Source: Grunt
Author: Yaroslava Shlapatska

Experts warn that we may lose an entire generation of children raised by the Russian school system under occupation.

At Mariupol School No. 5, Russian invaders have opened yet another museum. Under the inscription “They Fought for the Motherland” hang portraits of militant leaders Zakharchenko and “Motorola.” Ahead of the presidential “elections” in Russia, a drawing contest featuring Putin was held among Mariupol students. In Tokmak, children are forced to write letters to Russian soldiers, and in Skadovsk, they are herded to an exhibition titled “Heroes of the Special Military Operation.” Schoolchildren study from textbooks that more closely resemble a collection of posts from propaganda Telegram channels. The politicized youth organizations they are encouraged to join resemble the Hitler Youth.

Seizing land is not enough. The force and coercion needed to hold onto it are insufficient. So, following the occupation of Ukrainian lands comes a wave of brainwashing, primarily targeting children. The Russians spare no time, effort, or money in their attempts to erase the identity of Ukrainian children.

According to the Almenda Center for Civic Education, over 1.5 million children live in the occupied Ukrainian territories, 615,000 of whom are of school age. We spoke with representatives of the civil society sector, with people who graduated from school in occupied Crimea and Luhansk, and with teachers who lived through the occupation, about the invaders’ attempts to turn Ukrainian children into Russians and about the chances of preserving these children’s identity.
 

Do you remember the song by the Volgograd schoolchildren—“If the supreme commander calls us to the final battle, Uncle Vova, we’ll be with you”? This is exactly what the occupiers want from Ukrainian children: to turn them into patriots of the Russian state, ready to go into battle against any enemy at the authorities’ call: “Nazis,” “Banderites,” “Anglo-Saxons.” And while ten years ago the occupation’s education system used more subtle tools of influence, it now operates in a straightforward manner: threatening parents and children, calling Ukraine an enemy, and Russia the only hope for peace.

Oleg Okhredko, an analyst and coordinator at the “Almenda” Center for Civic Education, says that before the war began, schools in Crimea, Donetsk, and Luhansk regions were gradually becoming Ukrainianized, although the Ukrainian language was not strictly imposed. “There were 580 schools in Crimea, and over 60 more in Sevastopol. They were beginning to study Ukrainian there. There was resistance at the everyday level and, in some cases, at the administrative level, but there was no pressure. The situation was similar in the eastern regions,” the expert explains.

In February 2014, as soon as Russia occupied the peninsula, changes began in the education system, and in March—the transition to Russian standards. Ukrainian-style textbooks were gradually removed: the school year had to be finished, and Russian replacement books had not yet been printed.

  In the occupied parts of Donetsk and Luhansk regions, the self-proclaimed authorities established “administrative bodies”; they printed their own textbooks there, and some of them, says Oleg Okhredko, referred to the existence of local “nations.”

  “They told us complete nonsense about Ukraine in class,” recalls Liza [last name withheld for security reasons—Ed.], who left Luhansk a year and a half ago. “I remember my classmate heard somewhere that in Ukraine they’re rewriting history and supposedly claiming that Hitler won World War II. Instead of saying that’s nonsense, the history teacher replied, ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that too.’ “That’s just ridiculous!” At the same time, Lisa says, schoolchildren were often given Ukrainian books—supposedly because they were better than Russian ones. But these books weren’t recorded in the library log.

“This is a very cleverly constructed system aimed at shaping a Russian identity, with a slant toward patriotism and militarization,” comments Oleg Okhredko on Russian education in the occupied territories. His organization analyzed the textbooks that Russians are imposing on Ukrainian children. The first major group of narratives in these textbooks is “pan-Russian civic identity,” said Valentina Potapova, head of the national advocacy department at “Almenda,” in an interview with GRUNT. “Ukrainian is banned, and Russian is being introduced as the sole language of communication. The second key narrative is patriotism; in the Russian version, this is loyalty not to the country, but to the state. The third is militarism. Here, special attention is given to Russia’s role in global security: it is Russia that is fighting the evil uncles from America, Europe, and NATO, which wants to destroy the world,” she said.

