Ukrainians under occupation don't have a real choice whether to stay or to leave

Some names have been changed to protect the identities of those featured in the story

As a war crimes researcher at the Reckoning Project, my job was to listen to Ukrainians who had fled the occupation. What they had to say reshaped how I understand life in Russian-occupied territories.

Simplistic outside judgments about people living under occupation often feel deeply unfair to Ukrainians who escaped it. From a safe distance, it is easy to say, "Why didn't they stay and resist?" or "Why didn't they leave earlier? That must mean they are pro-Russian." But neither one of these options is easy or safe.

Ihor Serdiuk, a 60-something educational worker from occupied Kherson Oblast, refused to switch the college he directed to the Russian curriculum. For that, he spent two weeks in prison.

In the same facility, there was a young man brutally beaten by occupation forces for throwing a grenade at military personnel, though no one was injured, and a woman who had refused to give a haircut to a Russian soldier. Serdiuk was released only after agreeing to apply for Russian citizenship, which he did, and immediately fled abroad.

"If you disagree with them (Russian forces), you'll simply die in prison — that's it… Either you leave, or you'll rot here, or they'll make sure you rot here. Because you can't live like this for long," Serdiuk says when asked if he had a real choice whether to stay or to leave.

Staying often means either openly supporting the occupation authorities or giving up your freedom of speech and expression to increase your chances of survival.

"You mimic the majority because you never know what might trigger an unwanted reaction — when all you're trying to do is live normally, to exist," says Vadym from Crimea, who was 13 when Russia annexed the peninsula.

"My inability to remain silent and my clear position could lead to problems for me personally, for my wife, and for my relatives."

For those who are trying to escape occupation, the journey out is long, complicated, and often dangerous.

Since late 2022, the only viable route has been through Russia. A ticket with a private carrier can cost several hundred dollars, and volunteer evacuation capacity is limited. Travelers pass through multiple checkpoints where Russian forces search, interrogate, and sometimes detain people on fabricated charges.

Crossing from occupied Kherson Oblast to Crimea, Serdiuk recalls 500–800 people standing for hours in the heat waiting for inspection by border officers. The only relief was a nearby bucket of water.

"Right in front of your eyes, they turn someone's suitcase inside out and kick it with their feet. Younger men are taken away — where to, nobody knows. Sometimes soldiers simply come and take people," he says.

Those who make it out and find safety must now deal with the trauma of occupation and start over from nothing.

Their homes and former lives are gone. Some lost loved ones, and many lost their communities, which are now scattered across the world. It is almost impossible to plan for the future because of the constant fear of losing everything again. Immigration feels temporary, but at the same time, no one can promise you will ever be able to return home.

"In my 35 years, I've already seen everything. What kind of plans for the future can there even be?" says Maryna from a village in Kharkiv Oblast near the Russian border, occupied within hours of the full-scale invasion.

When Russian soldiers discovered her mother served in the Ukrainian army, they abducted Maryna and held her in captivity for days in a completely dark room with an empty bottle instead of a toilet. During interrogations, they threatened her: "If you don't tell us what we're asking, we'll cut your fingers. If you try to run, we'll shoot you."

Maryna eventually escaped and now lives in Latvia. Her relationship with her family has deteriorated, and she does not want to return to Ukraine. Maryna hopes temporary protection for Ukrainians will be extended, so she will not have to rebuild her life elsewhere. She says it is deeply stressful for her to plan anything.

Liberation is not just about taking back land. It is about restoring people's ability to live as human beings who can control their own lives. It means being able to move freely, speak openly, raise your children in line with your values, and choose your future.

Freedom is often discussed in abstract geopolitical terms. But for those living under occupation, it becomes something very real and concrete.

"You cross the border, walking along a battered road from the Kalanchak checkpoint to Kherson. Everything is rusty and old, but you keep going — and you feel relief, because here you can watch whatever you want, say whatever you want, think whatever you want," Vadym recalls of his trips from Crimea to the state-controlled territory before 2022.

He left the peninsula for good shortly after the full-scale invasion, burned his Russian passport, and now lives in Romania with his wife.

When asked about his hopes for the future, he says: "Coffee in Podil and a plane in the sky. A civilian plane taking off from Boryspil. For me, that's the quintessence of peace and a good life."

The text was created in collaboration with The Reckoning Project, a global team of journalists and lawyers documenting, publicizing, and building cases of atrocity crimes.

Editor's note: The text was created in collaboration with The Reckoning Project, a global team of journalists and lawyers documenting, publicizing, and building cases of atrocity crimes. The opinions expressed in the op-ed section are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect the views of the Kyiv Independent.