Previously, a village in Crimea smelled of wormwood… The endless steppe on the horizon met the sky. Silence and peace reigned all around. Now those places are filled with fear and anxiety. Instead of wormwood, the scent of uncertainty hung in the air, as the aggressors returned to the “native harbour.”  

More than once she returned home when the peninsula was permeated by occupation. Pseudo historians, tour guides, archaeologists, civil servants, and even taxi drivers were Kremlin puppets who settled in Crimea after 2014. And every dialogue with them was a potential conflict. So, her home narrowed from the endless steppe to the gates of her parents’ house. 

She was going home again because the illness had struck her father hard. However, this was the last time she would travel that route. A gun to her forehead, threats, eight-hour interrogations, 5 administrative protocols, and a fabricated espionage case that threatened 20 years in prison – this is what Crimean Tatar political prisoner Leniie Umerova had to go through simply because she did not have a russian passport. 

A year and nine months behind bars, where the emptiness was filled with books and letters – self-irony.  She didn’t have time to hear her sentence as she went on exchange. And the first thing she did when she was free was breathe in the aroma of coffee. It was her little dream. 

Today we talk about Leniie’s journey – from her grandmother’s stories about the deportation of Crimean Tatars to her new goal – to awaken a conscious generation that will never again allow the enemy to take their home. 

“My generation is one of the first to be born at home, on our native land”

You are originally from Crimea. What do you remember from your childhood there? Perhaps there are moments that you think back to most often?

I was born in Crimea. My generation is one of the first to be born at home, on our native land. We were called lucky then, because we had the opportunity to be born and grow up in our homeland. 

I come from the Dzhankoi area, from a small village. This is a mountain-steppe area – where one can go out and walk dozens of kilometres forward, and only space, sky, and silence is all around. And this special aroma – of wormwood, steppe, dust – was always there. I grew up with these aromas, they are part of home for me. 

These were times of frequent power outages. And at such moments, my grandmother encouraged us to play games. I grew up with two older brothers, and she often showed us the games she herself played when she was little in Crimea.. 

Leniie Umerova with her grandmother and brother. Photo from Leniie’s family archive.

Now I remember it with a smile. These were very authentic, real Crimean Tatar games. For example, my grandmother would set a challenge: one had to somehow twist fingers – not an easy task. And then the story began – a tale about a man who went to get water, fell, rolled down a mountain, found something… And she accompanied all this with finger movements, as if she were showing a fairy tale with her hands. 

There was also a game where one child would stand “on the bridge” – with their back to the others. The children would run around, say a count – and at the end, everyone would run up and put their hands on the back of the person standing. And the person had to guess: whose hand was below? It would seem simple – but it was a lot of fun. 

This was a period when Crimean Tatars were gradually returning to Crimea, and the first signs of good neighbourliness began to appear between people. At first, as relatives said, it was difficult. They moved in 1989 and remember how some neighbours warned each other: “Be careful with those who have returned – they may steal something or, God forbid, eat your children.” Chauvinistic stereotypes were very much alive. 

But over time, everything changed. They saw that we were ordinary, reliable people. Little by little, trust emerged, and in some places even friendships were formed. 

When I was in first grade, we moved to Kezlev – a very interesting city that I consider the capital of Crimean tolerance. There is a large neighbourhood there where Crimean Tatars live, as well as a significant Karaite diaspora. 

In addition, many Ukrainians lived in Kezlev, including military personnel who were once brought from mainland Ukraine. I had friends of different nationalities around me: Armenians and even Koreans. There was truly a flower garden of cultures and peoples. 

Tolerance was instilled in us from childhood – both at home and in society. Despite the pain of deportation, she was left not with anger, but with the realization that we must be above any disdain or ill will. My parents always taught me to respect others, and it was felt around me. 

In addition, in many resort towns, life usually raged in the summer – people rented out houses and then lived on these funds all year round, without worrying about anything. This was the case until the beginning of 2014… 

“Grandma had a tough stance – not allowing russian culture to enter our home.”

When did you first feel your ethnicity—the blood that flows in your veins? 

In the beginning, chauvinism in Crimea was a constant phenomenon. It is a very personal story, connected with the human factor. I knew many people who lowered grades just because a student was Crimean Tatar or refused to sell or rent housing for the same reason. 

