So much of this war, and maybe every war (though this is the only one I know), is defined by contrasts.

A beautiful summer day pierced by the shriek of artillery. Merciless attacks on civilian infrastructure are countered by hundreds of selfless civilian volunteers who show up to help in any way they can. GoPro combat footage watched from the comfort of a couch. Luxury cars and fine dining on the same street corner as a grandmother barely making it by on a $50 USD a month pension. Light and darkness, and life and death.

On the morning of July 8th, before I raced back to Kyiv following news of the massive attacks and the strike on the Children’s Hospital, I woke up to the sounds of morning birds and children’s laughter. I was camped out at a small rural orphanage—a compound of dormitories and residence houses in the middle of nowhere in Mykolaiv Oblast.

I was on assignment with @UAid.Direct, documenting their work in rehabilitating the facility, which though undeniably run with love- needed extensive love and care to be able to house the over 200 children sent to its gates from across Ukraine.

It was a place of melancholic beauty—serene and secluded. Undeniably, tragedy had brought these children to the facility—tragedy both of war and the type that afflicts orphaned children anywhere. But it was a place teeming with life, youth who very well could be the future of Ukraine, if given a chance.