They Destroyed the Children's Centre. She Built Another: Aliona Krasnikova and the Children of Kharkiv

By Matthew Parish

Sunday 1 November 2026

There is something extraordinary about the determination of the people of Kharkiv to preserve the ordinary institutions of civilian life amid the destruction being visited upon them by the Russian Armed Forces. Schools have been damaged or closed, families have been scattered across Ukraine and beyond, and entire neighbourhoods have been transformed by the relentless succession of missiles, drones and artillery attacks. Yet amidst this devastation, people continue to organise children's parties, teach elementary lessons, arrange sporting activities and celebrate Christmas and Easter. These apparently modest undertakings are part of the struggle to preserve the foundations of a civilised society in circumstances that threaten to overwhelm them.

I encountered one of these remarkable people while travelling through Kharkiv with a humanitarian aid delivery destined for a student dormitory on the outskirts of the city, where internally displaced persons from Kupiansk had found refuge. Her name is Aliona Krasnikova, and she is the director of the SMART Kids programme operated by Helping Ukraine Grassroots Support, better known as H.U.G.S., the Canadian-founded humanitarian organisation established by Paul Hughes and his son Mac shortly after the Russian full-scale invasion began in February 2022. Aliona has devoted herself to providing children affected by war with something that cannot be delivered in an ordinary humanitarian aid package: the opportunity to experience childhood.

Our conversation took place as we travelled through the streets of Kharkiv, navigating the complicated geography of a city in which ordinary civilian activities continue under the constant threat of Russian attack. Occasionally our discussion was interrupted by practical exchanges about the route we were taking, but Aliona spoke with an earnestness that left little doubt about the importance she attached to her work. She had no prepared speech or institutional presentation. What she offered was a personal account of how an ordinary Ukrainian citizen had become responsible for helping children whose lives had been disrupted by a catastrophe beyond their comprehension.

"I became involved in volunteering because it happened almost naturally," she explained. "When the war began, we all found ourselves facing something terrible. There was no time to think. We had to act. From the very first moments of this catastrophe, I did everything I could. Gradually we came together, formed organisations and began providing assistance in a more organised way."

She reflected upon her motivations with a certain simplicity that was more convincing than any elaborate account of humanitarian ideals could have been. "I did it because I simply could not do otherwise," she continued. "I was helping my family, my loved ones and everyone who needed assistance. It was something that came from within me."

This is a familiar phenomenon amongst Ukraine's extraordinary voluntary community, although it is not always adequately appreciated by those observing events from abroad. Many of the people who now manage substantial humanitarian operations had no previous intention of making charitable work their profession. They were teachers, engineers, businesspeople, parents and ordinary citizens who discovered, virtually overnight, that the conventional institutions upon which they had previously relied were no longer sufficient to meet the needs of their communities.

The distinguishing feature of Aliona's work is its focus upon children. H.U.G.S. is a Canadian-based humanitarian organisation operating in Kharkiv, providing practical assistance to vulnerable Ukrainians through a variety of programmes. Founded by Paul and Mac Hughes, it has developed a network of international and Ukrainian volunteers who undertake humanitarian deliveries, support displaced families and provide assistance to people affected by the war. Amongst these activities is the SMART programme, an acronym for Sports, Music, Art, Recreation and Technology, intended to provide recreational and developmental opportunities for children whose ordinary education and family lives have been disrupted by displacement and Russian aggression.

The importance of such activities cannot be overstated. Children require more than food, clothing, medicines and physical protection, vital though these things are. They also require predictable relationships, opportunities for play, intellectual stimulation and the reassurance that the world remains a place in which adults can be trusted to provide security and affection. These are amongst the most elementary conditions of healthy psychological development, and they are precisely the conditions that war tends to undermine.

In Kharkiv, the consequences are particularly acute. The city has been subjected to Russian attacks throughout the full-scale invasion, while its proximity to the Russian border has exposed residents to dangers that are difficult for people living in western European capitals to imagine. Children have spent substantial portions of their lives learning to distinguish between the sounds of air raid sirens, explosions and the comparatively reassuring silence that follows an all-clear. Many have experienced prolonged interruptions to their education, periods of displacement and separation from friends or family members.

