She lived in a small coastal city in southern Ukraine. Together with her husband, a pastor of a small church, they were raising four young children.

The full-scale war began on the birthday of her youngest daughter. When the first explosions thundered, the little girl was still peacefully asleep next to her mother, and in the fridge a birthday cake was waiting for her. The mother hugged her daughter and whispered a quiet birthday greeting. She and her husband decided not to cancel the celebration: through tears, they laughed, blew up balloons, and brought out sweets. The next day, enemy tanks and armored vehicles entered the city. Overwhelmed by fear, they hid in the basement with their children. The little ones cried and asked what was happening, and for the first time, holding them in her arms, the mother uttered the terrible words: “The war has begun.”

Soon their city was under occupation. At night, drunken Russian soldiers with automatic rifles wandered the streets, passing right under their windows. Every night, the mother would silently rehearse an escape plan—what to do if the invaders burst into the house. The horrors of massacres in other liberated towns, where civilians had been slaughtered, haunted her mind. Once, she saw with her own eyes how Russian soldiers tried to rape a shop assistant in a local store—the woman’s desperate scream etched itself into the mother’s soul forever.

For two years they did not allow their children to go outside—not to the store, not even to the nearest village. The children lived shut away within four walls, while only the parents dared to go out for food.

The occupation also divided their church community along the major river. The Russian authorities demanded that congregations re-register under Russian jurisdiction, carried out searches in prayer houses, and inspected Christian literature. One elderly minister was nearly shot for possessing American books found during a search. They released him, but warned that it was his first and last chance.

The most painful blow was the murder of a deacon and his 18-year-old son. When Russian soldiers asked them to drive them to a neighboring village, the deacon agreed—he was used to seeing people first, even in soldiers. His son insisted on going along, and the father took him, suspecting no danger. Two days later they were found in the forest: hands tied, shot in the head. After this tragedy, part of the congregation fled the area, while those who remained began gathering secretly in homes to avoid attracting the occupiers’ attention.

But the trials did not end there. Russian authorities began going from village to village with lists of children, forcing parents to send them to Russian schools. But to do so, families had to accept Russian citizenship and swear allegiance to Russia and its leader. For this deeply religious family, it was unthinkable: they explained that, as Christians, they could not swear oaths. In the Russian Constitution they found a clause allowing an exception by presidential decision, and on behalf of their church prepared an official letter. This bought them some time.

Because the mother’s contact information was listed in the letter, the FSB began calling her in for interrogations, trying to determine whether they were “extremists.” She explained that their community was an officially registered Ukrainian Pentecostal church, not a sect. One officer even expressed sympathy, but kept repeating the same words: there was no choice—they would have to swear allegiance.

For half a year, the mother tried to obtain a passport. Five to seven times she was forced to repeat the oath, and each time she refused, opening her Bible and citing Scripture. Finally, they offered a compromise: instead of saying “I swear”, she could say “I promise.” She quietly replied: “If God allows, I promise.” In this way, she received her passport without betraying her faith.

Meanwhile, the pressure extended to schools. The Russians introduced military-patriotic games called “Zarnitsa”: children had to defuse grenades, assemble and disassemble weapons, march to Soviet songs, and sing “Katyusha.” Participation was mandatory, and they even bought the children real military caps. The parents categorically forbade their children to take part, and on the day of Zarnitsa they stayed home.

The next day, the mother was summoned to a parent meeting—arranged specifically because of her children, as no other issues were discussed. The homeroom teacher publicly shouted at her, humiliated her, and accused her of forbidding the children to participate when they supposedly wanted to. Every other student had taken part—only her son had not. The tension grew until one mother asked that such matters be resolved without other parents present. The meeting was hastily ended.

When the room emptied, the teacher approached the mother and spoke in a whisper: “What are you doing? Don’t you understand who you’re dealing with? You have to do whatever they say.” He was a frightened man himself, a Ukrainian teacher forced into working for the Russian school, after years of threats and beatings by soldiers.

Later, real danger arose for the eldest son. Despite his heart condition, he was placed on the military register and handed a draft notice. The mother decided she had to save him: she took him to Europe, to relatives. Then she returned to the occupied territory, back to her husband and daughters. The occupation authorities began demanding explanations about where her son was, insisting he must return to “sign documents,” after which he would allegedly be allowed to leave. In theory, those with religious convictions could apply for so-called “alternative service.” In reality, it was nearly impossible—applications had to be filed within strict deadlines that most people couldn’t meet.

At the local cemetery, the mother saw countless fresh graves of boys barely 18 or 19. These were Ukrainian children, mobilized into the Russian army. They had been promised safe postings in the rear, but were instead sent straight to the front, where they quickly died. She realized her son could easily have been among them if she hadn’t saved him. What hurt most was knowing that Russians were using Ukrainian children in their war against their own people—tricking them and sending them into hell with no chance of survival. That was when she knew she had to save her daughters too.

Escape was extremely difficult. The family went through several “filtration” checkpoints, where phones and documents were checked. The mother knew that if anything suspicious was found, she could be imprisoned and her children taken away to Russia. During their second attempt—when she was taking out her daughters and two orphans—a true miracle happened: they passed through without serious checks.

Not every family can escape occupation on their own: it requires significant money that not everyone has. The mother says that without the help of Save Ukraine, she would never have been able to rescue her children. Her husband remains behind in occupied territory: as a pastor, he feels a responsibility for his congregation and has promised to leave last. The family tries to stay in touch, but Russians are increasingly restricting communication, even blocking Telegram. She prepares herself for the moment when she might lose contact with him altogether.

Now she is safe with her children, but her greatest dream is for her family to be together again. In her prayers, she asks not only for her husband and family, but also for all believers still under occupation, and for the whole country—that peace may finally come, and the long-awaited day of liberation arrive.