The Trial of Separation: The Story of Kateryna Skopina, Who Survived Captivity
Source: Veteran Media
Author: Kristin Mukutun
The war was a trial for everyone in 2022. A war that divides, that burns, and that destroys everything in its path. A war that takes lives, kills, and brings pain in its wake. Every Ukrainian has their own story today—there are tens of thousands of them, and not a single one is more or less important than the others. Today we’ll tell a story of pain, separation, love, and a future reunion that is bound to happen.
Kateryna Skopina is the deputy head of the Mariupol Military Hospital. A woman who witnessed the ruins of Mariupol and a woman who survived eight months of captivity.
–Who were you before the full-scale invasion? What was your life like?
–I’m a military officer. I studied at the Lviv Ministry of Internal Affairs Academy and then at the Army Academy, specializing as a military psychologist. In 2016, I signed a five-year contract—my first officer’s contract—and that was it. I began my service. Later, I transferred from Zaporizhzhia to Mariupol, got married, became pregnant, and went on maternity leave. I was transferred to Mariupol to the 56th Brigade. In 2021, my contract ended, and I signed a new one for the position of deputy hospital director for moral and psychological support. That’s how I carried out my duties.
–Is your husband also involved in the military?
-Yes, he serves in the Marine Corps; he’s still being held captive.
–What were your feelings in general during the first days of the war?
–At first, I didn’t believe any of it at all. It didn’t start on the 24th—it started earlier. And everything happened so fast; it felt as if it were all some kind of illusion. I just couldn’t believe it. It all happened so fast.
–But you stayed in Mariupol anyway, despite the danger?
-Yes. I had a choice; I got my child out—the child I’m now fighting for—as soon as I could. But yes, I could have left with her. I just decided it was the right thing to do to stay where I was, because it’s my duty—I took a military oath to the people of Ukraine, so that’s why I stayed.
–How did the situation in Mariupol look from your perspective once the full-scale occupation began, with frequent shelling? What about food and humanitarian aid?
–I was at the Illich Plant at the time. Given my position, I was mostly involved in organizational work. Before the war, this meant things like traveling to various locations, representing the hospital at city hall, and laying flowers at ceremonies. But when it all started, I sort of continued doing my old job on the side—though not quite the same way—and for the most part, it was all about food: how to distribute it evenly and how many meals a day we should have. I remember when we had some candy, we’d cut it up and share it among everyone. We consistently had 120–140 wounded patients, and each one needed proper snacks so they could recover their strength faster and more effectively. I was mostly in charge of those things. Humanitarian convoys never reached us—they were either blocked or simply looted by the occupiers. We relied entirely on our own resources, whatever the city had. Everything was divided up: how much went to Azovstal, how much to us. We kept roughly the same records. We were stationed near the marines, while at Azovstal there were military personnel in various roles. We held out like that until the very end, surviving until we were taken prisoner.
–Did you have any premonitions or suspicions before your capture?
–No, not at all. Again, I couldn’t believe any of it. The wounded were brought to us, and we learned what was happening from them. Either from them or from the newly formed City Council. We went there and received newsletters. I was supposed to deliver one copy of this bulletin to every wounded person. There were times when I would read out all this information (ed. – General Staff statistics) during surgery. It was my duty to maintain their morale and psychological well-being. Frankly, sometimes I had to lie or leave things unsaid. At times, I’d tell the wounded, “Guys, hang in there—the 128th is on its way.” After the 128th came the 55th, then another unit I knew. And we all waited, all thinking they’d really come. Everyone believed; everyone had a strong fighting spirit. About 10 percent of my subconscious was warning me about the risk, because this is war. But still, no one lost heart; everyone thought it would be like in 2014—one or two weeks, they wouldn’t succeed, and they’d leave. But they didn’t leave. Then they took a second ring, then a third. That’s how we figured out which part of the city was under whose control. There were even times when it was block by block—one block was ours, the next one was theirs, and so on in a checkerboard pattern.
–How did your capture happen?
–There were actually a lot of them on the grounds of the Illich Plant. We were constantly changing our locations because they’d eventually find us somewhere. Some people fled, others gave up their positions. We had to pack up quickly within a few hours and move to a new spot. It was good that we had 25-kg bags of porridge that we could still take with us. First, we evacuated the wounded and the sick, and finally the rest of the personnel. We had to arrive at the new location and quickly set everything up: where the wounded would sleep, where our “manipulka” was—that’s what the medics call the room among themselves where they give injections, provide first aid, and where the operating room is. Everything had to be set up and prepared. When we could, we slept; when we couldn’t, we didn’t. No one paid much attention, but later you feel this emotional exhaustion. You pass out for five minutes, and that’s enough.
