“It’s easier to protect a murderer than you”

Elena* lives in Donetsk with her mother and her young daughter. After the shelling of the FSB building on Russia Day in 2024, she came to the attention of local intelligence agencies. Just the next day, the woman was detained and taken to a specially equipped torture apartment on the outskirts of Donetsk. No one knows how many people passed through this apartment, but according to the conversations of the employees, Elena was not their first victim.

ASTRA publishes Elena’s testimony about electric torture, psychological pressure, and “carousel” detentions, which are the preferred methods of the security forces, including in the occupied territories.

* For the hero’s safety, her name has been changed in the text, and some details of her detention and torture have been removed.

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It all started with a new job. I was suddenly offered a position at a store near the FSB building in Kalinin District.

On June 2, 2024, my boss called me and said: “Shelling at the store”. I couldn’t help but be curious — of course, I went to see what happened there. I also made a video of the aftermath. I then sent it to the chat of friends with whom we had been communicating for a long time — the usual, as it seemed to me, reaction of a person who found something interesting.

On June 12, Russia Day, there were new attacks. The internet reported that the FSB building had been hit. My boss suggested closing the store early, as there were no customers and it was dangerous to stay. My curiosity led me back to the FSB building. The windows were shattered, and the damage was severe.

Naturally, I filmed it. I put my phone to my ear as if I was calling, but I was recording a video. No one noticed me.

I left. I didn’t plan to send the video to anyone. I went to the channel of a friend of mine, a Donetsk resident who had moved to Ukraine and was running a Telegram channel about Donetsk [more than 100,000 subscribers at the time of publication]. We had been in contact since 2023. He had information on his channel that there had been an attack on the FSB building, but he didn’t have any proof.

I told him that our media only reported on the shelling of civilian areas, but they didn’t mention this. I sent him a video of the attack, but I didn’t want it to be published because it would be too dangerous for me. He thanked me and didn’t share the video.

“You’re overdoing it”

The next day, while I was waiting for the bus after work, a car drove past me and then returned. Three men got out of the car. Something inside me tightened, and I immediately sensed something was wrong. They approached me and asked for my id. I asked them why they needed it.

One of them showed his ID and introduced himself as an FSB officer. He said I was acting suspiciously. I was confused and lied and said I didn’t have any documents with me.

Last year’s searches, interrogations, and threats immediately came to mind. In 2023, I was fined for “calling for the violation of the territorial integrity of the Russian Federation” [20.3.2 of the Administrative Code] and “displaying extremist symbols” [20.3 of the Administrative Code]. I was subjected to searches, but everything ended after I was forced to record a video apologizing. What else could I do? They threatened to change the charges to a more serious one and take my child away to an orphanage.

At the bus stop, the FSB officers asked me to open my bag. They looked inside and saw my passport, which they took and put in their pocket. They also took my phone and started browsing through the gallery.

At the time, I didn’t realize that a simple video of an attack could lead to my arrest. Everyone was filming such events. I realized that the FSB had found the video when one of them said to another, “She’s filming our office.”

After those words, I was grabbed and thrown into a car. I don’t know what exactly the missile damaged in that building, but based on their reaction, it was a significant impact. I’m certain there were casualties. This means that the consequences for me could have been much worse than they were a year ago.

The toughest of the FSB had the call sign “Center” [the call signs in the text were changed for the safety of the heroine]. He told me right to my face: “That’s it, you’re f*cked, spotter.” I tried to explain to him that I was just filming something that everyone was already seeing. But they already had their own idea: they are the heroes in it, I am the enemy.

There was no way to change their minds. Soon, they started making threats: “We’ll pull out your teeth without anesthesia,” “We’ll cut you into pieces,” “We’ll cut off your finger first, then your arm if you don’t shut up.”

This “Center” even offered to show a video where he allegedly gouged someone’s eye out. I decided to remain silent and tried to keep a straight face. I hoped that these were just scare tactics, as had happened last year. In 2023, there were also hints of violence, but it was just a matter of words.

“Center” quickly got down to business and hit me in the head. Hard, with a swing. I was thrown against the door. Then he said that my bag was too big, and without ceremony, he pulled it over my head, and my belongings fell to the floor. He suggested that other employees take me to a “special place” where “everything is already prepared.”

The car stopped. I was pulled out of the car by the arms, with a bag on my head, and led somewhere. I felt the grass under my feet. Then I was thrown to the ground and beaten. All three of them beat me, although one of them, a police officer with the call sign “Contour”, later told me that he didn’t beat me. He was lying! They all beat me.