My grandmother was a woman with a strong character. Her fate was very difficult. At the age of 10, she survived deportation and lost her two younger brothers.

Leniie Umerova’s grandmother. Photo from the Leniie’s family archive.

At an early age, she had to grow up very quickly – looking for opportunities to earn a living, study, gain knowledge, and work. Upon reaching adulthood, she immediately got married. 

Given the realities of the Soviet Union, there was no other choice but to learn russian. At the same time, my grandmother spoke Uzbek and Crimean Tatar perfectly. But when it came to russian, she would say: “I don’t understand anything.”  

It was very funny when my brother and I, even before kindergarten, communicated only in Crimean Tatar at home. And when we started going to kindergarten and socializing among children who spoke russian, we would sometimes come home and say something to our grandmother in that language. She looked at us and answered in Crimean Tatar, so that we wouldn’t address her in russian: she said she didn’t know it.  

It sounded a little strange to me, even “crazy,” but it was her tough stance – not to allow russian culture to penetrate our home.

Leniie Umerova’s grandmother. Photo from the Leniie’s family archive.

Grandma often talked about deportation, about how difficult it was to return, about Crimean dissidents. She could, tell these stories like a child, with such emotion that they remained in the memory forever. 

Thanks to her, since childhood I have formed a worldview, an understanding of who I was, what nation I belonged to. She also understood that in those days there was no opportunity to learn more through books or culture, as Crimean Tatar culture was practically non-existent. And so, it was important for her to convey the right messages to us, to convey this story and this spirit. 

I can’t speak for all Crimean Tatars, but for most of us, national consciousness and identity run very deep. Maybe it’s because of the difficult stories we’ve been through, or because of some special factor that’s hard to explain. Despite the chauvinistic statements and inferiority complexes that were tried to impose on us, this consciousness has grown in our culture. 

I believe that this was facilitated by active movements, in particular the Mejlis, as well as regular rallies on May 18 – the Day of Remembrance of the Victims of Deportation. It was an important moment of unity for our people, as everyone came together to remember and support each other. 

At home, we spoke Crimean Tatar on a daily basis, but on the street, we spoke russian. It is not entirely clear why this was the case. And in fourth grade, I had a friend who spoke exclusively Ukrainian at home.  

I remember well how I came to visit her. I heard that her mother spoke Ukrainian – it was new to me, because I only knew this language from TV or from two hours of Ukrainian lessons a week at school. I was very interested. 

Then I told them that we didn’t speak russian at home either, but Crimean Tatar. It was a kind of a small cultural exchange. In such little things people realize that they are not like everyone else, and everyone around are too. Everyone has their own individuality. 

I think I got my fundamental values ​​and principles from my family – they were passed down to me with my mother’s milk. And understanding of who I was in society was a merit of the multicultural environment in which I was very lucky to live. 

“There was a booth in the street with the words “Migration Service” written on it, where one could get a russian passport in half an hour”

The occupation of Crimea is a historical turning point. What did it look like for you? How exactly did the occupation enter your home?

It felt gradual – the tension was constantly growing. 

I had friends who went to Maidan at the time. And I remember one time I came to an extra English class, and the teacher suddenly said something like: “These ‘Maidanites’ need to be burned, otherwise they will come to us.” 

I was scared. I was a child, and I didn’t understand: why do people say things like that? Where does so much hatred come from? Why do they behave so unfairly? 

And then everything started to develop even more rapidly. Protests outside the Verkhovna Rada of Crimea. Deaths.  

It was very scary. At first, we didn’t even leave the house. There was anxiety, uncertainty. No one understood what would happen tomorrow. And when the “little green men” appeared on the streets, everything became even more alarming. 

I remember walking through the city and seeing them. They just stood there – silent, without any words or threats. But they were with weapons. And we didn’t know how to behave. They didn’t seem to do anything to us, but their very presence was a threat. We subconsciously felt: if something goes wrong, they can pull the trigger. 

On March 14, I turned 16, and I was preparing to get a Ukrainian passport. But on March 16, the so-called “referendum” took place. All government institutions were closing, everything was freezing, and I simply didn’t understand what’s happening. 

How to get a passport? Unclear. 

Then school gradually started working, everything seemed to return to its normal rhythm, but the atmosphere was completely different.  

