“I Still Wonder Why I Survived”: How Inna* from the Special Operations Forces Collected Intelligence on the Enemy in Occupied Kherson

During the occupation of Kherson, the city’s residents fiercely resisted the Russians, making it clear that if anyone had been waiting for them, it wasn’t with bread and salt‌, but with weapons.

Resistance in occupied territories became possible thanks to a combination of factors—peaceful protests, pro-Ukrainian graffiti, and bold sabotage missions behind enemy lines. A key role in organizing this resistance was played by the Special Operations Forces (SOF) of the Ukrainian Armed Forces, responsible for coordinating resistance movements and working with local populations and self-organized resistance groups.

One SOF operative, Inna, a career military officer with 20 years of experience, remained in occupied Kherson throughout the entire occupation. Together with her colleagues, she gathered critical intelligence on the enemy. Thanks to their efforts, Ukraine’s Defense Forces successfully targeted Russian troops and equipment.

Inna shared her story of how, posing as an ordinary housewife, she uncovered sensitive information in the occupied city—walking a razor’s edge every day. She described what it feels like when FSB agents break down your neighbor’s door, and how her group members risked their lives to help drive the occupiers out of Ukraine.

“The Russians Always Taunted Us: ‘Who Even Are You?’”

“Before February 24, 2022, the Russians often made provocative moves along the border. We were really hoping they’d make another show of force, and it would all come to nothing,” says Inna. “My husband, though, was convinced: ‘There will be war.’ He had even dreamed of it 10 years earlier. But I was an optimist; I didn’t believe they’d dare.”

Inna was born in Kremenchuk, in the Poltava region, to a family of Soviet military personnel. Her family moved frequently during her childhood, following various postings in places like East Germany, Turkmenistan, and Czechoslovakia. Inna never planned to follow in her parents’ footsteps, instead enrolling in the Poltava Pedagogical Institute to earn a degree as a mathematics teacher.

“I saw myself as a successor to Anton Makarenko‌,” she smiles. “But I never worked a single day in my field.”

While studying, Inna met her future husband. After graduating in 1994, the couple moved to Crimea. In 1996, Inna joined the Air Force of the Ukrainian Armed Forces, initially taking on administrative duties. This position provided her with her first exposure to military equipment—a foundation that would prove invaluable years later.

“All the teaching positions were filled, but there was an opening in a military unit. They offered it to me because I knew how to type on a typewriter,” Inna explains. “It was in Eastern Crimea, a steppe area near the settlement of Sovetsky, between Feodosia and Dzhankoi—just five houses and an Air Force unit with a Buk missile system.”

All illustrations by Varvara Salikhova

At the time, the brigade commander where Inna served was reluctant to accept women into military service. Female service members were even lined up separately. However, she recalls, attitudes began to improve over time, and the number of women in the army steadily grew.

“Within a couple of years, women began to be appointed to roles that suited their skills—jobs men weren’t particularly fond of,” the soldier notes. “My first uniform was a nightmare, but last year, I received one tailored specifically for women. Over the years, I’ve witnessed a shift from ‘You’re just a woman’ to real respect for women in the military. Now, women are mastering specializations that truly deserve applause.”

At that time, conditions for Ukrainian service members in Crimea were abysmal. For nearly a year, Inna’s unit operated without electricity, despite being on active combat duty. Moreover, she recalls, Ukrainians were treated with disdain by Russians in Crimea, who enjoyed greater privileges and better supplies.

“In Sevastopol, the Russian army had far more funding, better uniforms,” Inna explains. “Sometimes, a husband would be in the Ukrainian army, while his wife worked for the Russians. They’d compete: she had a big salary, while he had a small one. The Russians always taunted us: ‘Who even are you?’”

"In 2014, They Told Us, 'They're Already Advancing on Kherson.'"

In 2002, Inna and her husband moved to Kherson, where she continued her service in the Armed Forces of Ukraine. Today, she considers Kherson the dearest city to her heart.

