Rizhulia has returned from captivity. Marine combat medic Anna Olsen talks about her experiences in the war in Mariupol, her imprisonment in Russia, and her release
Source: Novynarnia
Authors: Lesya Shovkun, Dmytro Lykhoviy
The events that unfolded in Mariupol in the spring of 2022 are forever etched into Ukraine’s history with the blood of its residents and defenders. However, this heroic episode still raises a multitude of questions that have yet to be answered. Many of them concern the events surrounding the Illich Steel Plant, which was defended by marines—soldiers of the 36th Brigade and the 1st, 501st, and 503rd Separate Marine Battalions.
While the whole world was able to follow the events at Azovstal virtually “live,” the true situation at the Ilyich Steel Plant remained unknown to the general public. In early April, Russian propagandists began circulating a video of the 501st Battalion’s surrender. For several more days, so-called Russian “war correspondents” took turns stationed outside the plant to film the anticipated surrender of a larger number of Ukrainian marines.
Isolated reports began to surface in the Ukrainian media suggesting that fighters from various units of the 36th Marine Brigade of the Ukrainian Navy had effectively found themselves in a hopeless situation, were ready to fight to the last, and had sent final video messages, among other things. Part of the audience perceived such news as fake or as signs of weakness.
However, starting on April 12, about a thousand marines did indeed surrender. This was preceded by a failed attempt by a portion of the brigade, led by Brigade Commander Baranyuk, to break through the encirclement toward the Zaporizhzhia region. A smaller group of marines joined forces with the defenders of “Azovstal.”
How did the defense of the Illich Steel Plant unfold, and how did the surrender take place? How and by whom was this decision made at the Ilyich Steel Plant? How do the Russians treat Ukrainian prisoners of war, particularly women? How are our prisoners faring in penal colonies on Russian territory? How did the first all-female prisoner exchange take place on October 17? Why did two of the exchanged Ukrainian women decide to remain in the occupied territory?
We discuss all of this with Sergeant Anna Olsen—a senior combat medic in the chemicaland biological protection company of the 36th Separate Marine Brigade named after Rear Admiral Bilinsky, who, along with her comrades-in-arms, was at the Illich Plant, was taken prisoner, and remained there for six months.
A cheerful, sunny young woman with the positive call sign “Rizhulia” (another nickname is “Limonka”) miraculously survived the hell of Russian bombings. She endured physical and psychological torture while in Russian captivity, where her husband remains to this day. And she misses her little daughter terribly, who is now in the occupied territory of the Kherson region.
Despite this, Anna Olsen radiates incredible optimism, patriotism, and faith in our Victory.
“After seizing the hospital, the Russians shot wounded military patients.”
“I began my military career at age 19. Actually, it was my childhood dream to become a soldier. After 9th grade, I wanted to go to a military high school, but my mom convinced me to enroll in a medical college. And in 2015, as soon as I graduated with a diploma as a paramedic, I immediately signed a contract with the Ukrainian Armed Forces,” says Anya.
She is now 26. For the past five of those years, she has served in the 36th Marine Brigade, based in her hometown of Mykolaiv.
Before the full-scale invasion by Russian troops, Ryzhulia was on rotation at the temporary command post of the 36th Marine Brigade in the village of Kamensk on the northern outskirts of Mariupol. This is a small rear-area unit: food and supply depots, medical services, and so on.
So Anya was doing the usual work of a “logistical” military medic: signing travel orders, dispensing pills, bandaging cut fingers, and treating other everyday injuries that soldiers face when not on combat missions.
As February 24 approached, personnel were informed that everyone must always carry an “emergency backpack” with a minimum set of essentials, and that in the event of an alert, they must take cover because rocket attacks and the like were possible.
However, knowing that a “major war” is possible and actually finding oneself at its epicenter—as it turned out—are two very different things.
The full realization of just how serious the situation was hit Kamensk on February 26, when a Russian plane “flew in” over the marines’ deployment site for the first time.
“The area there is pretty small—it’s a former detention center, literally just a few small buildings and a path,” Anna says. “At the moment it arrived, I was just sorting through medical supplies in the bunker.” And then—a sharp whistling sound, “bang!”… At first, you just sit there and don’t understand what’s happening at all—your brain simply refuses to process it. Then the guys rush in shouting, “We need a medic!”
And that’s it: the confusion vanishes instantly; you grab what you need and run upstairs—to do your job.
Up there, as it turned out, it was already a nightmare: cars and houses were on fire, and everything was so completely destroyed that it was really hard not to break your legs. On top of that, the snow had just melted, so it was a real quagmire—you’d run, fall, get dirty, and your feet would slip apart… That was quite the marathon.
The attack actually came out of the blue: it was lunchtime; people were switching shifts, heading off to eat, and some were standing around smoking. And suddenly, in a single second, life was divided into “before” and “after.”
I was with some girls who already had combat experience, so we handled it pretty quickly. The problem was that only one vehicle survived, and there were eight wounded. And, unfortunately, two more guys were killed. We had to quickly figure out who could be treated on the spot and who needed to be evacuated to the hospital.
There were three “serious” cases. And, to my great regret, one of them ultimately didn’t survive. But not because the medics couldn’t help him. He would have recovered—if the second Mariupol hospital, where he was being treated, hadn’t been captured by the Russians.
– Do you mean they were killing the wounded?
– Yes. He was shot on the spot. And probably not just him. Although there were both military personnel and civilians there.
I was told about this later, at the factory. I was shocked. I remember that man well: he’d lost a lot of blood, but he remained conscious, talking to us constantly, helping us as best he could…
“I could have left before the bombing. But my guys were there!”
The real hell in Mariupol began in March. By that time, several Marine battalions—including Anin’s unit—were already stationed at the Ilyich Steel Plant, which, like Azovstal, had secure underground bunkers.
As the only girl in the unit, the guys did everything they could to protect Ryzhula. So while they were carrying out various combat missions, Anya was practically always in the shelter with the other women and the wounded—about 70 people in total.
“We provided care to the most critically injured in another bunker, which served as a military hospital. Our brigade’s command was also stationed there. But we only had three medics, so we divided up the duties based on each person’s experience.” It’s one thing when you’re dealing with “combat casualties” on every rotation. But when you’re deep in the rear and your most “serious” “casualty” so far has been a cook who, due to carelessness, stuck his hand in a meat grinder…
Although, as a paramedic, it was a little easier for me in that regard, since I worked in “emergency medical services.” If there’s something you don’t know, your “common sense” comes to the rescue. But combat experience is still combat experience.
– Finding yourself in such a “meat grinder” after years of peaceful service in the rear, did you ever regret your decision to become a female soldier?
– Not once. By the way, I had the chance to leave before the bombing started. But I made a conscious decision to stay. Because these are my guys.
My kids are 19 years old each, just so you know. It was the very last draft when they signed their contracts.
There were five of them. My commander always joked that I was “like a mother hen with her chicks”—because wherever I am, they’re always there too. And these “kids” behaved so heroically—in a way that not every “grown-up” could.
One boy—the youngest child in his family, with no parents of his own, raised by his grandparents—shielded his comrades with his own body. He suffered a severe leg injury and is still recovering. And three of them have already returned to the ranks!
– You talk about them as if they were children, but some people take offense on behalf of our soldiers in such cases. Because no matter how young they are, they are, first and foremost, warriors, defenders.
– They’re heroes, of course. But to me, they’re children,” says the 26-year-old medic.
An attempt to break through: “We realized something was wrong and turned back”
– On April 11, a post appeared on the 36th Brigade’s official Facebook page containing a message from a marine in besieged Mariupol, from the Azovmash factory. The author emphasized that the situation was very dire, the unit was running out of ammunition, and there was no support. At the time, many assumed it was an enemy cyberattack and that the unit’s page had been hacked. However, “Novynarnia” knows for certain that the letter was genuine and was written by one of the officers. The post was later deleted, but this happened only after it became known that most of the marines surrounded in Mariupol had been taken prisoner.
