"They beat us with their fists and sticks": An Azov soldier released from captivity spoke about the torture
Source: Frontliner
Author: Albina Karman
– I arrived in Mariupol back in November 2021, almost immediately after transferring from the “Jaguar” regiment in Vinnytsia to the “Azov” National Guard Brigade. After rumors spread about plans for a Russian infantry landing and the Russians fortifying their positions, we began moving into positions within Mariupol as early as February 20, 2022. We were warned that if we wanted to, we could send our belongings home. I sent my belongings home. We encountered the full-scale invasion at a checkpoint right in Mariupol.
During those days, I saw a thriving city—a lot of money had been invested in it, and it was very beautiful—but then the Russians burned it all down.
On the morning of February 24, 2022, Russian military vehicles were approaching the outskirts of the city; inside the city, we could only hear aircraft—they were dropping bombs and firing “Grad” rockets—while the army itself was stationed outside the city. And on March 1, the active phase began; we went on missions closer to them and were stationed near the old airport. That’s where I saw them up close for the first time, as I was scanning the perimeter with binoculars and saw four tanks around us. At that moment, they were 200 meters away from us.
My commander ordered us to withdraw from our position through a residential area; we took cover in a ravine in the middle of a field. By the time we retreated, about 5 kilograms of mud had accumulated on our combat boots, and I was also carrying a machine gun. As we ran, the Russians were firing at us; shells were whizzing overhead, and we lost one of our comrades.
After waiting out the shelling, we returned to that position a few hours later. From there, we could see Russian infantry digging in, but there was almost no way to operate there because everything was unfolding so quickly.
We were constantly shifting our positions and retreating back into the city because the Russians were simply setting fire to buildings along the way and shooting at the windows.
Yuriy Sviderskyi
A month and a half later, on April 15, we already had a crossing to the Azovstal plant. Behind us lay a nearly completely burned-out Mariupol and many civilians who hadn’t taken cover and were dying with every round of shelling.
The crossing to Azovstal was across the Kalmius River—more than 50 meters across the water. We made our way across a crossing set up by our guys—it consisted of a rope stretched across the river and three rafts. But many of the soldiers tried to swim across on their own and drowned. The last groups of our men who were crossing came under targeted fire, so some of them drowned as well. I was lucky that the Russians’ spotter was off-target at that moment, so when our group was crossing, all the shells landed about 50 meters ahead of us. Some of the guys were crossing the bridge in vehicles, but it was also under fire; there was an incident where an APC overturned into the river, and I don’t know what happened to those guys—I haven’t heard that anyone was even pulled out. We also saw a lot of vehicles ahead of us carrying people—the wounded and command staff—to the crossing; they were already standing there, burned out. We lost a lot of people at the crossing.
“Honorary Prisoner”
– For the first 2–3 weeks, I still had a signal; I called my family. After the signal disappeared—and while we were still in the city—I managed to call my family about five times for a few minutes each. At the plant, I only managed to get a signal twice. Strategically, we were constantly in contact with all units; they were in touch with us.
From April 15 to May 20, 2024, we were at Azovstal. In the evenings, when we were cooking at our positions, we’d reminisce, share stories from our civilian lives, and laugh. We ate whatever we found in houses; whenever I went into a house, I’d immediately check the kitchen to see if I could find anything to eat. There was also a little food at Azovstal, and there was a supply of water, but not everyone could get to it. There were no cigarettes; at the plant, I smoked some green tea a few times, and that was it.
No one came to our aid, and one day our commander arrived to inform us that we would be held as prisoners of honor for 3–4 months. They said everything would be fine, that nothing would happen because of our tattoos.
Yuriy Svidersky
Various rumors were circulating around the factory; people discussed the possibility that a Turkish ship might take us away by sea—like an extraction to a third country—and then we pinned our hopes on UN peacekeepers, but very quickly the situation worsened, no one came to our aid, and one day our commander came to inform us that we would be held as “honorary prisoners” for 3–4 months. They said everything would be fine, that nothing would happen because of the tattoos, and that we could take money with us. At first, we prepared the route to the exit—cleared it and cleared it of mines. By then, the “ceasefire” was already in effect; we weren’t allowed to shoot even if we saw Russian infantry—and we did see them; they were waving at us. First, of course, they took the wounded away, and then we left.
