"Occupation is Worse Than Prison": How Mother of Three, Svitlana Horyeva, Spent Eight Months Dodging the "Russian World" in Kherson
Before the full-scale war, Svitlana Horyeva worked as a florist. Recently, she shifted to journalism, becoming a fixer, as she believes sharing people’s stories is crucial for Kherson and for Ukraine as a whole.
Svitlana spent eight months in Russian-occupied Kherson. She now says the only way to erase the memory of that experience would be through hypnosis. For her, the occupation was a lawless zone where no one could offer protection or assistance.
Svitlana shared her memories of helping one of her sons escape from occupation while shielding another from the Russians throughout the ordeal. She also spoke about boycotting Russian goods, her initial disbelief in Kherson's liberation, and eventually experiencing the most defining day of her life.
The Feeling of War in the Air
Svitlana Horyeva has always loved her hometown. Even though she describes Kherson as provincial, that very quality is what she likes about it. She never felt any strong pro-Russian sentiment in the city.
For Svitlana, the Russian-Ukrainian war began with the annexation of Crimea. Before that, she used to vacation on the peninsula almost every year with friends and family. But when a new stage of invasion loomed, she couldn’t believe it would actually happen.
Looking back now, Svitlana says she was wrong because she didn’t even allow herself to think about war, let alone occupation. Even though friends from abroad had been warning her about the possibility, and her eldest son had urged her to leave the city.
In the days leading up to the full-scale invasion, the atmosphere in Kherson was heavy. Svitlana recalls that there were plans to hold defense training in the city, with the first session scheduled for February 24 at 5 p.m. But that Thursday started with the shelling of Chornobaivka instead.
"Now we can tell just by the sound—what’s incoming, what’s outgoing, whether it’s a tank, a self-propelled gun, a Tulip mortar, or a Vasilek shell. We even know how many seconds we have to hit the ground or find cover. But back then, it was just one big bang to us. People woke up and ran—to gas stations, stores, pharmacies," Svitlana remembers.
Her family discussed leaving Kherson, but it wasn’t that simple. Her relatives refused to leave separately, and there wasn’t enough room for everyone in a single car. On top of that, Svitlana’s mother was ill, and Svitlana feared the journey—even just to Mykolaiv—might be too much for her mother to survive. To complicate things further, her middle son, Denys, had just returned from a university in Slovakia. He refused to leave Kherson without his girlfriend, who was in Oleshky on the left bank of the Dnipro River. The girl’s parents agreed to let Svitlana pick her up.
"My son and I were at the Antonivskyi Bridge at 11:15," she recalls. "There were cars lined up near a police checkpoint. Drivers were turning back, so I got out to ask one of them what was happening. The man said, 'The Russians are already here.' I turned to my son and said, 'We’re heading back!' Then I started hearing the sounds of fighting getting closer. I jumped in the car, floored the gas, and we sped back to the city. The Russians had already passed through Oleshky and were on the bridge."
The fighting continued for the next few days. Svitlana explains that the invaders would push forward, then be forced back. At the time, no one really understood what was going on or how to respond. She and her children took refuge in the basement of a nearby kindergarten.
On February 28, a staff member at the kindergarten, who was in contact with local authorities, told them the Russians were already in the city and that it was safe for people to return home. Svitlana remembers that the city fell eerily silent during those days. No one understood what was happening. She believes that at that time, only small groups of Russian reconnaissance units were present in Kherson. The city was surrounded, but the occupation wasn’t officially organized until March 1. That day, Svitlana, her two sons—one 20 years old, the other only seven—and her mother found themselves under occupation.
"I live in the Pivnichnyi neighborhood, which is on the outskirts of Kherson, and that’s exactly where they came in. It was midday, freezing, and snowing a little. There wasn’t a soul in sight—no cars, no people, everything shut down. It felt like the city was dead, like Prypiat," Svitlana recalls.
Across the street from Svitlana’s apartment building lies a neighborhood of private houses. Even there, she recalls, not a single sound could be heard—not even cats prowling on the rooftops. All they could hear was a low hum, like that of a heavy truck approaching.
“We have this wide, paved road that’s usually for regular traffic. And then, suddenly, a tank drives down it. Infantry walks along the sidewalk—in uniform, carrying weapons, like sniper rifles. They were aiming at the rooftops and windows as they passed,” Svitlana recounts.
