Her Battle for Mariupol: Yulia Horoshanska fought in the ATO, survived the “Azovstal” siege, was taken prisoner, and endured the terrorist attack in Olenivka—and now she is forced to prove in
Source: Novynarnia
Author: Natalia Naiduk
34-year-old Yulia Horoshanska has devoted many years of her life and her health to the war. In 2014, she—a fitness trainer—volunteered to join the Mariupol defense unit. She explains that she couldn’t just sit idly “in the basement” while someone else defended her from the enemy. So she went to the military registration and enlistment office and insisted that they enlist her in the army (which was far from easy for women at the time).
Despite all the difficulties, she proved to everyone that she could defend her homeland just as well as men. She fought in the ATO first as a soldier, then completed officer training and became the commander of a reconnaissance company. It wasn’t until she became pregnant that the previously fearless Yulia realized she now had someone to worry about, so she transferred to a “quieter” position at the military registration and enlistment office.
She gave birth to a daughter and raised her with love in the ever-more-beautiful city of Mariupol… But on February 24, 2022, leaving her child with her mother, she took up arms again without hesitation to defend her hometown and her country.
Her last battle took place in her own backyard. She watched as the house where her father was born—and where she herself was born and raised—burned… and where her cat remained.
Yulia miraculously survived the bombings. She was wounded. She was at “Azovstal.” Then, along with other defenders, she was taken into Russian captivity on the orders of her command. She survived Olenivka.
But when she returned home after a prisoner exchange, she discovered that her military unit had failed to officially record the fact that she had defended Mariupol…
After recovering from her time in captivity, Yulia filed a lawsuit to restore justice. But the court has been unable to hear the case for seven months now.
Next—Yulia Horoshanska’s story in her own words. Also included is a commentary by lawyer Ksenia Onishchenko on what it means to be a soldier when the state does not recognize that they fought in a war.
“On February 24, I woke up to the sound of explosions—and that same day, I returned from maternity leave to defend Mariupol.”
“I’ve lived my whole life in Mariupol, in an apartment on the Left Bank, not far from Azovstal.” I began defending Ukraine back in 2014, when I voluntarily joined the city’s defense unit.
Since 2015, I’ve served in intelligence and was promoted to the rank of officer. It was during the war that I met my husband and started a family. When, while pregnant, I barely managed to escape the encirclement with my unit, I realized I couldn’t risk my child’s safety any longer. So I transferred to the security company of the Mariupol Regional Territorial Center for Recruitment and Social Support and went on maternity leave from there.
My husband was fighting in the Donetsk region. So on February 24, 2022, I was home alone with my child. I woke up at 4 a.m. because of the explosions.
I had combat experience; I’d trained with the best instructors. So that same day, I decided to go out and defend my city. I left my daughter with my mom and went to work at the Regional Territorial Center for Civil Protection.
The staff there were gathering their belongings and personal files, preparing to evacuate to Zaporizhzhia. I told the HR manager that I wanted to submit my resignation from maternity leave. But the printers and computers had already been packed up. So they told me we’d sort it out in Zaporizhzhia.
After finishing my shift, I left with everyone else to evacuate; we were supposed to resolve all the paperwork issues there. We arrived in Zaporizhzhia on the night of February 25.
I insisted that I wanted to return to Mariupol: the young men in the security company who had stayed behind in the city hadn’t been to the firing range a single day. I, on the other hand, had considerable combat experience; I could help.
But at the TCC, they told me: they wouldn’t officially send me there; if I wanted to go, I could, and then I wouldn’t even need to write a report. They gave me the number of Dmitry Steblin, commander of the 109th Brigade of the Territorial Defense Forces, and told me to contact him. We spoke on the phone, and I went home to Mariupol.
“My last battle was in the courtyard of my own house, which was burning right before my eyes.”
The brigade commander didn’t know how to process my paperwork correctly: I’m a soldier, on maternity leave, and I’d arrived from another unit… With me present, he called the personnel officer at the Regional Military Recruitment Center and said that I would be carrying out combat missions with his brigade. Everything was agreed upon.
I wrote the necessary report and handed it to the brigade commander. That’s how my service began in the 107th Battalion of the 109th Brigade of the Territorial Defense Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
At first, I was stationed at a checkpoint near “Azovstal.” Then we were redeployed to the Left Bank. There, we held the line with the guys for a month. Our only weapons were assault rifles and a few anti-tank grenades. We saw the Russians bombing “Azovstal.” The longest continuous bombardment lasted 20 minutes.