–When were you finally captured?
–It was April 12. They were back on the factory grounds again; a tank was smashing the building we were in. The guys wrote “300” in paint on a blanket and hung it up. That’s how they found us and came in. Generally, under the Geneva Conventions, medics aren’t combatants; they can’t be taken prisoner, just like journalists and civilians. Maybe there could have been some screening or document checks, but they just took them away. And then they didn’t let them go. In every detention center, we had to prove who we were—whether on lie detectors or during interrogations. My ID, for example, stated that I didn’t have a service weapon, but they didn’t believe me because it wasn’t there. Why did they take them? They could have found out all the information from the documents. And when they were taking us out of Mariupol to an unknown destination, it was snowing heavily, and our documents were scattered all over the snow.
–How many months were you held captive? What were the rules there, the daily routine?
–Wake-up at 6 a.m.; you stand until 10 p.m. and can only sit down when they give you food. Meals were served differently in different places: in the Belgorod region, they took us into a dining hall; in the Taganrog and Kursk regions, they’d open a food window—they’d give you food, and you had to quickly wash your dishes and return them. Sometimes you had to eat in three seconds because that’s what the person on duty wanted. They have their own daily routine there, too. And then you just stand there endlessly.
–How were men and women separated? Did you see your own husband?
-When they took us prisoner, they put us on buses and started transporting us in groups like that. Well, there I just put my professional skills and the knowledge I’d gained at the academy to use. I studied them; I stayed awake, watching them, because I wanted to see my husband. I knew he was there because our doctors had told me he was traveling with us. So I asked one of those soldiers to bring my husband to me. He refused, saying he’d take a photo, but that wasn’t enough for me—after all, I could have taken a photo earlier. And the men there were being told that their wives had been taken away, and were now being passed around and raped. Later, Igor, my husband, told me: “They went into the hangar, called me over, and asked if I had a wife. I started to get nervous because I didn’t know what was happening to you there.” Well, they brought her to him after all. I started crying because they’d taken my ring off, and they’d taken Bronica, our little dog. He was even surprised that I’d managed to get her almost all the way there. We spent about five hours together. He’s actually quite sociable; he tried to connect with people whenever necessary. He always asked for water for the wounded. He brought me a tray so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare concrete. And then I heard over the radio that they were going to transport us. And just as we were being taken prisoner, I managed to call my parents and told them we were being taken to Taganrog. I gave them the last names of the people I could remember. And from there, the information made its way through all the channels. Another time, I asked to see Igor because his birthday was the next day, and I even suggested that they could transfer me there to be with him, but no—men had to be kept separate, and so did the women and the wounded. Doctors were kept separate, Azov fighters were kept separate, and the National Guard was kept separate as well. They were taking us away again, and I started asking if my husband could ride with me on the bus, but they turned me down too. We got on, and I saw that Igor wasn’t there—I was disappointed. We pulled away, and someone knocked on the bus. The door opens and they bring in some men—and there’s my Igor. We’d traveled to Olenivka together. I hadn’t seen him since then. I’d heard about the horrors taking place there. They set dogs on them, beat them, tore them apart, and tortured them with stun guns. We spent a week there. But I always told the girls, “We don’t know how long we’ll be here or where we’ll end up, so let’s study them and then use that against them.” In Olenivka, they even offered me cigarettes themselves, because no one else smoked anymore. I smoked with them in the hallway and found out which barracks my husband was in, and so on. By the way, they were often surprised at why we were so unemotional—they’d mock the guys, but you just put up with it.
–Was there any particular incident that stands out in your memory?
–I managed to sneak a pistol past the second security checkpoint. Igor knew about it and was worried too. That’s exactly when they started filming those first videos of us, the prisoners. I realized I had to get rid of my earrings and wondered what to do with the pistol. I spit the earrings out somewhere; I was holding my “Bronik” at the time. I walked along, counting how many of them were there—maybe I’d have time to shoot someone. And my glasses were so smudged that I had to squint to see anything. I realized I wouldn’t be able to do practically anything, and they’d open fire on us. There were 82 women there, and they’d just kill all of us. They were filming us right then, and the camera would have caught me throwing away the pistol. We were walking through the town, and everything around us was covered in reeds—not a single piece of the bridge was left. So I tossed it in there, and there was this sound. There was also a boy with us at the time; a mortar fragment hit him in the eye when his house was shelled. They were even shouting on the video that we were deliberately taking children captive. The boy was 11 or 12 years old. Later, I passed on information about him to his mother. He was sent to an orphanage somewhere in Russia, but now he’s with his grandmother—she was able to bring him back. His mother is still in captivity.