“Through the private sector came a long column of light armored vehicles—Tigers, Lynxes—and infantry following behind. They climbed fences, peered into yards, checking to make sure no one was there. Not even a single dog barked. They moved in complete silence, just the hum of their vehicles breaking it. We watched quietly from our window, terrified that if someone saw us, they’d shoot. It was like tentacles, like an octopus creeping through the streets, spreading darkness.”
Shortly after, Svitlana heard a series of explosions in the neighborhood where her aunt and brother lived. It turned out, their house had been hit directly—landing in the apartment next door. These were just the first of many instances of destruction. The Russians then reached the local police station and a nearby school: the school was shelled, and the police station was ransacked. Nearby was a small chapel. Svitlana remembers it vividly because of a video filmed there that she cannot forget:
“In the chapel, there’s a Muslim man sitting on a prayer mat, performing namaz. Another man stands by the door, praying—he’s probably Orthodox. And a third one is relieving himself right next to them. It was shocking.”
The police had already abandoned the city. Only the local Territorial Defense, armed with Molotov cocktails and Kalashnikov rifles, stood against the heavily armed occupiers and their armored vehicles. One of their battles took place in Buzkovyi Park, where at least 24 defenders were killed, leaving only a few survivors.
Meanwhile, the occupiers seized the regional administration building on Freedom Square. Svitlana recalls that after this, her family didn’t step outside for several weeks.
The Tentacles of Occupation
The first pro-Ukrainian rally in Kherson took place on March 5, 2022. Svitlana didn’t attend, but her brother did. He asked her to stay home just in case, to take care of the children and their elderly mother. Svitlana’s friends in Kherson participated in the demonstrations, while those in other cities wrote to her, admiring the bravery of Kherson’s residents. However, Svitlana herself doesn’t share this sense of awe:
"I’d be impressed if this had happened somewhere like the hypothetical Russian town of Uryupinsk. But from our people? I expected nothing less. So I don’t know what the FSB or Russian intelligence was thinking when they occupied our city. That they’d be welcomed? By whom?"
At first, Kherson was under the control of the regular Russian army, which didn’t interfere with the protests. But by late March, the Rosgvardiya (Russian National Guard) and the FSB had entered the city, and they began to violently disperse pro-Ukrainian rallies. Svitlana recalls that during this period, many residents fled the city, crossing the frontline in an attempt to escape. For her, occupation was far worse than imprisonment:
"Prison operates within a legal framework, no matter how harsh it is. But an occupation? That’s a complete absence of any legal framework. You’re no one, and you’re nothing. Anything can happen to you, and no one will come looking for you. They can do whatever they want to you."
At the same time, Svitlana recalls that until around June, the occupiers made no official announcements, creating the impression that the city and the Russians were living parallel lives. Mayor Ihor Kolykhaiev and city council employees continued their work, and no occupational administration had been established. However, on June 1, the Russians cut off communication and the internet, detained Kolykhaiev, and imposed their own "government" on the city.
That same June, Svitlana’s middle son, Denys, managed to leave the occupied territory. At the time, he was studying at a university in Slovakia, which warned him that he would be expelled if he didn’t show up and pass his exams. The family began searching for a way to get him out. One option was to travel through Crimea and Russia to Europe. However, Svitlana remembers that the checkpoints leading to the peninsula were heavily controlled, with the FSB subjecting men in particular to rigorous checks:
"I was afraid to send him because he’s impulsive and might act in a way that could cause trouble. We paid money to transporters, who traveled as if they were private drivers. Together, they crafted a cover story—that they were relatives visiting an aunt or uncle. That’s how they got through."
For Svitlana, as a mother, it was an enormous source of stress. She had no way to help her son during his journey and didn’t know how things would turn out. All she could do was hope that he would make it safely to Zaporizhzhia, where relatives and his older brother were waiting for him. Before the trip, Svitlana and Denys rehearsed answers for the checkpoints and hid electronic devices in the car’s upholstery. Preparation was critical since the occupiers were known to confiscate phones and laptops.