The main blows were directed at my legs. Then “Center” stepped on my ribs and started asking questions: “Are you working for them?’” (referring to a Ukrainian Telegram channel) “What information have you been passing on?” and immediately showed me the text messages on my phone. He was convinced that I was sharing information with this blogger and receiving tasks from him. I tried to deny everything and explain, but the more I spoke, the more angry they became.

At one point, Center walked around me, stepped on my head with his boot, and said, “Why do you hate us so much? Why have you brought this on us?”

Center started to strangle me. Right through the bag. It covered my mouth and nose, held me until I started to choke, then let go. I took a breath, and it started all over again. It was repeated many times.

Somewhere in the background, I could hear Kontur trying to stop him, telling him: “You’re overdoing it,” but the man replied rather coldly that everything was under control. They began to discuss that if I screamed, people might come running. That was probably the only thing that slowed them down, so they decided to take me somewhere else.

When they left to talk, I lifted my bag a little to see where I was. But Center noticed me. He drew his pistol and began to approach: “Oh, you f*cker, I’m going to shoot you in the hooves!” — and really pointed the gun at my feet. I just instinctively pulled the bag back over my face and hid. He came over and kicked me twice.

Then they picked me up and ordered me to keep my hands behind my back. They said, “Get used to it, this is how you’re going to walk from now on.” I obeyed, as there was no other option. We got back into the car, and they told me that I had only experienced 1% of what was to come in the next 15 minutes.

Torture apartment in Petrovsky

Center was hysterical, saying that I had given him a concussion and that I wanted to kill them all. He suggested staging an attack: “Let’s let her out here, I’ll shoot her, and we’ll say she attacked us.” Kontur replied, “Are you crazy?”

Then they had another option: to take me to the front line. “Let the men play with her.” They were laughing! They even took pictures of me with their phones, saying nasty things: “Do you have a strong or a weak motor? Can you handle 220 volts?”

One of them asked me what to write to my mother so she wouldn’t worry. At first, I thought it was a gesture of humanity, but it wasn’t. I later realized that they thought I had spies in my home.

I said, “Write that you’re staying with a guy.” They did that. Their mother responded, but unfortunately, there was an error in the message: instead of “staying,” it said “starting.” I don’t know if it was a typo or if the autocorrect feature kicked in. They interpreted it as a code or a signal. After that, they started discussing sending someone to her house. Ultimately, they decided to “send the most f*cked-up person.”

I was taken to an apartment in the Petrovsky district, which I recognized by the sound of artillery. It is the loudest district in Donetsk.

The apartment was probably one of the employees’ apartments. I was silently led inside, sat on a stool, and tied to a radiator with an extension cord. It was really set up [for torture]. There was a plastic sheet under my feet. There were medical gloves, bags, and metal objects scattered around. I tried to examine them, but Center wouldn’t let me. He said, “Look at me, look at me.”

Soon, a new person appeared: his voice was quiet, almost indifferent, almost detached. He approached me and, without saying a word, burned my shoulder with something hot. I screamed in surprise. At the time, I didn’t understand what it was. Later, I noticed black dots on my shoulder from the electric shocks.

In response, the man indifferently remarked that I was “screaming too loudly.” Someone else advised him to close the windows to avoid attracting attention. The quiet man did not ask me any questions, but continued to burn me. Meanwhile, I overheard the employees discussing everyday matters, such as who would go to the gas station to pick up food. They even cracked jokes!

Later, they decided to record a new video with me, in which I was supposed to tell them who I was and why I had filmed the FSB building. I understood that they were going to show the recording to their superiors. The man with the quiet voice clearly didn’t want to act without clear instructions, and this, as I later realized, saved me to some extent. While he was coordinating his actions with his superiors, I was not touched. It was a respite from the torture. In the video, I repeated what I had already said many times — that I had been involved in administrative cases for my pro-Ukrainian stance, but I was not actively involved in any activities.

Another employee came to the apartment. As soon as he entered, he hit me on the legs with something heavy — I don’t know what it was, but there were no marks left, but the pain was unbearable. Then he started hitting me on the head with his hands — through the bag, on the back of my head, without any distinction, and with such force as if his fist was made of stone.

He started threatening me with an electric shock again and asked me what assignments I had been given. I tried to explain for the hundredth time that I hadn’t received any assignments and that I really had nothing to give them. Again, no one was listening to me.

I asked him to check my correspondence, said: “Please look, I have nothing to hide,” and it was true. Instead, I was bombarded with more threats: one of them yelled that he would “reset” me, threatened to throw me from the fifth floor, send me to Storm Z ,where they would ” tear up everything they can, specifically infect me with AIDS and syphilis.” At the same time, they continued to beat me.

