"My city is like a corpse that's being repeatedly raped": two stories about life under Russian occupation

Tiia and Veronika used to live in Donetsk Oblast, where until April 2014, Ukraine and Ukrainian culture were an everyday reality. But one day everything changed. Russia started a war, bringing with it foreign flags, Russian textbooks, and a rewritten history. Ukrainian language, culture and identity became first irrelevant, then dangerous.

After 2014, and again after the onset of the full-scale war in 2022, the Kremlin invested resources to turn people in the temporarily occupied territories into not just loyal citizens, but people willing to die for Russia.

This is the story of two girls, one of whom was nine years old when the occupation began and the other 16. They share how they gradually lost their Ukrainian identity, then encountered fear, isolation and condemnation from those closest to them in their attempts to reclaim it. After ten years of living under occupation, they decided to escape the world and worldview imposed by the Russians, leave their homeland, and start a new life in the cities of Dnipro and Kharkiv.

The women’s names have been changed at their request. These are their stories in their own words.

Tiia: It's easier for me to think that my city no longer exists

Spring 2014. I'm screaming and trying to hide under the bed, although it's impossible. Military vehicles are driving into my city along the road from the Russian side. My mum is counting the vehicles and laughing. She says, "These are our 'boys' [in Russian], everything's fine." No one explains what's going on: occupation? invasion? liberation?

I'm nine years old and I live in a family of miners in Makiivka, Donetsk Oblast. Although it's a Russian-speaking city, the first poems I learn and write are in Ukrainian. I have a subject called "Ukraine and Me" at school. I know that we wear embroidered shirts (vyshyvanka) and flower crowns (vinok). My whole life, everything around me, is Ukrainian.

I haven't studied any history yet, and I don't know exactly where the borders of my country are, but I still don’t understand how a part of it could just break away?

Fourth grade is my last year with the old curriculum. I receive a Ukrainian report card and a Ukrainian certificate of merit. After that, the only Ukrainian content at school is in language and literature lessons. They're few and far between, and not very interesting. If there's any way of replacing them with something else, like a class contact hour, they do it. Over time, some children stop being able to understand the language and use a translator on their phones. The Ukrainian teachers are sent for retraining so they can teach Russian instead. Our class is still considered "backward" because in Russian we write like first-graders. My poems become Russian poems.

There are flags of the Donetsk People's Republic (DPR) at school. There are portraits of Russian writers in my classroom. We have lessons in Donbas Citizenship, during which we're taught about the Russian Orthodox Church: there are no alternatives. We learn military-patriotic songs in our music lessons instead of the usual songs about teachers, mothers and rain.

Every year we carefully prepare for 9 May. Every year we have to take flowers to a tank which is a monument to the events of the Great Patriotic War [as the Russians call WWII – ed.]. Since 2017, giant posters about the history of Russia and of that war have appeared in the corridors at my school.

***

2022. I love fantasy, brightly coloured clothes, and crafting. I'm in my first year at Donetsk University, studying Russian language and literature, and I absolutely love it.

I’m going to be a Russian language and literature teacher.

If you ask me who I am, I don't know how to answer. My parents say Ukraine is bombing us, but it seems like I'm Ukrainian myself. I'm not sure. When I'm given a DPR passport, it feels like mockery, because DPR citizenship doesn't actually exist.

24 February 2022. I’m hoping that people in Russia will take to the streets to protest against the war. Recklessly and foolishly, I post an Instagram story in Ukrainian about helping civilians on the front line. One of my classmates writes: "Now you'll have to keep looking over your shoulder. I don't want to see anything like this again." It only takes me one day to realise that posting such things is dangerous. I close my page and lie low. A little while later, someone I know tells me he can't leave the house because someone’s written a denunciation about him. I thought denunciations had died out with Stalin.

It’s only after the full-scale invasion that I realise I'm living under occupation. Before that, I mostly heard the word "occupation" in the context of the Great Patriotic War and the German fascist invaders.

***

I start listening to a lot of Ukrainian music. I can even sing along. My mum listens to it as well. She turns it up louder when she wants to annoy the neighbours. But when I accidentally speak Ukrainian at home, I get shouted at and sworn at and punched in the face.

