“The Russians said they could beat me anywhere except on the face. Because I’m a politician—I have to look presentable,” said Mykolayenko, the former mayor of Kherson, on his captivity, the o
Source: Life in War
Author: Oleg Baturin
You’ve been free for several weeks now and have been attending various events in Kyiv. From what you’ve noticed during this time—how much have Ukrainians changed since the start of the war?
I suppose it’s still too early for me to judge. I’m in the hospital, and it’s hard for me to objectively assess the changes in our society. But while I was in captivity, I realized that a nation has been forged in Ukraine—the nation of Ukrainians. First and foremost, these are the people fighting for our freedom—both on the front lines and here, behind the lines. I was pleased to hear about the support for our prisoners of war and about the people who have joined the struggle to free our young men and women from captivity.
I hope that Ukrainians are united. I have some questions for those who say they don’t care who’s in power, as long as there’s a piece of sausage in the fridge. I’ve always said: if they take away your freedom, they’ll take away your sausage too, and they’ll take away your bread—you’ll have nothing left. This was confirmed by what happened to me and others who were held captive.
I also don’t really like those people who have temporarily emigrated to other countries. I’m not talking about women and children. I’m talking about men of draft age who left and are now telling us from abroad how we should defend and love our homeland. In my opinion, they should stay there and renounce their Ukrainian citizenship. If you like Germany or Poland—stay there; don’t meddle in Ukraine’s affairs. I understand that not everyone can take up arms to defend the country. When I was issued a weapon myself, I realized that in the event of combat, it would be my last. Because I’m absolutely not a military person. But there was no other option back then.
Did you have any military experience?
At the maritime academy, I only had a 45-day training session, during which I took the oath. That was way back in 1979. I didn’t serve in the regular army. So when I received my weapon, I didn’t even know which end of the assault rifle to hold. The guys showed me how to do it. That’s why I had absolutely no doubt that I’d be one of the first casualties. But we understood that our families were counting on us. Who else but me should protect my mom, my wife, my daughter, and my grandchildren? Likewise, no other man should count on some Mykolaienko coming to defend the Petrenko family.
If you’re not able to defend them, you have to help the military. Friends who were ready to volunteer or provide financial support asked me for help. Even friends from abroad called and asked where they could send money. I told them I didn’t know. Because I was very afraid that a lot of “opportunists” would show up to profit from the war. When I was released from captivity, someone created a Facebook page in my name. Journalist friends told me that, according to this page, I was supposedly asking for money. To be honest, I’d put a stop to such “opportunists.” But such people do exist; they, too, are part of our society.
In the early days of the great war, did you ever think about leaving Kherson?
No. We didn’t invite anyone to our home; we lived our peaceful lives and were building our country. Yes, we dreamed of a much better country, but we were living a normal life. When people with weapons in their hands came to us, I believed we had to take up arms as well and put up a fight.
When did you enlist in the territorial defense forces?
February 24, 2022. In the morning, my wife told me that the war had started. There was a column of smoke near the airport: enemy helicopters had set fire to fuel depots. I said I was going to pack my things, asked my wife to give me something to eat, and went to the military registration and enlistment office.
The day before, on February 23, I spoke with our regional military commissioner and told him that it felt like war was coming. I asked him: “If war breaks out tomorrow, what should we do?” “Don’t stir things up—there won’t be any war; you’re just provoking conflict.” I insisted: “But suppose a major war does break out—what then?” We have to be prepared for this, not just brush it off. He replied: “Well, if something does happen, come to our military registration and enlistment office; I’ll give you a weapon, and you’ll go defend Kherson.” When I went to that same military registration office on February 24, unfortunately, that man wouldn’t see me. Some kind of ongoing meetings were taking place there. Then the person on duty told me that the military commissar was simply avoiding me. I asked him what I should do then. He replied that people were gathering at the city’s Territorial Defense Coordination Center, and territorial defense units were being formed. So I went there.
At the city’s Territorial Defense Coordination Center, I asked what I should do. They replied: “Go home, pack your things, and come back at noon. We’ll form all the units and then send them off to war.” That was in the morning. When I arrived at noon, there were a lot of people there. I stayed there for a long time; everyone seemed to be waiting for some kind of order. Around 5:00 p.m., buses pulled up, and someone told me to get on because they were taking us to where the territorial defense forces were stationed.
They took us to the village of Naddniprianske. There, I handed over my military ID; they registered me and issued me a weapon. By the time we’d set up, it had gotten dark. The buses came again, loaded people onto them, and said they were going to defend the Antonivsky Bridge. One bus left; two remained, and they told us to wait. After a while, the first wounded arrived. The Russians were shelling us with mortars; a little later, our artillery arrived and began returning fire. This went on all night.
We spent the night in Naddniprianske; in the morning, we were transported to Molodizhne because enemy vehicles had already crossed the Antonivsky Bridge. I don’t know why they didn’t blow it up—to me, that’s a huge mystery. If it had been blown up, enemy vehicles wouldn’t have been able to cross the Dnipro. The closest crossing point to Kherson is in Nova Kakhovka. But there, the road is very narrow due to the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant and the high riverbank. And beyond that, there’s only Zaporizhzhia. The Antonivsky Bridge remained intact, and large enemy columns crossed it toward Mykolaiv and Odesa. There, they say, the Russians were stopped and many of them were killed.
What happened in the first weeks of March, when the Russians had already entered Kherson?
First and foremost, the entire country saw how Kherson greeted these people—or rather, these monsters. It greeted them with massive acts of resistance, making clear its attitude toward the “brotherly aid” that the Russians had touted when they came to “liberate” us. From whom? From what? From ourselves, I suppose. The Russians were somewhat at a loss; they hadn’t expected such a reaction from the people. Because, indeed, thousands upon thousands of people took to the streets in protest. At first, the Russians stood there, terrified; then they began throwing smoke grenades. They fired into the air, rounded up people and threw them into prisons, and beat them.