Another group, as is known, managed to break through to “Azovstal” and continued to hold their defenses alongside the “Azov” regiment. There was also a group under the command of Vladimir Baranyuk, a Hero of Ukraine and brigade commander of the 36th Marine Brigade, who allegedly attempted a breakout—and they emerged specifically from the Illich Plant. It later became clear that Baranyuk himself, the brigade’s chief of staff Dmytro Kormyankov, and, apparently, at least some of the fighters who went with them, were ultimately taken prisoner by the Russians.
You were at the epicenter of those events. Tell us how the situation unfolded—based on what you personally know. Who ultimately made the decision to surrender, say, for your unit? After all, things didn’t unfold the same way for you as they did at “Azovstal,” where the “evacuation into captivity” took place on orders from the highest command.
– I’m just a medic, so I can hardly assess the situation on the scale of the entire brigade. But we were told that we were, to put it very mildly, “in a bit of a pickle.”
We were running low on food. Although, as a medic, I was more concerned with medical supplies—and those were also running out rapidly because there were so many wounded. But most importantly, we had very few ammunition supplies. Specifically, our weapons (and my company is equipped with specialized weapons) ran out very quickly; only assault rifles and pistols remained.
At the same time, the “airstrikes” were becoming more and more frequent; we were constantly being bombed with various types of aerial bombs. And these strikes were so precise that it seemed as if someone was telling them exactly where to hit. Because the officer’s bunker was the main target.
And since my bunker was nearby, we constantly got hit “just for good measure.” We could count up to 8–9 airstrikes in a single day. We’d even figured out their schedule and knew roughly when we’d have 1–2 quiet hours.
You do the math: there have already been three strikes on the hangar—okay, that means there’s time to quickly run upstairs and grab some food (we had bags of grains and canned meat up there). The hangar is huge, and the roof is practically gone: you stand there, as if in a stadium, counting the stars… And then you see: it’s flying in again—you have to run back.
In other words, the situation was truly very difficult, and it couldn’t go on like that for long.
At some point, the commander of my unit came to our bunker to consult with us. In our unit, all decisions that affected all of us were always made collectively. The commander always consulted with us: he described the situation, expressed his opinion, and listened to ours. And in the end, we would reach some kind of mutual compromise. It’s like a big family—it’s no wonder that everyone in the unit always tried to join us.
In short, he came in, told us exactly how things stood, and said there would be an attempt to break out of the encirclement. At that time, we were surrounded by three rings of Russian troops—about 14,000 of them. And first and foremost, the innermost ring was closing in more and more: fighting had already begun not only on the outskirts of the plant itself, but practically right next to our bunkers.
He explained all the risks. And we agreed that we had to try.
The commander described what the route would be like, more or less; how to act if our vehicle came under fire (I was supposed to ride along with the wounded); how to tell our own troops from the Russians; what to say, where to say it, and how we should respond.
And so, late at night, sometime around 1:00 a.m., we tried to leave. My unit had only one vehicle left—a makeshift one cobbled together from parts of all the vehicles the orcs had destroyed. So we piled into it and set off: without headlights, driving blindly, trusting the driver. The plant was huge—I think about 10 square kilometers.
We’d already driven quite a distance when the bombing began. Airplanes, artillery, machine guns—it was all there. Just a massive “light show” in the middle of the night. And this massive convoy was trying to get out. Then everything came to a halt; it was impossible to go any further. All around you, things were flashing, exploding, burning—horses and rabbits were all mixed up; it was total chaos.
I was sitting in the car near the gas tank; the car didn’t have a tarp. I looked up: the sky was so starry, so beautiful… And I thought: if it’s going to hit, at least let it happen so fast that I don’t even have time to realize what’s happening.
And then our commander ordered us to turn around immediately. We realized something was seriously wrong—and headed back.
Either to “Azovstal” or into captivity
We had barely reached our bunker and started unloading when a plane flew straight at us and dropped a bomb on the hangar, which was only about 200 meters away. Let me put it this way: even those who didn’t believe in God started believing in Him right then.
Everyone was terrified, filthy, and badly battered; many suffered concussions. But we were very lucky: everyone is alive. Because overall, during that attempt to break through, there were a lot of “200s.” Quite a few shells during the shelling hit the vehicles transporting the wounded… Many young men and women were killed then.
We quickly ran back into the bunker—and only after that did we decide to surrender.
– How did you make that decision? Was it a collective decision, too?
– Yes, of course. We gradually calmed down: some lay down to rest, others smoked or drank coffee, and we talked. And when dawn broke, the commander arrived. And he said:
“We now have two options: either surrender or head to ‘Azovstal.’ I’ll accept whatever choice you make.”
But at that point, breaking through to ‘Azovstal’ seemed unrealistic. After all, there were so many of us. It was an entire convoy, including the wounded. It was a road you didn’t know, partly mined and completely under fire. It was blown-up bridges. It was their planes flying overhead.
We sat there and thought it over. I said right away that in this situation, I’d choose to be taken prisoner. I needed to get back to my family. The commander accepted that. We hugged, agreed on plans for what to do next once we got home, and went our separate ways.
That failed attempt to break through took place on the night of April 11–12. And by late afternoon on April 12, the first group had been taken prisoner.
– How did that happen? Did you come out with a white flag, or did you somehow let the Russians know that you were coming out?
– I don’t know the details—we had a senior officer who negotiated everything. They simply loaded us back into the car and took us to the factory perimeter, and then on to the village of Mirne, where “DPR” troops were stationed. They were the ones who “received” us.
“They seriously claimed that we were Nazis, that we ate children and drank the blood of bullfinches.”
– The first thing they did was take our documents, valuables, cell phones, and so on. They only left cigarettes for those who smoked—and not even for everyone.
And what nonsense they spouted! Their brains had been thoroughly brainwashed: they told us that we eat children, that we’re Nazis, fascists, that we drink the blood of bullfinches, and so on. Just look: there’s a grown adult standing right in front of you—old enough to be your parent. And they’re spouting stuff that’s just beyond belief!
They also claimed that “all of this” was our fault: because we refused to let them join the Russian Federation, because we were bombing peaceful cities—specifically Mariupol—and so on.
Fortunately, we only stayed at that checkpoint for about six hours. They even gave us tea! Although that was an interesting moment, too. We looked at that tea with such skepticism, but their leader said, “Don’t be afraid—we’re not like you. We’re not going to poison anyone.”
Needless to say, nobody drank that tea.
Then they took us to Olenivka (a prison camp in the village of the same name in the temporarily occupied territory of Donetsk Oblast, where the occupiers are holding Ukrainian prisoners—"N"). And our guys were treated very harshly there.
The officers got it especially bad; to them, the officers were like a red rag to a bull. The higher your rank, the more you “took a beating.”
They didn’t touch the girls back then. They just led us off the bus and lined us up. An inspector on duty approached each of us, wrote down our last name, first name, and patronymic, as well as which work brigade and unit we were from, and when and from which factory we had been taken prisoner.
The conditions in Olenivka were, of course, terrible: there were 39 of us in a cell designed for a maximum of 6 people. We slept wherever we could: on a bench, under a bench, on a table, under a table. Two or three people per square meter. One would get up to stretch her legs, and the other would lie down—that’s how we took turns.
The food was so-so. Breakfast consisted of a third of a round white loaf of bread and tea… If there was one thing we had no trouble with in Olenivka, it was bread. And it was “our” bread, our own, because it tasted fresh, and we were happy about that. There was also lunch, which actually took place closer to dinnertime. They’d serve some kind of porridge, but there was very little of it—less than my fist. In general, the portions were absolutely ridiculous; even we women didn’t have enough. And needless to say, the same went for the men.
Sometimes they put us to work—peeling potatoes or onions, helping in the kitchen, or serving this food to our own men. It was at least some form of interaction, since we had no other chance to see them.
But we didn’t stay in Olenivka for long—maybe a week.
Then they took us to Russia. And there we realized that the “DPR” was actually just a “mild version” of captivity…
“We were lucky: the stress caused a hormonal imbalance, and my period stopped.”
