Zubiager, Ukrainian – Ukrainian mother, Yulia Krapatva, lived in fear for months that her quiet patriotism would be discovered by the Russian occupying people.
Just three days after the Kremlin's full-scale invasion of Ukraine on February 24, 2022, Moscow forces took over the family's homeland of Beldianusk in southeastern Ukraine.
The small family was heavily detained for more than two and a half years before finding courage and financial capacity to escape the occupying people.
In September they embarked on a bus of about 2,000 miles, closing the front and closure checkpoints, starting anew in Zvyaghel in western Ukraine about 450 miles away.
This post met the Khrapatova family at Kyrilo's new kindergarten. There, he speaks Ukrainian freely and plays with other children without fear of finding the patriotism of his family.
First intrusion
Like most Ukrainians, Frapatova did not expect Russian President Vladimir Putin to follow rumors ordering him to invade and take over Ukraine.
A mother who grew up in Ukraine when she was part of the Soviet Union, has been used to hearing the threat and attitude of Russia over the past 30 years.
Then, on February 22, 2022, the first reports of Russia's moves against Ukraine began filling her social media feed.
“The telegrams showed that people were watching everything. [Russian] The equipment that comes in,” she said. “People started hiding in the basement. [in Berdiansk]. ”
By February 27, 2022, the first Russian troops had entered the town. Krapatovas lived in the outskirts near the entrance to Beldianuscu, so his mother was among the first to see the invasion.
“I live alone near the road, so I saw these tank pillars. I lowered the kids into the basement,” she said.
“There was someone in Berdiangsk who went and asked. [Russian troops] “I'm going home, we don't need you,” she recalled.
She then went on the last day of work as a manager at a local factory. There, two guards were shot dead by Russian troops who believed the guards were Ukrainian soldiers.
She and her children wanted to leave soon, but they didn't have enough money to pay for the trip before the Russians finally closed the intersection to the free regions of Ukraine.
So they were forced to stay and play a game of pretending to stay until they could escape safely.
Under occupation
For the first six months under the Russian thumb, Yulia refused to accept food donated by the invaders.
“I say the kids didn't see me from February to July. I thought I would go through all the possible humanitarian paths where you could get some products for free, and I was always standing in some queues to buy some products first at any grocery store,” she said.
Meanwhile, Anastasia and Kirillo stayed constantly indoors, fearing they would be forced to attend a Russian school coordinated to strip them of their Ukrainian identity.
Anastasia attended schools in Ukrainian online from her basement and continued her research during the coronavirus pandemic.
“I read books and listened to music,” she said. “I couldn't leave the house and was afraid of dying from a sniper bullet.”
Ultimately, Krapatova faced a harsh reality. She had to accept that she would support her Russian family. However, doing so meant that the need to attend a Russian school would allow the occupyer to have two children at home.
“It reminded me of how we were standing in front of each other. [Russian assistance] worker. My kids were hungry, they were already beginning to forget about them [Ukrainian] Principles,” she said. “And I thought I needed to feed my children. And I took those products. And in my soul, I cursed the Russians.”
Anastasia and Kirillo, currently registered with the Russian authorities, attended schools injected with Russian propaganda in their respective subjects. Their classes included junior military training “Russia: My vision,” which taught us to love Russia,” and “to become a future combat type.”
“My ranks were Russian, Russian history, literature. There were foreigners and Russian literature, but in reality they were all Russians.”
Anastasia maintained a quiet resistance in her Russian classes for two years, blocking propaganda by wearing earplugs and headphones wherever possible.
“I didn't want to hear them. I realized that my mind had not yet been formed in enough form to listen to it and filter it out. So I tried to separate myself as much as possible and consume only the Ukrainian content,” she said. “I wanted to make sure that what I heard wasn't turning the vision of the world into the wrong.”
Most of her classmates were not Ukrainian, but were shipped from Russia as sons and daughters of the Moscow army.
“I didn't know those people and I had little communication with them,” she said. “Now I don't even remember their names.
“The military encouraged me. [us] To register for training, we went to school when we graduated from school, and they immediately went to serve the pro-Russian army. ”
Meanwhile, Kirillo's education was a relative mystery. Parents were not allowed to visit the school, Khrapatova said.
At home, the elderly family only spoke in Russian and never discussed their dislike of occupation in front of a surprisingly chatty little boy.
The long road to freedom
Khrapatova said Anastasia served as her “rock” throughout the occupation. And he was the one who ultimately guided his family freely.
“This child was the most supportive thing because her decision to leave more than mine was more of a thing,” Khrapatova said. “I mean, she really wanted to go back here and go back to her hometown. And I wanted her to settle.”
As Anastasia's brother grew from an infant to a young child, the teenager claimed he would not grow up to become like a classmate who dreamed of becoming a Russian soldier.
“I wanted him to grow up – I emphasized that he grew up – as a Ukrainian,” She said. “When he grew up, he loved Russia and was very afraid to fight Ukraine. Therefore, I preferred to leave Berdiangzuk before he went to school.”
The 14-year-old connected with an online volunteer organization that helped her family plan and fund their escape. They had to leave everything behind, except for a small suitcase of clothes and a photo of a few families.
“At the end of summer, we decided to leave. By the end of September, we were able to leave with our volunteers,” the teen said. “They formed routes, prepared tickets and bought them while we were gathering things.”
It took the family a week to pass through occupied Ukraine, through Russia and Belarus, and finally return to Zubiaher's Freedom Ukrainian territory.
Six months later, Anastasia returns to her studies at her online Ukrainian school, and Kirillo enjoys school at her local kindergarten.
“I've been calm all the way here. Anastasia spoke about her new life. “I just want to live a calm life in the end, and I want to keep myself constantly not protecting myself.
“We are also trying to think now about how we can find options to support. We want to be involved and help our fellow Ukrainians.”