Olenivka Colony
– Dagestanis escorted us to Olenivka. At first, when we first got on the bus, they seemed brutal—they reloaded their automatic rifles—but along the way they started talking; they said, “Guys, you’re tough—you held out this long; we respect you.” And toward the end, as we were pulling into the prison, they started apologizing. Along the way, they took our money and valuables because, as they put it, they would have taken everything from us at the colony anyway.
When we got near Olenivka, we waited another day or so for them to take us in, because there were some problems at the checkpoint. Then the Dagestanis used our money to buy us something to eat. While we were waiting, Russian special forces soldiers would come up, look at our turnstiles in surprise, and ask what they were, since they were used to rubber straps. Our guys traded their first-aid kits for cigarettes, since they wouldn’t have been allowed to keep them anyway, and the Russians there had never seen first-aid kits of such high quality. I also traded my watch for a pack of cigarettes back then. When we arrived at the prison, I kept those cigarettes with me all the way to the barracks—I didn’t know what the situation with cigarettes was like there—but the guys immediately started asking for them, so I gave almost all of them away; I only smoked a few myself.
In Olenivka, there was practically no “intake” process—it was just a lot of chaos, and everything had to be done quickly. There were tables set up; you had to walk up, take off all your belongings, strip down to nothing, do a few squats—they’d check to make sure you weren’t hiding anything—then get dressed and move on to the next line. They’d take 20 people at a time straight to the barracks, then lead them to the investigators—first the “DNR” ones, then the Russian ones. The Russians didn’t care; they just came to go through the motions and jot something down on the questionnaires, but the “DNR” guys were nasty—they’d respond to every statement by saying, “You’re full of shit—that never happened; you were the ones shooting at civilians.”
Many people were burned alive; glass shards were falling from above and scattering all around, and everyone was screaming.
Yuriy Svidersky
I spent four months at the Olenivska colony; I got used to the routine pretty quickly—I didn’t even feel like smoking there. At first, they gave us 20 cigarettes for every two people, and sometimes they’d bring a carton to the barracks—that’s for 300 people—so at best, we’d get half a cigarette each, but I gave my cigarettes to others.
We were used to shelling around the prison, but it usually happened in the section where the Russians were held; they didn’t bother us. Except for the night of July 29, when the neighboring barracks caught fire. When I heard the screams and went out into the street, the barracks had already been blown apart like a can of soup by the explosion. The guards were nowhere to be found—they’d all fled. The guys who could still be saved from the barracks managed to escape on their own. There was fiberglass insulation on the barracks’ roof, and a barrel of oil stood below. Of course, the barrel tipped over from the explosion, making the fire burn even more fiercely; many people were burned alive, fiberglass was falling from above and scattering all around, and everyone was screaming.
After a while, the guards threw us some sacks and rags—supposedly to bandage the wounded—and then ran off again. The very next day, they took the wounded and our medics and drove them to Donetsk, supposedly to provide medical care. Once they had recovered, they were sent back, and then transported along with us. Otherwise, this incident wasn’t discussed at all; no one asked us anything so that no one would know anything.
Taganrog. Perm
– On September 27, 2022, they took us further away in Kamaz trucks. They called us out by name in alphabetical order; we had to run up quickly and say, “I am Yuriy Andriyovych Svidersky”—then they wrapped our hands and eyes with duct tape. I was lucky to have a cap; they taped it to my head, so I was able to lift it slightly later and see the road. Then they tossed us onto the Kamaz trucks like sacks of potatoes; they threw me in first, dragged me into a corner, and drove off. As we walked toward those Kamaz trucks, one of their special forces soldiers said, “Everything’s fine, guys. You’re going home, you’ll see your families—everything will be okay.” I thought, “Okay,” and walked along, smiling.
We rode in the truck without a tarp; thanks to my cap, I could see a bit of the horizon, and the guys were discussing the possibility that we might actually be heading to the airport right then. But all thoughts of home were shattered when we pulled into Donetsk, and after a landscape of tricolor banners, a huge concrete fence with barbed wire came into view.
