“The Russians asked what ‘Nava’ meant—I replied that it didn’t mean anything good for them.” Valeria Subotina on her captivity, Azovstal, her hometown of Mariupol, her murdered husband, and v
Source: Novynarnia
Author: Anastasia Fedchenko
Thin, exhausted, with hands as dry as parchment—yet unbreakable. That’s how Valeria Subotina (Karpilenko) emerged from Russian captivity. She is the very same “Nava” who married her husband Andriy at the besieged Azovstal two days before his death on May 7, 2022. Nava remained in captivity for 11 months, until she was released in a prisoner exchange on April 11, 2023.
In an interview with “Novynarnia,” Valeria spoke about her war, about Mariupol—which no longer exists—about her greatest loss, about her captivity, about her return home, her attempt to get used to air raid alerts in Kyiv, and the spring she’s breathing in to the fullest.
“Instead of Kyiv, the Russians were actually describing Mariupol to us”
– One day, my roommate and I went into town. We needed to go to the bank. But it wasn’t open! It turned out there was an air raid alert. An employee asked us, ‘Didn’t you get a notification on your phone?’ “What notification? On which phone? We’re not used to this yet,” smiles Valeria Subotina during an interview in Kyiv—a city under martial law, yet far from the front lines. She also talks about how she’s trying to adjust to life in the city. “On Border Guard Day, Vita (my sister and roommate—‘N’) and I went to buy a cake and champagne for Dad and Mom (Andriy Subotina’s parents—‘N’). But alcohol is only served starting at 11 a.m. We ask why. The security guard: “How can you not know?” – “We’re not locals!” – the woman laughs. – How do you explain to someone that you really don’t know?
– Since you’ve already started with this kind of news, tell me what struck you the most after 11 months of an information vacuum in captivity?
– I was pleasantly surprised that everything in Kyiv was relatively okay. We’d been told that things were really bad—no electricity, people dying of hunger and cold in the winter, and supermarkets were being looted. The Russians were essentially describing Mariupol to us instead of Kyiv. We understood that their stories weren’t entirely true. But when you hear things like that for almost a year, of course you worry.
Andriy’s parents are from Kyiv; I knew they’d most likely stay here. I was worried about them, about my friends, and about ordinary people. I thought: if this is what’s happening in Kyiv, what on earth is happening to Ukraine?
Then we drove through Kyiv; it was nighttime, and the empty streets scared me a little. But when you go out during the day, you see how many people are out and about, living their lives peacefully. Then you read online about how many people are helping the army, how many are continuing to fight and live through the war—it’s truly inspiring.
It’s unfortunate that for some people the war is over—there’s a certain percentage like that. I hope there aren’t many of them. After all, it’s not just the military who are involved in the war. There has to be a reliable rear.
The liberation of Kherson was big news for us; while in captivity, we’d only heard about it through rumors and overheard conversations among the prison guards.
I was struck by how Ukrainian troops are retaking territory. It’s both impressive and heartening to see how our troops are fighting under incredibly difficult conditions, such as in Bakhmut or Vuhledar. It’s heartening that other countries are supporting us. After all, while in captivity, we were constantly told that the world had turned its back on Ukraine.
Until September, we were in Olenivka (a prison camp in the occupied territory of Donetsk Oblast, where Ukrainian prisoners of war and hostages are held en masse—“N”); some of the girls counted the days and would say aloud what the date was and how long we’d been in captivity, just to have some kind of anchor. There was a little more information there. The occupiers’ radio was playing, and we could at least learn some news from it. Sometimes the guards would talk among themselves about something, and we would listen. In Taganrog, when they called us in for interrogations, they would talk as well—mostly to intimidate or break us.
A Guide for Prison Guards
Former prisoners of war can’t say much about their time as Russian captives or how they were tortured, because that information could harm those who are still in captivity—the Russians monitor everything.
Valeria says that during her interrogations, she was asked not only about the war. They wanted to learn more about the State Border Guard Service, “Azov,” and sometimes—to reinforce their “ideological” notions about “Ukrainian Nazis.”
– What was that like?
– For example, they were interested in how “Muscovites” differ from Russians. They thought the word “Muscovite” was coined by “Azov.” I quoted Shevchenko to them: “Fall in love, black-browed ones, but not with Muscovites,” and Mayakovsky: “Comrade Muscovite, don’t bare your teeth at Ukraine.” They said Mayakovsky couldn’t have written something like that. I replied that we had Mayakovsky’s book in our cell and that I could let them read it.
When they asked how Russians differ from “Muscovites,” I said that Russians are fighting for Ukraine, and I respect them for that. They didn’t really like that answer,” Valeria smiles.
“They demanded that I behave like a prisoner, but I behaved like a prisoner of war.”
They didn’t understand that just because we’re behind bars doesn’t mean we have to say what they want to hear.”
We were waiting for a prisoner exchange. And right now, the young men and women who remain in captivity are waiting for an exchange. And they must not submit or give in.
The Russians generally don’t understand our thirst for freedom or what’s inside us. It wasn’t hard for us to endure the conditions of captivity or anything like that. What was hard was being far from Ukraine, from our loved ones. It was hard to keep alive that hope that keeps you alive.
And we didn’t know if they would take us away, or when it would happen. When we were taken prisoner [from the Azovstal plant on May 16–20, 2022], we were promised that we’d be released in three or four months. But there are people who are still there. And now we’ll fight for them here.
