Source: Novynarnia
Author: Myroslava Il'to

What would Mel Gibson say if he had to direct a film based on real events about Mykhailo Rotar — a Marine from the small town of Apostolove in the Dnipropetrovsk region, who returned from captivity weighing 43 kilograms (down from 89 kg)?

While Gibson’s hero from the war drama *Hacksaw Ridge* impresses with his self-sacrifice and talent for saving lives, the real Ukrainian young man—with seven years of war and nine months — of captivity in Russian torture chambers—takes your breath away. This is a military drama whose poignancy and heroism would be the envy of Hollywood screenwriters. And this is the very real life of one of the defenders of “Azovstal.”

Before the young man’s story took shape as a cohesive kaleidoscope of accounts of his experiences, we met with Mykhailo twice.

In March, in Kyiv, Rotar had only shared his intention to return to the ranks of the Ukrainian Armed Forces. After our meeting, a recording of the interview—over ten hours long—remained on the voice recorder. Last week, we met in Mykolaiv—he had returned to the ranks of his home unit, the 36th Marine Brigade.

His mother helped him pass the medical examination in just one day. She worked at the reception desk of the clinic where Mykhailo was examined. As the chief physician stamped his paperwork, she made no secret of her surprise that such a young man was enlisting, and that his mother was supporting him. At that point, it was his mother who couldn’t hide her surprise. But she couldn’t object—Mykhailo was fulfilling his dream.

He first trained at “Desna,” where he qualified as a BMP-2 gunner and driver’s mechanic. Next came the 36th Marine Brigade at the training base in Mykolaiv. He didn’t stay there long; within two months, he was already deployed to hold the line along the Novoazovsk–Shyrokyne sector, east of Mariupol.

The full-scale invasion caught Mykhailo near the village of Vodyane. A week before February 24, their positions came under heavy artillery fire, and the enemy made its first attempts to break through. There were close-quarters battles, but the enemy failed to break through the defensive line in southern Donetsk Oblast.

But right at the start of the full-scale invasion, enemy aircraft began operating and tanks rolled in. Battles raged in the fields. The commander ordered us to take up a circular defense. That’s how Mykhailo’s Mariupol story began.

The Illich Plant and the Wounds.
“I met Ptashka. She patched me up.”
“They tried to break through to the plant every day. They’d charge over the fence, through the checkpoint; a little tank would drive in—and drive right back out. They didn’t see our posts, so they’d come in, and we’d shoot them down time and time again. They sacrificed their own infantry without mercy.

Movement within the plant itself was completely controlled by enemy drones. If they spotted us—something heavy would come flying in instantly.

There was a small, open corridor between the Ilyich Plant and Azovstal. We set up a circular defense and held our ground that way. On one side were National Guard troops, on another—National Guard troops, border guards, and Azov fighters, and on yet another—the Marine Corps, which maintained a circular defense alongside a unit of the National Guard,” says Mykhailo.

The Volontyrivka sector was the responsibility of the second company. The men suffered heavy losses—several enemy tanks accompanied by infantry broke through. Our forces repelled them, but the company was decimated. The commander, “Chacha,” asked the men to volunteer for the reserves and as replacements. Mykhailo and his comrade “Did” agreed and went under their command—taking up positions and engaging the enemy.

One day, an unfortunate situation arose: one of the units withdrew without warning that the flank was exposed. At that moment, enemy aircraft struck the command post. Communication between the units was cut off. The company commander personally drove his tanks very close to his men in an attempt to reach them, so they could regroup and withdraw to a specific point.

Mykhailo recalls vivid scenes from that day: “I realized we were surrounded. A ‘black-clad unit’—that’s what we called the Russian ‘special forces’—was moving through the streets.

The ‘DNR fighters’ were the first wave to be crushed. So to speak, at the cost of their lives, the enemy was conducting reconnaissance in force to gather intelligence. They constantly sent in their ‘expendable’ reserves to probe our weak spots in the defense.

And when the Russian “special forces” in black finally moved in, it happened with heavy artillery and air support. And they were the ones breaking through the Ukrainian flanks.

“In one spot, they broke through—and the enemy was already entering the street. There was already contact from the neighboring house. We were exchanging fire, throwing grenades at each other, and shouting at one another.

While at night it was clear who was where, by morning it was no longer clear, and it came down to friendly fire. Those bastards could already be attacking us from behind.

The commander ordered us to move out onto the main road, retreating behind the railroad tracks, under the bridge. It was about six kilometers from us along the direct highway.

The enemy realized we were retreating as a company; they spotted us and pounded us with tanks, mortars, and Grad rockets—all from three directions. We continued to retreat.

And it was under these circumstances that the tragedy occurred. The driver of the “Kozak” managed to break through the shelling and the thick smoke to reach us. We immediately signaled that we were friendly. But that didn’t stop the fire from the “Kozak.”

I even thought he was firing at the “Skoda” that was a few streets up, because the enemy was holed up there, directing fire from that position. I thought a few shots had just whizzed past me; I didn’t understand why that was happening. We ran across the road, and the gunner immediately fired at the guys who were in front of me. Two of the three were killed instantly, and Sasha Pikul was very seriously wounded. The first round hit one of his arms, and with the next rounds, he tried to finish him off like an enemy—and shot off his other arm.