The Kamaz pulled into a garage and started unloading us. Once you fell out of the Kamaz, you had to crawl on all fours toward the wall—that’s when the challenges began. Since I was the last one to crawl out, I was afraid of ending up on the edge, but while the others were crawling slowly, I managed to get a little ahead of them and reached the middle of the crowd. At the same time, I still had to pretend my hands were tied, because I’d chewed through the tape on my hands with my teeth along the way. Once in the crowd, I heard people shouting to split up—those with tattoos to the right and those without to the left.
I went to the left, but I had a tattoo of an AK-47—a Kalashnikov assault rifle. I’m standing there; they’re stripping the guys. We were told to keep one top and one bottom on; I kept my pants and T-shirt on, and I hear: “We’ll find out you have a tattoo anyway.” I realized I had to somehow make my way to the right, so I started inching over to the right in very small steps. As I was moving, a special forces soldier approached me.
He yelled at me a bit because I had a Russian assault rifle tattooed on me and started aggressively asking how many parts it consisted of. I said, “9”—wrong, he hit me. I said, “10”—wrong, he hit me. I probably got it right on the fifth try, because I really didn’t know—he beat me up pretty badly with his fists during that time.
Then they took us to some offices, where they filled out a form with our names, units, and places of birth; they beat me there too, but this time with sticks. After all these procedures, they gave me a prison uniform and a cup, led me out of the basement where all this had taken place, and brought me to a barrel containing some murky water. They asked, “Want some coffee?” I said, “No way.” They said, “Come on, just take it.” I scooped up some of that coffee with my cup, and they led me upstairs. I was worried they’d throw me in with the prisoners, because I was already walking there and remembering that video: “What to do when you enter the ‘cell’?”
The cell door opened; I walked in with that cup of coffee and saw a small, short old man standing in the middle of the cell, holding a piece of bread, trembling. I asked, “Old man, who are you?”—he remained silent. He started talking to us around the second day—he’d been keeping his cards close to his chest—and as it turned out, he was also from “Azov.”
In Taganrog, in a 3-by-5-meter cell painted green, there were eight of us at first—we lived like that for over a year.
Yuriy Svidersky
We were warm; sometimes, even in the middle of winter, they’d open the window. Then they started doing some cosmetic repairs there, and we were moved. I ended up in the same kind of cell, but there were already three people there, and I had to put on the issued combat boots because it was constantly cold; I tried to walk around the cell all day to warm up somehow. From time to time, they would bring in guys from different units of the Armed Forces of Ukraine; these changes often happened before inspections by the command. They tried to mix us up by unit, or they would temporarily move someone out so they couldn’t say there were too many people in the cell. But if someone was moved out before an inspection, someone else would be moved in right after the inspection.
I was also transferred from the second cell due to renovations and sent to the basement; there were some low, dark cells there with a rounded ceiling—it used to be a stable. The cell there was significantly larger, but there were still 10 of us in it. And the “renovations” were in their usual style: the most they ever did was screw in a new light bulb; otherwise, everything was old, and all the floorboards creaked.
The guards in Taganrog were mostly locals; they knew nothing about what was happening at the front or in the world. There were a few who just did their jobs, didn’t bother anyone; they might come over to ask something normally and that was it—they didn’t care either way. Overall, during our time in Taganrog, there were periodic inspections during which they beat us. These inspections took place every day. They’d take us to the investigators, and if they didn’t like something, they’d beat us with sticks.
They’d repeat in their own language that you were there, that you killed so-and-so; you’d deny it again, they’d beat you, and so on in a vicious cycle.
Yuriy Sviderskyi
They asked mostly about looting, the shooting of civilians, and weapons caches in Mariupol. They really wanted to pin all their crimes on us—even Bakhmut, where we hadn’t even been—they wanted to pin that on us too. Their main line of questioning was that if any of us had seen civilians, that—for them—was literally proof that we, so to speak, had shot them. I’d say, “Absolutely not”—they’d hit me a couple of times and repeat in their own language that I’d been there, killed so-and-so; I’d refuse again, they’d hit me, and so on in a never-ending cycle.