–Is your husband still in captivity?
I heard that they took him somewhere, but I don’t know where. On January 27, they actually blocked me, but they sent me a video of him saying hello. He looked so thin and pale, and his head was bandaged—probably because they’re tormenting him.
Was there any emotional contrast between the first and last days of his captivity?
There was a contrast every single day, because you never know what’s in store for you next. Because of my position and the fact that I didn’t stay silent, I was treated more harshly. I might stand up for someone and then get punished for it. I even told that woman in Taganrog, who wanted to cut off my braids because I refused to let her untie them, “If that’s the only thing that brings you joy in life, then I feel sorry for you—you’re a miserable woman.” We weren’t supposed to turn around, but I did. Their boots even had iron inserts that they used to beat our legs with. For some of the girls, the skin was peeling away from their bones, and a strange fluid was oozing out.
–And what’s the overall situation with your daughter?
–I’m in rehab right now; as soon as I got back, I immediately started worrying about her and my husband. They won’t give the child back right now; I’ve been blocked everywhere. She’s with my husband’s parents in the Donetsk region. When it all started, my husband took our daughter, gave his father the keys to the car and the apartment, gave him some money, and told him to take the child to Lviv. But that didn’t happen—his father didn’t do it. So when I returned from captivity, it turned out that he had essentially kidnapped my daughter, since he didn’t do what we’d agreed on. Or maybe that was the plan all along. I don’t know—you can expect anything from people like that. But grandparents can never replace parents. If they had even a shred of humanity, they would have brought her back. And I’ve explained a thousand times why I can’t go there myself—because I’m a soldier. They’re manipulating and blackmailing me. My husband’s sister is posting angry comments. I’m asking them to bring my child to their checkpoint, but they just don’t want to—that’s all. I’m trying to write statements and appeals, but nothing’s working. My husband will call to say he’s been released from captivity, and I don’t know what I’ll tell him. That our child isn’t with me? It’s not his fault that he has parents like that. But never mind. God exists, and I believe that everything will change.
Author: Kristin Mukutun
The war was a trial for everyone in 2022. A war that divides, that burns, and that destroys everything in its path. A war that takes lives, kills, and brings pain in its wake. Every Ukrainian has their own story today—there are tens of thousands of them, and not a single one is more or less important than the others. Today we’ll tell a story of pain, separation, love, and a future reunion that is bound to happen.
Kateryna Skopina is the deputy head of the Mariupol Military Hospital. A woman who witnessed the ruins of Mariupol and a woman who survived eight months of captivity.
–Who were you before the full-scale invasion? What was your life like?
–I’m a military officer. I studied at the Lviv Ministry of Internal Affairs Academy and then at the Army Academy, specializing as a military psychologist. In 2016, I signed a five-year contract—my first officer’s contract—and that was it. I began my service. Later, I transferred from Zaporizhzhia to Mariupol, got married, became pregnant, and went on maternity leave. I was transferred to Mariupol to the 56th Brigade. In 2021, my contract ended, and I signed a new one for the position of deputy hospital director for moral and psychological support. That’s how I carried out my duties.
–Is your husband also involved in the military?
-Yes, he serves in the Marine Corps; he’s still being held captive.
–What were your feelings in general during the first days of the war?
–At first, I didn’t believe any of it at all. It didn’t start on the 24th—it started earlier. And everything happened so fast; it felt as if it were all some kind of illusion. I just couldn’t believe it. It all happened so fast.
–But you stayed in Mariupol anyway, despite the danger?
-Yes. I had a choice; I got my child out—the child I’m now fighting for—as soon as I could. But yes, I could have left with her. I just decided it was the right thing to do to stay where I was, because it’s my duty—I took a military oath to the people of Ukraine, so that’s why I stayed.
–How did the situation in Mariupol look from your perspective once the full-scale occupation began, with frequent shelling? What about food and humanitarian aid?
