied to 1.6 million Ukrainian children who, according to official data, are currently living in occupied territories.

These children live under constant pressure and restriction. They are forced to study from Russian textbooks in which Ukraine does not exist as a state. Ukrainian language is banned, so children can only learn it underground. If any Ukrainian content—a song, a text, a textbook—is found on a phone, Russian security services intervene.

Children under occupation quickly learn what cannot be said or done. They live in fear that their words could become dangerous. Some have witnessed the beatings and arrests of parents or acquaintances or have learned about them from friends. Russian security services practice illegal arrests and torture of minors.

Here is how children who managed to leave the occupation describe it:
“At first, you build a wall around yourself to hide behind it. But over time, that wall begins to press in on you. And I felt myself going numb.”

Russia has developed an entire system of militarizing children in occupied territories. Russian soldiers regularly visit schools to deliver lectures on “patriotic education.” Parents are forced to send their children to sports and recreational camps, where they wear military uniforms, live in barracks, and learn how to use weapons. After the age of fourteen, Ukrainian children are forcibly issued passports of the Russian Federation. After eighteen, they are subject to compulsory conscription into the Russian army. It is no coincidence that Ukrainian children who graduated from schools under occupation in Crimea and eastern regions in 2014 are now fighting against their own country as part of the Russian army.

One of my friends is a journalist from a small town that is now occupied. In her former school, every morning now begins with Ukrainian children being required to sing the Russian national anthem. One child never sang. Eventually, the teacher asked why the child did not sing along with everyone else. The child replied that they did not know the words. “So what’s the problem?” the teacher said. “Go home and memorize them.”
The next day, the teacher stood the child in front of the entire class and ordered them to sing the Russian anthem. But instead of the Russian anthem, the child began singing the Ukrainian national anthem.

If Ukrainian children under occupation can find the strength to resist, then we adults have no right to give up.

Our partners who work on the psychological rehabilitation of children who survived war crimes, occupation, or deportation conducted an important survey. And I want you to know what these children dream about:

I dream of going to school. All these years I have only had online learning.
I dream of becoming a footballer and playing for the national team, so my parents in heaven will be proud of me and say, “That is our son.”
I dream of inventing something that saves people’s lives. I still don’t know whether I need to study chemistry for that—I don’t like it—or if I can manage with artificial intelligence.
I dream of becoming a famous singer. I loved singing with my mother, and she always told me that I was very talented.
I dream of becoming the Secretary-General of the United Nations. I will not allow anyone to start wars or hurt others.
I dream that my grandmother, my best friend Misha, and my dog would be alive.
I dream of Lego, a new computer, and for Russia to stop sending missiles and drones at us.
I dream of returning home, when it becomes possible.