Yulia Pavlenko

The noise of Kiev’s morning traffic outside my office was a dull hum, a stark contrast to the chaos spinning in my mind. I stared at the file on my desk—a list of names, ages, and vague locations. Children. Just children.

At 38, I am a mother of two—Marta, with her sleepy smile as she tugged on her school uniform this morning, and Taras, who stubbornly refused to eat his porridge. The thought of their faces erased, their voices speaking a language of propaganda, sent a cold shiver down my spine.

The report detailed yet another “holiday camp” in the occupied territories, this time targeting kids from Mariupol and Kherson. The footage we had obtained—children drilling in uniforms, assembling firearms, listening to Russian officers preach about defending the "motherland"—was unbearable to watch. They called it “patriotic education.” I called it theft. Theft of childhood, identity, and future.

One mother had contacted us last week, her voice trembling. “They said it was just a camp, just for a month,” she had cried. “Now they won’t let me speak to her. What do I do? How do I get her back?”
Her daughter was 13, the same age as Marta.

Legally, there’s little we can do. Russia masks these abductions with bureaucracy: new birth certificates, false guardianships. By the time we trace them, the children are unrecognizable. They return, if at all, with hollow eyes and minds poisoned against us.

Every success feels minuscule. Just last month, we managed to reunite two siblings with their grandmother. But for every reunion, there are countless children lost, indoctrinated, trained to march under a flag that is not theirs.

I glanced at my phone, the screen lighting up with a message from Marta. "Mama, I forgot my notebook. Can you bring it after work?"
I smiled through the tears welling in my eyes. “Of course, my love,” I whispered.

And then, I returned to the file, to the names. Because for every Marta and Taras safe in Kiev, there are others waiting—hoping someone will find them before it’s too late.