Then it was my turn. On April 18, 2022, I went to meet someone, and an ambush was waiting for me there. It was in the city center around three or four in the afternoon. The person said they needed to consult with someone and pass on important information to me. I went. And I ended up in captivity for almost three and a half years.
Was this person involved in your capture by the Russians? Who is he?
I’m convinced he was involved. He’s also a member of the Territorial Defense Forces. I only know his name and call sign.
A car pulled up next to me at high speed; a man jumped out and grabbed me. He asked for my last name. I told them my name, and they turned me to face the car. “Him? Him!” They threw me into the trunk and drove me to the regional headquarters of the National Police. I immediately called my wife because they hadn’t had time to take my cell phone. I called, they noticed, and immediately ordered me to hand over the phone. My wife heard that something was happening, that I was in trouble, that I was being held captive. Later, the Russians told me that all the local and national media had reported on my capture within an hour. I was very pleased by this: people already knew that I was in captivity, and that they would no longer be able to use my phone to lure someone else into a “meeting” and capture them. The occupiers then demanded that I call in volunteers and journalists—they named them by name and ordered me to invite them to a “meeting.” Of course, I refused to do so.
What was the first interrogation like?
They told me that I had remained in Kherson as the leader of the underground, so they questioned me about who was working with me and where the weapons were hidden. They questioned me “vigorously.” After a few days, they apparently realized that I had absolutely nothing to do with the leadership of the underground. This was probably confirmed to them by the guys from the Territorial Defense Forces who had also been captured. I really was just a rank-and-file member of the Territorial Defense Forces—nothing more.
Meanwhile, the occupiers decided to “persuade” me to cooperate with them. At first, these were “peaceful” proposals: they said they had come here to stay and weren’t going anywhere, that they needed the support of the civilian population, and that I should join them. I said: if you need my advice on how to prepare the city for winter, I’ll tell you which pipes need to be replaced. Let them do it at their own expense. As for the rest, I didn’t agree, and besides, I’m too old for all that.
The interrogations were constant, including the use of physical force.
Were you beaten?
Just like everyone else. There were three or four people, I think, from the FSB. One was almost always present during the interrogations—probably a local. He was very knowledgeable about the city, law enforcement agencies, and public life. But I didn’t see all of their faces.
How long were you held in Kherson?
16 days. Early in the morning on May 2, 2022, around four or five o’clock, they sent us to Sevastopol. They said the conditions there would be good, that we’d be fed, that there would be TV, and that we might even be allowed to contact our families. They said, “You’ll stay there for a month or two, recognize the ‘new government,’ and in a week or two we’ll crush all your troops, take over all of Ukraine, and everyone will be happy.” And I thought to myself: “Sure, you’ll crush us.” But they didn’t. However, I didn’t spend just a month or two there—I was held for almost three and a half years.
Was anyone you knew taken prisoner?
Five of us were sent to Sevastopol, if I’m not mistaken. One of them used to be a patrol police lieutenant, I think. When they arrested him, he jumped—I don’t know if it was from the third or fourth floor—broke his arm and leg, and ran half a block before the Russians caught up with him. After that, the Russians nicknamed him “Batman.” Later, they brought in a man who had been the commander of my company in the Territorial Defense Forces. He was brought in severely beaten, his body bruised and blue from the brutal beatings. Later, two more members of the Territorial Defense Forces were dumped in with us.
It turned out that Andriy Putilov, a former member of the Verkhovna Rada and ex-head of the Kherson Regional State Administration, was being held with us in the neighboring cell at the time. But I didn’t hear him.
When the occupiers took you out for interviews with propaganda TV channels in the spring of 2022, did they warn you what to expect and what you were supposed to tell them?
They didn’t warn me about that. One day they gave me a razor and ordered me to shave. By the way, they always said, “We can beat you anywhere, but we can’t hit you in the face. Because you’re a politician; your face has to look more or less normal.” And that’s exactly what they did—they didn’t hit me in the face. But breaking my ribs was perfectly normal for them. They broke my ribs three times during my captivity, once in Kherson.
Then they ordered me to get ready to leave. They took me to some courtyard, sat me down at a table, and set up two microphones on it—one, if I’m not mistaken, from “Ren TV,” and the other from “Izvestia.” And then Vanechka showed up (Ivan Litomin, a propagandist from Arkhangelsk—Ed.). He sat down across from me, and behind Vanechka stood a thug with a rubber truncheon. He signaled with his gestures and facial expressions: “Go ahead, do your thing. And what happens next depends on what you say.” The only thing they told me but didn’t do was that they’d take me to Solovyov in Moscow for the broadcast. I replied, “Yeah, sure, let’s go straight to the live broadcast.”
I don’t remember how long the recording lasted. I remember being taken out to that courtyard several times. Once they lined me up against a wall and said they were going to shoot me right then and there. They even asked, “Are you scared?” But for some reason, I wasn’t afraid—somehow, I didn’t really feel any fear. I’d already had two grandsons; I had someone to leave my family’s future to. Back then, it was that same guy from Kherson who was provoking me the most—he was yelling and practically jumping out of his pants. Even the FSB officers seemed calmer.
During the filming, the Russians expected me to call on the Armed Forces of Ukraine not to resist, to find common ground with the Russians, and to rebuild the country together. That’s what they wanted to hear. But they never heard it. For some reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to say such things. I’d probably have bitten my tongue off first.