Then one of them said, “I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but I’m hitting you, and I don’t give a f*ck about you.” At some point, another man, who I assumed was his deputy, intervened and tried to stop him. I felt that someone was at least nominally standing up for me.

When I was left alone, I heard someone in the next room—I realized it was Center complaining. He was saying on the phone that he had “plans for me,” that he wanted to “have some fun,” but he had apparently been called and told not to touch me.

I remember Center saying, “I like to take pictures before and after.”

I don’t know exactly who called him, but as I understand it, they sent a video of me to his boss, who may have doubted that I was the informant. However, regardless of what this person said, nothing changed, and the torture continued. I was moved to another room, untied, and forced to kneel, with a bag placed over my head again. I could hear someone typing, likely based on our interrogation.

They quickly grew bored with just asking me questions, and they started throwing objects at me — my passport was the first, followed by other things. Then they all started kicking me. Then they started giving me more electric shocks, this time in the back. I begged them to stop, I begged for mercy, it was unbearable.

I was exhausted: I tried to cooperate, I said I’d tell them whatever they wanted, just to make it stop. Yes, I was ready to confess to things I didn’t do. I was at their mercy, in some strange apartment, they could do whatever they wanted to me… and they were already doing it… I’d have to sign a confession, sooner or later. It was easier now, to end the torture.

One of them bluntly said, “Either you do what we say, or we kill you.” I replied in despair: “Then kill.” After that, they didn’t return to this topic again — perhaps they realized that they had brought me to an extreme point.

From the torture and the stuffiness, I started to lose consciousness. The Contour noticed this, ordered the others to lift the bag off my face, check on me, and then told them to bring me some water. This was done by Center. My hands were already in handcuffs, and I tried to reach for the glass, but he wouldn’t let me drink, just poured it over me. His pride prevented him from giving me water.

Then Kontur went to get some water and handed me a glass, saying, “Here, drink this.” He was the most reasonable of them. If it weren’t for him, I can’t even imagine how Center would have behaved.

They decided to go out on the balcony to discuss something. The man with the quiet voice stayed with me. I realized that I needed to go to the bathroom, but I was a little afraid to ask. However, he agreed. He came over and started helping me up. I had been kneeling for several hours, and my legs were weak, so I kept falling over and couldn’t get up. I was afraid that this would make him angry. However, he didn’t get angry and waited for me to stand up.

“You can’t help yourself anymore. But you can still help your loved ones”

All this torture lasted from the evening, around 7 p.m., when I was detained after work, until 2:30 a.m., when I was in that apartment in Petrovsky District.

It was decided to move me from my apartment to another place. I asked: “Are you taking me to shoot me?” They said no. “To the military in the trenches?” “No,”I said. As they later confessed to me, they were forbidden to keep me in this apartment. I don’t know, maybe their boss thought these guys were going to hurt me. However, they were not going to take me home, but to the Petrovsky detention center. Right at the entrance, my handcuffs were removed and my bag was taken away.

My escorts were treated like they were there every day. The guard said, “Put her in for violating the curfew. Or come up with something. As always.” The phrase “as always” made it clear that I wasn’t the first person they had “come up with” an article for.

Before leaving, Kontur threw: “See you tomorrow. You have a night to think. Tomorrow will be more painful.”

I tried to talk to a police officer at the department: “I filmed their office. But I’m not a snitch. Please, can you protect me from them somehow? I’ll tell you everything!” He refused to help me. In the morning, they came for me. They told me it was time to go to court. In the lobby, I saw a female police officer. I was clinging to everyone as if they could save me, so I asked her for help. I looked at her pleadingly and told her that I really wanted to live, but she asked me not to talk to her again, saying, “What if you’d poisoned me?” I tried to explain that I hadn’t done anything, but she just waved me off.

I was approached by Center, Kontur, and several other employees from their office. We went to court. They didn’t even pretend to do justice, they just said: Anyway, we’re from the FSB, we need you to arrest this woman.

They decided to lock me up for five days. “That means I won’t touch you for five days,” said Kontur. At the time, it seemed better than being subjected to more torture in an unknown place, so I signed the paperwork for administrative detention.

I was hoping that I could go to my cell, but then the female police officer asked the men, “You want to talk in a room, right?” On the second floor, I was met by seven people. Apparently, they were higher-ranking than Center and Kontur officers, as they immediately fell silent. This led to another interrogation. At one point, one of them thought that I was speaking too quietly, and another said that I needed to be “awakened.”

