A Bird in the Sky. The story of Svitlana Vorova, a woman from Odesa and a defender of “Azovstal,” who returned from captivity to carry on the work of her son, who died in the war—to defend Uk
Source: Novynarnia
Author: Yevheniia Genova
We meet at a small, cozy restaurant in a residential neighborhood of Odesa. By chance, while arranging the meeting, we discover that we live in the same neighborhood, but my interview partner notes that she rarely visits her hometown, so she leaves the choice of where to meet up to me. She arrives a little before me: she picks a spot in the corner and warms her hands with a cup of hot tea. Outside the window is a typical Odessa winter—cold, damp, and gloomy. But the woman seems oblivious to this grayness and the wet branches swaying in the wind: from time to time, she glances at the sky and smiles at something barely perceptible— at the startled sparrows, the cooing pigeons, the busy dogs out for a walk.
This woman is Svitlana Vorova, a soldier in the “Azov” regiment, a defender of “Azovstal,” who endured captivity, the mother of Oleksandr Kutuzakiya “Kutuz,” recipient of the Order “For Courage,” after whom a street in Odesa is named.
Svitlana from Moldavanka
— “I was born and raised in Odesa. I’m a second-generation Odesa native, so to speak,” Svitlana Vorova begins her story. “All my children and grandchildren were born here, too.” I myself went to kindergarten in Blizhni Mlyny, then attended School No. 99—now the 4th Gymnasium. So my entire childhood and youth were spent in Moldavanka. I’m Svitlana from Moldavanka. Sometimes it feels like I’ve never even left this neighborhood: I finished eighth grade and went on to study at the railway technical school—right here in Moldavanka. That’s how I became a station attendant. Managing transportation processes and all the logistics—that’s my thing. I enjoyed it and graduated from the technical school with honors.
After graduation, she and her husband dreamed of going to the BAM, but they couldn’t get an assignment there, so they stayed in Odesa. They worked at the same place where she had done her pre-graduation internship—at the “Odesa-Zastava 1” station.
Odesa railway worker Svitlana Vorova
— I worked, gave birth to a son, and after my maternity leave, I enrolled at Dnipropetrovsk National University of Railway Transport, studied part-time, and went back to work. I spent half my life on the railroad, but gradually began to focus not only on managing transportation but also on protecting the rights of station employees: I headed the union and looked out for my colleagues’ rights for many years. I knew practically everything about them: their problems, successes, victories, and setbacks; their children and wives; their parents and relatives; their illnesses and struggles.
I guess I’m the kind of person who never gets bored, because as soon as things get boring—I immediately have to change something. So it just turned out that I constantly had to keep a lot of information in my head: transportation logistics, my work as an engineer, and defending people’s rights. I felt needed there. That’s probably the most important thing for me. Well, and I grew up in Moldavanka—I can’t imagine how anyone could live without constant activity and problem-solving,” she smiles.
Kutuzov’s Path
Svitlana’s eldest son, Oleksandr, dreamed of becoming a soldier from childhood and, as a teenager, a police officer. From a young age, he had a strong sense of justice. He was also a die-hard fan of Odesa’s “Chornomorets”: the apartment was always full of soccer memorabilia—the blue-and-black colors of his home team, scarves, and pins. Sasha was a talented artist and worked in graphic design. Before leaving for the ATO, he worked as a blacksmith’s assistant—he’d become fascinated with artistic metalwork.
“It was so fascinating: on the one hand, there was a masculine, powerful element—strength and might—and on the other, the delicacy of the details—flowers, petals, and delicate curls. Somehow, it all came together in him,” his mother recalls.
During the Revolution of Dignity, Sashko and Svitlana kept each other at home.
“He told me he was going, and I told him that if he went, I’d go too. “But who would we leave our younger children—Valeria and Yakov—with? That’s how we ‘threatened’ each other, and in the end we stayed home, even though that decision was difficult for us,” says Svitlana. “My children kept me here. Sasha—probably because he was worried about us, since he was the oldest. But in our hearts, we were there, on the Maidan. I’ve hated injustice since childhood, and so has he.”
Some time after the war began in 2014, Oleksandr secretly enlisted as a volunteer in the army without his mother’s knowledge. He secretly passed the medical exam and only confessed once he was already with “Azov.”
— Only his younger sister knew about his plans. He told her, but made her promise not to tell me. They were protecting me. And when I finally found out, I had only one question for him: Why? And he simply told me, “It’s my choice.”
Of course, he knew I’d try to talk him out of it—what mother wouldn’t? But I’m not the kind of mother who would say, “Why did he go there? He’d be better off at home.” No matter how hard and sad it was for me, I respect his choice—the choice of a grown man of whom I’m infinitely proud,” says Svitlana.
My son didn’t talk much about the war. He said there was nothing to be afraid of, that there was plenty of everything.
In reality, it was very hard for the first volunteers: there was a shortage of food, ammunition, and weapons. But Sasha reassured us as best he could.
“He said he was far from the places where the shooting was happening. That he was escorting ballots during the election. That they had a few sacks of potatoes and some other food, so everything was fine. I didn’t fully realize the whole truth, although I understood that he wasn’t telling me about the real situation—he was trying to spare my feelings,” the woman recalls.