They even asked me to sign documents admitting to raping an old woman and an old man; I said no: “Let me sign something else for you.” Of course, they started yelling that these were my “handouts,” but I had no intention of signing a confession to the rape of the elderly.
That’s how we lived for almost two years. We were just a few days short of two years, because on September 8, 2024, we were transferred to Perm.
In Perm, the intake process was as it should be. The treatment there was much worse. The conditions were much harsher—you had to stand on your feet for 16 hours every day; you’d wake up and that was it—you weren’t allowed to sit down, except when you were eating. I was there for over 40 days. The worst part is their attitude in general. They consider us Nazis and fascists, claiming that we kill their children and drink their blood.
Despite the harsh conditions, a month before the exchange, they took me to the medical office, examined me, gave me some kind of injection, provided me with ointment for my bruises, and moved me to another cell. From then on, they examined me every day, gave me injections, and applied ointments. The guys talked about it being an exchange, but I didn’t count on it, because when the investigators in Taganrog told us that was the worst place we could possibly end up, it was clear they hadn’t been to Perm—it was 100 times worse here.
The Aftermath of Captivity
The journey home from Perm for Yuriy and the other servicemen took more than two days; They were transported by train cars, police vans, and planes in several stages through various cities to gather all 95 prisoners of war from Perm, Rostov, and Bryansk who were to be exchanged on October 18, 2024. The very next day, Yuriy began rehabilitation in Novi Sanzhary, Poltava Oblast, where he saw his girlfriend and parents for the first time in two and a half years. It has now been half a year since his return, and he is still undergoing rehabilitation and treatment for vascular and dental injuries sustained while in Russian captivity.
During torture in captivity, some of his teeth were knocked out, his menisci were damaged, his blood vessels were injured, and his stomach, liver, and kidney test results were abnormal. Yuriy was left with scars on his knees from frequent falls. After half a year of rehabilitation, he continues to receive treatment for his joints and teeth and undergo physical therapy. Dental treatment alone cost the soldier over 250,000 hryvnias (covered by the “Heart of Azovstal” project, which provides systematic support to Mariupol’s defenders and their families).
Author: Albina Karman
– I arrived in Mariupol back in November 2021, almost immediately after transferring from the “Jaguar” regiment in Vinnytsia to the “Azov” National Guard Brigade. After rumors spread about plans for a Russian infantry landing and the Russians fortifying their positions, we began moving into positions within Mariupol as early as February 20, 2022. We were warned that if we wanted to, we could send our belongings home. I sent my belongings home. We encountered the full-scale invasion at a checkpoint right in Mariupol.
During those days, I saw a thriving city—a lot of money had been invested in it, and it was very beautiful—but then the Russians burned it all down.
On the morning of February 24, 2022, Russian military vehicles were approaching the outskirts of the city; inside the city, we could only hear aircraft—they were dropping bombs and firing “Grad” rockets—while the army itself was stationed outside the city. And on March 1, the active phase began; we went on missions closer to them and were stationed near the old airport. That’s where I saw them up close for the first time, as I was scanning the perimeter with binoculars and saw four tanks around us. At that moment, they were 200 meters away from us.
My commander ordered us to withdraw from our position through a residential area; we took cover in a ravine in the middle of a field. By the time we retreated, about 5 kilograms of mud had accumulated on our combat boots, and I was also carrying a machine gun. As we ran, the Russians were firing at us; shells were whizzing overhead, and we lost one of our comrades.
After waiting out the shelling, we returned to that position a few hours later. From there, we could see Russian infantry digging in, but there was almost no way to operate there because everything was unfolding so quickly.
We were constantly shifting our positions and retreating back into the city because the Russians were simply setting fire to buildings along the way and shooting at the windows.
Yuriy Sviderskyi
A month and a half later, on April 15, we already had a crossing to the Azovstal plant. Behind us lay a nearly completely burned-out Mariupol and many civilians who hadn’t taken cover and were dying with every round of shelling.
