Ukraine: In bid to create ‘Russian World,’ education was weaponized

Ukrainian emergency workers were surprised when they first entered the white-painted school in Izium, after a Ukrainian counteroffensive swept away Russian troops.

From the outside, Lyceum No. 6 appears unscathed by more than six months of Russian occupation, and ready to welcome students for the new academic year.

In fact, Russian authorities intended to showcase it as a model for teaching a new Russian curriculum, centerpiece of a hearts-and-minds effort based on shared affinity for the Russian language and culture that Moscow affectionately calls “Russkiy Mir,” or Russian World.

But inside, something was missing – and not just the Ukrainian textbooks, which had been carted away to help pave the way for what Russia claimed would become a transformed Ukrainian society.

“The Russians came to this school and took all the cutlery and knives, and left the cheap, plastic ones,” says Hennadii Kovzunovich, the heavyset commander of a Ukrainian emergency services unit temporarily based at the school.

“Dishes? Really?” he asks with a tone of incredulity.

Ukrainians widely scoff at the Russian World project, and often use the term derisively when describing the wholesale destruction wrought by Russia’s invasion of their country – destruction that is increasingly evident as a Ukrainian counteroffensive recaptures swaths of occupied territory.

Still, education – and the teachers who shape the next generation of citizens – remain key to the fight for both sides.

Russian propaganda newspapers handed out across the Kharkiv region, for example, highlight the “crucial step” of gaining official Russian accreditation for schools in “liberated” areas, to raise them to a “Russian standard.”

The Ukrainian government has even classified teachers who work with the Russians as “collaborators.” On the eve of the school year, a top Ukrainian education official warned that such actions “fall under the Criminal Code of Ukraine” and would be prosecuted.

Schools as “top priority”

The forced Russian retreat from thousands of square miles of northeast Ukraine after half a year is now revealing the scale of Russian aims, as well as the haphazard and often ham-fisted efforts to create an idealized Russian World that were frequently undermined by the brutal realities of Russia’s own occupation.

“Schools are the most important thing, the top priority of this brain war,” says Mr. Kovzunovich, when asked why his emergency services unit, based in Kyiv, was sent to Izium with the primary task of clearing rubble from destroyed schools. In cities across the region, Russians set up military bases in school compounds, which were then further damaged when targeted by Ukraine in its lightning counteroffensive.

“The Russians are trying to come to schools to produce this [pro-Russia] patriotism from the earliest age,” says Mr. Kovzunovich. “They are trying to brainwash kids, so it is important to restart schools as soon as possible.”

Izium first responders who stayed behind to help local populations after the invasion recount what they say were unnecessary threats from Russian commanders to force their cooperation. Indeed, apart from the education efforts – and limited humanitarian aid, which locals say in the first deliveries appeared to actually be stolen Ukrainian goods – almost nothing appeared to be done by the Russians to win Ukrainian hearts and minds over to Russian World.

“I studied in Moscow. I know the Russians well, but I don’t recognize them now; they have been zombified by [President Vladimir] Putin,” Mr. Kovzunovich says.

As he speaks, as if on cue, an explosion sounds outside – a leftover Russian mine with a self-destruction mechanism detonating itself. Five cluster bomblets were left outside the back of the school, too, which had to be dispatched with a shotgun.

“Against my ideology”

The looted cutlery and dangerous detritus left by the Russians are no surprise to Natalia Filonova, a teacher of Ukrainian and world history at Lyceum No. 6, who is also head specialist for the Ministry of Education in Izium.

Before the war, some 600 teachers taught in Izium’s 11 schools, says Ms. Filonova, a veteran teacher of 26 years, who says she refused to work in the Russian system because it was “against my ideology.”

These days, her busy department office is a constant flow of students and parents, often emotional, asking about issuing diplomas, and even replacing documents burned in the war. An upstairs room is full of random boxes of supplies sent from Russia and meant for classrooms: no textbooks, but piles of Russian-language toys and games, and pens and coloring books.

With the prevailing expectation that Russian occupation would be permanent, roughly 20% of teachers accepted Russian offers of new curriculum training in Russian cities, Ms. Filonova says.

The Russians “wanted to show they could start a normal life,” she notes.