I switch to Ukrainian on my Telegram channel and consume Ukrainian-language content, but I'm still studying Russian literature. I'm pro-Ukrainian, but I'm surrounded by Russian culture, Russian history, the Russian mentality. I'm actually a Ukrainian Urum [the Urums are Turkic-speaking Greeks of Ukraine – ed.]. Russian isn't my native language, but I know it better than Russians do, because I was forced to learn it. I think: what the hell, this is really insane.

A lecturer at university says that all "Khokhols" [a derogatory Russian term for Ukrainians – ed.] should be killed. I have this fear that I can't shake off. I drop out of my studies and get a job. I need money to buy tickets, a suitcase, and a carrier for my cat.

I've got so used to writing in Ukrainian, communicating in voice notes and playing games online with Ukrainian speakers, that it becomes terrifying to leave the house. Because I think in Ukrainian. I'm scared to say "Hello, can I help you with anything?" in the shop where I work. Once a Ukrainian word slips out of my mouth and my manager notices immediately. He asks me if I speak to customers like that.

People don't want to hear the "Khokhols' language". They think the "Khokhols" have been ruining their lives for the past ten years.

I feel like I'm in the middle of a minefield.

***

For a month, my mum watches as I pack my suitcase. I tell her I'm going to visit friends in Finland. I really was planning to, but I didn't have the documents I needed for my cat. I'm in a hurry – I want to leave before they force me to take a Russian passport.

I find out that volunteers will help me get to Ukraine. Three weeks later, I tell my mum that I'm in Kharkiv. She's been saying for a year now that Kharkiv will be destroyed in three days.

After I leave, I feel lost and lonely. Everyone around me comes from a different background than me, and I am nobody. I didn't have a Ukrainian education, and I can't even say I studied language and literature, because it was Russian. The people around me don’t want anything to do with anything Russian, and neither do I. It's painful, nasty and disgusting.

I want to stand in solidarity with the city and the country that is my home, with the people who have shown me a different world. I’ve found a community that doesn't judge me for the things I don't know, but helps me to learn.

*** 

I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's easier to think that my city no longer exists and to join the community of people who’ve fled from places that have been razed to the ground. Because my city isn't alive. It's a corpse that is being repeatedly raped.

Life under occupation took away my family, because when adults are struggling, the last thing they think about is the children.

Life under occupation took away my health: I had no access to proper healthcare, no money to pay for it.

Life under occupation took away my normal relationship with food, because there simply wasn't any. And when there was, I wouldn't have advised anyone to eat it.

Life under occupation took away my sense of dignity, because you are always adapting to the dominant group, just to avoid being beaten up or condemned.

Life under occupation made it painfully clear that you are nothing and that you will never escape. That you have no rights, no freedoms.

I lost ten years of my life. All I have left is experience – and I use it to show that occupation is not peace. Occupation is wrong. Even when it looks like slow, constant bullying rather than a gun to your head.

***

It turns out that when you have nothing, you can try something new. I attend theatre workshops, explore different styles of architecture, learn from other people's experiences, and discover my own strengths.

In Kharkiv, I begin to peel away the layers covering my Ukrainian identity. When I rehearse Christmas carols with an ensemble, I remember that I too once sang carols – long ago, in kindergarten, but it was part of my life.  I recall how we used to prepare kutia [a traditional Ukrainian Christmas dish – ed.], and I have started doing pysankarstvo [the art of decorating Easter eggs – ed.] again. Without a formal Ukrainian education, I still gain enough knowledge to work at a bookshop that sells books about Ukrainian culture.

It sounds insane, but at first I stayed in Kharkiv partly because I felt I needed to experience the war for myself. Under occupation, we were told that Donbas had been bombed for ten years, but I had never seen war manifest itself the way it has done here. I felt terribly guilty for not being there. Later, that feeling turned into admiration: "People are being bombarded, yet they go on living! They are so strong!"

The threat became routine. When a drone flies overhead – one that could bring down several floors of a building – I simply draw the curtains so that if there is any shrapnel, it will hit the window ledge rather than scatter across the room. I grab my cat and head to the bathroom. On my way to work, I pass buildings that have been completely or partially destroyed. Some have been hit more than once. There have already been four Shahed drone hits near the cultural space where I work. Yet we keep on working.