“Give Me Back My Andriy”
Valeria explains: she didn’t comply because she had nothing to lose. The loss of her Andriy outweighed everything else.
– The Russians understood that they couldn’t threaten me with anything, nor could they promise me anything. When they asked what they could offer, I said, “Give me back my Andriy.” Andriy is both my weakness and my strength. He is the only person for whom I was capable of anything. And because of his death, I am very angry with them. I was, and still am.
Karpilenko worked in the administrative departments of the National Guard’s “Azov” regiment (in 2015–2016) and the Donetsk Border Guard Detachment (2017–2020). She met Andriy while on duty. He joined their border guard detachment in early 2019, assigned to the legal department. The press officer shared an office with the lawyers.
“At work, I was just a ‘regular girl’—I might raise my voice or swear a bit,” Nava smiles. “And then there was Vyshyvanka Day; I came to work wearing a vyshyvanka and a wreath.” He remembered that I was dancing, and he liked it. And I liked him right away—intelligent, well-mannered, with a nice beard; his call sign was “Beard.” We wrote to each other, talked on the phone, hung out, went for walks, and went on dates. And starting on June 6—Journalist’s Day—we started living together.
We recently talked with Andriy’s mom about how much we’ve managed to do together in three years. We’d basically told each other everything. We constantly declared our love for one another. We had a warm relationship, and our arguments were minor. We traveled a lot around Ukraine and the Donetsk region. These three years were very eventful for us. We didn’t deny ourselves any joys. Some people might not experience in a lifetime what we experienced in three years.
Sometimes I think: there wasn’t enough time. But how much is enough? If we’d managed to have children, live together for 20 years, and then I’d lost him, wouldn’t it have hurt just as much? I don’t know. Of course, I’d like to have had more time.
Valeria is melancholic; Andriy is sociable, cheerful, and easygoing.
“One of my dreams was to go horseback riding,” says Nava. “But I’m afraid of heights; when I get on a horse, I get dizzy.” There was a place near Mariupol where they offered equine therapy. Andriy called them: “I need a horse for a little girl—a small one.” When we arrived, they gave me a really small horse, but the staff later said they thought we were looking for an animal for a child. He bought my bandura the same way—it’s still in Mariupol. The seller also thought we were looking for a small instrument for a child. He found me a driving instructor, and during the lesson he sat in the back seat. The instructor later said, “This is the first time I’ve seen a husband come along to check if the instructor is any good.”
Andriy loved and was good at giving surprises. Once, his and Valeria’s vacations didn’t line up, so he went on his own to visit his parents in Kyiv for a few weeks.
“He calls and says, ‘Check to see if there’s any of the jam Mom sent left in the pantry.’ I open the pantry, and there he is, sitting there with roses. I ask why he came back early from vacation. ‘I missed you! I’ll stay a couple of days and then leave.” How is that even possible?” Lera sighs. “And there are so many stories like that to tell over and over again!
He was picking out fishing rods for me, and I kept complaining that my grandpa didn’t fish with rods like that. He found ones just like the ones my grandpa used to have. And in the end, I fished with the one he bought first—not “Grandpa’s”—because the first one was more comfortable. By evening, it was cold in the fishing cabin, so he wrapped my legs in bottles of warm water. That’s what my grandmother used to do when I was a child. And he didn’t know that… Just a million stories!
And his constant cheerfulness. And his ability to be kind to everyone. If someone needs a ride—he’ll give it; if they need to buy something—he’ll buy it. That’s the kind of person he was. And you think: why are those bastards still alive, while my Andriy is gone…
Wedding rings made of foil
Andriy’s father, Valeriy Subotin, is a general, a former director of a department in the State Border Guard Service, and a combat veteran of the Donbas. But Andriy would always tell Valeriy: “I want to be the son of a general, not a general’s son.” So few people knew that Subotin came from a family of high-ranking officials. As a lawyer who was supposed to handle purely administrative work, Andriy seized every opportunity to travel to the contact line and the checkpoints. And when full-scale aggression began, it was as if he had been made for war. Although he wasn’t supposed to know how to do what he did, Valeria says.
Her husband really wanted his beloved to leave Mariupol. Lera was already working for the State Emergency Service at the time, but in a civilian position: in 2020, she resigned from the State Border Guard Service due to health issues; she was deemed unfit for military service, limitedly fit during wartime, and assigned a Group III disability.
– A few days before the invasion, Andriy asked me to pack an “emergency bag” and went to the store. When he came back, he asked if I’d packed it. “I did!” I replied. “I had a backpack, with my combat boots and body armor next to it.” He got angry. And when the invasion began, he was called up. I went to my grandmother’s. I thought I’d quickly take her to Kyiv or to relatives in Zaporizhzhia and then come back. My grandmother refused to go. Andriy later told me that he’d hoped we’d leave, and then they wouldn’t let me back in.
At first, my wife wanted to join the border guards, but they were temporarily being withdrawn from the city. Subotin joined “Azov.” So Nava called Kalina—Svyatoslav Palamari, the deputy commander of the “Azov” regiment—and he told her to go to the unit.
“I was mobilized.” “Orest” (Dmytro Kozatskyi—“N”) picked me up, and we drove to Azovstal.”
Back in the summer of 2021, Andriy had started talking about getting married. Valeria insisted that they first discuss the matter with his parents and his daughter from his first marriage. They had initially planned to get married in the summer of 2022. They tried on wedding rings.
