I’m for Ukraine, and they’re against. I don’t know how to explain it

2014. The beginning.

In 2014, they came to “liberate” us — the war was in my city. We have this area called Slavkurort. They’re shelling the city, as if they were Ukrainians. But these were some Russians, FSB agents in disguise.

A mortar strike — and that was it. (His wife was killed in this strike — SP.) You don’t believe it, don’t understand… No state of mind whatsoever. That year, my son was 15.

I became a soldier after that. Signed a contract and went to serve. I didn’t even think about how to go and defend the country. It just needed to be done, that’s all. I traveled everywhere, worked: Mariupol, Sievierodonetsk, Lysychansk.

My son was with my mom and sister; he and I barely saw each other anymore. My sister essentially raised him. I’d leave, come back, send money to Mom.

Captivity. Torture with a stun gun.

I was captured in 2017 in Gelendzhik. My cover story was that I was a construction worker, a foreman on a building site. (At that time, “Balu” was working in intelligence — SP.) FSB agents came, broke my ribs, and took me away. In 10 days, I lost 15 kilos.

They hit me in the head with a stun gun. My ears still ring constantly, day and night, to this day. They’d stick a pistol magazine between my fingers, stomp on my groin, stomp on my knee joint, bend the knee the wrong way. Whoever felt like it would come in and kick me: “Ah, you Banderite bitch!” — and start beating me with their feet.

I was held for eight months before they exchanged me. A year of rehabilitation followed. That’s life. From the outside now, it might seem like horror, but at the time it was normal. Humans are creatures that adapt to everything, get used to everything.

Uncle and cousin. Pro-Russian.

My cousin is from Kramatorsk. They moved to Crimea with his family. He studied there, became a naval officer. Rose through the ranks, became a major in the Black Sea Fleet, served on the cruiser Moskva.

He made his choice — he didn’t stay in Ukraine. I don’t know why, but he decided that life in Russia was fine. I can’t understand why.

His father — my uncle — came to visit Ukraine. We were burying another uncle in January 2022. He didn’t know anything about me: what I do, where I work.

He walks up to me, hugs me, and says: “Don’t worry, hang in there — on February 22, we’ll liberate you.” I’m like: “Liberate me from what? From myself? Or from my home?”

My cousin wrote: “Take your son, come to Crimea, we’ll hide you here.” I say: “What are you talking about? What Crimea? Your people nearly locked me up for 20 years.”

Then he says: “We’re coming. We’re already in Kyiv.” I say: “I’m in Kyiv too, but I don’t see you. Come over.” He didn’t come.

He says: “So, would you shoot me if you saw me?” I say: “If you come with vodka, we’ll sit down and drink. But if you come with a rifle — then yes.”

My cousin answers: “I wouldn’t shoot you.” As if he’s the normal one, and I’m the fascist killing my own people. For me, they all remained family. I’m the enemy to them — they’re not to me.

We never stopped talking. They all call and say I’m obsessed, I’m a fascist, I’m fighting my own people. I try to explain to them that my people don’t kill children and women, don’t destroy homes. My people sit in basements.

I understood I wouldn’t be able to change their minds, because they’re fervent Russian patriots.

The last conversation wasn’t a pleasant one. My cousin and uncle were drinking beer in the kitchen, calling me. They’re sitting there tipsy, crying: “Surrender! Don’t you understand we’ll steamroll you?” I say: “We’re waiting. Come and steamroll us.”

I knew he was on that ship the day the cruiser Moskva was sunk. There’s been no contact with them. It’s obvious why. (Officially, the Russian Ministry of Defense does not acknowledge the sinking of the Moskva by a Ukrainian missile and does not disclose full losses. However, some servicemen have been declared dead, and others missing — SP.)

It hurts, of course, but they came to kill us. We killed them. Well, today wasn’t your lucky day. Before that, how many deaths did that ship bring.

My son’s godfather. Fought for the “DPR.”

My son’s godfather is on that side too. He stormed the city police department in Sloviansk in 2014. When the full-scale war started, he was in Horlivka — he lost an eye and his left hand was torn off. He killed my brothers-in-arms; my brothers-in-arms killed his friends.

Under Ukraine, he had two apartments, a house, a car. Now he lives in Horlivka, essentially homeless, because there’s no work there.

I don’t consider him an enemy. I believe he was deceived, just had his head stuffed with nonsense. I don’t know what they promised him. I don’t even condemn Russians — they all had propaganda drilled into their brains through the TV, told that we’re the enemy. They’re simply zombified.

If I saw him, I’d hug him, talk to him. But I understand that if we met, he’d start shooting at me, not hugging.

My son. Serving.

My son was in the National Guard; he signed a contract at the start of the full-scale war. I told him: “Son, I don’t want you to go.” He says: “Dad, I understand you, but I don’t care what you want or don’t want.” And that was it — he went.

He was in Sloviansk, helped liberate Lyman, liberated Izium, Balakliia. He saw plenty in that year too.

If I’m driving near his positions, I always stop by. We always hug, drink tea and coffee together. I travel a lot; I pass through those areas often.

We’ve spent time off together. Our relationship has gotten warmer, better. He thought I’d abandoned him when I left in 2015. He needed me.

Now he understands I didn’t abandon him. We call each other more often, talk more. He’s half a head taller than me, and I’m not small myself. He’s two ten tall — a real warrior.

I worry about him every day. As they say, when you go into battle, if you don’t die in the first three days, you won’t die. The first two days pass — and there’s already some relief.

We’ve already won. We showed the whole world that the Russian army is worthless. But I understand this won’t pass without a trace. And the fact that my son is fighting now — that won’t end without a trace either.

We’re all — damaged goods, mentally wounded. Right now, everyone respects us, loves us, praises us, but when the war ends — what are we all supposed to do? Nobody knows.

After the war, I’ll send my son for rehabilitation. And I’ll go through a course myself too.