“You could call me a partisan”. Anarchist Ruslan Sidiki on derailing a train and attacking a military airfield

Attack on a military airfield. “I loaded four explosive drones onto my bicycle and took them to the field”

The roar of Tu‑22 and Tu‑95 bombers flying overhead, coinciding with strikes in Ukraine, influenced my decision to target Dyagilevo airfield that is sutiated just ten kilometres from my home. I shared a home with my 80‑year‑old grandmother and understood the hardship of elderly and sick people living without heat or electricity in winter. Filling the bathtub with hot water, I thought of those forced to endure such conditions a thousand kilometres away, in the name of geopolitical ambition, propaganda that speaks of “brotherly peoples” yet denies Russia is targeting civilians.

I have been fascinated by explosives for some time. While living in Italy, I came across a newspaper article describing the design of a homemade bomb intended to disrupt a festival. I was drawn to the simplicity and accessibility, and it was from that design that I later created improvised explosive devices (IEDs).

By around the age of 18, I had taught myself to make high‑power explosives using recipes from the internet. I experimented outdoors, but didn’t pursue it further until 2023. I also had a homemade quadcopter with a camera as flying drones has always been a hobby of mine.

I shared my plan for the airfield with a Ukrainian acquaintance, who introduced me to someone more experienced in the field. We quickly reached an agreement, and I was invited to Latvia for a skills test. If I successed, they said, they would help with drone procurement. I never minded a journey for a worthwhile cause. They checked me on possible ties to Russian security services and gravity of my intentions. There was no promise of payment. It was a friendly arrangement, not orders. After acquiring drone parts, I tested payload and range.

For safety, I chose GPS‑guided flight with delayed take‑off. I loaded four explosive drones onto my bicycle and took them to a field, riding carefully due to the explosives’ sensitivity. I calmed myself with the thought that if one detonated unexpectedly, I wouldn’t have time to react, and identification of my body would be unlikely.

After setting a three‑hour delay and inputting the aircraft parking coordinates, I left. I noticed a fox bounding about but dismissed it. Later I learned from news reports that only one drone struck: a fox had likely knocked over the others.

Honestly, I feared I might be tracked, so I mapped a route using blind spots and camera‑avoidance zones. The three‑hour delay between departure and drone launch further obscured my trail. If the incident with the drones hadn’t occurred, authorities couldn’t have located the launch site. Still, I spent a month on edge, jumping at every sound outside. After thirty days, I finally relaxed. Should they have identified me, they would have done so within a fortnight.

I felt stung that the plan had failed. I tested my homemade drone. In August, I discovered that above 30 metres the GPS signal was lost. So I concluded that an electronic warfare station was operating nearby and decided against further drone operations.

Did I feel like a partisan? Yes, I think that title fits. If those resisting the Third Reich on their own territory during World War II were called partisans, then so should I.

An Italian childhood with Molotov cocktails. “I taught them the same mischief we did in Russia”

I was born in Ryazan, where I lived with my mom and grandmother. My childhood in the post‑industrial 1990s was typical: we had little to do at home, so most of our time was spent outdoors – scrabbling around derelict sites, building dens, experimenting with makeshift explosions. From an early age, I was fascinated by mechanics and electronics, and my parents responded by buying scientific books and educational sets. I think that shaped my later interests.

At 11 or 12, I went to stay in Italy for summer holidays with my mother, who had already lived there for a couple of years. She then informed me that I’d be relocating permanently. I only returned to Ryazan during the summers. Initially, learning in a foreign language was tough, though by the end of my first school year, thanks to my classmates I was able to converse and keep up academically.

I taught my Italian peers the same mischief we did in Russia. I remember fleeing the police many times. Once we were caught throwing Molotov cocktails into the walls of an abandoned school. They let us go with instructions: “Don’t play with petrol, lads.”

After finishing studies, I tried and failed to join the Italian Alpine Corps. I wanted to channel my energy somewhere. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it on the first attempt.

I saw no contradiction between anarchist ideals and a one‑year stint in a non‑belligerent army, so long as I wouldn’t fight a conquering war. I sought skills in weapons, gear, and technical know‑how useful for defending autonomous communities in future.

I lived and worked in Italy until a visit to Russia led to a job offer as an electrician. Until 2008, life here was acceptable. I missed my grandmother and friends, and life in Europe felt dull. Though I recall sunny Sicily fondly. I remember the sea nearby, serene nature and relaxed pace for those who love warmth.

Before 2014, I journeyed annually to the Chernobyl exclusion zone. My interest in the area predated the video game “Stalker.” Things like forbidden exploration, evading patrols, wearing military gear appealed to me greatly. I made some friends this way in Ukraine as well—unfortunately, some of them won’t ever join me in new journeys.

The path to anarchism. “My refusal of totalitarianism and fascism remains unchanged”

I didn’t become an anarchist overnight. Before I knew the term, I already believed in a fairer world , the one that is stateless, self‑governing communities. A friend later introduced me to the word “anarchism.”