"I had never lived in one place for more than five years before, but I’ve spent 20 years here," she emphasizes. "After defending our city, I officially declared it my home."

Inna worked with military mail in Kherson, delivering it across the region, including to the left bank of the Dnipro.

"We traveled the same roads for 20 years," she says. "And later, during the occupation, that proved invaluable."

At the end of February 2014, Russia began the annexation of Crimea. At that time, the brigade where Inna served had become the Yevpatoria Regiment. Ukrainian soldiers stationed in Crimea were offered the chance to leave for mainland Ukraine, but most of her former colleagues betrayed their oath. To this day, Inna has not forgiven them.

"During the annexation, our people initially held firm: the men sang Ukraine's national anthem, and women formed a protective circle around the base," she recalls. "But in the end, only seven cars and a single motorcyclist from our regiment made it to Kherson. I remember one young woman whose husband was stationed on Ai-Petri while she was down below, anxiously calling every day for advice. Then she calls, thrilled, 'They’ve already given us Russian uniforms.' I told her, 'So you sold out for a pair of pants?' We all started together, supporting one another, but in the end, they stayed in the occupation—my husband and I consider them gone from our lives."

However, Inna notes, some remained in Crimea because they had no other choice. Among them was a female soldier who, as the annexation began, switched to speaking Ukrainian and openly showed her support for Ukraine on social media. She is still in Crimea.

"We understood her situation—she had two kids and nowhere else to go," Inna explains.

Reflecting on that time, Inna emphasizes that she would not have wanted to be in the position of Acting President and Commander-in-Chief Oleksandr Turchynov.

"Even just looking at our uniforms, not to mention fuel or ammunition, it was clear then that Ukraine was completely unprepared for war," she explains. "Our strength is still unequal to theirs, but back then, we weren’t even morally ready to fire in Crimea."

During the annexation, rumors and misinformation were widespread. Some even claimed that Russian forces were already advancing into the Kherson region.

"In 2014, they told us, 'They're already advancing on Kherson,' but in reality, it was panic and disinformation," Inna notes. "I called Chornobaivka: 'Is it true that Russian paratroopers are there?' They replied, 'No, it’s not true.' But in 2022, everything happened very differently."

"I Saw the First Group of Russians Enter"

A few days before the full-scale war began, Inna and her fellow servicemembers created a group chat in a messaging app and agreed to coordinate their actions in case of an emergency. On February 24, 2022, her husband’s nightmares became reality, but the city itself seemed slow to react.

"At 4:30 in the morning, I saw and heard an explosion," Inna recalls. "At the same time, a colleague called me. We made a group call and decided to head toward the military unit. It was surreal—you’re running through the city, and some people are still walking their dogs, others are buying water at a late-night kiosk. And you already know—it’s war."

Inna’s house in Kherson is near the river port on the Dnipro, with windows facing the left bank—toward Hola Prystan, Oleshky, and Radensk.

"You can see everything, and later during the occupation, that helped a lot," Inna explains. "I saw the first explosion, possibly from the direction of Radensk, where the 59th Separate Motorized Infantry Brigade named after Yakiv Handziuk was stationed. When the S-300‌ fired from Hola Prystan, my husband would record the azimuths. Using those, you can calculate the location and type of equipment."

On February 24, Inna and her comrades were ordered to stay home and wait. Later that afternoon, their commander gathered them and announced they were leaving the base.

"We hid our equipment, took the weapons from our armored Ford, and left. The commander told us to stay in touch," Inna recounts. "We packed hastily but were sure we’d come back. It never even crossed my mind that we might have to run—we were ready to defend our city."

That evening, Inna had to return to the base. Her commander called and said the blackout curtains had been left slightly open, allowing light to escape.

"When I got there, the gates were open, and I was waving goodbye to the last of our departing equipment," Inna remembers. "The next day, when I came back to the base again, a guard post had been set up. I saw the commander, and he sternly scolded me: ‘Why are you here? Go home and wait for a call.’"

