Singing Ukraine’s anthem during occupation of Crimea: A Nakhimov cadet’s journey through Mariupol and captivity
When Valentyna watched the first videos from the prisoner exchange, she did not recognize her Dmytro. Only when her friend pointed out the frame second by second, showing exactly where her husband was, did she cry out: “My God, yes! That’s him! He looks just as handsome, but so thin!” During their meeting, she saw that of his once 100-plus kilograms, only half remained.
Their two-year-old Tymofiyko, who had seen his dad only in photographs, ran joyfully to greet him… but first dashed toward another man.
Dmytro Klymovych, senior assistant to the commander of the search and rescue vessel Donbas, was released from Russian captivity a year and a half ago. He is now 30. 12 years earlier, as an 18-year-old cadet at the P. S. Nakhimov Naval Academy in Sevastopol, he was among the bold Nakhimov cadets who refused to betray their oath and sang the Ukrainian national anthem while occupiers raised the Russian flag over the academy.
“We did not know it would become such a nationwide event. Whenever I tell people I studied in Crimea, they say, ‘Oh, we know those guys who sang the anthem.’ In reality, we just really wanted to pull off something in protest, but we had no idea what. They had taken everything from us; we were stripped bare,” Dmytro recalls the events of the “Crimean spring.”
A sailor who never saw the sea. A teenager’s defiance in sending a Russian captain packing. The defense of Mariupol. The haunting aftermath of captivity—nightmares and apathy. And the fate of the legendary cadet sailors who stood their ground. hromadske tells their story.
“I said, ‘I’m a sailor.’ And she laughed at me.”
Valentyna Klymovych steps heavily out of the car: her belly signals the ninth month of pregnancy.
“We are having another boy. Looks like another spitting image of him. The ultrasound already shows their signature ‘Klymovych’ noses,” the woman laughs.
They live in Volodymyr in Volyn Oblast. Both Dmytro and Valentyna are from there. That is where they met and celebrated their wedding.
“When Valya and I were getting to know each other, she asked: ‘So what do you do, where do you study?’ I said: ‘I’m a sailor.’ And she laughed at me: ‘Where did a sailor come from in Volodymyr? Are you sailing on the Luha [the local river — ed.]?’”
***
His father is a military man, a tanker who commanded a military unit in Volodymyr. Dmytro always wanted to be in the military, too. He debated where to enroll — Sevastopol (naval forces) or Lviv (land forces). In the end, Sevastopol won out.
“I decided to go for that adventure because I had never been to the sea as a child. I thought, well, I will spend all those years there,” Dmytro continues with a laugh, not sugarcoating it: “And my father started looking for connections in Lviv without asking me. I told him I would rather die than enroll in Lviv. Because I wanted to do everything myself. So I went to the edge of Ukraine and enrolled in the academy in Sevastopol.”
At that time, the Nakhimov Naval Academy was Ukraine’s only naval higher education institution. It was 2013. Dmytro was 18. The principled guy from Volyn found himself in Crimea — six months before Russia’s brazen military operation to annex it.
“‘Do you wish to continue service in the Russian Federation?’ I said: ‘No, what the hell for?’”
March 20, 2014. Two days after Russia annexed Crimea following an illegal “referendum.” The academy was changing leadership and flags. Dmytro and several dozen other cadets watched from a dormitory window as a ceremonial formation took place on the parade ground. They had been warned: “Do not stick your heads out.” But when the Russian tricolor rose on the flagpole — they ran out and sang the Ukrainian anthem. To drown them out, the loudspeakers blared ceremonial music at full volume.
“We stood looking out the window at all of it, and when they played the Russian anthem, we said: ‘Guys, they are lowering our flag right now… Let’s go. Whatever.’ And we went down and started singing.”
Dmytro recalls how cameramen rushed toward them to film the scene. At first, he thought they were charging to beat them. But the cadets finished singing, saluted, slapped one another on the shoulders, turned, and walked back into the building. Dmytro is not visible in the front rows — he says he was near the exit.
The guy did not immediately realize that annexation had begun. He says they were isolated: strict schedule, phones allowed only on weekends. They hardly ever went into the city.
“We realized something was happening when patrols around the institute were strengthened. They put us on guard duty [starting February 24, 2014 — ed.]. And then one fine moment the academy gates opened, a car drove in with the commander of Russia’s Black Sea Fleet, they whispered with our chief — and a day later military vehicles arrived with those ‘little green men,’” the Nakhimov cadet recalls.
He says about a hundred stayed loyal to Ukraine — roughly a third of the personnel. Cadets were persuaded to remain on the peninsula with promises of stipends worth several hundred dollars (while they received about 200 hryvnia, equivalent to $25 at the time), food, and decent conditions.
