"They Chose Ukraine": Stories of Children Who Decided on Their Own to Return Home

With this post, Intent continues its series of reviews dedicated to contemporary Ukrainian publications. The reviews for Intent as part of this project are written by Maria Galina—a Ukrainian writer, poet, and literary critic, and winner of literary awards. This time, we’ll be discussing Yevheniya Genova’s book *They Chose Ukraine* (Kyiv, “Mison” Publishing House, 2026)—documentary stories of children and teenagers who survived occupation, deportation, or a long period of living in Russia, but did not renounce Ukraine.

This post is essentially a follow-up to the review you read a couple of weeks ago—I wrote about Yevheniya Genova’s books back then. At that time, I wrote that because we were waiting for the print version, we were holding off on reviewing the author’s latest book—*They Chose Ukraine* (Kyiv, Mison Publishing House, 2026), which documents “real stories of children and teenagers who survived occupation, deportation, or a long life in Russia, but did not renounce Ukraine.” So, it has finally been published, despite the shelling of book warehouses and all our other difficulties; it was presented at the “Port” Festival and the Odesa Literary Festival—in other words, everything worked out.

The tragedy of children who were forcibly taken to Russia (in effect, stolen) or children who remained in the temporarily occupied territories is, above all, a tragedy of forced identity change. It is a painful subject, and since we are dealing specifically with children, it requires the utmost sensitivity. Precisely for this reason, despite its significance, it is difficult to interpret artistically or through documentary film. But such works do exist, particularly in Odesa. For example, the documentary theater company Lyutyi Teatr presents the play *The Bird in the Attic* (*The Story of One Deportation*, written by Oleg Mikhailov, directed by Oleg Shevchuk), which is essentially a monologue by a girl who was “taken in” by a Russian activist—someone like that Lvova-Belova woman, or whatever her name is… Separated from her mother during the screening process following the capture of Mariupol (we don’t know where her mother is now, or even if she’s still alive), the girl, hiding from her intrusive “family” in the attic, dictates a letter to her mother on camera (the next performance is on September 25, so you have a chance to see it). But, importantly, what we have here is a work of art, a generalization—even though it’s based on the experiences of children who managed to return home.

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Illustrations for the book by Anfisa Chaplinska. PHOTO: Maria Galina

And now, a book by Genova, who is known here for her works that blend documentary and fiction. In fact, reading this book requires a certain amount of strength—not to mention how much strength it must have taken to write it. As the author herself says in the preface: “This book brings together various stories of young people—those who found themselves under Russian occupation or were deported, who held onto the hope of returning and made their dream come true despite the risks, dangers, and violence. Some shared their stories anonymously; others, openly. Some fled the occupation; others returned from deportation; some went with their families, while others defied their parents’ wishes. The stories of Stepan Chubenko, Tigran Oganisyan, and Mykyta Khanganov were told by their family members and loved ones: these teenagers were tortured and killed by Russian occupiers"...

We all know how children and teenagers are brainwashed in the occupied territories, or after forced deportation: through school education, through militarization, through distorted history, through the imposition of the Russian language, and, not least, through culture. I’ve already written here and everywhere else that it is precisely through culture that national identity is forged; and when it comes to Russian culture specifically, this doesn’t necessarily mean Tolstoy and Dostoevsky—it’s primarily memes, fairy tales, children’s books, songs, and the things instilled from childhood. No wonder, as Genova writes, the mother went to great lengths to get her little boy out of the occupied region after he came home from school saying, “Mom, I’m Russian.” “They praised me at school today because I sang our anthem best—the anthem of the Russian Federation.”

But what do you do if your parents don’t support you—but instead hold views about “one people” and the like—as was the case with Ivan, who as a teenager began secretly communicating online with peers in government-controlled territories, and at eighteen desperately gave up everything and took the difficult, dangerous route out of occupied Luhansk? How independent must one’s thinking be to stand firm not only against school propaganda, not only against the fear of ending up “in the basement,” but also against one’s own family... Yet here he is—he stood firm, because the call of his homeland proved stronger.

