“They beat me with fists and sticks.” Azov fighter reveals disturbing details about his time in Russian captivity

– I arrived in Mariupol in November 2021, shortly after transferring from the Vinnytsia-based Jaguar Regiment to the Azov Brigade. By February 20, 2022, amid reports that Russian forces were planning an amphibious landing to reinforce their positions, we began fortifying positions within the city. Command warned us we could send our belongings home if we wished. I did. When the full-scale invasion began, we were at a checkpoint in Mariupol.

In those days, I saw a thriving city that was heavily invested in and full of life. Then, the Russians reduced it to ashes.

On the morning of February 24, 2022, Russian forces positioned their vehicles on the outskirts of Mariupol. Inside the city, we heard only the roar of aircraft as they dropped bombs and launched Grad rocket attacks. Their ground troops remained outside.

By March 1, the battle intensified. We moved closer to Russian positions, taking up positions near the old airport. That was the first time I saw them up close—watching the perimeter through binoculars, I spotted four tanks surrounding us. They were just 200 meters away.

My commander ordered a retreat through the private sector. We took cover in a gully in the middle of a field, trudging through thick mud—each step adding at least five kilograms to our boots. I was carrying a machine gun. As we ran, Russian forces opened fire, shells whistling overhead. We lost one of our own.

After waiting out the shelling, we returned to the position a few hours later. From there, we could see Russian infantry digging in, but the situation was evolving so rapidly that there was little we could do.

We kept shifting positions, retreating deeper into the city as the Russians advanced—burning houses in their path and firing into windows.

A month and a half later, on April 15, we retreated to Azovstal. Behind us lay a nearly destroyed Mariupol and countless civilians who had not managed to find shelter—many killed in relentless shelling.

The crossing to Azovstal took place over the Kalmius River, spanning more than 50 meters of open water. Our unit had set up a makeshift crossing—a stretched rope and three rafts—but many soldiers attempted to swim across on their own and drowned.

The last groups to cross came under direct fire, with more men lost to the river. I was fortunate—when my group moved, the Russian spotter’s aim was off, and the shells landed about 50 meters ahead of us.

Some soldiers tried to cross the bridge in vehicles, but they were hit. In one case, an APC rolled into the river. I never heard if anyone made it out.

As we approached the crossing, we passed burned-out vehicles—cars, APCs, and ambulances that had been carrying wounded. We lost many men that night.

“Honorary Captivity”

– For the first two to three weeks, I still had cell service and was able to call my family. After the connection was lost, while we were still in the city, I managed to reach them five more times—each call lasting only a few minutes. Once at the plant, I was only able to get through twice.
Strategically, communication remained constant. We stayed in contact with all units, and they stayed in contact with us.

From April 15 to May 20, 2024, we took shelter at Azovstal. In the evenings, as we cooked at our positions, we shared stories from our civilian lives, reminiscing and finding moments of laughter amid the siege. Food came from what we could scavenge in abandoned houses—whenever I entered one, I immediately searched the kitchen for anything usable. Some supplies were available within the plant, including a stockpile of water, though not everyone could reach it. Cigarettes were scarce; at times, I resorted to smoking green tea.

No one came. One day, our commander gathered us and informed us of an “honorable captivity” lasting three to four months. We were assured that there would be no repercussions for tattoos and that we could bring money with us.

Rumors circulated throughout the plant—talk of a Turkish ship that might evacuate us by sea, possibly as part of an extradition deal to a third country. Then we pinned our hopes on UN peacekeepers. But the situation deteriorated rapidly. No one came. One day, our commander gathered us and informed us of an “honorable captivity” lasting three to four months. We were assured that there would be no repercussions for tattoos and that we could bring money with us. In preparation for the surrender, we cleared the path, mined it where necessary. By then, a so-called “silence regime” was in place—we were not allowed to fire, even when Russian infantry came into view. They saw us. Some even waved.

The wounded were the first to leave. Then, it was our turn.

Olenivka Prison

– We were escorted to Olenivka by Dagestani fighters. When we first boarded the bus, they appeared harsh—reloading their machine guns in front of us. But as the journey progressed, they began to talk.

“Guys, you’re strong. You held out for so long. We respect you,” they told us.

By the time we arrived at the prison, they even started apologizing. Along the way, they took our money and valuables, saying it would all be confiscated in the colony anyway.

When we arrived near Olenivka, we were held for about a day due to issues at the checkpoint. During the wait, the Dagestani escorts used our own money to buy us food. At one point, Russian special forces approached, inspecting our gear with curiosity. They were particularly surprised by our turnstiles, unfamiliar with anything beyond rubber tourniquets. Some of our guys started trading their first aid kits for cigarettes, knowing they wouldn’t be allowed to keep them in captivity. The Russian troops, having never seen such high-quality medical kits, eagerly accepted the exchanges.

