Last Tuesday, on his first day at the new school, seven-year-old Timur looked all scared, clutching his mother's hand, almost as scared as he was.
But that was Tuesday.
On Friday, this Ukrainian boy who fled with his mother and older sister from the war in his country, sitting in his class, in second grade, was already smiling and saying very clearly "fine" when the teacher asked him how he was .
So clearly that an optimistic colleague exclaimed: "He already knows Spanish!"
Three weeks ago, the mother, Olena, 41, woke up startled at five in the morning in her house in the town of Rivne, near the Belarusian border, by a noise that she could not identify.
Her husband turned on the television and they found out that the war had started and that what they had just heard was a bomb.
"The day before was completely normal: breakfast, school, work...", says Olena.
She adds that since then she has not lived another normal day.
Olena's mother, Halyna, 63, the grandmother of Timur and Karina, who has lived in Spain for six years, convinced her daughter to meet her, that it was better to squeeze the four of them together in the small shared apartment in which he resides in Madrid, who force children to the torture of fear of bombing and trips to shelters.
A week later, they were at the Polish border.
Two weeks later, Timur's new teacher put the phrase “now we're going to recess” into the Spanish-Ukrainian Google translator to get along with the newcomer.
Some 1,700 Ukrainian minors from the conflict are already enrolled in school in Spain, according to data from the Ministry of Education.
Among them, 655 stand out in Catalonia, about 300 in Madrid, 200 in Andalusia and 200 in the Valencian Community.
But the figure is a minimal part of what is expected.
The ministry estimates that around 100,000 will arrive in the coming weeks.
"They will be even more if the war drags on," acknowledges a spokesman.
In Spain there are 8.2 million children receiving non-university education.
This is sensed in the school where Timur and his sister already study, the Addis center, in the Villaverde neighborhood, in Madrid.
It is a private, secular school, organized around a cooperative of teachers, accustomed to receiving children of many nationalities in the middle of the course.
In fact, Timur is sitting next to his new partner, Diana, whose parents are Romanian.
And in his classroom, in addition to Romanians, there are children of Moroccan, Ecuadorian, Bolivian, Chilean and Chinese origin, among others.
The sister, Karina, 14, is less smiling than Timur, she is much more worried.
Through her cell phone, she receives news of the war, phrases and photos of friends and relatives who have stayed behind, calls from her father, a medical assistant, who now volunteers in the Ukrainian army.
When her grandmother and her mother recount the adventure of the journey and arrival,
Karina goes mid-morning to a classroom called a link, specialized in urgently familiarizing newly arrived students from other countries with Spanish.
Along with Karina, there are three Moroccans, a Brazilian, a Pakistani and a Cape Verdean.
Karina really likes school.
She says that teachers have never cared so much about her.
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On March 30, the Ministry of Education plans to meet with the communities within the framework of the Education Sector Conference to agree on the resources and measures to implement in the face of the expected avalanche of minors.
Education is aware that new supports will be necessary.
It will be necessary to incorporate people who know the languages of both countries to act as interpreters in the schools.
“Teachers will also have to be hired if it is necessary to open classrooms, counselors and psychological care personnel,” the spokesperson abounds.
And increase dining scholarships.
To pay for it, Education plans to activate a "very important economic endowment", still undetermined, and which is expected to be nourished by European funds.
Communities and schools already have a protocol for welcoming students who arrive mid-year,
what is known as “living registration”.
This is what has been applied in Addis with Timur and Karina.
This is what they have also done at the El Farell school in Caldes de Montbui (Barcelona) with Irina, nine years old, who came to this municipality with her mother, Valentina, her two older sisters and her parakeet, placed in a tuper.
They traveled for a week, fleeing the war, in several buses.
They crossed the Polish border on foot for 30 kilometers.
Her mother did not think twice as soon as she heard the noise of the bombs and called Lluís Domene —her partner for a short time and a resident of Caldes— to tell him that she was running away and going to the house of her.
"When I arrived, I breathed easy," says her mother, surprised by the great reception she has found.
Irina walked through the school gates for the first time on Thursday.
When she arrived at her fourth grade class she found that her new classmates had drawn some pictures for her with the phrase “Welcome Irina” written in Cyrillic.
A student of hers even gave her a stuffed animal.
"Irina is an open and very affectionate girl," highlights her tutor, Belén.
Her little girl, who only speaks Russian and Ukrainian, sits close to her, and to the computer, to have access to the translator, although she does not separate from her cell phone, which she uses when she has to look up a word.
After Mathematics class, she plays in the conversation room to learn the new language.
Maksim and Víktor explain to their classmates from the Matadepera institute the trip they have made from Ukraine to Spain.CRISTÓBAL CASTRO
Young age and language can be an impediment to express and channel traumatic emotions.
Teenagers like Víktor or Maksim, who arrived in Matadepera (Barcelona) 10 days ago with the mediation of a local NGO, have this more resolved.
The two 14-year-old boys, with great serenity and maturity, explained to their new classmates their hasty departure from Ukraine and the orphanage where they lived, their journey over a week and what war is like thanks to videos they had on the mobiles.
"The war doesn't let you sleep, sirens sound every 10 minutes," explains Víktor in perfect Spanish, the result of previous stays in Catalonia with foster families.
“We took the food that fit in the backpack and not a lot of water because it took up a lot.
In one of the buses we were so overcrowded that we traveled squatting,"
adds Maksim in fluent Catalan, also due to the summers lived in this community.
Both, even, had already spent a week at the institute in previous years.
Its adaptation, therefore, is easier.
Now they help Yaroslav, 13 years old, who has traveled with them and for whom everything is new because it is the first time he has traveled to Europe.
"I'm fine here.
School is different, you have a computer to yourself.
In Ukraine you have to carry seven books.
Also, here you can study what you want”, he explains in English, a language that has paved the way for him.
who has traveled with them and for whom everything is new because it is the first time he has traveled to Europe.
"I'm fine here.
School is different, you have a computer to yourself.
In Ukraine you have to carry seven books.
Also, here you can study what you want”, she explains in English, a language that has paved the way for her.
who has traveled with them and for whom everything is new because it is the first time he has traveled to Europe.
"I'm fine here.
School is different, you have a computer to yourself.
In Ukraine you have to carry seven books.
Also, here you can study what you want”, she explains in English, a language that has paved the way for her.
Yaroslav lives with a foster family in Matadepera, but speaks daily with his family, who has stayed in the Ukraine.
"They're glad I'm okay here."
Regarding the uncertain future, young people are clear: "I want to stay, study, work and get married here," says Víktor.
"I want to be a translator," says Maksim.
"When the war is over, I want to go home," Yaroslav settles.
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