At the end of March, the border guard was wounded. His fiancée was told that his injuries weren’t serious. Although, as Nava says, under those conditions in Mariupol, anyone who could walk was considered “seriously injured.”
The wounded Andriy came to see her—he didn’t want to stay in the hospital; he was planning to return to his post.
“I was so afraid for him, because ‘Bastion,’ where I was stationed along with the command staff, was constantly under fire from tanks, naval artillery, and aircraft. Everything that could, was firing at us. And he ran over. I said, ‘How are you going to make it to that “iron box” (the hospital at Azovstal—Ed.) to your border guards?’ ‘I’ll make it.’ And that night was surprisingly quiet. We sat there a while, talked a bit; he showed me his wounded shoulder. When he reached the “iron box,” he messaged that he’d made it. And the very next day, he was already back at his post. That’s Andriy through and through.
Later, he came running back with a little metal box—no one knows where he got it—and inside were wedding rings made of foil, and mine fit perfectly. He put his on too,” says Nava.
On April 15, an aerial bomb struck. Valeriya was pinned down. She suffered a severe concussion and a closed head injury; the guys pulled her out and carried her to the hospital. Because of the shelling, Andriy couldn’t get to his fiancée. He was terribly worried.
“Even before I was wounded, Andriy said, ‘Let’s have Redis marry us’ (Denis Prokopenko, commander of the Azov Regiment, who had the authority to officially perform the marriage—‘N’).” And I said, “No way! He has so much work to do, and the fighting is so intense.” I know that others were getting married at that time. But we weren’t in any hurry. We had our whole lives ahead of us. It felt wrong to rush things.
On May 5, the anniversary of the founding of “Azov,” Valeria and Andriy finally got married. We’d planned to get married at St. Andrew’s Church once we returned to Kyiv.
– He was worried that I didn’t have a white dress. I ordered the wedding rings—just the way we wanted them. I have a dress, too.
After her release from captivity, Valeria did a photo shoot in Kyiv wearing a wedding dress. Without her groom…
When military personnel get married, a report is drawn up and signed by the bride and groom and the unit commander. A photo of this report is sent to the families, who then take the document to the Civil Registry Office, where the couple later picks up their marriage certificate.
“At first, I told Andriy that I didn’t want to change my last name. He didn’t mind. But then I overheard him talking with the guys—someone said it was strange for a girl to keep her own last name, and Andriy agreed. So when I filled out the paperwork, I wrote that I was taking his last name—Subotina. At the time, Andriy was at his post. From there, he wrote to me about how happy he was and how well his last name suited me.
Two days later, Captain of Justice Andriy Subotin was killed. His body is still in Mariupol.
“I’m still partly at Azovstal”
Valeria Karpilenko was born in Mariupol and lived with her grandmother in a village near Shakhtarsk in the Donetsk region (which is also currently occupied). At the Karpilenko home, they spoke Ukrainian; her family knew folk songs, and Lera sang them at performances.
The young woman graduated from a university in Mariupol. She was a journalist and poet, and taught communications and public relations at Mariupol State University (she holds a Ph.D. in Social Communications). She worked at the “TV7 Mariupol” television channel, produced a program about the military, and reported on the newly formed “Azov” regiment of the National Guard. In 2015, Lera was offered the chance to join the regiment.
“I didn’t choose it over other units. It chose me,” the Mariupol native smiles. “I felt at home with them; they’re principled, and that’s important to me.”
It was with the “Azov” regiment that she endured the siege and blockade of Mariupol, Russian attacks from land, sea, and air, and all the horrors of the first three months of the “great war.”
“When I was at Azovstal, it seemed to me there was no place more horrific.
But while in captivity, it already seemed like things had been better in Mariupol—there, we were together, supporting one another.
There were often fireworks in Taganrog. They (the Russians) are always celebrating something there. At moments like that, I’d pull the blanket over my head and imagine I was at Azovstal, with my guys right beside me, sleeping just like we used to—on some pallets—and that the Russians were shooting at us. And only then could I fall asleep,” the soldier says with a sad smile.
– But Azovstal really was hell. And when we started losing friends, it was indescribably painful. And it’s constantly scary. But you can’t panic; you have to do your job.
“Azovstal” means loss and, at the same time, an incredible will to live. It’s when the guys are searching for food and water under fire. Andriy brought food to the civilians in the bunker and left me a few waffles. We’d break those waffles into tiny pieces and share them with the guys. And even though you’d only eaten a tiny piece, it made you feel good. We were—and still are—like a family.
I shaved my head back then so as not to waste water. We all tried to eat just a little and conserve everything so there would be enough for everyone. It was hard to wear body armor; it was scary waiting for air raids.
I’m not religious, but at the start of the “great war,” I talked to God, praying for my grandmother, for myself, and for Andriy. Then I thought: that [comrade] has a fiancée waiting for him, that one has children. You pray for one, then for another. And then neither one nor the other is left.
You think: maybe you can’t pray for so many people—maybe there’s some kind of limit.
Everyone I prayed for is no longer among the living. So what’s my limit then?..
“It’s as if she’s asking God—or perhaps herself,” Valeria says. “You shave a comrade’s head, laugh with him, and the next day he’s gone. You joke with another, ask when he’s getting married, and then he gets killed.”
But the scariest thing for Lera wasn’t even being at the massive steel mill under fire—it was working in the city. On the streets of Mariupol, where she’d spent her childhood, where she used to walk with her friends.
