Tiia lived in the occupied Donetsk region since childhood, but did not lose her Ukrainian identity. At the age of nineteen, she left for Kharkiv. This is how her consciousness was formed

Since childhood, Tiia loved the traditions of her region, and most of all, the Minerʼs Day. Her father worked as a miner. The family loved to dress up festively and go to the local parade. It was truly a big holiday in the Donetsk region. Parades, including patriotic ones, were a common occurrence. And Makiivka itself was always quite “alive” — the city of miners had many palaces of culture, where Ukrainian cultural life was in full swing. But in April 2014, part of this seemed to have disappeared from history.

Next is Tiiaʼs direct speech.

1

When my city was occupied, I was 9 years old. While Russian troops were advancing on Makiivka, my relatives stood on the balcony, rejoicing, counting tanks on the streets of their hometown and saying: “Our guys are coming!” And all I felt was fear. Most people initially endured the occupation at home. Some were happy, some weren’t, but everyone was scared. I also hardly left the yard for a while.

In my family, the joy kind of “our boys are coming” quickly turned into silence — we no longer talked about politics. It became taboo. Explosions, which were clearly audible, became commonplace after about a year of occupation. There was no panic or sense of threat. Over time, I felt what occupation was like: hunger appeared, long lines for humanitarian aid. It was difficult, but not too much.

Little had changed in my “world”. At school, we continued to study Ukrainian language and literature, but it was done sluggishly, without much enthusiasm. The “what difference does it make which flag to live under” approach was popular among teachers. This became especially noticeable when many Ukrainian language teachers began to be retrained as Russian teachers: in 2014–2016, they were sent to Donetsk for courses. In addition, Ukrainian language at school was often taught by teachers from other disciplines, not from Ukrainian language and literature. Because of all this, the level of teaching Ukrainian was quite weak.

But no one renounced the Ukrainian language. And there was no one who said that he was not Ukrainian. Strange ideas simply began to appear: as if "Khokhly" and Ukrainians were different peoples. Only the military or their families had clear political views at that time. Among the children in my class, the most that slipped through was some kind of chauvinistic sentiments. Some admired Putin, tried to find something "funny" in him. But no more.

I became a hostage to Russian propaganda, perhaps, only in one view — in my perception of World War II, which Russia interprets in its own way. There were many events at school on the theme of World War II. For example, “The Peace Day”, on which we said with irony something like “we know very well how to live during war”, or when was “The White Crane Day” — the Russian Day of Remembrance of the Fallen. From January to April, we prepared numbers for the Soviet song contest about the military. Russian military personnel were not mentioned in the education of the “DPR” until 2023 — until Russia “officially” entered these territories.

Personal archives of heroes / «Бабель»

School events on a military theme.

Personal archives of heroes / «Бабель»

Personal archives of heroes / «Бабель»

In the 11th grade, a thematic block on history was introduced — "How the Donetsk Peopleʼs Republic appeared". At some point, memorial plaques in honour of the soldiers of the "DPR" began to be hung in schools. Did this propaganda make me feel more part of Russia? Not at all. Even after graduating from school, it was easier for me to say that I was Greek, Gypsy, and Ukrainian than Russian.

2

For quite a long time, I perceived Ukraine neutrally. It was definitely not a “hostile” country, because I communicated with people who had gone to the “controlled” part, and more or less understood how they lived there. And I also felt like a part of Ukraine, just under occupation. I would come to visit my grandmother, who also lived under occupation, and her family spoke Surzhyk without realizing it. I loved watching Ukrainian television. Even those who complained about “bad Khokhlys” used to watch Ukrainian TV shows on the “New Channel” in evenings.

However, since 2020-2021, my worldview has become more unambiguous. I have developed distrust even of the Russian opposition. I followed the protests in Belarus and noticed how many oppositionists tried to "play both sides of the fence". Since then, I have been skeptical of Russian politics, people, and the opposition.

In 2021, I entered the “Donetsk State University” — this was half a year before the full-scale invasion. I was thinking of entering Ukrainian philology. It was not out of great desire, but after I couldn’t get into English. I didn’t want to enter Russian because I didn’t like their literature, I considered it conservative and faceless.

Then I saw an option for Slavic studies, where you could study Ukrainian, Polish, and Belarusian. It interested me, because at some point the Ukrainian language began to seem exotic to me. Thatʼs why I settled on Ukrainian philology. But I couldnʼt get in because my family, who paid for my education, was against it. They said something like "you canʼt stick your Ukrainian anywhere". The number of budget places was also limited, and I didnʼt pass. So I entered Russian philology.