I started shouting into the radio to the commander that “Kozak” was firing on his own men, and to give the order to stop firing, or he’d wipe out the entire infantry! After that, I saw the driver simply pull the machine gunner out.

We ran over to the guys; there wasn’t a single uninjured spot left on the two bodies. But we managed to save Sasha Pikul. Tourniquets, injections—we loaded him into the vehicle.

A minute after the vehicle with the wounded drove off, mortar fire rained down on us. A cloud of dust, sparks, darkness, and a sickening screech in my ears. What saved me was that I was wearing active noise-canceling headphones.

I started to come to my senses and realized: the fierce ringing in my ears meant I was still alive. But I knew I’d been hit. I checked to see if all my legs were still there. I realized I couldn’t lift or move them—nerve damage. And one leg was bleeding. I could see shells falling all around me, but I couldn’t hear them. Concussion.

One of the border guards ran up to me. A breathless little guy, weighing about 50 kilos. Fully equipped, with a bunch of magazines and a weapon. I couldn’t hear myself as I shouted at him, waving my arms to tell him not to reach for the tourniquet, but to drag me away right away. The mortar was firing; everything was falling all around us; we couldn’t stay there even for a minute.

He dragged me about two meters across the asphalt, and I realized my ass was on fire—we wouldn’t have been able to keep this up for much longer. I motioned for him to let me up. I stood on my good leg and, limping, started running, leaning on the barrel of my assault rifle.

I managed to get away somehow, sat down on a step, and used the door as a shield. Debris was flying all around, so I was really scared I’d get my legs blown off. Everything was flying: shrapnel, rocks, dirt. I didn’t have a helmet, and my face was covered in blood. The vehicle was being tossed from one pothole to another. Three of the four tires were punctured. Instead of the usual eight-person crew, all twenty of us were crammed into the vehicle. And there I am, still hanging on by a thread.

At the Ilyich Plant, the medics grabbed me by the arms, cut open my pants, and undressed me. I was even a little offended—they were such nice pants! In the medical ward, to my left lay a wounded man with shrapnel wounds to his legs and arms, and to my right—Pikul, with his arms torn off. The whole way, his wrist kept whipping against my face—it just dangled there. It was at that very moment that I felt the allure of life, when I faced death one-on-one—and nearly lost.

All the while, rockets were falling, chunks of asphalt were flying, the vehicle was being tossed from side to side, and the smell of spilled fuel hung in the darkness amid the sparks—at that moment, my whole life flashed before my eyes. I prayed that the rocket or that mortar shell wouldn’t hit the car. One shot—and more than twenty lives would be snuffed out. One of them—yours. Tanks, artillery, and infantry—they’re all coming after us. We’re breaking free. The adrenaline is slowly wearing off. I’m starting to fade—I’ve been bleeding the whole time.

The first-aid kit is on my back; everything in the front is in the ammunition boxes. I can’t reach the tourniquet. I shout into the vehicle, asking them to throw me a tourniquet. One of my comrades from the second company shouts, “If anyone doesn’t give Mishka a tourniquet right now, I’ll shoot at you!” The tourniquet flew into my hands. I tightened it myself. The car is shaking. We broke free from that spot and drove past the locals: some were crying, some were laughing, and some were shaking their heads. We’re turning onto Ilyich Street.

They took us to the National Guard hospital, and then to the bunker. That’s where I met Ptashka. She patched me up. There, I made sure that the tattoo on my leg, thankfully, had survived unscathed.

Perhaps the biggest mistake the medics made was taking away my weapon and body armor. For the next few days, I was defenseless.

“I met Chacha and told him that I’d reached out to my people to have the gunner punished, because this isn’t normal—two people died because of him, and a third is in critical condition,” Rotar says.

Mykhailo managed to break free from the deadly grip and drag the shot Oleksandr Pikul out with him. There’s a sizable piece of shrapnel in the young man’s right leg; his left leg is still being treated, and he kept the shrapnel under his eye as a reminder of the day when life triumphed over death.

The withdrawal from the Illich Plant to “Azovstal.”
“By dawn, it was already clear: we had simply been abandoned.”
On April 12, the commander ordered a breakthrough toward Zaporizhzhia, while those who wished could remain in Mariupol and head for Azovstal.

The first attempt to break through toward Zaporizhzhia on the night of April 12–13 failed. The occupiers destroyed the first convoy to set out with “Grad” rockets. Only one vehicle returned from there to the Illich Steel Plant.

The following night, a second attempt to reach Zaporizhzhia via the same single road also failed. The enemy had reinforced its garrison and was controlling the road with even more tanks. A few managed to break through by a miracle; the rest were taken prisoner or killed.

The remnants of the battalion, in another convoy, headed for “Azovstal.” Mykhailo was among them.