A history textbook compiled by Putin’s aide Vladimir Medinsky has garnered significant attention. It clearly divides the world into “us” and “them”—Russia and its enemies. It also contains delusions about an “Austrian General Staff” that allegedly created Ukraine, as well as claims of Ukrainian neo-Nazism, while the Maidan is labeled an “armed rebellion.” Blogger Oleksandr Notevskyi has provided a detailed review of the myths in this textbook.

“This is a process of indoctrination: children are given certain information as an axiom. They are not allowed to compare or criticize,” explains Oleg Okhredko.

Following the full-scale invasion, so-called “educational work” has intensified in schools in the formerly occupied territories. School “Conversations About What Matters” are the equivalent of political education in Soviet schools. Every week, children are taught a lesson about a specific ideological event: the lifting of the Leningrad blockade, the Battle of Stalingrad, the “reunification” of Crimea with Russia.

  Outside of school, children are drawn into politicized youth organizations modeled after the “Yolotnyata,” “Pioneers,” and “Komsomol” (which, in turn, were modeled after the “Hitler Youth,” the “League of German Girls,” and similar organizations of fascist regimes). “Yunarmiya”—a militaristic organization created by the Russian Ministry of Defense—teaches children how to use weapons, introduces them to the basics of military tactics, and so on. In Crimea and the occupied parts of Donetsk and Luhansk regions, the organization began operating in 2019. Following the full-scale invasion, “Yunarmiya” members are being recruited in Mariupol, Melitopol, and Henichesk. Children who agree to join are given a full set of clothing—from socks to jackets.

“Next, the ideological ‘Movement of the First’ was created, which engages in educational work with children from first through eleventh grade. It is ‘headed’ by Putin himself. According to the legend, this is an ‘initiative’ by a seventh-grader from Sevastopol,” says Oleg Okhredko. “There is ‘Eaglets of Russia’—an organization for elementary schools and kindergartens. Another branch is cadet classes: there are hundreds of them in Crimea alone. There are various branches here, overseen by the armed forces, the Investigative Committee of Russia, the Ministry of Emergency Situations, and the so-called “Cossacks.”

Indoctrination also extends to children’s recreation—for example, at the “Artek” camp in Crimea, there was a militarized program called “School of Future Commanders.” Radio Liberty’s investigative project “Schemes” examined how Belarusian summer camps for children from the occupied territories operate. The children were treated to meetings with police officers, photo sessions with Belarusian military personnel, trips to training grounds, and at concerts they sang songs by the Russian band “Lube.” Incidentally, in 2022, this “vacation” was co-funded by the UN Children’s Fund—UNICEF.

In 2023, the Russians launched “University Exchange”: children from the occupied territories were taken to Russia to visit local universities. In Saratov, children brought there as part of this project attended a rally in honor of the so-called “reunification with Russia.” Over twenty thousand schoolchildren have already participated in “University Exchange”; this is how Ukrainian children are persuaded to go study in Russia and further integrate into Russian society.

 

“There was once an episode of the Russian comedy TV show *Yeralash* in which children from our time met a young man from the era of World War II. He told them that he had worked in a factory, then served as a scout, and eventually died. They asked him, ‘What’s it like to die?’ He replied that dying isn’t scary, ‘the main thing is that we won.’ That’s how Russian children are being prepared to defend the state at the cost of their lives,” says Oleg Okhredko. According to him, a significant portion of schoolchildren undergo some form of military training. For example, in the occupied regions, they hold drone operator competitions, and some children as young as fourteen or fifteen already know how to fly combat drones. “This is a ready-made reserve for the Russian army,” says Oleg.

 

Eridan, a 23-year-old chemist from Crimea [surname withheld for security reasons – ed.], graduated from high school under occupation and left the peninsula for free territory in 2016. “I realized there was no future in Crimea back then. Staying there meant burying myself there forever, because Crimean diplomas and certificates aren’t accepted anywhere,” he says. “Yes, things have ‘sorted themselves out’ a bit now, but in the beginning, when you arrived in Moscow, they might have told you that your diploma was just a piece of paper nobody needed.” The number of students at Crimean universities reorganized by the Russians has roughly halved over the ten years of occupation.