Denys spent two days in line at the Vasylivka checkpoint. The driver later remarked that it was the smoothest trip she had ever experienced—Russian soldiers didn’t ask anyone to step out of the car and only checked documents. For Svitlana, it was a relief. She had noticed that her son was beginning to fall into depression in Kherson, as most of his friends had already left. She understood it would be better for him to go.
After a year of studying in Slovakia, Denys returned to Ukraine. According to Svitlana, he was the only one from his class who came back. He hoped to join the military, but his name had been removed from the draft registry back in high school. Even now, the enlistment office turned him away.
Svitlana stayed behind in Kherson. During that time, she often heard a sentiment from acquaintances that deeply hurt her. When someone left for Ukrainian-controlled territory, they would sometimes be asked why they were leaving if Kherson wasn’t being shelled:
"It was awful for us to hear this. Quiet terror was happening here. The Russians walked around the markets, buying things, and some even tried to speak Ukrainian. Not all, but some. And at the same time, they were abducting people."
Stories of Kherson residents disappearing became a grim routine. Svitlana recalls how people weren’t just taken—they were abducted from their own homes:
"The Russians never arrived in just one vehicle. Usually, there were two Ural trucks, an armored personnel carrier, and a car. They’d block the entrance to make sure no one could leave. If no one opened the door, they’d cut it down with a power saw. If it was a private house, they might even use a drone to make sure no one escaped. People simply vanished."
It was nearly impossible to feel safe under such conditions, even though the city itself was quiet. It didn’t help that some locals collaborated with the Russians, and a system of informants was in place. That meant being careful about what you said in public, to acquaintances, and even on social media.
"We’d take the kids to the playground," Svitlana says. "Kids are kids—they’d play patriotic songs on their phones and pretend to be 'Pes Patron.' They’d repeat what they heard at home. We tried to stop them, but someone could easily report even that."
Celebrating the successes of the Ukrainian Armed Forces also had to be done in secret, with only the closest of friends. Svitlana shares an example of what happened to a shop assistant at one of the local grocery chains. She was detained because of a tip-off from an elderly woman. When Ukrainian forces first hit the Antonivskyi Bridge, the assistant discussed with a customer how happy she was and speculated about how soon Kherson might be liberated. Neither of them noticed when the elderly woman entered the store.
“That elderly woman started saying to shop assistant, ‘What bad have they done to you? And all they [referring to Ukrainians] know is how to destroy bridges,’” Svitlana retells.“The shop assistant told her to go follow the Russian warship. The woman left the store, and right outside were some Russians in an armored personnel carrier (APC), stopping by for beer. She immediately reported the shop assistant to them. They came in, put a bag over her head, and drove her around in the APC for half a day. Later, the store manager had to pay to get her back.”
Svitlana avoided contact with the Russians as much as possible. She refused to buy their goods and wouldn’t drive her car if it meant passing through a checkpoint. Instead, she used public transportation, where IDs weren’t checked.
“I was scared,” she admits. “For example, if I’m driving alone through a checkpoint, who knows what’s going through their heads? Maybe they’re drunk. At best, they’ll just take my car and drive it off somewhere. And at worst…? And at home, I have a disabled mother and a young child who depend on me. I was lucky. Others weren’t.”
Svitlana tried to buy only Ukrainian products. Until the very end, there was a ferry service using small boats from the left bank, bringing in locally grown fruits and vegetables. Some vendors even accepted payments via Ukrainian bank cards or hid their card terminals, despite the risk of being sent to the infamous "basement". Still, she had to try a few Russian products, including Fairy dishwashing liquid.
"It’s supposed to be a cleaning product, but it doesn’t clean," says Svitlana. "I thought it must have been made in someone’s garage. Then I asked others, and they said, 'We bought it too, and it doesn’t work—it’s useless, just like everything else they have.'"
Near the end of the occupation, she also bought Coca-Cola. Later, it became a souvenir for those returning to the city.
"Why did I buy it? I saw it had labels not in Latin script but in Arabic calligraphy. It turned out to be Iranian cola, and it didn’t taste as sweet as ours."
There were also humorous moments. Svitlana recalls that when the Armed Forces of Ukraine struck the Antonivskyi Bridge and began to more precisely target Russian forces, the occupiers were ordered to stop wearing military uniforms and instead dress in civilian clothing to avoid being identified by artillery spotters.