All the wounded were loaded onto the vehicles, but the drivers didn’t know where to go—they needed an escort. They smoked, looking at the hangars that were being bombarded with everything possible, while all the wounded in the back of the truck waited for the bombing to end. Finally, we set off, but not for long—the truck hit a massive crater left by an aerial bomb. We couldn’t continue.

“I asked our medics to come and pull us out. They asked the command, and the higher-ups told them they’d send a vehicle for us. The convoy moved on. We were left behind. From 3 a.m. until 6 a.m., we waited for that vehicle. By dawn, it was already clear: no one was coming for us. We were simply abandoned,” the young man said with conviction.

The marines found an abandoned “Kozak” armored vehicle; it had a “Lybid” satellite communication system. They used it to make contact and asked about the promised help, to which they were told—there would be no vehicle.

“There are vehicles in the hangar; take whichever one you want, attach white flags, and head for Zaporizhzhia. Surrender or break through. No one will come back for you from Azovstal,” said one of the commanders.

After hearing this, Mykhailo suggested that the entire vehicle drive down to the abandoned reconnaissance platoon bunker, wait there until nightfall, and then break through to “Azovstal” under cover of darkness. There were no vehicles. Carrying the seriously wounded 5–7 kilometers from one bank to the other was a long way, but at least it offered hope of rescue. Staying behind meant dying a slow and agonizing death. The driver stayed in the vehicle by the radio. And for good reason. The brigade’s medics got in touch and said they were on their way, so they should get ready. Everyone was surprised, but they believed it.

Two comrades—"Rom" and "Palych"—arrived to pick up those left behind in their "Bogdan" and "Hummer" vehicles. They found the "Volkswagen" right where it was.

In broad daylight, ten DShR fighters—who had been promised a ride but were never picked up—volunteered to break through with the medics. They were taken along as well. In total, there were thirty defenders who were the last to leave the bombed-out Ilyich plant. Among them were Mykhailo Dianov, Kot, Bizon, and Ptashka.

Twelve were seriously wounded. In broad daylight, they managed to break through enemy positions in vehicles bearing enemy insignia, which had been painted onto all the vehicles in advance.

A “Hummer” carrying DShR fighters, driven by “Palych,” brought up the rear of the convoy. Right at the entrance to “Azovstal,” the vehicle overturned. The driver lost control, and the vehicle simply skidded onto its side.

Five minutes earlier, a “Volkswagen” had rear-ended the “Kozak,” damaging its engine. The fighters from the “Volkswagen” had to squeeze in with the “Kozak” crew.

All the passengers—fortunately, only those with minor “300s”—ran across the road and took cover in a building. They reported over the radio that the vehicle had overturned.

The vehicles were packed to the brim, so the driver first dropped everyone off at the factory, then returned with Mykhailo to pick up their comrades. They told the guys over the radio not to rush over—the enemy was near the vehicle, trying to seize it. They had to wait it out.

Mykhailo suggested engaging the enemy, but his comrades didn’t support the idea. They decided to leave later without drawing attention.

An hour later, the occupiers towed the vehicle away. Around lunchtime, the guys finally left the scene of the incident.
They had lunch at “Azovstal.”
“Azovstal”: The hardest part was tearing the charred tissue
from the body They arrived at the plant on April 15. They hadn’t even had time to settle in when the first alarm sounded—the enemy had broken through. They had advanced quite deep into the territory. Everyone, including the wounded, was roused by the alarm. Several enemy APCs and “bechs” broke through into the Azovstal territory.

We managed to drive the enemy back. We secured the perimeter. But then all hell broke loose: the enemy realized there were far too many places where they could set up ambushes.

“The plant’s architecture resembled that of an ancient city. There were apartments, houses, and small settlements, and the huge plant itself, where we could take cover and return fire; there were slag heaps where we could simply sit, and all sorts of other things—and the enemy was determined to wipe it all out completely,” recalls Mykhailo.

They were shelling us starting at 4 a.m., from 7 to 8 a.m. they took a break for breakfast; at 8:30 a.m. from the south, they’d take a breather—that’s when they’d have time for cigarettes—and from 10 a.m. onward, the shelling resumed until lunchtime, ranging from small-caliber weapons to mortars. They finished off the barrage with airstrikes and naval fire from the sea. Crater after crater, each as tall as a person. They dropped such a massive amount of ordnance that it pierced through three stories and blew up everything in its path. Intense fire came from every direction around the clock.

Rotar’s injury prevented him from killing the enemy—instead, he saved the lives of his comrades.

They set up a first-aid station for the Marines in the basement, three stories below.

Every day, two or three “300s” arrived—some with burns, others with shrapnel wounds—and in addition to them, the wounded came in for dressing changes. For one wounded soldier, it took over two hours to remove shrapnel with tweezers from the back of his head all the way down to his heels. After being hit by a tank, he remained alive, but his entire body was riddled with holes.

Another defender suffered severe burns. There wasn’t a single spot on his hands or face that wasn’t burned. A Russian “Shmel” missile struck the basement where he was staying.

“The hardest part was peeling away the charred tissue without causing him additional pain. After a week of painstaking work on his face—changing bandages and cleaning the wounds—we managed to get the wounds to heal. We were lucky to have healing ointments. His hands were also burned, but within a week he was already able to hold a spoon. Before that, his comrade—who had leg injuries—had been feeding him.

