The Woman Who Didn’t Break. Part One.

...Lesna Stinka is a village on the right bank of the Oskol River, 45 kilometers from Kupiansk. Larysa Fesenko had headed the local lyceum since 2009. She invested all of herself in this school. Despite its remoteness, the lyceum was one of the best in the district, she says.

On February 24, Larysa’s first thought was to go to school. Explosions could already be heard in the distance. She quickly organized the staff: a bomb shelter was set up in the lyceum’s basement for residents, duty shifts were assigned among the employees, and they took care of the museum — removing the flags and the names of ATO participants so that the Russians wouldn’t search for them later. One of the teachers took the huge yellow-and-blue flag home. Larysa moved all the other Ukrainian items to her house, as she lived nearby. They were afraid that the Russians would burn everything. That’s precisely what would happen in neighboring villages.

FSB agents came for the lyceum director in July. She was taken to the Kupiansk temporary detention center in the police station building, where the Russians had set up a torture chamber. Then, weeks in a cell: stuffiness, cramped conditions, despair, and the hope that our forces would soon arrive. And so it happened: during the counteroffensive in early September, the prisoners regained their freedom.

Immediately after her release from captivity, Larysa Fesenko set about restoring the educational process at her native lyceum, gathering children from the destroyed institutions. The restoration of education in the Kurylivka community began in Lisna Stinka. When guided bombs were dropped on the village, both children and teachers had to be evacuated. But online learning continued for ninety students.

In 2023, Larysa Fesenko became a laureate of the Global Teacher Prize Ukraine in the “Unbreakable” category. The award was personally presented to her by Yulia Paevska (Taira), a paramedic who also went through captivity. In September 2025, Larysa received the Anna Lindh International Prize from the Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Unfortunately, from July 1, 2025, the lyceum’s work was suspended by order of the Kurylivka village administration — “with the aim of rational use of budget funds, taking into account the socio-economic and demographic situation.” Simply put, only one of the five lyceums in the Kurylivka community remained — the Hlushkivskyi lyceum. Larysa Fesenko’s students were transferred there. The school’s teaching staff and parents tried to fight, raise the alarm, and appealed to all authorities. It didn’t help.

Meanwhile, Ms. Larysa is wanted by the occupiers — for “slander” and... “espionage”. The Russians threaten her with twenty years of imprisonment.

We are publishing the first part of her story about the occupation, betrayal, courage, and hope. Someday, a film script will probably be based on this story.

February. “A true Ukrainian woman isn’t just someone who wears an embroidered shirt…”

— … The Russians entered Kupyansk without a fight on February 25th. Our education department and our leadership were in the city. The head of the education department refused to cooperate with the Russian occupiers; she wrote her resignation in time… Of course, I also said that I wouldn’t work for the Russians. Even if they came to me... They did come, they offered substantial sums of money, rewards of ten thousand rubles, some food rations, and they even said: “You will live like in paradise.” All this created an atmosphere as if everyone, without exception, should agree to cooperate. I immediately thought that I would not do this under any circumstances. I couldn’t do that, you understand? Because, as they say, a true Ukrainian woman isn’t just someone who wears an embroidered shirt. A true Ukrainian woman is someone who has Ukraine in her heart. I simply couldn’t betray myself.

I received tremendous support from my family. We discussed this issue in a family conversation because we understood that danger was nearby. And my husband said: “I didn’t expect anything else from you. You won’t go to work for the Russians.” And my children, who were in Kharkiv, supported me in the same way. And then the bombing of Kharkiv began. The children were there, they went to work, cleared the rubble, and helped along with everyone else. They received a worthy upbringing. I believe that no one was a traitor — neither I nor my family. We didn’t hide, run away, pack our things, or leave the country. We were at home and were confident that this wouldn’t last long, that they couldn’t take over here.