The crossing to Azovstal was across the Kalmius River—more than 50 meters across the water. We made our way across a crossing set up by our guys—it consisted of a rope stretched across the river and three rafts. But many of the soldiers tried to swim across on their own and drowned. The last groups of our men who were crossing came under targeted fire, so some of them drowned as well. I was lucky that the Russians’ spotter was off-target at that moment, so when our group was crossing, all the shells landed about 50 meters ahead of us. Some of the guys were crossing the bridge in vehicles, but it was also under fire; there was an incident where an APC overturned into the river, and I don’t know what happened to those guys—I haven’t heard that anyone was even pulled out. We also saw a lot of vehicles ahead of us carrying people—the wounded and command staff—to the crossing; they were already standing there, burned out. We lost a lot of people at the crossing.
“Honorary Prisoner”
– For the first 2–3 weeks, I still had a signal; I called my family. After the signal disappeared—and while we were still in the city—I managed to call my family about five times for a few minutes each. At the plant, I only managed to get a signal twice. Strategically, we were constantly in contact with all units; they were in touch with us.
From April 15 to May 20, 2024, we were at Azovstal. In the evenings, when we were cooking at our positions, we’d reminisce, share stories from our civilian lives, and laugh. We ate whatever we found in houses; whenever I went into a house, I’d immediately check the kitchen to see if I could find anything to eat. There was also a little food at Azovstal, and there was a supply of water, but not everyone could get to it. There were no cigarettes; at the plant, I smoked some green tea a few times, and that was it.
No one came to our aid, and one day our commander arrived to inform us that we would be held as prisoners of honor for 3–4 months. They said everything would be fine, that nothing would happen because of our tattoos.
Yuriy Svidersky
Various rumors were circulating around the factory; people discussed the possibility that a Turkish ship might take us away by sea—like an extraction to a third country—and then we pinned our hopes on UN peacekeepers, but very quickly the situation worsened, no one came to our aid, and one day our commander came to inform us that we would be held as “honorary prisoners” for 3–4 months. They said everything would be fine, that nothing would happen because of the tattoos, and that we could take money with us. At first, we prepared the route to the exit—cleared it and cleared it of mines. By then, the “ceasefire” was already in effect; we weren’t allowed to shoot even if we saw Russian infantry—and we did see them; they were waving at us. First, of course, they took the wounded away, and then we left.
Olenivka Colony
– Dagestanis escorted us to Olenivka. At first, when we first got on the bus, they seemed brutal—they reloaded their automatic rifles—but along the way they started talking; they said, “Guys, you’re tough—you held out this long; we respect you.” And toward the end, as we were pulling into the prison, they started apologizing. Along the way, they took our money and valuables because, as they put it, they would have taken everything from us at the colony anyway.
When we got near Olenivka, we waited another day or so for them to take us in, because there were some problems at the checkpoint. Then the Dagestanis used our money to buy us something to eat. While we were waiting, Russian special forces soldiers would come up, look at our turnstiles in surprise, and ask what they were, since they were used to rubber straps. Our guys traded their first-aid kits for cigarettes, since they wouldn’t have been allowed to keep them anyway, and the Russians there had never seen first-aid kits of such high quality. I also traded my watch for a pack of cigarettes back then. When we arrived at the prison, I kept those cigarettes with me all the way to the barracks—I didn’t know what the situation with cigarettes was like there—but the guys immediately started asking for them, so I gave almost all of them away; I only smoked a few myself.
In Olenivka, there was practically no “intake” process—it was just a lot of chaos, and everything had to be done quickly. There were tables set up; you had to walk up, take off all your belongings, strip down to nothing, do a few squats—they’d check to make sure you weren’t hiding anything—then get dressed and move on to the next line. They’d take 20 people at a time straight to the barracks, then lead them to the investigators—first the “DNR” ones, then the Russian ones. The Russians didn’t care; they just came to go through the motions and jot something down on the questionnaires, but the “DNR” guys were nasty—they’d respond to every statement by saying, “You’re full of shit—that never happened; you were the ones shooting at civilians.”
Many people were burned alive; glass shards were falling from above and scattering all around, and everyone was screaming.
Yuriy Svidersky
I spent four months at the Olenivska colony; I got used to the routine pretty quickly—I didn’t even feel like smoking there. At first, they gave us 20 cigarettes for every two people, and sometimes they’d bring a carton to the barracks—that’s for 300 people—so at best, we’d get half a cigarette each, but I gave my cigarettes to others.