I later saw him in Olenivka—a red-haired 22-year-old guy with a scarred face. We laughed about how I’d had to peel his balaclava and gloves off his skin, but look at this handsome guy—he’s even grown his eyebrows back!” Rotar recalls.

Escape from “Azovstal” into Captivity
Mykhailo was the last to leave, helping the wounded and carrying out the seriously injured.

“It was about two to two and a half kilometers to the bridge, the point where we were supposed to surrender. Before the bridge, a representative of Ukraine from the Main Intelligence Directorate or the Security Service of Ukraine met us and instructed us on what to do. All along the way, the ‘Wagnerites’—well-groomed, clean-shaven, and in smart uniforms—greeted us with smiles. While we were handing over our weapons, they were telling tall tales and laughing wildly. An incredible number of Russian soldiers were already waiting on the bridge. Journalists and cameramen tried to provoke us into talking. They claimed that the Russians had already taken Luhansk, Donetsk, and Kherson, and were now at the gates of Kyiv. But thanks to “Azov,” we had information about the current situation: that the Russians had been driven out of Kyiv, were being pushed back near Donetsk and Luhansk, and that Kherson was the only place where things were going badly at the time.

The commanders warned us not to fall for the provocations. We removed our rank insignia and stickers so the Russians wouldn’t rip them off and burn them right in front of us,” says Mykhailo.

“You Ukrainians, you bastards, know your place—we’ll bury every one of you; more than a hundred more will be taken prisoner; we’ll defeat you!”—the enemy shouted at the unarmed defenders of Azovstal.

The “DNR” fighters stripped the defenders of everything they could: wedding rings, watches, caps—and put them on themselves.

“Burat kept raving the whole way about the fertile Ukrainian land. He said we should have been planting and tilling the soil instead of getting involved in this little war. I asked him why he didn’t come unarmed, buy a small plot of land, and start farming peacefully. To which he, like a chronic liar, muttered monotonously that first we had to be freed—and so he had come to do us this great favor!”

A Welcome in the Olenivka
Colony We were met in Olenivka by the Russian Federal Penitentiary Service (FSIN), the FSB, and special forces. They were well-equipped, wearing helmets and body armor, and carrying batons. They led us into the barracks, ordered us to take off our backpacks, and empty out everything inside. Then they ordered us to undress and do squats naked.

Because of Mykhailo’s twenty-five tattoos all over his body, he was labeled a “Nazi.”

There were 2,800 “Nazis” from Azovstal, just like Mykhailo, housed in the Olenivka barracks. In keeping with good Soviet tradition, those deemed undesirable were starved.

“They give six-month-old babies more food than the portions given to healthy men. I’m not sure if there are bowls of that size in Ukraine—200 grams—with just a finger’s worth of food in them. Water with a piece of potato floating in it, porridge in which unpeeled fish was cooked—with spines, bones, and all the innards—without oil, without salt, without anything.

Five spoonfuls—and you’ve eaten. And you had to eat it in a few seconds, then get back in line, because they were leading us back. One minute for dinner for seven hundred people.

There were ten tables in the dining hall. Sixteen people sat at each table. We ate, stood up, and waited for everyone to finish eating. All seven hundred of us.

The entire barracks was divided into two groups—the first and second floors. It took less than five minutes for over three hundred prisoners to eat.

There was a shortage of food, water, and sanitation—and above all, a severe shortage of medicine. Wounded prisoners could not hope for proper medical care. Some were missing arms or legs; others had suffered strokes. The medics who had been taken prisoner from the Illich Plant were assigned to the medical unit, and so they helped out. However, there were virtually no supplies. They’d spread whatever leftover ointment they had over the entire aching body—and that was supposed to be enough to get better. “One tablet of activated charcoal for a 70-kilogram person,” Rotar recalls.

More than 750 prisoners were held for over a week in a barracks designed for 200 people. Later, they were sorted and transported to other prisons in the Olenivka area, where there were disciplinary isolation units and five barracks.

“Mishko” from a Chechen guard, apples for work, and trusting conversations
In Olenivka, Mykhailo signed up for work outside the prison grounds. He was a jack-of-all-trades—he helped their headquarters build a summer kitchen, chopped wood, and carried food. Those who worked especially hard were given a little extra food; sometimes smokers were given cigarettes.

The guards kept an eye on the routine and took roll call of the prisoners assigned to work. They needed help; they didn’t want to do anything themselves.

Mikhail happened to be on duty with a group that was against the war. They criticized Putin for his actions. They were mostly Chechens.

One day, one of them treated me to some apples and struck up a rather frank conversation. He said they had no respect for those Russians who mistreat prisoners. Moreover, he admitted that he supports the Ukrainians because he remembers both the First and Second Russian-Chechen Wars very well.

“These were truly Chechens who remember their blood, remember their history, and respect their native culture and their history. They recalled how they had to scavenge for food during and after the war. They spoke of the devastation and the grueling reconstruction. They said they understand that their government has been sold out, and that everything controlled by Russia is corrupt,” Mykhailo shares.