On the first day, fighting broke out at the Antonivskyi Bridge. Residents posted on social media that blood was needed for the wounded. On February 26, Inna, an active blood donor since 2006, went to the blood transfusion center. The atmosphere inside was inspiring.

"When I entered, I saw a crowd like I’d never seen before," the servicemember says with a smile. "The therapist, walking into the station, shouted, ‘Glory to the Armed Forces of Ukraine!’ And these amazing people responded, ‘Glory to the heroes!’ At the same time, a woman rushed in with tea and cookies, saying, ‘This is for our Russian soldiers.’ The nurse’s jaw dropped, and the head of the station declared, ‘Kherson is Ukraine!’ That woman froze, then bolted so fast we were left speechless."

That day, on her way back from the blood transfusion station, Inna saw the first Russian sabotage and reconnaissance group (DRG‌) enter the city. She recalls that the saboteurs looked disheveled and bewildered.

"Around 10 or 11 a.m., I saw the first group of Russians drive in. They were in civilian clothes, traveling in three cars, dirty and reeking, unarmed," Inna recounts. "They stopped near our central market, scattered in all directions, and shouted, ‘Where’s the city council?’ But it seemed like they were more frightened than the people around them."

"We’d Say: 'The Column Has Moved.' Then Boom—It Got Hit"

In the early days of the full-scale invasion, Inna and her colleagues quickly began piecing together the situation unfolding across Kherson Oblast.

“Starting on February 25, we saw Russian military vehicles and equipment circling around Kherson, but they still hadn’t made their way into the city,” Inna recalls. “By then, soldiers from my unit were already stationed at various points where we were monitoring activity. Some had relatives nearby, and they’d ask them, ‘What do you see outside your window?’ And the relatives would report back.”

The group Inna worked with consisted of about 30 people. It included all the soldiers from her unit who remained in Kherson, as well as civilians. Their tasks were shaped by the needs of Ukraine’s defenders. They conducted their own observations, analyzed eyewitness reports, and meticulously monitored social media groups and Russian propaganda.

“In my sector, I could see how many pieces of Russian equipment were stationed and who was guarding them,” Inna recounts. “I had to learn to distinguish between a Smerch and a Uragan‌. You’d ask someone, ‘What do you see?’ And they’d reply, ‘Tanks with long noses.’ — ‘What?’ — ‘Well, the ones with grills on top.’ I’d think, ‘What is she even talking about?’ Our command center helped a lot. We’d send photos asking, ‘Does this match?’ And they’d reply, ‘Yes, that’s it,’ or ‘No, not quite.’ Eventually, they gave us guides with labeled photos of various equipment types so civilians wouldn’t make mistakes.”

The Russians, aware they were being tracked, began moving their columns at night. The group identified movements by observing signal lights and listening to the noise of the convoys, counting the number of vehicles passing through. Sometimes, the scale was staggering—hundreds of units at once. Inna recalls one colleague who, while sheltering her 2.5-year-old child in a basement, continued to count passing convoys:

“She disappeared for a while, and the whole group started worrying. When she finally resurfaced, we asked, ‘Why were you gone so long?’ She said, ‘I was counting the vehicles—950 machines.’ Then she added, ‘And there are more coming.’ In another convoy, there were 850 units. This was early March, and she saw everything heading toward Snihurivka‌.”

The group shared their observations with Mykolaiv, Odesa, and higher command in Kyiv. The analyzed data was successfully acted upon by Ukrainian forces.

“We’d say, ‘The column has moved.’ And then boom—it got hit,” Inna explains.

The group maintained close collaboration with resistance forces in Mykolaiv. The resilience of this city, she emphasizes, was crucial to the eventual liberation of Kherson.

“Depending on the type of equipment and its destination, Mykolaiv’s resistance forces could adjust their defenses and redeploy resources,” Inna notes. “There was a Russian group that regularly targeted two specific locations in Mykolaiv. We provided coordinates for those positions. I can’t describe the feeling when you know they’re heading out to carry out their terrible mission.”