Aliona and her colleagues sought to provide an alternative to this existence. Through the SMART programme, they established a children's centre where young people could participate in activities that belonged to the ordinary world of childhood rather than the abnormal circumstances of war. There were toys, educational materials, games, celebrations and opportunities to make friends. Volunteers from different organisations contributed their time and resources, creating a community that offered children a sense of belonging.

Aliona recalled the original centre with unmistakable affection. She described the celebrations they organised together and the pleasure of observing children develop their confidence and personalities through regular participation in its activities. The centre was more than a building containing educational equipment. It was a place where relationships were formed and where, for a few hours at a time, children could escape from the perpetual anxiety that accompanies life in a city subjected to bombardment.

Then, in February 2025, the centre was destroyed.

The original SMART facility was located at Kharkiv's enormous Barabashovo market, itself a symbol of the city's commercial life and of the damage inflicted upon its civilian infrastructure during the war. According to Aliona, the premises were devastated by a Russian Shahed drone attack. The strike occurred during the night, when the children were not present, and fortunately nobody was injured. Nevertheless, the destruction was so extensive that the building could not be restored to its former use.

"When our children's centre was destroyed, it was terrible," she told me. "So many organisations and volunteers had worked together to create it. We organised wonderful events, and it was almost magical to watch the children growing up there, to see how people came together and helped one another. When it happened, it was simply horrifying."

She paused as she recalled seeing the wreckage. "Thank God the attack happened at night and there were no casualties. But when we saw everything destroyed, the places where the children had learned and played, all their toys and everything we had created together, it felt as though my heart had been torn apart."

It is difficult to appreciate the significance of such an event without understanding the emotional investment that goes into creating a voluntary organisation during wartime. Humanitarian institutions are frequently built from little more than personal enthusiasm, donated materials and the willingness of individuals to give substantial portions of their lives to helping others. They accumulate meaning through the relationships that develop within them and through the shared experiences of those who participate in their activities.

When a Russian drone destroys such an institution, the consequences extend well beyond the financial cost of replacing its physical contents. The destruction represents an assault upon the expectations of ordinary civilian life, including the proposition that children should be able to gather somewhere without fearing that their surroundings may suddenly be annihilated. The physical damage is visible in photographs of shattered walls and scattered toys, but the psychological damage is considerably more difficult to measure.

Aliona's response to the catastrophe was remarkable for its refusal to accept that the destruction of the building necessarily implied the destruction of the programme. She and her colleagues concluded that the premises could not realistically be repaired. The damage was simply too extensive. Instead, they began looking for alternative places where they could recreate the activities that had previously taken place there.

"We did not give up," she explained. "We understood that we had to do something, although it was impossible to rebuild the original centre. It had been completely destroyed. So we began creating new locations where we could organise similar activities. We simply continued working."

Her explanation of the philosophy behind this decision was characteristically direct. "We understood that if we did nothing, nothing would happen. The children were waiting for us. That was what gave us the strength to continue. We wanted to bring everything back for them."

There is something profound about the distinction between rebuilding a physical structure and recreating the community that once occupied it. A children's centre consists of walls, furniture, educational materials and equipment, but these things are merely the physical framework within which human relationships develop. The essential qualities of the centre are the confidence children place in the adults who supervise them, the friendships they form with one another and the accumulation of positive experiences through which they learn to understand the world.

These qualities cannot be destroyed by an explosive device in quite the same way as bricks and mortar. Provided that the adults retain their commitment and the children continue to participate, the community can survive the destruction of the building in which it was originally established. This was the principle, whether consciously articulated or not, upon which Aliona and her colleagues based their decision to continue.

Nevertheless, moral determination does not eliminate the practical difficulties involved in reconstructing a humanitarian programme. New premises must be found, equipment replaced, supplies purchased and activities organised. These tasks require money, transportation, administrative coordination and a considerable amount of voluntary labour, all undertaken in a city where normal economic activity has been profoundly disrupted by the war.

Aliona spoke warmly of the international assistance that made the continuation of SMART possible. She described support arriving from Ukrainian volunteers and friends as well as from abroad, including Britain, the United States and other European countries. Some donors contributed financial resources, while others provided clothing, educational materials, medical supplies and other necessities.