In our conversation with Svitlana Vorova, we don’t mention Oleksandr’s death. Surely everyone who lived in Odesa in 2015 and had ears remembers it. Oleksandr Kutuzakiy, “Kutuz,” and his comrade “Akel” were ambushed by enemy forces on February 15 while carrying out a combat mission near the village of Shyrokyne, east of Mariupol.
At the funeral on February 23 in downtown Odesa, residents bid farewell to both heroes and, perhaps for the first time, confronted the horror of this war. At the request of his mother, Sashko’s coffin was opened, and everyone saw that the Russians had desecrated his body after his death.
“Who did this?” the people of Odesa whispered. “Kadyrov’s men? Militants?
”
“Let them see what they’re doing to our sons,” said Svitlana.
On All Souls’ Day, she approached Redis and asked to join “Azov.”
Even then, she decided she had to carry on the work of her eldest son. But first—she had to finish her business at home, where her 15-year-old younger son and daughter were waiting for her.
Her mother had promised she wouldn’t leave Yakov until he grew up—and she kept her word.
In 2020, once again, the woman traveled to “Azov” for the Day of the Dead. Shortly before that, in early September, Yakov got married, and Svitlana decided it was time.
“Children should have their own lives. I’ve fulfilled my duty. Of course, I’ll continue to fulfill it until the end of my days, but the most important thing—giving them independence and the ability to live on their own—I’ve done. Since 2015, my thoughts have been with the war, you see? Only my physical body was here. My parents did their mandatory military service, and I remember looking through their army photo albums as a little girl—and I desperately wanted to become a soldier, too. And now the time has come.
After the ceremony, she approached the regiment commander, Denys Prokopenko (“Redis”), and told him she wanted to join “Azov.” Everything happened very quickly after that: she went to visit her mother for a few days, and while she was there, the commander called and told her they’d found several positions for her to choose from, so she could start her new duties. A few more days were spent wrapping up work matters, preparing final reports, and saying a brief goodbye to her colleagues. The entire process, from her first conversation with Redis to the start of her service, took two weeks.
When saying goodbye to her family, Svitlana followed in her son Sasha’s footsteps: her daughter Valeria was the first to find out.
— She was already older, and I thought that if Valeria had once understood Sasha, it would be easier for her to understand me too. That’s exactly how it turned out. Then, from Urzuf, I called my younger son and told him I’d joined the army. He was in shock. I understand why. Yakov lost his older brother when he probably needed him the most. He could see how hard it was for me. But I told him: “Yash, you’re married, you’re an adult, and you have a family of your own now. As for me—I’m a free woman, and I’ll do what I think is right.
I’ve made my decision. I have to carry on Sashko’s work.”
It was hard for him, I know, but Yakov coped and understood,” says Svitlana.
Grace and Desserts Amid the Chaos at Azovstal
At Azov, Svitlana Vorova did what she did best—logistics. Once again, her knack for keeping a wealth of information in her head and managing the distribution of resources came in handy. And, of course, she once again felt useful and needed by people, right here and now.
In the army, she became “Gracia.” She says she came up with the call sign herself. Randomly going through different options suddenly yielded the most fitting result.
“I had to come up with a call sign. They told me that in the unit I was in, it was customary to take the names of various goddesses. It seemed a bit unusual to me, and I even approached it with a touch of sarcasm. I thought, what kind of goddess am I? I’m Svitlana from Odesa, a railroad engineer—not a goddess. But I had to come up with something. So there I was, scrolling through the names of different goddesses on my phone, trying them on, and none of them really suited me. Then I came across a general article on mythology, and it said that the daughters of a god were called the Graces. And somehow, that word suddenly struck a chord with me. “Grazia” in Italian means “thank you.” “Grazia” in Georgian means “victory.” We were driving with my commander at the time—who, sadly, later died—and I told him about my choice. And he liked it. That’s how I became “Gracia.”
Once, while in captivity, a guard asked me, “Why are you ‘Gracia’ and not ‘Cobra’?” And I replied, “Thank you, Chief, thank you for the suggestion.” We had a good laugh about that with the girls back then. “Grace” is my call sign, and “Cobra” is an angry “Grace,” the woman smiles.
While we’re drinking tea and coffee, the waitress brings over a plate of hummus and Middle Eastern pastries.
“I still can’t eat bread.” But I’ll try a flatbread,” says Svitlana Vorova, “Gracia.”
She was in Mariupol on February 24, 2022. And she spent 86 days at Azovstal.
When the Russians bombed the shelter that housed the kitchen, Svitlana, along with the other female soldiers, organized meals for the fighters. They baked flatbreads to replace bread, cooking with whatever their comrades managed to find. Gracia was most delighted by a can of baking yeast that the soldiers found: with it, the flatbread turned out fluffy and fragrant, just like real bread. And for Azov’s anniversary, Gracia and her fellow female soldiers prepared a dessert called “bunker potatoes”—made from breadcrumbs, butter, and boiled condensed milk mixed with jam.
Baking flatbread at the enemy-besieged Azovstal plant in Mariupol
“They bombed us very heavily. Many of our people died. So many. Too many,” says Svitlana. “There’s a lot to remember and tell. Maybe even more than I’d like. But for some reason, it’s the simple things and impressions that come to mind.” Maybe that’s how my mind coped—I don’t know. I remember how the guys managed to get me a gorgeous kitchen table. Before that, I had to cook on cutting boards—it was inconvenient. But here—a real, full-sized table. That was a luxury. And it was completely covered with dough rising with yeast.