I have become like everyone else in this city: I’m being bombarded, yet I go on living.

Veronika: Why should I consider myself Russian if it simply isn't true?

They’re shouting that there are fascists in Ukraine, that we have always been part of Russia – people with covered faces, waving Russian flags. There are more than a hundred of them. I see them tearing down the Ukrainian coat of arms from a building. It looks barbaric, but my dad is inspired. He knows about politics. I think he must know everything.

Donetsk, 2014. I am sixteen.

Someone has scrawled "F**k America" on a wall.

I only realise how serious everything is when FC Shakhtar leaves Donetsk and the Donbas Arena closes. We love football – it’s sacred for my family.

Around me is a sea of conflicting information. My language teacher hints that things are very bad; others say that life with Russia will be better, because we are "actually Russians". I feel sorry for the Ukrainian soldiers who are encircled fighting for Donetsk Airport, but my dad says that if they enter Donetsk, they’ll shoot us dead. So either the Ukrainian fascist authorities will kill you, or Russia will save you and everything will be fine.

Fear sets in. To protect yourself, you have to assimilate. So from then on, I consider myself Russian. After all, some of my ancestors were Russian. I could choose who to identify with.

***

Time passes. Nostalgia sets in. I remember how shopping malls had been opening, foreigners used to visit the city, and football was being played. Now the Donbas Arena is overgrown with weeds. I don’t go to football matches anymore. Football itself has been all but forgotten here.

When I listen to the separatists, I catch myself thinking: I am just like them – brainwashed. I start listening to Russian opposition bloggers. Gradually, it’s as if a wall inside my mind begins to crumble, and I start to perceive reality differently.

Doubts creep in. Why should I trust Russia when it’s one of the sides in this war? My grandparents repeat Russian news stories claiming that Ukrainians eat children. I wonder why the Ukrainians want to kill us. What have we done? I ask my dad questions. We argue for hours. I don't understand why my questions make him so angry.

My worldview shifts. It's frightening to admit that I was wrong. But I believe that if I tell my relatives now that Russia has not come to save us and Ukraine is not the enemy, they will understand. Instead, they see evil in me. For the first time, I feel lonely among my own family.

My dad and I stopped speaking after I refused to congratulate him on Victory Day. He calls me a terrible person and a Banderite [a term used pejoratively in Russian propaganda to label Ukrainians as far-right extremists or fascists – ed.]. But to me, Victory Day is a day of remembrance, not a reason to boast about how strong we and Russia are and how we will bring Europe to its knees. I remember my great-grandmother’s stories: three of her brothers were thrown onto the front lines in the first few days of the Second World War. None of them survived. For her, 9 May was never a holiday. She cried every year.

I think a lot about my great-grandmother. About her Ukrainian name. About how she spoke to me in surzhyk [a mix of Ukrainian and Russian – ed.]. About how my ancestors’ surnames were Ukrainian and my grandfather’s surname was Russified. About the fact that I myself was born and raised in Ukraine. Russia has given me nothing good – since the occupation, my city has decayed. So why should I consider myself Russian if it simply isn’t true?

***

On the eve of the full-scale invasion, I’m planning to go to Russia to earn some money, because that's what my boyfriend plans to do. But after 24 February, this idea seems absurd. It’s quiet in Donetsk during those days; only the water is cut off. I read the news non-stop and try to comfort my friend from Kramatorsk [Donetsk Oblast – ed.]. I’m hoping my relatives will finally realise that Russia is the aggressor, but my auntie watches fake news and says "Kharkiv is ours [Russian]." I am even more shocked.

I post information about helping children in Ukraine. I block anyone who comments "Why? They chose this fate themselves." I don't care anymore; I just want to help someone, somehow.

The senior staff at college ask me, as the class monitor, to find out where some of my classmates are. They are mostly boys. I sense that this is linked to the war. We have mobilisation. I warn my classmates not to answer the phone. I worry about my brothers. They don’t go out.