— As it turned out, they took us to Taganrog, in the Rostov Oblast of the Russian Federation. And as soon as they led us off the bus, we realized we were in deep trouble: now the game of survival would begin—a test of our moral and mental fortitude.
As soon as we set foot on the ground, they made us get into the “horse pose”—on all fours. Just so you understand: my forehead had to touch my knees. Your hands must always be behind your back, your head bent way back—you basically can’t see where you’re running (and they’re hurrying you along). If you don’t keep up, they grab you by the scruff of the neck, like a kitten, and drag you wherever they need to go.
There, they held us in a pretrial detention center, where we were housed in different wings and on different floors. They treated us there in a way you wouldn’t even wish on an enemy. These people have absolutely no idea what the Geneva Convention is or how to treat prisoners of war. They didn’t give us any opportunity to contact our families or even let them know we were alive.
For clothing, they gave us the prison uniforms worn by their convicts: pants, a blouse, a jacket, and size 43 shoes. Go ahead and try running around in that with your size 38 feet.
The beds were made of iron—the kind that don’t sag, just solid cast iron. As for the food—they don’t even feed dogs like that here. The portions were tiny, but that didn’t matter, because this “food” was cold and completely spoiled. It was simply impossible to eat.
The only thing that saved us was that once a day they gave us two slices of black and white bread. So we survived on bread and water for all 35 days that I was there.
We “bathed” once a week in cold water for 3 minutes, so there was no question of personal hygiene either. If someone’s period started, they were given some kind of pads, but they didn’t absorb anything at all.
To be fair, many girls were “lucky” in this regard, because the stress caused a hormonal imbalance, and their periods stopped.
But not everyone was so “lucky.”
“They poured boiling water on my tattoo: they wanted to remove it along with my skin.”
— Were you interrogated?
— Constantly. We girls heard a lot of insults directed at us: that “women should stay at home, get pregnant, and serve their husbands, not go off to war,” and things like that. Of course, all of this was accompanied by a great deal of profanity.
The interrogations were conducted mainly by Russian career officers, “special forces,” and operatives, and they all behaved like animals. They used not only psychological but also physical torture. They made no distinction based on gender in this regard: their reasoning was that if you weren’t sitting at home as your husband’s servant but had put on a uniform, then it was your own problem whatever was about to happen to you. And they beat us wherever they wanted… I won’t go into details.
At the same time, the Russians constantly tried to identify among us either a female sniper, an SBU agent, or something else. And they were always trying to fit each of us into the role they needed, whatever suited us best. For some reason, I fit the sniper role the best. When I asked why, I got this answer:
“Because you have two tattoos on your arm and you’re a redhead!”
– As we know, the Russians really don’t like Ukrainian tattoos.
– Oh, yeah, I got beaten up a lot because of my tattoos. They poured boiling water on this tattoo (shows her arm)—trying to “remove” it. They threatened to cut off my arm or slice my skin with a knife, called me a Nazi, a fascist…
True, to them we’re all Nazis and fascists who have “renounced our history.” At the same time, they themselves completely distort the history of World War II. According to their propaganda, we collaborated with the Nazis, killed Poles and Jews—and nearly killed the whole world. And they’re so great—they came and saved the whole world.
They’re also convinced that we despise World War II veterans, that we have what they call “torchlight marches” here, that we shout “Long live Bandera,” and that we practically walk around with pitchforks beating up Russians. And that those who speak Russian are practically being beaten to death in the streets—so they came to “liberate” them.
But I grew up in a Russian-speaking city. I’m fluent in three languages (besides Ukrainian, Russian, and English; I’m currently learning Turkish), but I’ve spoken “surzhyk” my whole life. And many of my friends speak Russian—and no one has ever had any problems!
– Is that how you responded to them?
– Well, at first I tried to explain that I’m from southern Ukraine, where a lot of people speak Russian. I even had a class called “Russian Language and Literature” in school! I told them that I read—well, I was reading at the time—books by Russian poets.
But to them, that was something out of a fantasy story, because it shattered their fixed image. Their minds are so brainwashed that it’s easier to explain to a wall that it’s a wall than to prove anything to them.
And it was much worse for the guys than it was for us. My cell was right across from the “interrogation room” where they were taken. And from 8 a.m. until late at night, we could hear everything that was happening in there. It was also emotionally draining.
“You wake up, eat, and even go to the bathroom to the sound of the Russian national anthem.”
– Did you believe that you would be released or exchanged? That Ukraine hadn’t forgotten about you?
– To be honest: sometimes the thought would cross my mind that this would never end. That constant brainwashing really got to me. They kept saying that Ukraine no longer existed, that Europe had abandoned us. That there were Russian banks and Russian currency everywhere here now, and that no one would swap us out, so we’d be stuck there until some Russian took pity on us and decided to marry one of us…
They constantly played the Russian Federation’s national anthem for us. Just imagine: you wake up, eat, and even go to the bathroom to the anthem of the Russian Federation, which they also force you to learn and sing. That happened at least 17 times a day!
At the same time, we were completely forbidden from speaking Ukrainian. If they heard us, there were verbal threats at first, and by the second or third time—physical punishment. But we still spoke, even if only in whispers. And in general, we supported each other very much.
For example, when we had to sing their anthem, here’s what we’d do: one or two girls would stand closer to the front and loudly belt out the Russian anthem, while the rest of us sang the Ukrainian national anthem.
This really helped us not to despair and to remember that we are Ukrainians, and that’s why we’ll get through all of this. Because no matter how much our people were oppressed for our language and culture—we preserved them!
I kept saying: “Girls, they remember us; we have to endure everything. There’s no way our country wouldn’t want to bring us home. I’d bet that it’s the Russian side that doesn’t want to confirm our status as prisoners of war and submit us for exchange.”
And as it turned out, I was right. The Russians didn’t confirm us as prisoners of war until the summer—obviously, after we’d already been transported to the Belgorod region. And then it turned out that the Russian side had derailed the planned exchange several times. They do this very often.
“The Russian women convicted of serious crimes were very afraid of us”
– Where did they take you in the Belgorod region?
– When, after 35 days in Taganrog, they took us somewhere else again, we were sure we were heading to an even worse hellhole. But it turned out to be a little easier there. It was a women’s correctional colony in the city of Valuiki, where Russian women convicted of serious crimes are held. But we only crossed paths with them at work.
The work was like a sewing factory, where the girls worked as seamstresses. We worked there for two and a half months and even, so to speak, received a salary. But it all went toward hygiene products, since they didn’t give us any shampoo or other hygiene items.
– And how did the Russian “female convicts” treat you?
– They didn’t really talk to us much, but when they did, they mostly repeated all the propaganda they’d seen on TV. That there’s no grain, bread, or water left in Ukraine; that pensioners here are dying of hunger; and that everyone in the army is either an alcoholic or a “drug addict.” The oldest woman at work insisted that a single loaf of bread here already costs 500 or 600 hryvnias.
But for the most part, they kept their distance. Because they were very afraid of us! And not just them, but the female inspectors as well. Especially because they tried to yell at us, to humiliate us in some way, and we actually fought back.
Two “special forces” guys and two inspectors escorted us—24 Ukrainian girls—to work. They even accompanied us to the bathroom: while you were doing your business, one stood at the entrance and the other right outside the stall! That’s how dangerous we are.
One day while we were working, we all went out together for a scheduled smoke break to the smoking area, and there, nearby, a woman [a convict] was weeding a garden bed.
As soon as she saw us, she fell face-down on the ground and started crawling away. We just stood there watching, a little shocked.
The officer guarding us asked her what was wrong, and she said, “I’m so scared of them! I don’t want them to see me. What if they find me later and kill me!” (laughs).
– So, it turns out you lived in the rooms only with your own group, separate from the others?
– Yes, about 19–20 girls in one “section” (that’s what they call the rooms there).
At first, 80 of us girls were taken from Olenivka to Taganrog, and by the time we reached Valuyki, there were about 60 of us left. We could see our friends from other rooms during walks or in the dining hall, where they’d bring in two sections at a time.