“You arrive at the main post office, where we used to meet often, and it’s gone—just ruins. A pile of bricks lies there. Everything is destroyed; rocket launchers are sticking out of the ground. But this is your city; to you, it’s a living organism.” I can’t describe the ruined Mariupol—it hurts too much. We managed to stop by my grandmother’s house. On the way, I see a building, but part of its wall is missing, and through that hole, I can see people walking around. The bodies of civilians are lying in the street. “Grad” rockets are raining down. Our driver maneuvers as best he can. A woman is walking down the street, and a moment later—a direct hit—and all that’s left in her place is a pile of flesh. How can you ever forget that?
And there’s nothing you can do but talk. The city was silent because there was no communication, nothing. The only ones speaking were the “Azov” fighters. Orest communicated through photos and videos, and I wrote texts on behalf of Mariupol. It was hard work, but necessary.
I still dream of a ruined Mariupol. And I want so badly to see it the way it used to be. I’m ready to shut down the Russians when they say they’re “rebuilding the city.” You can’t rebuild what you yourself have destroyed. After all, they destroyed not only buildings, piers, and the drama theater, but also people’s lives. Because every person was a universe and a part of Mariupol. Every activist who left the city—who helped the soldiers, cared for orphans, and worked on community affairs—is also a loss, because these people are also building blocks. This is no longer a city by the sea—it is a city of sorrow, grief, and loss.
Nava is grateful to her comrades, her commanders, and Dmytro Kozats’kyi for supporting her at “Azovstal.” Orest was always giving her something to do: write something, keep the lights on at “Dzherelo”—in the bunker where he took those famous photos of wounded fighters, including Marine Mykhailo Dianov.
“Orest knew that the only thing that would lift my spirits was work,” Valeria smiles. “We had to run under small-arms fire that was already reaching Azovstal, where the enemy was closing in, and I said, ‘Orest, run—I’ll catch up.’ But he said, ‘I won’t run without you.’ He pulled me through both after I was wounded and after Andriy’s death.
According to Nava, Redis announced the order to surrender. The regiment commander said it would be an honorable surrender.
“Our commander wanted to save us. Probably, just like those who gave that order from above. But we didn’t know how long it would last or how we would be treated.” I probably didn’t realize anything back then. I’m still partly there at “Azovstal.”
Return. Tulips. Victory
While in captivity, Nava constantly imagined how she would get out of there and what she would say. But the exchange happened unexpectedly. They were roused in the middle of the night. No one understood where they were being taken. One of the Russian guards asked if Valeria’s hands were trembling out of sheer happiness. Nava replied that she didn’t know anything. “I think you’re going home,” said the guard.
The prisoners were transported by bus for a long time. Everyone wore hats or had bags over their heads so they couldn’t see the road, and their hands were tied.
“A hunched-over boy was sitting next to me on the bus. They took the bags off our heads. I saw another bus driving past us, and on it was a border guard I knew, with whom I’d served in the Donetsk Border Guard Detachment.” Even though he had lost a lot of weight, I recognized him. And I realized that this was an exchange. We all lifted our heads, but that boy didn’t. A man got on the bus and greeted us in Ukrainian. But the boy sitting next to me just kept staring at his feet.
“Look up,” Nava told him.
“I won’t. And you don’t look up either. They’re all fooling us! On purpose, so they can beat us up or something.”
When we got off the buses, Valeria scanned the crowd for familiar faces. She thought Andriy’s parents would come to meet her. But they weren’t there. She asked a border guard to make a call and said into the receiver, “Dad, it’s Lera. I’m here.” “Where are you?”
“I’m just wandering around and don’t know where I am,” Subotina laughs. “Then, late at night, we arrived in Kyiv. There was no one there—just Andriy’s mom and dad standing there with a huge bouquet of tulips.” And I’d been dreaming so much about tulips—I didn’t know if I’d get to see them this year. My mom was crying, but I couldn’t even bring myself to cry. I was in a daze. And then Mom said that Grandma had died, that she was buried in Mariupol, and that my Andriy’s body still hadn’t been found.
I wanted so badly to see Grandma—my only close relative. And, even if it sounds silly, I dreamed of visiting Andriy’s grave with a latte and a ristretto—the kind he always drank, terribly bitter—and I dreamed that I’d drink coffee by his side, and it would make me feel better.
Thanks to his parents, I still haven’t fully come to terms with the pain. They call me constantly, and people are always coming to see me. Someday, this realization will sink in. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to just cry like normal people do.
In Taganrog, all I could do was cover myself with a blanket and scream silently for him.
I don’t know who I want to appear strong for: for him, for his parents, or for his enemies. I harbor hatred for them.
And I behaved that way in captivity because I can’t give up. Thanks to him. In memory of him.
Because dying isn’t actually the worst thing that can happen.
Valeria is rejoicing in this spring. After all, she didn’t have a spring in 2022—just like she didn’t have one for almost the entire year. She can gaze at a tree or a flower for minutes on end.
“I don’t need any other joys.” The wind, the trees, the birds—that’s all I need right now. We’re happy that we survived and made it out. We don’t need any other happiness. As long as they just leave us alone… so we can end the war with a victory. And just keep admiring the flowers.
– What would victory mean to you personally?
– For Ukraine, it would mean a return to the borders of August 1991, an apology from Russia, sanctions, and reparations. And for me… I don’t even know when victory will come. Because when they take everything from you, you want to take everything back, too.
One lifetime probably won’t be enough for that. I’ll have to live either a thousand years or a very productive life,” Valeria smiles.