Then they took me to the Eternal Flame on the eve of May 9, 2022. They pointed to a plaque thanking Russian soldiers for liberating the city during World War II. I replied, “Well, thank you. But shouldn’t we also thank the Ukrainian, Armenian, Tatar, and Azerbaijani soldiers?” “You scoundrels, you don’t celebrate May 9!” And I said: “How can we not celebrate it when May 9 is an official national holiday in Ukraine? People used to come here on this day to honor the memory of the fallen.” “How did they honor their memory if you don’t even have an eternal flame burning?” I said: “But that’s not our fault—you yourselves set gas prices so high that we’d have to spend half a million a year just to keep a single burner here burning constantly.” I’d rather have spent that money on a road or something.
Did you speak Russian with them?
Yes. They constantly beat us for speaking Ukrainian. If, God forbid, you said a single Ukrainian word—even by accident—you’d get beaten for it. For them, it was a terrible irritant.
What happened in Sevastopol? Where did they hold you afterward?
In Crimea, it was a “showpiece” facility where Tatyana Moskalkova (the Russian Federation’s Human Rights Commissioner—Ed.) came to visit about a week or two before they brought me there. Russian journalists were also invited there to show how Ukrainian prisoners of war were being held. The facility was actually comfortable—they didn’t beat us, the food was decent, and there were checkers, chess, dominoes, and a TV with Russian news. But we only stayed at that “sanatorium” for two days. After that, the 48 of us were put on a plane and sent to the Voronezh region, to Borisoglebsk. And there, everything went according to the usual script. They “welcomed” us nicely.
Did they beat us?
You bet! They showed us who was “in charge” there, and then they took us to the pretrial detention center, where they beat up everyone again while “welcoming” us. They smashed my nose and broke my leg. And then there were people standing there—guards or operatives—about twenty of them. And each one had to hit you. I was lucky. I got halfway through, and they stopped beating me. It was painful.
I’m listening to you and remembering how other captives said that the Russians usually didn’t touch those over 60 while in captivity. Judging by what you’re saying, they didn’t give any “special treatment” based on age.
Perhaps there were other facilities where they didn’t touch them. In our very first cell, all the men were 50 or older—I was 62 at the time. The Russians beat everyone and didn’t ask about age. In Voronezh, I had a “friend” who “took a real liking” to me from the very first days. He demanded that I put my hands on the table and beat them with a stick. My hands swelled up so much that I couldn’t even eat. He also beat me on the head regularly. He also liked to shock me with a stun gun.
I had a story with that stun gun. It’s funny to me now. We were called in for a check, and the first time they hit me with that stun gun, it was so hard that I was knocked right out of my shoes. My shoes stayed on the ground, but I flew through the air—it was so unexpected and painful. Then I somehow got used to that stun gun. But that Russian kept hitting me and screaming. I had the impression that he was getting sexual pleasure out of it. And you say—they didn’t touch us…
I even made some real friends while in captivity. I thought you couldn’t make friends like that at my age. I was in a cell with Andriy; he was about 50 at the time. When we’d go out for a walk and the Russians would ask, “Who should we start beating today?” Andriy would always say, “Me—I’m the youngest and the biggest.” But there were other guys, younger ones, who would hide behind my back. There were three of us in the cell. When you went out for a walk or came back, the Russians would usually beat you up first and last. The one in the middle might get beaten—or might not. So, he would constantly step in between us. And sometimes, they’d lead us to the bathhouse. We’d hear: “Looks like our old men have lightened up a bit.” And then they’d beat us again.
Were there times in the Voronezh region when they left you alone?
Yes. Somewhere around the end of July 2022, they eased up on us and didn’t beat us as hard anymore. Still, I got beaten all the time. They required us to do almost a split during inspections, with our hands against the wall. I’m not athletic; I can’t do the splits. I still have bruises on my legs from that. They’d knock me down, and I’d fall to my knees. They beat me for not standing properly.
At first, the Russians were really angry. They’d been told what scoundrels we were—all Ukrainians. That we were mocking their soldiers, castrating them, and pouring foam up their asses. They beat us and even set dogs on us. However, we did eventually notice things easing up a bit. When it comes to inflicting pain, the Russians are experts—they’ve really perfected it. At a certain point, I got used to it and was mentally prepared for the torture. It was terrifying when young guys couldn’t take it anymore and broke down. And the Russians rejoiced. How can we help those guys recover now? How can we restore their self-confidence after everything they’ve been through? I don’t know, and that’s very scary.
When were you transferred from the Voronezh region?
They held us there until October 1, 2022, and then transferred us to Pakino (a penal colony in the Vladimir Oblast of the Russian Federation—ed.). I was there practically until the very moment of the prisoner exchange. Periodically, the Russians would bring in new “batches” of captives. Things would get a little easier for us then, because the Russians would expend all their physical strength beating up the “newcomers.” They always had to show that they were the bosses here and that they could do whatever they wanted to a person.
When I returned from captivity, I thought back to those I’d been held with. I remembered about forty people. I made a list, tried to find their relatives’ contact information, and called them to let them know: your loved ones are alive and holding on. I was unable to find the contact information for the relatives of only three captives, and I’m very worried about that. I’ll keep looking.
Did the Russians provide you and the other captives with medical care?
I’ll tell you how they treated my cellmate, Andriy. He’s asthmatic and has trouble breathing. One day they took him to the doctor and brought him back, completely beaten up. They threw him down and told him to cough it up. We put cold towels on him. When he came to, we asked, “What happened?” He told us that the doctor had given him some kind of medication, and when he left the office, a guard asked, “How old are you?”—“51.” “Well, then count to 51.” He said, “One.” The guard punched him in the face. ‘Two.’ Another punch. Somewhere around the number seven, Andriy lost count, and the guard ordered him to start over, hitting him on every number. That was the kind of “medical care” we received.
Were there any prisoners whom the Russians released as part of an exchange?
