‘I threw away ten years of my life’ – three Ukrainian women’s stories of life under occupation
Tia, Maria, and Veronika lived in the Donetsk region, where Ukrainian identity was a natural part of everyday life. But in 2014, everything changed. Russia brought war, foreign flags, Russian textbooks, and a rewritten version of history to this land. The Ukrainian language, culture, and sense of identity first became irrelevant, then dangerous.
After 2014, and especially following the full-scale invasion in 2022, the Kremlin began actively shaping not just citizens loyal to the Russian Federation, but patriots ready to die for Russia in the occupied territory.
Three young women from captured Ukrainian cities share how, after a decade of living under occupation, they managed to break free from the worldview imposed by the Russians and reclaim their Ukrainian identity.
Tia: ‘I’m like everyone else in this city, they beat me, but I live’
(Name changed at the woman’s request)
I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s easier for me to think that my city no longer exists and to stay close to people who fled from cities that were truly destroyed. Because my city isn’t alive. It’s a corpse, violated again and again, writhing in agony.
Living under occupation robbed me of my family, because when adults are struggling to survive, the last thing they think about is their children. It robbed me of my health, because I had no access to proper medical care and no money to pay for it. It robbed me of a normal relationship with food, because there simply wasn’t any. And even when food was available, I wouldn’t advise anyone to eat it. It robbed me of self-worth, because you constantly have to adapt to the dominant group to avoid being beaten or judged. Living under occupation makes it clear that you are nothing, that you will never escape, that you have no rights or freedoms. I threw away ten years of my life. All I have left is experience, which I now use to show others that occupation is not peace, that occupation is wrong. Even if the violence comes slowly, quietly, instead of at gunpoint.
***
Spring 2014. I scream and try to hide under the bed, even though it’s useless. Military vehicles are driving into my town from Russia along the highway. My mother counts the cars and laughs, saying these are “our boys”, everything is fine. No one explains what is happening: occupation? invasion? liberation? I’m nine years old, growing up in a mining family in Makiivka, Donetsk Oblast. Even though it’s a Russian-speaking city, I study and write my first poems in Ukrainian. At school, we have a subject called “Me and Ukraine”. I know that we wear embroidered shirts and wreaths. My whole life, everything around me, feels Ukrainian.
I haven’t yet studied history or fully understood my country’s borders, but I can’t grasp how part of it could suddenly break away.
I finish fourth grade under the old curriculum. I receive a Ukrainian report card and a Ukrainian literacy certificate. After that, Ukrainian is taught only in language and literature classes – sporadically, carelessly, without much interest. Whenever there’s a chance to replace it with something else, like a class hour, teachers take it. Some children lose their understanding of the language entirely and rely on phone translators. Ukrainian teachers are sent for retraining – they will now teach Russian. Our class is considered “backward” because we write in Russian like first-graders. My poems are gradually becoming Russified.
Flags of the ‘DPR’ [the so-called Donetsk People’s Republic] hang outside the school. In what used to be a Ukrainian classroom, portraits of Russian writers now line the walls. We have “Donbas Civics Lessons”, where we study the Russian Orthodox Church – there are no alternatives. In music class, instead of songs about teachers, mothers, or rain, we learn military-patriotic songs.
Every year we prepare for 9 May with great care. Every year, we bring flowers to the tank – a monument to the events of the Great Patriotic War. Since 2017, the hallways of my school have been covered with huge wall newspapers about Russian history and that war.
***
2022. I love fantasy, bright clothes, and handicrafts. I’m a first-year student at Donetsk University, studying Russian philology. I really enjoy it.
I’m going to become a teacher of Russian language and literature.
If you asked me who I am, I wouldn’t know what to answer. My parents say that it’s Ukraine that’s bombing us, but I think I’m Ukrainian myself. There’s no clarity. When I’m handed a ‘DPR’ passport, it feels like mockery, because there’s no such thing as ‘DPR citizenship’.
On 24 February, 2022, I hope that people in Russia will take to the streets to protest the war. Naively and foolishly, I post an Instagram story in Ukrainian about helping civilians on the front line. A classmate messages me, “Better watch your back. Don’t let me ever see that again.” It takes me only a day to realise how dangerous it is to post things like that. I close my account and go quiet. Some time later, a friend tells me he’s afraid to leave the house because someone filed a denunciation against him. I thought denunciations had died with Stalin.