"It was so funny because, first of all, they had an accent, and secondly—you’re a Buryat; who are you disguising yourself as, a Japanese tourist?" Svitlana chuckles. "They’d walk around the neighborhood like that. But everyone knew where they lived anyway, and soon enough, that’s where the strikes would land."
"Russia Here Forever"
The Russians spared no expense on propaganda, plastering Kherson with billboards, posters, and notices. Any signage in Ukrainian was immediately removed, and business owners were pressured to replace them with Russian-language ones. Russian authorities even rebranded Ukrainian stores to reflect their own style—for example, the Ukrainian grocery chain ATB was renamed ABC.
Svitlana recalls that messages on these propaganda posters often highlighted financial benefits offered by the Russian government. To her, it felt like a bribe: take the money and you'll somehow be expected to love Russia. While some people were swayed by this, Svitlana does not believe they became pro-Russian but rather more compliant with the occupation forces.
Now, such messages would not affect her in the slightest. Back then, however, Svitlana felt oppressed by the sheer volume of posters. Even now, she finds it hard to tolerate Russian-language signs, symbols, or dubbed films:
"Since then, I can't bear to see signs or announcements written in Russian. Even the New Balance logo—a simple 'N'—reminds me of their 'Z' symbol. It’s like how people during World War II saw swastikas everywhere; I keep seeing their Zs and Vs everywhere I look."
Svitlana's children don’t speak Russian, so for her youngest son, Danylo, who spent eight months in occupation with her, the billboards were incomprehensible:
"We had to go to the city center for a polyclinic visit, and he saw one of the billboards," Svitlana recounts. "He can read Ukrainian, and the words are similar, but there were some words he didn’t know. He read out loud: ‘Rosiya Zdes Navsegda’ (Russia Here Forever). Then he asked, ‘Mom, what’s Navsegda? They can’t even write correctly!’"
Another display of propaganda that deeply affected Svitlana was the sham referendum organized by the Russians from September 23 to 27, 2022. She describes it as a violation of democracy, emphasizing that it bore no resemblance to genuine expression of will.
The occupiers set up polling stations in Kherson, going door-to-door and through neighborhoods with ballot boxes, sometimes accompanied by armed soldiers. During those days, Svitlana recalls, many Kherson residents avoided going outside altogether. When they came to her apartment to ask her to vote, she simply didn’t open the door. In her apartment building, two men carrying a ballot box entered with ease; the intercom system wasn’t functioning, so they didn’t even need to ask anyone to open the entrance.
“They rang the doorbell. I looked through the peephole—just two guys,” Svitlana recounts. “My mother was terrified: ‘What if they break the door down?’ I told her, ‘Why would they bother? They’ve already cast a ballot for you.’ There were ten apartments in our building. They left very quickly, probably deciding not to bother going upstairs or downstairs.”
Childhood in Occupation
Svitlana’s younger son, Danylo, was finishing first grade when the full-scale war began. Looking back now, Svitlana finds some comfort in remembering that time, as schools had just reopened after the pandemic lockdown, and the biggest worry then was the coronavirus.
With the onset of Russian occupation, classes moved back online. However, Svitlana noticed that her son wasn’t emotionally ready to participate in virtual lessons. She often had to spend hours in long lines for groceries or at pharmacies—scenes reminiscent of the shortages of the 1980s. Without his mother around, Danylo refused to focus on online schooling.
“I’m trained as a primary school teacher, so I took over his lessons myself,” Svitlana says. “There were only a few months left in the school year, and he was already writing, reading, and knew the entire curriculum.”
The new school year brought greater challenges. The occupiers pressured families to send their children to Russian schools and kindergartens. They even tried to incentivize this financially, offering a one-time payment of 10,000 rubles per child, plus an additional 4,000 rubles for school supplies.
At the time, Svitlana and those in her circle criticized families who accepted the payments and enrolled their children in Russian educational institutions. Reflecting on it now, she says her emotions have calmed, and she doesn’t see those people as pro-Russian. Instead, she describes them as “easily swayed,” choosing to adapt to the occupiers for convenience.
