“Even if you feel opposition inside, you have to demonstrate support”: Confessions of teachers in Belgorod schools

RU

“I’m boiling inside. But I know no one here will pity me”
Lyudmila, teacher at an elite Belgorod public school

In Belgorod, missile alerts sound several times a day. The sirens wail, and sometimes we spend whole lessons sitting quietly until the alarm stops — it’s just become part of the routine. The kids barely react anymore. Every school has its own designated corners and corridors where we’re supposed to take cover — just walls around us. The older students follow the drills without any fuss: when the siren goes off, they head straight there. The younger ones still have to be gathered up. They’re playful, running around, fearless despite everything.

In the border districts, kids have been learning remotely for over three years now. For most of the country, the nightmare of online learning — the struggle for teachers, parents, and especially students — ended with the pandemic. But here, right on the edge of the war zone, it’s still going on. These children have never really returned to normal school life.

In Belgorod itself, since early 2025, there’s been a hybrid system: parents can request that their child stay home. Teaching under these conditions is incredibly tough — two or three students in the classroom, while the rest join on screen. I’m constantly pulled in two directions — talking to the kids in front of me and to those online. But, like everything else, you get used to it.

Overall, I have a good connection with my students. One high schooler once wished me a happy Easter and wrote something that really touched me: “I’m so grateful to you — for helping us, so to speak, see the difference between light and darkness.” Yet I immediately panicked, running through every lesson: did I say something risky? These days, even something like that can be used against you. What does she mean that I’m teaching them to tell light from darkness?

Among the older students, none are openly swept up by propaganda. The 10th and 11th graders have learned to keep their ideas to themselves. It’s often hard to know what they really think. But the middle schoolers? They’re completely caught up in it. Fifth through ninth grades just repeat whatever they hear.

I constantly have to think very carefully about everything I say. Naturally, I never bring up the war in Ukraine at school. I try to be extremely cautious — both with colleagues and with students. Inside, I’m boiling. But I understand no one here is going to feel sorry for me.

At school, we’re constantly collecting care packages for soldiers. The kids pack boxes. And teachers are expected to contribute money from their own salaries. There are a few colleagues — very few — who eschew this. No one forces them, by the way. No one even asks, “Are you contributing or not?” In that sense, the atmosphere at our school is relatively non-confrontational.

Some teachers follow the “party line” without any pressure. I’ll give you an example. I was telling the students about emigration, about how Russian writers — like [Ivan] Bunin — struggled with being cut off from their homeland, how that shaped their work. How the country suffered for pushing them away. And they said: “But another teacher told us they were traitors who abandoned their homeland in a time of need.”

There are, of course, the truly “super-patriotic” teachers who go out of their way to promote it even outside the classroom. Constantly posting on social media — apparently for their students — messages like, “You must be worthy of your fathers.” Some go as far as urging kids to report to the draft office, saying things like, “They’re waiting for you there. That’s where you can prove yourself.”

Our school has “heroes’ desks” and a display with flags, shell casings, and the like. Students are taken there. But, as I mentioned, the kids are indifferent to all of it. They walk past it. No one reads the biographies of these so-called heroes.

The “Important Conversations” lessons are taught by homeroom teachers. I’ve looked through the plans — they’re not all that political. Some are about space exploration, others about the environment or sports. That seems typical for all schools, not just ours.

We have a good principal. He’s not exactly an opposition figure — just someone who thinks for himself and doesn’t take anything on faith. Recently, a high-ranking official was supposed to visit our school. At first, the kids weren’t allowed out of their classrooms — they were kept in the hallway waiting for his arrival. Eventually, the younger ones were let go. But the older ones were told to stay: “Don’t leave, what if he wants to talk to someone?” And so on in that spirit.

In the end, the official showed up, had a quick talk with the administration, and left. And we weren’t allowed to leave until he was gone. What’s striking is that even though our principal is a decent person, he still had to stand there and “wag his tail,” so to speak. Because that’s just how the system works. Teachers have lost their dignity, their agency. Most people are stuck in this numb mindset: “Well, what can I do? What can I change?” That’s the scariest part.