But I don’t like rigid ideologies. The world changes; ideas that were relevant a century ago may no longer be. I avoid the dogmatism of some anarchists and communists as they can mirror religious zealots. But my rejection of totalitarianism and fascism is unwavering. One nationalist cell‑mate even called me a liberal for praising Yuval Harari’s work.

Many people are conservative and resistant to change, or disinterested as though a servile instinct is innate. In Russia I’ve encountered those longing for Stalin’s “iron fist” or a tsar’s strong hand: “There should be order, and everybody should know their place.” I can accept transition, perhaps through struggle, from a totalitarian state to freer, self‑governing communities, but only if people themselves change. Over the past decade, I’ve become bitterly disappointed in the Russian public; I wouldn’t be surprised if the country slips further into regimes like North Korea or Iran.

To me, anarchism means helping or taking part in projects aligned with its goals: defending workers’ rights, raising awareness, and learning new knowledge and skills to be more effective.

At 16 I became interested in the idea of autonomous farming communes, learning about them in samizdat. In Russia, apart from religious communes, there were no comparable experiments; ambitious projects rarely survived more than a couple of years.

In 2010 I joined Novy Put, recruited via underground literature and committed to developing workers’ communes. Despite stark differences between theory and reality, I returned each year for six months. I worked in Ryazan, then helped build and cultivate at Novy Put. I hoped each year that we would become self‑sufficient, but in time the founder’s financial rigidity doomed the project. Communities need to sell produce to survive.

But in the several years I’ve been there, practically nothing changed, people came and left disappointed. I stayed out of love for nature and a desire for new knowledge. I think the project died because of the founder's stubbornness about finances: it was impossible to organize production without selling goods. Still, I value the experience and hope the hut I built may serve someone in years to come.

24 February 2022. “Out of despair I wanted to clamp my teeth onto cannon barrels”

I’d followed the events in Ukraine since late 2013 and had hoped to join protests, but couldn’t secure unpaid leave. I didn’t expect Russia to exploit political transition. I think that now it is no secret who were the people who seized Crimea, who shot down the Malaysian Airlines plane with passengers on board and who fought in Donetsk and Lugansk regions under the guise of “angry miners of Donbass.”

It became obvious by 2021–2022 that invasion was imminent. Propaganda had grown more aggressive. Just before February 24, I had a dream, over and over again: rows and rows of military vehicles in a field, against a bleak skyline, black trees without leaves, I’m standing nearby, holding a weapon, something like a grenade launcher, but I can’t aim and fire it.

In the early hours of February 24, I was on an train from Ryazan to Moscow. I dozed, hearing fragments: “We’ll be in Kyiv tonight”; “We only strike NATO bases”; “They attacked us”; crude slurs against Ukrainians. Awaking, I checked news and saw the full‑scale invasion underway. The feed had been filled with false reports of Ukrainian provocations like a disturbing echo of Nazi Germany’s or the USSR’s pre‑war propaganda.

The sense of helplessness was overwhelming. I watched trains loaded with equipment and wished, in despair, to clamp my teeth onto cannon barrels.

In early March, I contacted a friend in Ukraine, now dead, who said they were burning Russian equipment “by the hundreds” while Russian forces were erasing Ukrainian towns. He was later killed helping to drive Russian troops from Kharkiv region in thr summer of 2022.

The Russian state closed off peaceful channels for opposition. Speaking against the war labelled one a traitor; repression followed. In that environment, it’s no surprise some choose exile, others reach for explosives.

Realising the war would drag on, I resolved in late 2022 to take military action. The Russian army had deliberately bombarded Ukrainian infrastructure by cutting water, heat and electricity to pressure civilians. Under Russian law, such attacks on infrastructure intended to scare the population into influencing authorities constitute terrorism (Article 205 of the Russian Criminal Code). Russian actions fitted that definition. They also used “double ­tap” tactics by striking rescue teams after initial attacks. Russia rejoiced in imagery of civilian suffering.

Grandmother’s death. “My mental state suffered; I lost my clarity and caution”

In late September 2023, just two months after the failed airfield attack, I set off on a cycling trip from Ryazan to St Petersburg. When I was approaching Vladimir, my grandmother called: “Ruslan, you must come back. I can’t move my legs.” Her voice was altered. I turned back immediately. Later, paramedics confirmed a suspected stroke.

That day I biked harder than ever, collapsing under a tree near Ryazan. I slept, then completed the rest of the journey in the morning. My first visit was to the hospital. She recognised me but could not speak. Sadly, that was our last meeting. On October 1, a late‑night call struck me: “Ruslan, you need to come tomorrow. She’s in the morgue.”

I am extremely sensitive to death, even losing a hamster during my childhood was traumatic. I braced myself, yet the grief was devastating. My eyes well with tears while I am writing these lines. That bereavement clouded my thinking and caution. I should have allowed myself months to grieve, but I did not.

