Leaving might feel safer, but staying means protecting our community and preserving what war hasn’t yet taken.

By Lesia

An aid worker running classes for children in Ukraine.

When you live in war for so long, you have to take comfort in whatever little control you have over your decisions. My city in northwest Ukraine is now just 20km (12 miles) from the front line.

We all know that the front line has been getting closer in recent months. Every two or three days, there are reports that one village, another village and a third village have been occupied.

Cluster munitions have already directly hit the city centre. There are constant sirens, some lasting as long as two whole days. We have got so used to them that we don’t spend the whole time in basements because, over time, people’s minds adapt. We stay outside and continue to live, knowing we are risking our lives, knowing that this coffee might be the last one.

For many families in Sumy, like mine, the critical decision is whether to flee to a safer area. When this is your home, your roots, your loved ones, everything you’ve built – especially if family members aren’t planning to leave – it becomes a very complex decision. My daughter and I are staying put, though she has been sleeping in the hallway for the past few months, feeling safer there than in her bed next to the window. But with the school year now over, some families with the option are leaving the city – for a summer camp, a grandparents’ house – before reassessing the situation. Some have packed up and left for good.

I feel the children’s absence in the classes I facilitate through the local organisation League of Modern Women, supported by Save the Children. One day, a child is enjoying the lessons. The next day, they’re gone. These classes continue bringing joy to children – giving them some sense of normality, moments of joy and a glimpse of a real childhood. For children who have been limited to online learning for months, even years, it is the only opportunity they have to interact with others in person. And they are supporting one another, building resilience.

The classes for small children encourage them to draw, express emotions, feelings and dreams through art and painting. They also play team games and sports and learn mindfulness and breathing techniques to keep calm during crises. With teenagers, we ask them to work together to come up with project ideas to improve their community. For example, one girl wants to create a drama club, and a boy wants a library for Japanese manga comics. We teach them how to write a project proposal, create a budget and offer mentorship. It’s refreshing – and essential – for children to escape and expand their imaginations beyond the reality of war.

This is a reality that is eroding childhoods. The constant sirens have turned a decent night’s sleep – critical for children’s health and development – into a distant memory.

This is a reality that has separated children from their fathers. One girl in my class was in a bad mood for a long time. Finally, she said: “I want to see Dad. He is in military service.”

This is a reality that has kept children from socialising – something parents around the world will remember from the days of the COVID-19 pandemic. One boy, whose only interaction with other children for a long time was through a computer screen, started my classes struggling to communicate with others. Gradually, he has come out of his shell. Many children have had to say goodbye to friends on the move, time and again.

In one class, a boy and his friend had a ukulele and wanted to sing for everyone. We said, “Of course, go ahead!” These were fourth-graders – nine- and 10-year-olds. They stood up, started playing and singing, and their classmates turned off the lights and lit up their phone flashlights. They transformed our shelter classroom into a concert hall for five minutes. It was such a joy to see them enjoying life, even if just for a few moments in a city under attack.

For me, that makes my decision to stay in Sumy worthwhile. We cannot abandon the families and children here. Children need hope – and that is what our classes give. You could leave Sumy, and something could happen somewhere else. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a border city or the capital – moving in Ukraine is like playing the lottery. Safety is not guaranteed.

For those of us who have made the decision to stay, every day the significance of that choice becomes clearer. If we all left, there would be no Sumy – and no one left to protect.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.