***

When I listen to Ukrainian news, I almost become paranoid: I'm afraid I'm being listened to, that neighbours will report me. My Telegram app is password-protected, my news sources are archived. When I read Ukrainian news outside my home, I glance around to check if anyone is peering at my phone. Speaking Ukrainian or discussing politics – if you think differently from the majority – is a trigger in Donetsk.

My internal protest becomes external. I learn about the Yellow Ribbon resistance movement. A ribbon the colour of part of the Ukrainian flag – a symbol of resistance. I buy some yellow fabric and cut it into strips. I go to the sculpture park, the Park of Forged Figures. I don't tell anyone. I want to show solidarity. It feels like we are supporting each other from a distance, because under occupation, it's impossible to know if someone shares your views. Speaking out puts both you and the other person at risk.

When tying a ribbon, I look around to check if anyone is near. There have been no protests here since 2014; they are banned, so everyone is afraid. I’m afraid of looking suspicious, too. How would I explain what I was doing? What would I say if the police checked my social media? Likes? Comments? Subscriptions? I’m in an authoritarian state, these things are quickly traced. I’ve heard about a girl who used to tear down posters calling on people to join the army and post videos on TikTok. She was facing up to 10 years in prison. I tear down posters too – outside the school, outside the market, on the bus. But I am careful; I don't want to share her fate. It makes me happy to see posters that someone else has torn down before me.

I am not alone.

***

In Donetsk, I feel like a stranger. Even my relatives don’t accept me with my views. I want to be among people who understand me. I don't want to live in fear of being snitched on. I believe that’s only possible in Ukraine.

I need money to leave.

In the summer of 2022, I get a job at a pizzeria. At first I work as a waitress, then also as a manager and behind the bar – everything at once. Five days a week, 9 am to 9 pm. Sometimes I don’t take any days off at all. But it's actually better this way: work distracts me from the news, from the lack of support, from the fact that my partner and I have different views on the war.

I work in a place where Grad rockets and drones fly overhead. It's very "noisy" here, and there are no alerts warning of attacks. If anything happened, I’d only be able to hide behind the bar. When [Russian] soldiers brag about how heroic they are, I have to smile. I can’t show my disgust; I control my words. Sometimes I wish a shell would hit and I wouldn’t have to see any of this anymore.

I remind myself that I’m doing this to get out. It’s temporary.

I save up 50,000 roubles (about US$600) and pack my suitcase.

***

On the day of my departure, my aunt hides my Ukrainian passport, and my relatives try to scare me, saying that in Poland I’ll be taken into slavery and in Ukraine I’ll be put in prison. I leave anyway. At the Latvia-Russia border, my hands tremble as I present my old birth certificate.

In Ukraine, it feels as if I’ve woken up in the future after a long sleep. It’s as if I’ve travelled from the Soviet Union to Europe. Smooth roads, clean streets, and mobile internet that even works on the road. These people are so lucky, their lives seem so amazing! There are self-service tills that even speak, there are parcel lockers and water dispensers, and there are Ukrainian flags everywhere.

I settle in Dnipro. Despite the war, the city feels more alive than Donetsk. I watch the people. They don’t look away.

But it’s hard to adapt. Apart from one friend, I have no one. I have to renew my documents, build connections, find work. I work as a petrol station attendant for a while. It’s hellish work. I have debts and depression. Sometimes it seems that it would be easier to join the army.

It takes me a year and a half to get back on my feet. I have no regrets – in Donetsk, I would not have survived. In Dnipro, I feel safe. I am among my own people. I am not afraid. I don’t hide my phone anymore. I’ve told myself: enough, no one will oppress you ever again. I’ve improved my Ukrainian, I have a boyfriend, we’ve moved into a two-bedroom flat, and I work at a dental clinic.

It finally feels like I can exhale.

Author: Nadiia Shvadchak

Illustrations: Anastasiia Faizova  

Translation: Tetiana Buchkovska, Yelyzaveta Khodatska

Editing: Teresa Pearce

The full version of this text was first published by Newsmaker.md (Moldova) in collaboration with The Reckoning Project, a global team of journalists and lawyers focused on documenting, reporting, and collecting evidence for the investigation of war crimes.