Back in Voronezh, sometime in late July 2022, the Russians took away three dozen prisoners—as we thought, for an exchange. But now I’ve found out that they were taken to other camps. Exchanges had already begun in Pakino. I remember one massive exchange. They brought us National Guard prisoners who had been guarding the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. Sometime in late May or early June 2023, they were exchanged. At that time, about a hundred people were sent for the exchange. Usually, small groups of people would leave the camp, and we didn’t know where they were going.
When did you find out that Kherson had been liberated?
We had practically no information at all. We tried to ask about the state of the war—whether any negotiations were taking place, or if there was even the faintest hope that the war would end. No one told us anything. After New Year’s, I even asked the guards what their “tsar” had promised them under the Christmas tree. They brushed it off: “What can he tell us?” That was their attitude toward their own president.
When I found out about Kherson, it was a cause for celebration. It was sometime in late May 2023. During an interrogation, the investigator told me that Kherson was Ukrainian, but the region was “Russian.” At that time, I had no doubt that Kherson was already Ukrainian. I just didn’t have any confirmation of that. But hearing about the bombing of the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant was terrifying. During one of the interrogations, the Russians kept asking me: “Won’t Ukrainian troops blow up the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant? Won’t they?” I don’t understand why they were so interested in that. It seemed as though the entire interrogation was designed to get me to confirm: yes, they will blow it up.
While the Russians were holding you all those years, did they hold any kind of “trial” against you, or did they bring any official charges against you?
No. They didn’t accuse me of anything. During one of the interrogations, they asked me if I wanted to recognize the new “authorities.” And they added that I hadn’t broken any laws and that they had no complaints against me.
Some of the other prisoners were charged; they were even taken to court. For example, the brigade commander who defended Mariupol. Or my elderly cellmate, whom the Russians wanted to “pin” on either weapons possession or arms trafficking. They beat him brutally and said, “Sign the confession. They’ll pin a new star on our epaulets for this.” A Ukrainian man who had decided to obtain Russian citizenship falsely accused this man. The other guys were beaten so badly that they were ready to sign anything, just to make the torture stop.
Former Kherson Mayor Volodymyr Mykolayenko and Oleg Baturin, a journalist from Kakhovka who spent over a week
in Russian captivity in 2022 Did the Russians warn you about the exchange?
No. On August 20, 2025, they took me out and led me to cell number four. The guys called it the “portal” because that’s where they send you home from. They changed me into a military uniform, took my picture, and forced me to write a statement saying I had no complaints against the Russians. We realized they were preparing us for an exchange. Although there had been cases before where guys were taken to the “portal” only to be brought back to their cells a short time later.
The next day, I was returned to my cell. It was a day of hope. The Russians said that Ukraine didn’t want to take us back, so we’d have to stay put. Well, if we had to stay, so be it. I hadn’t even had time to get my head around the idea of freedom yet. But then, on August 23: “Run—get out!” They changed our clothes right there, led us out onto the street, and sent us on our way. Me and Dmytro Khylyuk, a correspondent for “UNIAN.” The other two cellmates were left behind. The scariest thing is that one of them, in my opinion, has gone mad. He’s about 26–28 years old—still young. He still has a chance to recover, but it’s unclear when they’ll get him out of there. I’ll be frank—if I had a choice, I’d ask them to send Dima in my place, because he needs immediate medical intervention to save his future.
Right now, I’m trying my hardest to convey to the people on the Ukrainian side who have the power to decide that we need to free these young men who are mentally broken. They’re in very bad shape.
Going back to the period of Kherson’s occupation—were there any traitors or collaborators who surprised you?
No. None of the people from Kherson surprised me, because I had a general understanding of what these people were like. But while in captivity, I was unpleasantly shocked by one young man who said, “I wish the Russians would capture Kyiv so they’d let us go home.” I replied: “Who do you think you are to say that? Do you really think other people want to be occupied and taken prisoner just so they can let you go?” Although I understand that it was hard for him—he wasn’t used to such extreme situations.
Is it true that the Russians offered you the position of head of the occupation administration?
Yes. They placed a large sheet of paper in front of me listing all the available positions, including the head of the occupation administration. They asked me to write my last name next to the position where I’d like to work.
Were there many positions available?
Plenty. A blank sheet of paper. At that time, there was no Sald, no Kobets—they all appeared only later.
Did any of the collaborators try to contact you or meet with you?
Kirill Stremousov (a blogger and propagandist, representative of the Russian occupation authorities; according to Russian propaganda media, he died in a car accident in occupied Kherson in 2022—Ed.). He called me in early April 2022 and said that they wanted to meet with me, and that he would guarantee that I wouldn’t be harmed. I understood what this “meeting” was about and refused. By then, Sashko Babych (mayor of Hola Prystan—Ed.) had already been detained. They told me, “You’re going to the pit.” I replied: “I’d rather be in the pit with Babych than with you in these offices, in the ‘administration.’”
You mentioned that you got in touch with the families of other captives. What was that communication like?
The most emotional moment was when I spent a very long time looking for the phone number of the wife of one of the captives. Then I tried to reach her, but she wouldn’t answer. Finally, I wrote to her that I had been held captive with her husband and wanted to let her know how he was. And she replied, “That’s a lie!” She must have been skeptical. I replied, “A lie is a lie. But when Mykola is released from captivity, at least tell him that I called you. Otherwise, people will say, ‘He was released from captivity and didn’t even call his wife back.’” Then I got in touch with his parents.
Sometimes it went like this: I’d call the family and ask for his wife’s phone number. And they’d say, “No, don’t call her. She’s already left him.” I also tried to get in touch with the family of a prisoner from Mariupol. To make sure I was actually reaching the right people—and not just someone with the same last name—I clarified that his wife had died of COVID. And they told me, “His daughter died too. Back in Mariupol. A rocket hit and killed everyone. Her too.” That’s how it is—a man sits there, not knowing that he’s lost not only his wife but also his daughter. It’s horrific.