Not long ago, I met up with a teacher from another school. She used to be so vibrant — I’ve known her for years. And now she was so subdued, so quiet. She said: “I’m just looking for someone to talk to. Because it’s terrifying listening to everyone else.” And it’s true. Among people I know, there are grandmothers and mothers pushing their adult-aged sons to go to war, yelling: “Did we raise you to be a freeloader and a slacker?” Some are practically ready to turn their own children in just for not wanting to go off and shoot someone.

There’s another colleague I sometimes meet up with. She’ll call and say: “I need to talk, I just need to get it out.” And we’ll go to a café and talk. She’s older, but sharp-minded. Watches YouTube. She keeps asking: “What’s happened to people? What’s happened to their minds?”

If I had to describe the state of the teaching community in Belgorod in two words, it would be: dull apathy.

“It’s impossible to tell what the younger generation really believes — or whether they can get through this”
Pyotr, middle school teacher

Let me take you back a bit, so you can really understand what’s changed. In 2020, when we switched to online lessons, it happened almost seamlessly. It felt like we’d been doing it forever. The first two or three weeks were actually exciting. But then reality hit hard. How do you behave online? How do the kids behave? What do you do when they log in under fake names and start causing chaos in the chat?

Sure, buying a course on an educational platform is one thing — you pick it, work through it at your own pace, meet deadlines, take tests, get a certificate. But a kid has 13 different subjects. You can’t just squeeze the entire school curriculum into an online format — it’s pure torture. No child can handle that. Around that time, [head of the Russian Senate] Valentina Matviyenko said it would be a great idea to make online education more permanent and shift part of the student body to remote learning. That was nonsense. I kept thinking about it, because even then it was obvious this wasn’t a natural way to do school.

And then February 24 came. And this whole “remote learning” thing dragged on — in our struggling schools, right on the edge of a war zone, here in Belgorod.

At first, I tried to speak out against the war and reached out to my colleagues. On the surface, the school administration seemed calm, but behind closed doors, even some assistant principals shared such feelings. They’d quietly come up to me, offering sympathy: “Yes, we feel the same — my husband feels the same as you. Let’s meet, talk… this is so hard.” Still, the official image had to be kept up. Why? Because right alongside Governor Gladkov, there’s the education minister who always wears that “Z” pin on his lapel. Whether he switches jackets and moves it around, or if he wears it on every jacket — or maybe he only owns one jacket — I don’t know. All I know is I’ve never seen him without the “Z” pin. And in Belgorod’s schools, where conditions are especially tough, even if you feel opposition inside, you have to demonstrate support.

People suffered a lot in 2022–2023. There was a lot of talk. Now it’s like a vacuum, like we’re all wrapped in cotton wool. Nobody even has the energy for simple hallway conversations anymore. We’re just drifting in this swamp. Teachers look busy — there’s teaching to do, preparations for the Unified State Exam, endless tasks. But underneath, everything is quietly falling apart. And honestly, it would have fallen apart even without the war. The education system was already full of dishonesty and empty tasks done for show. The war just accelerated its decline.

Every October 5, on Teacher’s Day, everyone loves to quote [Soviet-era poet Robert] Rozhdestvensky: “A teacher is a profession of long-range impact, the most important on Earth.” But in reality, people want quick results. Here in Belgorod, living under constant stress from the war nearby, no one really cares about the quality of education anymore. The attitude is: “Look, the kids are struggling. Cut them some slack. Give them good grades.” So you give good grades once, then twice, then a third time. Eventually, they just stop studying altogether.

Recently, the attacks on Belgorod have lessened, and schools in the city have reopened for in-person classes. But many parents have gotten used to remote learning, and the kids have forgotten how to do much of anything. School education in Russia — and especially in Belgorod — is a pit. It’s a disaster. And I’m afraid to imagine what comes next. It’s not about a lazy student here or there; it’s the whole system. It was headed this way even before the war. Now it’s just impossible to ignore.