Overall, the school year in Russian-run schools lasted no more than 10 days, Svitlana recalls. First, a holiday break was announced due to preparations for the sham referendum. Then, schools closed again, citing the risk of provocations. Even when schools were open, class sizes were small, with no more than 20 students. In Svitlana’s neighborhood, the Russians opened two schools and three kindergartens, one of which was right next to her home.
“When parents brought their children to kindergartens, men were searched with metal detectors, and women had their bags checked,” Svitlana recalls. “An armed guard stood there to protect them—I don’t even know from what.”
After schools were shut down, the Russians suggested sending children to camps in Crimea, promising parents a one-time payment as an incentive. However, according to Svitlana, the children were not returned at the agreed time. Instead, parents were told to travel to Crimea themselves to retrieve their children.
Svitlana finds this deeply troubling, equating it to "selling their children to the occupiers." She did everything she could to shield her son from the Russians to spare him any psychological harm. For her, there was no other option; since the beginning of the occupation, she had explained to Danylo that the Russians were enemies and their presence in Kherson was only temporary:
“How could I send him to a school where lessons were taught in Russian after saying that? To me, that would be nothing short of psychological abuse. It was simply unimaginable.”
"Can I Run Around?"
For all eight months of the occupation, Svitlana and her family held on by imagining what liberation day might look like. This helped them endure the oppressive life under a foreign flag:
“For some reason, my younger son pictured our forces coming from the direction of Chornobaivka: columns of soldiers, with Zaluzhnyi leading the way on a horse—maybe even on a tank—liberating Kherson.”
What happened, however, was slightly different. In the days leading up to liberation, Kherson lost power, water, and communication. A rumor spread through the city that Russian soldiers might dress in Ukrainian uniforms as part of a provocation. According to Svitlana, the residents felt like they were living in an information vacuum. As a result, she and her family didn’t initially realize that Kherson had been freed:
“On the 11th [of November], my younger son and I went out to fetch water. It was already four in the afternoon. I noticed cars driving by with Ukrainian flags and thought, ‘I don’t see any Russians.’ As we were heading home, some neighbors from the building next door ran up to us. A woman shouted, ‘Svitlana, we’ve been liberated!’ I said, ‘No way!’ She pointed and said, ‘Look, our people climbed onto the roof and caught a radio signal. Zelensky just announced that Kherson is ours!’”
On the evening of November 11, Svitlana stayed at home but watched from her window as people gathered in the city center to celebrate. Everything around was cloaked in darkness except for the headlights of cars shining along the 200th Anniversary of Kherson Avenue. People tore down Russian billboards, shouted, and sang. The next morning, Svitlana and her younger son, Danylo, went to Freedom Square:
“It was surreal. In those first moments and hours, you’re in a daze. You’ve waited, imagined what it might be like, and now it’s here [liberation], and you don’t even know how to react.”
Danylo, too, was overwhelmed. For all eight months of the occupation, he had only gone outside with his mother, always staying close by her side. After the city’s liberation, he had just one wish.
“I told him, ‘See? We’ve waited, we held on, and now we’re free. What do you want to do?’” Svitlana recalls. “And he said, ‘Can I run around?’ ‘Go for it!’ I told him. ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Anywhere you want.’ For him, running was a symbol of freedom because I had forbidden him to do it before. He could run a little at the playground, but he always had to stay close to me. And then he just started running in circles. Other kids were running too, people were shouting. And I stood there watching him, like in a dream.”
Svitlana still struggled to believe her eyes. She remembers how people were united by an overwhelming sense of euphoria: there was God, and just a little above Him, the Armed Forces of Ukraine. They were revered and endlessly thanked. Soon, police officers began to return to Kherson, and locals greeted them with similar joy.
“I was standing in the square next to a police officer,” Svitlana recalls. “I told him, ‘I’ve never seen people so happy to see the police.’ He smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll fix that.’”
For Svitlana, the day of liberation is the most important celebration for Kherson’s people. On November 12, during the collective gathering in Freedom Square, there was another vital aspect: seeing others. Understanding how many people had stayed in the city, resisted the occupiers, and endured. Feeling the support and seeing those who had been hiding for eight months, knowing they hadn’t betrayed their homeland. For Svitlana, November 11 remains the most significant day of her life:
“I have three children, but I rejoiced at Kherson’s liberation more than I did on their birthdays. I hope they’ll forgive me for that.