Center, who was apparently in charge of the “dirty work,” approached me, and I felt something burning my back again. I think it was a stun gun. I instinctively jumped back, but I was stopped in time. “Sit down quickly!” the voice commanded.

And it all started again — questions, aggression, and threats. What could I say to them? I only had the truth. They didn’t need it.

This time, the burning on my back lasted longer, and it was unbearable.

“This is the lite version. After your time off, we’ll continue.”

“So tell me what I should say!”

But there was no correct answer.

After the interrogation, I was taken to the hospital. In the car, they told me that I had talked myself into 20 years. They also said something that made my heart freeze: “You can’t help yourself anymore. But you can help your loved ones. Their fate depends on you.”

I tried to find out what it meant, and they gave me a rather vague answer: “If you’d been taken out of that apartment an hour later, you could have said hello to them.”

I was really scared for my mom and my daughter. “They’re in a bad place, but they’re going to be okay. And for every wrong answer you give, I’m going to make it worse for your daughter,” one of the employees said. After everything I’d been through, I believed them.

“I don’t give a fu*k about your bitch. I’ll cut her head off and hang her in your cell.”

Even the female police officer sitting next to me, who I thought was also a mother, didn’t stand up for me. “Why didn’t you think about your child before you went to work in Ukraine?” she said. “Why the FSB? Why do you hate us?” I couldn’t take it anymore and shouted at them, “You’re like bandits!”

The hospital was just a formality to get a certificate for detention. I had severe burns, but they didn’t provide any assistance, even though I asked for it. My blood pressure was high, as I could feel, but the certificate showed a reading of 120/80, as I later discovered.

Then we ended up in the pre-trial detention center, where I spent all five days. While I was in the cell, I touched my burns and was terrified of getting new ones, as these ones had not yet fully healed.

When I left the detention center, I saw the same familiar faces. It was expected. “Aren’t you happy to see us?” they smirked. They pushed me back into the car.

I asked if my family had been interrogated. They were surprised by the question and said that no one had touched them. Later, I found out that my house had been searched for Ukrainian flags and other symbols.

Center was fiddling with something in his hand. I couldn’t see what it was, but I tensed up. Kontur noticed this, chuckled, and said that no one would physically harm me. However, it didn’t make me feel any better, as I had little faith in them. Suddenly, it was revealed that I wouldn’t be allowed to return home because they hadn’t thoroughly investigated everything and weren’t entirely certain. They decided to hand me over to the police again.

“You didn’t work with her well enough”

This short “respite” in the detention center helped me to understand something: they didn’t have anything on me, they were just trying to dig something up to pin a “serious charge” on me. The arrest was necessary to put me under psychological pressure, so that I wouldn’t have time to find a lawyer and so that I wouldn’t escape.

After the Petrovsky District Police Station, I was transferred to the Voroshilovsky District Police Station, where I was processed again, this time under the article on hooliganism.

The police officers at the station were surprisingly kind, and they let me sleep in peace. In the morning, I was fined 500 rubles at the court. One of the police officers told me that I had a chance to go home, but I would probably be followed there. At least I could see my mother and change my clothes.

I believed that everything could end well, but as soon as I left the courthouse, I ran into the Center again. I told him that I had a fine and that I was a free person who could go wherever I wanted.

“You can. Try walking fifty meters, and I’ll shout, ‘Stop!’ And you’ll resist. There was ‘dill’ and then there was ‘dill’ gone.”

I’m already freaking out: “Are you going to shoot me?” and he was like, “Why not?” At that moment, a second employee came up and stopped me: “Are you a fool? No one will shoot. Just sit down.”

I obediently sat down on a bench. They started calling someone—probably their superiors. From the snippets of conversation, I understood that they didn’t know what to do with me, but they wanted to keep me somewhere until evening, when they would take me back to the Petrovsky District Police Station and lock me up for a few days. They took me with them all day, even feeding me at a nearby restaurant at their own expense.

I decided to ask for a phone call to my mother. One of the employees was surprised that I hadn’t contacted her yet. At first, he didn’t want to give me the phone, but eventually relented. However, I still couldn’t make the call. I started worrying again that they might have been kidnapped. The two employees comforted me and assured me that they would try to call again later.

Later, new conversations began. I was told that I would be imprisoned under Article 275-high treason. But they added it right away: it’s not so bad, you can put me on the lists and exchange me for someone from Ukraine. However, this was a small consolation, I have a Russian passport, and it is unlikely that I will be exchanged.