Eridan recalls how, after the occupation, the school was converted to Russian standards. “I studied in a Ukrainian-language class. There was a huge portrait of Shevchenko hanging in our classroom, and quotes from our poets were on the walls. But when what we sarcastically call the ‘happy country’ arrived, Russian literature and history came right along with it. They hung portraits of Putin in my sister’s classroom—a sort of iconostasis,” he says.

To enroll in a Ukrainian university in the free territory, the young man took up distance learning. Back then, online communication was much less common; he had to scan his homework, and meet with teachers a few times for consultations. Sometimes Eridan had to figure out the lesson topics without textbooks.

“It was really hard because the Ukrainian curriculum is different from the Russian one,” says Eridan. “I was prepared using books for the Russian Unified State Exam, where I easily solved problems marked with an asterisk. Imagine my face when I walked into the external independent assessment and realized I’d never seen topics like that before. In our tenth grade, instead of chemistry and biology, they introduced ‘natural science’—a mix of condensed knowledge from philosophy, biology, chemistry, and geography. To me, it was more like an encyclopedia for a fifth grader. What I had learned up to ninth grade was all I knew, because after that we studied everything about the “great and boundless country.”

Eridan managed to remain loyal to Ukraine thanks to his parents. Some teachers with pro-Ukrainian views who didn’t back down also helped. “For example, the history teacher. Like Vladlen Maraev, he presented the material without embellishment or falsification. He would say, ‘This is what the textbook says, but let’s be honest…’” — Eridan recalls.

When the war began, Liza was nine years old. “At first, I didn’t quite understand that this was actually a Russian occupation,” the girl says. “I thought it was what they called ‘secession.’”

The transition to the new education system, introduced by the occupying authorities of the so-called “Luhansk People’s Republic,” took place much more slowly than it is now in Russian-occupied territories. Ukrainian language and literature were still taught for a few more years, but they started tightening the screws during the coronavirus pandemic in 2020.

“One day our homeroom teacher asked, ‘Guys, what country do we live in?’ It was ninth grade; we weren’t little kids anymore and understood what the question was getting at. But we didn’t know what to answer—the truth or what was expected. I’ve always been a rebel, so I said, ‘We live in Ukraine.’ The teacher then warned us not to tell anyone that, because it could cause problems for us and our parents,” recalls Liza. Students were assigned to write an essay on the topic “My Family,” with the warning that it had to be about the so-called “Luhansk People’s Republic.” Every day in high school began with the “republic’s” anthem—teachers would play the recording, and the children would stand and sing along.

Eridan enrolled at Lviv University eight years ago. Back then, it was hard for people from the occupied territories to find clear instructions on the admission process, so he had to figure it out on his own. “I had to take two EITs in Kyiv and two in Kherson,” he says. “Ordinary students took a half-hour minibus ride in the morning to get to the exam, while I traveled four hours, crossing two borders and dealing with Russian border guards. It’s hard to imagine such a thirst for knowledge in an average fifteen-year-old student.”

The young man knew he was entitled to an additional preferential spot at a university. “But then the typical Ukrainian game began—a ping-pong match between ministries. When you call the Ministry of Education and Science for advice, they send you to the Ministry of Reintegration, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, or the Mejlis. And no one could give a proper answer,” says Eridan. Eventually, he was allocated a state-funded spot at Lviv Polytechnic.

None of Eridan’s classmates enrolled in a Ukrainian university. He tells the story of a friend from Horlivka who moved to Crimea in 2014, and from there to St. Petersburg, where he enrolled in a military academy. “On the eve of the full-scale invasion, he wrote to me that it would be ‘really funny’ to meet on opposite sides of the front line. I replied that yes, we’d probably have to,” Eridan recalls.