My last battle took place in my own backyard. Right before my eyes, my house, the kindergarten, and the nearby school—where I once studied and where my daughter was supposed to study later—were burning from the shelling. And civilians, including children, were dying. They were burning alive, and there was nothing we could do to help…
Then Kadyrov’s men took over my ruined house. Twelve of my comrades and I were in a neighboring house, also half-destroyed, where there were no longer any civilians. The enemy knew we were there. So a plane flew in and dropped two bombs on us. The building simply collapsed. My comrades died under the concrete slabs…
I was luckier: I was pinned down by pieces of concrete, not a solid slab. Other soldiers who were nearby pulled me out from under the rubble and carried me to the hospital at “Azovstal.” There were so many people there, but very little space or medicine. They used sheets instead of bandages. I never thought conditions like this could exist in our time…
I had injuries to my head and back, and my leg was broken. I had numerous burns and bruises. After spending a couple of weeks in the hospital, I gradually began to walk again. And to make room for new wounded soldiers, I moved to a bunker where our guys from the Territorial Defense Forces were.
The bunker was just a regular basement under one of the workshops—a sort of room with pipes. There were over a hundred of us there. All military personnel. Most lived in hope of de-occupation and liberation. The guys believed: there’s a Turkish ship out at sea; they’ll definitely come get us.
I, too, would have liked to think so. But my experience told me: we have only two options—death or captivity.
Not much of a choice. Attempting a breakout meant almost certain death. But staying at Azovstal meant death as well—only a slow one, from hunger and thirst. Food and water were growing scarcer by the day: we were given 200 ml of water per day. That was it: use it to drink, wash your face, or brush your teeth…
I stayed in that basement for 1.5 months, right up until I was taken prisoner.
“We were told that the women would be exchanged in two weeks, the men within four months, and that conditions in captivity would be good…”
Despite everything, in May, the guys and I started planning a breakout. The prospect of starving to death seemed worse than dying in battle.
But on May 14, our brigade commander came in: “At the meeting, they said there would be an evacuation to captivity.”
He explained that the women would be exchanged within two weeks, and the men within four months at most. He said the conditions of detention—including food and hygiene—would be good.
I didn’t even have any personal belongings: I was wearing the same clothes they’d pulled me out of the rubble in. The brigade commander assured us that volunteers had prepared everything at our place of detention. “The Russians will just be guarding us from behind the fence.” I don’t know who promised him all that…
On May 17, 2022, I left “Azovstal.” Russian soldiers with assault rifles stood on either side. They shouted all sorts of vile things at us. It was very scary and humiliating.
We got on the bus. Red Cross representatives were writing down our names and collecting our relatives’ contact information to notify them of our capture. But they didn’t have time to interview everyone—the Russians kicked them out. So they took us to Olenivka.
The men were housed in barracks, and the women in detention center cells. Ours held four people. At first, there were six of us there, and later, thirty. Two of us slept on the bunks, and the rest on the concrete floor. At first, we laid out our own belongings; later, the guards brought us mattresses full of holes.
They took us outside once every 2–3 weeks. And since there was almost no room in the cell to move around, our muscles atrophied. Eventually, walking required a great deal of effort.
The food was very poor: a piece of bread and a few spoonfuls of porridge. That was our entire daily ration. There was no real medical care either. Sometimes they’d bring in our captive doctors. But what could they do without medicine… Those who got very sick were taken to Donetsk.
The only “good” thing about Olenivka was that they didn’t beat the women there. But they still put a lot of psychological pressure on us. The FSB agents especially loved to “have fun” this way—they’d call you in for interrogation, lay out their torture instruments, and say, “Now we’re going to torture you.”
It was scary, but they didn’t actually touch us. But they really tormented the guys, especially the “Azov” fighters.
They’d tell me, “You’d be better off staying home and cooking borscht.” But I couldn’t tell them that, in fact, I was sitting at home cooking borscht when they came to my house. And I had to take up arms to defend the very kitchen where I was cooking borscht. And I would have kept making borscht and baking pies if they hadn’t come into my home!
“The new head of the prison camp in Olenivka claimed that ‘bad DNR members’ had planted the explosives.”
