"I've never experienced such intense hatred as from the female guards at Taganrog." A 72-year-old Azov combat medic on Mariupol, Russian captivity, and service since her release
Early 1980s, Kyiv – Afghanistan.
Tetiana Tepliuk was working as a nurse. At 28, feeling bored and not too happy with life, she signed a contract with the Soviet Armed Forces and was deployed to Afghanistan. She had no prior connection to the military, and her knowledge of war was limited to Soviet literature.
"I had a rather idealistic view of the army. My opinions changed radically in Afghanistan. I was disappointed in the officers. They were usually heavy drinkers.
The hazing and brutalisation among the soldiers bothered me. I realised very quickly how much harm we were causing to the local population: tanks were driving through the villages, everything was being destroyed," Tetiana tells Ukrainska Pravda.
She worked for a year and a half as an operating room nurse in a military clinic and was sometimes on call for an airborne medical battalion. Then she returned to Ukraine and thought her military adventures were over.
Spring 2015, Kyiv – Mariupol.
Tetiana Tepliuk, now 62, joins the Azov Regiment and moves to Mariupol. Her desire to return to combat medicine was ignited immediately after the Revolution of Dignity, where she volunteered at the first-aid posts, and the start of the Russian invasion [in 2014]. But Tetiana was concerned that the military would reject her due to her age.
Tetiana was invited to join Azov by her godson, so she received the alias "Khreshchena" (Godmother).
For seven years, Tetiana treated soldiers in the Mariupol garrison.
"Officially, I was a contracted civilian in our military unit. I was mobilised in mid-March 2022. Commander Yermolai came up to me and said, ‘Congratulations, Khreshchena, you are now a soldier,’" she tells Ukrainska Pravda.
Junior Sergeant Tetiana Tepliuk talks to Ukrainska Pravda about being in Mariupol at the start of the full-scale invasion, moving between basements in the besieged city, and never giving in to despair despite the Russian attacks on the Azovstal steelworks. She describes what she went through as a prisoner in Olenivka and Taganrog, and why she was afraid that the military medical board would declare her unfit for service after her release.
Here is Khreshchena’s story in her own words.
Tetiana Tepliuk is on this year’s UP100. The Power of Women list.
Ukrainska Pravda founded these awards to celebrate the women who are defending Ukraine on the front line, creating opportunities for business and the public sector, and developing culture, sport, science and the creative industries.
The awards ceremony will take place on 25 March 2025 at the National Philharmonic of Ukraine. You can find the event programme and buy tickets here.
Mariupol: the Azov garrisons and Azovstal
During the first week of the full-scale war, we [the Azov defenders – ed.] lived in a garrison we called the "School", but it was destroyed after a Russian strike. Then we moved to the college of metallurgy near Azovstal.
I took care of soldiers with minor injuries and light burns. The paramedics would evacuate the seriously wounded from the battlefield, give them first aid and take them to Azovstal, where the Zaliziaka hospital was located. ("Zaliziaka", meaning "hunk of metal", is the name the defenders gave to the temporary makeshift hospital in the Azovstal bunkers.)
What I remember most is how the landscape around us changed – the houses around our garrisons burned down, the ground was pitted with deep craters from bombs, shells and rockets. The Russians pounded us using everything they had: planes, tanks, artillery, even naval artillery from the Sea of Azov.
Once, when I was at the college, I stepped out of a room and a shell flew past and exploded at the end of the corridor. I wasn’t hurt, but one of our soldiers was seriously injured. The air was filled with smoke. A terrible scream echoed around: "Help!"... The wounded soldier later died.
Hunger set in very quickly. I was struck by the hungry eyes of the young people, especially the guys. They needed to regain their strength after missions or patrols, but there was almost nothing to eat – just a small plastic cup of porridge, and that was it.
There were problems with water too. We had to save it and look after it, because people were dying to get it. There were times when our people went out to search for water and the Russians targeted their vehicle.
It was painful for me to see how the civilians suffered. Sometimes I would see a silent reproach in their eyes, as if we, the military, were to blame for their suffering, even though it was not Ukrainians who started this war. We shared water, food and medicine with them.
Sometimes people would ask for hard-to-get medications such as insulin. We didn’t have such medicines, but the soldiers always tried to find them in pharmacies and stores. They always brought back a bunch of different medications from their missions.
Sometime in the second half of April, the Russians got close to the college, so we moved to the Azovstal steelworks. We were taken there at night, in complete darkness, during a small pause in the shelling. But there were still drones – those pests – hovering above us the whole time.