I only truly realise that I’m living under occupation after the full-scale invasion begins. Before that, the word “occupation” made me think only of the Great Patriotic War and the “German-fascist invaders”.
***
I start listening to a lot of Ukrainian music. I even sing along sometimes. My mother listens too, but says it’s better to sing in Russian. When she wants to annoy the neighbors, she turns the Ukrainian songs up louder. As long as it’s something lighthearted, that’s fine. At least within the apartment, it’s allowed. But when I accidentally speak Ukrainian, they scream at me, curse, and hit me in the face.
I switch to Ukrainian on my Telegram channel. I start watching and reading Ukrainian-language content, but I’m still studying Russian philology. I’m surrounded by Russian culture, Russian history, Russian mentality. Yet I’m pro-Ukrainian. I’m actually a Ukrainian-Urum, a Greek from the Azov region. Russian isn’t my native language, but I know it better than many Russians, because I was forced to learn it. At university, one of my professors says that all “khokhols” [a derogatory Russian term for Ukrainians] should be exterminated. I drop out and start working. I need money for tickets, a suitcase, and a carrier for my cat.
I’m afraid that once I leave, my living conditions will get worse, though they’ve been bad since 2014. But what if it gets even worse? Still, another fear won’t leave me. I’m afraid that here, I could be raped, beaten, or mutilated. There are soldiers everywhere.
I’ve grown so used to writing in Ukrainian, sending voice messages, and playing online games with Ukrainian speakers that I’m now terrified to leave the house, because I think in Ukrainian. I’m scared I might say, “Good afternoon, maybe you need something?” in Ukrainian at the store where I work. One day, a Ukrainian word slips out, and my supervisor immediately notices. She asks if I talk like that with customers.
People don’t want to hear “khokhlyatska” speech, because they believe that since 2014 their lives have been ruined by “khokhols”. They listen closely to words, since using Ukrainian ones can get you labelled a saboteur.
I feel as if I’m walking through a minefield.
***
For a month, my mother watches me pack my suitcase. I tell her I’m going to visit friends in Finland. I really was planning to go there, but I don’t have the documents for my cat. I’m in a hurry, trying to leave before they force me to get a Russian passport. Then I find out that with volunteers’ help I can travel to Ukraine. Three weeks later, I tell my mother that I’m in Kharkiv.
For a year now, she’s been writing to me that Kharkiv will be destroyed in three days.
After leaving, I feel lost and alone, like I’m no one. I don’t have a Ukrainian education, I can’t even call myself a philologist, because I’m a Russian-language philologist. Neither I nor the people in my new environment want to have anything to do with anything Russian. It’s painful, unpleasant, and disgusting. I want to stand in solidarity with the city and the country that have become my home, with the people who showed me a different world. Because I love and respect them. I found a community that doesn’t judge me for what I don’t know but helps me learn.
***
It turns out that when you have nothing, you can try new things. I attend theatre workshops, look at different types of architecture, learn from people’s experiences, and discover my strengths. In Kharkiv, I remove dust from of my old self (my Ukrainianness). I rehearse Christmas carols with a local ensemble and remember that I once used to go caroling, a long time ago in kindergarten. I recall how we used to make kutia [a traditional Christmas grain dish], and I start painting pysanky [decorated Easter eggs] again. Even without a Ukrainian education, I learn enough about Ukrainian culture, art, and people to work in a bookstore that specialises in books about Ukrainian culture.
It sounds strange, but at first I stayed in Kharkiv partly because I felt I needed to have my own experience of war. Under occupation, we were told that Donbas had been bombed for ten years, but I had never seen war like this. I felt terribly guilty that I hadn’t been there. Over time, that guilt turned into admiration. “People are being attacked, but they live. They are so strong.”
The danger has become routine. When a drone flies by, one that could destroy several floors of a building, I simply draw the curtains so the glass shards would hit the windowsill instead of flying across the room. I take my cat and go to the bathroom. On my way to work, I pass buildings that are completely or partially destroyed. Near the cultural centre where I work, drones have hit four times already. But we don’t stop.
