The story of Svitlana and her husband, Petro, both in their 50s, who spent almost a year in an occupied small town in Kherson Oblast, offers insight into the experience of suddenly falling under Russian control.
The couple worked at a railway station and, like many Ukrainians, Svitlana now looks back on life before the invasion with a new appreciation.
“We had everything: work, our own houses, kitchen gardens,” she said. “We could visit our children freely, vacation abroad, and buy anything we wanted.”
Their town is near the Chonhar Strait, which separates Crimea from mainland Ukraine. On February 24, 2022, Russian forces crossed it and occupied the town. “It was an unending stream of trucks, tanks, howitzers, and other military equipment,” Svitlana said.
Many neighbors fled immediately, joining more than nine million Ukrainians displaced since the invasion. Svitlana and Petro stayed because they were carers for Petro’s parents; his mother had terminal cancer, and his father was disabled after a stroke.
In March 2022, residents organized a pro-Ukrainian rally to show the invaders they didn`t need “liberation.” It ended when marchers encountered Russian military vehicles and turned back.
Soon, occupation became a daily reality. Stores emptied, and people stood in long lines for bread and other essentials. Electronic payments stopped working, and cash was scarce. At ATMs, there were “300 or more people waiting: old men and women, wrapped up in shawls,” Svitlana said. “You’re standing there not knowing if there would be enough cash when your turn came.”
Medicine began to disappear, internet access was disrupted, and mobile phone services became unreliable. One spot near a store had a signal, attracting both locals and Russian soldiers. “It was like a water hole in a desert where prey and predators drink next to each other,” she said.
As fighting raged nearby, the family mostly sheltered in the basement. From the attic, Svitlana occasionally watched military aircraft flying over. “I watched and couldn`t comprehend it,” she said. “How was it possible in our time for them just to come and kill us?”
For months, Russia appeared dominant. Then, on July 11, 2022, Ukrainian forces struck a major ammunition depot in Nova Kakhovka with US-supplied HIMARS rockets. “We ran outside and saw our neighbors applauding and cheering. Then, another volley, and a huge explosion,” Svitlana recalled.
Svitlana continued working for Ukrainian Railways until July. When operations ceased, she felt complete isolation. “No connection. No medicine. No food. No hospital. No free movement. No work. No wages,” she said.
Soon afterward, Russian security officers searched the family`s house, confiscated office equipment, and tried to persuade Svitlana to continue working under occupation, offering double pay. She refused.
The Russian authorities struggled with labor shortages. Many residents had fled, while others refused to collaborate. Salary increases and other incentives were offered, but disappeared after a few months.
Such measures were intended to create the illusion of a better life under occupation and keep people long enough to make it more difficult for them to leave, according to research by the Ukrainian Center for Middle Eastern Studies.
Businesses closed. Equipment was stolen. “Everything they could remove, they did,” she said.
The couple stopped driving their car, fearing confiscation, and relied on bicycles. Petro avoided the bus because he feared forced mobilization. Since the start of the full-scale invasion, approximately 50,000 men from the occupied territories have been conscripted, and public spaces are increasingly dominated by women.
At first, residents helped one another — furnishing a communal bomb shelter in the railway facilities, helping find medicine, and even donating yeast from their kitchens to a local bakery which had run out. But the social fabric soon began to unravel, and Svitlana said she learned to remain silent.
She was especially disappointed by neighbors who welcomed the occupation. Some of them, she said, were Russian citizens who had retired to Ukraine.
“They came here, built houses, and told us what a beautiful, heavenly climate we had and how cheap everything was,” she recalled. “But it wasn`t good enough. They wanted Russia to come.”
By late summer, many families left so their children could start attending schools elsewhere. Those who remained faced a fully Russified education system.
Svitlana learned her neighbor had enrolled her grandson in a school run by the occupation authorities. When she confronted her, the woman replied that he wanted to study and learn math. “Do you understand that they will teach him to kill you?” Svitlana responded. “They will teach him that Ukrainians are evil?”
By the fall of 2022, the family had adapted to a restricted existence. Their only escape was visiting trusted relatives, until the imposition of the 7 pm curfew made that impossible. Russian goods gradually replaced Ukrainian products, prices rose, while quality fell, Svitlana said.
Many neighbors were detained, beaten, or disappeared. Men were held without charges, tortured, and released with “their ribs broken and faces bloodied,” she said.
After Kherson’s liberation, investigators discovered multiple torture sites, including facilities where abuse of children was reported. By March this year, Ukrainian prosecutors had opened 213,200 investigations into Russian war crimes.
In the early stages of the full-scale invasion, calls by Ukrainian authorities for residents to leave angered many, including Svitlana. But her view of evacuation has changed.
“People had lived there their whole lives, built dynasties. And now they were supposed to throw it all away? And live where? Be homeless?” she asked, before adding that she had eventually come to understand. “All that is needed is for everyone to be alive and healthy,” she said.
Her frail mother-in-law struggled to make sense of what was happening. At first, she reassured her family that everything would be fine because Russians were “our brothers,” and they had lived together in the Soviet Union.
But the news about atrocities committed by Russian forces during their occupation of Bucha shattered the old lady’s faith in Russia. In December 2022, only days apart, both of Petro`s parents died.
The couple left the morning after the wake, embarking on a five-day journey through Crimea, Russia, Latvia, and Belarus before reaching Sumy, where their daughter was waiting for them.
In Crimea, Svitlana recalled seeing “burned fields, overturned and charred cars, debris everywhere, and a huge billboard of the Virgin Mary bearing the words: ‘Russia is a stronghold of peace and prosperity.’”
At one checkpoint, Petro was interrogated for four hours. He was ordered to strip to the waist while officials inspected his tattoos. When he said they were going to Europe, one of the interrogators told him, “There are only gay people there. What are you going to do there?”
Svitlana and Petro were fortunate, as leaving the occupied territories can be as dangerous as remaining in them. Cases of abuse, forced disappearances, and the separation of children from their parents are well documented.
Svitlana now celebrates her life in Kyiv, where she and Petro are back working on the railway and helping their daughter with her baby. “The smile doesn’t leave your face, because you can talk freely, loudly, with anyone you want,” she said.
Their old home has since been destroyed. The town they once knew has been devastated by war, occupation, and the bombing of the Kakhovka hydroelectric dam.
“Everything has been looted, everything has been stolen,” she said. “There is nothing.”
(Names have been changed for security reasons)
Tatiana Vorozhko is The Reckoning Project Contributing Editor
Dinara Khalilova is The Reckoning Project Contributing Journalist
Since 2022, The Reckoning Project has investigated war crimes in Russian-occupied Ukraine and taken evidence from more than 800 survivors.
Europe’s Edge is CEPA’s online journal covering critical topics on the foreign policy docket across Europe and North America. All opinions expressed on Europe’s Edge are those of the author alone and may not represent those of the institutions they represent or the Center for European Policy Analysis. CEPA maintains a strict intellectual independence policy across all its projects and publications.