The network of civilians in the group was extensive. Some contributed by sharing detailed knowledge of the local terrain, while others relayed information from relatives living near strategic sites.

“There was one man who used to operate trains heading toward Crimea. He knew those tracks like the back of his hand. He advised us on a specific point where, if targeted, the railway could be disabled,” Inna says. “Another case was near Yahorlyk Bay in the village of Krasnoznamenka, where they were unloading equipment.  I had been in that area before. And I asked a girl who was in a safe location at the time, ‘What does your mom see?’ She gradually extracted details from her mom, and we passed that information along. And so it went everywhere.”

At times, civilians in the network displayed extraordinary bravery. One man, for instance, reported the colors of signal flares fired by Russians in Chornobaivka. He eventually joined the military himself.

“He took huge risks, crawling as close as he could at night to see those flares,” Inna recounts. “The flow of information became constant, and he no longer allowed himself to miss a single report or fail to share something that could help our forces.”

For the sake of liberating Kherson Oblast as quickly as possible, Inna says, many locals were willing to sacrifice their own property.

“There was a woman whose house was across from a high-ranking FSB officer’s residence. Whenever he arrived, they’d lock down the entire area,” Inna recalls. “I asked her, ‘Can you provide exact coordinates?’ She replied, ‘My house is nearby, but it’s fine. We’ll fix the roof if needed.’ Unfortunately, that FSB officer managed to escape.”

"Ukrainian Language Was Our Password”

The atmosphere in Russian-occupied Kherson was oppressive and heavy. Throughout, Inna worried about herself and her children and desperately wanted to leave.

“All summer, we smelled burned bodies and saw mobile crematoria,” Inna recalls. “We heard about people who had been “taken to basements”‌, and those stories were horrifying. You understood how it would end if you were caught.”

Yet, she had several reasons to stay. First, the car battery had died. Second, her husband had previously worked for the SBU, so leaving with him was impossible, and she didn’t dare leave without him. Third, the occupiers had lists of Ukrainian defenders, making it highly unlikely she could pass through the checkpoints.

“You leave with your child, and they take you at the checkpoint—I couldn’t take that risk with my kids,” Inna explains. “But most importantly, our group could see that what we were doing mattered. That’s why we understood we couldn’t leave.”

The group compiled information on the enemy like assembling a puzzle—each member was responsible for their own piece. Inna had her own route and cover story. She lived in her house with her husband, but in conversations, she always muddled her tracks.

“A gray-haired woman walking for water or heading to the market—people constantly saw me and got used to me,” she recounts. “I had a cover story for everyone around me: I didn’t live in my house and hadn’t worked in years. As for my husband, even our neighbors didn’t know he was still there.

My kids overheard what I was doing and understood they shouldn’t say anything if asked. My son, who was 11 at the time, knew a lot about weapons and helped me identify equipment because there were models I’d never seen before.”

Unlike other soldiers who didn’t live at their registered address, Inna stayed in her own home the entire time. By summer, she realized she hadn’t even hidden items that would instantly reveal her affiliation with the Armed Forces if the house were searched.

“I opened my closet, and there was a stack of certificates—from Poltorak‌‌ and Syrskyi,‌” she laughs. “Then I noticed that every flowerpot had a little Ukrainian flag in it. If the Russians had entered my apartment, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Kherson, Inna says, is a city where everyone knows each other, and people remembered her military background. Changing her appearance to avoid recognition on the streets wouldn’t have helped. The most terrifying part, she insists, was the constant fear of being betrayed.

“The hardest thing was running into ‘your own’ people at the market, where I’d been going for 20 years, sometimes even in uniform,” she says. “They’d ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ I’d reply, ‘I’ve been retired for years.’ At any moment, someone passing by in a car could report you. You’ve got kids at home and weapons in your car.”

Inna gathered information wherever she could. Her elderly neighbor wandered the city and shared what he observed. A woman at the market talked about her village.

“For example, you buy something and realize you can strike up a conversation,” Inna explains her tactics. “And the person mentions they’re from Bilozerka, where the orcs [Russian soldiers] are stationed.”