I’m like everyone else in this city. They beat me, but I live.
Maria: ‘The war became a push for me to understand myself and the context of life under occupation’
Tanks drive down the street I walk every day to school. Then my memories become fragmented. I hide behind the couch, smoke rises, my mother takes photos through the window. It’s spring 2014. I’m nine, I have a younger sister, and I play the piano. I love drawing girls in Ukrainian clothes. I’m Ukrainian, and I live in Ukraine.
For a while, my mother takes us from Donetsk to Crimea. She says it’s for vacation, but in fact, we’re fleeing the war.
***
In the autumn, only six children remain in my class of 37. My piano teacher has left, so I quit music. My favourite Ukrainian-language teacher has left too. We no longer celebrate the Day of Unity of Ukraine at school. Now we live in the ‘DPR’. In the principal’s office hangs a portrait of Putin. We are forced to learn the anthem of the ‘republic’. It is played at all school ceremonies and holidays.
After 2022, the Russian one will replace it.
The topic of Ukraine, both in and outside of school, becomes taboo. We’re taught that Donbas has its own history, separate from Ukraine, and that being part of Ukraine was a mistake. We are told that we are our own masters.
At school celebrations, girls perform in Russian sarafans and kokoshniks [traditional Russian costumes] for some reason. Our most important holiday is Victory Day, and we start preparing for it in early spring. We’re taught that the victory belongs to Soviet Russia, and the war is the Great Patriotic War. For performances, we wear military caps and red neckerchiefs, singing Soviet songs. Once we choose a modern song that has verses in three languages. When I start singing the Ukrainian verse, they stop me. No one explains why, they just say, “We don’t do that.” It turns out I’m the only one who learned that verse.
I guess I’m just lucky that I don’t see Victory Day as “we can do it again”. I’m not sure dressing children in military uniforms or forcing them to hear about war is a good idea. It’s traumatic. It terrifies me that in 2024 my eight-year-old sister is dressed as a little Russian soldier for Victory Day.
They never did that to me.
***
Since the autumn of 2014, we have been studying from Russian textbooks.
Teachers keep repeating that the Russian curriculum is much more advanced and that we need to catch up. Both parents and teachers are convinced that after school it is better to go to Russia. At 15, I already understand that the so-called ‘DPR’ is an isolated and unrecognised piece of land; there is no future here. I never know how to answer when someone asks, “Where are you from?”
I simply say, “From Donetsk”, and leave it at that.
After ninth grade, I enter the Donetsk Art College. Once or twice a year, just as in school before, we are taught how to shoot. They hand out targets and bullets, show us how to aim. I hate it. I do not want to hold a weapon, but I have no choice, it is an assignment.
When the full-scale war begins, I am in my third year of college. It forces me to choose a side. I do not want to be on Russia’s side; no one has the right to attack just because they feel like it. I try to recall what happened in 2014 and make sense of it. I talk with my mother, but we argue a lot. I realise I will have to learn the truth on my own. I start communicating more with friends from Ukraine, reading Ukrainian media, remembering the language. When I finally understand that Russia invaded Ukraine back in 2014, I feel so betrayed that I want to dig deeper into Ukrainian history.
It still feels hard to call myself Ukrainian; I speak the language poorly, I barely remember the literature or history. I do not know what has been happening in Ukraine all these years. I begin asking my relatives about our roots and remember my great-grandfather, who wrote poetry in Ukrainian and sang me Ukrainian lullabies. All of this was part of my life, yet my identity was stolen, and I was made to doubt who I am. A person who doubts can be manipulated. If not for the full-scale invasion, I might never have questioned any of it. The war became the push that made me understand both myself and the reality of life under occupation.
***
At college, we are often told to draw something in support of the “special military operation” and Russian soldiers. It is mandatory. I always find a way around it; for instance, my “hero of the operation” is a woman medic. When we are told to make posters with the Z and V symbols, I call the director and carefully try to negotiate a compromise, suggesting a theme about Donetsk instead, without anything military. But even that is enough for people to call me a traitor. The director asks why 17-year-old boys are dying in the trenches for me while I cannot make a simple poster. He wants to meet me in person. I feel the tension. Those who express their views can be expelled, or even have their homes searched. It sounds extreme, but it happens.