This material was prepared with the support of the International Renaissance Foundation. The content represents the authors’ views and does not necessarily reflect the position of the International Renaissance Foundation.
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Author: Oleg Baturin
You’ve been free for several weeks now and have been attending various events in Kyiv. From what you’ve noticed during this time—how much have Ukrainians changed since the start of the war?
I suppose it’s still too early for me to judge. I’m in the hospital, and it’s hard for me to objectively assess the changes in our society. But while I was in captivity, I realized that a nation has been forged in Ukraine—the nation of Ukrainians. First and foremost, these are the people fighting for our freedom—both on the front lines and here, behind the lines. I was pleased to hear about the support for our prisoners of war and about the people who have joined the struggle to free our young men and women from captivity.
I hope that Ukrainians are united. I have some questions for those who say they don’t care who’s in power, as long as there’s a piece of sausage in the fridge. I’ve always said: if they take away your freedom, they’ll take away your sausage too, and they’ll take away your bread—you’ll have nothing left. This was confirmed by what happened to me and others who were held captive.
I also don’t really like those people who have temporarily emigrated to other countries. I’m not talking about women and children. I’m talking about men of draft age who left and are now telling us from abroad how we should defend and love our homeland. In my opinion, they should stay there and renounce their Ukrainian citizenship. If you like Germany or Poland—stay there; don’t meddle in Ukraine’s affairs. I understand that not everyone can take up arms to defend the country. When I was issued a weapon myself, I realized that in the event of combat, it would be my last. Because I’m absolutely not a military person. But there was no other option back then.
Did you have any military experience?
At the maritime academy, I only had a 45-day training session, during which I took the oath. That was way back in 1979. I didn’t serve in the regular army. So when I received my weapon, I didn’t even know which end of the assault rifle to hold. The guys showed me how to do it. That’s why I had absolutely no doubt that I’d be one of the first casualties. But we understood that our families were counting on us. Who else but me should protect my mom, my wife, my daughter, and my grandchildren? Likewise, no other man should count on some Mykolaienko coming to defend the Petrenko family.
If you’re not able to defend them, you have to help the military. Friends who were ready to volunteer or provide financial support asked me for help. Even friends from abroad called and asked where they could send money. I told them I didn’t know. Because I was very afraid that a lot of “opportunists” would show up to profit from the war. When I was released from captivity, someone created a Facebook page in my name. Journalist friends told me that, according to this page, I was supposedly asking for money. To be honest, I’d put a stop to such “opportunists.” But such people do exist; they, too, are part of our society.
In the early days of the great war, did you ever think about leaving Kherson?
No. We didn’t invite anyone to our home; we lived our peaceful lives and were building our country. Yes, we dreamed of a much better country, but we were living a normal life. When people with weapons in their hands came to us, I believed we had to take up arms as well and put up a fight.
When did you enlist in the territorial defense forces?
February 24, 2022. In the morning, my wife told me that the war had started. There was a column of smoke near the airport: enemy helicopters had set fire to fuel depots. I said I was going to pack my things, asked my wife to give me something to eat, and went to the military registration and enlistment office.
The day before, on February 23, I spoke with our regional military commissioner and told him that it felt like war was coming. I asked him: “If war breaks out tomorrow, what should we do?” “Don’t stir things up—there won’t be any war; you’re just provoking conflict.” I insisted: “But suppose a major war does break out—what then?” We have to be prepared for this, not just brush it off. He replied: “Well, if something does happen, come to our military registration and enlistment office; I’ll give you a weapon, and you’ll go defend Kherson.” When I went to that same military registration office on February 24, unfortunately, that man wouldn’t see me. Some kind of ongoing meetings were taking place there. Then the person on duty told me that the military commissar was simply avoiding me. I asked him what I should do then. He replied that people were gathering at the city’s Territorial Defense Coordination Center, and territorial defense units were being formed. So I went there.
At the city’s Territorial Defense Coordination Center, I asked what I should do. They replied: “Go home, pack your things, and come back at noon. We’ll form all the units and then send them off to war.” That was in the morning. When I arrived at noon, there were a lot of people there. I stayed there for a long time; everyone seemed to be waiting for some kind of order. Around 5:00 p.m., buses pulled up, and someone told me to get on because they were taking us to where the territorial defense forces were stationed.
They took us to the village of Naddniprianske. There, I handed over my military ID; they registered me and issued me a weapon. By the time we’d set up, it had gotten dark. The buses came again, loaded people onto them, and said they were going to defend the Antonivsky Bridge. One bus left; two remained, and they told us to wait. After a while, the first wounded arrived. The Russians were shelling us with mortars; a little later, our artillery arrived and began returning fire. This went on all night.
We spent the night in Naddniprianske; in the morning, we were transported to Molodizhne because enemy vehicles had already crossed the Antonivsky Bridge. I don’t know why they didn’t blow it up—to me, that’s a huge mystery. If it had been blown up, enemy vehicles wouldn’t have been able to cross the Dnipro. The closest crossing point to Kherson is in Nova Kakhovka. But there, the road is very narrow due to the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant and the high riverbank. And beyond that, there’s only Zaporizhzhia. The Antonivsky Bridge remained intact, and large enemy columns crossed it toward Mykolaiv and Odesa. There, they say, the Russians were stopped and many of them were killed.
What happened in the first weeks of March, when the Russians had already entered Kherson?
First and foremost, the entire country saw how Kherson greeted these people—or rather, these monsters. It greeted them with massive acts of resistance, making clear its attitude toward the “brotherly aid” that the Russians had touted when they came to “liberate” us. From whom? From what? From ourselves, I suppose. The Russians were somewhat at a loss; they hadn’t expected such a reaction from the people. Because, indeed, thousands upon thousands of people took to the streets in protest. At first, the Russians stood there, terrified; then they began throwing smoke grenades. They fired into the air, rounded up people and threw them into prisons, and beat them.