“In reality, it was impossible for them to start the school year. How can you group children together when there is shelling? You must stop the war,” she says. “It is impossible to imagine teaching students when it is so dangerous outside.”

Such a challenge was on top of the lack of electricity, water, mobile phone signals, or even natural gas for heat – never mind the obligatory Russian curriculum.

“All teachers – me as well – wanted to start working and to teach. But as soon as I saw the new program, I don’t know how these people could agree” to collaborate, says Ms. Filonova. “For a doctor or emergency services, it is one thing. But for a teacher, it is very important what you are teaching to children.”

Those who stayed, those who left

Indeed, the majority of teachers left or stayed home, rather than serve as a tool for a Russian World, says Leonid Naumenko, a lawyer for the education department. Like Ms. Filonova, he was asked to work by a colleague, and said no.

“Russian World has gone the way of the Russian warship,” says Mr. Naumenko, referring to an episode early in the war when Ukrainian soldiers on a small Black Sea island rejected, in colorful language, an order to surrender from a Russian warship.

Teachers who traveled to Russia for training have not shown up to teach now. “Information spreads fast, so they probably know that no one will work with them here,” he says. “How will they look into their students’ eyes?”

In Izium, teachers say there was little pushback by Russian occupiers against those who refused to cooperate. But elsewhere, the penalty could be severe.

Head teacher Lidiya Tina, an educator with 40 years’ experience from another Kharkiv village, reportedly was detained for 19 days for refusing to set up a Russian school.

“A car pulled up and three masked men with assault rifles got out,” Ms. Tina told the BBC last week. “They put a gun to my throat and ripped up my teaching diploma in front of my face.”

One teacher in Balakliia, 25 miles northwest of Izium, was ordered to destroy thousands of Ukrainian textbooks but managed to hide them instead, the BBC reported.

Refusing to teach was not just a question of collaboration, but also of content, says a Russian-language teacher in Balakliia who only gave her first name, Marina.

“I realized that to cooperate, I would definitely have to tell kids that Ukraine doesn’t exist, that the Ukrainian language is small and nothing compared to the Russian language,” Marina told the Monitor.

“The majority of teachers evacuated from here because they did not want to cooperate with Russians,” says Marina. Of those who stayed, she says, “I know two were very pro-Russian before the aggression. Of course, they were willing to teach. And a third decided it was better to work, to not suffer hunger.”

A school director’s choice

That was a tough calculation for many teachers, including apparently Lubov Gozha, director of Comprehensive School No. 11 in Izium. Hers was one of just two out of 92 schools in the region that received an official Russian certificate of accreditation, according to the occupation newspaper Kharkiv Z.

Amid advertisements for patriotic summer camp in Russia, and offers of free university tuition, Kharkiv Z reported that the Russian Education Ministry promised to take “under our wings” and equip with “appropriate infrastructure” all schools, to teach a “normal program” to children.

Today, Comprehensive School No. 11 is still intact. The only obvious sign of the former Russian military presence – aside from copies of the Red Star newspaper read by Russian soldiers, and discarded ration packs – was two anti-tank mines thrown into the outdoor toilet.

“I’m not surprised they collaborated,” says Ukrainian soldier Anton, noting that his unit found a photograph from 2009 that showed students posing in Soviet-style “Pioneer Youth” neckerchiefs.

“I lived in the Soviet Union and was a Pioneer,” says another soldier, Volodymyr. “When I saw that, I had a flashback.”

Neighbors of the school chatting on the street grow tearful when asked about the director, Ms. Gozha, who was depicted in Kharkiv Z handing out diplomas at a mid-August ceremony in Izium. Ukrainian authorities had asked about her also, they say.

“Hey, we all thought that [the Russian presence] is going to be forever,” says a young man called Sasha. “What should she do? We thought the Russians would be here for decades.”

Fellow teachers say Ms. Gozha has been arrested. Those who know her say she was a professional and experienced school administrator who spoke mostly Ukrainian.

“She was definitely not pro-Russian,” says Ms. Filonova, the education ministry specialist, who knew Ms. Gozha. “The Russians succeeded in convincing her, so she agreed to this accreditation. I think after she started this process, she couldn’t step back.”

Igor Ishchuk supported reporting for this article.