We managed to bring almost all of our medicines to Azovstal. We would deliver bandages and antibiotics to the Zaliziaka hospital, but it was such a tiny amount, a drop in the ocean.
All the bunkers at Azovstal were connected by underground passages. We spent all our time underground.
We had electricity, so we could heat water in a kettle. We cooked food on improvised "stoves" – we’d pour antiseptics into a can and set it on fire, and that's how we cooked porridge and baked bread. Mostly we made wheat porridge, oatmeal, and barley. We also had small supplies of cheese and some salo (pork fat).
At the beginning, we had food storerooms called Store 10 and Store 20, where there were shared kitchens. But the Russians bombed them. So people started to set up small kitchens in the basements where they lived. Some adventurous souls would still go to Stores 10 and 20 to dig out food from the rubble and extract whatever supplies they could.
When I was at Azovstal, I believed that a miracle would happen. I never let myself despair or lose hope. I convinced my family that I was fine. I shut myself off from everything and focused on doing my job. I found a cactus at the plant and watered it a little. I was really worried that we’d leave and it would be left behind and die.
Although it was obvious that there was no way out for us now, I believed that a way would be found. Soldiers would come up to me, look into my eyes and ask, ‘What’s going to happen next, Khreshchena?' I’d take their hands and assure them that everything was going to be fine, that the commanders would definitely come up with something. They would visibly calm down.
On 16 May 2022, the commanders announced that we were going into what they called "honourable captivity" and would be released four or five months later. They said we no longer had any military secrets, and we could tell the truth about ourselves and our work, because lying would provoke aggression.
The seriously wounded were evacuated on 16 May. I got out the next day. It was sunny outside, and the grass was green. I wasn’t feeling too bad. I hoped that some of us, maybe even all of us, would survive.
Olenivka
After leaving Azovstal, I was held at the Olenivka prison camp [in Russian-occupied Donetsk Oblast] for four months. The women were placed in a disciplinary isolation cell, away from the barracks where the men lived. The guards said the Ukrainian soldiers would "tear us apart". That was the mindset they had. We realised that there was no point trying to prove to them that our guys would never harm us, or anyone.
The conditions in the Olenivka prison were horrible. I was in cell number 6, which was about 3 by 3 m, and the Russians called it a "solitary". A third of the cell was sectioned off as a toilet. Over the four months, there were between six and eleven women in that cell at the same time.
We slept on bunks, on the floor, on a small table. Mice would run over our heads. The toilet stank, and the plumbing would clog up every day and everything would pour down the corridor.
They fed us just enough that we wouldn’t die: a small portion of watery porridge in the morning, soup and some kind of porridge for lunch, and porridge with fish in the evening. I couldn’t eat the evening porridge because it had rotten, smelly fish in it. I tried it once and couldn’t do it again. I lost 30 kg (66 lb, 4 stone 10 lb) in Olenivka.
They only tortured the guys. The women would be called in for interrogations as witnesses to the "crimes committed by Azov". The guys were forced to confess to crimes, and we were made to accuse them. They used to ask questions that made no sense.
For example, "Did you see Azov soldiers planting explosives at the Mariupol Drama Theatre?", "Did you see Azov soldiers shelling the maternity hospital from a tank?", "Did you see or hear Azov soldiers raping a pregnant woman, killing her and carving a swastika on her stomach?", "Did you see Azov soldiers shooting civilians on the streets of Mariupol, or shooting or torturing POWs?"
Of course we answered no. In my case, that was what the Russians wrote down.
The night the Russians carried out the terrorist attack on the prison camp, we heard the explosion. But the barracks were about 300 m away from us, so at first we thought it was a strike nearby. We had heard similar explosions before.
But the guards started to charge around the building, shouting that they’d shoot us if they heard a sound, even though we hadn't said anything.
The guards knew what had happened there. The ones responsible for torturing our guys were on shift at the time. I’m certain they took an active part in placing the bombs at that barrack. They were loyal to the head of the Olenivka penal colony, who was recently assassinated.
Taganrog
On 27 September 2022, I was transferred to Taganrog [in Russia]. Later, the girls and I compared Olenivka and Taganrog. Olenivka had terrible living conditions, but psychologically, it was much easier compared to Taganrog.
The living conditions at Taganrog were quite good: a spacious cell, recently renovated, for only three of us, a normal toilet, a washbasin, and a sauna once a week.
The food was a little better than at Olenivka, but it all depended on who was serving it. There were some bastards who barely smeared the porridge on the plate. Often the grains would just have hot water poured over them – for example, the semolina didn’t even have time to set.