To be honest, we thought the girls who weren’t in Valuyki had already been exchanged. We really hoped that they were already home and could let our families know who had been with them.
We immediately made an agreement: whoever returned to Ukraine first would immediately tell our relatives the names of the others or write to them. After all, we weren’t even sure if our families knew we were still alive.
So when they finally brought us all together during the exchange, it was very strange to see familiar faces. We’d been scattered all over Russia—some of us had been moved between three detention centers, some between five, and some even more.
“They understood Ukrainian, but they didn’t understand us”
– Valuiki is very close to the Kharkiv region; quite a few ethnic Ukrainians live there. Did you feel that in any way?
– Let’s put it this way: the physical violence against us stopped there. But the psychological abuse was very intense instead. And that was precisely because many of the staff members there had Ukrainian families—“mixed blood,” as they called themselves. They understood the Ukrainian language, but they didn’t understand us: to them, we were fascists—“Nazis,” “fascists,” “ideological extremists.”
– So those with Ukrainian roots turned out to be even bigger haters of all things Ukrainian than ethnic Russians?
– It seems so. But what can you expect from them, with all that propaganda? They forced us to watch their TV there, and it constantly claimed that Europe without Russia would freeze to death in the winter without gas, so everyone there was already on Russia’s side, because only Russia is capable of saving everyone. And while we were forced to watch this utter nonsense, they stood there nodding so seriously: “Yes, our Russia is great; yes, we can do that. And you guys are just so bad.” We found it funny, of course, but laughing could have gotten us “a slap on the head.”
At the same time, it was in Valuyki that rumors began circulating that we might be exchanged. There were also intelligence officers working with us there who were trying to get some information out of us, but at least they were answering questions and confirmed that lists for our exchange had already been submitted. Of course, they said that Ukraine wouldn’t take us back, that it had no one to exchange us for, and so on. But it was clear that at least some process was already underway.
And then they woke us up at 4 a.m., led us outside… and took us to another prison colony in the Kursk region. It only became clear later that this was the last stop before the exchange, but at the time, of course, we didn’t know that.
“For every offense—200 squats. But look how well my uniform fits me now!”
– At the new penal colony, we—Ukrainian female prisoners of war—were separated into different cells. In general, the cells there were very cramped; anywhere from 8 to 13 women had to fit into a very small space. On top of that, there were rows of bunk beds and a small table that could seat a maximum of four people. So even during meals, we had to take turns: while some ate, others sat on the floor or stood to make room.
But we were still lucky, because those who ended up in the so-called “shizo” (punishment isolation) were treated much more harshly: they had significantly less time for meals and for getting ready for bed…
To be honest, everyone there had to get into bed very quickly. We even joked that the local guards had a game called “Get to Sleep in 3 Seconds.”
If you didn’t manage to lie down and cover yourself within 3 seconds, they’d pull you up and “shake” you.
– Is that some kind of euphemism for yet another form of hazing?
– Well, how should I put it? “Shaking” was taken literally—for any “offense.” We figured we could do 200 squats a day, and then another 200 jump squats. If there’s one thing I can thank the Russians for, it’s that my uniform fits even better now (laughs).
On top of that, of course, we also had to recite their poems, shout their anthem, march, and listen to their “lectures”—the so-called radio broadcasts where they told us we were fascists. But we didn’t stay there long.
“The Russian soldiers we were exchanged for couldn’t look us in the eye—they were ashamed.”
– Tell us how the exchange took place.
– One day they woke us up again around 4 a.m., told us to pack all our belongings, and led us to the “police vans.” We thought it was just another transfer to a different detention facility. And this time, it was somewhere far away, because they took us to an airfield—we could hear the rumble of an airplane. We couldn’t see it because they had blindfolded us and tied our hands with duct tape (and for those who were less fortunate—with zip ties). But it was clear that the plane was large. They made us sit right on the metal floor in a sort of “herringbone” formation: each of us was told to spread our legs as wide as possible so that another girl could sit “in your crotch” in front of you. And so we flew for about three hours.
From their conversation, it was already clear that we were flying to Crimea. And indeed: when they led us off the plane, that familiar sea breeze hit us in the face. Until 2014, I used to travel to Crimea very often with friends; I love it very much. So I sensed that we were somewhere near Sevastopol (it later turned out that we were).
They untied our eyes and hands, even let us go to the bathroom—and then loaded us into KamAZ trucks with their “Zetkas.” And no matter how scary it was to think about what would happen next, the main thing was that we were already in Ukraine. Even if it’s in occupied territory for now, it’s still our land!
They “sealed up” the car, but they don’t know how to do that properly either, so they left us with a huge hole. And the girls sitting by the side of the truck could see the place names we were passing. We drove past Dzhankoy and kept going. Then one girl turned around, crying—but with this huge smile on her face! She says, “Girls, we’re in the Kherson region!”
We all smiled then, because that’s really close to our people—if anything happens, we can even make a run for it!
True, the side of the vehicle opened up a bit more afterward, and we saw a pickup truck with a man in uniform sitting inside, holding a PKM rifle pointed toward our vehicles. So if anyone did decide to try to escape, they could just shoot them…
He escorted us almost to the line where the exchange took place, but turned back a little less than a kilometer before reaching it.
But before that, already in the Zaporizhzhia region, we stopped to “pose” for their TV crew. We heard them say, “Yeah, we need them to say they weren’t mistreated, that they were fed like movie stars, and that the treatment was just as good.” We were thinking: just don’t pick our vehicle, because we’re going to tell them a thing or two… Half the car is made up of Marines! Luckily, they went to someone else.
And finally, the cars stopped, the sides began to open up—and there we saw our own uniform! I never in my life thought I’d be so happy to see our own uniform!
They let us out of the car, and we step out, as is our habit: hands behind our backs, heads bowed, so we don’t “get it.” And they simply told us in our native language: “Girls, you’re in Ukraine now; you’re no longer prisoners” (here, the cheerful Ryzhula’s eyes welled up; she paused— “N”).
They lined us up, began calling us by last name, and sent us forward in groups of 10–15 girls. And the Russians were coming toward us. It was so strange to see how well-fed, clean-shaven, and washed they were, with their own belongings—suitcases, bags.
And there we were, walking toward them—skinny, dirty, wearing other people’s clothes (after all, we didn’t even have our own things; they’d taken absolutely everything from us). Some were even wearing mismatched boots that didn’t fit. The contrast was striking.
– There were many Russian civilian sailors in this exchange who had been “stranded” in Ukraine after their “homeland” launched a full-scale invasion here. They aren’t prisoners of war, after all, which is probably why they had suitcases.
– Yes, but there were definitely military personnel there as well. You could spot them right away: they walked with their heads bowed and couldn’t look us in the eye—they were ashamed. And we’re so worn out, so exhausted—yet we’re walking with our heads held high, happy!
And then, in the demilitarized zone, the girls started singing the Ukrainian national anthem. It wasn’t organized or in sync—everyone sang as best they could—but it was so heartwarming!
And the most telling thing was how we were welcomed. We hugged each other and cried together with the guys who had accompanied the exchange; they took us in comfortable buses: “Here’s some water, candy, cigarettes—whatever you want…” They immediately gave us phones so we could call our families.
But they were simply told, “Glory to Russia!” and put… into the very same trucks that had brought us there! They were loaded up just like that and driven away. But is that really how a country that genuinely wanted to bring them home welcomes those released from captivity?! It seemed as though they’d been forcibly taken away.
– Yes, you can see in the video that those civilian sailors aren’t exactly thrilled about it.
– …And when we finally arrived here, it took us a long time to believe it.
It felt like: you’ll go to sleep now—and wake up again to the Russian national anthem.
But after a day, two, three—your own uniform, your own language, your own country—and you’re like, “Oh my God, finally! It’s finally all over!”