On July 27, 2022, through the small window of our cell, we saw our captives carrying beds into an old industrial hangar. It was not far from us. That building was completely unsuitable for living—half the roof was missing. It was obvious: something was wrong.
The next evening, the guys stayed there overnight for the first time. And then, around midnight, the explosive devices detonated. A fire broke out. The survivors started screaming and tried to escape. But the guards fired at the prisoners to keep them in place.
The blown-up barracks in Olenivka
At first, the Russians said that it was our side that had shelled Olenivka. Later, the prison’s leadership changed. The new director “informed” us that it was “DPR members” who had planted explosive devices on the barracks’ roof. And they (the Russians—“N”), he said, are the good guys; they’re here to make sure nothing like that happens again.
I know that my comrade from “Azov,” Dmytro Bukarev, “Bilotur,” died in that barracks. They transferred those who had already fought in the ATO there.
And on September 21, 2022, I was exchanged.
Out of the 100 women in Olenivka that day, they took eight of us. For the first time during our entire captivity, they fed us well. We didn’t know if they were taking us to be executed or to another prison camp. And we certainly didn’t expect it to be for an exchange.
Eventually, we ended up in Gomel, and then in the Chernihiv region.
After two days at a local hospital, we underwent rehabilitation in Novi Sanzhary. My mom came there with my child and my husband.
While I was in captivity, I thought he had died: my fellow prisoners told me that their brigade had been wiped out. Fortunately, he survived…
A month after the full-scale invasion began, the police evacuated my mom and her daughter from Mariupol. Then they moved to Mangush, and from there to Zaporizhzhia.
After being released from captivity, I called the families of my comrades who had been killed during our last battle in Mariupol. The guys were under 30 years old.
Most parents refuse to believe their sons are dead as long as there are no bodies. And there can’t be any bodies…
They’re still there under the rubble. And now the Russians have raked everything up and hauled it away along with the construction debris…
“I lost everything in Mariupol. And now I have to prove in court that I fought for him.”
After my treatment in Sanzhary, I found out that they never officially ended my maternity leave and never documented the fact that I took part in the battles for Mariupol. At the military unit, some people admired me, while others said, “We didn’t send you there—why did you go?”…
It hurts. So I submitted a request for leave, and in November 2022, I resigned from the RTCC. I was paid only my salary for that leave; there were no other payments.
Subsequently, the RTCC conducted an internal investigation, which confirmed that I had participated in the defense of Mariupol as part of the 109th Brigade of the Territorial Defense Forces. Even Brigade Commander Dmytro Steblin (who, at the time of this writing, is still in captivity—“N”) confirmed that I was taken prisoner as part of that unit: for a time, he was able to make calls from captivity.
I’m also on the lists of servicemen who were evacuated from “Azovstal.” But the new Territorial Defense Forces command had never even seen me…
After my captivity, due to my limited mobility there, I literally had to learn to walk all over again. My “Mariupol” injuries also made themselves known: my arm doesn’t work properly. I had absolutely no belongings, no place to live. Nothing.
And in that state—both physically and emotionally—I pulled myself together. Rehabilitation here is provided mainly by volunteers. I went twice for recovery through the “Unbreakable Mom” project run by Maria Efrosinina’s “Masha” Foundation, and once through the “Hearts of Azovstal” organization.
Many of the men have now returned from captivity. There are already about 20 people who can confirm my participation in combat operations. So, armed with the investigation findings and their testimonies, in December 2023 I finally filed a lawsuit to seek justice. The defendants are the Mariupol Regional Territorial Center for Recruitment and Social Support and the 109th Brigade.
It didn’t work out the first time, because the Dnipro court told me to file where I’m registered. The case has now been pending for 7 months in the Donetsk Administrative Court, but a hearing date still hasn’t been set. Currently, the state owes me 1 million hryvnias—this is financial compensation for the fighting in Mariupol and my time in captivity.
By the way, I received the “For Military Service to Ukraine” medal from President Zelenskyy. So, on the one hand, the state has recognized my participation in the fighting. But on the other hand—it turns out it hasn’t, because I haven’t received any payments.
I’ve now returned to the military: I’m serving in the Mariupol Brigade as an officer in charge of moral and psychological support. On the battlefield, I can no longer fight—neither physically nor mentally. But I do help the guys recover.
You know, I take everything more calmly now. But back then, right after my captivity, my mental state was shattered. It’s infuriating that I have to prove I fought in the war. But you know, if I could turn back time, if I’d known it would all turn out this way—captivity, injustice…
I would have done the same thing anyway, because I behaved with dignity.