We were used to shelling around the prison, but it usually happened in the section where the Russians were held; they didn’t bother us. Except for the night of July 29, when the neighboring barracks caught fire. When I heard the screams and went out into the street, the barracks had already been blown apart like a can of soup by the explosion. The guards were nowhere to be found—they’d all fled. The guys who could still be saved from the barracks managed to escape on their own. There was fiberglass insulation on the barracks’ roof, and a barrel of oil stood below. Of course, the barrel tipped over from the explosion, making the fire burn even more fiercely; many people were burned alive, fiberglass was falling from above and scattering all around, and everyone was screaming.
After a while, the guards threw us some sacks and rags—supposedly to bandage the wounded—and then ran off again. The very next day, they took the wounded and our medics and drove them to Donetsk, supposedly to provide medical care. Once they had recovered, they were sent back, and then transported along with us. Otherwise, this incident wasn’t discussed at all; no one asked us anything so that no one would know anything.
Taganrog. Perm
– On September 27, 2022, they took us further away in Kamaz trucks. They called us out by name in alphabetical order; we had to run up quickly and say, “I am Yuriy Andriyovych Svidersky”—then they wrapped our hands and eyes with duct tape. I was lucky to have a cap; they taped it to my head, so I was able to lift it slightly later and see the road. Then they tossed us onto the Kamaz trucks like sacks of potatoes; they threw me in first, dragged me into a corner, and drove off. As we walked toward those Kamaz trucks, one of their special forces soldiers said, “Everything’s fine, guys. You’re going home, you’ll see your families—everything will be okay.” I thought, “Okay,” and walked along, smiling.
We rode in the truck without a tarp; thanks to my cap, I could see a bit of the horizon, and the guys were discussing the possibility that we might actually be heading to the airport right then. But all thoughts of home were shattered when we pulled into Donetsk, and after a landscape of tricolor banners, a huge concrete fence with barbed wire came into view.
The Kamaz pulled into a garage and started unloading us. Once you fell out of the Kamaz, you had to crawl on all fours toward the wall—that’s when the challenges began. Since I was the last one to crawl out, I was afraid of ending up on the edge, but while the others were crawling slowly, I managed to get a little ahead of them and reached the middle of the crowd. At the same time, I still had to pretend my hands were tied, because I’d chewed through the tape on my hands with my teeth along the way. Once in the crowd, I heard people shouting to split up—those with tattoos to the right and those without to the left.
I went to the left, but I had a tattoo of an AK-47—a Kalashnikov assault rifle. I’m standing there; they’re stripping the guys. We were told to keep one top and one bottom on; I kept my pants and T-shirt on, and I hear: “We’ll find out you have a tattoo anyway.” I realized I had to somehow make my way to the right, so I started inching over to the right in very small steps. As I was moving, a special forces soldier approached me.
He yelled at me a bit because I had a Russian assault rifle tattooed on me and started aggressively asking how many parts it consisted of. I said, “9”—wrong, he hit me. I said, “10”—wrong, he hit me. I probably got it right on the fifth try, because I really didn’t know—he beat me up pretty badly with his fists during that time.
Then they took us to some offices, where they filled out a form with our names, units, and places of birth; they beat me there too, but this time with sticks. After all these procedures, they gave me a prison uniform and a cup, led me out of the basement where all this had taken place, and brought me to a barrel containing some murky water. They asked, “Want some coffee?” I said, “No way.” They said, “Come on, just take it.” I scooped up some of that coffee with my cup, and they led me upstairs. I was worried they’d throw me in with the prisoners, because I was already walking there and remembering that video: “What to do when you enter the ‘cell’?”
The cell door opened; I walked in with that cup of coffee and saw a small, short old man standing in the middle of the cell, holding a piece of bread, trembling. I asked, “Old man, who are you?”—he remained silent. He started talking to us around the second day—he’d been keeping his cards close to his chest—and as it turned out, he was also from “Azov.”
In Taganrog, in a 3-by-5-meter cell painted green, there were eight of us at first—we lived like that for over a year.
