In a tiny district in Russia’s Siberian Omsk region, the residents of local villages are of Ukrainian descent. But against the backdrop of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, one family — the Gordienkos — became outcasts for speaking out against the war while their neighbors volunteered to go fight for the Kremlin. The elderly couple, Anastasia and Sergey, live in a village that officially doesn’t exist — and the persecution they’re facing for their anti-war stance is just the latest chapter in a long-running standoff with the authorities. When OVD-Info’s reporter visited the Gordienkos and their neighbors in February, she found a community deeply rooted in Ukrainian language and culture but equally immersed in the Kremlin’s propaganda narratives about the war. This dispatch is based on her reporting.

The following story appeared in The Beet, a weekly email dispatch from Meduza covering Central and Eastern Europe, the Caucasus, and Central Asia. A version of this story was first published by OVD-Info, an independent media and human rights group that focuses on monitoring and combating repressions in Russia. To keep up with their work, subscribe to their weekly English-language newsletter, The Dissident Digest. 

Odesskoye village, a roadside cafe. Grumpy men enter, shaking themselves off and talking anxiously. They crossed the border into Russia from Kazakhstan, which is just 18 kilometers (11 miles) away, and now the road is closed: a blizzard is about to start. 

The village was once called New Odessa. Ukrainian peasants who settled the Russian Empire’s Siberian frontier in the early 20th century named it in memory of their homeland. The first part of the village’s name has since faded away, but the majority of its residents are ethnically and culturally Ukrainian to this day. The surrounding villages are also named after Ukrainian locales: Gannovka, Blagodarovka, Zhelannoye, and Bunyakovka. Some of their counterparts still exist in modern-day Ukraine. 

“Welcome to Khokhland! That’s what we call it here!” says Evgeny, using a derogatory term referring to Ukraine. Evgeny, or Zhenya for short, chuckles good naturedly. “In some villages here, if you speak Russian, they immediately figure out that you aren’t from around here,” he explains. “In Blagodarovka, the children couldn’t understand the young Russian-speaking teachers from the city, so retired teachers had to go back to work.”

Zhenya’s family tree is all Cossacks and Molokans (members of a Russian Spiritual Christian sect). He’s a farmer who keeps a flock of sheep and lives alone. His daughter studies in Tomsk, a major Siberian city, and his ex-wife left Russia for Germany because of the war; she quit her job at a school after teachers were mandated to run compulsory propaganda classes aimed at enforcing the official Kremlin narrative about the invasion of Ukraine.

“So many people from Blagodarovka marched off to war, I’m amazed,” Zhenya says indignantly. “Ukrainians [fighting against Ukrainians]! And many went voluntarily. I asked them, ‘Have you lost your mind?’ I even told one 40-year-old man, ‘You idiot, where do you think you’re headed?’ And he answered [in Ukrainian], ‘I’m going to fight the Nazis.’”

‘Mothers, stop the war!’

There’s no road to the village of Reshetilovka. There’s also no local school, hospital, shop, or houses, except Anastasia and Sergey Gordienko’s home. Officially, the village no longer exists. 

Anastasia moved to Reshetilovka from a nearby village at 18, after completing a course in choir conducting and the accordion. She started working at the local community center, where she met — and later married — Sergey. This year marks their fiftieth wedding anniversary. 

Sergey became a livestock technician and the young couple moved to the neighboring village of Gannovka, where they were offered jobs and an apartment to call their own. As the USSR sank further into stagnation in its final years, Reshetilovka disappeared; its collective farm collapsed, the local school closed, and residents sold off their cattle and moved to neighboring villages. In 1980, the abandoned village was erased from all official records. Today, the community center where Sergey and Anastasia first met and later married lies in brick ruins visible from their window.

The window also looks out on a brand-new structure: a monument to villagers who died in World War II. The memorial’s “grand opening” was last year on June 4. “Someone from Gannovka asked me, ‘Will you come [to the ceremony]?’ I said that if I were to attend, it would only be under the Ukrainian banner! Some villager must’ve snitched, and it all turned into a circus,” Anastasia says. 

