At the end of the summer of 2022, 14-year-old Bohdan Usik was sent to Russia for a three-week recreational camp, sheltered from the bombardments. He will not return home until early spring, thanks to the efforts of his mother Olha.
When Bohdan returned, Olha Usik took a long time to believe. After dark, the Ukrainian sometimes checked that her son was sleeping well in his room, as before. After months of absence, the teenager has returned home to the small town of Balaklia, “much more mature”, naturally starting to help his mother around the house. “I wish he had matured in another way,” Olha breath. “It was the first time in my life that I let him go, and it lasted seven months. It was really very traumatic.”
On the eve of his 14th birthday, at the end of August 2022, Bohdan Usik left his occupied city to escape the dangers of war, the time of three weeks of recreation camp on the shores of the Black Sea in Russia. A proposal from the Russian occupation forces, which will turn into seven months away from his people. According to a recent report (PDF) the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), “there is ample evidence that a large number of Ukrainian children”potentially 6,000, “were transferred to Crimea or the Russian Federation for temporary stays in so-called recreation camps”. Some of these children, like Bohdan, “were held up much longer than expected.”
“I didn’t really have a choice”
On February 24, 2022, the war quickly entered Balaklia, located about a hundred kilometers southeast of Kharkiv. The first explosions damaged the windows of the family house, “and afterwards the Russian army entered the city”, recalls Olha. The Ukrainian depicts a situation “more or less livable” which gradually gets worse. In the heart of summer, the strikes are getting closer and gaining in intensity. “There were shelling every day, it was very noisy. I was trying to hide somewhere, I was scared”Bohdan breathes.
In the city, Olha sees children leave for a few weeks and then return, without incident, from leisure camps offered by the Russian occupiers. The offer, mooted at the Russian-manned aid distribution point, still stands. Bohdan’s mother hesitates, but she sees her son “run anywhere” and to have “very scared” each time a knock sounds. “Bohdan was really exhausted from the shelling. I say I didn’t really have a choice”she says. “The interests of a child come first. I asked my son the question and he told me: ‘Yes mum, I want to leave’.”
“I didn’t want to be separated from my mum, but I just wanted to stop hearing the shelling. I had had enough and told myself that I would rest.”
Bohdan Usikat franceinfo
When the bus sets off for a journey of nearly 900 km, Olha immediately tells herself that she must pick up her son, then reasons with herself. The Ukrainian fears shooting, a bombardment which could kill her child on the way. For Bohdan, the journey begins in fear, with gunshots heard in the distance. On August 28, the teenager experiences a first birthday “pretty sad” far from his family. At her side, accompanying adults and other children from her region, including Sergei, 11 years old. “I was happy to discover new places, but I didn’t want to leave dad. I started to miss him as soon as the bus left”says the child.
“I didn’t really understand where I was”
Once there, Bohdan learns that he is in the Krasnodar region, without knowing that he is more precisely in Gelendzhik. “It was a little weird, I didn’t really understand where I was”, he testifies. The Ukrainian describes “a normal summer camp”, with a comfortable bedroom that he shares with five other young people and the nearby sea. The days go by between song contests, sports activities, meals and a bit of dancing in the evening. In September, the children start taking courses in mathematics, computer science, Russian or geography.
The tone changed on September 8, when the Ukrainian army’s counter-offensive liberated Balaklia from Russian occupation. “They told us that the Ukrainian army had invaded the town of Balaklia and that we could no longer return”, recalls Bohdan. “I didn’t understand, I had to stay for three weeks… The attendants didn’t know anything more.”
“I didn’t think for a second that they might not return the children.”
Olha, deprived of communication with her son for lack of a network, anxiously awaits his return, but after 22 days, “I understood that there was a problem”, she relates. She finally manages to reach Bogdan around September 20, in a moment of emotions “hard to describe”, between laughter and tears. Is he in good health? Is he treated well? Her boy reassures her. Before saying goodbye, the Ukrainian promises her that she will “All” to bring it back. “Be patient, I’ll get you back.”