"We could never have done it entirely by ourselves," she acknowledged. "People from all over the world helped us. Our friends and volunteers, people who had worked alongside us shoulder to shoulder, were there. Others helped from abroad with whatever they could. Some sent humanitarian aid, others contributed money and some brought the things we needed."

She was particularly anxious to acknowledge the importance of moral encouragement from those who could not necessarily make substantial financial contributions. "Even the kind words that reached us from around the world were important," she explained. "They supported us and helped us to continue."

The international relationships that sustain organisations such as H.U.G.S. represent an important, if sometimes overlooked, dimension of Ukraine's resistance to Russian aggression. The military assistance provided by Western governments is indispensable, but beneath the enormous structures of international diplomacy and defence procurement there exists another network of relationships involving individual volunteers, modest charitable foundations, personal friendships and the spontaneous generosity of people who have never previously visited Ukraine.

These relationships can provide forms of assistance that are difficult for large institutions to replicate. Small charities may be able to respond rapidly to immediate needs, while individuals who know one another personally can cooperate without the lengthy administrative procedures associated with formal international development programmes. The disadvantages of such arrangements are equally apparent: resources can be unpredictable, volunteers become exhausted and the continuation of projects may depend upon the extraordinary determination of a relatively small number of people.

Aliona is conscious of these difficulties but remains focused upon the practical question of what can be achieved with the resources available. She explained that SMART aims to organise at least two smaller activities each week, ordinarily involving groups of up to twenty children. These gatherings provide opportunities for educational development, arts and crafts, physical exercise and other recreational pursuits. The organisation also seeks to arrange larger celebrations approximately once a month, including events associated with Christmas, Easter and the beginning of the school year.

On particularly significant occasions, Aliona told me, as many as 500 children may attend a day's activities. This is a considerable undertaking for a voluntary organisation, particularly one operating in a city where every large gathering must be planned with the possibility of a sudden air raid in mind.

The destruction of the original centre affected the children psychologically, even though the nighttime strike caused no physical injuries. Familiar surroundings had disappeared and some planned activities had to be cancelled. The children had already experienced the uncertainties of war, and now a place specifically established to provide them with security and happiness had itself become another casualty of Russian aggression.

"When the children began coming back to our new centres, we could sense their anxiety," Aliona recalled. "There was psychological tension after what had happened. But we organised everything very carefully, and we made sure that the children understood what to do whenever there was an air raid alarm."

The practical arrangements she described reveal the extraordinary circumstances under which ordinary childcare must now take place in Kharkiv. When the sirens sound, the activities must be interrupted and children accompanied by their mothers, grandmothers or other relatives to a place of safety. Aliona described using the metro as a refuge and emphasised the seriousness with which the volunteers approached these precautions.

"We are very strict about safety," she explained. "When there is an alarm, we make sure that everyone goes to shelter in an organised way. But the children still want to come to us. They want to experience happiness. They are like our own family, and they are drawn towards us. They are becoming less frightened, although we continue to watch over them very carefully."

This is one of the peculiar absurdities of childhood in a war zone. The ordinary business of organising an art class must be accompanied by contingency arrangements for protecting the children from weapons of war. A Christmas celebration requires not only decorations, refreshments and presents but also a practical understanding of how to move a group of frightened children into shelter at short notice.

For the adults involved, these responsibilities impose a considerable emotional burden. They must project calmness and reassurance while remaining acutely conscious of the possibility that an attack may occur at any moment. The children, meanwhile, are expected to develop within an environment where danger and normality coexist in ways that would be considered intolerable in almost any other European country.

Aliona explained that the programme works with qualified volunteer psychologists and seeks to adapt its activities to the circumstances of individual children. Some have been attending for several years, allowing the volunteers to observe their development over time. Others arrive with difficulties that require particular patience and sensitivity.

"I have known some of these children for years," she told me. "I can see how they are growing and changing, where they are developing well and where they are having problems. We work with psychologists, and we try to approach every child very carefully. We organise activities so that everyone can participate without being placed under pressure. Everything must be done gently and with kindness."

This approach reveals an understanding of the psychological consequences of war that is more sophisticated than might initially appear from the modest activities of a children's recreational programme. Children who have experienced prolonged exposure to danger cannot simply be instructed to forget their experiences. Nor can the psychological consequences of war necessarily be resolved through formal clinical interventions alone.