In Mariupol, I lost everything: my home, my car, my belongings, my documents. I still can’t get a duplicate of my combatant ID (“H”): I’ve appealed to my military unit and called the General Staff several times. To no avail.
Right now, we’re renting apartments for our child and my mother in Dnipro, and for my husband and me in another city. We’re not receiving any compensation for this. I won’t even mention the one-time cash assistance for injuries: the hospital was supposed to submit the lists somewhere, but where are those lists…
Lawyer’s comment: “There is already case law on such matters. It’s worth fighting for your rights.”
Ksenia Onishchenko, a lawyer with the NGO “Sich Human Rights Group,” represented a servicemember in court who, upon returning from captivity, discovered that he was not on his military unit’s roster. He, too, served in the 109th Territorial Defense Brigade.
“When the full-scale invasion began, there was a certain amount of chaos. Military units were not sufficiently organized to properly process all conscription and mobilization documents under martial law.
At that time, both former service members who were in the reserves and civilian men and women with no prior military experience joined the defense of the homeland. They simply handed over their military ID cards to the chiefs of staff and went off to fight, carrying out their commanders’ orders.
But it turned out that, for various reasons, many soldiers were not properly registered.
For example, when I submitted a request regarding my client to the Mariupol Regional Military Registration and Enlistment Office, they replied that due to combat operations in the city during the evacuation, they “destroyed the military registration documents by setting them on fire.” “This is actually provided for by law in the event of a threat that the enemy might seize these documents,” the lawyer explains.
Therefore, such individuals must prove in court that they fulfilled their duties as military personnel by directly participating in combat operations. The main piece of evidence will be a certificate issued upon return from captivity by the State Enterprise “Ukrainian National Center for Peacebuilding”—this is the same NIB.
It lists the person’s full name, rank, military unit, and the date of release from captivity.
Based on this document, the servicemember submits a report to their military unit requesting a copy of an extract from the order regarding their enrollment in the personnel roster.
The unit will most likely respond that the person is not on their roster. After that, you can file a lawsuit in administrative court seeking a ruling that the military unit’s inaction was unlawful.
“Military service is, by its very nature, public service. The complaint must assert that the military unit failed to properly formalize this public service relationship.
Evidence must be provided that the person actually served, carried out orders from commanders, and so on. This could include testimony from fellow soldiers—military personnel from the same unit. If it’s not possible for them to be present in court, their notarized statements can be submitted,” explains Ksenia Onishchenko.
In such cases, a person may file a lawsuit within one month after learning of the violation of their rights.
If, for any reason, this deadline is missed, a motion to reinstate the missed deadline must be filed along with the complaint. In it, they must explain the circumstances that led to the missed deadline. For example, this could be due to medical treatment or rehabilitation. According to Ksenia Onishchenko, in most cases, the court reinstates the deadline for filing a lawsuit and hears the case.
It is important to note that a lawsuit may be filed at the place of registration of either the service member or the military unit. If a person has internally displaced person (IDP) status, the lawsuit may be filed at the place of actual residence, as confirmed by an IDP certificate.
The court has 90 days to hear the case after proceedings are initiated. The court must either initiate proceedings or deny the petition within 5 days of receiving the application. However, these deadlines are often violated.
“The courts are currently overloaded because there are so many administrative lawsuits. This makes it difficult to meet the procedural deadlines for case review. Unfortunately, this is happening throughout Ukraine,” explains the lawyer.
Therefore, in cases where the process is delayed, Ksenia Onishchenko recommends filing a motion with the court requesting information on the status of the case. The response must be provided in writing.
If a service member wins the lawsuit, they must submit a report to their military unit demanding payment of all outstanding pay. This amount is calculated from the moment the service member actually began performing military duties (the date is specified in the court decision), includes the time spent in captivity, and extends until proper enrollment in service or discharge from the military unit, as in the case of Yulia Horoshanska.
“I think this is a widespread problem. Not everyone, especially after being held captive, will seek out lawyers. Some people think it’s difficult to prove their participation in combat, while others lack the emotional strength to do so.
A person was told at the military unit, ‘You’re not on the lists; we don’t know you,’ and that was it.
But there is already case law on these issues, so you need to fight for your rights.