All around—hell: bombs, the wounded, blood, death—and there we were, the girls and I, watching the dough rise.
Soldiers would run past—sometimes even stopping for a moment to look at the bread,” recalls Vorova.
Tiramisu After Captivity
At the hospital, after Svitlana returned from captivity—where she had lost 30 kilograms—her fellow nurses gave her her favorite dessert: authentic tiramisu. But Gracia couldn’t bring herself to eat it alone.
— She cut that little cake into tiny pieces and went around treating all the girls in the wards, — says Vorova.
After her captivity, she underwent treatment, rehabilitation, and a medical examination. At the hospital, she asked to be placed in a small ward with fewer people—“because it was hard.”
Later, Svitlana traveled to Odesa, where she met up with her colleagues and friends.
“It just happened to be one of their birthdays. There were about 15 of us, I think. When I walked in, I was fine. But when I looked at the table with all the festive food—I felt sick. It was the realization that there was a war going on, that we weren’t getting enough to eat there, that the girls and boys were starving there. While in captivity, we often talked about recipes and what we’d like to eat. And then I looked at all those dishes—and I started shaking. Thank you to the girls for understanding. And this is despite the fact that I consider myself a fairly composed person who can control my emotions. Everyone supported me; everyone felt that loud celebrations weren’t appropriate right now.
You know, it sometimes surprises me when people say that a lot of friends drifted apart during a full-scale war. No one has drifted away from me, because I’m very selective about my friends. They’re all mine. I don’t have any “fair-weather friends”—that’s for sure. That’s why I don’t even know if the people of Odesa have changed over these past two years: my friends in Odesa haven’t changed; they’ve always been great and have always understood everything perfectly: why my Sasha went to war, why I went to war, and why we all need to defend our country,” says the soldier.
Dignity in Captivity. The Guards and the “Spiders”: Yuriy and Kirill
The “Azovstal” bunker where Svitlana was held was the last to be evacuated—on May 20. Everyone was searched, some personal belongings were taken, and then they were sent by bus to Olenivka.
The women were placed in a disciplinary isolation unit, known as the DIZO. Twenty-five to thirty women slept at a time in a cell designed for six. There was also a toilet right there in the cell.
— It was horrible. Dirt, unsanitary conditions, no running water—only industrial water with “impurities,” so we had to let the water settle somehow just to be able to wash our faces. The sewer system was constantly clogged and had to be cleared.
All those months in Olenivka meant living next to a toilet in a constant stench. It was impossible to stay there. And someone was sleeping on every square centimeter. We had a little window up high, right under the ceiling. To reach it, you had to stand on a bench. And that little window was 40 by 50 centimeters. When you looked out of it, you saw a little patch of sky, and it took your mind off that awful smell, the filth, the mold, the guards, and the abuse for a moment. Not for long,” recalls Grazia.
She was one of the oldest in the cell; practically all the other girls were much younger. So she felt responsible for them.
After Olenivka, she and the other prisoners were transferred to a prison in Taganrog, Russia, where conditions were slightly better: the mattresses weren’t rotten, and there were only two or three women per cell. And again—interrogations and attempts to believe they would be released.
“We divided up the chores. I washed the floor. We washed everything there constantly, because it was impossible to be in that filth. And, to be honest, that cleaning helped us pull ourselves together a little. It’s as if you have a job, you have to do it, you bear responsibility. For me, as you can imagine, that’s important,” the woman recalls.
In captivity, strange as it may sound, the girls laughed a lot. They joked about everything: for example, they gave names to two spiders that appeared in the cell. We named them after the guards—Yuriy and Kirill.
“They were very cruel; they beat the guys mercilessly. Sadists, just sadists. So we named the little spiders after them and then made fun of them. It made things easier.
In general, life is perceived completely differently in a cell. After my captivity, a lot has changed in my attitude toward life. Now I see this Christmas tree, these trees, these branches, and these birds in a completely different light. Because when you’re sitting in a cell and watching a bird fly up to the bars, you try to take in that beauty with your whole heart, to remember it, to mark it for yourself. All your senses become very heightened.
If I’d been free, I wouldn’t have even noticed that little bird before, but in a cell, it’s a whole event. And you start thinking: “The bird is a sign. It’s free. So we’ll be free soon, too.” I would have laughed at something like that before, but now—here I am.
Mice used to run around our cell. We’d sometimes leave them some crumbs on the floor. After lights out, you’re not allowed to move—you have to lie completely still. So we’d lie there and listen: would the mice come for dinner? They did. And for us, it was a whole story; during the day, we’d practically make up fairy tales about those mice.
For example, a guard would come into the cell, throw all the bedding on the floor, and say, “It’s kind of dirty in here.” Well, obviously, it was clean while he was gone. So you’d just have to clean everything up again. But my floor was always washed first thing in the morning, so the bedding didn’t get dirty when they threw it on the floor. It was just their way of having fun, I guess… For the slightest offense—though what offenses could we possibly have had?—they punished us mercilessly.
They forced us to do 50 push-ups and up to a thousand squats. And that was on top of the food we were given.
If you didn’t do it, things would get worse. But it was the female guards who tormented us the most. They beat our legs so constantly that all of our shins and ankles were black and blue with bruises. Why? What were they thinking? It was some kind of inexplicable malice, aggression.
