I was already saying goodbye to life and didn’t believe I’d make it out

The Beginning.

The departure point for me was my father’s death in 2014. An ambulance couldn’t reach him: he’d had a stroke, and he was in a combat zone. I found him when he’d already been dead for 4 days. Then there was the funeral, also grim. Some guys showed up in a truck used for hauling plastic windows. We carried his body out on a bedspread, loaded it into the truck, then drove to the morgue.

My mom stayed behind. She came to visit me in Kyiv 3 times over all those years. I visited my mom once, 4 years ago.

In December, my mom was hospitalized. I traveled through Russia. I have a Ukrainian passport, and when I was entering, they searched me thoroughly: stripped to the waist, looking for Azov tattoos. But they didn’t let me see my mom at all. Because of COVID. But she didn’t die of COVID, as it turned out. The medicine there is simply terrible. She died of a stroke, but they treated her for COVID. They didn’t even have a test. Everyone decided she had COVID, treated her for COVID, and withheld her actual medication.

She wanted to be buried next to my father, and for that I needed to find my father’s death certificate and my grandfather’s death certificate. I was gathering these documents. The morgues were overflowing — bodies were being buried on the morgue grounds. Sometimes there were these tents, like outdoor restaurants — Coca-Cola or beer branded — and people were buried there too, laid out on benches.

I was planning to leave after New Year: I wanted to sell property — I have 3 apartments and a house there. Someone was already supposed to buy my apartment. I went to the registration center, wanting to claim my inheritance, because if you don’t claim it there, they nationalize it. All of this dragged on. And in early February, they announced the mobilization.

Grave-ilization.

They started grabbing people on the streets. Not serving a summons and escorting you to the recruitment office — they’d just grab you and haul you away. You step outside — the military commandant’s office or the commissariat sweeps you up. Or you’re just driving, traffic police stop you, and that’s it — they grab you.

There was no further contact with those who were grabbed. Some relatives later received death notifications. Others received nothing. They were told the person was missing in action. Mobile crematoria drove around the city. Workers at the Donetsk Metallurgical Plant who’d stayed and had deferrals from mobilization were also burning bodies in the plant’s furnaces. So they wouldn’t have to pay compensation. No body — no case. You weren’t assigned an individual number, you didn’t have a military ID or anything. They took you as you were. Put a uniform on you, and that was it.

All the information came from local Telegram chats. Everyone who was hiding was usually online. There were even chats with roll calls tracking the commandant’s office movements around the city. People would write plainly: traffic police with commandant’s office are positioned here, they’re collecting people from buses there, there was a raid on the market, and so on. There were many chats — they were frequently shut down, along with the people who organized them.

I know one guy who managed to surrender into captivity. Then they caught on to that, and the opportunity disappeared. They started overseeing it — literally at gunpoint. The sniper behind them wasn’t providing cover. They brought in Kadyrovites. The Kadyrovites were always behind — they didn’t actually fight there.

Mobilized men were also used to locate Ukrainian firing positions. Meaning they were sent to slaughter. If a strike hit, it meant there was a Ukrainian firing position there. Or as a human shield. Out of 600 people, 2 survive.

Even self-inflicted wounds ended badly there. You’d shoot yourself in the leg, and they’d finish you off. Some had more or less successful cases. The Jehovah’s Witnesses. Some of their members were taken and refused to pick up weapons. They were imprisoned — they’re in jail now, mopping toilets, hallways. They’re used for labor.

First, they swept up everyone who was officially employed — at enterprises, factories, plants. Then they started going by registered addresses. Then they simply started knocking on doors. It got to the point where they’d come along with the gas company, emergency services, cable TV, anything.

Many lived with their mothers and thought that if a woman opened the door, they wouldn’t come in. But that didn’t work — they’d barge in and search. I didn’t respond to knocking at all. I didn’t use electricity — only for charging my phone — so no light would be visible in the window. Because by the end of the first month, people were viciously embittered. Someone’s husband was taken, someone’s son, someone’s brother. People were informing on each other. Like 1937 all over again.

It’s really a kind of Stockholm syndrome. They sit there, scared out of their minds, but when you’re chatting with them, they say “our guys.” When discussing news from the front, they say “our guys” — meaning the Russians, the DPR militia, the terrorists. It’s hard to explain.

They’d drive into courtyards and hit cars so the alarms would go off — so someone would look out a window or give themselves away somehow. They’d interrogate neighbors, gather information. They often seize civilian cars for military use. It’s like GTA, basically. They take the best cars. And pick the best apartments for themselves. They nationalize them and give them to their people.

When water disruptions started, it was blamed on the water supply being connected to Mariupol. Water started coming once every 2 to 4 days, and it didn’t reach the upper floors. They began bringing technical water to the courtyard. People started coming out to fill up — and they were grabbed too.

Two Months and Two Weeks.

I was at a friend’s place when two commandant’s officers showed up — younger than us. They started acting tough, started knocking things off the table, and a scuffle broke out. We defended ourselves and got out of that apartment. I decided it was better not to be at my registered address, so I rented another apartment. I stayed in that apartment for 2 months and about 2 weeks. 8 days ago, I was still there (the interview was recorded on April 27; the subject asked not to describe the details of the scuffle — I.K.).

I cleaned up photos across all social media, deleted Facebook, put up some random pictures, and as a precaution pinned the letter Z as a talisman in all my news chats. I watched news on Telegram without joining groups, liking posts, or participating in discussions. I constantly deleted my history. Then I started using the Jami messenger.