On the eve of the grand opening, police officers showed up on Anastasia’s doorstep. The ceremony happened to coincide with Alexey Navalny’s birthday — the imprisoned opposition politician was turning 47 and his supporters were organizing a rally in Omsk. “The police came and said, ‘You’re plotting a terrorist attack.’ I answered, ‘Are you completely out of your mind? What terrorist attack? I’m actually planning to go to a rally in Omsk!’” Anastasia recalls. 

The police issued Anastasia a warning, to prevent her from participating in any “unauthorized rallies,” and placed her under travel restrictions. She can no longer leave the Odessky district without the investigator’s permission, not even to go to the nearest hospital. “At the police station, I told [them], ‘Your restrictions have offended me. I’m 70 years old, raised four children, lived a decent life, and suddenly I’m a threat to the state!’” Anastasia says sharply.

But this wasn’t the beginning of Anastasia’s troubles with the law. In September 2022, after Russian President Vladimir Putin announced a military mobilization, Anastasia received a call from the village council: Her eldest son was on the list to receive a draft notice. That’s when she “lost it,” Anastasia says. “I called the draft board [and] I screamed: ‘My sons will not be murderers! Don’t even come close to them, or I’ll blow you up and burn you! They are not going to this war!’”

Anastasia was ready to fight to the death for her sons and her grandson, who had just turned 21. The family decided the eldest son would leave for Kazakhstan. That October, police in Omsk arrested Anastasia for conducting an anti-war picket near the city’s monument to Bohdan Khmelnytsky, a revered Ukrainian Cossack leader. She was protesting alone, holding a poster with the slogan “Mothers, stop the war!” 

The picket earned Anastasia two misdemeanor convictions and fines roughly equivalent to $350. The police also threatened to file “extremism” or “terrorism” charges against her over the phone call she made to the draft board, but they never did. A year later, in September 2023, she was accused of repeatedly “discrediting” the Russian army — a felony offense — due to her anti-war comments on social media. “I’m already an experienced fighter,” Anastasia says triumphantly.

‘You can’t live here’

Anastasia’s husband is a fighter, too. “I was once in the political opposition but circumstances turned me into a revolutionary,” Sergey says with a sigh. “A peasant who has fed the people all his life became an oppositionist — quite the twist, isn’t it?”

When the Gordienkos returned to Reshetilovka in 1988, they discovered that the village and the only road connecting it to the rest of the world had officially ceased to exist. While building their house and farm, they lived in a tent until the cold set in. They acquired livestock — 50 cows, as well as pigs, goats, sheep, and poultry. (By that time, the Gordienkos already had two daughters and two sons; they now live with their own families in Gannovka and Omsk.)

For many years, the Gordienkos’ farm set records for milk production — 7,000 liters of milk per cow each year. Awards marking their achievements are now stacked in a cupboard. The couple fed the entire Odessky district with their milk, sour cream, cottage cheese, and eggs. But they came up against the authorities every step of the way. 

“We’ve had to fight the entire time, ever since we started farming,” says Sergey. “I wanted to normalize the farm business, hoping for some assistance from the state. However, with milk prices plummeting, we could barely cover daily expenses, let alone invest in mechanization. So, we turned to loans, purchased equipment, and toiled tirelessly to repay these debts — 30 years of relentless effort.”

All the while, the Gordienkos fought for official recognition for their village. Anastasia even conducted a hunger strike outside the regional government office, but the issue remained unresolved. “We’re residing in an unlawfully constructed dwelling,” she explains. “While our farm is registered, we’re told, ‘You can work here, but you can’t live here.’”

During another protest in late August 2014, the Gordienkos emptied 500 liters of milk into a storm drain outside of the governor’s residence in Omsk. A month later, the authorities initiated a criminal case against Sergey on large-scale fraud charges. He received a five-year suspended sentence, which a regional court ultimately overturned, awarding the Gordienkos 400,000 rubles ($4,335) in compensation for damages and legal fees. But the toll of the trial weighed heavily on Sergey’s health: He developed asthma, still coughs frequently, and relies on an inhaler.

Keeping the farm afloat became increasingly difficult and in 2017, the Gordienkos sold almost all their livestock. They kept just three cows, two bulls, a piglet, goats, sheep, and poultry. The couple’s combined monthly retirement pension amounts to just 17,000 rubles (less than $200). 