So all we had left were our conversations, our support, and our jokes. We were very close. I’m not ashamed of a single “Azov” woman—they’re all simply heroic girls. We had to not only endure all that abuse, not only keep the faith, but also behave with dignity. And they were all like that—worthy of “Azov.” Know this.
Resilience During Interrogations: “Having a Goal Helps the Most”
During interrogations, Svitlana was a mystery to the FSB investigators. Everything surprised them: that a woman from Odesa with grown children had joined “Azov.” That our women are fighting. That these women cannot be broken.
Now, reflecting on my question about how her views were formed, Hratsia says that her worldview likely developed gradually, particularly through her work with people.
“I think that my patriotism probably began with people. For 17 years, I headed the labor union committee and worked to protect workers’ rights. And these ideas really inspired me—not theoretically, but practically. In other words, when I saw a problem, an injustice, or a challenge—I went out and solved it. My love for my city and my country was expressed through concrete help for specific people. Even back in school, I was always defending someone, rallying everyone around me. There’s never an empty space around me—there are always people nearby: like-minded people, friends. And I saw the events of 2014 as a great injustice. And so my path was clear to me: I had to do everything to restore justice.
Why “Azov”? Well, where else, if my Sasha was in “Azov”? There are wonderful, decent people here. I can’t imagine how I could have been anywhere else,” says Vorova.
She recalls how investigators in prison tried to promote Russian ideology, but they couldn’t do anything. They also claimed that Odessa had long since been occupied by Russian troops. With no news coming in at all, they probably thought the prisoners would believe it. But that wasn’t the case.
—“He told me once, ‘Odesa is ours.’ I replied, ‘So when did you manage to do that, if you weren’t even close to there in May?’” And the investigator stared at me in shock—as if to say, how do I know that? We didn’t have phone service at Azovstal, but we had internet [via “Starlink”], so we watched the news. So we were able to find out from time to time what was happening in Ukraine and record short videos for our families.
My friend still has one of those videos of mine. She says that when things get tough for her under shelling in Odesa, she watches it—and it gives her strength.
So there you have it—the prison guards didn’t buy that “stunt” with [supposedly occupied] Odesa. I told them: when it’s your turn, then we’ll talk.
But, of course, that sounds so bold now. In reality, I had to be careful not to anger them too much, because it could have ended badly—not just for me, but for all the girls.
They made a lot of accusations against us, of course. They claimed we were killing children in Donetsk. I countered: “And who supplied the weapons to Donbas?” They had nothing to say in response.
Some investigators were the type who didn’t care what I said—they just answered their own questions. I’d say to them, “Can I just go back to my cell now, and you can write everything up and sign it yourselves?” But there were some who actually listened,” recalls Svitlana.
One investigator was already quite old, with gray hair. With him was another one—on the contrary, quite young.
“And that young one listened to me so intently, he barely said a word. I told them what’s happening in my country. How we live. I appealed to the older one, saying, ‘Surely you still remember the USSR—even in the USSR there wasn’t such hatred toward other nations as Russians have been taught to feel now.’ I said, ‘You’ve come into my home and are telling me how to live?!’ The young man’s ears perked right up. It seems I shattered his stereotypes about Ukrainians. And the older one listened and listened, then said, “You’re a clever woman.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m from Odesa.” And no one has the right to tell me how to live in my own home.
Svitlana realized that having a purpose is what helps most when surviving in captivity. Her goal was simple—to carry on her son’s work, to be useful, to return to her children and grandchildren, and to keep fighting for Ukraine.
“When we looked out the little window at the sky, we could sometimes see the sunset. And there we were, looking—the blue sky, the golden sun—our flag. And we’d say to one another, ‘Look, even the sky is on our side. This is our sky.’ You see? That really kept us going… It turned out how little a person really needs. A little piece of sky and a bird. Now I see life differently. Not radically differently, but I do look at it from a different perspective,” explains the woman who survived captivity.
A Grandmother Fights for Her Grandchildren
Now, during her short vacations, Svitlana tries to spend more time with her grandchildren—she has five of them.
Shortly before our meeting, during yet another round of shelling in Odesa, “strikes” were landing nearby, so she and her grandchildren had to sit in the hallway.
— I hope they won’t have to fight after we’re gone. May this (air raid sirens—“N”) be the worst thing they remember about the war. We must win and protect them. That’s my goal.
We’re standing on the street, saying goodbye. Svitlana says she often talks about Odesa to her comrades and friends:
— What’s my Odesa like? Brave. Even daring. She doesn’t mince words. Down-to-earth. Just like me. Always on the move, always busy, always tackling some kind of challenge. I love my city very much. Right now, for work, I’m living in another city, and I really like that it’s somewhat similar to mine. People in Odesa are more open-minded compared to other cities. More free in their thoughts and speech. I love that; it’s important to me.
As she says goodbye, Gracia adds that after being released from captivity, she wants to forget everything and start a new life.
— It’s very hard. You come back here, but you’re haunted by the memory that our people are still in captivity. Do you understand? You try to forget it, but you just can’t.
You have to live in the here and now. I don’t plan for the future; I live exactly like this—today and right now. Because when we left Azovstal and were taken captive, we didn’t know what would happen to us tomorrow. And I learned to live for today there, but to hold on to my goal. That’s what I’m doing now, too.