June. List of collaborators

— The village headman from Lisna Stinka came to see me. My husband was in the yard. The headman handed him a note and quickly disappeared. The note wasn’t in an envelope — just a folded piece of paper, on which it was written that I, as the head of the educational institution, should submit lists to the education department of those who wished to work for the new authorities. And I needed to submit the lists for payment immediately — 10,000 rubles each. Also, urgently provide information about the institution: which teachers are there, which elementary school teachers will attend retraining courses, all class schedules, the number of children, the number of teachers, the number of those willing to work for Russia, and so on. I was in shock. As the head, I had to do this.

I gathered the teachers because the next morning I had to go to Kupyansk to report on the information they demanded. And I decided for myself that this information to the education department would be the last I would give as the head.

Some of the teachers looked at me, bewildered. I started saying that we would cope with this situation. I thought each of them would say: “No, I won’t go to work. Don’t include me in the list of these people!” But when I addressed everyone with the words: “Dear colleagues, this is the situation, we need to submit a list to the education department... Who wants to work for the occupying power?” — everyone fell silent. And I realized that they wouldn’t answer aloud, in front of everyone: they were afraid of each other… Then I said: “Now I will go into the director’s office, and each of you will come in one by one and say: yes or no. However, you all know my position unequivocally. And I think that each of you has already thought about how you see your life going forward.”

To this, one of the teachers immediately replied in front of everyone: “It’s nothing, we’ll choose another director — we’ll live even better than we did before.” And when the teachers started coming into the office and telling me, “I’m going to work,” "I’m going to work,” “I’m going to work”—it was just awful for me. Only the chemistry teacher came in and said, “Neither my husband nor I will cooperate.” And she immediately left.

— Out of 17 people, nine went to cooperate. I compiled this list, but inside I felt such protest! It can’t be... I told them, “This is treason. Do you understand that there will be charges, and you will be punished for this? How will you look your children in the eye? You sang the Ukrainian anthem, you put your hand on your heart!” One teacher always cried during assemblies. So, it turns out those tears were insincere? She received certificates from the Ministry of Education and Science for her patriotic education work, and she decided to cooperate! Do you understand? I told them about it. I will personally do everything possible to make sure everyone knows about our traitors and collaborators who, in this difficult time, did not unite but started thinking about money, their well-being, and their families. One teacher said, “You have to save your own skin, not think about some ideologies!” And then I hear from someone, “Well, please tell us, Larisa Vladimirovna, will you cooperate? Otherwise, it will turn out that we say ’no,’ and you say you will!” I told them that I would not cooperate with the Rashists for the simple reason that I am Ukrainian. And some even started applauding me.

In the morning, I took all these documents to Kupyansk. But I didn’t compile any bonus lists. The only thing I took was a list of people who would cooperate. And that’s all. I went to the education department, where a meeting was underway. Everyone was there, busily writing up some documents. I leaned over and asked, “What are you doing?” “We’re writing up lists for bonuses.”

The school principals. One, two, three, four... I said again, “What are you doing?!” I opened my phone: “Look, here’s an article about collaborationism. You’re not only compromising yourselves, but you’re compromising your entire staff!” They just stared at me uncomprehendingly. And I began to fear that I was among people who weren’t on my side. As they say, a “black sheep.” But I still held my ground.

The head of the education department said, “That’s it, I’m not in charge of this process.” The process was being managed by a man who, at the time, worked in the human resources department. All the authority had been transferred to him, and he was collecting the lists, insisting that everyone submit them immediately, stamped and signed. I said I wouldn’t do it — neither sign nor stamp anything. Choose a director from among those colleagues who agreed to cooperate, but I will not work as a director!

And at that moment, the head of our Kurilovka community, Nikolai Nikolaevich Sytnik, walked in. I had always considered him a patriotic person who constantly supported me in all my actions as the head of the institution. We communicated until the very end, because teachers’ salaries were paid until the end of the school year. Even during the occupation, Ukraine paid us — the money was transferred to our cards. That was his merit as the community’s head. That is, they did everything possible so that people could continue to live in such conditions. But when he came in, I didn’t recognize him. He said that everyone should immediately go to the bank, submit lists for teacher bonuses, and that this should be done today. I said, “I won’t do that!” He completely ignored me and continued. Then I turned to the head of the education department, the one who had worked there before, under Ukraine: “Please tell me, why am I being ignored? I won’t submit these lists!” Then she herself turned to Sytnik: “Nikolai Nikolaevich, here’s a director who refuses to cooperate!”

