Inside Ukraine’s ‘Underground Railroad’ to Retrieve Children from Russia
Rostyslav Lavrov was determined to reclaim his identity. At 16, he had been sent to a Russian naval academy in Crimea, a region under Moscow’s control since the invasion of Ukraine’s Kherson area. The school attempted to erase his past by issuing him a new Russian birth certificate, but Lavrov refused to accept the change. After months of planning, he slipped away one October day in 2023, leaving the dorm unnoticed. Now 19 and living in Kyiv, he is among the approximately 2,000 Ukrainian youths who have returned to their homeland after being deported, transferred illegally, or stranded in Russia, Belarus, or Russian-occupied territories.
Most of these children had no choice but to flee covertly. Gaining permission to leave from Russian authorities is nearly impossible, forcing families to rely on underground efforts. Ukraine has mobilized global support by forming coalitions to pressure Russia into cooperation, yet progress remains slow. Only a small fraction of the 2,000 children who have returned did so through official means: 83 aided by Qatar, and 19 rescued via a scheme initiated by U.S. First Lady Melania Trump. For others, like Lavrov, the escape was a high-stakes operation.
Lavrov’s plan had been in motion for three months. He enlisted help from Save Ukraine, a group dedicated to rescuing children trapped in Russian-held areas. On the day of his departure, he dressed in his uniform, acted as usual, and left the academy under the guise of attending a class elsewhere. Volunteers from Save Ukraine waited nearby, ready to whisk him away. “I didn’t take anything with me to stay under the radar,” he explained to CNN. “I was nervous at checkpoints but tried to stay calm.” His journey to Ukrainian-controlled territory took about two days, though he wasn’t certain of the exact duration. Later, he learned that Russian authorities had marked him as “missing and wanted.”
Mykola Kuleba, Save Ukraine’s founder and former children’s ombudsman, described Lavrov’s case as typical. “Each child’s escape feels like a special operation,” he said, urging CNN to keep details confidential to protect participants. The group avoids collaboration with Russian officials, as sharing information often leads to complications. “Once Moscow learns Ukraine wants a child back, they’ll do everything to stop them,” Kuleba warned.
Yulia Dvornychenko’s experience mirrors this struggle. Arrested in 2021 in Torez, an eastern Ukrainian town under pro-Russian separatists since 2014, she was accused of espionage. As a widow with a new partner also detained, she was pressured to sign a false confession to secure her sons’ release. Danylo, 17, and Mark, 9, were sent to a Russian orphanage unless she complied. After an 18-month POW exchange, Dvornychenko was freed, but Mark remained in Torez, and Danylo had vanished into Moscow. She immediately began seeking their return, working with the Ukrainian government.
Russian authorities first promised Mark’s repatriation in a POW deal, but Dvornychenko was told he would be handed over blindfolded and tied. “I told him it meant he was coming home,” she said. “I knew what happened during those exchanges.” She spent a week at a Zaporizhzhia site, waiting for his arrival—but he never showed. The Russian Commissioner for Human Rights then demanded she personally retrieve him, a condition Ukraine rejected to avoid her being arrested again. The ordeal highlights the challenges faced by families in reclaiming their children from Russia’s grasp.