Yuriy Svidersky
We were warm; sometimes, even in the middle of winter, they’d open the window. Then they started doing some cosmetic repairs there, and we were moved. I ended up in the same kind of cell, but there were already three people there, and I had to put on the issued combat boots because it was constantly cold; I tried to walk around the cell all day to warm up somehow. From time to time, they would bring in guys from different units of the Armed Forces of Ukraine; these changes often happened before inspections by the command. They tried to mix us up by unit, or they would temporarily move someone out so they couldn’t say there were too many people in the cell. But if someone was moved out before an inspection, someone else would be moved in right after the inspection.
I was also transferred from the second cell due to renovations and sent to the basement; there were some low, dark cells there with a rounded ceiling—it used to be a stable. The cell there was significantly larger, but there were still 10 of us in it. And the “renovations” were in their usual style: the most they ever did was screw in a new light bulb; otherwise, everything was old, and all the floorboards creaked.
The guards in Taganrog were mostly locals; they knew nothing about what was happening at the front or in the world. There were a few who just did their jobs, didn’t bother anyone; they might come over to ask something normally and that was it—they didn’t care either way. Overall, during our time in Taganrog, there were periodic inspections during which they beat us. These inspections took place every day. They’d take us to the investigators, and if they didn’t like something, they’d beat us with sticks.
They’d repeat in their own language that you were there, that you killed so-and-so; you’d deny it again, they’d beat you, and so on in a vicious cycle.
Yuriy Sviderskyi
They asked mostly about looting, the shooting of civilians, and weapons caches in Mariupol. They really wanted to pin all their crimes on us—even Bakhmut, where we hadn’t even been—they wanted to pin that on us too. Their main line of questioning was that if any of us had seen civilians, that—for them—was literally proof that we, so to speak, had shot them. I’d say, “Absolutely not”—they’d hit me a couple of times and repeat in their own language that I’d been there, killed so-and-so; I’d refuse again, they’d hit me, and so on in a never-ending cycle.
They even asked me to sign documents admitting to raping an old woman and an old man; I said no: “Let me sign something else for you.” Of course, they started yelling that these were my “handouts,” but I had no intention of signing a confession to the rape of the elderly.
That’s how we lived for almost two years. We were just a few days short of two years, because on September 8, 2024, we were transferred to Perm.
In Perm, the intake process was as it should be. The treatment there was much worse. The conditions were much harsher—you had to stand on your feet for 16 hours every day; you’d wake up and that was it—you weren’t allowed to sit down, except when you were eating. I was there for over 40 days. The worst part is their attitude in general. They consider us Nazis and fascists, claiming that we kill their children and drink their blood.
Despite the harsh conditions, a month before the exchange, they took me to the medical office, examined me, gave me some kind of injection, provided me with ointment for my bruises, and moved me to another cell. From then on, they examined me every day, gave me injections, and applied ointments. The guys talked about it being an exchange, but I didn’t count on it, because when the investigators in Taganrog told us that was the worst place we could possibly end up, it was clear they hadn’t been to Perm—it was 100 times worse here.
The Aftermath of Captivity
The journey home from Perm for Yuriy and the other servicemen took more than two days; They were transported by train cars, police vans, and planes in several stages through various cities to gather all 95 prisoners of war from Perm, Rostov, and Bryansk who were to be exchanged on October 18, 2024. The very next day, Yuriy began rehabilitation in Novi Sanzhary, Poltava Oblast, where he saw his girlfriend and parents for the first time in two and a half years. It has now been half a year since his return, and he is still undergoing rehabilitation and treatment for vascular and dental injuries sustained while in Russian captivity.
During torture in captivity, some of his teeth were knocked out, his menisci were damaged, his blood vessels were injured, and his stomach, liver, and kidney test results were abnormal. Yuriy was left with scars on his knees from frequent falls. After half a year of rehabilitation, he continues to receive treatment for his joints and teeth and undergo physical therapy. Dental treatment alone cost the soldier over 250,000 hryvnias (covered by the “Heart of Azovstal” project, which provides systematic support to Mariupol’s defenders and their families).
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