Tim Hryshchuk, a bright-eyed five-year-old, had dreamt of his first day of school – colorful classrooms, new friends, and the exciting beginnings of learning. He likely didn’t imagine that beginning would be in a dimly lit basement. But in Kyiv, on September 2nd, that was the reality. As the chilling siren of an air raid alert sliced through the air, Tim and his new classmates had no choice but to descend into the earth’s embrace. This is the stark reality of starting school in a war.
The increase in Russian aerial attacks, fueled by scaled-up drone production this year, has shifted from primarily nocturnal threats to more frequent daytime assaults. For Kyiv alone, the numbers are staggering: over 1,800 air alerts, totaling more than 2,200 hours, have disrupted life since Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022. In the initial weeks of this month, an average of two alerts per day have become the norm. Each alarm isn’t just a sound; it’s a pause button on millions of lives, a calculated tactic by Russia to sow terror and exhaustion.
“These massive strikes send the same message that (Russian President Vladimir) Putin and other high-ranking Kremlin officials have been indicating publicly and repeatedly in the past few months – that Russia is not interested in negotiations or stopping its war,” explains Christina Harward, a Russia analyst at the Institute for the Study of War.
Yet, amidst this relentless threat, Ukrainian schools have transformed into fortresses of resilience, armed with meticulously crafted air raid safety protocols. The orientation for new students now includes not only the usual details of timetables and cafeteria menus but also crucial information about evacuation routes and the nearest shelters. At Kyiv Gymnasium of Oriental Languages 1, where Tim is now a first-grader, deputy head Liudmyla Andruk shares that it takes their 700 students a mere six minutes to reach the safety of their designated shelter.
Every school in Ukraine now operates with a police officer on-site, coordinating these swift evacuations. “Of course, if we know that it’s a ballistic missile threat, we are trying to get everyone there as soon as possible,” Andruk emphasizes. While physical safety is paramount, the responsibility of educators extends to their students’ mental well-being. “Each child is different, some have allergies, some phobias, some find it difficult to sit in a shelter for hours,” she notes. “If the alert lasts for hours, we play games, let students chat, tell stories, or show videos. Still, they return exhausted, and it’s hard to get them focused once class resumes.”
This pervasive sense of unease permeates all aspects of daily life. Russia’s intensified aerial assaults have seen staggering numbers, with one night alone witnessing over 800 drones and 13 missiles, claiming at least 11 civilian lives. Even bustling hubs like the Lavina Mall on the outskirts of Kyiv, which normally teems with up to 20,000 people, face logistical nightmares. “Most people are now so used to alerts that they don’t move fast. We’ve had to increase security staff to guide people and make sure they follow evacuation routes,” says Dmytro Lashyn, the mall’s CEO. The sheer volume of people seeking safety can trigger massive traffic jams, further complicating the situation.
Shopping habits have also evolved. Gone are the leisurely browsing sessions. Instead, people shop with a purpose, prioritizing necessities in case an alarm disrupts their day. Spontaneity is replaced by a conscious appreciation for the present. “Our surveys show that people are living one day at a time. Many ask themselves, ‘Why should I deny myself something? Maybe tomorrow I won’t be in this world anymore because my house will be destroyed by a missile,’” Lashyn observes.
Even cultural experiences are not exempt. Film producer Oleksiy Komarovsky jokes that air raid alerts have birthed a new metric for evaluating movies: “If people come back to finish the film after a long interruption, then the movie is really good.” This lighthearted observation underscores a deeper truth: the resilience of the Ukrainian spirit, finding ways to adapt, to find moments of normalcy, and even humor, in the face of an unimaginably difficult reality.
The story of Tim Hryshchuk, the five-year-old starting school in a basement, is not an isolated incident. It is a powerful symbol of a nation adapting to a new, terrifying normal, where the classroom is not just a building, but a space that must constantly contend with the unseen threats lurking in the sky. The courage of its children, the dedication of its teachers, and the unwavering spirit of its people stand as testaments to Ukraine’s resilience, day by day, alert by alert.