Because for him, being Ukrainian means being free.

But what does it really mean to be Ukrainian?

Evelin from Donetsk, who made her way to Kyiv via a journey no less arduous, says it means asking questions and seeking answers. K. from Berdiansk, who navigated numerous checkpoints, filtration, and interrogations by the Russians, says it’s the opportunity to speak Ukrainian freely. Another K., from Stanytsia Luhanska, says that even when you have absolutely no connection, and a terrifying voice booms from the loudspeakers over the town: “Kyiv has fallen, surrender!”—it means “simply being yourself.”

In general, one is simply struck by the strength of spirit and independence of mind of these children, who—despite the pressure, despite the threat to their lives, and sometimes even despite their parents’ views—have managed to remain loyal to their homeland. Take Ivan Matkovsky from the Mariupol boarding school, who—after being taken to the Donetsk Children’s Hospital (essentially a holding facility) and placed in isolation—helped other children contact their relatives because his was the only phone that still worked more or less. Then there’s Oleksandr—a boy named Sashko—who survived the siege of Mariupol, was wounded, and, while in a Donetsk hospital, refused to go to a “rest camp” in Russia. He managed to return, but he’s still searching for his mother. I’ll add my name here too: Snizhana Kozlova. And here’s Daryna, who, as a nine-year-old girl in 2015, was taken by her relatives to the Moscow region under circumstances she didn’t understand at the time. She, too, made her own decision and left on her own; before that, she had been studying Ukrainian and secretly preparing to take a multi-subject test... And, of course, immersing herself in Ukrainian culture, which helps her preserve her identity—secretly, despite everything.

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Illustrations for Anfisa Chaplinska’s book. PHOTO: Maria Galina

What’s telling is that almost all the teenagers, when talking about the arrival of the “Russian world,” mention not only interrogations, searches, threats, profanity, constant fear, and constant danger. Not just the bizarre lessons where they were taught about “family values,” “disgusting Europe,” and “Russia’s special path.” Not just about how everyone was afraid of everyone else. They recall how things that seem trivial to us are disappearing—and in fact, it is the familiar world that is vanishing: Ivan recalls his favorite apple-flavored “Zhivchik” soda, Evelin recalls “The Crazy Bees,” and Daria remembers the TV channels with cartoons. Yes, this is also about loss and gain, because small losses add up to one big one.

They left the occupied territories or Russia and made their way out however they could—through Russia, through Belarus, through Latvia—but they all say the same thing. When you cross the border and realize that you’re on your own soil, among your own people, and you can just breathe a deep breath… R., whose pro-Ukrainian family managed to leave the occupied territories despite psychological pressure, threats, promises of an easy career, searches, deception, and interrogations—on a difficult journey through Latvia—says that the first thing you feel when you return to Ukraine is a sense of safety. Despite everything. Denis, from the Luhansk region—who saw for the first time how people smile at strangers, speak calmly, and don’t get nervous... Rodion, whose family managed to escape from the occupied Donbas after overcoming numerous dangers, says, “When we saw the sign that said ‘Ukraine,’ it somehow became very easy. Even the bags didn’t seem as heavy… And I also remember a deep sense of peace. I could just breathe, look at the sky, look at people, and not worry about anything—at least for a little while.” Maybe this sounds a bit melodramatic, but I can confirm it because I’ve experienced it myself—it’s exactly like that, on a purely physiological level. It sets you free. It’s simply easier to breathe. Maybe there’s some kind of mysticism to it. I don’t know.

It’s a very important book. I believe, however, that behind the scenes, the author mercifully left out what would be terrifying for us to read—and for teenagers to recall. In general, each story could be expanded into a separate novel, with details, subplots, episodes, and so on… well, that’s the kind of novels we have these days…

I’d also like to mention the energetic illustrations by Anfisa Chaplinska.

Марія Галіна