Sometimes, identifying “your own” was as simple as saying “Good morning” in Ukrainian. Language, Inna says, was significant.

“Ukrainian was our password. We switched to it because, first, we knew they wouldn’t understand our language. And second, we knew that if someone spoke Ukrainian with us, we could trust them.”

Checkpoints between districts were a major threat, as the occupiers conducted inspections. For safety, Inna avoided buses and left her phone at home.

“A lot of young people got caught because of their phones: you can’t erase a photo of yourself in front of our flag, and they’d beat teenagers for that,” Inna says. “My phone had so much information that I never took it outside. Just in case they came to check, I kept a second, clean phone at home, but they’re not stupid—they’d know it was just a cover.”

Internet access was vital for the group’s operations. In some places, Inna recalls, members could connect to download news and read it later at home or share information. When there was no internet, people would leave Wi-Fi turned on in cafés and share passwords.

“You’d have all your information prepared, just needing to connect,” Inna explains. “You’d sit on a bench pretending to drink coffee while overhearing some fool boast, ‘The Russians are here to stay, and they’ve got S-400s‌ set up.’ Meanwhile, you’re uploading intel about equipment locations—it’s both terrifying and exhilarating.”

"The Sound of Doors Being Smashed Open Is the Scariest Thing I Felt During the War"

The game Inna was playing grew increasingly dangerous, and the stakes kept rising. FSB and Rosgvardia agents began visiting her building, and some members of her group faced home searches.

"Someone would say, 'They might come to my place soon, I’m turning off my phone,'” Inna recalls. “We would wait anxiously for them to reconnect and say everything was fine—that was the hardest part. Female members of the group hid their phones and acted like ‘young moms with their children.’ But we all understood that any neighbor could point a finger and say, ‘She’s military.’”

One of the most chilling moments Inna remembers was when officers spent hours smashing down a door belonging to a neighboring group member, even cutting through with a grinder. Fortunately, the woman had managed to flee days earlier, though the intruders left behind a note with a phone number for "door repairs."

"The sound of doors being smashed open is the scariest thing I experienced during the war,” Inna emphasizes. “The whole building vibrates, and you know evil is invading someone’s home. When the door next to you is being broken down, and you’re still receiving information on your phone. Or when you see a police van parked outside, two guards standing at the entrance, and you’re climbing the stairs, unsure if they’re coming to your apartment or someone else’s—it’s terrifying. And when they pass by your door, you exhale and keep passing along intel."

Inna was lucky—her door was never knocked on, and she wasn’t stopped during her "walks." She attributes this to the fact that after pro-Ukrainian rallies (which she couldn’t resist attending), Kherson residents made it clear that the occupiers weren’t welcome. Surprisingly, no one from her group was caught during the entire occupation.

“I still wonder why I survived, why no one turned me in. It’s an incredible blessing that no one came to my door,” Inna marvels. “Our sole aim was to free the city. What we did was daily, terrifying work. We didn’t know how it would end; we just believed that what we were doing was making a difference. And for that, we were willing to risk everything."

During the occupation, Inna’s group was officially integrated into the SSO’s resistance movement, though its members dwindled over time. Despite the risks, many chose to leave the occupied zone.

"When someone left a key location, it made our work much harder," Inna explains. "There was a girl in our group from the Territorial Defense Forces who slowly made her way out of the occupied area on foot—it might have taken her a week—knowing she could be caught at the checkpoints. Not long after she left, agents came to her house—neighbors had turned her in."

“They May Shoot Us, But We Are Free”

The Russians supplied equipment to Kherson from the left bank via the Antonivskyi Bridge. However, in July and August 2022, the Ukrainian Armed Forces disabled the bridge with HIMARS strikes. The occupiers then tried to install pontoons along the bridge, but those, too, were struck by Ukrainian defenders.

After that, the invaders began transporting equipment via ferries under the cover of civilian vehicles—pretending to care for the people and do something beneficial.

