— Markus, you have lived under occupation for ten years. What was that life like?

— My mother lived in Kyiv, and I used to visit her during winter holidays. After the occupation, she returned to the city because she was afraid of losing me. Soon after, she passed away, and I was placed in a foster family. I studied at university until 2021, and the following year, the occupation began.

— How did you develop your stance? What forms of pressure did Russia apply?

— While studying, we were forced to vote for Putin. They said that if we refused, we would be expelled from the university.

— They could grant “favors” if you supported the occupation authorities… We had to go to polling stations and send a photo to a supervisor. My position was that I did not choose this president—he was not chosen by my people. In history classes, the curriculum was changed: we were taught about Russian historical figures, while the topic of the Holodomor was completely ignored.

— Based on your observations, how did Russians treat Indigenous peoples, particularly the Crimean Tatars?

— Well, for them, Crimean Tatars were always considered “churki.” They could be targeted for their religious beliefs or for actively expressing their stance—for example, by posting a tweet (a message published by a user on the social network Twitter) in Ukrainian. Russians tried to erase Crimean Tatar culture and identity.

— You mentioned tweets in Ukrainian: on your page, you also actively wrote in Ukrainian, expressing opposition to the occupation administration. Did you face any instances of persecution?

— That was actually the reason I left. Our people reached out to me, saying that just a few seconds were enough to determine where and with whom I was living based on the photos I posted. The occupation administrations could find out as well—it would be very easy to track me down. I have a disability, I grew up in a foster family… There aren’t many people like me in Crimea. Staying was extremely dangerous because I could have been prosecuted under their laws—I was sharing information about volunteer gatherings and expressing a pro-Ukrainian stance.

— How did you manage to leave?

— I posted on Twitter, and fellow Twitter users simply explained the possible routes. We left from Dzhankoi via the Crimean Bridge. I remember the armed men checking to make sure no one was filming the bridge. At the inspection point in Kolotylivka (checkpoint), they took my phone and passport. I had left my gaming console and my “pro-Ukrainian” phone at home. By the way, in the occupied territories, people usually have two phones: one for daily use outside and another where even Ukrainian-language memes need to be deleted before crossing the border.

— You say “our people.” Are there many people in Crimea waiting for liberation?

— The problem lies in your communication.

People don’t psychologically understand Crimeans: the changes that happened for you didn’t happen in Crimea.

You wrote a couple of tweets, but that didn’t change the situation.

— How should communication with Crimeans be handled correctly?

— Don’t make empty promises. There’s a difference between waiting ten years and waiting one year—within that time, even a child can grow up.

— Considering the information isolation of the peninsula, how can the truth be conveyed?

— There used to be access to YouTube—you could watch Sternenko, Lachen… Through VPNs, it was also possible to post on Twitter. It’s important to reach out to people, remind them that they are not alone, and that their human values are normal and right. Write appeals, send letters to political prisoners.

Russians have a different mentality: if you fall on the road, no one will help you.

— What adaptation challenges did you face after leaving?

— I was lucky to have relatives and a place to stay. I also needed someone I knew to confirm my mother’s death in Crimea. But who would risk themselves for someone else? [To contact a lawyer in Ukraine and officially certify the death.] Another issue: since 2014, there has been no Diia in Crimea, no identification code. Without it, you can’t get an IDP certificate, open a bank account… For the first couple of months, I felt like a collaborator, guilty of something. But I didn’t support anyone, I didn’t betray anyone…On top of that, I have cerebral palsy—finding a decent job with it is nearly impossible.

— Have you faced prejudice from people around you because you’re from Crimea?

— When I first arrived, I lived in a center for people with disabilities and the elderly. Some thought I was Russian. But why—just because I lived under occupation? This is a problem of poor communication, as many people don’t understand the situation. I want to live, go on dates, dance at a nightclub. Freedom is important.

— If we speak lightheartedly for a moment: besides freedom, what did you miss the most during the occupation?

— Food. When my aunt picked me up, we stopped at a gas station. The first thing I asked for was “Zhyvchyk” and “Shalena Bdzhilka” (a sweet drink and a candy brand). Later, a friend would bring me “Mak” (a fast food chain), which I associated with Kyiv. Besides food… In occupation, you feel punished—you can’t run ads on YouTube, freely use social media, or buy games. Of course, there’s none of that here.

— In our conversation, you said: “Russians have a different mentality.” How did you feel that you were already in Ukraine?

In Ukraine, people treat each other differently—you can ask for help, and no one will charge you for it.

— In Crimea, during the blackout*, if you wanted to charge your phone, you had to pay 100 rubles. But here, you can ask to charge your phone at Nova Poshta or a café, and they might even offer you a coffee. That really surprised me.

* Blackout — a power outage. One major blackout occurred on January 18, 2015, when many settlements in occupied Crimea lost electricity. The cause was the destruction of power lines in the Kherson region by unknown individuals.