I piled rags in the hallway so it wouldn’t creak and I could silently creep up to the peephole. One time, I barricaded the door with everything I could find: set up a stepladder, some pipes, curtain rods, and so on. I also strung ropes like tripwires. So it would look like a booby trap. It was easy to believe, because there were plenty of weapons around. Both firearms and explosives.

For two months, I didn’t use electricity, barely went near the window, blocked it with a large sheet of plywood reaching nearly to the ceiling. There was a tiny sliver of glass, and a kitchen window facing the courtyard — I left that one uncovered, because fully covered would be too suspicious. There were lots of empty apartments — many people had left — and I wanted this one to look empty too.

Sometimes, hearing some activity, I wouldn’t even flush the toilet. The paranoia was terrible. I even became superstitious — if there was a dust ring where a cup had stood, after using it I’d rotate it back to the exact same spot.

Food was brought to me once every two weeks. Then the food became less, because shortages started. I ate bulgur, beans with fried onions, couscous, rice. I cooked on gas. I had a regular stove. Then I started baking bread.

Someone connected me with an Israeli psychologist. But she was so far removed from the reality that I had to explain the most basic things. She might ask: “Did you go to the store? What did you eat today? How do you wash your clothes?” Here, forget a washing machine — sometimes I was afraid to flush the toilet. She couldn’t comprehend what it means to have no banking system. Why I can’t get on a train.

I really didn’t want to die there, because both my father and my mother died there. This region has consumed my entire family. During the time I spent hiding, I’d already sort of made my peace with dying and didn’t believe I’d get out. I even thought about setting off on foot with a backpack. Then you realize: first, it’s steppe. You don’t even need binoculars. Second, there are tons of minefields.

If the world’s attention is fixed on Bucha and Irpin, nobody looks at this — yet things even worse are happening here. Even with the mobilization — people call it “grave-ilization.” A lot of people are being incinerated. There are clashes between mercenaries — you can hear automatic gunfire in the courtyards as they fight over something. People inform and denounce each other. It’s simply terrifying to be on the street.

The Escape.

The escape was a long time in preparation. Everyone was secretive. Everything through chats, calls, or some other way. There were frequent plants. For example, an announcement: “Help for men of draft age in leaving.” It’s a trap — they’d be taken afterward. Sometimes fake decrees would appear saying Pushilin had cancelled the mobilization, then a denial would follow. And some people would fall for it, go outside…

A large number of people remain there now who won’t leave because it’s extremely frightening. The stakes are your life. I contacted everyone myself and said I’d changed my mind. But I went anyway.

I traveled at my own risk. The guys who handle this are seriously grim. Meaning, they could turn on you. The smugglers' services include bypassing the DPR border and driving you to the Russian border. They take you to neutral territory. They might even take you through a DPR checkpoint, but you don’t see it — you’re covered with a tarp. At the Russian border, they put pressure on you, but that no longer matters. Whatever happens in the DPR stays in the DPR.

It costs from 100,000 rubles. From what I gather, they have certain information about whose shift it is and so on. That knowledge is exactly what you’re paying for. For 200,000, they can offer more guarantees. They can even arrange a disability classification and have someone meet you on the other side. For 100,000, it’s only to the Russian border — after that, you’re on your own.

I have a friend whose parents helped me. They drove me to a public transport stop in their trunk. The friend’s mother and I got on an intercity bus. Her husband drove ahead and reported road conditions by phone. If something was off, we’d get out and wait for the next bus. If the situation cleared, we’d continue. In 2.5 hours, we covered about 18 kilometers. Then they hid me in the back room of a shop belonging to acquaintances. After that, we were taken to a gathering point. It was an abandoned metal depot. A bunch of guys with weapons.

It was really frightening. I even prayed at times. I’m an agnostic, but as Letov said: “There are no atheists in foxholes under fire.” There were just so many steps and stages to all of it. I didn’t know at which one everything would go wrong: on the road to the meeting point, during the transport itself, at the border, or they’d simply con me — take the money and turn me in. Of those who were traveling with me, two weren’t let through at the border — I don’t know what was wrong. I don’t know what happened to them.

Russia and Georgia.

I was still anxious even in Russia. They took us out to a field. A railroad, a field, night. Some guys were standing there. Regular taxi drivers. 6,000 to 8,000 rubles to Rostov. Another guy and I split the cost of one driver. At the Rostov train station, they checked my documents again.

At the Georgian border, there was another snag. I sat there for 4 hours. They took our phones, took our passports. One by one, they called people in for interrogation and questioned them: why, where to, whether they planned to go to Ukraine afterward, why they’d left the DPR, how many days they’d spent in Russia, whether they had acquaintances in Ukraine, whether any of them were military, and so on. Then they brought printouts from my phone and asked me to sign them. They released me and one other Ukrainian, but kept two Kazakhs. The Kazakhs had been sitting there since morning.

I’ve been here for 4 days now and I still can’t believe it. I’m giving you this interview and I’m a bit paranoid. So many fears and phobias accumulate. Who knows — maybe FSB agents. Because when you’re sitting there, with this constant roll call, and someone stops responding, and then you learn from relatives that they’ve been taken. And that’s it. People simply vanish.

I didn’t sell the apartment. I left with less money than I’d come with. And thank God I had that money, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten out — it would have been over. What I spent to get out of there is the best investment of my entire life.