That’s when the young man realized he could talk to this guard.

One of the Russian lieutenant colonels also turned out to be “pro-Ukrainian.”

He had studied in Odesa and had visited Crimea countless times before 2014. But his family is in Russia; he can’t move anywhere, so he’s just serving out his time in prison to make it to retirement and avoid going to the front under any circumstances. As it turned out later, his entire unit was also against this war, but they were all terrified of the Russian authorities themselves.

“I gained their trust to such an extent that they openly left their phones on to listen to the radio and music. Sometimes they let me watch the news. They really did have a deep respect for Ukraine—as proof, they treated us to borscht. It was terrible borscht—pale and bland. I didn’t give her the full recipe, well, because this dish isn’t for them, after all,” — Mykhailo takes on the role of guardian of the national secrets of delicious borscht. We laugh.

The guys learned all sorts of information from these friendly guards: what was happening with prisoner exchanges, what was going on in the territories at that moment.

“There was a moment when I thought, ‘I just hope I don’t get hit on the back of the head,’ because I was too blunt in what I said. He showed me a section of the front line on the map where Russian troops were positioned, and it was obvious: our forces had them in a vise—only one road remained. I told him, ‘According to the measurements, it’s less than eight kilometers there, and that’s already within range for a direct hit. That’s a road to death. If your men stay there for two or three days—may the earth rest lightly on their closed eyes…’

Then he scrolled forward, and there it was clear: the territory had returned to the control of our Armed Forces. The Russians were routed, and those who survived retreated,” recalls the Marine.

“You’re right. Ukraine is advancing,” the enemy guard replied.

Mykhailo taught some of them a few Ukrainian words. They called him Mishko—not Mikhail.

But that was an exception. There were almost no people there; monsters with human faces had set up a torture chamber. Everyone knew the two torturers by name—they were Yura and Kiryusha, natives of Donetsk.

Yura and Kiryusha of the “DPR,” as the face of the entire Russian world
Anyone the Russians suspected of anything, or whose tattoos they didn’t like, was sent to the DIZO—the disciplinary isolation unit.

“One guy had tattoos—lots of Slavic runes and a ‘Totenkopf’ on his arm. As they led him away, they beat him the whole way. They knocked him to the ground, pinned him against the wall, and kept beating him with batons. Apart from screams and moans, I didn’t hear a thing. He was being beaten by either five or six frenzied prison guards.

If you’re really guilty of something—they’ll beat the life out of you. They beat him to death. “After some interrogation, they carried the guy out on a stretcher, dead—they said he’d supposedly taken his own life,” says Mykhailo.

One of the commanders—either a captain or a major—was forced to put on a dress and clean up the area where prisoners were regularly beaten. The man had to scrub the floor and clean up teeth and feces.

Mykhailo himself ended up in the detention center once. Fortunately, it wasn’t for an interrogation. He was bringing in mattresses, pillows, and blankets for the girls. It was getting cold, so the Russians made sure they were comfortable. This gesture of “care” was rife with cynicism, but, as Mykhailo says, the girls weren’t beaten. They were taken in for interrogations, but they weren’t physically abused.

The Show Trial of the “Azov”
Fighters First, the prisoners were forced to clear out the warehouses and set up sleeping quarters, on the grounds that there was no room left in the barracks for the new prisoners who were about to arrive.

However, one day, the “Azov” fighters were brought there. And two days later, on the night of July 28–29, loud explosions rang out.

The “DPR” forces frequently fired shots around the perimeter of the territory, so the prisoners, accustomed to the sounds, paid no attention. But by eight in the morning, the FSNV members were looking for volunteers to retrieve the bodies of the “fascists” and “your Azov guys.” Mykhailo volunteered immediately. In addition to Mykhailo, thirteen other volunteers stepped forward.

Mykhailo recalls: “When we approached the site, we saw blood-stained asphalt, bandages, ampoules, and syringes. Four bodies, covered with a sheet, lay under the fence. We had to clear away everything that was lying on the road. They brought one of the ‘Azov fighters’—‘Snail’—over to us. He was supposed to identify those bodies. After the identification, they took him to the barracks. As for me and Vovchik, we were sent to clean up the broken glass at the prison’s checkpoint.”

At that moment, Mykhailo and his comrade witnessed a staged performance for Russian journalists, who, together with “DNR” members, were carrying in weapon fragments—barrels and other pieces of metal.

They laid out the “weapons” on the stairs, and the journalists told the camera that these were the remains of weapons that no longer exist in the former Soviet Union.

When the Russians saw the prisoners, they immediately ordered the boys to be taken away so they wouldn’t watch them work. The guard led Mykhailo and Volodymyr to the barracks.

The massive metal entrance doors to the barracks—about three meters high, like those of huge barns through which cars drive—had been torn from the concrete into which they were set. They lay there, torn out with that chunk of concrete sticking out.

“I realized right away that it had come from the occupied territory, because you could calculate from the trajectory where the shell had come from—it hit that exact spot and ripped those doors out. A horrific stunt by the ‘DNR’ forces. When we finally got inside, I saw a charred wreckage and countless black bags.

