The moment I walk through the gates of “Mishpacha Ukraine,” a network of Jewish orphanages in Odessa, I know I’m not entering just another school. The place has an entirely different spirit. It’s a refuge, a safe harbor in the middle of a storm. Children’s drawings on the walls burst with hope, songs drift down the hallways like a steady prayer, and from the kitchen comes the comforting smell of a home-cooked meal. Most of all, you feel it right away: here, no child is ever left alone.
For me, one person captures all of this: Igor Shatkhin. He first came to “Mishpacha Ukraine” as a three-year-old, just after losing his father. He grew up entirely inside the Jewish community’s educational network—kindergarten, school, and later the university. Now, some thirty years after first walking through those doors, Igor stands at the helm of the Federation of Jewish Communities of Southern Ukraine, the very body that runs those same institutions. The little boy who once arrived in need has become the leader—and my choice for Man of the Year.
From Childhood to Leadership
Igor grew up in a world that was anything but easy. His father died when he was still very young, leaving his mother to raise him on her own. At just three years old he entered the “Mishpacha Ukraine” institutions, which quickly became his second home. There he found more than a roof over his head—he found a surrogate family, a devoted staff, and a support system that surrounded him with care.
Rabbi Avraham Wolff, the Chabad rabbi and chief rabbi of Odessa and southern Ukraine, was the one who founded these institutions. For Igor, Rabbi Wolff became both a father figure and a spiritual guide. Locals call him “the father of the orphans,” but for Igor, he represented something even larger—a model for an entire way of life.
From the community’s kindergarten, Igor moved on to its Jewish elementary and high schools. Along the way he gained more than an education; he absorbed values—giving, responsibility, and a deep sense of purpose. At 18, he enrolled in the Jewish university Rabbi Wolff had established in Odessa. He graduated with honors, studying psychology, sociology, anthropology, political science, and social work—shaping himself, step by step, for a life of leadership.
When I ask Igor when he first knew he wanted to give back, he smiles. “As a teenager, I was sitting in class and it hit me—everything I had, the books, the teachers, the hot meals, the warmth—none of it just appeared on its own. And it certainly wasn’t something I could take for granted. I told myself then: when I grow up, I want to be the one making sure others have this too. That decision has guided me ever since.”
Stories of Life
Every time I visit “Mishpacha Odessa,” I come across stories that stop me cold. One was a little brother and sister who arrived after a tragedy too awful to imagine—their father had murdered their mother in front of them. They came here shattered, broken in body and spirit. Psychologists sat with them day and night, social workers wrapped them in constant care, and teachers stayed by their side until they finally fell asleep. Today, years later, they sit in class smiling, planning for the future. That’s more than recovery—it’s a rebirth.
In another case, I met four siblings who had lost their father. Their mother couldn’t manage, but here the staff made a decision: they would not be split up. The children were given one shared room, their beds pushed together so they could remain a family. They eat together, sing together, look out for one another. Multiply stories like these by 124—the number of children currently living in the Family orphanage—and you begin to understand: that’s 124 broken hearts, 124 souls being cared for with endless devotion. At the center of it all are Rabbi Avraham Wolff and his wife Chaya, who have given their lives to mending those hearts—raising fragile children into confident young adults who believe in themselves, ready to build homes and families of their own.
Around-the-Clock Parental Warmth
What shocked me most was learning that sometimes babies arrive here just days after birth—three, seven, maybe ten days old. I tried to wrap my head around how it’s even possible to raise a newborn in an institution.
Alina, the longtime director who has spent more than twenty years devoted to these children, explained it to me: “We make sure every baby gets constant, personal care—as if they were at home. That’s why we have a permanent team of caregivers the children come to know. One stays with the baby all day, then another takes over without a break, and then a third. This way the child is surrounded by familiar, loving faces—like parents trading shifts.”