“When they set up pontoons, we calculated the coordinates, and strikes hit them. The ferries—same thing. One strike was definitely our work, and for the second, we provided the coordinates,” Inna recounts.

The ferries transported everything from ammunition to looted goods. In looting, unlike in their attempts at long-term occupation, the invaders excelled.

“The Russians came to rob us,” Inna emphasizes, giving examples: “At the river port, there were barges filled with grain that they spent several days transporting away. And our unfinished ships—those, too. We even saw them taking linoleum and little chairs from kindergartens.

They spent several days carrying paintings from the art museum and loading them into large trucks covered with tarps. I can recall some of the license plate numbers. We realized that if we could document the vehicles transporting the exhibits, someone might be able to track their future whereabouts.”

In mid-October, when the Russians began removing looted Ukrainian property and items of personal significance to them, such as the remains of Potemkin‌, it became clear: they were retreating.

“The best part was hearing them leave Kherson and paddle across the Dnipro in small boats,” recalls Inna. “They announced on TV that people should evacuate, and some elderly folks, influenced by the broadcast, fled. One woman said, ‘My mother, 80 years old, ran to the river port and left. I have no idea where she is.’ That’s what propaganda did to people. The first thing the occupiers did was turn on their TV channels. The last thing they did was destroy the television tower.”

On November 11, 2022, when the Armed Forces of Ukraine liberated Kherson, residents joyfully greeted Ukrainian soldiers and immediately began tearing down the remnants of enemy propaganda, ripping hateful posters like "Russia is here forever" from billboards.

“The most vivid moment of the de-occupation, after raising the Ukrainian flag, came the next day,” Inna says with a smile. “We went to 'see with our own eyes' and embrace the people who had been providing us with information 24/7 for nine months.”

“The air feels different in Ukraine. In Kherson, with the Russians, it wasn’t our air. When we were liberated, Kherson residents said, ‘They may shoot us, but we are free.’ Freedom or death isn’t just a phrase. These are the words that define us as Ukrainians.”

"We Will Reclaim Our Land and Rebuild Everything"

The Orange Revolution and the Revolution of Dignity, according to Inna, were the catalysts that began to change the worldview of Kherson residents and their previously lenient attitude toward Russia.

However, the military officer asserts that even in 2022, many Ukrainians did not fully understand the lengths to which Russians would go. Despite talks of a shared past and "brotherly nations," the occupiers resorted to destruction, looting, and forcibly removing civilians with bags over their heads. Inna believes the occupation served as a litmus test that divided everything into "before" and "after."

"The occupation revealed where the true Ukrainians were and where the tumbleweeds were—those who didn't care who they stood with," Inna emphasizes. "The orcs will always take everything from you, from your property to your life. The idea that we can negotiate with them simply doesn’t work."

Inna believes the secret to Kherson's resistance lies in a combination of factors. Contributions came from the Special Operations Forces (SOF), other military units, ordinary citizens, and resistance movements like Yellow Ribbon‌. All were united by a desperate desire to free themselves from the occupiers as quickly as possible.

"We all did everything we could to liberate the city," Inna says. "Civilians worked wonders—even their stares told the occupiers they weren’t welcome here. The Ukrainian flag was everywhere, and they couldn’t do anything about it. On Vyshyvanka Day‌ people wore embroidered shirts. Everyone who wanted to show that we were Ukraine found ways to do it."

After Kherson was liberated, Inna continued to serve Ukraine. Meanwhile, the Russians exact their revenge on the city daily: shelling, killing, and maiming civilians. It pains Inna deeply. She condemns their use of FPV drones to target civilians, calling it disgraceful. To do such things and still call themselves soldiers, she says, is absurd.

Despite the daily losses and suffering, Inna remains confident that Ukrainians will succeed in driving the occupiers from their land—including Crimea, where she lived for eight years.

"Crimea is our God-given land, our sea," Inna insists. "We will reclaim our territories and rebuild everything because we are a strong nation."

*Name changed