There are quite a few civil society organizations, like ours, that provide legal assistance to military personnel. You can also turn to free legal aid (FLA),” concludes Ksenia Onishchenko.
Author: Natalia Naiduk
34-year-old Yulia Horoshanska has devoted many years of her life and her health to the war. In 2014, she—a fitness trainer—volunteered to join the Mariupol defense unit. She explains that she couldn’t just sit idly “in the basement” while someone else defended her from the enemy. So she went to the military registration and enlistment office and insisted that they enlist her in the army (which was far from easy for women at the time).
Despite all the difficulties, she proved to everyone that she could defend her homeland just as well as men. She fought in the ATO first as a soldier, then completed officer training and became the commander of a reconnaissance company. It wasn’t until she became pregnant that the previously fearless Yulia realized she now had someone to worry about, so she transferred to a “quieter” position at the military registration and enlistment office.
She gave birth to a daughter and raised her with love in the ever-more-beautiful city of Mariupol… But on February 24, 2022, leaving her child with her mother, she took up arms again without hesitation to defend her hometown and her country.
Her last battle took place in her own backyard. She watched as the house where her father was born—and where she herself was born and raised—burned… and where her cat remained.
Yulia miraculously survived the bombings. She was wounded. She was at “Azovstal.” Then, along with other defenders, she was taken into Russian captivity on the orders of her command. She survived Olenivka.
But when she returned home after a prisoner exchange, she discovered that her military unit had failed to officially record the fact that she had defended Mariupol…
After recovering from her time in captivity, Yulia filed a lawsuit to restore justice. But the court has been unable to hear the case for seven months now.
Next—Yulia Horoshanska’s story in her own words. Also included is a commentary by lawyer Ksenia Onishchenko on what it means to be a soldier when the state does not recognize that they fought in a war.
“On February 24, I woke up to the sound of explosions—and that same day, I returned from maternity leave to defend Mariupol.”
“I’ve lived my whole life in Mariupol, in an apartment on the Left Bank, not far from Azovstal.” I began defending Ukraine back in 2014, when I voluntarily joined the city’s defense unit.
Since 2015, I’ve served in intelligence and was promoted to the rank of officer. It was during the war that I met my husband and started a family. When, while pregnant, I barely managed to escape the encirclement with my unit, I realized I couldn’t risk my child’s safety any longer. So I transferred to the security company of the Mariupol Regional Territorial Center for Recruitment and Social Support and went on maternity leave from there.
My husband was fighting in the Donetsk region. So on February 24, 2022, I was home alone with my child. I woke up at 4 a.m. because of the explosions.
I had combat experience; I’d trained with the best instructors. So that same day, I decided to go out and defend my city. I left my daughter with my mom and went to work at the Regional Territorial Center for Civil Protection.
The staff there were gathering their belongings and personal files, preparing to evacuate to Zaporizhzhia. I told the HR manager that I wanted to submit my resignation from maternity leave. But the printers and computers had already been packed up. So they told me we’d sort it out in Zaporizhzhia.
After finishing my shift, I left with everyone else to evacuate; we were supposed to resolve all the paperwork issues there. We arrived in Zaporizhzhia on the night of February 25.
I insisted that I wanted to return to Mariupol: the young men in the security company who had stayed behind in the city hadn’t been to the firing range a single day. I, on the other hand, had considerable combat experience; I could help.
But at the TCC, they told me: they wouldn’t officially send me there; if I wanted to go, I could, and then I wouldn’t even need to write a report. They gave me the number of Dmitry Steblin, commander of the 109th Brigade of the Territorial Defense Forces, and told me to contact him. We spoke on the phone, and I went home to Mariupol.
“My last battle was in the courtyard of my own house, which was burning right before my eyes.”
The brigade commander didn’t know how to process my paperwork correctly: I’m a soldier, on maternity leave, and I’d arrived from another unit… With me present, he called the personnel officer at the Regional Military Recruitment Center and said that I would be carrying out combat missions with his brigade. Everything was agreed upon.
I wrote the necessary report and handed it to the brigade commander. That’s how my service began in the 107th Battalion of the 109th Brigade of the Territorial Defense Forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
At first, I was stationed at a checkpoint near “Azovstal.” Then we were redeployed to the Left Bank. There, we held the line with the guys for a month. Our only weapons were assault rifles and a few anti-tank grenades. We saw the Russians bombing “Azovstal.” The longest continuous bombardment lasted 20 minutes.