It was funny and scary at the same time. We had a subject called “law”, and we studied Ukrainian legislation… although Crimea was already occupied. Even the teacher herself did not know russian legislation. 

She honestly said, “I don’t know what I shall be teaching you now.” And instead of lessons, we just discussed some abstract topics. And sometimes it turned into outright propaganda. She said that in six months Ukraine would cease to exist, that it would be divided between Poland, Hungary, Moldova, Romania, and Belarus, and “a piece of land would remain.”  

And then the passport application process began. And it was very absurd: literally in the street there was some kind of booth with the inscription “Migration Service”, where one could receive a russian passport in half an hour. 

We, teenagers who had just turned 16, were all gathered in the school auditorium and told: “We will now issue you passports.” My friends and I just looked at each other: what passports? What’s going on? And then we just ran out of there. 

But without this passport, people were limited in both education and medicine. Moreover, without a russian passport, property could be nationalized and a person would simply be left without a home. In Crimea, such a person would be like a “foreigner” without the right to stay for more than 90 days. And then he/she would be deported. 

I had friends who tried to avoid a russian passport until the last moment. They went to the Kherson region, got a stamp, received a migration paper – and returned. Just so they don’t have a russian document. 

But with the onset of the pandemic, everything changed. Due to isolation, closed borders, and lack of transportation, people simply had no choice. The situation literally squeezed them – it was impossible to remain without a passport. 

I remember going to a children’s camp – it was a kind of reward for the scientific paper I wrote. We arrived there – it was a mountainous area near Bakhchysarai, very picturesque. 

And on the second or third day, the camp was suddenly surrounded by OMON officers. It was really scary. We asked the elders what was happening, why these people with weapons were there. 

We were told: “This is for your protection.” 

Protection… from whom? From the wild boars in the mountains? Or from our own thoughts, conversations, initiatives? From teenagers who might ask the “wrong” questions? 

This experience was very disturbing, but also revealing. It became clear: in this new “order,” any other thought was already a threat. 

I remember how Crimean activists started disappearing one by one.

Some like Reshat Ametov was later found tortured. It was terrible. Later, Edem Asanov was found hanged. He actively expressed his position. The local authorities then hastened to declare it a suicide. But everyone understood: it did not seem like the truth. 

Against this background, there were fear, powerlessness, the feeling that no one could be trusted. The atmosphere became increasingly oppressive. Everything piled up on top of each other, and at some point, staying there became not just scary – it became unbearable. 

I decided that it would be better for me to move to the mainland of Ukraine, finish school there and then go to university. It was entirely my personal decision. 

I remember that moment well: I came back from school – in tears, in hysterics. I said: “I can’t go there anymore.” Because what was happening there was unbearable. Open propaganda. Collaborative narratives. All of this was treacherous, disgusting – and right within the walls of the school. 

And I was hot-tempered, I took everything very personally. When I heard something like that, I just got angry. 

And what’s important is that my loved ones immediately supported me. I’m incredibly grateful to them for that. And I left. 

How did your grandmother take it?

It was really difficult. She’s old, has limited mobility, and we understand that if something happens, we may simply not have time to get to her. 

It so happened that neither I nor Aziz can come to Crimea anymore. I was already told directly: “The road there is closed to you.” 

Of course, it hurts. Especially for the grandmother – she has a very hard time accepting it. But one day she said to me:

“Look at the symbolic parallel. I am a traitor, and you are a spy.” 

According to russian logic, everything is truly absurd: according to their laws, “treason” differs from “espionage” in only one way – the presence of russian citizenship. Grandma sees some symbolism, historical continuity in all of this. She is a wise woman. 

I really want to believe that I will see her again. 

Once I asked: “Grandma, aren’t you scared that I’m talking about you publicly?” And she looked at me and said: “I’m already 93 years old. Do you seriously think I’m afraid of something? Well, let them try.” 

Moving to Kyiv

You moved to Kyiv. How is your life outside the peninsula? 

It was a new stage – university, finding myself, forming a personality.

In addition, my brother Aziz lived in Kyiv. 

Leniie and Aziz Umerov. Photo taken from Tamila Tasheva’s Facebook page.

Like in any normal family, he and I argued – it was terrible. Sometimes we even fought. Our childhood was fun.  