“It’s your responsibility”
Early autumn, Bohdan is transferred to Anapa, still in the Krasnodar region. “I stayed there a long, really long time… Until New Year’s Eve”, says Bohdan. Accommodation conditions remain comfortable, but the distance weighs heavily, despite daily contact with his mother. “I felt quite withdrawn, I was very sad.” At the beginning of the year, Bohdan was once again moved further north to Yeisk. The rooms are smaller, the meals less good, and fewer and fewer Ukrainian children – about twenty, according to him – surround him. The Ukrainian sees the young people of Balaklia returning home, little by little.
At home, Olha observes the return of several children. “Nobody was talking about anything. For me, it was a question of money”, she says. Mothers are allowed to pick up their children, but at the cost of a very long and expensive journey. The Ukrainian, who lives off odd jobs to take care of her daughter and whose husband is an electrician, is struggling to raise the necessary money. “I went everywhere saying, ‘I want it back but I don’t have the money to make this trip'”, she says. For months, she appealed to local and regional authorities. “I was told: ‘You made this choiceit’s your responsibility.” Nightly, on the phone, Olha keeps reassuring Bohdan. “I was telling him that I loved him, that everything would be fine.” Behind these reassuring words hides a deep pain.
“It was as if half my heart had been ripped out of me. It was extremely hard, one of the worst trials of my life.”
The Ukrainian is increasing contacts with volunteers while continuing to put money aside with her husband. At the end of January, she finally manages to collect a little more than 500 euros for the trip. Then begins a journey that will take her to Lviv and then through Poland, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia, to have a chance to cross a border with Russia.
The hope of reunion ends at this same border, when Olha’s entry into Russian territory is refused. The border guards remind him of his expulsion from Russia in 2018, after the family stayed too long without the necessary authorizations. The Ukrainian, who thought this ban was lifted, negotiates for hours to pass. In vain. “I cried. I was dejected”. On the phone, she announces the news to Bohdan. With always this same promise: “I’ll come, we’ll find a way to get you back.” At that moment, the teenager remembers, “I closed in on myself even more”.
“The trip took a week”
Back in Balaklia, Olha is tested. Journalists put her in contact with Darya Kasanova, from the SOS Children’s Villages Ukraine association. “We help families to be reunited, then after their reunion”, describes the director of program development. While accompanying Olha, Darya Kasanova learns that another family is trying to bring their child back from Yeisk. Oleksi and Anastasia have been trying for months to bring Sergey back to his home in Morozivka, near Balaklia. “The father could not go there, because the men [de 18 à 60 ans] do not have the right to cross the border”recalls the association manager. “This family, however, could obtain power of attorney and bring back the two children.”
SOS Children’s Villages Ukraine then establishes an itinerary for Anastasia, then finances all the tickets (600 euros). She must also go through Lviv and Poland, then reach Belarus and fly to Moscow. “There are 300 kilometers as the crow flies between my home and Voronezh [où les enfants l’attendraient]. This journey took a week”says Anastasia.
“I remember that day when mom told me that someone had left to get me. I jumped for joy.”
Bohdan Usikat franceinfo
Anastasia’s arrival in Moscow begins with a two-hour interrogation at the airport. Agents “started to have doubts that I was bringing back the right kid” in Ukraine, she says. They offer the young woman to go with Sergey but to leave Bohdan, whose tears begin to flow. Eventually, the Belarusians let them go at three, but Ukrainian agents are in turn suspicious. The fears dissipate by calling Olha and Oleksi.
In Balaklia, Olha waits, worried. “Even though I knew he was already in Ukraine, it was hard to believe”she testifies. The family rushes to the station to welcome him, but seven months have transformed the teenager. “When I get off the train, I see them, but they don’t recognize meexplains Bohdan. I ran towards them. I was very, very happy.” “He had grown a lot. He kissed us, took us in his arms, his grandparents were crying”is moved Olha. The Ukrainian had prepared pizza, Bohdan’s favorite dish, for their first dinner together. At this moment, “the meaning of my life has returned”.