Andriy lived for 2 years under occupation in the Kherson region. He studied at a Ukrainian university, helped the AFU, hid from searches, and after all was able to leave. He told Babel what life was like there

The occupation of the left bank of the Kherson region has been going on for 4 years. The region is almost completely isolated from Ukraine, and communication with the people living there puts them in danger. Locals with pro-Ukrainian views have become "invisible" in order to survive. Andriy Sechko, 23, told Babel how he lived in an occupied village on the left bank of the Dnipro River for two years. He maintained ties with Ukraine, survived searches, inspections, and after all he left. Babel correspondent Valeriia Tsuba recorded his story.

1

On February 24, 2022, Andriy woke up in occupation.

It was the day he planned to register for the state entrance exam — take a photo, send in documents, and then take the exam. All administrative institutions were closed. But stores and photo studios were still open. This gave him some hope. So while most people were buying groceries, Andriy thought about how to submit his documents.

The mail was not working, so Andriy wrote to the Kherson USE committee by email and explained that he could not send the documents in paper form. He was allowed to submit everything online. But it became increasingly difficult to do so — the Internet connection began to disappear.

"The locals saved me. They had Wi-Fi network from Ukrtelecom. I sent the documents and a motivation letter through them," says Andriy.

So Andriy enrolled in absentia at the Odesa National University named after I. I. Mechnikov to study cultural studies. But the quick deoccupation, as he had hoped, did not happen. In the first months, he felt apathy. He did not have the strength to watch the news, but later it became impossible, because Ukrainian television was turned off. He did not communicate with friends. He simply lay in his room and read the books that were at home. And then he started drawing. Even before the Great War, a close person gave him a sketchbook, and Andriy decided to fill it with drawings to give to this person after the deoccupation.

Then he began to paint pictures on plywood.

2

Life in the village turned into a game of "hide and seek". People tried not to appear on the street. They moved around mostly on bicycles. This gave a sense of security, as if if you moved faster, you wouldnʼt be stopped. There was a curfew in the village: in winter — from 10:00 PM to 6:00 AM, in summer — until 5:00 AM. Locals, who were happy about the change of power, celebrated at so-called "bars" — thatʼs what the residents called the tables with tents near the shops in the center. They had alcohol until the stocks ran out — no new ones were brought in.

At first, so-called "taxis" still worked — people who had cars gave others a lift. Then the "taxis" disappeared — to drive a car, you had to have Russian documents and license plates, which were checked by Russian soldiers at checkpoints. Checkpoints appeared at all exits from the village. Several minibuses were also launched. Often, the drivers were not collaborators, but people who understood that others needed transport, and they needed money. They paid in rubles.

"People didnʼt leave the village en masse, except secretly, so we found out about someoneʼs departure after the fact. About a third of the locals left in the first year, and about ten percent in the next. The Russians also kidnapped people," says Andriy.

There was a school in the village, where local people who had no teaching education were appointed as teachers. The education was conducted according to the Russian propaganda program.

“I’m not sure that there was even mathematics discipline. They not only teach children of anti-Ukrainian policy, but also normalize ignorance,” says Andriy.

At first, the stores operated freely. Then, those who did not want to change their documents to Russian ones were fired and new management was appointed. People who agreed to work under the tricolor rebranded and sold goods brought from Crimea.

The money in ATMs quickly ran out. For the first few months, terminals were still working in stores, but the ability to pay with a Ukrainian card disappeared in the summer of 2022. For some time, it was possible to pay by online transfers to some banks, such as PrivatBank and Raiffeisen. But then this option also disappeared.

3

In the fall, Andriy began studying. By this time, Ukrainian mobile communication had disappeared in the village, but sometimes he still managed to catch Wi-Fi. To "go" for classes, as the locals called it, he "walked through Wi-Fi". He also set up kind of a workplace in the yard so that it would be difficult to see him from the outside. At the university, he was also helped: they allowed him to take exams and tests ahead of schedule.

After a year of living under occupation, Andriy still decided to buy a SIM card from the network offered by the Russian military. Since he fundamentally did not apply for a Russian passport, a neighbour who had a passport helped him buy a SIM card. The SIM cards were simply white, without the names of the operators. But it became easier to study with them. To connect to the classes, Andriy used a VPN — they had not yet managed to block them.