–I was at the Illich Plant at the time. Given my position, I was mostly involved in organizational work. Before the war, this meant things like traveling to various locations, representing the hospital at city hall, and laying flowers at ceremonies. But when it all started, I sort of continued doing my old job on the side—though not quite the same way—and for the most part, it was all about food: how to distribute it evenly and how many meals a day we should have. I remember when we had some candy, we’d cut it up and share it among everyone. We consistently had 120–140 wounded patients, and each one needed proper snacks so they could recover their strength faster and more effectively. I was mostly in charge of those things. Humanitarian convoys never reached us—they were either blocked or simply looted by the occupiers. We relied entirely on our own resources, whatever the city had. Everything was divided up: how much went to Azovstal, how much to us. We kept roughly the same records. We were stationed near the marines, while at Azovstal there were military personnel in various roles. We held out like that until the very end, surviving until we were taken prisoner.
–Did you have any premonitions or suspicions before your capture?
–No, not at all. Again, I couldn’t believe any of it. The wounded were brought to us, and we learned what was happening from them. Either from them or from the newly formed City Council. We went there and received newsletters. I was supposed to deliver one copy of this bulletin to every wounded person. There were times when I would read out all this information (ed. – General Staff statistics) during surgery. It was my duty to maintain their morale and psychological well-being. Frankly, sometimes I had to lie or leave things unsaid. At times, I’d tell the wounded, “Guys, hang in there—the 128th is on its way.” After the 128th came the 55th, then another unit I knew. And we all waited, all thinking they’d really come. Everyone believed; everyone had a strong fighting spirit. About 10 percent of my subconscious was warning me about the risk, because this is war. But still, no one lost heart; everyone thought it would be like in 2014—one or two weeks, they wouldn’t succeed, and they’d leave. But they didn’t leave. Then they took a second ring, then a third. That’s how we figured out which part of the city was under whose control. There were even times when it was block by block—one block was ours, the next one was theirs, and so on in a checkerboard pattern.
–How did your capture happen?
–There were actually a lot of them on the grounds of the Illich Plant. We were constantly changing our locations because they’d eventually find us somewhere. Some people fled, others gave up their positions. We had to pack up quickly within a few hours and move to a new spot. It was good that we had 25-kg bags of porridge that we could still take with us. First, we evacuated the wounded and the sick, and finally the rest of the personnel. We had to arrive at the new location and quickly set everything up: where the wounded would sleep, where our “manipulka” was—that’s what the medics call the room among themselves where they give injections, provide first aid, and where the operating room is. Everything had to be set up and prepared. When we could, we slept; when we couldn’t, we didn’t. No one paid much attention, but later you feel this emotional exhaustion. You pass out for five minutes, and that’s enough.
–When were you finally captured?
–It was April 12. They were back on the factory grounds again; a tank was smashing the building we were in. The guys wrote “300” in paint on a blanket and hung it up. That’s how they found us and came in. Generally, under the Geneva Conventions, medics aren’t combatants; they can’t be taken prisoner, just like journalists and civilians. Maybe there could have been some screening or document checks, but they just took them away. And then they didn’t let them go. In every detention center, we had to prove who we were—whether on lie detectors or during interrogations. My ID, for example, stated that I didn’t have a service weapon, but they didn’t believe me because it wasn’t there. Why did they take them? They could have found out all the information from the documents. And when they were taking us out of Mariupol to an unknown destination, it was snowing heavily, and our documents were scattered all over the snow.
–How many months were you held captive? What were the rules there, the daily routine?
–Wake-up at 6 a.m.; you stand until 10 p.m. and can only sit down when they give you food. Meals were served differently in different places: in the Belgorod region, they took us into a dining hall; in the Taganrog and Kursk regions, they’d open a food window—they’d give you food, and you had to quickly wash your dishes and return them. Sometimes you had to eat in three seconds because that’s what the person on duty wanted. They have their own daily routine there, too. And then you just stand there endlessly.
–How were men and women separated? Did you see your own husband?