And she adds:
– When Russians asked me what “Nava” means, I replied that it means nothing good for them.
Author: Anastasia Fedchenko
Thin, exhausted, with hands as dry as parchment—yet unbreakable. That’s how Valeria Subotina (Karpilenko) emerged from Russian captivity. She is the very same “Nava” who married her husband Andriy at the besieged Azovstal two days before his death on May 7, 2022. Nava remained in captivity for 11 months, until she was released in a prisoner exchange on April 11, 2023.
In an interview with “Novynarnia,” Valeria spoke about her war, about Mariupol—which no longer exists—about her greatest loss, about her captivity, about her return home, her attempt to get used to air raid alerts in Kyiv, and the spring she’s breathing in to the fullest.
“Instead of Kyiv, the Russians were actually describing Mariupol to us”
– One day, my roommate and I went into town. We needed to go to the bank. But it wasn’t open! It turned out there was an air raid alert. An employee asked us, ‘Didn’t you get a notification on your phone?’ “What notification? On which phone? We’re not used to this yet,” smiles Valeria Subotina during an interview in Kyiv—a city under martial law, yet far from the front lines. She also talks about how she’s trying to adjust to life in the city. “On Border Guard Day, Vita (my sister and roommate—‘N’) and I went to buy a cake and champagne for Dad and Mom (Andriy Subotina’s parents—‘N’). But alcohol is only served starting at 11 a.m. We ask why. The security guard: “How can you not know?” – “We’re not locals!” – the woman laughs. – How do you explain to someone that you really don’t know?
– Since you’ve already started with this kind of news, tell me what struck you the most after 11 months of an information vacuum in captivity?
– I was pleasantly surprised that everything in Kyiv was relatively okay. We’d been told that things were really bad—no electricity, people dying of hunger and cold in the winter, and supermarkets were being looted. The Russians were essentially describing Mariupol to us instead of Kyiv. We understood that their stories weren’t entirely true. But when you hear things like that for almost a year, of course you worry.
Andriy’s parents are from Kyiv; I knew they’d most likely stay here. I was worried about them, about my friends, and about ordinary people. I thought: if this is what’s happening in Kyiv, what on earth is happening to Ukraine?
Then we drove through Kyiv; it was nighttime, and the empty streets scared me a little. But when you go out during the day, you see how many people are out and about, living their lives peacefully. Then you read online about how many people are helping the army, how many are continuing to fight and live through the war—it’s truly inspiring.
It’s unfortunate that for some people the war is over—there’s a certain percentage like that. I hope there aren’t many of them. After all, it’s not just the military who are involved in the war. There has to be a reliable rear.
The liberation of Kherson was big news for us; while in captivity, we’d only heard about it through rumors and overheard conversations among the prison guards.
I was struck by how Ukrainian troops are retaking territory. It’s both impressive and heartening to see how our troops are fighting under incredibly difficult conditions, such as in Bakhmut or Vuhledar. It’s heartening that other countries are supporting us. After all, while in captivity, we were constantly told that the world had turned its back on Ukraine.
Until September, we were in Olenivka (a prison camp in the occupied territory of Donetsk Oblast, where Ukrainian prisoners of war and hostages are held en masse—“N”); some of the girls counted the days and would say aloud what the date was and how long we’d been in captivity, just to have some kind of anchor. There was a little more information there. The occupiers’ radio was playing, and we could at least learn some news from it. Sometimes the guards would talk among themselves about something, and we would listen. In Taganrog, when they called us in for interrogations, they would talk as well—mostly to intimidate or break us.
A Guide for Prison Guards
Former prisoners of war can’t say much about their time as Russian captives or how they were tortured, because that information could harm those who are still in captivity—the Russians monitor everything.
Valeria says that during her interrogations, she was asked not only about the war. They wanted to learn more about the State Border Guard Service, “Azov,” and sometimes—to reinforce their “ideological” notions about “Ukrainian Nazis.”
– What was that like?
– For example, they were interested in how “Muscovites” differ from Russians. They thought the word “Muscovite” was coined by “Azov.” I quoted Shevchenko to them: “Fall in love, black-browed ones, but not with Muscovites,” and Mayakovsky: “Comrade Muscovite, don’t bare your teeth at Ukraine.” They said Mayakovsky couldn’t have written something like that. I replied that we had Mayakovsky’s book in our cell and that I could let them read it.
When they asked how Russians differ from “Muscovites,” I said that Russians are fighting for Ukraine, and I respect them for that. They didn’t really like that answer,” Valeria smiles.
“They demanded that I behave like a prisoner, but I behaved like a prisoner of war.”
They didn’t understand that just because we’re behind bars doesn’t mean we have to say what they want to hear.”
We were waiting for a prisoner exchange. And right now, the young men and women who remain in captivity are waiting for an exchange. And they must not submit or give in.
The Russians generally don’t understand our thirst for freedom or what’s inside us. It wasn’t hard for us to endure the conditions of captivity or anything like that. What was hard was being far from Ukraine, from our loved ones. It was hard to keep alive that hope that keeps you alive.
And we didn’t know if they would take us away, or when it would happen. When we were taken prisoner [from the Azovstal plant on May 16–20, 2022], we were promised that we’d be released in three or four months. But there are people who are still there. And now we’ll fight for them here.
“Give Me Back My Andriy”
Valeria explains: she didn’t comply because she had nothing to lose. The loss of her Andriy outweighed everything else.