***
I suspect that people who tried to resist were taken somewhere to “the basements”. That is why I have two phones: one for Ukrainian content that I use at home, and another old one in Russian that I take outside.
I have rejected everything Russian. In my sketchbook and on my computer, I label all my works in Ukrainian. Through the internet, I try to become part of Ukrainian society, talking with friends from Ukraine. But I am still afraid to speak Ukrainian aloud.
I know I will not find support in the ‘DPR’. People around me know I am against the war, but they do not know that I am against Russia. Once, I accidentally used a Ukrainian word in conversation, and my friend said, “Ugh, don’t talk to me in that language.” I do not trust anyone enough. Finding like-minded people who would dare to show their position is nearly impossible.
Mentally, I am in a completely different space than the one I live in; they are opposite worlds.
I begin to isolate myself.
***
In the summer of 2023, I graduate from college. My diploma project is a series of illustrations for the British fairy tale ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’. During the review, a woman from the commission insists that I replace it with ‘Masha and the Three Bears’. She argues that it is a Russian fairy tale written by Tolstoy. In the end, they tell me, “Do whatever you want, just don’t mention Goldilocks or that it’s English.” I realise they need to show that children from the ‘DPR’ love and support Russian culture. There are many such projects, and many people take part in them.
***
My relatives want me to apply to a university in Russia. The thought terrifies me. I know that people from the ‘DPR’ are not treated well there; we are not seen as equals. They laugh at our Russian, where traces of a Ukrainian accent can still be heard. Those who study in Russia say that locals look down on them because we “take their places”. First, they took everything from us, and when we try to improve our situation, we are bullied. At the same time, there are more and more competitions where the prize is a trip to Crimea or Russia. Many students participate just to leave for a while and see life without war.
Russia, which brought us the war, does not suffer from it.
It disgusts me to see what Donetsk has become. On the way to the bus stop, I count six billboards celebrating ten years of Crimea “being with Russia”. On the wall of my school, there is a huge painting of a boy and girl holding hands with the flags of the ‘DPR’ and Russia. Two windows were bricked up to make space for it. I see posters promoting the Russian army and calling people to join. I see soldiers harassing girls. My life here, my entire world, is in ruins. There is nothing left to rebuild from and no strength to try. I cannot do anything.
I can only leave.
***
I do not want to tell my mother that I am leaving. But at the last moment, I feel ashamed to hide it. I tell her on the street, as she is handing me some groceries. She starts shouting that I am going to those who shoot at us, asking what I will do there. She calls our relatives in Ukraine and accuses them of brainwashing me. She does not believe I could come to these conclusions on my own. In the end, she decides that I will not dare to leave anyway.
I had already left behind my circle of friends and interests back in Donetsk. The only ones I truly sacrificed when leaving were my sisters.
I am sorry I cannot be present in their lives, that I cannot even once hold the youngest, who was born after I left. When I hear, “Masha, when will you come home?” I feel guilt and confusion, because I know it will not happen. Donetsk continues to be rapidly Russified. After so many Russians and military personnel arrived, it has become something completely alien. The city is not only being destroyed, it is being reshaped to fit their image. If the occupation continues, children there will keep growing up knowing nothing about Ukraine, raised to see themselves as Russians. My teenage sister understands Ukrainian only by ear but cannot speak or write it. My younger sister, who is eight, has never heard Ukrainian at all. I do not know if we will ever meet again, or if my mother will take them somewhere deeper into Russia. I wish they had a chance to live somewhere else, but for now I have nothing to offer them. I am still finding my own footing.
***
Now I am in Kharkiv. This city has become my refuge, and I am deeply grateful to it. I am inspired by the people who live here. Despite constant shelling and stress, they keep helping others, building, teaching, and creating culture.
I always wanted to do something meaningful, but in Donetsk there was no such opportunity. In Kharkiv, for the first time in my life, I feel part of a community. I am involved in the city’s life; I want to work to make it better. Kharkiv has shown me that in the right environment, among people who inspire and support you, you can achieve far more than you ever thought possible.