“I believe that the Armed Forces of Ukraine will soon liberate all our territories and I’ll see my daughter”
– Do you know anything about the fate of those women who allegedly decided to stay in the occupied territory? At least
Authors: Lesya Shovkun, Dmytro Lykhoviy
The events that unfolded in Mariupol in the spring of 2022 are forever etched into Ukraine’s history with the blood of its residents and defenders. However, this heroic episode still raises a multitude of questions that have yet to be answered. Many of them concern the events surrounding the Illich Steel Plant, which was defended by marines—soldiers of the 36th Brigade and the 1st, 501st, and 503rd Separate Marine Battalions.
While the whole world was able to follow the events at Azovstal virtually “live,” the true situation at the Ilyich Steel Plant remained unknown to the general public. In early April, Russian propagandists began circulating a video of the 501st Battalion’s surrender. For several more days, so-called Russian “war correspondents” took turns stationed outside the plant to film the anticipated surrender of a larger number of Ukrainian marines.
Isolated reports began to surface in the Ukrainian media suggesting that fighters from various units of the 36th Marine Brigade of the Ukrainian Navy had effectively found themselves in a hopeless situation, were ready to fight to the last, and had sent final video messages, among other things. Part of the audience perceived such news as fake or as signs of weakness.
However, starting on April 12, about a thousand marines did indeed surrender. This was preceded by a failed attempt by a portion of the brigade, led by Brigade Commander Baranyuk, to break through the encirclement toward the Zaporizhzhia region. A smaller group of marines joined forces with the defenders of “Azovstal.”
How did the defense of the Illich Steel Plant unfold, and how did the surrender take place? How and by whom was this decision made at the Ilyich Steel Plant? How do the Russians treat Ukrainian prisoners of war, particularly women? How are our prisoners faring in penal colonies on Russian territory? How did the first all-female prisoner exchange take place on October 17? Why did two of the exchanged Ukrainian women decide to remain in the occupied territory?
We discuss all of this with Sergeant Anna Olsen—a senior combat medic in the chemicaland biological protection company of the 36th Separate Marine Brigade named after Rear Admiral Bilinsky, who, along with her comrades-in-arms, was at the Illich Plant, was taken prisoner, and remained there for six months.
A cheerful, sunny young woman with the positive call sign “Rizhulia” (another nickname is “Limonka”) miraculously survived the hell of Russian bombings. She endured physical and psychological torture while in Russian captivity, where her husband remains to this day. And she misses her little daughter terribly, who is now in the occupied territory of the Kherson region.
Despite this, Anna Olsen radiates incredible optimism, patriotism, and faith in our Victory.
“After seizing the hospital, the Russians shot wounded military patients.”
“I began my military career at age 19. Actually, it was my childhood dream to become a soldier. After 9th grade, I wanted to go to a military high school, but my mom convinced me to enroll in a medical college. And in 2015, as soon as I graduated with a diploma as a paramedic, I immediately signed a contract with the Ukrainian Armed Forces,” says Anya.
She is now 26. For the past five of those years, she has served in the 36th Marine Brigade, based in her hometown of Mykolaiv.
Before the full-scale invasion by Russian troops, Ryzhulia was on rotation at the temporary command post of the 36th Marine Brigade in the village of Kamensk on the northern outskirts of Mariupol. This is a small rear-area unit: food and supply depots, medical services, and so on.
So Anya was doing the usual work of a “logistical” military medic: signing travel orders, dispensing pills, bandaging cut fingers, and treating other everyday injuries that soldiers face when not on combat missions.
As February 24 approached, personnel were informed that everyone must always carry an “emergency backpack” with a minimum set of essentials, and that in the event of an alert, they must take cover because rocket attacks and the like were possible.
However, knowing that a “major war” is possible and actually finding oneself at its epicenter—as it turned out—are two very different things.
The full realization of just how serious the situation was hit Kamensk on February 26, when a Russian plane “flew in” over the marines’ deployment site for the first time.
“The area there is pretty small—it’s a former detention center, literally just a few small buildings and a path,” Anna says. “At the moment it arrived, I was just sorting through medical supplies in the bunker.” And then—a sharp whistling sound, “bang!”… At first, you just sit there and don’t understand what’s happening at all—your brain simply refuses to process it. Then the guys rush in shouting, “We need a medic!”
And that’s it: the confusion vanishes instantly; you grab what you need and run upstairs—to do your job.
Up there, as it turned out, it was already a nightmare: cars and houses were on fire, and everything was so completely destroyed that it was really hard not to break your legs. On top of that, the snow had just melted, so it was a real quagmire—you’d run, fall, get dirty, and your feet would slip apart… That was quite the marathon.
The attack actually came out of the blue: it was lunchtime; people were switching shifts, heading off to eat, and some were standing around smoking. And suddenly, in a single second, life was divided into “before” and “after.”
I was with some girls who already had combat experience, so we handled it pretty quickly. The problem was that only one vehicle survived, and there were eight wounded. And, unfortunately, two more guys were killed. We had to quickly figure out who could be treated on the spot and who needed to be evacuated to the hospital.
There were three “serious” cases. And, to my great regret, one of them ultimately didn’t survive. But not because the medics couldn’t help him. He would have recovered—if the second Mariupol hospital, where he was being treated, hadn’t been captured by the Russians.
– Do you mean they were killing the wounded?
– Yes. He was shot on the spot. And probably not just him. Although there were both military personnel and civilians there.
I was told about this later, at the factory. I was shocked. I remember that man well: he’d lost a lot of blood, but he remained conscious, talking to us constantly, helping us as best he could…
“I could have left before the bombing. But my guys were there!”
The real hell in Mariupol began in March. By that time, several Marine battalions—including Anin’s unit—were already stationed at the Ilyich Steel Plant, which, like Azovstal, had secure underground bunkers.
As the only girl in the unit, the guys did everything they could to protect Ryzhula. So while they were carrying out various combat missions, Anya was practically always in the shelter with the other women and the wounded—about 70 people in total.
“We provided care to the most critically injured in another bunker, which served as a military hospital. Our brigade’s command was also stationed there. But we only had three medics, so we divided up the duties based on each person’s experience.” It’s one thing when you’re dealing with “combat casualties” on every rotation. But when you’re deep in the rear and your most “serious” “casualty” so far has been a cook who, due to carelessness, stuck his hand in a meat grinder…
Although, as a paramedic, it was a little easier for me in that regard, since I worked in “emergency medical services.” If there’s something you don’t know, your “common sense” comes to the rescue. But combat experience is still combat experience.
– Finding yourself in such a “meat grinder” after years of peaceful service in the rear, did you ever regret your decision to become a female soldier?
– Not once. By the way, I had the chance to leave before the bombing started. But I made a conscious decision to stay. Because these are my guys.
My kids are 19 years old each, just so you know. It was the very last draft when they signed their contracts.
There were five of them. My commander always joked that I was “like a mother hen with her chicks”—because wherever I am, they’re always there too. And these “kids” behaved so heroically—in a way that not every “grown-up” could.
One boy—the youngest child in his family, with no parents of his own, raised by his grandparents—shielded his comrades with his own body. He suffered a severe leg injury and is still recovering. And three of them have already returned to the ranks!
– You talk about them as if they were children, but some people take offense on behalf of our soldiers in such cases. Because no matter how young they are, they are, first and foremost, warriors, defenders.
– They’re heroes, of course. But to me, they’re children,” says the 26-year-old medic.
An attempt to break through: “We realized something was wrong and turned back”
– On April 11, a post appeared on the 36th Brigade’s official Facebook page containing a message from a marine in besieged Mariupol, from the Azovmash factory. The author emphasized that the situation was very dire, the unit was running out of ammunition, and there was no support. At the time, many assumed it was an enemy cyberattack and that the unit’s page had been hacked. However, “Novynarnia” knows for certain that the letter was genuine and was written by one of the officers. The post was later deleted, but this happened only after it became known that most of the marines surrounded in Mariupol had been taken prisoner.
