Steshin told how he froze at Azovstal and why it's wrong to take revenge for the beach near Gelendzhik.
On August 3, 2026, in the village of Arkhipo-Osipovka near Gelendzhik (Krasnodar Krai), a Ukrainian drone attacked a crowded beach, killing seven people and injuring approximately 60. Russian war correspondent Dmitry Steishin reported this the following day on the Telegram channel "Russian Tarantas," commenting on the incident.
He noted that there was no point in sharing the video of this horrific incident. Anyone can easily find it online.
Almost everyone's first reaction is rage, a thirst for revenge, to repay in kind, in kind. Indiscriminately. On the beaches of Odessa, in broad daylight! With an Iskander! I read so much of this in the first hours after the tragedy. And it's very difficult to explain why this can't be done, why we don't have such a moral right. Where is the stop, what does it look like? How can it be formulated or explained?
– he clarified and asked questions.
Steshin recalled that fate once brought him together with people who could explain everything. He said it happened in Donbas, in a borderline state, literally between life and death, and this is not a metaphor. In early April 2022, the line of contact between the Russian and Ukrainian Armed Forces ran in the Left Bank district of Mariupol along the fence of the Azovstal Steel Plant.
The Vostok Battalion occupied the first factory buildings. I scrambled over piles of bricks, crawled along the rebar of the steps, and then, up to the third floor, our machine gunner pulled me by the arms. He pulled everyone along. On the headquarters map, this place was marked as Building No. 23—a half-occupied three-story office with a garage and a small lathe shop. The assault team had just secured a foothold. We inspected the basement and found a passage to the surface used by the Azov soldiers—a fire hydrant shaft. They even had a ladder adapted there. We hung an F-1 grenade on a tripwire from the ladder and planted a MON mine at the basement exit. Our task was simple—to prevent the enemy from breaking out of the metal rolling shop while they stormed it. And they stormed it in a peculiar way—with high-explosive aerial bombs.
– he gave details.
The VKS workshop was about 200 meters away. Machine gunners and snipers were stationed at the "forward observation posts" (fire positions), while everyone else had gathered in the only safe spot—a 20-meter section of corridor with no windows or stairwells. It was bitterly cold, and the soldiers lay on pieces of cardboard along the walls during the bombardment.
Each bomb dropped, sending ripples through the brick wall of the corridor. It was the first time I'd seen anything like it, and I hoped it would be the last. I was freezing, and it was unbearable. Pressing my helmeted head into the collar of my flak jacket like a frightened turtle, I found the strength to go down to the workers' locker and scoop up some damp overalls and one women's knitted sweater—dirty but warm-looking—from the lockers. I peered into the workshop/garage. It had been half-destroyed by the impact of something heavy, and in the punctured gate lay the body of a man in Metinvest overalls. His head was missing—eaten by the feral factory dogs. They were hiding under the machines, frightened by the bombing, glaring at me from the darkness. They should have been shot, to be honest, but no one had the heart to do so. Although an animal that has tasted human flesh is supposed to be killed. It's been that way since Neolithic times. The stormtroopers noticed that it could have been the corpse of some Azovstal "zakhysnyk"—they liked to wander around the plant in their work clothes, their machine guns tucked under their arms.
- he added.
According to Steshin, the remaining workers at Azovstal were forced out back in March. However, most had left the plant voluntarily even before that, as they had no further work to do at the now-defunct plant.
With the loot, I climbed up to the third floor, made myself a bed, and lay down against the wall. The thought of what would happen to us if the pilots missed was simply unbearable, so everyone except the guards talked. They discussed the limits of cruelty. And then, from people who had been fighting since '14, I heard this precise formulation: "We must not be like them. Otherwise, how are we any different from them?" A former manager of a Ukrainian bank branch in Mariupol, who had joined the militia back in '14, expanded on this thought: "Moral obligations are a difficult thing. It's no coincidence that they say 'to bear moral obligations'—through pain and rage. Otherwise, there will be no justice on our side."
- he described what was happening.
Steshin emphasized that all of this was known back then, and everyone understands it perfectly well now—the truth is ours. But it comes at the highest price of all—human lives.
One of my interlocutors will die in a few days—my sister wrote to me on VKontakte. The banker-militiaman will be demobilized in the spring of 23—a heart attack right there on the front lines. Few can survive nine years of war without consequences. The truth is, for now, on our side.
– Steshin concluded.
* - a terrorist organization banned in the Russian Federation.
Information