The boy’s blue eyes look directly at you from the screen. Under the photo is written: “Calm, obedient, six years old, blue eyes, blond hair.” As if this is a dog from an asylum and not a living child kidnapped from the occupied part of Ukraine. As if identity is something that can be edited in a filter—by gender, eye color, age, and temperament—and offered to anyone who wants it with a click.

Russia has digitized what slave traders have done for centuries: stripped hundreds of children of their names, histories, and families and turned them into a catalog. According to official figures, more than 19,500 Ukrainian children have been confirmed as abducted and deported to Russia. The true figures may be far higher, as the occupied territories are closed to international observers and the children’s tracks are systematically covered up, as are schools, hospitals, and maternity wards destroyed.

This is not just kidnapping. It is a strategy of destruction—twofold and intentional. First, towns are destroyed and houses burned down. Then the child is taken from the rubble hundreds of kilometers away, and its name, nationality, and identity are changed. The goal is clear: they are to grow up without knowing who they are, without speaking their mother tongue, and to become part of someone else’s history.

There is a logic behind this barbarism. Destroying civilian facilities means destroying everyday life, safety, and health. Kidnapping children means destroying the future. Russia is doing this openly, now also digitally, showing that international law means nothing to it. On the internet, the children are arranged as objects: “cheerful,” “reserved,” and “adaptable.” The description does not say that they may have watched their parents being taken away by soldiers the day before or that they slept in basements at night while bombs fell overhead.

Anyone who looks at these pages will see what the world still refuses to admit: this is a war in which war crimes are not hidden—they are advertised.

The catalog doesn’t say these kids may have last hugged their parents at a makeshift checkpoint, with a rifle aimed at them. It doesn’t say that some mothers, knowing the Russians would take them away, told their kids to remember the songs they sang, the color of the house, and the smell of the bakery down the street, as that may be the only connection to home when they change their names and passports. Behind these “calm” and “obedient” descriptions lies a silence that can only be heard by someone who has lost everything.

And while Russia transforms stolen children into a catalog, the President of the United States of America, Donald Trump, announces a meeting with Vladimir Putin. Location: Alaska. Date: August 15. Topic: Ukraine—but without Ukraine. Trump is already talking openly about “territorial concessions” and a “deal” that he believes could bring peace.

“Zelenskyy must be prepared to give up some territory,” Trump said, as if he were negotiating the moving of the fence and not the future of a sovereign state that has been fighting for survival for three and a half years. He repeated several times that “Ukraine has no say in this.”

This attitude is not only politically short-sighted—it is morally bankrupt. Instead of insisting on the right of the victims of aggression to decide their own fate, the president of the world’s greatest power gives legitimacy to the logic of violence and panders to the aggressor. Instead of siding with those who defend their children, he thinks about how to make it easier for those who kidnap them.

Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s answer was clear, without restraints and without a diplomatic “maybe.” “Without Ukraine, the negotiations on Ukraine cannot be conducted,” he said. No concessions, no waivers, no backroom deals. This is not stubbornness; this is the basic logic of international law and sovereignty.

Because any “peace” concluded without Ukraine would be the same as a list of abducted children without names—paper without life. The deal struck between Trump and Putin in Alaska without the Ukrainian table would be a continuation of Russian aggression by other means.

In political theory, negotiations are conducted to find a just solution. In the lives of besieged people, negotiations are conducted to preserve dignity and life. For Ukraine, negotiating without your seat at the table would be like a father signing the sale of a house while his children stand behind a wall with their hands tied. That’s not a compromise—it’s a surrender.

Imagine the maternity hospital in Kamianske that was razed to the ground by a Russian missile, killing the pregnant Diana. Imagine a catalog of children from Luhansk. Both scenes are part of the same campaign—to eliminate the future of Ukraine. One does this with weapons, the other with a bureaucratic and digital process.

Trump’s approach to Ukraine aligns perfectly with this matrix, as it treats Ukraine as a tool for negotiation, rather than as a people entitled to life, freedom, and future. In both cases, subjectivity disappears: the child becomes “quiet, obedient” without origin; the state becomes “suitable for exchange” without will.

The tragedy of Ukraine is not only that it is losing cities and children. The tragedy is that the world, accustomed to the images of war, is beginning to see them as commonplace. When we become accustomed to ruins and cataloged children, we become part of the problem. For indifference is the quietest ally of violence.

The West, which used to be able to speak out, is now increasingly opting for silence. Keeping silent about the digital sale of Ukrainian children is equal to accepting that it is happening. And the longer the silence continues, the deeper the children are rooted in the system that has abducted them. Each additional year makes it harder to return, each additional school year erases another layer of memories of home.

Trump’s admiration for Putin and his willingness to accept his logic sends a signal not just to Ukraine, but to all small states: If they bomb you long enough and kidnap your children, maybe one day the “great powers” will make you thank them for the piece of land they let you have.

Those who remain silent today will one day ask themselves what they did while children from Mariupol and Luhansk appeared in online catalogs and maternity wards turned into craters. The answer will not be pleasant. And history will record it as clearly as every betrayal is recorded—without apologies and without forgetting.

In Ukraine today, there is a line beyond which the law ceases to apply and the law of the strongest begins. The moment borders and people become the subject of negotiations, the state is on its way to disappearing. That is why every child and every piece of land must be returned—not out of pity, but because it is the only form of justice that makes sense.

The catalog of abducted children and the meeting in Alaska are not separate stories. They are two faces of the same temptation: to avoid inconvenience, should we accept that crime is rewarded? Those who agree to this become part of the same order that turns children into catalogs and filters.

Ukraine has already given its answer—in the trenches, under the rubble, in the columns of refugees, at the negotiating tables. This answer requires no interpretation: we are not giving up. Now it is up to the world to decide whether to join this “no” or reject it.

Because peace bought with stolen human lives and stolen land is not peace. It is a respite that provides the criminals time to prepare the next blow.

This is not just a Ukrainian story. Any country that believes that something like this cannot happen to it should take a look at these catalogs. It should imagine its children, under foreign names, in a foreign language, in a foreign history. Today, Ukraine is not only on the front line but also on the front line of every free country. And if it falls, the next catalog will not be Ukrainian.