“They promised provisions, piled on Russian uniforms, immediately introduced buffet tables, dishes to choose from: first course, main, third (because back then ‘Artek-Soyuz’ fed us, which was awful). They brought dishes and washing machines, so you understand. And we had none,” Dmytro says.
One day, they called me to the company commander’s office. I walk in, and there sits some jerk in a Russian uniform, a captain third rank, and he says to me: “Do you wish to continue military service in the Russian Federation?” I say: “No, what the hell for?” He says: “All right, I understand you.”Dmytro Klymovych, a former Nakhimov cadet who did not betray his oath
Dmytro adds: whether patriotism or youthful maximalism — there was no fear then. The young men believed the situation would resolve and that they would get home. Most cadets, especially Crimeans, decided to stay. But there were exceptions.
Take my colleague Ivan Smetanko, who is from Dzhankoi himself, and he left too. We even served together on the same ship later. And with those who stayed, I have no contact whatsoever. For me, they are traitors. Because I believe: once you have taken the oath, you cannot trade it away, no matter what golden mountains they offer you, food or drink… You have to stay faithful to it to the end. Dmytro Klymovych, a former Nakhimov cadet who did not betray his oath
On April 4, 2014, 103 Nakhimov cadets, along with part of the command and teaching staff, left by several buses for mainland Ukraine.
“Chief Petro Dmytrovych Honcharenko gathered us and said: ‘Guys, we are getting out of Crimea.’ And they actually gave us a corridor. In the morning [April 4], we left for Odesa.”
At 2 a.m., the Nakhimov cadets were met at the Odesa Military Academy by an orchestra and a formation of personnel on the parade ground. People greeted them, some came up and nodded encouragingly: everything will be fine, we are together, we will sort it all out. At first, the cadets were assigned there, then relocated to the National Odesa Maritime Academy. Which Dmytro ultimately graduated from.
Fighting alongside Azov and captivity
In 2019, Dmytro was assigned to the search-and-rescue ship Donbas in Mariupol. He started as an officer for moral-psychological support, then became executive officer. From then on, he and Valya lived in a rented apartment there. In 2022, they were preparing for the birth of their first child.
hromadske spoke with Valentyna in the fall of 2022 — at that point, Dmytro had been in captivity for more than half a year. He did not manage to see his newborn son: he stayed in Mariupol himself, while he sent Valya, with her hospital bag, by car to her parents in Volyn with acquaintances. Two weeks later, footage of the bombed maternity ward at Mariupol Hospital No. 3 — where they had planned to give birth — went around the world. The next day, she gave birth prematurely to their Tymofiy, who would not see his father for two and a half years.
On March 21, 2022, contact with Dmytro was lost. The entire crew was captured almost together. The ship’s commander had left earlier. The sailors fought in street battles alongside Azov members until they were encircled. Then came Berdyansk colony, Sevastopol, Taganrog, Voronezh, and Pakino.
“There was absolutely no communication in captivity. They let me write only one letter (on the condition that it be in Russian), but there was no hope it would ever reach anyone [Valentyna did receive that letter — ed.]. Twice a day, they beat us — the ‘Russian standard’: morning and evening. And also if there was an interrogation. But they did not fabricate any cases against me; I said I saw nothing, went nowhere: ‘Blue sea, brown eyes, I serve on a ship.’”
Regarding the fate of his fellow Nakhimov students, Dmytro answers:
Almost everyone is still serving; no one has left. They all continue the work, so to speak. Some have also been through captivity, and some have been killed. And three of us classmates — me, Ivan Smetanko, and Serhiy Zlenko — later served on the same ship.Dmytro Klymovych on the fate of his fellow Nakhimov students
Uncontrolled aggression, nightmares, apathy
At the time of our meeting, Dmytro had just been discharged from the hospital. From time to time, he still has to be admitted for treatment. After two and a half years in captivity, he was discharged from the military. After returning, he spent another nine months in hospitals: PTSD manifests. He was granted disability status due to the war.
“It is a bad dream, nightmares, apathy, uncontrolled aggression. Mostly, the treatment is antidepressants and sleeping pills,” he shares.
“You see that it is hard for the person. And you cannot help…” Valya adds.
Dmytro says these are consequences of both captivity and combat trauma. Yet he complains that despite injuries, he was never paid benefits during rehabilitation. So now he is suing his unit.
“During combat, I had a concussion. There is a certificate of injury circumstances, witness statements, medical conclusion. And as a result, no one paid me for rehabilitation during the wounding… In short, yes, such situations exist,” Dmytro says, more with sadness than anger.
***
His face softens when he sees the little one. After kindergarten, the boy runs first to Mom, then to Dad. Dmytro lifts his small spitting image into his arms. They even grimace the same way. You can see — this is what keeps him afloat now.
“For now, I have no plans for what to do next. Soon we will have an addition to the family. And I want to devote my free time to the family. To make up for the time that was taken from me.”
The report was created with the support of RLNE.