My last battle took place in my own backyard. Right before my eyes, my house, the kindergarten, and the nearby school—where I once studied and where my daughter was supposed to study later—were burning from the shelling. And civilians, including children, were dying. They were burning alive, and there was nothing we could do to help…
Then Kadyrov’s men took over my ruined house. Twelve of my comrades and I were in a neighboring house, also half-destroyed, where there were no longer any civilians. The enemy knew we were there. So a plane flew in and dropped two bombs on us. The building simply collapsed. My comrades died under the concrete slabs…
I was luckier: I was pinned down by pieces of concrete, not a solid slab. Other soldiers who were nearby pulled me out from under the rubble and carried me to the hospital at “Azovstal.” There were so many people there, but very little space or medicine. They used sheets instead of bandages. I never thought conditions like this could exist in our time…
I had injuries to my head and back, and my leg was broken. I had numerous burns and bruises. After spending a couple of weeks in the hospital, I gradually began to walk again. And to make room for new wounded soldiers, I moved to a bunker where our guys from the Territorial Defense Forces were.
The bunker was just a regular basement under one of the workshops—a sort of room with pipes. There were over a hundred of us there. All military personnel. Most lived in hope of de-occupation and liberation. The guys believed: there’s a Turkish ship out at sea; they’ll definitely come get us.
I, too, would have liked to think so. But my experience told me: we have only two options—death or captivity.
Not much of a choice. Attempting a breakout meant almost certain death. But staying at Azovstal meant death as well—only a slow one, from hunger and thirst. Food and water were growing scarcer by the day: we were given 200 ml of water per day. That was it: use it to drink, wash your face, or brush your teeth…
I stayed in that basement for 1.5 months, right up until I was taken prisoner.
“We were told that the women would be exchanged in two weeks, the men within four months, and that conditions in captivity would be good…”
Despite everything, in May, the guys and I started planning a breakout. The prospect of starving to death seemed worse than dying in battle.
But on May 14, our brigade commander came in: “At the meeting, they said there would be an evacuation to captivity.”
He explained that the women would be exchanged within two weeks, and the men within four months at most. He said the conditions of detention—including food and hygiene—would be good.
I didn’t even have any personal belongings: I was wearing the same clothes they’d pulled me out of the rubble in. The brigade commander assured us that volunteers had prepared everything at our place of detention. “The Russians will just be guarding us from behind the fence.” I don’t know who promised him all that…
On May 17, 2022, I left “Azovstal.” Russian soldiers with assault rifles stood on either side. They shouted all sorts of vile things at us. It was very scary and humiliating.
We got on the bus. Red Cross representatives were writing down our names and collecting our relatives’ contact information to notify them of our capture. But they didn’t have time to interview everyone—the Russians kicked them out. So they took us to Olenivka.
The men were housed in barracks, and the women in detention center cells. Ours held four people. At first, there were six of us there, and later, thirty. Two of us slept on the bunks, and the rest on the concrete floor. At first, we laid out our own belongings; later, the guards brought us mattresses full of holes.
They took us outside once every 2–3 weeks. And since there was almost no room in the cell to move around, our muscles atrophied. Eventually, walking required a great deal of effort.
The food was very poor: a piece of bread and a few spoonfuls of porridge. That was our entire daily ration. There was no real medical care either. Sometimes they’d bring in our captive doctors. But what could they do without medicine… Those who got very sick were taken to Donetsk.
The only “good” thing about Olenivka was that they didn’t beat the women there. But they still put a lot of psychological pressure on us. The FSB agents especially loved to “have fun” this way—they’d call you in for interrogation, lay out their torture instruments, and say, “Now we’re going to torture you.”
It was scary, but they didn’t actually touch us. But they really tormented the guys, especially the “Azov” fighters.
They’d tell me, “You’d be better off staying home and cooking borscht.” But I couldn’t tell them that, in fact, I was sitting at home cooking borscht when they came to my house. And I had to take up arms to defend the very kitchen where I was cooking borscht. And I would have kept making borscht and baking pies if they hadn’t come into my home!
“The new head of the prison camp in Olenivka claimed that ‘bad DNR members’ had planted the explosives.”
On July 27, 2022, through the small window of our cell, we saw our captives carrying beds into an old industrial hangar. It was not far from us. That building was completely unsuitable for living—half the roof was missing. It was obvious: something was wrong.