The psychological pressure was immense. All the guards at Olenivka were men, but there were women at Taganrog. What a cruel people they [the Russians] are, and how pathetic these women are. I had never experienced hatred so intense as the hatred they had for us. I was afraid that this feeling would kill me.
They could hurt us physically when they summoned us for inspections. Twice a day we had to run out into the corridor, stand against the wall, and spread our legs wide. They’d twist our arms and frisk us, looking for any items.
They’d always shout that we had to spread our legs even wider. A stupid guard would come along and kick my leg as hard as she could. I would fall down. I realised that it was better to fall than for her to tear my ligaments. I fell several times and then they stopped treating me like a football. Girls were crying. They were trying to stand up. Their ankles and shins were covered in bruises because the guards would beat their legs at every inspection.
The guards played their stupid Russian music every day. They’d play songs about the Red Army and all the branches of the Russian forces, and terrible modern pop music: [Grigory] Leps, [Oleg] Gazmanov, songs from the so-called Donetsk People’s Republic about how "this wonderful land with its black gold has suffered under Ukraine". All of that was played very loud all day long. They knew they were torturing us by doing this. Silence was a gift from God.
They’d play the Russian national anthem about five times a day. We had to stand against the wall and sing it loud enough for them to hear. We were forced to learn that damned anthem and sing it, but somewhere in the background, the national anthem of Ukraine was playing in my head.
Now, when our national anthem is played, I love to join in, even though I can't sing at all.
Coming home
I came back to Ukraine on 31 December 2022. The day before, at about 05:00, before we got up, the food slot in our cell door opened and the guard said in a loud voice: "Tepliuk, get your stuff, you’re out."
I gathered up my belongings, put on my boots and jacket, and went out into the corridor. I saw three other girls coming out of the neighbouring cells, including my sister-in-arms Iryna "Valkiriia" (Valkyrie). They stood next to me.
I remembered that I’d left my slippers in the cell. I told the guard and she said to me: "Doesn’t matter, they’ll give you white ones there."
We changed into our own clothes and gave the Russians theirs. We were locked in a cell for more than half a day. The girls were happy that the prisoner swap was happening, but for some reason I felt no excitement. Then they started calling us out one by one and making us change back into our uniforms. We went back to our cells.
I had a feeling that the whole thing would happen again tomorrow morning, but without us going back. And that’s exactly what happened.
On the morning of 31 December, we were quickly made to change, our hands were bound and we were blindfolded, bundled into lorries and driven away. They drove for about an hour and a half. When we arrived, I realised from the sound of the aircraft engines that we were at the airport.
We stood there for a long time, blindfolded, our hands bound, and very lightly dressed. I thought I was going to die of cold. Then a guard ordered us to do some squats. I was very grateful to him for that because we warmed up a bit. We did squats for a while, and then we were put on the plane – on the cold metal floor. We took off.
It was very uncomfortable and painful sitting there, but I wanted to endure it because I knew that this was a prisoner swap. When the plane landed, we were put on a bus. At some point along the way they undid our blindfolds and took the ropes off our hands, but they ordered us not to look out of the window. But how could we not look? You keep your head down, but you still look out.
We were taken to the border. We crossed it. It was a feeling of unprecedented, absolute joy, which was compounded by the fact that Valkiriia got her dog back.
The dog had been taken from her in captivity and given to [Chechen leader Ramzan] Kadyrov. She had pined for him. When she came back to Ukraine, she got him back, although she was forced to record a video thanking Kadyrov, Russia and the Russian government.
When I saw Ira with her dog at the border, I couldn't believe it. It was a New Year miracle. The dog recognised me, rushed over to me and started licking me. I was crying and laughing at the same time...
After returning from captivity, I met with [Azov] commander Denys Prokopenko once. He said they needed me.
I can resign at any time, but I won't. When I was undergoing rehabilitation after captivity, I was referred to a military medical board so they could determine my fitness for service. I was really scared that I’d be declared unfit, and happy when the doctors said that I was "partially fit for service".
Now I continue to serve in the Azov Brigade. I treat soldiers from the rear units: drivers and support staff. I wanted to work at a stabilisation point, but the command didn’t want me to be closer to the front. We need people to work in the rear, too.
It’s not pleasant to see Ukrainians in non-frontline cities ignoring our national anthem when it is played. Perhaps everyone should have to sing another country's anthem at least a little bit so that they respect their own. I have sung the Russian anthem enough.
Author: Anhelina Strashkulych
Translation: Myroslava Zavadska and Elina Beketova
Editing: Teresa Pearce