I bartered my watch for a pack of cigarettes. When we finally entered the prison, I kept them until we reached the barracks, unsure of how scarce they might be. But as soon as the guys noticed, they asked for smokes. I handed them out and kept a few for myself.

There was no real “reception” at Olenivka—just chaos and urgency. Everything had to be done quickly. We were lined up at tables, ordered to strip naked, squat while they searched for hidden items, then dress again and move to the next line. Groups of 20 were taken to the barracks before being brought in for interrogation—first by the so-called “DPR”, and then by the Russians.

The Russians seemed indifferent, merely filling out forms. But the “DPR” interrogators were hostile. No matter what we said, their response was the same: “You’re lying. That didn’t happen. You were shooting at civilians.”

Many were burned alive. Glass wool from the roof rained down, igniting everything it touched. The air was filled with screams.

I spent four months in Olenivka colony and adjusted to the routine surprisingly quickly. I didn’t even feel the urge to smoke.

Early on, we were given 20 cigarettes for every two people. Occasionally, a single pack would be brought into the barracks for 300 prisoners—at best, I could get half a cigarette. Instead, I gave mine away to others.

We had grown accustomed to the sound of shelling—it usually hit the section where Russian prisoners were held, so we paid little attention. But the night of July 29 was different. That night, the neighboring barracks went up in flames. I heard the screams and rushed outside. The explosion had torn the structure apart—it looked like a crushed tin can. The guards were nowhere to be found; they had all fled.

Those who could still move scrambled to escape on their own. A barrel of oil had been stored near the barracks—when the blast overturned it, the fire spread rapidly. Many were burned alive. Glass wool from the roof rained down, igniting everything it touched. The air was filled with screams.

After some time, the guards threw us bags and rags to bandage the wounded—then disappeared again.

There was no real effort to help.

The next day, they took the wounded and our medics to Donetsk for treatment. When they recovered, they were brought back and later transferred along with us. Beyond that, no one spoke about what had happened. There were no questions, no investigations. It was as if it had never occurred.

Taganrog. Perm

On September 27, 2022, we were taken away in trucks. They called us up one by one from an alphabetized list—each of us had to step forward and state our full name:

“I am Svidersky Yuriy Andriyovych.”

Then, they taped my hands and eyes. I was lucky to be wearing a cap—they taped it to my head, but I could lift it slightly to catch glimpses of the road. We were thrown onto the trucks like sacks of potatoes. I was the first one in, dragged into a corner as they piled more people on. As we walked toward the trucks, a special forces officer told us: “It’s okay, guys, you’re going home. You’ll see your families. Everything will be fine.”

I believed him. I smiled.

Read more: “Alumni” of the torture chambers – after Russian captivity, men are left to heal themselves

We traveled without a tarp, exposed in the back of the truck. Thanks to my cap, I could lift it slightly and catch glimpses of the horizon. The guys whispered among themselves—maybe we’re really headed for the airport, maybe this is it. For a moment, we allowed ourselves to believe.

But as we entered Donetsk, any thoughts of home disappeared. The city was draped in tricolor banners. Then, beyond them, a massive concrete fence topped with barbed wire came into view.

The truck pulled into a garage, and they started throwing us out. When you hit the ground, you had to crawl on all fours to the wall. That was the start of what they called “the quests.” Since I was the last one out, I was afraid to end up on the edge of the group. The others were crawling slowly, so I overtook a few and moved toward the middle of the crowd. At the same time, I had to pretend my hands were still tied—I had chewed through the tape with my teeth during the ride.

Then came the next command:

“To the right—those with tattoos. To the left—those without.”

I went left, but I had a tattoo of an AK-47 on my body. As we stood there undressing—only allowed to keep one top and bottom—I heard an officer say:

“We’ll find out if you have tattoos anyway.”

Realizing I couldn’t hide it, I started shifting slowly to the right in tiny steps. Before I could get far, a special forces officer spotted me. He yelled when he saw the tattoo—an image of a Russian assault rifle—and demanded:

“How many parts does it have?”

I didn’t know.

“Nine?” I guessed. Wrong. He hit me.

“Ten?” Wrong again. Another blow.

I must have gotten it right on my fifth attempt, but by then, he had beaten me badly with his fists.
They took us into offices where they filled out questionnaires—names, units, place of birth. There, the beatings continued, this time with sticks. After these procedures, they handed me a shirt and a cup before leading me out of the basement where it all had taken place. We stopped at a barrel filled with murky water. One of them asked, “Do you want coffee?”

“No, no, no,” I quickly replied.

“Go ahead, take it.”

