UZHGOROD, Ukraine — This week marks the beginning of the school year in Ukraine, a crucial moment for every student, especially for teenagers in their final year of high school. Ukrainian teens are concerned about more than just grades and choosing a college — they are grappling with the realities of war.

Still haunted by memories of his hometown in the Luhansk region, almost entirely under Russian control, one student struggles to adjust to life in the Kyiv region after surviving the Russian occupation. Homesickness lingers, constantly reminding him of what he left behind. Two other teenagers agonize over their future careers: planning for the future while coping with the daily threats of Russian-guided bombs and missiles in front-line cities.

Just before the school year began, the trio found a time of peace and healing at a summer camp on the other side of the country. The camp for children affected by war was created and organized by the Voices of Children charity and sponsored by the Olena Zelenskaya Foundation, a charity founded by the wife of Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky.

For the three teenagers, it was a rare opportunity to socialize with other young people from across Ukraine who had experienced war trauma, as well as get some much-needed rest to recharge their batteries.

“I’m sure I’ll have a future”

What 16-year-old Oleksandr Hryshchenko liked most about the summer camp in Uzhhorod, near the western border with Slovakia, was that “the focus was not on the war.”

“Relax, talk about what’s weighing you down during the day,” he said. His village, Vorozhba, is on the other side of the country, less than 10 kilometers (6 miles) from the Russian border, in the northern Sumy region.

For him, the camp represented a rare opportunity to escape from relentless explosions and danger, especially after Ukrainian troops entered Kursk Oblast, some 50 kilometres (30 miles) away.

“People who are further from the border are still happy, celebrating the capture of new villages, but they do not understand, do not feel, do not know what is happening in the border area,” he said. “The Russians have begun to attack cities much more aggressively.”

The shelling has fluctuated in intensity throughout the war, but this summer has been particularly severe. Whereas the Russians previously relied on artillery, they now attack Vorozza with the much more fearsome glide bombs, which he describes as “much worse.”

While Oleksandr had the opportunity to work with psychologists in the camp and communicate with other children, he remains in constant contact with his family. During a recent strike, his home was rocked by the shockwaves of a bomb, causing a lamp to fall from the ceiling.

His final year at school in his hometown will be largely online. Many people left the village this summer, but Oleksandr said his family has no plans to leave yet.

“We know that if we leave now, there may be nothing left to come back to,” he said. His entire family, including his grandparents, still live there, while his father has served on the front lines since the early days of Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022.

“For me, my father is the bravest person in my life,” Oleksandr said. The war changed him, he said: He used to have a softer character, but now he is more reserved.

The impact of war is a constant concern, he said. “You think about it every night before you go to sleep. You think about it all day long, wondering what’s next.”

Despite the confusion, Oleksandr feels he is taking control of his destiny, focusing on his last year of school, preparing for entrance exams and choosing a university.

“I am sure that Ukraine will have a future, I will have a future too, and I know that everything will be fine, but we have to survive these times,” he said.

Community of War Witnesses

Sixteen-year-old Valery Soldatenko still has visions of his hometown in the Luhansk region, which he fled on August 29, 2022, after spending about six months under Russian occupation.

“There are moments when I can almost see it with my own eyes. I see familiar faces, I see these beautiful white hills,” Valery said. His home village of Bilokurakyne, in the northern part of Luhansk region, is occupied by Russian forces.

For him, education was a key factor in his decision to leave. In August 2022, just before the start of the new school year, he fled because a Russian curriculum was imposed on him.

“I really didn’t want to adapt to the Russian education system,” he said. “So it was clear that I was in the greatest danger and could put my family in the greatest danger.”

His family has settled near Kiev, but Valery still has trouble adjusting. He misses his friends, the familiar landscapes of Luhansk, and his old home—a handmade building of clay, hay, and chalk with a blue facade and white columns.

Among the few things he took with him was a walnut shell from a friend, a treasured keepsake because time and distance make it difficult to keep in touch.

“Before we left, we hoped to return home in November or December to celebrate Christmas and New Year with my family,” Valerii said. “But as you can see, I am sitting here, not in my home village.”

He came to the camp to connect with other “witnesses to war,” seeking both reflection and insight into how his peers were coping on the front lines.

As he prepares to begin his senior year of high school, he decides on a university to attend, although he is still unsure whether he will become a journalist or a history teacher.

“I would say the war took away my childhood, especially after I escaped,” he said.

“Being a teenager during war is hard”

Ksenija Kucher, 16, dreams of her graduation day, imagining a celebration or a trip with her classmates. But because of routine Russian strikes, schooling in the northeastern city of Kharkiv is mostly online, which may not be possible.

Her family has packed “emergency bags” with essentials and documents, but they have no plans to leave just yet.

“It’s really hard, especially when the strikes happen at night. You literally wake up from your bed after the explosions have rocked you,” she said. “But it’s easier because you’re still home. You’re with your loved ones, not in a strange environment.”

In the camp, hundreds of kilometers (miles) from Kharkov, Ksenia found a rare opportunity to decompress. “I even started having some dreams here,” she said.

She especially valued the late-night conversations with her peers, during which they shared their experiences and established personal connections.

“I don’t have many friends in life in general. And now they’ve all scattered,” she mused. When she’s home, she tries not to dwell on her pre-war life, but instead focuses on the present.

“I live in the moment and don’t make big plans for the future because, understanding the current situation… I don’t know what will happen in a year,” she said.

She lives with her mother and younger brother while her father is serving at the front. Ksenia sees him once every few months.

As she spoke, the distant sounds of the storm continually distracted her, resembling explosions.

“Being a teenager in war is hard,” she said. “You don’t fully understand your emotions, and everything affects you — from a hurtful word to a hail of bullets. It’s hard to live with.”