The evening was dragging on. Eventually, I was taken to the same apartment in Petrovsky District where it all started. My skin was crawling… It wasn’t torture, but the “Contour” tried to be kind, assuring me that I was a guest in the apartment and could even lie down on the couch and sleep.

While I was trying to calm down, he dialed my mother’s number, and she answered. He handed me the phone, saying I had a minute to talk. I heard my mother and daughter crying. I started crying too, but I tried to stay strong because I only had a minute. I managed to tell them that I was alive, that everything was more or less okay, and asked them to bring some clothes to the Petrovskoye police station the next day. I’ve been wearing the same torn shorts and burnt-out T-shirt all this time.

After another interrogation with another employee (I even noticed that the conversation went smoothly), I was finally allowed to go to the bathroom. There, I looked at myself in the mirror, lifted my T-shirt, and gasped. The burns on my body had darkened and were covered with black dots. It was a sight to behold.

Later in the evening, I was taken to the Petrovsky ROVD-again for “violating curfew”. I was released a few days later. But there was no joy at all. I already knew I wasn’t going to get home again. Everything will go round in circles.

At the exit, the “Contour” was waiting for me again. He calmly pointed to the car, inviting them to sit down. He asked me where we were going. I couldn’t stand it and just said so: “Why are you kidding me? I can only give you one address — my house.” All of a sudden, he said that’s where I was going. He wasn’t lying — the road did go in the direction of my house, but I felt that there was something behind it. I wasn’t wrong.

He started telling me that I was their slave now, and that I had to report to them for every step I took. He said that he would call me in the morning and in the evening to give me instructions. I immediately realized that they wanted to turn me into a “subordinate.” In fact, I had already started to realize this when one of them praised my memory and attentiveness. He said that he could find a use for me.

When I got home, I was forced to sign papers: non-disclosure, that I allegedly voluntarily gave up my phone, and that I would not leave the borders of the DPR. The FSB officers did not lie — the very next day the calls started. They tried to make me rat on my friends. And after that, they pushed for self-incrimination. They demanded to admit guilt that I corrected the shelling of the FSB building. Otherwise, the chat where I discussed politics with friends was threatened to be framed as ” creating an extremist community.” This will be worse than admitting to “adjustments.”

I was thinking about it, and they started to rush me. The “outline” showed me the screen of his phone, where there were messages from his superiors: “She’s being shady,” “You haven’t worked with her well enough.” I was afraid of more torture and an even more severe sentence. So I signed everything.

I wasn’t bothered again until January 2025. Then the FSB contacted me again. They said we needed to meet.

In one of the calls, either by accident or on purpose, I overheard them discussing the idea of planting something on me. Drugs, for example. Or sending a provocative message from my phone to create a case.

I remembered from my past experience that lawyers were unlikely to help. No one wanted to take on political cases. Some people even said, “It’s easier to defend a murderer than you.”

At another meeting with an FSB officer, they wanted to recruit me. This time, it was more official, with no hints. They offered me to leak information about other pro-Ukrainian residents of Donetsk. I refused to sign a statement. It seemed like a cheap trick: in a car, without witnesses, with a signature scribbled on the knee. My refusal only piqued their interest. They offered me money. This convinced me that they needed my signature. I simply got out of the car, leaving them with nothing.

Then they switched to my boss. They started coming to work, talking to her, and hinting that I was an unsuitable employee. But I wasn’t fired. Then suspicious men started coming to work, not buying anything, but trying to start conversations about politics.

You live your life thinking that you’re almost immortal, that this won’t happen to you—it’s only in movies or on the news. But it won’t happen to you. How can it happen? Being tortured? It seems unreal. But it’s happening to you. You realize that no amount of begging or pleading will work. My tears only made them smile. They said that if I didn’t stop crying, the torture would continue. I had to force myself not to cry.

I still don’t feel safe. I tried to leave Donetsk, but I was turned back several times at checkpoints in the Rostov region.

My old VKontakte pages, which I haven’t accessed for a long time, suddenly appear online. Apparently, someone is digging through my messages, hoping to find something to hold on to. They want to bring a new case against me. I don’t know what awaits me. It’s frightening. One of my recent conversations with my colleagues ended with the statement, “If you don’t stop your activities, you’ll be imprisoned for a long time.”

A few months before the publication, Elena stopped being in contact with ASTRA.

Author: Eva Romanova

ASTRA is an independent Russian publication that regularly publishes materials about crimes against civilians in the occupied territories of Ukraine. Contact the editorial office at astrasmi@pm.me