The recreation of ordinary social relationships, the development of trust in familiar adults and the provision of predictable opportunities for learning and play may all contribute to the emotional stability of children living in extraordinary circumstances. These activities do not eliminate traumatic experiences, but they can provide the social framework within which children gradually regain confidence and develop the capacity to imagine a future beyond the immediate dangers surrounding them.

Aliona is particularly concerned about the educational consequences of the war. She described seeing children whose schooling has been substantially disrupted and expressed anxiety about the long-term implications for Ukrainian society. Some have spent years without the ordinary experience of attending school alongside their classmates, while others have faced repeated displacement and interruptions to whatever educational arrangements were available to them.

"I believe the consequences of all this will be terrible," she said. "I see so many children who are simply not receiving the education they need. They require individual attention, and I cannot personally give that attention to thousands of children, however much I would like to. The state must address this problem on a much larger scale."

Her observation raises a fundamental question about the relationship between voluntary organisations and the responsibilities of government. The achievements of Ukraine's humanitarian volunteers are extraordinary, but their dedication cannot permanently compensate for the systematic disruption of public education. A whole generation of children may require substantial assistance in overcoming the academic, emotional and social disadvantages imposed upon them by years of war.

The problem extends beyond the availability of school buildings or digital educational platforms. Education depends upon continuity, regular personal relationships, structured learning and opportunities for children to develop their individual interests and abilities. Many of these conditions are difficult to maintain when families are repeatedly displaced, teachers and pupils are separated, and the possibility of bombardment disrupts ordinary schedules.

Voluntary organisations can alleviate some of these difficulties, but they cannot realistically assume responsibility for educating every child affected by the Russian invasion. Aliona understands this limitation, and she does not pretend that SMART can provide a comprehensive solution. Instead, she has adopted an ethic of personal responsibility that places emphasis upon making the greatest possible difference to the children she can reach.

"I have always believed that there are no other people's children," she told me. "I try to regard them all as my own. Of course I cannot help everyone, but I have decided that I will do at least something, however small. I want that contribution to matter. If I can be there for a child when nobody else can help, perhaps something I do today will have an important effect upon that child's future."

This was perhaps the most striking observation of our conversation. The idea that there are no other people's children represents a moral proposition considerably more demanding than the conventional language of charitable giving. It implies that the vulnerability of a child creates obligations that cannot simply be dismissed because the child belongs to another family, another community or another country.

In philosophical terms, Aliona is articulating a form of moral universalism. The obligations of human beings towards one another do not end at the boundaries of personal acquaintance, family relationships or national identity. We are responsible, at least to some degree, for the welfare of those whose suffering we encounter and whom we possess the capacity to help.

There is a particularly compelling quality to this philosophy when it emerges from the practical experiences of someone who has spent years working with children affected by war. Aliona has not arrived at her convictions through the abstract construction of moral theories. She has reached them through the daily experience of encountering children who are frightened, displaced, deprived of educational opportunities or simply in need of kindness.

Her philosophy also contains an implicit recognition of the limitations of individual action. No single volunteer can resolve the educational crisis facing Ukraine's children, just as no individual charity can reconstruct all the social institutions damaged by Russian aggression. Yet the impossibility of solving an entire problem does not eliminate the value of making a meaningful contribution to its resolution.

There is a danger, in discussing the extraordinary achievements of Ukrainian volunteers, of romanticising the suffering that has made their activities necessary. The fact that Aliona and her colleagues have reconstructed their programme after the destruction of its original premises is inspiring, but the circumstances that required them to do so are appalling. Children should not have to become accustomed to air raid sirens, underground shelters and the disappearance of places where they once felt secure.

Nor should the willingness of volunteers to continue despite such dangers be treated as a reason for complacency about the responsibilities of governments and international institutions. Their work should be supported precisely because it addresses needs that no civilised society should permit to remain unmet. The eventual reconstruction of Ukraine must encompass not merely buildings, roads and industrial infrastructure but also the psychological and educational recovery of the people who will inherit the country.