We lived separately. But due to the lack of family, we began to grow closer. At some point I realized that this was my best friend.  

In parallel, this attachment to Crimea remained: the rallies on May 18, Crimean Tatar initiatives. I got involved – because for me it’s not just “about my staff”, it’s about who I am. 

It was very valuable – not to feel disconnected. Because this was not a conventional New Zealand, where no one around knew who I was. There was already a large and active Crimean Tatar community in Kyiv back then. There was always something going on: meetings, events, even Crimean Tatar dance courses. 

I constantly stayed “in the loop”, following the news from Crimea. 

Then work began – and there I also tried to be proactive. I worked in Ukrainian, we talked a lot about Crimea, about identity. We even tried to promote the topic of Crimean history through the media. But we didn’t have time – a full-scale invasion began. 

And after February 24, everything changed, of course. We switched to something else: how to help ordinary people, how to be useful here and now. 

The news has become a constant background. Donations, volunteering, support. I think, like many others, my whole life has gone into a mode of “doing what I can.” 

“They repeated: “This is our Crimea”, “We are returning to our native harbour””

When you returned to occupied Crimea to visit your family, did you feel like you were back home? Or did you perhaps sense that it was not quite the same place it once was? 

After moving, I went to Crimea to visit my relatives a few times. I was really annoyed by the russians, and I tried to ignore all the conversations around. 

When you ride in a taxi, you often notice a strange accent from the driver, which you have never heard before. You ask – where are they from? They answer that they are from the Tver region, they came here back in 2015-2016. They bought a house because the prices were good, and now they live here. This is how russia encourages people to move to Crimea. 

There were a lot of brainwashed propagandists – and most of them russia simply brought with it. Pseudo-historians, archaeologists, tour guides… 

In addition, russia imported its civil servants, gave them subsidies for living in boarding houses – it was massive. They repeated: “This is our Crimea,” “We are returning to our native harbour,” and all these narratives… 

It was very difficult, I didn’t even want to go outside, I didn’t want to talk to anyone – because any conversation could cause a conflict. And everyone advised: “Be quiet, don’t talk too much,” because it could be harmful. It was a huge stress not only for me, but also for my family. 

“During interrogation, they held a gun to my head”

When did you find out that your dad had cancer? 

Dad fell ill in 2019. He underwent treatment in Kyiv, completed the full course. 

Remission occurred, and dad went home. But, I think, a significant role in all this was played by constant stress, nervous tension, uncertainty, and fear of the future. Life under constant pressure took its toll on his health, and unfortunately, it had its consequences. 

Over time, his condition deteriorated sharply, and I decided to visit him. 

It was December 2022. You went to Crimea. Tell us what it was like: how was the border crossing? How did your political persecution begin? 

It was impossible to get into Crimea through the Ukrainian-controlled borders. I chose the route through Georgia. I passed all the checkpoints without any problems, without any unnecessary questions. 

But when I reached the russian side, they asked for my passport. I showed my foreign one. They open it, look: the place of birth is Crimea.

Immediate question: where are you coming from, where are you going, what is your goal? I answered directly – humanitarian. I am going to my sick father. 

They ask: “If your father is in Crimea, and you yourself are from Crimea, why haven’t you received a russian passport yet?” 

It was such a strange question, so I answered without hesitation: “I am a citizen of Ukraine. I don’t want a russian passport. I live in Ukraine. I don’t need one.”  

After that, I was taken to a separate room. And thirty minutes later, men came for me and took me further into the federation. 

Did you regret your words when you realized that criminal proceedings had been initiated against you? 

Perhaps on a subconscious level, I felt something like this. However, I clearly told myself then: I had done nothing wrong. Why should I consider myself guilty if I have not committed any crime, have not broken any law? They are the ones who are now doing evil against me. 

Showing that I doubt myself or start to feel sorry for myself is showing weakness. And they are very good at reading minds. And if they sense this weakness, they immediately take advantage of it. 

Did the security forces put pressure on you? 

During the interrogation, they held a gun to my head. They threatened me saying that they would use brutal physical violence against me throughout the night. 

They interrogated me in a small room – there were six of them. It lasted over eight hours, although by law, it seems, an interrogation could not last more than four or five hours without a break. 