Author: Yevheniia Genova
We meet at a small, cozy restaurant in a residential neighborhood of Odesa. By chance, while arranging the meeting, we discover that we live in the same neighborhood, but my interview partner notes that she rarely visits her hometown, so she leaves the choice of where to meet up to me. She arrives a little before me: she picks a spot in the corner and warms her hands with a cup of hot tea. Outside the window is a typical Odessa winter—cold, damp, and gloomy. But the woman seems oblivious to this grayness and the wet branches swaying in the wind: from time to time, she glances at the sky and smiles at something barely perceptible— at the startled sparrows, the cooing pigeons, the busy dogs out for a walk.
This woman is Svitlana Vorova, a soldier in the “Azov” regiment, a defender of “Azovstal,” who endured captivity, the mother of Oleksandr Kutuzakiya “Kutuz,” recipient of the Order “For Courage,” after whom a street in Odesa is named.
Svitlana from Moldavanka
— “I was born and raised in Odesa. I’m a second-generation Odesa native, so to speak,” Svitlana Vorova begins her story. “All my children and grandchildren were born here, too.” I myself went to kindergarten in Blizhni Mlyny, then attended School No. 99—now the 4th Gymnasium. So my entire childhood and youth were spent in Moldavanka. I’m Svitlana from Moldavanka. Sometimes it feels like I’ve never even left this neighborhood: I finished eighth grade and went on to study at the railway technical school—right here in Moldavanka. That’s how I became a station attendant. Managing transportation processes and all the logistics—that’s my thing. I enjoyed it and graduated from the technical school with honors.
After graduation, she and her husband dreamed of going to the BAM, but they couldn’t get an assignment there, so they stayed in Odesa. They worked at the same place where she had done her pre-graduation internship—at the “Odesa-Zastava 1” station.
Odesa railway worker Svitlana Vorova
— I worked, gave birth to a son, and after my maternity leave, I enrolled at Dnipropetrovsk National University of Railway Transport, studied part-time, and went back to work. I spent half my life on the railroad, but gradually began to focus not only on managing transportation but also on protecting the rights of station employees: I headed the union and looked out for my colleagues’ rights for many years. I knew practically everything about them: their problems, successes, victories, and setbacks; their children and wives; their parents and relatives; their illnesses and struggles.
I guess I’m the kind of person who never gets bored, because as soon as things get boring—I immediately have to change something. So it just turned out that I constantly had to keep a lot of information in my head: transportation logistics, my work as an engineer, and defending people’s rights. I felt needed there. That’s probably the most important thing for me. Well, and I grew up in Moldavanka—I can’t imagine how anyone could live without constant activity and problem-solving,” she smiles.
Kutuzov’s Path
Svitlana’s eldest son, Oleksandr, dreamed of becoming a soldier from childhood and, as a teenager, a police officer. From a young age, he had a strong sense of justice. He was also a die-hard fan of Odesa’s “Chornomorets”: the apartment was always full of soccer memorabilia—the blue-and-black colors of his home team, scarves, and pins. Sasha was a talented artist and worked in graphic design. Before leaving for the ATO, he worked as a blacksmith’s assistant—he’d become fascinated with artistic metalwork.
“It was so fascinating: on the one hand, there was a masculine, powerful element—strength and might—and on the other, the delicacy of the details—flowers, petals, and delicate curls. Somehow, it all came together in him,” his mother recalls.
During the Revolution of Dignity, Sashko and Svitlana kept each other at home.
“He told me he was going, and I told him that if he went, I’d go too. “But who would we leave our younger children—Valeria and Yakov—with? That’s how we ‘threatened’ each other, and in the end we stayed home, even though that decision was difficult for us,” says Svitlana. “My children kept me here. Sasha—probably because he was worried about us, since he was the oldest. But in our hearts, we were there, on the Maidan. I’ve hated injustice since childhood, and so has he.”
Some time after the war began in 2014, Oleksandr secretly enlisted as a volunteer in the army without his mother’s knowledge. He secretly passed the medical exam and only confessed once he was already with “Azov.”
— Only his younger sister knew about his plans. He told her, but made her promise not to tell me. They were protecting me. And when I finally found out, I had only one question for him: Why? And he simply told me, “It’s my choice.”
Of course, he knew I’d try to talk him out of it—what mother wouldn’t? But I’m not the kind of mother who would say, “Why did he go there? He’d be better off at home.” No matter how hard and sad it was for me, I respect his choice—the choice of a grown man of whom I’m infinitely proud,” says Svitlana.
My son didn’t talk much about the war. He said there was nothing to be afraid of, that there was plenty of everything.
In reality, it was very hard for the first volunteers: there was a shortage of food, ammunition, and weapons. But Sasha reassured us as best he could.
“He said he was far from the places where the shooting was happening. That he was escorting ballots during the election. That they had a few sacks of potatoes and some other food, so everything was fine. I didn’t fully realize the whole truth, although I understood that he wasn’t telling me about the real situation—he was trying to spare my feelings,” the woman recalls.
In our conversation with Svitlana Vorova, we don’t mention Oleksandr’s death. Surely everyone who lived in Odesa in 2015 and had ears remembers it. Oleksandr Kutuzakiy, “Kutuz,” and his comrade “Akel” were ambushed by enemy forces on February 15 while carrying out a combat mission near the village of Shyrokyne, east of Mariupol.