The moment that’s etched in my memory is when I walked inside and saw the deceased, who, sitting in a chair, had his arms stretched out in front of him, hanging from the remains of some bodily tissue. His face was completely charred—nothing but a skull.

A “DNR” forensic expert was sitting there—a big, fat pig, decked out in gold. He looked at the body and said, “There’s a shrapnel wound to the head—he died from head injuries.” But there was no body—a man burned alive, reduced to a handful of ashes.  And he sat there writing up the death certificates,” Rotar recalls.

There were either 53 or 54 dead bodies that had to be packed into black bags. Of those, at most six or seven bodies could be identified. Some of the volunteers were unable to finish the work. Many became ill after spending a day in a room filled with cadaveric gases.

“You pick up a body, and it bursts open—the entrails, fluids, and fat all spill out, while that shell, which was once a body, crumbles in your hands.

I pulled the guys out piece by piece; we’d put them on stretchers and carry them out. We tried to find dog tags among the metal; we’d find at least something and pass it on to help identify the deceased.

We were saturated with that smell, saturated with the stench of burning flesh. “For three days, I couldn’t wash the smell of a burnt human body off myself,”—Mykhailo calmly continues his story, while my heart aches and goosebumps rise on my arms.

Mykhailo managed to speak with one of the commanders of the “Azov” company, whose call sign is “Snail.” He was brought in to identify the bodies, and he secretly managed to show a little of what they do to them at the temporary morgue.

“He took off his boots, pulled his pants up a little, and I saw just how purple and green his legs were. He asked me to pass a message to their barracks that he’s being tortured and that he’s saying whatever the Russians tell him to say. He’s taking the blame for all the crimes they’re pinning on him, and he’s in for a rough time.

Fortunately, Commander Ravlik has since been released from captivity.

Two weeks after the terrorist attack, the torturers Yura and Kiryush were removed, and the entire “DPR” administration in the prison was replaced.

Second Terrorist Attack: A “Cassette”
Was Dropped Six prisoners, including Mykhailo, were digging a hole on the prison grounds between the detention center and the cafeteria. A cluster bomb struck them.

“We were just outside when something started flying over us and exploding. It rained down on us. Five people were wounded in an instant. Two of them died. The day before, our chemical units had destroyed an enemy convoy on the highway from Donetsk to Mariupol. A swarm of Russian helicopters was evacuating the wounded, collecting the bodies, and driving around; local authorities were throwing up their hands in despair over the pile of burned-out equipment. They didn’t waste any time retaliating against the captives.

The guys were standing in a group, smoking cigarettes. I was standing behind a ditch, talking to Vovchik. Just before I heard the explosion, I shouted for everyone to get down! Vovchik lay down on a mound; I lay down behind it. And that shell flew right into the guys. “All four of them were hit,” Mykhailo recalls of that day.

The young man was lucky—he only suffered a few shrapnel wounds. He pulled out his comrade Vovchyk, who had a head wound and several shrapnel wounds, one of which severed the bicep in his arm. He dragged his comrade to a safe zone. Then he ran toward the screams. One of his comrades from the 36th Brigade had his leg severed.

Mykhailo recalls: “I was dragging him, and he kept falling. I couldn’t figure out why. I didn’t notice his severed leg right away. I grabbed him by the part where his leg was still intact, but I should have grabbed him where it was severed.”

He ran to get help. In a matter of seconds, he tore a sheet into the right-sized pieces, cut up some clothing with a pair of stationery scissors, and wrapped his legs. He dragged the guy into the building, where other prisoners began to treat him.

“I dragged the other three wounded men on my own. One young National Guard officer had both legs torn off and a chunk of flesh ripped from his arm; one of the shrapnel fragments had lodged in his chest, and another in his stomach. I bandaged his arm; it stayed in place, just with the torn flesh hanging out. But I had to work very hard with the severed leg. I cut open the pant leg with a utility knife to get to the leg, so as not to damage it further or dislodge any bones that might still be intact. I had to do all this quickly.

“The guys were turning pale; they were in shock and had lost a lot of blood,” Mykhailo recalls in detail.

Medics—who were also prisoners of war—rushed over. Rotar reported what he had done and how. They had some first-aid kits there. They got to work. They said he’d done a good job.

They inserted an IV needle into the sailor. Time was running out. Blood was pooling in her lungs. The “DPR” fighters ordered them to wait until an escort convoy for the medics arrived from Donetsk. They waited for over two hours. The young man was turning blue before their eyes, suffering from pre-death convulsions. The wounded man was never taken to the medical station. He died on the way.

Another casualty that day was a young border guard, Dmytro Kiyanenko. He died at the scene.

A prisoner of war, who had been sending text messages—written on scraps of paper—to the families of his fellow prisoners, could not hold back his tears.

The hardest part was reading the message Kiyanenko had prepared.

In the letter, Dmytro asked his wife to take photos and videos of their little one every day so that when he returned, he could see it all—everything he had missed. He asked his father to give his brother a gift and apologize on his behalf for not being able to wish him a happy birthday in person.