Veronika: ‘Why should I consider myself Russian if it isn’t even true?’
(name changed at the woman’s request)
They shout that there are fascists in Ukraine, that we have always been part of Russia. People with covered faces and Russian flags; there are more than a hundred of them. I watch as they tear down Ukraine’s coat of arms from a building. It looks surreal, but my father is thrilled. He is into politics, and I think he must know what is right. It is Donetsk, 2014. I am 16.
Someone scrawls “Fuck America” on a wall.
I begin to realise that something serious is happening only when FC Shakhtar leaves Donetsk and the Donbass Arena closes. For my family, that stadium is sacred; we love soccer.
Information chaos is everywhere. Our Ukrainian language teacher hints that things are very bad, while others say life will be better with Russia and that we are actually Russian. I feel sorry for the Ukrainian soldiers surrounded and fighting for the Donetsk airport, but my father says that if they come into the city, they will kill us all. So it feels like there are only two options: either you are killed by the so-called Ukrainian fascists, or Russia saves you, and then everything will be fine.
Fear sets in. To survive, you must be accepted and protected by the stronger side. You have to assimilate. So I start calling myself Russian. After all, there were Russians among my ancestors, and I can choose which part of that identity to embrace.
Time passes, and a strange nostalgia creeps in. I remember how the city used to be alive, with new malls opening, foreigners visiting, soccer games being played. Now the Donbass Arena is overgrown with weeds. I do not go to matches anymore; here, people have almost forgotten that soccer ever existed.
My boyfriend and I watch a local blogger who mocks the separatists and the ‘DPR’. I feel both offended and amused; I have always liked pranks. When I listen to separatists speak, I suddenly realise that I am just like them, with a brain full of propaganda. I start watching Russian opposition bloggers. Gradually, it feels as if a wall in my head begins to crack, and my perception of reality changes.
My father and I argue for hours. Doubt seeps in; why should I believe Russia when it is one of the sides in this war? My grandparents repeat stories from Russian news about Ukrainians eating children. I wonder, why would Ukrainians want to kill us? What did we do to them? I cannot understand why my father gets so angry at my questions.
My worldview shifts. It is terrifying to admit that I was wrong. Yet I believe that if I explain to my relatives that Russia is not saving us, and that Ukraine is not evil, they will listen. But instead, they start seeing the evil in me. For the first time, I feel utterly alone among my own family.
My father and I stop talking after I refuse to congratulate him on Victory Day. He calls me a “Banderite” [after the wartime Ukraine nationalist organization] and a terrible person. For me, that day is about remembrance, not about proving how strong Russia is or how it will crush Europe. I remember my great-grandmother’s stories; three of her brothers were sent to the front during the first days of World War II. None of them came back. For her, 9 May was never a holiday; she always cried that day.
I think a lot about her now – about her Ukrainian name, the way she spoke to me in Surzhyk [a mix of Ukrainian and Russian], how our family names were originally Ukrainian but later Russified. I was born and raised in Ukraine. Russia has given me nothing good; after the occupation, my city is falling apart. So why should I call myself Russian if it is not even true?
***
On the fifth anniversary of the so-called ‘DPR’, I post a humorous photo on my page with the caption, “I was born in the ‘DPR’, my life is wasted”. The post gets a lot of likes, and I realise that many people feel the same way, even if they stay silent. But my boyfriend’s relatives demand that I delete the post immediately, warning that I could be sent to jail. If not, they threaten to report me to the FSB themselves. They say that if I support Ukraine, I should do so quietly.
***
On the eve of the full-scale invasion, I am planning to go to Russia to earn some money, since my boyfriend is planning to do the same. But after 24 February , this idea becomes absurd. Donetsk remains relatively quiet during those days, only the water supply is cut off. I keep reading the news and try to reassure my friend from Kramatorsk, a city in the Ukrainian-controlled part of the Donetsk region. I hope my relatives will finally realise that Russia is the aggressor, but my aunt watches propaganda channels and insists that “Kharkiv is ours”. I am even more shocked.