“I hate this state for what it has done to me,” Sergey says hoarsely. “Our authorities are vile and despicable. They destroy people by any means necessary. When they couldn’t break me, they turned to my wife. Yes, she’s audacious and persistent, but she always fights for the truth.”

‘Who else but Putin?’

The Gordienkos are still fighting to restore Reshetilovka’s settlement status because it would unlock state funding for a decent road. With no local hospital, they must rely on paramedics from Odesskoye, but ambulances can’t reach Reshetilovka in the winter. It once took EMTs eight hours on foot to reach Sergey when he had a bout of intestinal obstruction. He needed to be hospitalized immediately, but a tractor had to clear the road before a car could pass through. Anastasia, meanwhile, needs joint replacement surgery on one of her legs. There are 5,769 people ahead of her on the waitlist, with an estimated wait time of five to seven years. 

“People are dropping like flies and yet still voting for Putin,” grumbles Sergey. “Our friend’s husband suffered a heart attack, but with no intensive care unit in Odesskoye he died in the car on the way to Omsk. Yet, she says to me, ‘Who else but Putin?’ I told her, ‘Can’t you see? If there had been an ICU or a hospital in the village, your husband might have survived.’” 

Maintaining the farm leaves the Gordienkos with little time to read the news, but they remain well informed about politics. Anastasia actively participated in numerous rallies advocating for Alexey Navalny’s release and dreamed of meeting the opposition politician herself. “I sometimes turn on the TV, only to feel disgusted afterward. I prefer watching news on YouTube and subscribing to independent media. Navalny is my hero,” she says. “We’ve had our disagreements with each government: Brezhnev’s, Gorbachev’s, Yeltsin’s, but this one is the most despicable.” (According to Zhenya, Anastasia “cried all night” after Navalny died in prison in February.) 

Anastasia is still suspected of “repeatedly discrediting” the Russian military. But according to her lawyer, OVD-Info affiliate Andrey Ognev, there are “no specifics” in the case and the authorities have yet to file an indictment. The only thing they know for sure is that investigators initiated the case due to Anastasia’s anti-war comments on social media. 

The local response to Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine left Anastasia outraged. After the war began, Gannovka’s residents held a “patriotic” car rally; they started weaving camouflage nets, knitting socks, and casting trench candles for frontline soldiers. In Odesskoye, residents raised funds to support Russian servicemen. Anastasia texted in many local chats, expressing condemnation and disbelief at how ethnic Ukrainians could support the Russian army’s invasion of Ukraine. In response to one angry reply, she wrote that her sons and grandson would never fight in the war, declaring, “We’ll go underground, become partisans, [or] go to prison!”

“We simply laughed at [the war] propaganda and underestimated what it could do,” says Sergey. “[People] have even fallen out with their relatives from Ukraine,” he adds. 

Sergey no longer speaks to his own brother, Yuri, who lives in Gannovka. According to Sergey, his brother refers to the Gordienkos as “fools” and supports the “special military operation.” Yuri’s grandson enlisted to fight in Ukraine as a contract soldier and received an award for his military service. “I [told] him, ‘One day your grandson will be ashamed of these medals and he will hide them. The people of Ukraine curse you for what you have done,’” Sergey recalls.  

According to Sergey, the Kremlin’s propaganda has “done its job.” “Lies and hatred pour from TV screens, but we were raised in this culture: our father is Ukrainian, we read Ukrainian magazines, we sang [Ukrainian] folk songs,” he says. 

Difficult enemies

In the village of Gannovka, a reproduction of Ilya Repin’s Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks hangs on the wall in the cultural center’s lobby. Beneath the painting stands a notice board with a sign that reads “Heroes of our district” alongside 14 photographs of local soldiers who died fighting in Ukraine. Many have Ukrainian surnames.  

In the recital room, seven elderly women in folk costumes are singing their hearts out. They are the members of Kalynonka, a Ukrainian folk ensemble that Anastasia Gordienko founded when she lived in Gannovka. (At the time, Anastasia was the cultural center’s director.) 

Practically all of the Kalynonka performers are ethnic Ukrainians — the descendants of 20th-century settlers who have preserved their ancestors’ language and culture. “Our grandchildren speak mostly Russian, but our children can also speak Ukrainian! As for us, we love both languages,” Valentina Kolbasa says in Ukrainian. 