Then it was my turn. On April 18, 2022, I went to meet someone, and an ambush was waiting for me there. It was in the city center around three or four in the afternoon. The person said they needed to consult with someone and pass on important information to me. I went. And I ended up in captivity for almost three and a half years.
Was this person involved in your capture by the Russians? Who is he?
I’m convinced he was involved. He’s also a member of the Territorial Defense Forces. I only know his name and call sign.
A car pulled up next to me at high speed; a man jumped out and grabbed me. He asked for my last name. I told them my name, and they turned me to face the car. “Him? Him!” They threw me into the trunk and drove me to the regional headquarters of the National Police. I immediately called my wife because they hadn’t had time to take my cell phone. I called, they noticed, and immediately ordered me to hand over the phone. My wife heard that something was happening, that I was in trouble, that I was being held captive. Later, the Russians told me that all the local and national media had reported on my capture within an hour. I was very pleased by this: people already knew that I was in captivity, and that they would no longer be able to use my phone to lure someone else into a “meeting” and capture them. The occupiers then demanded that I call in volunteers and journalists—they named them by name and ordered me to invite them to a “meeting.” Of course, I refused to do so.
What was the first interrogation like?
They told me that I had remained in Kherson as the leader of the underground, so they questioned me about who was working with me and where the weapons were hidden. They questioned me “vigorously.” After a few days, they apparently realized that I had absolutely nothing to do with the leadership of the underground. This was probably confirmed to them by the guys from the Territorial Defense Forces who had also been captured. I really was just a rank-and-file member of the Territorial Defense Forces—nothing more.
Meanwhile, the occupiers decided to “persuade” me to cooperate with them. At first, these were “peaceful” proposals: they said they had come here to stay and weren’t going anywhere, that they needed the support of the civilian population, and that I should join them. I said: if you need my advice on how to prepare the city for winter, I’ll tell you which pipes need to be replaced. Let them do it at their own expense. As for the rest, I didn’t agree, and besides, I’m too old for all that.
The interrogations were constant, including the use of physical force.
Were you beaten?
Just like everyone else. There were three or four people, I think, from the FSB. One was almost always present during the interrogations—probably a local. He was very knowledgeable about the city, law enforcement agencies, and public life. But I didn’t see all of their faces.
How long were you held in Kherson?
16 days. Early in the morning on May 2, 2022, around four or five o’clock, they sent us to Sevastopol. They said the conditions there would be good, that we’d be fed, that there would be TV, and that we might even be allowed to contact our families. They said, “You’ll stay there for a month or two, recognize the ‘new government,’ and in a week or two we’ll crush all your troops, take over all of Ukraine, and everyone will be happy.” And I thought to myself: “Sure, you’ll crush us.” But they didn’t. However, I didn’t spend just a month or two there—I was held for almost three and a half years.
Was anyone you knew taken prisoner?
Five of us were sent to Sevastopol, if I’m not mistaken. One of them used to be a patrol police lieutenant, I think. When they arrested him, he jumped—I don’t know if it was from the third or fourth floor—broke his arm and leg, and ran half a block before the Russians caught up with him. After that, the Russians nicknamed him “Batman.” Later, they brought in a man who had been the commander of my company in the Territorial Defense Forces. He was brought in severely beaten, his body bruised and blue from the brutal beatings. Later, two more members of the Territorial Defense Forces were dumped in with us.
It turned out that Andriy Putilov, a former member of the Verkhovna Rada and ex-head of the Kherson Regional State Administration, was being held with us in the neighboring cell at the time. But I didn’t hear him.
When the occupiers took you out for interviews with propaganda TV channels in the spring of 2022, did they warn you what to expect and what you were supposed to tell them?
They didn’t warn me about that. One day they gave me a razor and ordered me to shave. By the way, they always said, “We can beat you anywhere, but we can’t hit you in the face. Because you’re a politician; your face has to look more or less normal.” And that’s exactly what they did—they didn’t hit me in the face. But breaking my ribs was perfectly normal for them. They broke my ribs three times during my captivity, once in Kherson.
Then they ordered me to get ready to leave. They took me to some courtyard, sat me down at a table, and set up two microphones on it—one, if I’m not mistaken, from “Ren TV,” and the other from “Izvestia.” And then Vanechka showed up (Ivan Litomin, a propagandist from Arkhangelsk—Ed.). He sat down across from me, and behind Vanechka stood a thug with a rubber truncheon. He signaled with his gestures and facial expressions: “Go ahead, do your thing. And what happens next depends on what you say.” The only thing they told me but didn’t do was that they’d take me to Solovyov in Moscow for the broadcast. I replied, “Yeah, sure, let’s go straight to the live broadcast.”
I don’t remember how long the recording lasted. I remember being taken out to that courtyard several times. Once they lined me up against a wall and said they were going to shoot me right then and there. They even asked, “Are you scared?” But for some reason, I wasn’t afraid—somehow, I didn’t really feel any fear. I’d already had two grandsons; I had someone to leave my family’s future to. Back then, it was that same guy from Kherson who was provoking me the most—he was yelling and practically jumping out of his pants. Even the FSB officers seemed calmer.
During the filming, the Russians expected me to call on the Armed Forces of Ukraine not to resist, to find common ground with the Russians, and to rebuild the country together. That’s what they wanted to hear. But they never heard it. For some reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to say such things. I’d probably have bitten my tongue off first.
Then they took me to the Eternal Flame on the eve of May 9, 2022. They pointed to a plaque thanking Russian soldiers for liberating the city during World War II. I replied, “Well, thank you. But shouldn’t we also thank the Ukrainian, Armenian, Tatar, and Azerbaijani soldiers?” “You scoundrels, you don’t celebrate May 9!” And I said: “How can we not celebrate it when May 9 is an official national holiday in Ukraine? People used to come here on this day to honor the memory of the fallen.” “How did they honor their memory if you don’t even have an eternal flame burning?” I said: “But that’s not our fault—you yourselves set gas prices so high that we’d have to spend half a million a year just to keep a single burner here burning constantly.” I’d rather have spent that money on a road or something.