I start sharing information about helping children in Ukraine. I block anyone who comments, “Why bother? They brought this on themselves.” I do not care what people think. I just want to help someone, somehow.
The college administration asks me, as the class monitor, to check on my classmates’ whereabouts. Most of them are boys. I have a bad feeling that it is connected to mobilisation. I warn them not to answer phone calls from unknown numbers. I worry about my brothers. They have not left the house for days.
When I listen to Ukrainian news, I become almost paranoid. I am afraid someone might be listening in or that the neighbours could report me. My Telegram account is password-protected, and I archive all Ukrainian news. When I read or listen to Ukrainian content outside, I make sure no one can see my phone screen. The Ukrainian language and any political discussion are triggers in Donetsk if you think differently.
I learn about the Yellow Ribbon movement. My internal protest becomes external. A ribbon in one of the colors of the Ukrainian flag is a symbol of resistance under occupation. I buy yellow fabric and cut it into strips. I go to the Forged Statues Park without telling anyone. I want to express solidarity. It feels like we silently support each other from afar, since it is impossible to know who shares your views under occupation. Speaking openly would put both yourself and others in danger.
As I tie my ribbon, I look around carefully. There have been no protests since 2014; they are banned, so everyone is afraid. I am afraid too, afraid of seeming suspicious. How would I explain myself if someone saw me? What would I say if the police checked my social media? Likes, comments, subscriptions – all of it can be traced easily in an authoritarian state. I heard about a girl who tore down posters calling people to join the front and posted videos on TikTok. She was sentenced to ten years in prison. I tear down those posters too, near schools, markets, and on buses, but I do it carefully. I do not want to share her fate. It makes me happy to see that someone else has torn down posters before me.
I am not alone.
***
I feel like an outsider in Donetsk. Even my relatives reject me and my views. I long to be among people who understand me, where I do not have to be afraid of being reported. I know that can only happen in Ukraine. I need money to leave.
In the summer of 2022, I find a job at a pizzeria. At first, I work as a waitress, then as a manager, and sometimes behind the bar – all at once. Five days a week, from nine in the morning until nine at night, often without a single day off. But that is even better. Work keeps me distracted from the news, from the lack of support, and from my boyfriend’s opposing views on the war. The pizzeria is in an area where Grad rockets and drones are often heard. It is very loud, and there are no air raid alerts. The only safe spot is behind the bar. When soldiers boast about being heroes, I have to smile. I cannot show disgust. I monitor every word. Sometimes I even think it would be easier if a shell hit this place and I never had to see anything again. I remind myself that I’m doing this to get out. It’s temporary. I save 50,000 rubles and pack my suitcase.
***
On the day I leave, my aunt hides my Ukrainian passport, and my relatives threaten that I will be enslaved in Poland and imprisoned in Ukraine. But I go anyway. My hands shake as I show my old birth certificate at the border. When I finally enter Ukraine, it feels as if I have stepped into the future after a long sleep. It is like arriving in Europe from the Soviet Union: smooth roads, clean streets, working internet even on the highway. People here are so lucky. There are self-service checkouts that even talk, parcel terminals, water dispensers, Ukrainian flags everywhere.
I stop in Dnipro. Despite the war, the city feels more alive than Donetsk. I look at people, and they do not look away.
Still, adapting is hard. Apart from one friend, I am alone. I need to restore my documents, build new connections, and find a job. For a while, I work at a gas station. It is a brutal job. I am in debt and deeply depressed. Sometimes I even think that joining the army would be easier.
It takes a year and a half to get back on my feet. But I do not regret anything. I would not have survived in Donetsk. In Dnipro, I feel safe, surrounded by my own people. I have no fear. I stopped hiding my phone. I told myself: enough, no one will report you anymore. I improved my Ukrainian, I have a boyfriend, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment, and I work at a dental clinic. For the first time, I feel like I can finally breathe.
Author: Nadiya Shvadchak
This story was first published on Newsmaker.md.
This text was prepared in collaboration with The Reckoning Project, an international team of journalists and lawyers dedicated to documenting, reporting, and collecting evidence for the investigation of war crimes. The Reckoning Project receives support from the European Union.
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