He wrote to his wife about how much he loved her. And he assured her that he would be home soon, that he would hold her close soon.

“Three guys were sitting in one room, each of us in tears. We then tried to keep that letter and send it home—to his wife,”—Mykhailo’s voice, perhaps for the first time during the entire conversation, pours out with despair.

That day, a piece of shrapnel lodged in Mykhailo’s neck. He pulled it out himself.

If only it were possible to pull the shrapnel out of a heart aching from the loss of so many comrades.

The Hell of Volgograd: New arrivals were “welcomed” with a trial of beatings over a 15-meter distance
A week after the shelling, prisoners began to be urgently evacuated from the prison grounds. After five months of detention in Olenivka, Mykhailo was transferred to a pretrial detention center in Volgograd, Russia.

The passage to the facility is a 15-meter-long corridor of beatings and humiliation. New arrivals were “welcomed” with fists, kicks, batons, and stun guns. They were forced to run through this “obstacle course.”

Mykhailo recalls: “I stumbled and crashed into their line; one of those monsters picked me up and dragged me by the collar. I was kicked in the ribs about five times while they were dragging me.”

Mykhailo was dragged over to a group of other guys who had also been knocked to the ground and dragged along—no one could run. Because they didn’t know where to run; some had run into the fence, others off in different directions. Our eyes were blindfolded, our hands were tied.

Once all the vehicles had been unloaded in this manner, the sorting process began.

Officers were separated; senior, mid-level, and junior officers were each grouped separately; sergeants and warrant officers were grouped separately.

Upon returning from captivity, Mykhailo Rotar received the Order “For Courage,” Third Class, and the Order “For Military Service to Ukraine,” which he was awarded in April 2022

First came the fingerprinting stage, then the haircut, followed by a shower, where the prisoners had to wash their hair out and, right there, receive another round of kicks. Next came registration. First name, last name, a few photos—and out onto the street. That’s how they sent everyone away, until finally it was the sergeants’ and soldiers’ turn.

“My turn was among the privates. From 1 a.m. until 5 a.m., on my knees. I don’t even know what this position is called: you sit on your knees with your head to the ground and hold your hands above your head. And this is on stones and gravel that press and rub against you everywhere. On top of that, the whole time they’d take turns coming up to me—if not punching me in the ribs, then zapping me with a stun gun—to make sure no one closed their eyes for even a second.

They pulled me up. They dragged me to the fence. As he was removing the tape from my hands, the torturer saw my tattoo. He was a special forces soldier. “Stand up!” he bellowed. But I was physically unable to stand. Hours on my knees—and as a result, weakness, numbness, and cramps. “Oh my!” he exclaimed, looking at my hands. He pulled off my hat, and I immediately took a punch to the face—his knuckles ringed with rings on nearly every finger.

“In a split second, I noticed a dozen of my ferocious tormentors surrounding me,” Rotar says quietly, but his words resonate with power.

From that moment on, the cycle of brutality gained momentum every time the boy’s tattooed body came into the prison guards’ field of vision.

Torture. The suicides of those who couldn’t take
it anymore Mykhailo describes the tortures to which the defenders were subjected. Some were tied by their genitals, suspended so they had to stand on their tiptoes—and beaten constantly to make them lower themselves. That’s how they maimed them. Anyone with a swastika or patriotic tattoos became a punching bag.

Mykhailo says their favorite form of torture was attaching bare wires to the body—sending an electric current through it. The screams of those being beaten with fists, sticks, and whatever else was at hand echoed through the hallways.

In addition to physical abuse, they subjected us to psychological torment: every morning they played the Russian national anthem, various patriotic songs, and anything even remotely related to World War II—a spaceflight wasn’t as significant to them as “our grandfathers fought in the war.”

He recalls that there were cases of suicide in Volgograd. One prisoner slit his wrists, another hanged himself, and yet another was beaten to death—he had a swastika. They devised new forms of torture with bloodthirsty ingenuity. They forced them into the “swan” position: head against the wall, arms braced so that the palms faced outward, and legs wider than the shoulders. In this position, the prisoner was forced to endure beatings wherever the enraged guards aimed their jabs.

They also struck him in the chest, just like in the army. They taunted him: “Armor-piercing shell, such-and-such caliber, fire”—and then a blow. And the one being beaten had to reply, “The armor isn’t pierced!” And if the pain was so intense it took his breath away—that meant silent consent to another kick.

The bathhouse was the epicenter of regular, heartless abuse. Mykhailo was required to visit the bathhouse every Monday according to the schedule. For Mykhailo, every bath was a test of endurance through torture. The young man had 25 tattoos on his body. They were counted every single time. For each skull—and he had more than a dozen of them—he was struck along his spine with a rubber police baton.

Every time he went to the bathhouse, there was a new shift. It happened only once—that time, Mykhailo wasn’t beaten. On other Mondays, wave after wave of bloodthirsty thugs savagely examined his body just to mock him.