They communicated rudely, harshly, with humiliation.

“I am sure that my lawyer from North Ossetia cooperated with the FSB or at least had contact with them”

How did your family find out that you were captured, and how did they react? 

It was a rather unusual story. I was detained, immediately “tried” – and at six in the morning of the same day I was sent to a prison for foreigners in North Ossetia. 

But the FSB officers apparently didn’t have time to pass on any instructions to the colony: what to do with me, how to behave, who I was. They saw me as a foreigner, which meant taking me to a prison for foreigners. 

I was taken to a cell, and later taken out for a meal. A woman was passing by – either a cleaner or a kitchen worker. I turned to her and honestly told her what was happening: that I was detained, that no one knew where I was, and that I needed to make a call. 

She gave me her phone. I quickly called and said: I’m in North Ossetia, I need a lawyer. 

The family was, of course, shocked. What other reaction could there be when your loved one calls from a russian prison? But they acted very quickly. They came and brought a lawyer from North Ossetia. 

To be honest, I still have a lot of questions for her. I’m sure she collaborated with the FSB or at least had contact with them. She constantly tried to convince me to get a russian passport – saying that if I did, I would be released immediately. 

But it was a trap: with a russian passport, I would no longer have the right to protection from Ukraine and would lose the opportunity to defend my rights. 

Despite the fact that this woman behaved extremely strangely, wrote some absurd statements to no avail, and often did more harm than good, at some point she did manage to get the sentence overturned. 

After three months of arrest, I was finally released. 

However, they were not interested in letting me go. Besides, they didn’t have time to fabricate evidence of my “crime.” So, I had to be detained somehow.  

They deliberately delayed the time so as not to let me out on time, but after 9:00 p.m. After 9:00 p.m. they finally gave me my things and told me I could leave. 

I needed to contact someone and let them know where I was. They gave me a phone – but not mine. It was some old phone with a russian SIM card so I could make calls within the country. I tried to contact my lawyer and tell her that I was being released so that she could pick me up. But the guard forbade me to do so, citing the fact that there were cameras everywhere and they could record me, and then they would be “struck by the hat.” They categorically refused and gave me about five minutes to get ready, after which I was released very quickly. 

As soon as I got out, a white car pulled up. Four huge men in balaclavas jumped out of it. They grabbed me by the arms, threw a bag over my head, and quickly threw me into the car. They drove me for probably forty minutes, up to an hour, but I didn’t know where exactly. 

Thoughts swirled in my head: either they were taking me outside the country so that I wouldn’t know the way and would simply be thrown away somewhere like something useless, or these would be new interrogations and tortures. I asked where we were going, what was happening, who they were, but they were silent. 

But the following happened: I was dropped off in a residential area, in some residential area with Khrushchev type houses. 

On the way, the bag on my head was replaced with a plastic bag, which was pulled so tightly that my eyes began to hurt. When it was removed, my eyes couldn’t focus for a long time – I didn’t understand where I was or what was happening. 

But I saw the silhouettes of four men in civilian clothes in front of me. 

I thought: “As soon as my eyes come to my senses, I’ll go up and ask where I am, where to go…” I was just thinking about it when they came up to me and said they wanted to see my documents. 

I asked them why. And in response I heard that they suspected that I was hiding stashes – those drug addict things. 

I understood that there’s no point in arguing, so I just looked for my passport to show them. They didn’t wait long, maybe 2-3 seconds, then they grabbed me by the arms, pushed me into another car, and took me to the police station. 

There, the interrogations began again. I was handed a report of disobedience to the authorities – a new charge. I asked for a lawyer, but they refused. Instead, I was put in a cell for the night. It was one of the dirtiest places I’ve ever been. 

Leniie Umerova. Screenshot from a video posted on Aziz Umerov’s Facebook page.

The next morning, a man came and said that I was being taken to court. They asked me to be ready and gave me documents to sign. However, I refused to sign anything without a lawyer and insisted on her presence. At first, they refused, but then they agreed. 

They gave me a phone to call the lawyer. I tried, but the call didn’t go through. When I looked, there was no SIM card in the phone. It was clear that this was done on purpose so that I wouldn’t be able to contact anyone. This was very depressing for me. 

