They took years off the lives of so many people.
UN confirms torture is 'systematic and widespread' in Russian-controlled detention centers across occupied Ukraine, affecting over 16,000 civilians since 2014. BBC identified three men accused of abuse now living ordinary lives in Russia; survivors provided detailed accounts of beatings, sexual violence, and psychological torture.
- Liudmyla Huseinova detained for 3,213 days (3 years, 13 days) starting October 2019
- UN documents torture as 'systematic and widespread' affecting 16,000+ civilians since 2014
- BBC identified 93 detention sites in occupied Ukraine (2023-2025), 102 more in Russia
- Only one detention center operator imprisoned; 30 of 85 charged with sexual violence sentenced, mostly in absentia
BBC investigation identifies Russian-backed officials running systematic torture detention centers in occupied Ukraine, with survivors seeking accountability as perpetrators live freely in Russia.
On an October morning in 2019, Liudmyla Huseinova was pulled from her home in Novoazovsk by men who threw her into a car. She was 64 years old. What followed was 3,213 days in a Russian-backed detention system—a span of time she describes as having crippled both her soul and body. Among those who took her was Yurii Temerbek, a former Ukrainian traffic policeman who had joined the Russian-backed separatists controlling parts of eastern Ukraine since 2014. Two weeks into her captivity, she says, Temerbek stood by watching as another man sexually assaulted her in a facility called Izolyatsia, a former art gallery that had become a notorious prison.
A BBC World Service investigation has now identified Temerbek and two other men accused of running systematic abuse in these detention centers. What makes the story urgent is not just what happened inside the prisons, but what has happened since: these men appear to be living ordinary lives with their families in Russia and occupied Ukraine, largely beyond the reach of justice. Temerbek, now 56, has a wife, daughter, son, and grandchild living in the Rostov region of southwestern Russia. Social media shows him on family holidays. Ruslan Yeriomichev, another guard identified at Izolyatsia, is 46 and appears in photos with his wife and daughter, on vacations in occupied Crimea. Andrey Spivak, who ran a detention facility in Kherson, has registered a car to work as a taxi driver and appears at Russian interior ministry events. The BBC attempted to contact all three men; none responded.
The detention system these men helped operate is part of a larger apparatus that the UN's human rights office describes as engaging in torture and ill-treatment that is "systematic and widespread." Former detainees describe beatings, electric shocks, mock executions, and sexual violence. Ukrainian authorities say more than 16,000 civilians have been taken captive or disappeared since Russia annexed Crimea in 2014 and occupied parts of eastern Ukraine. The BBC, working with Ukrainian open source investigators, mapped 93 detention sites in occupied Ukraine between 2023 and 2025, plus another 102 in Russia. About a third of the Ukrainian sites are unofficial—housed in tax offices, hotels, and garages. International organizations have been denied free access to any of them.
Huseinova's account reveals the texture of this system. She was arrested because she had helped care for orphans and sent food to Ukrainian forces under occupation. A photo of a Ukrainian flag she had shared with trusted friends, inscribed with notes of thanks, apparently reached Russian-backed forces. She was accused of spying. At Izolyatsia, detainees were forced to stand from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. under bright lights. She heard screams from other rooms that she says were the worst sounds she had ever encountered. Guards forced her to eat uncooked food mixed with soil and rubbish. The taste, she says, will remain with her for the rest of her life. She now finds the smell of cooking unbearable and struggles to eat normally. When Yeriomichev, the guard she knew as "Yermak," asked if she was for Ukraine, she replied that she was for justice. He beat her for that answer.
Oleksii Sivak, a 42-year-old sailor, was arrested in Kherson after Russian forces captured the city in 2022. He had made banners and leaflets opposing the Russian presence. In the detention facility, he endured torture with objects and electric current applied to his genitals. When the Ukrainian army retook Kherson in November 2022, Russian-backed forces fled with some detainees, but Sivak escaped because there was no room in their vehicles.
Both Huseinova and Sivak have become advocates for accountability. Huseinova was released in a prisoner exchange in 2022. When she returned home, friends stood crying to greet her. She realized she could not cry—she had no tears left. Even now, she says her feelings and emotions remain frozen. She has reunited with her husband in Kyiv and runs an organization supporting other detained women. She uses a secret network to send parcels from families to those still in captivity. She looks at the social media photos of the men she accuses—Temerbek at family gatherings, Yeriomichev on holiday, Spivak fishing and hunting—and reflects: "They are free people, and they can go anywhere. They took years off the lives of so many people."
Ukrainian prosecutors have opened criminal proceedings against dozens of people accused of mistreating detainees. A small number have been sentenced in absentia. The BBC is aware of only one person imprisoned: a former head of Izolyatsia arrested in Kyiv in 2021 and sentenced to 15 years. The site itself continues to operate. Since the full-scale invasion in 2022, Ukraine's prosecutor general's office has documented more than 400 cases of conflict-related sexual violence against civilians. Of the 85 people charged, 30 have received prison sentences, most in absentia. The Kremlin has dismissed UN allegations as "groundless lies" and accused the UN human rights office of bias. International justice mechanisms remain blocked. For Huseinova, justice means something specific: a legal decree that these men deliberately and intentionally committed their crimes, followed by punishment under law. It is not revenge she seeks. It is the formal acknowledgment of what was done, and consequences that follow.
Citações Notáveis
For me, justice is not revenge. For me, justice is the decree that these people intentionally, deliberately did what they did. I want them to be punished by law.— Liudmyla Huseinova, survivor
I did what I could, resisted how I could.— Oleksii Sivak, sailor and detainee, on his resistance activities before arrest
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does it matter that we know the names and faces of these men if they're living in Russia, beyond Ukrainian reach?
Because right now they exist in a kind of shadow. Their families know them as husbands, fathers, ordinary people. The survivors know them as torturers. Naming them—putting their faces and histories into the world—collapses that distance. It says: this is who you are, this is what you did, and the world is watching.
But doesn't that risk making them martyrs, or hardening their position?
That's a real tension. But consider Huseinova's point: if these men are never held accountable by law, at least their names will be known to their children as criminals. There's a different kind of justice in that—not revenge, but truth-telling as its own form of reckoning.
The BBC found 93 detention sites in occupied Ukraine alone. How is that even possible to hide?
It's not hidden from the people living there. It's hidden from international observers. The UN hasn't been allowed access. Some sites are in plain buildings—a tax office, a hotel. The system operates in plain sight locally but is sealed off from outside scrutiny. That's the whole architecture of it.
What strikes you most about Huseinova's account?
That she can't cry. She was released, she went home, friends wept to see her alive—and she had no tears. That's not poetic language. That's a specific kind of damage. She's describing a person whose emotional capacity has been frozen by what was done to her. And she's still functioning, still organizing, still seeking justice. That's the human cost beneath all the numbers.
Why hasn't Russia faced real consequences?
Because accountability requires either territorial control or international enforcement. Ukraine can charge people in absentia, but Russia won't extradite them. The UN can document crimes, but Russia dismisses it as bias. Without a mechanism that can actually reach these men, naming them becomes one of the few tools survivors have left.