– The Russians understood that they couldn’t threaten me with anything, nor could they promise me anything. When they asked what they could offer, I said, “Give me back my Andriy.” Andriy is both my weakness and my strength. He is the only person for whom I was capable of anything. And because of his death, I am very angry with them. I was, and still am.
Karpilenko worked in the administrative departments of the National Guard’s “Azov” regiment (in 2015–2016) and the Donetsk Border Guard Detachment (2017–2020). She met Andriy while on duty. He joined their border guard detachment in early 2019, assigned to the legal department. The press officer shared an office with the lawyers.
“At work, I was just a ‘regular girl’—I might raise my voice or swear a bit,” Nava smiles. “And then there was Vyshyvanka Day; I came to work wearing a vyshyvanka and a wreath.” He remembered that I was dancing, and he liked it. And I liked him right away—intelligent, well-mannered, with a nice beard; his call sign was “Beard.” We wrote to each other, talked on the phone, hung out, went for walks, and went on dates. And starting on June 6—Journalist’s Day—we started living together.
We recently talked with Andriy’s mom about how much we’ve managed to do together in three years. We’d basically told each other everything. We constantly declared our love for one another. We had a warm relationship, and our arguments were minor. We traveled a lot around Ukraine and the Donetsk region. These three years were very eventful for us. We didn’t deny ourselves any joys. Some people might not experience in a lifetime what we experienced in three years.
Sometimes I think: there wasn’t enough time. But how much is enough? If we’d managed to have children, live together for 20 years, and then I’d lost him, wouldn’t it have hurt just as much? I don’t know. Of course, I’d like to have had more time.
Valeria is melancholic; Andriy is sociable, cheerful, and easygoing.
“One of my dreams was to go horseback riding,” says Nava. “But I’m afraid of heights; when I get on a horse, I get dizzy.” There was a place near Mariupol where they offered equine therapy. Andriy called them: “I need a horse for a little girl—a small one.” When we arrived, they gave me a really small horse, but the staff later said they thought we were looking for an animal for a child. He bought my bandura the same way—it’s still in Mariupol. The seller also thought we were looking for a small instrument for a child. He found me a driving instructor, and during the lesson he sat in the back seat. The instructor later said, “This is the first time I’ve seen a husband come along to check if the instructor is any good.”
Andriy loved and was good at giving surprises. Once, his and Valeria’s vacations didn’t line up, so he went on his own to visit his parents in Kyiv for a few weeks.
“He calls and says, ‘Check to see if there’s any of the jam Mom sent left in the pantry.’ I open the pantry, and there he is, sitting there with roses. I ask why he came back early from vacation. ‘I missed you! I’ll stay a couple of days and then leave.” How is that even possible?” Lera sighs. “And there are so many stories like that to tell over and over again!
He was picking out fishing rods for me, and I kept complaining that my grandpa didn’t fish with rods like that. He found ones just like the ones my grandpa used to have. And in the end, I fished with the one he bought first—not “Grandpa’s”—because the first one was more comfortable. By evening, it was cold in the fishing cabin, so he wrapped my legs in bottles of warm water. That’s what my grandmother used to do when I was a child. And he didn’t know that… Just a million stories!
And his constant cheerfulness. And his ability to be kind to everyone. If someone needs a ride—he’ll give it; if they need to buy something—he’ll buy it. That’s the kind of person he was. And you think: why are those bastards still alive, while my Andriy is gone…
Wedding rings made of foil
Andriy’s father, Valeriy Subotin, is a general, a former director of a department in the State Border Guard Service, and a combat veteran of the Donbas. But Andriy would always tell Valeriy: “I want to be the son of a general, not a general’s son.” So few people knew that Subotin came from a family of high-ranking officials. As a lawyer who was supposed to handle purely administrative work, Andriy seized every opportunity to travel to the contact line and the checkpoints. And when full-scale aggression began, it was as if he had been made for war. Although he wasn’t supposed to know how to do what he did, Valeria says.
Her husband really wanted his beloved to leave Mariupol. Lera was already working for the State Emergency Service at the time, but in a civilian position: in 2020, she resigned from the State Border Guard Service due to health issues; she was deemed unfit for military service, limitedly fit during wartime, and assigned a Group III disability.
– A few days before the invasion, Andriy asked me to pack an “emergency bag” and went to the store. When he came back, he asked if I’d packed it. “I did!” I replied. “I had a backpack, with my combat boots and body armor next to it.” He got angry. And when the invasion began, he was called up. I went to my grandmother’s. I thought I’d quickly take her to Kyiv or to relatives in Zaporizhzhia and then come back. My grandmother refused to go. Andriy later told me that he’d hoped we’d leave, and then they wouldn’t let me back in.
At first, my wife wanted to join the border guards, but they were temporarily being withdrawn from the city. Subotin joined “Azov.” So Nava called Kalina—Svyatoslav Palamari, the deputy commander of the “Azov” regiment—and he told her to go to the unit.
“I was mobilized.” “Orest” (Dmytro Kozatskyi—“N”) picked me up, and we drove to Azovstal.”
Back in the summer of 2021, Andriy had started talking about getting married. Valeria insisted that they first discuss the matter with his parents and his daughter from his first marriage. They had initially planned to get married in the summer of 2022. They tried on wedding rings.
At the end of March, the border guard was wounded. His fiancée was told that his injuries weren’t serious. Although, as Nava says, under those conditions in Mariupol, anyone who could walk was considered “seriously injured.”