After that, I reached a state of despair and started screaming: how “manly” one has to be to fight women. What values ​​were they guided by if they did this to me? I understood that I could have offended someone with those words, but that was when I reached one of them.

He gave me his phone and I was able to contact a lawyer. She already knew about the court hearing, which was strange – I wondered who could have told her that… 

They took me to court, and what was interesting was that every time before the hearing, a man in civilian clothes would come to the judge and stay there for an hour or an hour and a half. Then he would come out, and the hearing would begin. 

During one of the hearings, the prosecution requested 10 days of arrest for me, and the judge sentenced me to 15. How this could happen is unclear.  

“If a person constantly cries and fears, stress will start eating him/her from the inside”

They started fabricating a case against you, and all that time you were in prison. I know that you received and wrote letters, but not all of them reached the addressee because of censorship. In the last letter to Aziz before your release, you wrote about health problems and conditions of detention, but in a humorous way. What did you really feel then?  

This is armour. When I stop making fun of what’s going on around me, then I can be written off.

In stressful situations, my sense of humour develops fantastically, and it’s not because I’m particularly brave or cool. It just comes naturally. The girls I was with in prison did the same thing – it’s a way not to break down. Because if a person constantly cries and fears, stress will start eating him/her from the inside. 

Especially when I was in a confined space, alone, without the opportunity to vent my emotions. It helped me to structure my time: I set myself various small tasks – to learn English, read, do yoga, meditate. These were like small rituals that gave me a sense of control and dignity. 

Of course, these things seemed completely insignificant, but at the time they helped the brain deceive itself, like warm water to a hungry person – it feels like he/she has eaten. 

Jokes and irony helped me reflect and survive. Even with Aziz, 95% of our communication is jokes, with which we convey any information. 

“It was a special kind of torture – a confined space, loud propaganda, and I couldn’t do anything about it”

What did you do while in detention? 

I had to get up at 6. I had to make the bed and have breakfast at 6:30. I tried to do some exercise right away – for about an hour and a half. I just remembered all the exercises from school and university, and I made something up myself to keep moving. 

After exercise, I had “English.” I borrowed books from the library – I was lucky that it was there. I read fiction or non-fiction, translated excerpts into English, took notes, and tried to learn terms, even though sometimes I didn’t understand what they were about. But the brain worked, new neural connections appeared – this helped not to fall apart. 

There was a TV in the cell. I allowed myself a maximum of an hour and a half a day – either a movie or something to watch. I tried to filter russian news because it can really turn you off. I even asked the guards to turn off the radio, because Vesti FM was constantly blaring in the promenade yard. It was a special kind of torture – a confined space, loud propaganda, and I couldn’t do anything about it. 

The promenade yard was a concrete “room” without a roof, a bench for two, and that’s it. There was an aluminium bowl for cigarette butts. Someone was even tapping on it in Morse code. It was a pity that I didn’t know it – I wanted to understand what they were talking about. This was Lefortovo, where both “ours” and real spies were held. 

When it was really hard to bear that radio, I would just start dragging that bowl across the concrete floor to somehow drown out the sound. At first, I asked to turn it off – they refused. But when other prisoners started complaining about me, they switched it. However, after that, I could not receive any letters for a week. 

“I had always been isolated from prisoners of war before. I was kept separately. And suddenly – together, at transfer”

How were you taken to the prisoner exchange? 

I was transferred, like everyone else – we were gathered in the Bryansk region. They took me from Moscow in a   prison truck, and the journey took about 12–14 hours. At first, they tried not to communicate – we were all seated differently. There are four cells in the prison truck: two small ones – like “glasses” (70 by 70 cm, with a grid), and two larger ones – for 13 people. There were three women and one man – and instead of being seated by gender, they scattered us all separately. It seemed strange. 

Besides, I was always isolated from prisoners of war before – kept separately. And suddenly – together, at transfer. At some point, already on the way, when the guard left the door open for a moment, we were able to start communicating through the partitions. Someone suggested: “Maybe this is an exchange?” One of the men, a doctor from Mariupol, replied: “I’ve been transported like this five times already. I don’t think so.” It was very painful to hear that. 

I also had doubts – after all, there was no court decision regarding me that would have provided for a transfer. Where else could they have taken me? 