I had no choice. I dipped my cup into the water, scooping up the so-called “coffee.” Then they took me upstairs, and I started to worry—Would they throw me in with the prisoners?

I kept walking, replaying in my head the advice from those who had been through this before:

“What to do when you enter the ‘house’?”

The cell door swung open, and I stepped inside, still holding the cup of murky “coffee.” In the middle of the cell stood a small, frail old man, clutching a piece of bread, his hands trembling.

I looked at him and asked, “Grandpa, who are you?”

He said nothing. Just stood there, silent. It wasn’t until the second day that he finally spoke. He had been staying quiet on purpose, hiding who he was. It turned out—he was one of us. He was from Azov.

In Taganrog, we were first crammed into a 3 by 5 meter cell, its walls painted a dull green. There were eight of us, and we lived that way for more than a year.

It was warm—sometimes, they even opened the window in the middle of winter. Then came the cosmetic repairs, and we were relocated.

I ended up in the same cell, but now with just three people. It was always cold, so I had to wear the boots they gave me, trying to walk around all day just to keep warm. From time to time, they moved us in with soldiers from the Armed Forces of Ukraine. These transfers often happened before inspections, as if they were trying to shuffle us around to avoid scrutiny. Sometimes, they’d move prisoners out before an inspection, only to cram more in afterward.

Eventually, I was moved again—this time to the ground floor, where the low, dark cells with rounded roofs were once stables. The cell was larger, but there were 10 of us packed inside. The so-called repairs were done in typical fashion—at most, they screwed in a new light bulb, but everything else was old and broken. The wooden boards creaked, and the conditions barely changed.

The guards in Taganrog were mostly locals—they had no idea what was happening at the front or in the world beyond the prison walls. Some were just going through the motions, doing their jobs without unnecessary cruelty. They didn’t touch anyone, occasionally approached to ask a question, and then moved on. They simply didn’t care. But beatings were routine. Throughout my time in Taganrog, there were periodic inspections—daily checks where we were beaten. We were also taken to interrogations, and if the investigators didn’t like something, they’d beat us with sticks.

Then they repeated, in their language, that I had been there and killed so-and-so. I denied it. Another beating. And the cycle continued—over and over.

The interrogators focused most on looting, shooting civilians, and hidden weapons caches in Mariupol. They were determined to pin their own war crimes on us—even accusing us of involvement in Bakhmut, where we had never set foot. Their logic was simple but twisted: if any of us had seen civilians, that was proof we had shot them.

I pushed back. “No way.”

They beat me. A couple of strikes. Then they repeated, in their language, that I had been there and killed so-and-so. I denied it. Another beating. And the cycle continued—over and over. At one point, they even tried to force me to sign a confession stating that I had raped my own grandparents.
I refused.

“Let me sign something else for you,” I said sarcastically.

They screamed, calling it a handout, but I wasn’t about to sign off on such an absurd crime.

We lived that way for almost two years—just a few days short. Then, on September 8, 2024, we were transferred to Perm.

In Perm, the reception was far more structured—but also much worse. The regime was brutal. We were forced to stand for 16 hours a day—from the moment we woke up, we couldn’t sit down except during meals. I endured this for more than 40 days. The worst part wasn’t just the physical strain—it was their attitude toward us. To them, we weren’t prisoners of war. We were Nazis, fascists—monsters who had killed their children and drank their blood. That’s what they truly believed.

Despite the strict regime, about a month before the exchange, I was suddenly taken to the medical office. They examined me, gave me an injection, and even provided ointment for the beatings before moving me to another cell. From that moment on, they checked me every day, administering more injections and ointment. The guys started whispering—this must mean an exchange is coming. But I refused to believe it. Back in Taganrog, the investigators told us we were already in the worst place we could end up. Clearly, they had never been to Perm—because this place was 100 times worse.

The consequences of captivity

It took Yuriy Svidersky and his fellow prisoners more than two days to reach home from Perm. Their transport was grueling—railroad cars, trucks, and planes, moving them through several cities to gather all 95 prisoners of war from Perm, Rostov, and Bryansk.

On October 18, 2024, they were finally exchanged.

The next day, Yuriy arrived in Novi Sanzhary in the Poltava region, where he saw his girlfriend and parents for the first time in two and a half years. For six months, Yuriy has been undergoing rehabilitation, treating the severe damage inflicted by his time in Russian captivity.

During torture, he suffered knocked-out teeth, knee joint damage, damaged blood vessels, deteriorating stomach, liver, and kidney function, and scars from frequent falls.
After six months of recovery, he is still undergoing treatment for his joints and teeth while attending physical therapy. Dental treatment alone has cost over $6,000, fully covered by the Azov Brigade’s patronage service.

Author: Albina Karman