Only Maria is Russian, but she enjoys singing in the Ukrainian ensemble, even though she sometimes has difficulty understanding all the words. Her Ukrainian husband — who happens to be Sergey Gordienko’s brother, Yuri — helps her with that. 

Maria and Yuri’s grandson is still fighting in Ukraine, as is Valentina Kolbasa’s grandson-in-law. “My granddaughter Nastya’s husband was taken to the front, he’s in the Donbas,” Valentina explains in a mix of Russian and Ukrainian. “My heart aches for everyone, but I specifically don’t want to lose someone from my own family. But what else could we do? How could he refuse to go? He’s eligible for military service. It’s better to fight than to be in jail — that’s what I think.” 

Of the nine people from Gannovka who have gone off to war, one has already died: Valentina Babak’s nephew. Lyudmila’s son came back injured. “He was there for three months and got a concussion. Now he’s on a pension — 18,000 rubles [per month],” Lyudmila explains. (18,000 rubles is about $200.) 

“The poor are the ones who have to go to war and try to earn a living. That’s the truth!” says Valentina Kolbasa, still speaking Ukrainian. 

“That’s not true!” Maria replies in Russian. “They show it on the program Nashi on channel two, I always watch it. There are so many of our guys fighting there: Kazakhs, Ukrainians. And they all come back and say: ‘Look what’s happening there, how they have been tormenting people there since 2014.’”

Many of the Kalynonka performers have relatives in Ukraine, but they’re hardly on speaking terms. “They’re putting the blame on us,” Valentina says. “When our people call [their relatives] in Ukraine, they say they don’t want to talk to us anymore. They say, ‘You betrayed us, you sold out to the Muscovites.’” “They must have such propaganda and politics there that they speak ill of us,” another woman adds.

The women repeat Russian propaganda talking points about “Banderites” and “the rise of Nazism” in Ukraine. But they all say they’re eagerly awaiting the end of the war. When asked about the Gordienkos, Maria insists that “there were not and are not any splits between families in the region,” though she admits that her husband and his brother haven’t seen each other in a long time. “When should they meet?” she asks rhetorically. “We have our farm [to take care of], and they have theirs.” 

The women continue to talk about the war, culture, their relatives, and village life. Then they go back to rehearsing a Ukrainian folk song. “Susidy blyzki — vorohy tiazhki,” they sing — close neighbors are difficult enemies.

* * *

Marina Sayun has been Gannovka’s mayor since 1986. According to Anastasia, she and Marina used to be good friends — they attended the theater together and even traveled together to Odesa. But then, as Anastasia puts it, “she went into government, and that was it.”

According to the latest census, Gannovka has 790 registered residents. But Sayun says many of these people no longer live in the village. When she first became mayor, there were many more households, she says, “but then young people, striving for a better life, began to leave.” “If there were sufficient funds in the budget, [my job] would be much easier,” the mayor continues. “But with so many responsibilities and limited resources, it’s challenging. We’d like to accomplish much more.” 

When asked about Anastasia Gordienko, Sayun says they no longer keep in touch. “But I know she held a solitary picket against the ‘special military operation.’ I don’t think that’s quite right,” she adds. 

The mayor launches into familiar talking points about the “confrontation between Russia and the West,” referencing Russian propagandist Vladimir Solovyov and American right-wing pundit Tucker Carlson’s interview with Putin. Sayun rejects the notion that the Russian authorities are cracking down on dissent. “We all live in harmony here. No oppression, nothing like that. Ukrainians, Kazakhs, Russians — they sing Ukrainian songs on stage,” she says. 

But Sayun admits to finding the current situation deeply painful. After all, she says, it’s painful when “two brothers” end up on opposite sides of the front. “There are so many casualties on both sides,” she remarks softly. “This isn’t something that will be forgotten and forgiven overnight.” 

Hello, I’m Eilish Hart, the editor of The Beet. Thanks for taking the time to read our work! Our newsletter delivers underreported stories like this one to subscribers every Thursday. Like all of Meduza’s reporting, it’s free to read, but relies on support from readers like you. Please consider donating to our crowdfunding campaign.