We’re working in a constant state of emergency. It’s like being on a ship with new holes springing up all the time. “Oh, here’s another one — plug it! That one — leave it for now.” You can’t keep going on like that. During the first three years of the war, the authorities mostly left Belgorod’s schools alone, they tried to be understanding. But now, that’s changed. Maybe they think the war is winding down, maybe something else is going on. But they’ve started rolling out national assessments again — sending tests for different subjects, checking all the grades.

Here’s how it goes. They gather everyone together, and then the missile sirens start wailing. But instead of heading for shelter, we’re all just sitting there in the auditorium. During regular lessons, if the alarm goes off, we move right away — we get the kids and hide, stay down until it’s safe. But now? Now the standardized tests matter more than missile warnings. Do we keep working? Of course we do. What does that tell you? There’s no consistency, no sense. The alarm sounds once, twice — everything’s whistling, booming outside, the loudspeaker is urging us to take cover. But we’ve got a test scheduled, so we’re told to just sit tight and push through.

I turn to a colleague and say, “Is this Kafka, or Kharms? I seriously don’t know what’s going on anymore.” Everyone sees how ridiculous it is, but they just sit there, nodding along. It was always a bit of a sham, but now it’s downright pitiful. This year, the whole “victory fever” started a month and a half before May 9. It used to ramp up closer to May 1, but now it’s the 80th anniversary — round number, big deal. The kids are busy making St. George ribbons, and almost every teacher wears one. Even the ones who supposedly don’t support all this.

I scroll through social media and see updates from Kharkiv, Sumy, Zaporizhzhia, Kryvyi Rih — news about bombings, death. And right next to that, videos of our kids making ribbons, being marched through patriotic assemblies, remembering a war from eighty years ago. This surreal mismatch is constant. It used to make me furious. Now I just feel like I’m sinking in it.

Back in the first year, I tried to speak up. Someone had posted a video — guys in balaclavas, standing in front of a tank, wishing kids a happy [Defenders of the Fatherland Day on] February 23: “Hope you grow up to be awesome like us, ready to defend the Fatherland.” I was appalled. I asked, “Excuse me, are we still a school or what have we turned into?” But the parents weren’t with me — “What’s his problem? Is he not patriotic?”

Sometimes a teacher will quietly come up to me and say, “Thanks for saying what you did.” Usually it’s about some problem at school. And I’ll say, “Okay, thanks — but honestly, you’re a strange bunch. Why is everyone so quiet? I’m the only one making noise, and then afterward you come up to me with thanks. Why not stand up and speak out yourselves — one, two, three, four of you? Then it wouldn’t just look like I’m some clown spouting off.” Eventually, the administration pulled me aside. They said I was “chasing attention,” that I’m “one of those people who always has to be contrary,” who’s “just looking for something to complain about.”

I do have people to talk to — friends who are also teachers. Sometimes I don’t even have time to read the news, and they fill me in on what’s happening in Kharkiv. Some colleagues have family in the Kharkiv region. We have a chat where we share memes and jokes, and sometimes manage to discuss things in veiled ways. There’s also another group where it’s strictly stated: no politics. It’s like, “Colleagues, let’s not go there, this space is for something else, just good vibes only.” Because there have been clashes before. No one wants to go deep, no one wants to reflect on anything. And that’s a really painful issue.

I tried bringing it up with a few people. I said, “Alright, fine, we don’t have to talk about it here. But you’ve got kids of your own — school-age. What do you say when they ask questions? How do you explain what’s going on? Or the stories about people getting killed?” Not once did I get a straight answer. Everyone dodges it. And that, to me, is a real tragedy.

Last fall, things got especially rough. Some colleagues were visibly unraveling. Maybe it was the Ukrainian offensive in Kursk Region that set it off. A lot of them said they couldn’t take it anymore. I told them: brace yourselves, it’s only going downhill from here. And when this finally ends — however it ends — there’ll be this awful moment of reckoning. We’ll be sick with it. I honestly don’t know what we’ll do. Maybe we’ll go help rebuild Ukraine. Maybe something else. But whatever happens, nothing’s really going to end when the war ends — or when Putin’s gone. We’ll still be here, with all of this. And somehow, we’ll have to live with it.

I haven’t seen any teachers walk away. There was a stretch when kids were leaving — parents pulling their files, transferring them out. Our school lost about two hundred students. Some have since come back.