At that moment, I understood the weight of responsibility carried for each infant here. There isn’t a single moment of loneliness—always a hand to hold, a smile, a warm bottle, or a gentle word. It’s a system of nonstop devotion. And it also explains why keeping these institutions alive takes such tremendous resources.
A World Within Walls
The day here starts early. Wake-up at seven, a quick wash, breakfast, then straight to class—math, history, Torah, Hebrew. At midday there’s a hot lunch, and in the evening, the schedule shifts to extracurriculars: sports, music, computers. I sit in a small classroom watching a boy carefully learning his way around the piano keys, while across the hall a girl bends over her sketchpad in art class. Outside, teenagers chase a soccer ball across the playground. This isn’t some dreary institution—it feels like a lively little city, buzzing with energy.
At night, before bed, there’s one last ritual: a group conversation. Each child takes a turn sharing how their day went—what made them laugh, what hurt, what stayed with them. A psychologist is always there, listening intently to every word. It’s more than the routine of a warm home—it’s daily therapy woven into the rhythm of their lives.
Dreams for the Future
Out in the courtyard of the Boys’ Home, I meet teenagers with big dreams. One talks about becoming a software engineer. Another wants to be a chef and open a successful restaurant. A twelve-year-old insists he’s going to be a businessman: “I’ll open my own shop,” he tells me with confidence. Another boy grins and says simply: “I want to be a pianist.”
Seventeen-year-old Vitaly sums up what so many of them feel. “When I see Igor leading the Jewish Federation, I know we can do it too,” he says. “It gives us the strength to push through the daily struggles, to get past the loneliness, and to believe we can build a bright, beautiful future—just like Igor.”
Grace and Creativity
A few streets away from the Boys’ Home, the girls are dreaming big too. An eight-year-old tells me she wants to be a teacher. Another dreams of becoming a doctor. One says she wants to be a singer, while another is determined to be a writer. “My first book will be about my life here,” says 13-year-old Nadia (Sarah).
The girls are surrounded by a dedicated team of professionals—psychologists, speech therapists, and social workers. Mrs. Wolff puts it simply: “When a girl cries in the middle of the night, we are there for her. We don’t leave her alone. This is our mission.”
Around the Clock
Behind every child is an entire network of people. Psychologists who listen, speech therapists who work on every word, social workers who step in during crises, teachers who educate, counselors who guide, kitchen staff who prepare meals, and medical staff who handle every health need.
“This isn’t a regular job,” Igor tells me. “It’s twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
That feeling stayed with me during my three days here—and anyone who walks through the gates of “Mishpacha Ukraine” can sense it immediately. This isn’t just an educational system; it’s a whole web of devoted souls.
Apples, Honey, and a Safe Harbor
As the High Holidays approach, the children are already preparing for the New Year. The counselors put together a special Rosh Hashanah evening, and I join them around a beautifully set table. Dozens of apples and bowls of honey are spread out. The children, dressed in their holiday best, sing “Avinu Malkeinu”—their young voices strong and full of spirit. Wow, I think to myself, this doesn’t feel like an institution. It feels like one big family.
Rabbi Wolff rises to speak. “You are not alone, dear children,” he tells them. “You have a Father in Heaven who never leaves you for a moment. He looks upon you, loves you, thinks of you, and cares for you always. And surely He will grant you a good and sweet year.”
Igor, sitting nearby, adds quietly: “And you have a father here as well. Every meal, every book, every teacher, every therapy session, every piece of clothing, every light switch that turns on—everything here comes from enormous effort and investment. That’s what keeps this place alive. I know, because I grew up here.”
Resilience Amid Fear
The war in Ukraine is never far from these children’s lives. Air-raid sirens interrupt their classes, sending them racing to the shelters. On one of my visits, a blast went off nearby. The children sat down on the floor and began to sing “Shema Yisrael.” They smiled; I quietly wiped away tears. And yet, life carries on. The kitchen keeps serving meals, the classrooms stay full, and the psychologists continue helping the children work through their fears.