I was the only one who stood up and declared that I wouldn’t work. He took it calmly, and I understood that I was superfluous there. I took my bag and my things and left the meeting. After that, having finished his speech, the head of the community came out and said — unofficially, but in a humane way, as he always addressed me: “Larisa, I understand everything, and you know my view of this situation, but they were looking for me too. They also had conversations with me. But I’m a man, and you’re a woman. You understand what could happen to you? You understand that I can’t help you in any way.” I replied: “I don’t need help! I can protect myself.” You know, I’m steadfast in my views.

July. First warning.

— I went home. But I was still drawn to the school — it’s my, as they say, cradle. It’s the place where I invested more than in my own home. How could I not go there? All the teachers came there. Those who decided to work for Russia huddled together on their own. And those who supported me were with me. I held a parent-teacher meeting. I spoke to the parents and told them that I would not be running the school: “You decide the fate of your children. I cannot tell you what to do. But the war continues. And you are in danger.” There were rumors that those who did not send their children to the Russian school would have them taken away and sent to boarding schools, and that they were threatened with reprisals. The collaborating teachers, who had agreed to cooperate with Russia, did not come to the parent-teacher meeting — they said they had gone somewhere on business. Perhaps they were simply ashamed of being traitors. A great many parents came. Immediately, about twenty people took their children’s documents from me with the intention of leaving, possibly the region. At that time, it was still possible to go. There were no persecutions yet, but the teachers were observing my work. And they were reporting to the Russian authorities that I was giving out documents and that there would be no one left to work with. They were interested in the school continuing to operate, and then this happened.

And then one of them, a kindergarten teacher, came into my office and said, “Larisa Vladimirovna, you have done so much for me. I had been looking for a job for a very long time, and couldn’t find one. You became like a mother to me. You guided me, you taught me. And I’m just telling you this as one human being to another: why don’t you join us? You understand, there is no future here anymore.” To which I replied: “No, I will not go with you. And thank you for your kind words.” She replied, “Okay, maybe I’ll be punished, but I’ll tell you. A conspiracy is being prepared against you; teachers who have gone to work for the occupying authorities are writing letters about you. They’re taking them to the occupation administration. They’re writing that you have a pro-Ukrainian stance, that you’re urging everyone not to cooperate, that you should be held upside down for what you’re doing, that your gas and electricity should be cut off because Russia is supplying it all now. Be very careful.” And she left the office.

Some time later, people from the FSB came to my house. They arrived in a white car, a foreign make. I was home alone. I hardly went to school anymore, only occasionally. It was the beginning of July. I remember it like it was yesterday — I was canning tomatoes. I ran out into the yard, and I saw some people had come in. I didn’t even think they were Russians. That thought didn’t even cross my mind. But when I went out, I saw three armed men in front of me. One of them was wearing a balaclava. They had automatic weapons and were in military uniform. They introduced themselves as FSB agents. They spoke Russian. They asked, “Does the director of the lyceum live here?” I was standing on the doorstep and said, “Yes, that’s me.” "We have serious complaints against you. We know that you find it repulsive to talk to us and look at us. Why didn’t you submit the lists on time? People were left without money!"

They also said that I was going down the wrong path, that I needed to think seriously, because Russia was here forever, and Ukraine would never return. That’s what they said: “You understand that another unit will arrive soon, and we don’t know what will happen to you!” They started intimidating me. I was as if under hypnosis: I just looked them in the eyes and listened. And when they repeated that “Russia is here forever,” I replied, “That’s what you think!"

— If you hate us so much, why did you stay? — they asked.

— And why should I leave? This is my home, and that’s my school over there.

They looked at me strangely. One of them kept twitching — clearly a mentally unstable person. He even dropped his automatic rifle; it hit the doorstep and broke a tile. He bent down, grabbed the gun — and he was shaking all over. They advised me to “think it over” again — and then they left.

To be continued...