As for me, I’ve landed on this: yes, it’s bad. It’s disgusting. Sometimes it feels unbearable. But I grumble, sit at home, talk it out with my wife, with friends. I go through the motions of feeling and hurting. And other than that, what else is there? Well, there’s work. There are kids studying for exams. There’s my mother, getting older day by day. No, I’m not planning on leaving. We talked about it as a family and decided we’d only leave in an extreme circumstance. And if we did, we’d bring every relative we could. I can’t picture taking off and just leaving my mother behind.

That’s why I compromise. That’s why I avoid taking on a homeroom class. Because then I’d sink even deeper into it all — those “conversations about what matters,” cutting out doves from paper, joining campaigns like “Power of the Parcel.” Yeah, that one actually happened. I made a deal with myself: the moment they tell me I have to be a homeroom teacher, I quit. That’s my line.

Lately, I find myself watching people’s faces — on the bus, walking down the street. I don’t see anything dramatic, no obvious sadness. But for some reason, I don’t see beautiful people anymore. Just on the outside — physically. Everyone seems kind of off. And I’m probably the same way now.

The shelters catch your eye right away — checkpoints wrapped in mesh netting. On the outskirts, there are launchers that fire from time to time. You’ll see those green military trucks driving around — vans, equipment, the works. On weekends, people in camouflage linger outside the stores. It’s unsettling. Off-putting. Posters advertising military contracts are everywhere, and now and then, you’ll spot a car with a Z on it. But there’s a lot less Z-symbolism in the city now. Maybe they figured there’s no point in riling people up more than they already are.

And then there’s the new slogan they came up with here: “Belgorod Region — Homeland of Victory.” That’s a Belgorod original. Like saying “Russia — homeland of elephants.” Who came up with it? Why? No one knows. What does it even mean, or how does it fit with the actual history? Now though, that slogan is plastered on every billboard, every store window, every school wall. And what do they pair it with? A picture of The Motherland Calls statue — the one that stands in Volgograd. It’s a mess. Just a mess.

I wouldn’t say I shoot my mouth off. I guess I do filter things. But I still try to speak honestly in class. Once, we were talking about Viktor Nekrasov’s In the Trenches of Stalingrad. I told them: this is a real example. Nekrasov fought in the war, was in Stalingrad himself, and wrote this book in 1946. He won the Stalin Prize. That means the system embraced him — he joined the Writers’ Union, was officially recognized. He wasn’t some anti-Soviet figure. He was a veteran who wrote a truthful book. But then he started defending the memory of Babi Yar, where Jews were executed outside Kyiv. He went to a protest without government approval. And just like that, he became a “bad guy.” Branded an enemy. No one remembered he was a veteran. His book was banned, pulled from libraries. He left the country. So I tell the students: yes, we honor veterans now, we march in the Immortal Regiment. But it wasn’t always like that — and it won’t always be.

And now what do they tell you? Who won the war? “Russia did,” right? Of course Russia. And I say: congratulations, but that’s not true. The Soviet Union won the war. It was a multinational state, and it wasn’t just Russians who died — there were Ukrainians, Tatars, Belarusians, Jews, and so many others. And now, by saying it was Russia that won, we’re erasing all fifteen republics and all those people who gave their lives. Just keep that in mind. Think about it. Understand that the version you’re being given isn’t exactly a lie, but it is the version that’s convenient for the state right now. I don’t know if the kids understand me or not.

Some of them have fathers fighting over there. And yeah, they could cause me trouble. So what? If you let that fear rule you — if you’re afraid of every word — then you end up like that centipede that couldn’t move because she didn’t know which leg to start with. In that case, you might as well leave the school altogether.

I think a lot of the kids actually like me. I’m pretty easygoing, I can crack a joke. I’m not super strict — though sure, I can raise my voice when I need to. When the students bring something up, I almost never shut it down. You can always make a joke to defuse things. And if someone insists on talking, I’ll say, “Okay, stay after class. We can talk.”