I liked the first term of study — we studied general subjects. However, in the second term, when a full-scale war began, the emphasis on everything Russian began to be felt more. The teachers rarely voiced their political views in pairs. But we were subscribed to their social networks. Letʼs say there is a teacher who, it would seem, is calmly studying her subject. But you go to her page and see a pinned post like "We must destroy the entire 5th column that is sitting here". I realized that this was about me, and I felt terrible. She did not know about my pro-Ukrainian views, but some of my classmates did — and there were those who threatened to denounce me.

I studied at university for a year and a half, but the feeling of not belonging was stronger than the feeling of the need for higher education. So I left my studies and started working.

3

In 2022, terror and persecution of people intensified in Makiivka, but this was more manifested through mobilization. As a woman, it was easier for me. But the feeling of anxiety was transmitted from my male friends and father. Men had hardly gone out since February, because they were being taken into the army even with all their illnesses. The families of these men seemed not to notice that anything was happening. Makiivka turned into an almost womenʼs city.

With the start of the full-scale war, I switched to Ukrainian, switched all social networks to it. I excluded Russian-language content from my feeds. But there was a problem — I worked for a person who was a soldier of the "DPR" during the ATO. He reacted sharply to my Surzhyk, which sometimes slipped out of me. I began to be afraid. At that time, I was already thinking in Ukrainian, and I was worried that I would accidentally say "Доброго дня!" to a client — and then thatʼs it, Iʼm gone.

I hoped that with the start of the Great War, the position of my relatives would change. But from them I only heard phrases like “now they [Ukrainians] will understand what it’s like when you’re being bombed”. Sometimes they would muse that “now Russia doesn’t need us either”. It seemed to many that a full-scale invasion would divert attention from the cities that have been occupied since 2014. Someone said something like “now they’ll rebuild Mariupol, but they’ll forget about us”.

To escape from reality, I started looking for Ukrainian communities. I looked for Ukrainian books, and everything I could pirate I pirated via VPN. This also applied to Ukrainian cinema. VPN is banned in Russia, it was really checked, but I didnʼt realize the scale of the problems I could have. After all, there was not such a radical occupation there that we see now, but something "soft" compared to what is happening in the same left-bank Kherson region.

Once I went to the branch of the library named after Vasyl Stus in my yard and asked if they had any books by Vasyl Stus. It was a kind of “teenage-youth riot”. They found them for me. Then the employee [of the library] called the head of the branch to clarify whether it was possible to issue such literature, especially to students. They checked my documents and at one point almost called the “militia”. Despite all this, they gave me the book after seeing my student ID card for Russian philology.

4

At some point, I finally realized that I wanted to leave. However, I didn’t have any documents, only those issued by the “DPR”. It also seemed to me that they would hardly be welcome in Ukraine. The turning point was when I found out that my closest pro-Ukrainian friends had left — they were helped by volunteers. I also turned to them, and they said that it was possible to leave even without documents. I started saving money. At first, I planned to go to Finland, but I found out that they don’t allow pets there without vaccinations, but I planned to leave with my cat.

I had been planning my escape for about half a year. I told my parents that I was leaving only 8 hours before the bus left. They didnʼt stop me. In fact, they already guessed it — I had a suitcase, I was gradually packing my things. No matter how it sounds, but they are loving parents.

I prepared to pass through Russian checkpoints. I had a “DPR” passport, I was going towards Russia — it didn’t raise any questions. I got to Belgorod. I can’t tell you what happened next. The scariest thing was the filtration on the Russian border with Ukraine — there they put psychological pressure, trying to extract something “interesting” from every person. And on the Ukrainian side, I had already passed through the SBU filtration — interrogations, checks, everything as it should be done. The Ukrainian filtration took place without ridicule, in some places it was in an informal setting, with a completely human attitude. Unlike the Russian one, it lasted longer and was more meticulous. But it didn’t leave any traumatic impressions.

At first I lived in a shelter near Kharkiv. Then I found my first job in the city of Kharkiv, and I moved there. Even without documents, they allowed me to rent an apartment. I lived with the people of Kharkiv during the most difficult times — Makiivka was a rear city throughout the war, and I did not know what constant massive shelling was like. Now I have settled here very firmly, despite everything.

Tiia in Kharkiv;

Personal archives of heroes / «Бабель»

The day of receiving a Ukrainian passport.

Міграційна служба в Харківській області

After almost a year of waiting, I finally hold a Ukrainian passport in my hands. It has greatly simplified my life — without documents I could not study, work officially, or apply for a bank card. Now I can pay attention to more important things than just food and sleep. Now I am “in search of myself”, choosing a university and trying what was unattainable during the occupation.

Nine years of life under occupation will never be ordinary for me. I will never forget them. Moreover, I miss my city very much, my native terykony. Before leaving, I traveled and photographed all the memorable places. These photos are the only valuable thing I have from my native Makiivka now. And, of course, my cat.