The wounded Andriy came to see her—he didn’t want to stay in the hospital; he was planning to return to his post.
“I was so afraid for him, because ‘Bastion,’ where I was stationed along with the command staff, was constantly under fire from tanks, naval artillery, and aircraft. Everything that could, was firing at us. And he ran over. I said, ‘How are you going to make it to that “iron box” (the hospital at Azovstal—Ed.) to your border guards?’ ‘I’ll make it.’ And that night was surprisingly quiet. We sat there a while, talked a bit; he showed me his wounded shoulder. When he reached the “iron box,” he messaged that he’d made it. And the very next day, he was already back at his post. That’s Andriy through and through.
Later, he came running back with a little metal box—no one knows where he got it—and inside were wedding rings made of foil, and mine fit perfectly. He put his on too,” says Nava.
On April 15, an aerial bomb struck. Valeriya was pinned down. She suffered a severe concussion and a closed head injury; the guys pulled her out and carried her to the hospital. Because of the shelling, Andriy couldn’t get to his fiancée. He was terribly worried.
“Even before I was wounded, Andriy said, ‘Let’s have Redis marry us’ (Denis Prokopenko, commander of the Azov Regiment, who had the authority to officially perform the marriage—‘N’).” And I said, “No way! He has so much work to do, and the fighting is so intense.” I know that others were getting married at that time. But we weren’t in any hurry. We had our whole lives ahead of us. It felt wrong to rush things.
On May 5, the anniversary of the founding of “Azov,” Valeria and Andriy finally got married. We’d planned to get married at St. Andrew’s Church once we returned to Kyiv.
– He was worried that I didn’t have a white dress. I ordered the wedding rings—just the way we wanted them. I have a dress, too.
After her release from captivity, Valeria did a photo shoot in Kyiv wearing a wedding dress. Without her groom…
When military personnel get married, a report is drawn up and signed by the bride and groom and the unit commander. A photo of this report is sent to the families, who then take the document to the Civil Registry Office, where the couple later picks up their marriage certificate.
“At first, I told Andriy that I didn’t want to change my last name. He didn’t mind. But then I overheard him talking with the guys—someone said it was strange for a girl to keep her own last name, and Andriy agreed. So when I filled out the paperwork, I wrote that I was taking his last name—Subotina. At the time, Andriy was at his post. From there, he wrote to me about how happy he was and how well his last name suited me.
Two days later, Captain of Justice Andriy Subotin was killed. His body is still in Mariupol.
“I’m still partly at Azovstal”
Valeria Karpilenko was born in Mariupol and lived with her grandmother in a village near Shakhtarsk in the Donetsk region (which is also currently occupied). At the Karpilenko home, they spoke Ukrainian; her family knew folk songs, and Lera sang them at performances.
The young woman graduated from a university in Mariupol. She was a journalist and poet, and taught communications and public relations at Mariupol State University (she holds a Ph.D. in Social Communications). She worked at the “TV7 Mariupol” television channel, produced a program about the military, and reported on the newly formed “Azov” regiment of the National Guard. In 2015, Lera was offered the chance to join the regiment.
“I didn’t choose it over other units. It chose me,” the Mariupol native smiles. “I felt at home with them; they’re principled, and that’s important to me.”
It was with the “Azov” regiment that she endured the siege and blockade of Mariupol, Russian attacks from land, sea, and air, and all the horrors of the first three months of the “great war.”
“When I was at Azovstal, it seemed to me there was no place more horrific.
But while in captivity, it already seemed like things had been better in Mariupol—there, we were together, supporting one another.
There were often fireworks in Taganrog. They (the Russians) are always celebrating something there. At moments like that, I’d pull the blanket over my head and imagine I was at Azovstal, with my guys right beside me, sleeping just like we used to—on some pallets—and that the Russians were shooting at us. And only then could I fall asleep,” the soldier says with a sad smile.
– But Azovstal really was hell. And when we started losing friends, it was indescribably painful. And it’s constantly scary. But you can’t panic; you have to do your job.
“Azovstal” means loss and, at the same time, an incredible will to live. It’s when the guys are searching for food and water under fire. Andriy brought food to the civilians in the bunker and left me a few waffles. We’d break those waffles into tiny pieces and share them with the guys. And even though you’d only eaten a tiny piece, it made you feel good. We were—and still are—like a family.
I shaved my head back then so as not to waste water. We all tried to eat just a little and conserve everything so there would be enough for everyone. It was hard to wear body armor; it was scary waiting for air raids.
I’m not religious, but at the start of the “great war,” I talked to God, praying for my grandmother, for myself, and for Andriy. Then I thought: that [comrade] has a fiancée waiting for him, that one has children. You pray for one, then for another. And then neither one nor the other is left.
You think: maybe you can’t pray for so many people—maybe there’s some kind of limit.
Everyone I prayed for is no longer among the living. So what’s my limit then?..
“It’s as if she’s asking God—or perhaps herself,” Valeria says. “You shave a comrade’s head, laugh with him, and the next day he’s gone. You joke with another, ask when he’s getting married, and then he gets killed.”
But the scariest thing for Lera wasn’t even being at the massive steel mill under fire—it was working in the city. On the streets of Mariupol, where she’d spent her childhood, where she used to walk with her friends.