Another group, as is known, managed to break through to “Azovstal” and continued to hold their defenses alongside the “Azov” regiment. There was also a group under the command of Vladimir Baranyuk, a Hero of Ukraine and brigade commander of the 36th Marine Brigade, who allegedly attempted a breakout—and they emerged specifically from the Illich Plant. It later became clear that Baranyuk himself, the brigade’s chief of staff Dmytro Kormyankov, and, apparently, at least some of the fighters who went with them, were ultimately taken prisoner by the Russians.
You were at the epicenter of those events. Tell us how the situation unfolded—based on what you personally know. Who ultimately made the decision to surrender, say, for your unit? After all, things didn’t unfold the same way for you as they did at “Azovstal,” where the “evacuation into captivity” took place on orders from the highest command.
– I’m just a medic, so I can hardly assess the situation on the scale of the entire brigade. But we were told that we were, to put it very mildly, “in a bit of a pickle.”
We were running low on food. Although, as a medic, I was more concerned with medical supplies—and those were also running out rapidly because there were so many wounded. But most importantly, we had very few ammunition supplies. Specifically, our weapons (and my company is equipped with specialized weapons) ran out very quickly; only assault rifles and pistols remained.
At the same time, the “airstrikes” were becoming more and more frequent; we were constantly being bombed with various types of aerial bombs. And these strikes were so precise that it seemed as if someone was telling them exactly where to hit. Because the officer’s bunker was the main target.
And since my bunker was nearby, we constantly got hit “just for good measure.” We could count up to 8–9 airstrikes in a single day. We’d even figured out their schedule and knew roughly when we’d have 1–2 quiet hours.
You do the math: there have already been three strikes on the hangar—okay, that means there’s time to quickly run upstairs and grab some food (we had bags of grains and canned meat up there). The hangar is huge, and the roof is practically gone: you stand there, as if in a stadium, counting the stars… And then you see: it’s flying in again—you have to run back.
In other words, the situation was truly very difficult, and it couldn’t go on like that for long.
At some point, the commander of my unit came to our bunker to consult with us. In our unit, all decisions that affected all of us were always made collectively. The commander always consulted with us: he described the situation, expressed his opinion, and listened to ours. And in the end, we would reach some kind of mutual compromise. It’s like a big family—it’s no wonder that everyone in the unit always tried to join us.
In short, he came in, told us exactly how things stood, and said there would be an attempt to break out of the encirclement. At that time, we were surrounded by three rings of Russian troops—about 14,000 of them. And first and foremost, the innermost ring was closing in more and more: fighting had already begun not only on the outskirts of the plant itself, but practically right next to our bunkers.
He explained all the risks. And we agreed that we had to try.
The commander described what the route would be like, more or less; how to act if our vehicle came under fire (I was supposed to ride along with the wounded); how to tell our own troops from the Russians; what to say, where to say it, and how we should respond.
And so, late at night, sometime around 1:00 a.m., we tried to leave. My unit had only one vehicle left—a makeshift one cobbled together from parts of all the vehicles the orcs had destroyed. So we piled into it and set off: without headlights, driving blindly, trusting the driver. The plant was huge—I think about 10 square kilometers.
We’d already driven quite a distance when the bombing began. Airplanes, artillery, machine guns—it was all there. Just a massive “light show” in the middle of the night. And this massive convoy was trying to get out. Then everything came to a halt; it was impossible to go any further. All around you, things were flashing, exploding, burning—horses and rabbits were all mixed up; it was total chaos.
I was sitting in the car near the gas tank; the car didn’t have a tarp. I looked up: the sky was so starry, so beautiful… And I thought: if it’s going to hit, at least let it happen so fast that I don’t even have time to realize what’s happening.
And then our commander ordered us to turn around immediately. We realized something was seriously wrong—and headed back.
Either to “Azovstal” or into captivity
We had barely reached our bunker and started unloading when a plane flew straight at us and dropped a bomb on the hangar, which was only about 200 meters away. Let me put it this way: even those who didn’t believe in God started believing in Him right then.
Everyone was terrified, filthy, and badly battered; many suffered concussions. But we were very lucky: everyone is alive. Because overall, during that attempt to break through, there were a lot of “200s.” Quite a few shells during the shelling hit the vehicles transporting the wounded… Many young men and women were killed then.
We quickly ran back into the bunker—and only after that did we decide to surrender.
– How did you make that decision? Was it a collective decision, too?
– Yes, of course. We gradually calmed down: some lay down to rest, others smoked or drank coffee, and we talked. And when dawn broke, the commander arrived. And he said:
“We now have two options: either surrender or head to ‘Azovstal.’ I’ll accept whatever choice you make.”
But at that point, breaking through to ‘Azovstal’ seemed unrealistic. After all, there were so many of us. It was an entire convoy, including the wounded. It was a road you didn’t know, partly mined and completely under fire. It was blown-up bridges. It was their planes flying overhead.
We sat there and thought it over. I said right away that in this situation, I’d choose to be taken prisoner. I needed to get back to my family. The commander accepted that. We hugged, agreed on plans for what to do next once we got home, and went our separate ways.
That failed attempt to break through took place on the night of April 11–12. And by late afternoon on April 12, the first group had been taken prisoner.
– How did that happen? Did you come out with a white flag, or did you somehow let the Russians know that you were coming out?
– I don’t know the details—we had a senior officer who negotiated everything. They simply loaded us back into the car and took us to the factory perimeter, and then on to the village of Mirne, where “DPR” troops were stationed. They were the ones who “received” us.
“They seriously claimed that we were Nazis, that we ate children and drank the blood of bullfinches.”
– The first thing they did was take our documents, valuables, cell phones, and so on. They only left cigarettes for those who smoked—and not even for everyone.
And what nonsense they spouted! Their brains had been thoroughly brainwashed: they told us that we eat children, that we’re Nazis, fascists, that we drink the blood of bullfinches, and so on. Just look: there’s a grown adult standing right in front of you—old enough to be your parent. And they’re spouting stuff that’s just beyond belief!
They also claimed that “all of this” was our fault: because we refused to let them join the Russian Federation, because we were bombing peaceful cities—specifically Mariupol—and so on.
Fortunately, we only stayed at that checkpoint for about six hours. They even gave us tea! Although that was an interesting moment, too. We looked at that tea with such skepticism, but their leader said, “Don’t be afraid—we’re not like you. We’re not going to poison anyone.”
Needless to say, nobody drank that tea.
Then they took us to Olenivka (a prison camp in the village of the same name in the temporarily occupied territory of Donetsk Oblast, where the occupiers are holding Ukrainian prisoners—"N"). And our guys were treated very harshly there.
The officers got it especially bad; to them, the officers were like a red rag to a bull. The higher your rank, the more you “took a beating.”
They didn’t touch the girls back then. They just led us off the bus and lined us up. An inspector on duty approached each of us, wrote down our last name, first name, and patronymic, as well as which work brigade and unit we were from, and when and from which factory we had been taken prisoner.
The conditions in Olenivka were, of course, terrible: there were 39 of us in a cell designed for a maximum of 6 people. We slept wherever we could: on a bench, under a bench, on a table, under a table. Two or three people per square meter. One would get up to stretch her legs, and the other would lie down—that’s how we took turns.
The food was so-so. Breakfast consisted of a third of a round white loaf of bread and tea… If there was one thing we had no trouble with in Olenivka, it was bread. And it was “our” bread, our own, because it tasted fresh, and we were happy about that. There was also lunch, which actually took place closer to dinnertime. They’d serve some kind of porridge, but there was very little of it—less than my fist. In general, the portions were absolutely ridiculous; even we women didn’t have enough. And needless to say, the same went for the men.
Sometimes they put us to work—peeling potatoes or onions, helping in the kitchen, or serving this food to our own men. It was at least some form of interaction, since we had no other chance to see them.
But we didn’t stay in Olenivka for long—maybe a week.
Then they took us to Russia. And there we realized that the “DPR” was actually just a “mild version” of captivity…
“We were lucky: the stress caused a hormonal imbalance, and my period stopped.”