At the funeral on February 23 in downtown Odesa, residents bid farewell to both heroes and, perhaps for the first time, confronted the horror of this war. At the request of his mother, Sashko’s coffin was opened, and everyone saw that the Russians had desecrated his body after his death.
“Who did this?” the people of Odesa whispered. “Kadyrov’s men? Militants?
”
“Let them see what they’re doing to our sons,” said Svitlana.
On All Souls’ Day, she approached Redis and asked to join “Azov.”
Even then, she decided she had to carry on the work of her eldest son. But first—she had to finish her business at home, where her 15-year-old younger son and daughter were waiting for her.
Her mother had promised she wouldn’t leave Yakov until he grew up—and she kept her word.
In 2020, once again, the woman traveled to “Azov” for the Day of the Dead. Shortly before that, in early September, Yakov got married, and Svitlana decided it was time.
“Children should have their own lives. I’ve fulfilled my duty. Of course, I’ll continue to fulfill it until the end of my days, but the most important thing—giving them independence and the ability to live on their own—I’ve done. Since 2015, my thoughts have been with the war, you see? Only my physical body was here. My parents did their mandatory military service, and I remember looking through their army photo albums as a little girl—and I desperately wanted to become a soldier, too. And now the time has come.
After the ceremony, she approached the regiment commander, Denys Prokopenko (“Redis”), and told him she wanted to join “Azov.” Everything happened very quickly after that: she went to visit her mother for a few days, and while she was there, the commander called and told her they’d found several positions for her to choose from, so she could start her new duties. A few more days were spent wrapping up work matters, preparing final reports, and saying a brief goodbye to her colleagues. The entire process, from her first conversation with Redis to the start of her service, took two weeks.
When saying goodbye to her family, Svitlana followed in her son Sasha’s footsteps: her daughter Valeria was the first to find out.
— She was already older, and I thought that if Valeria had once understood Sasha, it would be easier for her to understand me too. That’s exactly how it turned out. Then, from Urzuf, I called my younger son and told him I’d joined the army. He was in shock. I understand why. Yakov lost his older brother when he probably needed him the most. He could see how hard it was for me. But I told him: “Yash, you’re married, you’re an adult, and you have a family of your own now. As for me—I’m a free woman, and I’ll do what I think is right.
I’ve made my decision. I have to carry on Sashko’s work.”
It was hard for him, I know, but Yakov coped and understood,” says Svitlana.
Grace and Desserts Amid the Chaos at Azovstal
At Azov, Svitlana Vorova did what she did best—logistics. Once again, her knack for keeping a wealth of information in her head and managing the distribution of resources came in handy. And, of course, she once again felt useful and needed by people, right here and now.
In the army, she became “Gracia.” She says she came up with the call sign herself. Randomly going through different options suddenly yielded the most fitting result.
“I had to come up with a call sign. They told me that in the unit I was in, it was customary to take the names of various goddesses. It seemed a bit unusual to me, and I even approached it with a touch of sarcasm. I thought, what kind of goddess am I? I’m Svitlana from Odesa, a railroad engineer—not a goddess. But I had to come up with something. So there I was, scrolling through the names of different goddesses on my phone, trying them on, and none of them really suited me. Then I came across a general article on mythology, and it said that the daughters of a god were called the Graces. And somehow, that word suddenly struck a chord with me. “Grazia” in Italian means “thank you.” “Grazia” in Georgian means “victory.” We were driving with my commander at the time—who, sadly, later died—and I told him about my choice. And he liked it. That’s how I became “Gracia.”
Once, while in captivity, a guard asked me, “Why are you ‘Gracia’ and not ‘Cobra’?” And I replied, “Thank you, Chief, thank you for the suggestion.” We had a good laugh about that with the girls back then. “Grace” is my call sign, and “Cobra” is an angry “Grace,” the woman smiles.
While we’re drinking tea and coffee, the waitress brings over a plate of hummus and Middle Eastern pastries.
“I still can’t eat bread.” But I’ll try a flatbread,” says Svitlana Vorova, “Gracia.”
She was in Mariupol on February 24, 2022. And she spent 86 days at Azovstal.
When the Russians bombed the shelter that housed the kitchen, Svitlana, along with the other female soldiers, organized meals for the fighters. They baked flatbreads to replace bread, cooking with whatever their comrades managed to find. Gracia was most delighted by a can of baking yeast that the soldiers found: with it, the flatbread turned out fluffy and fragrant, just like real bread. And for Azov’s anniversary, Gracia and her fellow female soldiers prepared a dessert called “bunker potatoes”—made from breadcrumbs, butter, and boiled condensed milk mixed with jam.
Baking flatbread at the enemy-besieged Azovstal plant in Mariupol
“They bombed us very heavily. Many of our people died. So many. Too many,” says Svitlana. “There’s a lot to remember and tell. Maybe even more than I’d like. But for some reason, it’s the simple things and impressions that come to mind.” Maybe that’s how my mind coped—I don’t know. I remember how the guys managed to get me a gorgeous kitchen table. Before that, I had to cook on cutting boards—it was inconvenient. But here—a real, full-sized table. That was a luxury. And it was completely covered with dough rising with yeast.