As our vehicle approached its destination, our conversation turned towards the question of what gives Aliona the strength to continue. She had described the devastation of her original centre, the difficulties of establishing replacement facilities, the continuing danger of Russian attacks and the enormous educational problems confronting Ukrainian children. There would have been every reason for her to express exhaustion or despair.

Instead, she returned to the idea of personal conscience and collective responsibility. Her conviction was that ordinary individuals possess far greater capacities for constructive action than they commonly imagine, particularly when they cooperate towards a shared objective.

"Every person can do a great deal," she explained. "But each of us must understand why we are doing what we do, and act according to our conscience. We must believe in a good and brighter future, because each of us is responsible for creating that future. Together we are a very great force. If everyone thinks only of themselves, we will accomplish nothing."

She described how the practical experience of cooperating with other volunteers had reinforced her confidence in the possibilities of collective action. Individual efforts might appear insignificant when measured against the scale of Ukraine's national catastrophe, but coordinated activities could achieve results of genuine and lasting value. The successful continuation of SMART after the destruction of its original premises was one example of this principle.

Towards the end of our interview, Aliona became emotional. She apologised for speaking spontaneously and explained that she had not prepared her answers in advance. She was simply expressing what she genuinely believed, drawing upon her personal experiences, upbringing and sense of responsibility.

Yet there was nothing for which she needed to apologise. Her observations had a clarity and sincerity that would have been difficult to reproduce through the carefully prepared language of a professional humanitarian spokesperson. She was speaking from the direct experience of a person who had encountered an immense human problem and had chosen to devote herself to addressing one small but important part of it.

"I am speaking from my heart," she concluded. "From my own understanding and the way I was brought up. I believe that everyone must develop their own conscience and try to do what is right. If we all behaved in that way, we would become an enormous force. There must be a unity of mind and heart."

These words remained with me after our conversation ended. They provided a concise explanation of the moral convictions underlying much of Ukraine's remarkable voluntary response to the Russian invasion. The work of people such as Aliona does not depend upon the expectation of personal reward, institutional recognition or public admiration. It arises from a conviction that when another human being needs assistance, the appropriate response is to do what one can.

The destruction of the SMART children's centre at Barabashovo in February 2025 was intended, or at least had the foreseeable effect, of damaging another piece of Kharkiv's civilian infrastructure. Its practical consequences were considerable, requiring volunteers to reorganise their activities, identify replacement premises and find the resources necessary to continue. Its emotional consequences were perhaps greater still, particularly for children who had already experienced too much destruction in their young lives.

Yet the programme survived. Children returned to its activities in new locations, volunteers resumed their work and the relationships that had developed around the original centre continued. The physical structure had disappeared, but the community had not.

This is more than another story of Ukrainian resilience. It is an illustration of the distinction between physical destruction and the preservation of social institutions, and of the capacity of ordinary people to maintain those institutions even when the buildings that once housed them have been reduced to rubble. The future of Ukraine will depend upon this distinction as much as upon the reconstruction of its cities and the recovery of its economy.

The children who attend SMART today will eventually become adults responsible for the country's political, economic and social future. Some may become doctors, teachers, engineers or artists, while others will establish families and communities of their own. Their experiences of childhood will help shape the people they become, and the assistance they receive today may influence their confidence, expectations and relationships for decades to come.

A society that permits its children to lose faith in the possibility of a better future risks consequences that extend far beyond the immediate devastation of war. Conversely, a society that continues to provide opportunities for children to learn, play, develop friendships and experience kindness is preserving the human foundations upon which its recovery will eventually depend.

Aliona Krasnikova cannot protect every child in Kharkiv from the consequences of Russian aggression, and she would be the first to acknowledge the limitations of what she can achieve. But she has refused to allow those limitations to become an excuse for inaction. When the building in which her programme operated was destroyed, she and her colleagues found other places in which to continue. When the children were frightened, they reassured them. When resources were scarce, they asked their friends and supporters for assistance.

The Russian drone destroyed the children's centre, but it did not destroy the children's community. That distinction is the measure of Aliona's achievement, and it offers a lesson about the nature of Ukrainian resistance that deserves to be understood well beyond the borders of the country.

For Aliona, the answer to the immense moral challenges of war begins with a deceptively simple proposition: there are no other people's children. The future belongs to all of them, and its preservation is the responsibility of us all.