“I take off my outerwear, surrounded by eight people. Every time, the reaction:

“Wow, he’s covered in tattoos! Mine! Mine!” They’d pass me around like a tennis ball for anywhere from five to fifteen minutes—and sometimes even two hours straight,
”
— Mykhailo doesn’t change his tone or facial expression; there’s neither regret nor anger in his words—just stoicism.

To get the guys to undress faster, they were prodded with stun guns. The same thing was repeated to get them to get dressed faster.

When the investigators arrived, the interrogation lasted five or six hours—and that was torture.

“They’d take us out of the cell, lead us down to the first floor with a pillowcase over our heads, and throw us on the floor. The investigator and two special forces officers attacked us like jackals.

While various questions were being asked, the special forces officers ‘played around’ With me. They beat me. If I stuttered or hesitated to answer, they shocked me with a stun gun to make me answer faster. If you answer quickly, you’re telling the truth.

At one point, I said that while I was wounded, I had met members of the “Right Sector” at the hospital. As soon as I said that, they tied bare wires to my little fingers—and zapped me for four hours. Then to my index fingers, and after that—to my two thumbs. And that’s how they shocked me with the “Tapik.”

The “Tapik” is a Soviet TA-57 induction-coil telephone. With a rotating handle, a telephone receiver, and a coil, it generates an electrical voltage.

My hands were tied behind my back with straps to immobilize me while I was being electrocuted. Electric current coursed through his body—his muscles tensed. He couldn’t open his mouth or move a muscle.

They failed to turn the confident Mykhailo into a docile person, even after discharging several stun guns onto his body.

“After six hours of ‘fun,’ I was wet as …,”—at these words, Mykhailo cannot find a fitting epithet for the comparison. He pauses to think for a moment.

“The torturer said, ‘If you lie—you know what’ll happen to you,’” they reported when he was summoned a second time. I wasn’t going to lie. They didn’t beat me that time.”

The exchange.
“Guys, lift your heads!”—but among us there was silence and not a single movement.
“What if we swap you out?” the guards joked. “Do you want to go home? To your moms? There’s a mobilization back there; they’ll send you off to war again. You’ll end up back here! Or maybe not! — Ha-ha! We’ll shoot you,”—and they burst into frenzied laughter.

“And then I realized from the conversation that a ‘Wagnerite’ had walked in. He was shouting that everyone had been shot. He was grabbing his gun, racking the bolt, and taking off the safety. But there was no fear: they pulled us out to sort us by last name.

While they were still herding us together, we figured out there were about forty-five of us.

I realized we were in Luhansk or Donetsk Oblast—that’s where we were now. Duct tape over our eyes, our hands bound with string. Suddenly, they started taking it all off. I thought, “Well, that’s it—we’ve arrived. Now there’ll be a little welcome, and I’ll get punched in the ribs again.” I braced myself mentally.

And then this guard came out, and another man got on the bus. He addressed us in Ukrainian.

He said, “Guys, lift your heads.” Silence fell among us, and not a single one of us moved. But he continued: “Guys, you’re in Ukraine—lift your heads!” We’d all been riding with our heads on our knees.

An exchange. Out the right-hand window—Russian prisoners were running back to their side. We waited until they were done, and then we got out ourselves. It really felt like a second chance at life. The sign that read ‘Welcome to Ukraine!’ brought tears to more than one of our eyes,” recalls Rotar.

Mykhailo was released from captivity on February 16.

He returned to his hometown of Apostolove on April 10—after completing rehabilitation. He’s still trying to regain sensation in the nerves of his left leg, as he has no feeling in half of his foot.

Mykhailo and His War
We talk with Mykhailo about his fallen comrades. This young man carries a cemetery in his heart. After three months at Azovstal, only 160 men remained from his Marine battalion.

The young man’s phone rings. From an unknown number comes the voice of the distraught mother of one of Mykhailo’s comrades, who remains in captivity to this day. The woman worries that her 20-year-old son has a tattoo of a bird on his chest—wondering if he was beaten there.  “Ma’am, believe me, I was the star there—all the attention was on me,” laughs the young man, who had been brutally beaten. Mykhailo comforts her, and his voice turns fear into hope.

“How could I stand by after what I saw the Russians do? Their atrocities. They won’t stop. They must be stopped. For every brother who was deprived of the chance to hug his beloved and his mother. For all those whose children have been orphaned. Revenge is inevitable.

You realize the extent of what they could have done to you, and what they did do to you, and you understand what will never happen to you. There will be no more captivity. You won’t go back there. The only way out this second time is a grenade. Until then—the fight goes on!”—Mykhailo sounds convincing, with a radiant smile on his face and the deep, confident gaze of a young man who has seen hell and therefore loves life even more.

We’re eating burgers. “Dying—that’s delicious!” Rotar exclaims with a smack of his lips.

“No need to die—just enjoy it!” I tell him with a smile. Passersby walk past our table on the summer terrace. Nothing in Mykhailo’s demeanor betrays the unflappable titan that he is. Ringing laughter echoes across the square—the hero is, first and foremost, a human being. It must have taken Gibson considerable effort to portray that humanity in the unbreakable Mykhailo.

This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.