All around—hell: bombs, the wounded, blood, death—and there we were, the girls and I, watching the dough rise.
Soldiers would run past—sometimes even stopping for a moment to look at the bread,” recalls Vorova.
Tiramisu After Captivity
At the hospital, after Svitlana returned from captivity—where she had lost 30 kilograms—her fellow nurses gave her her favorite dessert: authentic tiramisu. But Gracia couldn’t bring herself to eat it alone.
— She cut that little cake into tiny pieces and went around treating all the girls in the wards, — says Vorova.
After her captivity, she underwent treatment, rehabilitation, and a medical examination. At the hospital, she asked to be placed in a small ward with fewer people—“because it was hard.”
Later, Svitlana traveled to Odesa, where she met up with her colleagues and friends.
“It just happened to be one of their birthdays. There were about 15 of us, I think. When I walked in, I was fine. But when I looked at the table with all the festive food—I felt sick. It was the realization that there was a war going on, that we weren’t getting enough to eat there, that the girls and boys were starving there. While in captivity, we often talked about recipes and what we’d like to eat. And then I looked at all those dishes—and I started shaking. Thank you to the girls for understanding. And this is despite the fact that I consider myself a fairly composed person who can control my emotions. Everyone supported me; everyone felt that loud celebrations weren’t appropriate right now.
You know, it sometimes surprises me when people say that a lot of friends drifted apart during a full-scale war. No one has drifted away from me, because I’m very selective about my friends. They’re all mine. I don’t have any “fair-weather friends”—that’s for sure. That’s why I don’t even know if the people of Odesa have changed over these past two years: my friends in Odesa haven’t changed; they’ve always been great and have always understood everything perfectly: why my Sasha went to war, why I went to war, and why we all need to defend our country,” says the soldier.
Dignity in Captivity. The Guards and the “Spiders”: Yuriy and Kirill
The “Azovstal” bunker where Svitlana was held was the last to be evacuated—on May 20. Everyone was searched, some personal belongings were taken, and then they were sent by bus to Olenivka.
The women were placed in a disciplinary isolation unit, known as the DIZO. Twenty-five to thirty women slept at a time in a cell designed for six. There was also a toilet right there in the cell.
— It was horrible. Dirt, unsanitary conditions, no running water—only industrial water with “impurities,” so we had to let the water settle somehow just to be able to wash our faces. The sewer system was constantly clogged and had to be cleared.
All those months in Olenivka meant living next to a toilet in a constant stench. It was impossible to stay there. And someone was sleeping on every square centimeter. We had a little window up high, right under the ceiling. To reach it, you had to stand on a bench. And that little window was 40 by 50 centimeters. When you looked out of it, you saw a little patch of sky, and it took your mind off that awful smell, the filth, the mold, the guards, and the abuse for a moment. Not for long,” recalls Grazia.
She was one of the oldest in the cell; practically all the other girls were much younger. So she felt responsible for them.
After Olenivka, she and the other prisoners were transferred to a prison in Taganrog, Russia, where conditions were slightly better: the mattresses weren’t rotten, and there were only two or three women per cell. And again—interrogations and attempts to believe they would be released.
“We divided up the chores. I washed the floor. We washed everything there constantly, because it was impossible to be in that filth. And, to be honest, that cleaning helped us pull ourselves together a little. It’s as if you have a job, you have to do it, you bear responsibility. For me, as you can imagine, that’s important,” the woman recalls.
In captivity, strange as it may sound, the girls laughed a lot. They joked about everything: for example, they gave names to two spiders that appeared in the cell. We named them after the guards—Yuriy and Kirill.
“They were very cruel; they beat the guys mercilessly. Sadists, just sadists. So we named the little spiders after them and then made fun of them. It made things easier.
In general, life is perceived completely differently in a cell. After my captivity, a lot has changed in my attitude toward life. Now I see this Christmas tree, these trees, these branches, and these birds in a completely different light. Because when you’re sitting in a cell and watching a bird fly up to the bars, you try to take in that beauty with your whole heart, to remember it, to mark it for yourself. All your senses become very heightened.
If I’d been free, I wouldn’t have even noticed that little bird before, but in a cell, it’s a whole event. And you start thinking: “The bird is a sign. It’s free. So we’ll be free soon, too.” I would have laughed at something like that before, but now—here I am.
Mice used to run around our cell. We’d sometimes leave them some crumbs on the floor. After lights out, you’re not allowed to move—you have to lie completely still. So we’d lie there and listen: would the mice come for dinner? They did. And for us, it was a whole story; during the day, we’d practically make up fairy tales about those mice.
For example, a guard would come into the cell, throw all the bedding on the floor, and say, “It’s kind of dirty in here.” Well, obviously, it was clean while he was gone. So you’d just have to clean everything up again. But my floor was always washed first thing in the morning, so the bedding didn’t get dirty when they threw it on the floor. It was just their way of having fun, I guess… For the slightest offense—though what offenses could we possibly have had?—they punished us mercilessly.
They forced us to do 50 push-ups and up to a thousand squats. And that was on top of the food we were given.
If you didn’t do it, things would get worse. But it was the female guards who tormented us the most. They beat our legs so constantly that all of our shins and ankles were black and blue with bruises. Why? What were they thinking? It was some kind of inexplicable malice, aggression.