But I’m not sure I understand this younger generation anymore. I used to think I did. Now I see how slippery and closed-off they are. You can’t tell what they believe, what they mean. You don’t know where the act ends and the real person begins.

So will this generation hold up through everything that’s happening? Hard to say. If they’re this adaptable, maybe they will survive anything. They’ll find ways to manage under any regime. Always dodging the sharp edges. But that’s not the real question. The real question is: what kind of world will they build after that?

“Military families will take our places”
Irina, a teacher in Belgorod Region

More than three years into the war, life has changed — both for teachers and for kids. No one was prepared for so much death, for so many injuries. Fathers, brothers, husbands — some enlisted, others were drafted. Some families still have relatives in Ukraine, and those bonds have come under terrible strain.

Many of us had to make hard decisions — whether to leave or to stay. And after that, everything felt different. We found ourselves working as volunteers with refugees. First they came from the Kharkiv Region, then Shebekino, then Borisovka and Grayvoron. Now they're coming from Rakitnoye, from Krasnaya Yaruga.

Teachers, by nature, tend to go along with whatever the official line is. At the start, during the first two years, people were willing to keep going, to do their jobs. But then everything started to wear thin — our strength, our resources. And the situation didn’t get any easier. There’s this growing sense of uncertainty. What now? Education used to run on a clear rhythm. The regional authorities set the direction and the priorities, and that gave us some sense of stability. You knew where you were headed, who was responsible, what the goals were.

But now? Talk to any teacher and you’ll hear the same thing: confusion. No one knows what we’re doing anymore. How are we being judged? What exactly is the teacher’s role now? What are we supposed to teach? What values are we expected to pass on? And what kind of kids are we trying to raise? All of it has gone blurry.

I know a lot of colleagues who are still deeply motivated, who genuinely care. But what I notice most these days is that the professional bonds between us are breaking down. People are shutting down, losing connection. We don’t talk to each other. Either we’ve forgotten how — or we just don’t want to. Or we say there’s no one to talk to. This collapse in communication — it cuts to the heart of what it means to be a teacher. Not just professionally, but as a person. The conversations are gone. The support is gone. And people fall silent when they’re deeply hurt.

You also notice there are hardly any smiles anymore. Hardly any joy. That inner glow — it's just gone. And it’s not because teachers have suddenly become gloomy or heartless. It’s just that we’re exhausted. And that exhaustion is passed straight on to the kids. A teacher in this state can’t help but pass along their weariness, their despair.

And the saddest part? There aren’t even efforts to change things. No forums. No real conversations. No spaces to say out loud what we’re going through. No shared energy. Just silence inside — and those stiff, forced smiles in the photos from all the awards ceremonies. No one is asking the teachers in Belgorod: “What do you want? Where do you think education should be heading?” No one seems to know where the ship is going — or who’s even steering it.

And so what do people say about the kids? That they’re uninterested. That nothing excites them. But how can you expect them to care when the teacher standing in front of them doesn’t? We’re overwhelmed by what the students are going through in their own lives, so much that we don’t even know how to respond anymore. And the worst part is, no one sees it as a problem. No one thinks it’s our job to help them. It’s like the whole idea of human connection is just fading away. How can a teacher stay warm and kind when they’re living in fear? When their family has been torn apart, displaced, drafted, wounded? They can’t.

And there’s this other feeling, too: isolation. A sharp, painful sense that people in other parts of the country just don’t understand what it’s like here in Belgorod. And that makes it all feel even lonelier. Kindness has become rare. But when it does show up, you feel it all the more. Maybe that’s where some sliver of hope still lives — in moments of real humanity. In sincerity. In the simple act of someone caring.

Education has taken a back seat. It’s less valued — not just by the state, but by the people living here. To be honest, expectations for education in Belgorod were never especially high to begin with. But at least in the past government agencies and the media made an effort to keep education on the agenda. There was a sense that the people “at the top” wanted to talk about it and were willing to engage the public in that conversation. That’s no longer the case. There’s no interest from above — or below. A colleague from Kursk recently said to me, “Now I understand what you were talking about.” Education is slipping off the priority list there too. The whole thing is falling apart.