Did you speak Russian with them?
Yes. They constantly beat us for speaking Ukrainian. If, God forbid, you said a single Ukrainian word—even by accident—you’d get beaten for it. For them, it was a terrible irritant.
What happened in Sevastopol? Where did they hold you afterward?
In Crimea, it was a “showpiece” facility where Tatyana Moskalkova (the Russian Federation’s Human Rights Commissioner—Ed.) came to visit about a week or two before they brought me there. Russian journalists were also invited there to show how Ukrainian prisoners of war were being held. The facility was actually comfortable—they didn’t beat us, the food was decent, and there were checkers, chess, dominoes, and a TV with Russian news. But we only stayed at that “sanatorium” for two days. After that, the 48 of us were put on a plane and sent to the Voronezh region, to Borisoglebsk. And there, everything went according to the usual script. They “welcomed” us nicely.
Did they beat us?
You bet! They showed us who was “in charge” there, and then they took us to the pretrial detention center, where they beat up everyone again while “welcoming” us. They smashed my nose and broke my leg. And then there were people standing there—guards or operatives—about twenty of them. And each one had to hit you. I was lucky. I got halfway through, and they stopped beating me. It was painful.
I’m listening to you and remembering how other captives said that the Russians usually didn’t touch those over 60 while in captivity. Judging by what you’re saying, they didn’t give any “special treatment” based on age.
Perhaps there were other facilities where they didn’t touch them. In our very first cell, all the men were 50 or older—I was 62 at the time. The Russians beat everyone and didn’t ask about age. In Voronezh, I had a “friend” who “took a real liking” to me from the very first days. He demanded that I put my hands on the table and beat them with a stick. My hands swelled up so much that I couldn’t even eat. He also beat me on the head regularly. He also liked to shock me with a stun gun.
I had a story with that stun gun. It’s funny to me now. We were called in for a check, and the first time they hit me with that stun gun, it was so hard that I was knocked right out of my shoes. My shoes stayed on the ground, but I flew through the air—it was so unexpected and painful. Then I somehow got used to that stun gun. But that Russian kept hitting me and screaming. I had the impression that he was getting sexual pleasure out of it. And you say—they didn’t touch us…
I even made some real friends while in captivity. I thought you couldn’t make friends like that at my age. I was in a cell with Andriy; he was about 50 at the time. When we’d go out for a walk and the Russians would ask, “Who should we start beating today?” Andriy would always say, “Me—I’m the youngest and the biggest.” But there were other guys, younger ones, who would hide behind my back. There were three of us in the cell. When you went out for a walk or came back, the Russians would usually beat you up first and last. The one in the middle might get beaten—or might not. So, he would constantly step in between us. And sometimes, they’d lead us to the bathhouse. We’d hear: “Looks like our old men have lightened up a bit.” And then they’d beat us again.
Were there times in the Voronezh region when they left you alone?
Yes. Somewhere around the end of July 2022, they eased up on us and didn’t beat us as hard anymore. Still, I got beaten all the time. They required us to do almost a split during inspections, with our hands against the wall. I’m not athletic; I can’t do the splits. I still have bruises on my legs from that. They’d knock me down, and I’d fall to my knees. They beat me for not standing properly.
At first, the Russians were really angry. They’d been told what scoundrels we were—all Ukrainians. That we were mocking their soldiers, castrating them, and pouring foam up their asses. They beat us and even set dogs on us. However, we did eventually notice things easing up a bit. When it comes to inflicting pain, the Russians are experts—they’ve really perfected it. At a certain point, I got used to it and was mentally prepared for the torture. It was terrifying when young guys couldn’t take it anymore and broke down. And the Russians rejoiced. How can we help those guys recover now? How can we restore their self-confidence after everything they’ve been through? I don’t know, and that’s very scary.
When were you transferred from the Voronezh region?
They held us there until October 1, 2022, and then transferred us to Pakino (a penal colony in the Vladimir Oblast of the Russian Federation—ed.). I was there practically until the very moment of the prisoner exchange. Periodically, the Russians would bring in new “batches” of captives. Things would get a little easier for us then, because the Russians would expend all their physical strength beating up the “newcomers.” They always had to show that they were the bosses here and that they could do whatever they wanted to a person.
When I returned from captivity, I thought back to those I’d been held with. I remembered about forty people. I made a list, tried to find their relatives’ contact information, and called them to let them know: your loved ones are alive and holding on. I was unable to find the contact information for the relatives of only three captives, and I’m very worried about that. I’ll keep looking.
Did the Russians provide you and the other captives with medical care?
I’ll tell you how they treated my cellmate, Andriy. He’s asthmatic and has trouble breathing. One day they took him to the doctor and brought him back, completely beaten up. They threw him down and told him to cough it up. We put cold towels on him. When he came to, we asked, “What happened?” He told us that the doctor had given him some kind of medication, and when he left the office, a guard asked, “How old are you?”—“51.” “Well, then count to 51.” He said, “One.” The guard punched him in the face. ‘Two.’ Another punch. Somewhere around the number seven, Andriy lost count, and the guard ordered him to start over, hitting him on every number. That was the kind of “medical care” we received.
Were there any prisoners whom the Russians released as part of an exchange?
Back in Voronezh, sometime in late July 2022, the Russians took away three dozen prisoners—as we thought, for an exchange. But now I’ve found out that they were taken to other camps. Exchanges had already begun in Pakino. I remember one massive exchange. They brought us National Guard prisoners who had been guarding the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. Sometime in late May or early June 2023, they were exchanged. At that time, about a hundred people were sent for the exchange. Usually, small groups of people would leave the camp, and we didn’t know where they were going.
