Just before the checkpoint into the city of Chernihiv, I get off the minibus to meet Lesia, who will accompany me through the northern Ukrainian region, bordering Russia and Belarus. Lesia is a well-known figure in the area — young, determined, and courageous woman. Before the full-scale war, she worked as a local police officer. Now, she heads a volunteer organisation in the Kulykivka district called Siveriany, named after the historical region of Sivershchyna, to which both Chernihiv and Kulykivka belong.
Written by
Nacho Gil Porte
During my time with Lesia, I witness both sides of the war — the scares it left and the resilience it forged
Horrors of Yahidne during the Russian occupation
In Yahidne, a small village north of Kyiv and not far from Chernihiv, people bore witness to the utter cruelty of the Russian army. The village experienced a month under Russian occupation in the spring of 2022. During that time, Russian forces kidnapped over 300 people and imprisoned them in the basement of the local school — in an unsanitary space measuring not more than 130 square metres.
Photo: Pavlo Yuz
Fifteen elderly residents died in the overcrowded space, deprived of fresh air and basic conditions for survival. Some were taken by occupying soldiers and executed.
Ivan, a retired resident of Yahidne, was also kidnapped by the Russian soldiers and held captive in the school basement. Today, he is one of the volunteers who has converted the place of their captivity into a museum. The space preserves the raw memory of captivity: visitors can see the objects that the kidnapped people had with them and days they scratched on the walls to mark time until the day they were liberated. The museum shows the horror the villagers of Yahidne suffered during the Russian occupation.
Ivan recalls how they lived without light, without knowing exactly what day it was, and with hardly any news from the outside world. The oldest person there was 93 years old; the youngest, just a month and a half. This basement in Yahidne is full of memories of those 27 days — inscribed on the walls, preserved in the objects, and, most vividly, in the testimonies of those who survived.
Photo: Pavlo Yuz
“The children were getting sick. There was a chickenpox outbreak in the basement. A one-and-a-half-month-old baby kept crying, and the mother’s milk had gone bad. The Russians let them out one day after an attack. The children’s eyesight was very poor, as there was no light in the basement, but they could still see the houses collapsing,” Ivan recalls.
Walking through those corridors is a reminder of who the aggressors are in this war, and how they treated the civilians unfortunate enough to cross their path in the spring of 2022.
“In this war, those on the frontlines are just ordinary people. They are my friends — teachers, bankers, drivers…,” says Lesia.
Having grown up in the area, Lesia says she volunteers because it’s the only way she can help. Like so many Ukrainians, the war is personal for her — those defending the country on the frontlines are her friends and loved ones. Some of them never came back.
Volunteering as a way of life during wartime
Despite horrors and tragedies of the war and occupation, I experienced another side of the spectrum — warmth and kindness of Ukrainian volunteers from the Siveriany organisation. I meet the first group of volunteers, who are responsible for weaving camouflage nets and attaching ribbons of different colours to them. Soldiers on the frontlines use these nets for cover, helping them stay hidden from enemy drones. About a dozen women, split into two teams, work on nets of different sizes and colours — for winter, summer, muddy terrain.
Photo: Siveriany organisation / Facebook
Tania, who greets me with a smile, tells me that they have been working on this project since the summer of 2022.
“What motivates me? I hope that peace will come soon. I want to help the boys so that they suffer less. The commanders told me that this protection helped them a lot.”
Before I leave, the group gives me a bag full of hand-knitted hearts in the colours of the Ukrainian flag. The knitting process takes about three days from start to finish. Being handmade, these nets also provide better protection than commercial alternatives, as Lesia explains:
“The nets sold online have very large holes, but these have smaller holes, so if a drone comes, it can get stuck in the threads and not get through the net.”
Next door, Lesia shows me her office — one wall is lined with diplomas and awards her organisation has received — she shows them with quiet pride. The other wall is covered with Ukrainian flags from different divisions of the army, signed with dedications to her and the Siveriany team.
The next stop on the tour is the village school. Inside, the building is spacious with many drawings on its walls. There are no classes today, but about ten students and two teachers have gathered in the dining room to pack snacks for soldiers on the frontline.
Each student has a specific role and is responsible for putting certain ingredients into the snacks — dried fruit, jelly beans. Working like a human chain, the bags are prepared, sealed and placed in a box that will then be sent to the front.
“When the soldier arrives at his position, he carries ammunition, water, his weapon, his protective gear, the Starlink, and other things. So it helps them a lot to have something they can quickly eat, and that doesn’t weigh them down,” — one of the volunteers explains.
One of the students tells me:“We are in our final year and we have to study hard for the university entrance exams, but if we can find time to help our army, we are happy to do so.”Her aspiration is to study international relations, although she adds, “The air raid alerts constantly disrupt our plans. When they go off, we have to go to the shelter. That waiting time is filled with noise and anxiety. It’s difficult.”
The siren goes off every time an air threat is detected — it can sound several times a day, at any time. My nervousness at the sound of the siren contrasts with the virtually non-existent reaction of the locals. In this part of Ukraine, air raid alerts have become part of daily life.
Photo: Pavlo Yuz
Lesia takes me to the school basement, which has been turned into makeshift classrooms for when the air raid alert sounds.
“The students here have everything they need,” she says. “The alarm often lasts for hours, so they can continue with their classes here. They have water, toilets, and a nurse’s office.”
Before we leave the school, one of the teachers shows us a technology classroom:
“The Ukrainian government funds these classes so that students can learn, among other things, how to operate drones.”
A short drive from Kulykivka, Lesia brings me to a small house where a group of women step outside to greet us. They are also part of the Siveriany organisation and are responsible for preparing meals for the soldiers. Today, they are preparing a cabbage and carrot salad — food that, according to Lesia, stays fresh for quite a long time.
Photo: Nacho Gil Porte
“The boys send us photos and videos,” she says. “They are very grateful. Home-cooked food is made with love. We want them to see that we care for them and worry about them. They enjoy it; so far, they haven’t complained.”
Lesia tells me they also often make doughnuts with jam.
“Home-cooked food is always good, but for soldiers on the front line, it’s twice as good.”
Alley of Heroes
Under a light rain, we head to the Alley of Heroes in Kulykivka — a solemn memorial to the fallen local soldiers. Dozens of Ukrainian national flags mark the graves. Lesia crosses herself at the cemetery gate, and we begin a silent walk between the raws.
“It’s hard”, she says, looking at the gravestones in the so-called heroes’ corridor. “Women my age are already widows, and their children are growing without fathers.”
Alley of Heroes. Photo:Nacho Gil Porte
Colourful flowers, ribbons, even small coffee cups left by loved ones decorate the graves. Many of the names belong to Lesia’s schoolmates, or the husbands of her friends. These are not anonymous heroes. They are the next door neighbours — young people who, in a different world, should be attending weddings, not buried beneath sodden flags.
When we finish the walk, Lesia says something that still haunts me to this day:
“As you can see, they are all so handsome, they are all so young. Seeing them here breaks my heart.”
Lesia drives me to the Chernihiv bus station, where I catch the last bus back to Kyiv. On the way back, I’m overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions. I feel deep admiration for the volunteers of Siveriany, who for over three years have worked tirelessly and selflessly to support their country. But I also carry the weight of sorrow for the young lives lost, for the futures stolen by a war Ukrainians didn’t look for.
And above all, I feel gratitude. Gratitude for Lesia and her team, for their warmth, for their resilience, and for the vital work they continue to do — even in the face of unimaginable loss.
The material is prepared by
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