-When they took us prisoner, they put us on buses and started transporting us in groups like that. Well, there I just put my professional skills and the knowledge I’d gained at the academy to use. I studied them; I stayed awake, watching them, because I wanted to see my husband. I knew he was there because our doctors had told me he was traveling with us. So I asked one of those soldiers to bring my husband to me. He refused, saying he’d take a photo, but that wasn’t enough for me—after all, I could have taken a photo earlier. And the men there were being told that their wives had been taken away, and were now being passed around and raped. Later, Igor, my husband, told me: “They went into the hangar, called me over, and asked if I had a wife. I started to get nervous because I didn’t know what was happening to you there.” Well, they brought her to him after all. I started crying because they’d taken my ring off, and they’d taken Bronica, our little dog. He was even surprised that I’d managed to get her almost all the way there. We spent about five hours together. He’s actually quite sociable; he tried to connect with people whenever necessary. He always asked for water for the wounded. He brought me a tray so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare concrete. And then I heard over the radio that they were going to transport us. And just as we were being taken prisoner, I managed to call my parents and told them we were being taken to Taganrog. I gave them the last names of the people I could remember. And from there, the information made its way through all the channels. Another time, I asked to see Igor because his birthday was the next day, and I even suggested that they could transfer me there to be with him, but no—men had to be kept separate, and so did the women and the wounded. Doctors were kept separate, Azov fighters were kept separate, and the National Guard was kept separate as well. They were taking us away again, and I started asking if my husband could ride with me on the bus, but they turned me down too. We got on, and I saw that Igor wasn’t there—I was disappointed. We pulled away, and someone knocked on the bus. The door opens and they bring in some men—and there’s my Igor. We’d traveled to Olenivka together. I hadn’t seen him since then. I’d heard about the horrors taking place there. They set dogs on them, beat them, tore them apart, and tortured them with stun guns. We spent a week there. But I always told the girls, “We don’t know how long we’ll be here or where we’ll end up, so let’s study them and then use that against them.” In Olenivka, they even offered me cigarettes themselves, because no one else smoked anymore. I smoked with them in the hallway and found out which barracks my husband was in, and so on. By the way, they were often surprised at why we were so unemotional—they’d mock the guys, but you just put up with it.
–Was there any particular incident that stands out in your memory?
–I managed to sneak a pistol past the second security checkpoint. Igor knew about it and was worried too. That’s exactly when they started filming those first videos of us, the prisoners. I realized I had to get rid of my earrings and wondered what to do with the pistol. I spit the earrings out somewhere; I was holding my “Bronik” at the time. I walked along, counting how many of them were there—maybe I’d have time to shoot someone. And my glasses were so smudged that I had to squint to see anything. I realized I wouldn’t be able to do practically anything, and they’d open fire on us. There were 82 women there, and they’d just kill all of us. They were filming us right then, and the camera would have caught me throwing away the pistol. We were walking through the town, and everything around us was covered in reeds—not a single piece of the bridge was left. So I tossed it in there, and there was this sound. There was also a boy with us at the time; a mortar fragment hit him in the eye when his house was shelled. They were even shouting on the video that we were deliberately taking children captive. The boy was 11 or 12 years old. Later, I passed on information about him to his mother. He was sent to an orphanage somewhere in Russia, but now he’s with his grandmother—she was able to bring him back. His mother is still in captivity.
–Is your husband still in captivity?
I heard that they took him somewhere, but I don’t know where. On January 27, they actually blocked me, but they sent me a video of him saying hello. He looked so thin and pale, and his head was bandaged—probably because they’re tormenting him.
Was there any emotional contrast between the first and last days of his captivity?
There was a contrast every single day, because you never know what’s in store for you next. Because of my position and the fact that I didn’t stay silent, I was treated more harshly. I might stand up for someone and then get punished for it. I even told that woman in Taganrog, who wanted to cut off my braids because I refused to let her untie them, “If that’s the only thing that brings you joy in life, then I feel sorry for you—you’re a miserable woman.” We weren’t supposed to turn around, but I did. Their boots even had iron inserts that they used to beat our legs with. For some of the girls, the skin was peeling away from their bones, and a strange fluid was oozing out.
–And what’s the overall situation with your daughter?
–I’m in rehab right now; as soon as I got back, I immediately started worrying about her and my husband. They won’t give the child back right now; I’ve been blocked everywhere. She’s with my husband’s parents in the Donetsk region. When it all started, my husband took our daughter, gave his father the keys to the car and the apartment, gave him some money, and told him to take the child to Lviv. But that didn’t happen—his father didn’t do it. So when I returned from captivity, it turned out that he had essentially kidnapped my daughter, since he didn’t do what we’d agreed on. Or maybe that was the plan all along. I don’t know—you can expect anything from people like that. But grandparents can never replace parents. If they had even a shred of humanity, they would have brought her back. And I’ve explained a thousand times why I can’t go there myself—because I’m a soldier. They’re manipulating and blackmailing me. My husband’s sister is posting angry comments. I’m asking them to bring my child to their checkpoint, but they just don’t want to—that’s all. I’m trying to write statements and appeals, but nothing’s working. My husband will call to say he’s been released from captivity, and I don’t know what I’ll tell him. That our child isn’t with me? It’s not his fault that he has parents like that. But never mind. God exists, and I believe that everything will change.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.