The pre-trial detention centre in Bryansk was terrible. Dirt, humiliation, reception – everything as usual. We spent the night in the cells. And the next day, closer to lunch, we were lined up, everyone started shouting their names. They were all Ukrainian, because they had a peculiar ending. The girls and I looked at each other – we were already starting to understand what was happening. 

And then – unexpectedly – ​​they put us not in a prison truck, but in a civilian bus. A civilian bus! We started smiling at each other, almost certain that this was an exchange. The russian escorts immediately began shouting: “We’ll land you now! Face down!” 

In Belarus, we were met by a new convoy. They gave us a package of food – a cutlet, a cucumber, water. It was disgusting. They explained what would happen next, and soon they brought us to the exchange.

Leniie Umerova. Photo taken from Volodymyr Zelenskyi’s Facebook page.

“I dreamed about coffee most of all”

Did you have “little dreams”? Some simple things that you really wanted while in captivity and you thought: “As soon as I get out, I’ll do it right away”? 

Yes. I’m a huge coffee lover, and what I dreamed about the most was coffee. The real one – aromatic, strong, so I could feel its aroma… This seems like a small thing that doesn’t solve anything, but it’s these little things that make up the feeling of freedom, of returning to myself. 

I remember, as soon as we were exchanged and brought to the hospital, I called Aziz – and the first thing I said was: “Bring me coffee.” He even laughed: “Seriously? Not clothes, not hygiene – coffee?” And I said: everything else will be found somehow, but coffee is like a sip of life. 

I still remember very clearly how they literally started to “fatten” us up in the hospital. Nurses – like moms, nannies from kindergarten – kept saying: “Eat! Let me give you a little extra!” But my body wasn’t used to it. After the monotonous, tasteless, mostly liquid food we were given in captivity, our stomach simply could not stand it. The first two bites are fine, but then it becomes physically difficult to eat. 

Therefore, food did not become a great source of happiness for me. But when I drank real coffee for the first time after everything, it was something special. It’s as if nothing had happened. It’s as if I was sitting somewhere in the city centre again, in some cafe, looking at passersby – just living. 

“The price these people have paid is already too high for us to just throw up our hands and say, “Well, maybe we shouldn’t…””

Now you are actively publishing posts on social networks about the occupation of Crimea, Crimean political prisoners… What goal do you set for yourself?

Yes, now I am really actively writing about Crimea, about political prisoners, about the repressions that are ongoing there. Because it seems to me that part of society still doesn’t fully understand why we have to fight for Crimea? And why “simply giving it away” will not bring peace, stability, or happiness with “pink bubbles.” 

First, Crimea is Ukraine. These are not just words. This is the territory where our people live. And, as someone very aptly said (I think it was Zelenskyi, but I “stole” this phrase for myself), the territory belongs to us as long as there is at least one person there who believes in the return of Ukraine. And there are hundreds of thousands of such people. 

We absolutely need to return Ukrainian citizens who were illegally imprisoned by russia. These people are now deprived of their most precious thing – freedom – for their values. So, we must fight, scream, and remind those who make decisions that everyone needs to be returned. 

We have no moral right to betray them. When we say, “Okay, we’re giving away Crimea,” we devalue the struggle of all those who are waiting for Ukraine, who are in prison for their pro-Ukrainian position. Like Bohdan Ziza, who doused the occupation administration building with yellow and blue paint and received 15 years for it. Like dozens of Crimean Tatars, like 19-year-old Appaz Kurtamet, like hundreds of others – young, sincere, who did not betray themselves. They are not just imprisoned for an idea – they are imprisoned for all of us.

The price these people have paid is already too high for us to just throw up our hands and say, “Well, maybe we shouldn’t…”

Photo taken from Leniie Umerova’s Facebook page.

And I also think about the generation that is growing up now. They are 15–20 years old today. They have lived their entire lives with the idea that Crimea is something distant, occupied, and incomprehensible. But they will be the ones who will make the decisions in a few years. And it is very important that they understand what the fight is for. So that Crimea for them is not just a territory on the map, but also a part of culture, history, and values. 

Therefore, I see my goal in speaking – to youth, to society, through personal stories, through culture, through specific destinies and examples. To explain why Crimea is not the past, but our future. So that when it returns – and it will definitely happen – we know exactly what to do with it.