When did you find out that Kherson had been liberated?
We had practically no information at all. We tried to ask about the state of the war—whether any negotiations were taking place, or if there was even the faintest hope that the war would end. No one told us anything. After New Year’s, I even asked the guards what their “tsar” had promised them under the Christmas tree. They brushed it off: “What can he tell us?” That was their attitude toward their own president.
When I found out about Kherson, it was a cause for celebration. It was sometime in late May 2023. During an interrogation, the investigator told me that Kherson was Ukrainian, but the region was “Russian.” At that time, I had no doubt that Kherson was already Ukrainian. I just didn’t have any confirmation of that. But hearing about the bombing of the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant was terrifying. During one of the interrogations, the Russians kept asking me: “Won’t Ukrainian troops blow up the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant? Won’t they?” I don’t understand why they were so interested in that. It seemed as though the entire interrogation was designed to get me to confirm: yes, they will blow it up.
While the Russians were holding you all those years, did they hold any kind of “trial” against you, or did they bring any official charges against you?
No. They didn’t accuse me of anything. During one of the interrogations, they asked me if I wanted to recognize the new “authorities.” And they added that I hadn’t broken any laws and that they had no complaints against me.
Some of the other prisoners were charged; they were even taken to court. For example, the brigade commander who defended Mariupol. Or my elderly cellmate, whom the Russians wanted to “pin” on either weapons possession or arms trafficking. They beat him brutally and said, “Sign the confession. They’ll pin a new star on our epaulets for this.” A Ukrainian man who had decided to obtain Russian citizenship falsely accused this man. The other guys were beaten so badly that they were ready to sign anything, just to make the torture stop.
Former Kherson Mayor Volodymyr Mykolayenko and Oleg Baturin, a journalist from Kakhovka who spent over a week
in Russian captivity in 2022 Did the Russians warn you about the exchange?
No. On August 20, 2025, they took me out and led me to cell number four. The guys called it the “portal” because that’s where they send you home from. They changed me into a military uniform, took my picture, and forced me to write a statement saying I had no complaints against the Russians. We realized they were preparing us for an exchange. Although there had been cases before where guys were taken to the “portal” only to be brought back to their cells a short time later.
The next day, I was returned to my cell. It was a day of hope. The Russians said that Ukraine didn’t want to take us back, so we’d have to stay put. Well, if we had to stay, so be it. I hadn’t even had time to get my head around the idea of freedom yet. But then, on August 23: “Run—get out!” They changed our clothes right there, led us out onto the street, and sent us on our way. Me and Dmytro Khylyuk, a correspondent for “UNIAN.” The other two cellmates were left behind. The scariest thing is that one of them, in my opinion, has gone mad. He’s about 26–28 years old—still young. He still has a chance to recover, but it’s unclear when they’ll get him out of there. I’ll be frank—if I had a choice, I’d ask them to send Dima in my place, because he needs immediate medical intervention to save his future.
Right now, I’m trying my hardest to convey to the people on the Ukrainian side who have the power to decide that we need to free these young men who are mentally broken. They’re in very bad shape.
Going back to the period of Kherson’s occupation—were there any traitors or collaborators who surprised you?
No. None of the people from Kherson surprised me, because I had a general understanding of what these people were like. But while in captivity, I was unpleasantly shocked by one young man who said, “I wish the Russians would capture Kyiv so they’d let us go home.” I replied: “Who do you think you are to say that? Do you really think other people want to be occupied and taken prisoner just so they can let you go?” Although I understand that it was hard for him—he wasn’t used to such extreme situations.
Is it true that the Russians offered you the position of head of the occupation administration?
Yes. They placed a large sheet of paper in front of me listing all the available positions, including the head of the occupation administration. They asked me to write my last name next to the position where I’d like to work.
Were there many positions available?
Plenty. A blank sheet of paper. At that time, there was no Sald, no Kobets—they all appeared only later.
Did any of the collaborators try to contact you or meet with you?
Kirill Stremousov (a blogger and propagandist, representative of the Russian occupation authorities; according to Russian propaganda media, he died in a car accident in occupied Kherson in 2022—Ed.). He called me in early April 2022 and said that they wanted to meet with me, and that he would guarantee that I wouldn’t be harmed. I understood what this “meeting” was about and refused. By then, Sashko Babych (mayor of Hola Prystan—Ed.) had already been detained. They told me, “You’re going to the pit.” I replied: “I’d rather be in the pit with Babych than with you in these offices, in the ‘administration.’”
You mentioned that you got in touch with the families of other captives. What was that communication like?
The most emotional moment was when I spent a very long time looking for the phone number of the wife of one of the captives. Then I tried to reach her, but she wouldn’t answer. Finally, I wrote to her that I had been held captive with her husband and wanted to let her know how he was. And she replied, “That’s a lie!” She must have been skeptical. I replied, “A lie is a lie. But when Mykola is released from captivity, at least tell him that I called you. Otherwise, people will say, ‘He was released from captivity and didn’t even call his wife back.’” Then I got in touch with his parents.
Sometimes it went like this: I’d call the family and ask for his wife’s phone number. And they’d say, “No, don’t call her. She’s already left him.” I also tried to get in touch with the family of a prisoner from Mariupol. To make sure I was actually reaching the right people—and not just someone with the same last name—I clarified that his wife had died of COVID. And they told me, “His daughter died too. Back in Mariupol. A rocket hit and killed everyone. Her too.” That’s how it is—a man sits there, not knowing that he’s lost not only his wife but also his daughter. It’s horrific.
This material was prepared with the support of the International Renaissance Foundation. The content represents the authors’ views and does not necessarily reflect the position of the International Renaissance Foundation.
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