— As it turned out, they took us to Taganrog, in the Rostov Oblast of the Russian Federation. And as soon as they led us off the bus, we realized we were in deep trouble: now the game of survival would begin—a test of our moral and mental fortitude.
As soon as we set foot on the ground, they made us get into the “horse pose”—on all fours. Just so you understand: my forehead had to touch my knees. Your hands must always be behind your back, your head bent way back—you basically can’t see where you’re running (and they’re hurrying you along). If you don’t keep up, they grab you by the scruff of the neck, like a kitten, and drag you wherever they need to go.
There, they held us in a pretrial detention center, where we were housed in different wings and on different floors. They treated us there in a way you wouldn’t even wish on an enemy. These people have absolutely no idea what the Geneva Convention is or how to treat prisoners of war. They didn’t give us any opportunity to contact our families or even let them know we were alive.
For clothing, they gave us the prison uniforms worn by their convicts: pants, a blouse, a jacket, and size 43 shoes. Go ahead and try running around in that with your size 38 feet.
The beds were made of iron—the kind that don’t sag, just solid cast iron. As for the food—they don’t even feed dogs like that here. The portions were tiny, but that didn’t matter, because this “food” was cold and completely spoiled. It was simply impossible to eat.
The only thing that saved us was that once a day they gave us two slices of black and white bread. So we survived on bread and water for all 35 days that I was there.
We “bathed” once a week in cold water for 3 minutes, so there was no question of personal hygiene either. If someone’s period started, they were given some kind of pads, but they didn’t absorb anything at all.
To be fair, many girls were “lucky” in this regard, because the stress caused a hormonal imbalance, and their periods stopped.
But not everyone was so “lucky.”
“They poured boiling water on my tattoo: they wanted to remove it along with my skin.”
— Were you interrogated?
— Constantly. We girls heard a lot of insults directed at us: that “women should stay at home, get pregnant, and serve their husbands, not go off to war,” and things like that. Of course, all of this was accompanied by a great deal of profanity.
The interrogations were conducted mainly by Russian career officers, “special forces,” and operatives, and they all behaved like animals. They used not only psychological but also physical torture. They made no distinction based on gender in this regard: their reasoning was that if you weren’t sitting at home as your husband’s servant but had put on a uniform, then it was your own problem whatever was about to happen to you. And they beat us wherever they wanted… I won’t go into details.
At the same time, the Russians constantly tried to identify among us either a female sniper, an SBU agent, or something else. And they were always trying to fit each of us into the role they needed, whatever suited us best. For some reason, I fit the sniper role the best. When I asked why, I got this answer:
“Because you have two tattoos on your arm and you’re a redhead!”
– As we know, the Russians really don’t like Ukrainian tattoos.
– Oh, yeah, I got beaten up a lot because of my tattoos. They poured boiling water on this tattoo (shows her arm)—trying to “remove” it. They threatened to cut off my arm or slice my skin with a knife, called me a Nazi, a fascist…
True, to them we’re all Nazis and fascists who have “renounced our history.” At the same time, they themselves completely distort the history of World War II. According to their propaganda, we collaborated with the Nazis, killed Poles and Jews—and nearly killed the whole world. And they’re so great—they came and saved the whole world.
They’re also convinced that we despise World War II veterans, that we have what they call “torchlight marches” here, that we shout “Long live Bandera,” and that we practically walk around with pitchforks beating up Russians. And that those who speak Russian are practically being beaten to death in the streets—so they came to “liberate” them.
But I grew up in a Russian-speaking city. I’m fluent in three languages (besides Ukrainian, Russian, and English; I’m currently learning Turkish), but I’ve spoken “surzhyk” my whole life. And many of my friends speak Russian—and no one has ever had any problems!
– Is that how you responded to them?
– Well, at first I tried to explain that I’m from southern Ukraine, where a lot of people speak Russian. I even had a class called “Russian Language and Literature” in school! I told them that I read—well, I was reading at the time—books by Russian poets.
But to them, that was something out of a fantasy story, because it shattered their fixed image. Their minds are so brainwashed that it’s easier to explain to a wall that it’s a wall than to prove anything to them.
And it was much worse for the guys than it was for us. My cell was right across from the “interrogation room” where they were taken. And from 8 a.m. until late at night, we could hear everything that was happening in there. It was also emotionally draining.
“You wake up, eat, and even go to the bathroom to the sound of the Russian national anthem.”
– Did you believe that you would be released or exchanged? That Ukraine hadn’t forgotten about you?
– To be honest: sometimes the thought would cross my mind that this would never end. That constant brainwashing really got to me. They kept saying that Ukraine no longer existed, that Europe had abandoned us. That there were Russian banks and Russian currency everywhere here now, and that no one would swap us out, so we’d be stuck there until some Russian took pity on us and decided to marry one of us…
They constantly played the Russian Federation’s national anthem for us. Just imagine: you wake up, eat, and even go to the bathroom to the anthem of the Russian Federation, which they also force you to learn and sing. That happened at least 17 times a day!
At the same time, we were completely forbidden from speaking Ukrainian. If they heard us, there were verbal threats at first, and by the second or third time—physical punishment. But we still spoke, even if only in whispers. And in general, we supported each other very much.
For example, when we had to sing their anthem, here’s what we’d do: one or two girls would stand closer to the front and loudly belt out the Russian anthem, while the rest of us sang the Ukrainian national anthem.
This really helped us not to despair and to remember that we are Ukrainians, and that’s why we’ll get through all of this. Because no matter how much our people were oppressed for our language and culture—we preserved them!
I kept saying: “Girls, they remember us; we have to endure everything. There’s no way our country wouldn’t want to bring us home. I’d bet that it’s the Russian side that doesn’t want to confirm our status as prisoners of war and submit us for exchange.”
And as it turned out, I was right. The Russians didn’t confirm us as prisoners of war until the summer—obviously, after we’d already been transported to the Belgorod region. And then it turned out that the Russian side had derailed the planned exchange several times. They do this very often.
“The Russian women convicted of serious crimes were very afraid of us”
– Where did they take you in the Belgorod region?
– When, after 35 days in Taganrog, they took us somewhere else again, we were sure we were heading to an even worse hellhole. But it turned out to be a little easier there. It was a women’s correctional colony in the city of Valuiki, where Russian women convicted of serious crimes are held. But we only crossed paths with them at work.
The work was like a sewing factory, where the girls worked as seamstresses. We worked there for two and a half months and even, so to speak, received a salary. But it all went toward hygiene products, since they didn’t give us any shampoo or other hygiene items.
– And how did the Russian “female convicts” treat you?
– They didn’t really talk to us much, but when they did, they mostly repeated all the propaganda they’d seen on TV. That there’s no grain, bread, or water left in Ukraine; that pensioners here are dying of hunger; and that everyone in the army is either an alcoholic or a “drug addict.” The oldest woman at work insisted that a single loaf of bread here already costs 500 or 600 hryvnias.
But for the most part, they kept their distance. Because they were very afraid of us! And not just them, but the female inspectors as well. Especially because they tried to yell at us, to humiliate us in some way, and we actually fought back.
Two “special forces” guys and two inspectors escorted us—24 Ukrainian girls—to work. They even accompanied us to the bathroom: while you were doing your business, one stood at the entrance and the other right outside the stall! That’s how dangerous we are.
One day while we were working, we all went out together for a scheduled smoke break to the smoking area, and there, nearby, a woman [a convict] was weeding a garden bed.
As soon as she saw us, she fell face-down on the ground and started crawling away. We just stood there watching, a little shocked.
The officer guarding us asked her what was wrong, and she said, “I’m so scared of them! I don’t want them to see me. What if they find me later and kill me!” (laughs).
– So, it turns out you lived in the rooms only with your own group, separate from the others?
– Yes, about 19–20 girls in one “section” (that’s what they call the rooms there).
At first, 80 of us girls were taken from Olenivka to Taganrog, and by the time we reached Valuyki, there were about 60 of us left. We could see our friends from other rooms during walks or in the dining hall, where they’d bring in two sections at a time.
