September 5, 2023 at 10:41 a.m. EDT
Mothers hold their cell phones high in the air to take a photo of their children coming out of school as another mother hugs her daughter as young students stand in the subway station on the first day of school in Kharkiv, Ukraine. leave their classrooms on Mondays. (Heidi Levine for The Washington Post)Comment on this storyComment
KHARKIV, Ukraine — First-graders gathered in a windowless underground hallway-turned-classroom at the start of a new school year and raved about the best things in the world.
A girl with a green handkerchief tied neatly around her neck held the yarn in her hand. It’s the topic of conversation – meaning she had the floor. “My name is Nastia. I like chocolate,” she said. The students clapped. She handed the yarn to a boy.
“My name is Vlad,” he said. “I like sports and games.” More applause.
“Now we know that Vlad likes sports,” the teacher told the class. “Who’s next?”
Monday marked the first day of classes for students in Kharkiv, Ukraine’s second-largest city, just 25 miles from the Russian border. It was also the 558th day of the ongoing Russian invasion and to protect children from the constant threat of air raids, makeshift classrooms were set up in the city’s sprawling subway system.
According to UNICEF, more than 1,300 schools have been destroyed in Ukrainian government-controlled areas since the invasion began in February 2022. UNICEF has documented significant learning loss among Ukrainian children after their safe environment was destroyed.
In Kharkiv, where the launch and impact of rockets from Russian soil are measured in seconds, online courses are now the norm. So officials here launched a voluntary initiative for parents and students who want to learn in a physical classroom to complement computer-based learning while providing safe protection from the bombs.
The surroundings may have been unfamiliar, but the typical rituals of the first day played out throughout the morning, although the occasional commuter shuffled past. Emotional parents took proud photos on their cell phones before sending their children away, teachers got their students to create lesson plans, and shy children met their soon-to-be best friends. Many students wore vyschyvankas – crisp white shirts with traditional embroidery patterns.
Parents and teachers present on the first day of school said the program was a welcome innovation that gave children a semblance of normal education and social interaction with other students, even as Russian and Ukrainian troops are engaged in pitched battles in the region.
About 1,000 students have signed up so far, said Kharkiv Mayor Ihor Terekhov, who said he knew of no other programs of this kind in Ukraine. The number amounts to less than one percent of Kharkiv’s approximately 112,000 schoolchildren, but nationwide surveys suggest that about 20 percent of parents want in-person learning, and in Kharkiv Terekhov expects enrollment to increase.
“Children don’t have the opportunity to learn in their usual schools,” he said at the Freedom Square subway station as a class learned about shapes. “They need to be socialized.”
The subway station’s school facilities included toilets and air ducts. At the back of a hallway, nurses stood ready to help with scraped knees and runny noses. And psychologists quietly observe the students.
Many families displaced from frontline areas have found refuge in Kharkiv, where children are still subjected to prolonged coercion despite more than 18 months of war.
Nadia Kozyreva, a single mother, and her six-year-old twin girls left their hometown of Kupyansk after the liberation last September. The Russians had occupied the city for six months and in the fight to retake it, the city was relentlessly shelled. It was still being attacked daily, she said, as the Russians fought to retake ground nearby. Residents who stayed last year or returned after fleeing were ordered to evacuate last month.
Kozyreva’s daughters – Victoria, quiet and thoughtful, and Kateryna, a frenetic ball of energy – are still begging to go home, but she has told them it still isn’t safe. The girls are now enrolled in the program for at least a year, she said. They left the underground classroom happy, she said, to experience something different.
The program is a blessing at the right moment, said Kozyreva. Her janitorial salary makes it difficult for her to pay for the computer equipment needed for online classes and she struggles with technology.
“I am a simple girl,” she said, “from a village.”
At the Peremoha – or “Victory” – metro station in northwest Kharkiv, a crowd of loving mothers waited for their sons and daughters to emerge from their first lessons. Parents there said they were relieved that their children could start their education somewhat normally after widespread disruption last year. They aren’t allowed to go outside during recess, one parent said, so educators have found solutions to keep children busy with games throughout the day.
Bohdana Boholiubova, with her husband by her side and an infant strapped to her chest in a carrier, explained the turmoil that led to that moment. Her family fled Kharkiv last year because of the relative calm in the western city of Lviv. They returned last fall after the region was liberated.
The program is promising, but it will depend on the attitudes of students and parents to ensure the children are well cared for, Boholiubova said.
That could be difficult during war, Boholiubova said, but her seven-year-old daughter Sonia and the rest of the family have adjusted to a new normal. Getting Sonia into a classroom, whether in a traditional school building or a subway, is crucial, Boholiubova said.
“It’s better than online,” she said while waiting for Sonia at pickup Monday. “She can talk to children.”
The children rushed through the subway tunnel with ice cream in their hands and the Boholiubova family reunited.
Elsewhere in the crowd, Ira Kravchenko hugged her 6-year-old daughter Nicole, who gave a first look back at her experience at the subway school: thumbs up.
Kravchenko gave her daughter the opportunity to decide whether to stay in the program. For now, the setup allows Kravchenko to run errands during the day instead of leaving Nicole at home. And the extra protection her daughter has from spending time underground has given her some peace of mind.
“She will be safe here,” Kravchenko said before leading Nicole by the hand to board a train at her school.
Above ground, where students streamed out of Freedom Square station, they were greeted by air raid sirens that echoed throughout the city – a sound that marked their young lives with such normality that hardly anyone seemed to notice.
Deeper underground, where the sirens cannot be heard, the hum of excited students and energetic teachers was the main sound in the cramped classrooms, where quotes from prominent Ukrainians from history hung on the walls alongside bright color drawings.
Hanna Neelova, a first-grade teacher, captured the enthusiastic attention of a class that had never experienced real education. The war has caused distress to children since last year, she said, and many of them need psychological help to understand what was happening around them.
Teaching is a calling, Neelova said, and the new facility isn’t just a benefit for students. Being in the same room with her students instead of in front of a screen restored her own vitality, she said.
“It’s nice to feel the children’s energy,” Neelova said. “We haven’t felt that in the last year and a half.”
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