During the occupation, he lived with his family. They all refused to work for the occupation authorities, so when the occupied territories were converted to rubles, Andriy began to earn money by painting and at the same time helping the Armed Forces of Ukraine (AFU). He painted pictures and sold them to locals who supported Ukraine but were afraid to do it openly. The family lived on rubles, and donations to the Armed Forces of Ukraine were sent from Ukrainian cards, which still had some payments. Transfers were made through Privat 24, using a VPN. The funds were sent to large Ukrainian foundations.

4

A “silent terror” reigned in the village: collaborators reported on pro-Ukrainian residents, people were kidnapped and persecuted. The so-called inspections often took place. Fortunately, Andriy had time to prepare for them. He lived in the center, but he had acquaintances on the outskirts of the village — that’s where the columns of the occupiers would enter. They saw the movement of equipment and immediately warned their own people.

Russian troops pushed into the village on everything that could move — SUVs, ZILs, IFVs, and sometimes even heavy equipment. Everyone was in camouflage, wearing balaclavas, and armed. Among them were both ordinary military personnel and the FSB officers who called themselves “law enforcement officers”. “Kadyrovites” also came with them. On such days, the locals hardly left their homes, preparing for searches. The first thing Andriy did was hide his study notes and delete all the apps on his phone.

"They could break in by breaking down the door. They could break into the house, and rob it. This happened to my friends. Sometimes there was no time to prepare, I would hide my phone somewhere on the street, and my notes in a closet, among old books. Sometimes everything would lie in hiding places for days, and I could not get to studying," Andriy shares.

The villagers developed rules of conspiracy.

“We hardly chated. We talked in real life, disguised important conversations as something mundane, and constantly cleaned up our chats. My mother still can’t get rid of this habit — almost all of her chats are empty,” says Andriy.

Andriy was lucky — his phone was never checked. His friends were less lucky. If they found anything with a hint of some pro-Ukrainian on them, they would organize “prevention”: beat them and force them to do community service.

During one of the checks, the occupiers asked Andriy why he didn’t serve “for Ukraine” and offered to join a Russian military unit whose task was to terrorize the population of the occupied territories. Andriy said that he couldn’t leave his family. That answer was enough for them. But usually, such checks included questioning neighbors and going around houses.

One day, Andriy almost got caught. Russian troops suddenly blocked all exits from the village. Cars, armored personnel carriers, and their soldiers entered every street. No one had time to warn anyone. At that moment, Andriy was returning home on his bicycle. At home, his laptop and a history book were on the table.

“I realized that the occupiers were standing near my yard and just drove past. I reached the cemetery and waited there, hiding my phone in the bushes. I came up with a fake story: if they asked me what I was doing there, I would say I was cleaning the graves of my relatives.”

Andriy was lucky again: there were no searches that day. No one found out what exactly the occupiers were looking for. But Andriy could not get rid of the feeling that he was being watched.

"I felt more or less safe only in the evening. And I didnʼt like the night. I knew that in the morning all of this would happen again. It was scary to wait for the morning call, that there would be searches again. Thatʼs why I always delayed sleep," says Andriy.

5

Andriy decided to leave only after two years of occupation. Before that, he had not thought about leaving — he was afraid that he would simply not be allowed to leave or would be forcibly taken into the army at the border. And without a Russian passport, the risk was even greater. But he could not wait any longer. There were fewer people in the village, and residents without Russian documents attracted more and more attention.

The family left in a minibus with the help of volunteers, whom his family found via telegram — they were able to enter the occupied territories from time to time. Everyone took Ukrainian passports with them. They went purposefully to Ukraine — through the occupied territories. In case of checks, they prepared a fake story why they did not change the documents: they said that their mother was born in Russia, but they simply did not have the necessary papers for re-registration. They were let through at all checkpoints. Andriyʼs phone was checked twice while crossing the borders.

“I reset the phone to factory settings. They saw that the phone was empty. The Russians believe their own propaganda. They were convinced that I would be shot on Ukrainian territory or sent to the front as cannon fodder. This is what they tell all the men who want to return to Ukraine,” Andriy says.

Andriy and his family settled in Kryvyi Rih, where they still live. He says that despite two years of living in a Russian environment, they were well received. Andriy is studying remotely in his third year, works as a freelancer at the Center for Contemporary Culture in Kryvyi Rih. At the same time, he helps the army and volunteers.

He knows little about how his native village is now. Only that it has become much more difficult to leave. Everyone who remains is being forced to apply for Russian passports.

"Every day I miss my home and the people there. Leaving the occupation is not as easy as it seems. I study, work, volunteer, and this somehow gives me strength. And I also popularize Ukraine among Ukrainians, no matter how sad it may sound," says Andriy.

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