So all we had left were our conversations, our support, and our jokes. We were very close. I’m not ashamed of a single “Azov” woman—they’re all simply heroic girls. We had to not only endure all that abuse, not only keep the faith, but also behave with dignity. And they were all like that—worthy of “Azov.” Know this.
Resilience During Interrogations: “Having a Goal Helps the Most”
During interrogations, Svitlana was a mystery to the FSB investigators. Everything surprised them: that a woman from Odesa with grown children had joined “Azov.” That our women are fighting. That these women cannot be broken.
Now, reflecting on my question about how her views were formed, Hratsia says that her worldview likely developed gradually, particularly through her work with people.
“I think that my patriotism probably began with people. For 17 years, I headed the labor union committee and worked to protect workers’ rights. And these ideas really inspired me—not theoretically, but practically. In other words, when I saw a problem, an injustice, or a challenge—I went out and solved it. My love for my city and my country was expressed through concrete help for specific people. Even back in school, I was always defending someone, rallying everyone around me. There’s never an empty space around me—there are always people nearby: like-minded people, friends. And I saw the events of 2014 as a great injustice. And so my path was clear to me: I had to do everything to restore justice.
Why “Azov”? Well, where else, if my Sasha was in “Azov”? There are wonderful, decent people here. I can’t imagine how I could have been anywhere else,” says Vorova.
She recalls how investigators in prison tried to promote Russian ideology, but they couldn’t do anything. They also claimed that Odessa had long since been occupied by Russian troops. With no news coming in at all, they probably thought the prisoners would believe it. But that wasn’t the case.
—“He told me once, ‘Odesa is ours.’ I replied, ‘So when did you manage to do that, if you weren’t even close to there in May?’” And the investigator stared at me in shock—as if to say, how do I know that? We didn’t have phone service at Azovstal, but we had internet [via “Starlink”], so we watched the news. So we were able to find out from time to time what was happening in Ukraine and record short videos for our families.
My friend still has one of those videos of mine. She says that when things get tough for her under shelling in Odesa, she watches it—and it gives her strength.
So there you have it—the prison guards didn’t buy that “stunt” with [supposedly occupied] Odesa. I told them: when it’s your turn, then we’ll talk.
But, of course, that sounds so bold now. In reality, I had to be careful not to anger them too much, because it could have ended badly—not just for me, but for all the girls.
They made a lot of accusations against us, of course. They claimed we were killing children in Donetsk. I countered: “And who supplied the weapons to Donbas?” They had nothing to say in response.
Some investigators were the type who didn’t care what I said—they just answered their own questions. I’d say to them, “Can I just go back to my cell now, and you can write everything up and sign it yourselves?” But there were some who actually listened,” recalls Svitlana.
One investigator was already quite old, with gray hair. With him was another one—on the contrary, quite young.
“And that young one listened to me so intently, he barely said a word. I told them what’s happening in my country. How we live. I appealed to the older one, saying, ‘Surely you still remember the USSR—even in the USSR there wasn’t such hatred toward other nations as Russians have been taught to feel now.’ I said, ‘You’ve come into my home and are telling me how to live?!’ The young man’s ears perked right up. It seems I shattered his stereotypes about Ukrainians. And the older one listened and listened, then said, “You’re a clever woman.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m from Odesa.” And no one has the right to tell me how to live in my own home.
Svitlana realized that having a purpose is what helps most when surviving in captivity. Her goal was simple—to carry on her son’s work, to be useful, to return to her children and grandchildren, and to keep fighting for Ukraine.
“When we looked out the little window at the sky, we could sometimes see the sunset. And there we were, looking—the blue sky, the golden sun—our flag. And we’d say to one another, ‘Look, even the sky is on our side. This is our sky.’ You see? That really kept us going… It turned out how little a person really needs. A little piece of sky and a bird. Now I see life differently. Not radically differently, but I do look at it from a different perspective,” explains the woman who survived captivity.
A Grandmother Fights for Her Grandchildren
Now, during her short vacations, Svitlana tries to spend more time with her grandchildren—she has five of them.
Shortly before our meeting, during yet another round of shelling in Odesa, “strikes” were landing nearby, so she and her grandchildren had to sit in the hallway.
— I hope they won’t have to fight after we’re gone. May this (air raid sirens—“N”) be the worst thing they remember about the war. We must win and protect them. That’s my goal.
We’re standing on the street, saying goodbye. Svitlana says she often talks about Odesa to her comrades and friends:
— What’s my Odesa like? Brave. Even daring. She doesn’t mince words. Down-to-earth. Just like me. Always on the move, always busy, always tackling some kind of challenge. I love my city very much. Right now, for work, I’m living in another city, and I really like that it’s somewhat similar to mine. People in Odesa are more open-minded compared to other cities. More free in their thoughts and speech. I love that; it’s important to me.
As she says goodbye, Gracia adds that after being released from captivity, she wants to forget everything and start a new life.
— It’s very hard. You come back here, but you’re haunted by the memory that our people are still in captivity. Do you understand? You try to forget it, but you just can’t.
You have to live in the here and now. I don’t plan for the future; I live exactly like this—today and right now. Because when we left Azovstal and were taken captive, we didn’t know what would happen to us tomorrow. And I learned to live for today there, but to hold on to my goal. That’s what I’m doing now, too.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.