“You arrive at the main post office, where we used to meet often, and it’s gone—just ruins. A pile of bricks lies there. Everything is destroyed; rocket launchers are sticking out of the ground. But this is your city; to you, it’s a living organism.” I can’t describe the ruined Mariupol—it hurts too much. We managed to stop by my grandmother’s house. On the way, I see a building, but part of its wall is missing, and through that hole, I can see people walking around. The bodies of civilians are lying in the street. “Grad” rockets are raining down. Our driver maneuvers as best he can. A woman is walking down the street, and a moment later—a direct hit—and all that’s left in her place is a pile of flesh. How can you ever forget that?
And there’s nothing you can do but talk. The city was silent because there was no communication, nothing. The only ones speaking were the “Azov” fighters. Orest communicated through photos and videos, and I wrote texts on behalf of Mariupol. It was hard work, but necessary.
I still dream of a ruined Mariupol. And I want so badly to see it the way it used to be. I’m ready to shut down the Russians when they say they’re “rebuilding the city.” You can’t rebuild what you yourself have destroyed. After all, they destroyed not only buildings, piers, and the drama theater, but also people’s lives. Because every person was a universe and a part of Mariupol. Every activist who left the city—who helped the soldiers, cared for orphans, and worked on community affairs—is also a loss, because these people are also building blocks. This is no longer a city by the sea—it is a city of sorrow, grief, and loss.
Nava is grateful to her comrades, her commanders, and Dmytro Kozats’kyi for supporting her at “Azovstal.” Orest was always giving her something to do: write something, keep the lights on at “Dzherelo”—in the bunker where he took those famous photos of wounded fighters, including Marine Mykhailo Dianov.
“Orest knew that the only thing that would lift my spirits was work,” Valeria smiles. “We had to run under small-arms fire that was already reaching Azovstal, where the enemy was closing in, and I said, ‘Orest, run—I’ll catch up.’ But he said, ‘I won’t run without you.’ He pulled me through both after I was wounded and after Andriy’s death.
According to Nava, Redis announced the order to surrender. The regiment commander said it would be an honorable surrender.
“Our commander wanted to save us. Probably, just like those who gave that order from above. But we didn’t know how long it would last or how we would be treated.” I probably didn’t realize anything back then. I’m still partly there at “Azovstal.”
Return. Tulips. Victory
While in captivity, Nava constantly imagined how she would get out of there and what she would say. But the exchange happened unexpectedly. They were roused in the middle of the night. No one understood where they were being taken. One of the Russian guards asked if Valeria’s hands were trembling out of sheer happiness. Nava replied that she didn’t know anything. “I think you’re going home,” said the guard.
The prisoners were transported by bus for a long time. Everyone wore hats or had bags over their heads so they couldn’t see the road, and their hands were tied.
“A hunched-over boy was sitting next to me on the bus. They took the bags off our heads. I saw another bus driving past us, and on it was a border guard I knew, with whom I’d served in the Donetsk Border Guard Detachment.” Even though he had lost a lot of weight, I recognized him. And I realized that this was an exchange. We all lifted our heads, but that boy didn’t. A man got on the bus and greeted us in Ukrainian. But the boy sitting next to me just kept staring at his feet.
“Look up,” Nava told him.
“I won’t. And you don’t look up either. They’re all fooling us! On purpose, so they can beat us up or something.”
When we got off the buses, Valeria scanned the crowd for familiar faces. She thought Andriy’s parents would come to meet her. But they weren’t there. She asked a border guard to make a call and said into the receiver, “Dad, it’s Lera. I’m here.” “Where are you?”
“I’m just wandering around and don’t know where I am,” Subotina laughs. “Then, late at night, we arrived in Kyiv. There was no one there—just Andriy’s mom and dad standing there with a huge bouquet of tulips.” And I’d been dreaming so much about tulips—I didn’t know if I’d get to see them this year. My mom was crying, but I couldn’t even bring myself to cry. I was in a daze. And then Mom said that Grandma had died, that she was buried in Mariupol, and that my Andriy’s body still hadn’t been found.
I wanted so badly to see Grandma—my only close relative. And, even if it sounds silly, I dreamed of visiting Andriy’s grave with a latte and a ristretto—the kind he always drank, terribly bitter—and I dreamed that I’d drink coffee by his side, and it would make me feel better.
Thanks to his parents, I still haven’t fully come to terms with the pain. They call me constantly, and people are always coming to see me. Someday, this realization will sink in. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to just cry like normal people do.
In Taganrog, all I could do was cover myself with a blanket and scream silently for him.
I don’t know who I want to appear strong for: for him, for his parents, or for his enemies. I harbor hatred for them.
And I behaved that way in captivity because I can’t give up. Thanks to him. In memory of him.
Because dying isn’t actually the worst thing that can happen.
Valeria is rejoicing in this spring. After all, she didn’t have a spring in 2022—just like she didn’t have one for almost the entire year. She can gaze at a tree or a flower for minutes on end.
“I don’t need any other joys.” The wind, the trees, the birds—that’s all I need right now. We’re happy that we survived and made it out. We don’t need any other happiness. As long as they just leave us alone… so we can end the war with a victory. And just keep admiring the flowers.
– What would victory mean to you personally?
– For Ukraine, it would mean a return to the borders of August 1991, an apology from Russia, sanctions, and reparations. And for me… I don’t even know when victory will come. Because when they take everything from you, you want to take everything back, too.
One lifetime probably won’t be enough for that. I’ll have to live either a thousand years or a very productive life,” Valeria smiles.
And she adds:
– When Russians asked me what “Nava” means, I replied that it means nothing good for them.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.