The next evening, the guys stayed there overnight for the first time. And then, around midnight, the explosive devices detonated. A fire broke out. The survivors started screaming and tried to escape. But the guards fired at the prisoners to keep them in place.
The blown-up barracks in Olenivka
At first, the Russians said that it was our side that had shelled Olenivka. Later, the prison’s leadership changed. The new director “informed” us that it was “DPR members” who had planted explosive devices on the barracks’ roof. And they (the Russians—“N”), he said, are the good guys; they’re here to make sure nothing like that happens again.
I know that my comrade from “Azov,” Dmytro Bukarev, “Bilotur,” died in that barracks. They transferred those who had already fought in the ATO there.
And on September 21, 2022, I was exchanged.
Out of the 100 women in Olenivka that day, they took eight of us. For the first time during our entire captivity, they fed us well. We didn’t know if they were taking us to be executed or to another prison camp. And we certainly didn’t expect it to be for an exchange.
Eventually, we ended up in Gomel, and then in the Chernihiv region.
After two days at a local hospital, we underwent rehabilitation in Novi Sanzhary. My mom came there with my child and my husband.
While I was in captivity, I thought he had died: my fellow prisoners told me that their brigade had been wiped out. Fortunately, he survived…
A month after the full-scale invasion began, the police evacuated my mom and her daughter from Mariupol. Then they moved to Mangush, and from there to Zaporizhzhia.
After being released from captivity, I called the families of my comrades who had been killed during our last battle in Mariupol. The guys were under 30 years old.
Most parents refuse to believe their sons are dead as long as there are no bodies. And there can’t be any bodies…
They’re still there under the rubble. And now the Russians have raked everything up and hauled it away along with the construction debris…
“I lost everything in Mariupol. And now I have to prove in court that I fought for him.”
After my treatment in Sanzhary, I found out that they never officially ended my maternity leave and never documented the fact that I took part in the battles for Mariupol. At the military unit, some people admired me, while others said, “We didn’t send you there—why did you go?”…
It hurts. So I submitted a request for leave, and in November 2022, I resigned from the RTCC. I was paid only my salary for that leave; there were no other payments.
Subsequently, the RTCC conducted an internal investigation, which confirmed that I had participated in the defense of Mariupol as part of the 109th Brigade of the Territorial Defense Forces. Even Brigade Commander Dmytro Steblin (who, at the time of this writing, is still in captivity—“N”) confirmed that I was taken prisoner as part of that unit: for a time, he was able to make calls from captivity.
I’m also on the lists of servicemen who were evacuated from “Azovstal.” But the new Territorial Defense Forces command had never even seen me…
After my captivity, due to my limited mobility there, I literally had to learn to walk all over again. My “Mariupol” injuries also made themselves known: my arm doesn’t work properly. I had absolutely no belongings, no place to live. Nothing.
And in that state—both physically and emotionally—I pulled myself together. Rehabilitation here is provided mainly by volunteers. I went twice for recovery through the “Unbreakable Mom” project run by Maria Efrosinina’s “Masha” Foundation, and once through the “Hearts of Azovstal” organization.
Many of the men have now returned from captivity. There are already about 20 people who can confirm my participation in combat operations. So, armed with the investigation findings and their testimonies, in December 2023 I finally filed a lawsuit to seek justice. The defendants are the Mariupol Regional Territorial Center for Recruitment and Social Support and the 109th Brigade.
It didn’t work out the first time, because the Dnipro court told me to file where I’m registered. The case has now been pending for 7 months in the Donetsk Administrative Court, but a hearing date still hasn’t been set. Currently, the state owes me 1 million hryvnias—this is financial compensation for the fighting in Mariupol and my time in captivity.
By the way, I received the “For Military Service to Ukraine” medal from President Zelenskyy. So, on the one hand, the state has recognized my participation in the fighting. But on the other hand—it turns out it hasn’t, because I haven’t received any payments.
I’ve now returned to the military: I’m serving in the Mariupol Brigade as an officer in charge of moral and psychological support. On the battlefield, I can no longer fight—neither physically nor mentally. But I do help the guys recover.
You know, I take everything more calmly now. But back then, right after my captivity, my mental state was shattered. It’s infuriating that I have to prove I fought in the war. But you know, if I could turn back time, if I’d known it would all turn out this way—captivity, injustice…
I would have done the same thing anyway, because I behaved with dignity.