The sense that educators matter — that their experience, their knowledge, their purpose are valuable — has all but disappeared. People with no relevant background, no training, no feel for what education really is are being put in charge. And at the same time, those who spent decades shaping what education in Belgorod looked like are stepping down or being pushed out. It’s the experienced, thoughtful school directors — the ones who held it all together — who are leaving.

We’ve now gone a full year without a head of the regional education department. A whole year. That’s never happened before. When leadership goes missing, when the professionals disappear, everything starts to unravel. Look at Kursk: their education ministry is now led by someone who used to run a circus. I don’t say that to be dramatic — it’s just the reality. And it captures something essential: when these roles become tokens, handed out without care, the system stops working. Education turns into a shell. The Belgorod Institute for the Development of Education used to be a stronghold. Twenty years ago, it had six PhDs on staff. Now, after a 70% turnover in just three years, there’s barely a trace of that past.

Most of the new hires have no connection to education at all. What we’re watching is the collapse of a professional core. Before, even when society didn’t place much value in schools, the system held. It functioned. Now it’s falling apart in plain sight. The scholarly traditions are gone. The respect for expertise is gone. There’s no continuity — no one to pass anything on.

We watch Governor Gladkov post his cheerful little Telegram videos, carefully edited and captioned, and we get the message: style over substance. Smile for the camera. That’s what’s expected now. And every real decision? It comes from somewhere above. The problem is, we no longer know who these people are. We don’t know what they’ve done, what they stand for, or what they’re aiming for. Take Milekhin, the head of the education ministry. He’s from Moscow. I honestly wish someone would ask him: what do you think you’ve accomplished here in three years? Because from where I sit, I can’t see anything.

What can parents do? If they can, it’s best to let their child go to school to stay connected with others, but to rely on tutors for actual learning. Because schooling these days has mostly become a formality. What really matters now is keeping the ability to communicate alive, learning how to interact with other people. And in that, kids are actually teaching each other far more than teachers do. It brings to mind the schools of Viktor Soroka-Rosinsky or Janusz Korczak — times when teachers focused not on academics, but on the human side of things: on connection, community, and support. Because with so much emotional pressure, expecting academic success just doesn’t make sense.

What’s more heartbreaking is that even the most passionate, inspiring teachers — the ones who once lit up classrooms with their energy — are losing hope. People who dedicated their lives to teaching with enthusiasm now say, “I don’t want to go anymore.” There’s a growing sense of learned helplessness. And this isn’t just about teachers feeling burnt out — it’s the reality that children will later recall of their childhood.

I know a lot of people who’ve left the Belgorod region — some right at the start of the war, others later on. Some left out of fear for their safety, others just because they don’t see any point in staying anymore. What kind of future is waiting for us here? People who own businesses or run factories are leaving. And when business leaves, science and education follow. This outflow is unavoidable. Military families will move in to take their place. The region will change — both when it comes to who lives here, and in the mood. The demand for education will simply disappear.

Around here, feeling unstable, unprotected, and disrespected has become the new normal. There’s hardly even an understanding of what it means to be human anymore. It all boils down to what most people do — “Everyone just endures it, so you have to endure it too.” Emotions are undervalued and pushed aside. Over these three years, people in Belgorod have learned to recognize “their own” without saying a word — just by a look, a tone, a reaction. So much has become internal. For me, a true source of hope comes from having friends you can really be yourself with. If you have people around and you don’t have to pretend with them, that’s already a kind of salvation.

Anyway, I’m leaving. I don’t want to waste my energy on something that feels meaningless anymore. There was always something to learn before. Now? I’m not even sure there’s anything alive left. I want to be part of a community that’s whole, not broken. Because when everyone around you is hurting, it’s impossible to grow yourself. Right now, we — the people of Belgorod — have gone through something unique. It’s painful, but it’s helped us realize what really matters in life: family, health, relationships. And that gives you freedom. I’m not afraid anymore — whether of leaving or of coming back.

“Just like everyone else” isn’t living. It’s surviving. But every person still has a choice. And every teacher makes that choice. Don’t think their decision only affects their work with children. It touches every family. That’s the tragedy — and the triumph — of our profession.