To leave occupied Luhansk Oblast and continue her studies in free territory, Liza went through screening and had to thoroughly wipe her phone so the Russians wouldn’t find anything suspicious. “Mom and Dad didn’t let me be fed propaganda. I was raised to love my country. Pro-Russian narratives awakened critical thinking in me, a desire to understand what was happening,” she says. 

This year, the last children who started first grade in Ukrainian schools will graduate in Crimea, Donetsk, and Luhansk. “Almenda” notes that propaganda has caused significant changes in the students’ sense of identity.

“In many cases, children in Crimea consider themselves Russian and are ready to defend their so-called homeland,” says Oleg Okhredko. “Schools are hanging memorial plaques for graduates who died in the ‘special military operation.’ Students’ access to information is restricted. Even before the full-scale invasion began, Russia imposed restrictions on children’s use of social media. Children’s devices are checked; they are questioned about what their parents say and watch at home. “This system was created and tested in Crimea, and is now being expanded to the southern occupied regions.”

What took eight years in the territories occupied in 2014 is being done abruptly, quickly, and under pressure in the lands seized in 2022–2023. “Not all children attended schools operating under the Russian curriculum,” the expert comments. “So the occupiers began using a carrot-and-stick approach. In 2022, parents were paid 10,000 rubles (about 4,000 hryvnias) to ensure their child attended school. And if they refused, they were threatened with fines, loss of parental rights, and being thrown into a basement.”

So many children in the occupied territories now face a double burden: they study both at a local school following the Russian curriculum and in a Ukrainian school—either remotely or through home schooling, where they work through the material on their own. For students who have left Ukraine, the Ministry of Education and Science has developed a hybrid system: they study language, history, literature, and law under the Ukrainian curriculum, while other subjects follow the curriculum of the country where they currently live. This system does not work in the occupied territories. Those who do not want to or cannot study remotely are left with no choice but to leave the occupied territories—and this option is not available to everyone.

Another option is volunteer educational initiatives. For example, the NGO “ZNOVU” has been preparing high school graduates in the occupied territories since 2020. In the spring of 2024, the organization is enrolling students from all grades for the first time in online courses in Ukrainian language, mathematics, and history.

“We have safety guidelines that we share with students, parents, and teachers,” says the organization’s co-founder, Olena Pavliuk. “It’s important to us that their data isn’t compromised, so they can attend classes without fear.”

“ZNOVU” is currently preparing about 250 children for university admission. In addition to academic courses, which begin on April 1, the organization offers participation in a creative studio, a psychological support group, and legal consultations. You can fill out the application here.

“I would recommend that the Ministry of Education and Science collaborate more with small organizations like ours. It’s much easier for us to reach the parents of these children without all the red tape,” says Olena Pavliuk.

Oleg Okhredko believes that a unified online school is needed for children living under occupation. “Right now, the situation is fragmented: students can study individually at literally any institution. A unified school would allow us to understand and meet the child’s individual needs, ensure their safety, and simply provide support,” explains the expert.

Kherson teacher Daria Ageenko spent nine months under occupation. She now works in Kyiv but continues to support her former class in Kherson. “No matter how tired I am, no matter how many lessons I have, I have to respond, offer support, and send emojis. These children have lost their childhood. They should be running around, going on field trips, spending more time together. But, unfortunately, their communication is limited to conversations in front of screens,” she says. Schools in Kherson operate remotely due to constant artillery shelling of the city.

Daria says that people who were under occupation are often labeled—called “waiters.” “When we were liberated, we knew that some children had attended Russian schools. Not all teachers accepted this; they treated these children as enemies,” she recalls. Instead, according to the teacher, children in the occupied territories should be supported and assured that the state loves them, will not abandon them, and sees its future in them.

Oleg Okhredko concludes that after the liberation of the occupied territories, critical thinking will be key to neutralizing the effects of Russian influence on children’s minds. “We will need to show that there is no single correct way of thinking. Because that is exactly what the Russians are instilling in children’s minds right now,” the expert explains. “You can view the world in different ways, analyze information independently, and draw your own conclusions. It will be difficult. But right now, we risk losing an entire generation. Our task is to turn this around and make it possible.”

This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.