In Mariupol, I lost everything: my home, my car, my belongings, my documents. I still can’t get a duplicate of my combatant ID (“H”): I’ve appealed to my military unit and called the General Staff several times. To no avail.
Right now, we’re renting apartments for our child and my mother in Dnipro, and for my husband and me in another city. We’re not receiving any compensation for this. I won’t even mention the one-time cash assistance for injuries: the hospital was supposed to submit the lists somewhere, but where are those lists…
Lawyer’s comment: “There is already case law on such matters. It’s worth fighting for your rights.”
Ksenia Onishchenko, a lawyer with the NGO “Sich Human Rights Group,” represented a servicemember in court who, upon returning from captivity, discovered that he was not on his military unit’s roster. He, too, served in the 109th Territorial Defense Brigade.
“When the full-scale invasion began, there was a certain amount of chaos. Military units were not sufficiently organized to properly process all conscription and mobilization documents under martial law.
At that time, both former service members who were in the reserves and civilian men and women with no prior military experience joined the defense of the homeland. They simply handed over their military ID cards to the chiefs of staff and went off to fight, carrying out their commanders’ orders.
But it turned out that, for various reasons, many soldiers were not properly registered.
For example, when I submitted a request regarding my client to the Mariupol Regional Military Registration and Enlistment Office, they replied that due to combat operations in the city during the evacuation, they “destroyed the military registration documents by setting them on fire.” “This is actually provided for by law in the event of a threat that the enemy might seize these documents,” the lawyer explains.
Therefore, such individuals must prove in court that they fulfilled their duties as military personnel by directly participating in combat operations. The main piece of evidence will be a certificate issued upon return from captivity by the State Enterprise “Ukrainian National Center for Peacebuilding”—this is the same NIB.
It lists the person’s full name, rank, military unit, and the date of release from captivity.
Based on this document, the servicemember submits a report to their military unit requesting a copy of an extract from the order regarding their enrollment in the personnel roster.
The unit will most likely respond that the person is not on their roster. After that, you can file a lawsuit in administrative court seeking a ruling that the military unit’s inaction was unlawful.
“Military service is, by its very nature, public service. The complaint must assert that the military unit failed to properly formalize this public service relationship.
Evidence must be provided that the person actually served, carried out orders from commanders, and so on. This could include testimony from fellow soldiers—military personnel from the same unit. If it’s not possible for them to be present in court, their notarized statements can be submitted,” explains Ksenia Onishchenko.
In such cases, a person may file a lawsuit within one month after learning of the violation of their rights.
If, for any reason, this deadline is missed, a motion to reinstate the missed deadline must be filed along with the complaint. In it, they must explain the circumstances that led to the missed deadline. For example, this could be due to medical treatment or rehabilitation. According to Ksenia Onishchenko, in most cases, the court reinstates the deadline for filing a lawsuit and hears the case.
It is important to note that a lawsuit may be filed at the place of registration of either the service member or the military unit. If a person has internally displaced person (IDP) status, the lawsuit may be filed at the place of actual residence, as confirmed by an IDP certificate.
The court has 90 days to hear the case after proceedings are initiated. The court must either initiate proceedings or deny the petition within 5 days of receiving the application. However, these deadlines are often violated.
“The courts are currently overloaded because there are so many administrative lawsuits. This makes it difficult to meet the procedural deadlines for case review. Unfortunately, this is happening throughout Ukraine,” explains the lawyer.
Therefore, in cases where the process is delayed, Ksenia Onishchenko recommends filing a motion with the court requesting information on the status of the case. The response must be provided in writing.
If a service member wins the lawsuit, they must submit a report to their military unit demanding payment of all outstanding pay. This amount is calculated from the moment the service member actually began performing military duties (the date is specified in the court decision), includes the time spent in captivity, and extends until proper enrollment in service or discharge from the military unit, as in the case of Yulia Horoshanska.
“I think this is a widespread problem. Not everyone, especially after being held captive, will seek out lawyers. Some people think it’s difficult to prove their participation in combat, while others lack the emotional strength to do so.
A person was told at the military unit, ‘You’re not on the lists; we don’t know you,’ and that was it.
But there is already case law on these issues, so you need to fight for your rights.
There are quite a few civil society organizations, like ours, that provide legal assistance to military personnel. You can also turn to free legal aid (FLA),” concludes Ksenia Onishchenko.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.