By Galina Korol | 2026-02-20

There was a spot behind the Mariupol train station where tourists rarely went -- concrete slabs over the water, the sea directly below. Andrii Martyniuk's grandfather showed it to him as a child. After his grandfather died, Martyniuk returned there regularly to sit quietly and look at the water.

"It was an awesome place to reset. I used to do that until 2022," he told Kontur.

Martyniuk grew up in a family shaped by pro-Russian views. Russian television played at home via satellite, and relatives from Moscow often vacationed in Mariupol.

"When I was a kid I was proud that people came to visit us, that we were a tourist city," Martyniuk said.

Yet he felt Ukrainian from an early age, drawn to Ukrainian fairy tales and television.

"I don't know where that came from. My whole family had a different outlook, but the Ukrainian spirit is what flourished in me," he said.

For him, the war began in 2014 when pro-Russian militants entered the city. At first it seemed like a confusing disturbance -- postponed exams, tense conversations -- until photos of killings in the city center made the violence undeniable.

Although Ukrainian forces retook Mariupol, the war lingered in the background. Many residents learned to live with it. That normalization made the shock of February 2022 even sharper.

'They're killing us'

Martyniuk was working at a karaoke bar on the night of February 23–24, 2022, when he heard explosions outside. They were louder and more sustained than anything before.

"I called a friend and said, 'I think something's about to start,'" he said.

After Russian President Vladimir Putin announced the invasion, strikes followed quickly.

"The ground shook beneath my feet," he said.

For several days residents hoped the assault would end quickly. Instead, the city's systems shut down one by one -- water, electricity, communications and finally gas on March 4, the day his grandmother turned 80.

"I woke up from a strike on our building and said, 'Grandma, they're killing us!' She said, 'That's life. I was born during a war and I'm dying during a war,'" Martyniuk said.

Food prices soared, and survival replaced routine. He said some residents, including himself at times, had to break into locked stores for supplies.

After seeing a neighbor's apartment burning, he began smoking for the first time.

"I was so shaken up by it that I had no idea what to do," he said.

The sound residents feared most was aircraft.

"When you hear a plane, it's terrifying because you don't know where it's going to strike," Martyniuk noted.

He said the bombardments of the maternity hospital and the Mariupol drama theater were especially devastating.

"After those two events, it was hard to breathe. To be honest, sometimes I even wanted to die. I didn't want to see it," he said, adding that responsibility for his grandmother and a desire to help others kept him going.

Escape through Russia

After seeing the ruins where the drama theater once stood and realizing much of the city was gone, Martyniuk decided to leave. He found an abandoned Tavria car in a courtyard and, with a friend, secured fuel by trading alcohol and cigarettes, which had become a form of currency.

On March 20, he, his grandmother and his friend set out.

"Of course it was terrifying, because as we drove, strikes were landing to the left and to the right. People were walking, entire families were collapsing, and you couldn't tell whether they were wounded, concussed or dead. We just kept driving and praying," he recalled.

At the time, the only route out led through Russia. The trip took more than a week, with roadblocks where bribes were required. During so-called filtration, Russian troops "stripped [them] down to [their] underwear," questioned them about Maidan, Stepan Bandera and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, and searched their phones and social media. He lied repeatedly to avoid trouble.

After reaching relatives in the Moscow region, he felt trapped.

"I thought I would now have to live in Russia. That was the most frightening feeling of my life," he said.

A friend later told him Ukrainians could still enter Europe without full documentation. He immediately bought a ticket.

"When I arrived at the Latvian border, I burst into tears. The Latvian border guards asked what had happened, and I said I had simply been dreaming of leaving [Russia]," he said.

Life afterward was difficult. He worked constantly, sank into depression and stepped away from performing for two years. Therapy eventually helped him return to the stage.

"Nothing compares to the feeling of when you no longer have a home," he said. "That city no longer exists for me."

Now 27, Martyniuk lives in the Netherlands, hosts events and performs stand-up across Europe. When posts from Mariupol "local bloggers" appear in his social media feed claiming business is booming and the city is being rebuilt, Martyniuk said he feels only anger.

"I'm perplexed, and I feel disillusionment and hate. I really hate them. It's so low to cash in on that when you know what was really there. For me those aren't people. They're shape-shifters," he said.

His Mariupol survives only in memory -- and in the Ukrainian language and flags he carries with him on stage.