To be honest, we thought the girls who weren’t in Valuyki had already been exchanged. We really hoped that they were already home and could let our families know who had been with them.
We immediately made an agreement: whoever returned to Ukraine first would immediately tell our relatives the names of the others or write to them. After all, we weren’t even sure if our families knew we were still alive.
So when they finally brought us all together during the exchange, it was very strange to see familiar faces. We’d been scattered all over Russia—some of us had been moved between three detention centers, some between five, and some even more.
“They understood Ukrainian, but they didn’t understand us”
– Valuiki is very close to the Kharkiv region; quite a few ethnic Ukrainians live there. Did you feel that in any way?
– Let’s put it this way: the physical violence against us stopped there. But the psychological abuse was very intense instead. And that was precisely because many of the staff members there had Ukrainian families—“mixed blood,” as they called themselves. They understood the Ukrainian language, but they didn’t understand us: to them, we were fascists—“Nazis,” “fascists,” “ideological extremists.”
– So those with Ukrainian roots turned out to be even bigger haters of all things Ukrainian than ethnic Russians?
– It seems so. But what can you expect from them, with all that propaganda? They forced us to watch their TV there, and it constantly claimed that Europe without Russia would freeze to death in the winter without gas, so everyone there was already on Russia’s side, because only Russia is capable of saving everyone. And while we were forced to watch this utter nonsense, they stood there nodding so seriously: “Yes, our Russia is great; yes, we can do that. And you guys are just so bad.” We found it funny, of course, but laughing could have gotten us “a slap on the head.”
At the same time, it was in Valuyki that rumors began circulating that we might be exchanged. There were also intelligence officers working with us there who were trying to get some information out of us, but at least they were answering questions and confirmed that lists for our exchange had already been submitted. Of course, they said that Ukraine wouldn’t take us back, that it had no one to exchange us for, and so on. But it was clear that at least some process was already underway.
And then they woke us up at 4 a.m., led us outside… and took us to another prison colony in the Kursk region. It only became clear later that this was the last stop before the exchange, but at the time, of course, we didn’t know that.
“For every offense—200 squats. But look how well my uniform fits me now!”
– At the new penal colony, we—Ukrainian female prisoners of war—were separated into different cells. In general, the cells there were very cramped; anywhere from 8 to 13 women had to fit into a very small space. On top of that, there were rows of bunk beds and a small table that could seat a maximum of four people. So even during meals, we had to take turns: while some ate, others sat on the floor or stood to make room.
But we were still lucky, because those who ended up in the so-called “shizo” (punishment isolation) were treated much more harshly: they had significantly less time for meals and for getting ready for bed…
To be honest, everyone there had to get into bed very quickly. We even joked that the local guards had a game called “Get to Sleep in 3 Seconds.”
If you didn’t manage to lie down and cover yourself within 3 seconds, they’d pull you up and “shake” you.
– Is that some kind of euphemism for yet another form of hazing?
– Well, how should I put it? “Shaking” was taken literally—for any “offense.” We figured we could do 200 squats a day, and then another 200 jump squats. If there’s one thing I can thank the Russians for, it’s that my uniform fits even better now (laughs).
On top of that, of course, we also had to recite their poems, shout their anthem, march, and listen to their “lectures”—the so-called radio broadcasts where they told us we were fascists. But we didn’t stay there long.
“The Russian soldiers we were exchanged for couldn’t look us in the eye—they were ashamed.”
– Tell us how the exchange took place.
– One day they woke us up again around 4 a.m., told us to pack all our belongings, and led us to the “police vans.” We thought it was just another transfer to a different detention facility. And this time, it was somewhere far away, because they took us to an airfield—we could hear the rumble of an airplane. We couldn’t see it because they had blindfolded us and tied our hands with duct tape (and for those who were less fortunate—with zip ties). But it was clear that the plane was large. They made us sit right on the metal floor in a sort of “herringbone” formation: each of us was told to spread our legs as wide as possible so that another girl could sit “in your crotch” in front of you. And so we flew for about three hours.
From their conversation, it was already clear that we were flying to Crimea. And indeed: when they led us off the plane, that familiar sea breeze hit us in the face. Until 2014, I used to travel to Crimea very often with friends; I love it very much. So I sensed that we were somewhere near Sevastopol (it later turned out that we were).
They untied our eyes and hands, even let us go to the bathroom—and then loaded us into KamAZ trucks with their “Zetkas.” And no matter how scary it was to think about what would happen next, the main thing was that we were already in Ukraine. Even if it’s in occupied territory for now, it’s still our land!
They “sealed up” the car, but they don’t know how to do that properly either, so they left us with a huge hole. And the girls sitting by the side of the truck could see the place names we were passing. We drove past Dzhankoy and kept going. Then one girl turned around, crying—but with this huge smile on her face! She says, “Girls, we’re in the Kherson region!”
We all smiled then, because that’s really close to our people—if anything happens, we can even make a run for it!
True, the side of the vehicle opened up a bit more afterward, and we saw a pickup truck with a man in uniform sitting inside, holding a PKM rifle pointed toward our vehicles. So if anyone did decide to try to escape, they could just shoot them…
He escorted us almost to the line where the exchange took place, but turned back a little less than a kilometer before reaching it.
But before that, already in the Zaporizhzhia region, we stopped to “pose” for their TV crew. We heard them say, “Yeah, we need them to say they weren’t mistreated, that they were fed like movie stars, and that the treatment was just as good.” We were thinking: just don’t pick our vehicle, because we’re going to tell them a thing or two… Half the car is made up of Marines! Luckily, they went to someone else.
And finally, the cars stopped, the sides began to open up—and there we saw our own uniform! I never in my life thought I’d be so happy to see our own uniform!
They let us out of the car, and we step out, as is our habit: hands behind our backs, heads bowed, so we don’t “get it.” And they simply told us in our native language: “Girls, you’re in Ukraine now; you’re no longer prisoners” (here, the cheerful Ryzhula’s eyes welled up; she paused— “N”).
They lined us up, began calling us by last name, and sent us forward in groups of 10–15 girls. And the Russians were coming toward us. It was so strange to see how well-fed, clean-shaven, and washed they were, with their own belongings—suitcases, bags.
And there we were, walking toward them—skinny, dirty, wearing other people’s clothes (after all, we didn’t even have our own things; they’d taken absolutely everything from us). Some were even wearing mismatched boots that didn’t fit. The contrast was striking.
– There were many Russian civilian sailors in this exchange who had been “stranded” in Ukraine after their “homeland” launched a full-scale invasion here. They aren’t prisoners of war, after all, which is probably why they had suitcases.
– Yes, but there were definitely military personnel there as well. You could spot them right away: they walked with their heads bowed and couldn’t look us in the eye—they were ashamed. And we’re so worn out, so exhausted—yet we’re walking with our heads held high, happy!
And then, in the demilitarized zone, the girls started singing the Ukrainian national anthem. It wasn’t organized or in sync—everyone sang as best they could—but it was so heartwarming!
And the most telling thing was how we were welcomed. We hugged each other and cried together with the guys who had accompanied the exchange; they took us in comfortable buses: “Here’s some water, candy, cigarettes—whatever you want…” They immediately gave us phones so we could call our families.
But they were simply told, “Glory to Russia!” and put… into the very same trucks that had brought us there! They were loaded up just like that and driven away. But is that really how a country that genuinely wanted to bring them home welcomes those released from captivity?! It seemed as though they’d been forcibly taken away.
– Yes, you can see in the video that those civilian sailors aren’t exactly thrilled about it.
– …And when we finally arrived here, it took us a long time to believe it.
It felt like: you’ll go to sleep now—and wake up again to the Russian national anthem.
But after a day, two, three—your own uniform, your own language, your own country—and you’re like, “Oh my God, finally! It’s finally all over!”
“I believe that the Armed Forces of Ukraine will soon liberate all our territories and I’ll see my daughter”
– Do you know anything about the fate of those women who allegedly decided to stay in the occupied territory? At least
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.