“I watch Rabbi Wolff running from one shelter to another,” Igor tells me, “and I realize how hard this work really is. That’s why I push myself to do everything I can to help even more.”
The Federation
Today, the Federation of Jewish Communities of Southern Ukraine, led by Igor Shatkhin, is about far more than orphanages. It runs kindergartens, schools, and a Jewish university; provides humanitarian aid to tens of thousands of families; offers housing for war refugees; cares for Holocaust survivors in a senior home; and organizes countless programs that strengthen Jewish identity.
When I ask Igor how he came to lead such an operation, he answers with quiet humility. “I never wanted titles. I wasn’t looking for a position. I just wanted to serve my people. But the community said: the one who grew up in these institutions should be the one to represent us. It’s an honor—but without question, it’s also a heavy responsibility.”
As we walk together from the orphanage to the senior home for Holocaust survivors, I ask him about his most vivid childhood memory from the institutions. He doesn’t hesitate: “I was six years old. It was a bitter winter—snow and wind outside. I came home from kindergarten sick and stayed in bed. That evening, one of the counselors came in. She brought me hot soup, sat by my side, and told me a story until I fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up and saw her still sitting there, holding my hand all night. That was the moment I realized I wasn’t alone. I had teachers, friends, a rabbi who cared, counselors who played with me, a cook who made meals, caregivers who fed me—warmth and love from every side. That moment gave me an inner backbone that still holds me steady to this day.”
“How do you feel when you sit with a donor and ask on behalf of the orphans?” I ask Igor as he gently hands a cup of tea to a Holocaust survivor who will soon celebrate her 100th birthday on Motzaei Rosh Hashanah.
He pauses, then answers: “I feel privileged to help him see that he’s not just writing a check—he’s a true partner. I tell him my own story—how I grew up here, how I was given the chance to build a good and happy life. And in that moment, he understands that every dollar he gives creates an entire life for a child: a future, love, a family. That child will one day stand on their own feet—just as a donor’s dollar, thirty years ago, gave me my chance. Today I have a future, a life filled with love, a wife, Janna, and two children, Robert and Adele, who now study in these same institutions in Odessa. That’s a good, happy life.”
As he speaks, his voice catches. For the first time in two days of being with him, Igor’s eyes well up with tears.
Later, in a quiet moment, I ask him: “What’s your dream for the future of these institutions?” He doesn’t hesitate. “That we can take in every child who needs us. That we’ll never say, ‘there’s no room’ or ‘we can’t.’ And that twenty years from now, when one of today’s children steps up as a community leader, we’ll know we did our part.”
A Story That Says It All
“When I watched Igor on the day the community chose him as chairman of the Federation—at my recommendation—I didn’t just see a leader,” recalls Rabbi Wolff. “I remembered the little boy with wide eyes, searching for someone to believe in him. Today, as he guides others, Igor is living proof that pain can be turned into hope. And I know he is building that hope for countless children.”
Igor himself puts it even more simply: “As a child, I dreamed of having a father. Here, I received that. And ever since, I’ve wanted to be that father for others. Today, when I see a child walk through the gates of ‘Mishpacha Ukraine,’ I know my dream has come true. And I do everything I can to make sure that child’s dream will come true one day too.”
My Man of the Year
As Rosh Hashanah approaches, I find myself asking: who is my Man of the Year? For me, the answer is unmistakable—Igor Shatkhin. Once a little boy raised in the “Mishpacha Ukraine” orphanages, he made the long journey from kindergarten, to school, to the Jewish university in Odessa. Today, he leads the very Federation that runs those institutions. He’s also a devoted husband and father, raising his own children along the same path of Jewish education and community.
Igor’s story is one of resilience and faith, of mission and vision—and above all, of a powerful determination to give back. To me, he embodies what it means to turn hardship into hope. And that is why Igor Shatkhin is my Man of the Year.
This article was written in cooperation with Mishpacha Ukraine