Three days before the annexation referendum in Russia, in the small farming town of Ivanivka in eastern Kherson, soldiers handed out information leaflets and even offered cash—10,000 rubles (about 160 euros)—to anyone who pledged support for the membership. Unlike the urban centers, the local authorities did not bother to organize formal electoral colleges. The soldiers went door to door, ticking the boxes on every door opened. Many residents hid rather than speak up. A 54-year-old rancher named Oleksander Pshperovsky fled with his family that day, not knowing where they would end up beyond the wheat fields. Only about 10 of nearly 300 homes opened their doors. After the operation, the mayor and nearby supporters celebrated with a party.
This moment marked the formal annexation following Vladimir Putin’s signature a few days later. Nationally, Kherson reported a high share of the population supporting the move, while other regions in Zaporizhia, Lugansk, and Donetsk reported even higher numbers. But in Ivanivka the process began much earlier, around ten in the morning on February 24, the day the invasion began, just after the roosters had finished crowing. Neighbors remember asking themselves what the visitors were doing there. The surprise came quickly, with the sense that the intruders moved fast because Crimea was already secured. People did not understand what was happening.
Since then, changes have unfolded gradually through intimidation and propaganda. Rubles entered the economy, and Russian influence seeped into schools. Free decoders were distributed, and people were told they would not have to repay loans taken from Ukrainian banks. For those who did not cooperate, the consequences were harsh: losses in business, confiscated assets, and even the threat of eviction from homes. One rancher recalls, “If you do not cooperate, you lose everything.” Businesses that refused to cooperate were looted, keys were taken, and owners were told to leave town.
torture cellars
To survive, some residents kept their heads down, avoiding trouble and keeping their backs turned to soldiers. Yet theft touched everyone, from swine to sauna equipment. Interrogations were common, and some were brought to the courthouse or held in basements where questions were designed to break allegiance. Victims endured beatings and violent treatment, including electric shocks after water exposure. Veterans from the Donbas region were noted for their harsh methods.
In Kherson, a shelter manager named Sergii Mukuriz, who runs a facility in Zaporizhia for Ukrainians fleeing the area, described the core motive behind people leaving: terror. Families often witnessed relatives being taken away, sometimes with a hood placed over their heads while they disappeared for days or even weeks. It was not unusual to see missing-person notices pinned to street furniture in the busy city environments. The authorities plastered urban spaces with slogans such as “We are a people” and “We are with Russia,” echoing a message used by Putin at various times.
Stanislav, a 26-year-old mechanic who lived in Melitopol near the Sea of Azov within the occupied Zaporizhia region, described the aftermath of the occupation. Prices surged and essential medicines became scarce. He navigated frequent checkpoints to reach his factory job, weighing every interaction with soldiers. He recalls the fear of engaging with a Russian soldier, wondering whether the person might be a Nazi or a fascist, though some soldiers were more accommodating. He eventually formed a cautious rapport with a Dagestani soldier who offered money and diapers for his child after an apology for what happened.
russian passport
For some, the pressure culminated in accepting Russian citizenship in the occupied territories. In Ivanivka, all newborns, orphans, and similar cases were automatically granted Russian status. For others, obtaining official documents became essential, but it was not enough to simply stay afloat. Registering a car, opening a business, or validating a marriage required proof of citizenship. Some faced a stark choice: accept citizenship or lose the ability to work. One rancher, Pshperovsky, described a long period of unemployment and the looming threat of losing his home and land. He remained hopeful that, if Ukraine reclaims the area, he would be able to recover what was taken.
Shortly after arriving in Zaporizhia, a neighbor who had been left in charge of his home reported that collaborators were looking for him. In a chilling moment, intruders forced their way into the house and warned the neighbor that the property had been handed over. They warned that the meat from his pigs, amounting to 400 kilos, would be taken or worse—lives could be at stake—if he did not comply. The fear is real, but some people navigate it with a stubborn resolve to maintain normalcy in the face of extraordinary pressure.