Second explosion. “Rail infrastructure is the lifeblood of a warring state”

War went on and the failure of the air operation led me to turn to land action. Railways are the lifeblood of a fighting nation. I shared thoughts with my Ukrainian friend and asked him to help test the charge power as testing in Russia during wartime was too risky.

Reconnaissance revealed a freight line carrying military equipment bypassing Ryazan southwards. Its schedule was predictable and freight‑only , making it a suitable target. Even a single track disruption could impede logistics.

The operation cost under 10,000 roubles. Over a few days I made two potent bombs and a video‑transmitter with self‑destruct. I planned a safe departure route. Armed with night‑vision gear and pepper packets to deter dogs, I cycled to the site at midnight, placed charges under the tracks, affixed a camera to a tree, scattered pepper at potential detection spots, and found a signal point for live video. I waited for daylight, confirmed it was not a passenger train, and detonated the device.

I hid my bicycle, boots and clothing in a forest ten kilometres away and made my way home on foot via a different route.

I saw news of the derailment and sent it to my Ukrainian friend. Within days he reported that his commanders had allocated me $15,000. I was shocked. Never have I had more than a few hundred euros in my hands. I explained I had no financial need and requested to defer payment. He was upset but agreed.

He had also suggested earlier that he could help with my grandmother’s hospital treatment. I told him that I had all the money needed. Still, I am heartily grateful that he decided to help an elderly person from a country that attacked his country. I hope he reads these words some day.

Cameras and suspicious residents. “Even when I was arrested, they were unsure of my connection”

While scouting the rail line, I encountered some dacha residents a few kilometres away. They eye strangers warily and they could have said something if they were questioned. The authorities could have used cameras within a few‑kilometre radius, tracking those moving through blind zones.

When I came across the dacha settlement a week before the explosion, I should have changed my site and waited in the woods through the night. I should have returned home via minor trails, but fatigue led me to walk the last kilometre on asphalt, believing the risk had passed. One camera caught me between 11 a.m. and 12 p.m., five hours after the detonation. I should have chosen more concealing clothes to return home.

FSB agents said they could not trace how I appeared at the site of the attack. The explosion occurred on 11 November; I was detained on 29 November. Investigators found it difficult as they were as stumped as with the failed drone attack. Even when they brought me in, they weren’t certain I was involved.

After seizing my phone, they saw my Telegram subscriptions, concluding at least that I was no supporter of the Russian “special military operation.” That was another mistake online you need to present as patriotic as possible,. Knowing your rights and how they operate is also important. When extracting my testimony, one agent snarled: “I wanted to obliterate every cyclist in Ryazan.”

Detention and torture. “With the ‘tapik’ they could have pinned the Crimea Bridge bombing on me”

20 days after the railway blast passed. I was relaxed and didn’t give much thought to the fact that a police officer was standing outside my apartment. He compared me to a CCTV image and insisted I go to Ryazan’s Station 4. They took a DNA swab. Then plain‑clothes agents questioned me about my whereabouts on 11 November 2024. Struggling to answer, I raised suspicions with the “person” who questioned me.

He threatened me: you’ll be taken into the woods, tortured, shot, and the incident staged as an escape. Then they asked if I had chronic conditions. When I said no, one struck me on the head. They knocked me to the floor and beat me. They tied wires to my legs, shouted “Call now!” and delivered electric shocks.

They tried forcing me to sing the Ukrainian anthem. However, due to shock, I couldn’t remember the words or even unlock the phone.

The torture device was a field phone TP‑57 (called “tapik”). I was familiar with it from my collections of military gear. An investigator asked, “You sold ‘tapiks’ on Avito. Do you still have any?” I had sold mine, thankfully, otherwise, these scumbags could be using the same devices to torture others. There’s no doubt why they were asking: they didn’t look much like collectors.

After they wired up the “tapik”, one agent ordered the other: “Put a rag in his mouth so he doesn’t bite his tongue and yell.” When they asked questions, the rag was pulled out and the handle of the “tapik” was spun slower, but it was unrealistic to say anything while it was in motion. One of them was standing there filming me on his phone.

After they were done with the “tapik” torture, someone said I should be carried to a car. One masked man asked another one other how badly I could be beaten, to which he was told, “So you can’t see it on him.” My legs were paralysed, and cuffs cut into my skin, numbing fingers. I was driven around all night, head covered with a sack and beaten while wedged between seats.

During the search of my apartment, one officer examined my grandparents’ medals and aggressively asked if any were valuable. I wouldn’t be surprised if they took them.

When I showed where I’d disposed of materials, they beat me again and dragged me along the road by cuffs, damaging my shoulder. They stole my watch, which fell off my hand.

At the station near the railway terminal, I spent hours shackled on the floor. Later, a filmed confession was staged. That evening I was moved to a holding cell.

The following morning, masked men beat me with an electric shocker. A senior investigator watched from the nearby car. Compared with the “tapik”, the shocker was worse: it burned through clothing and seared my flesh; it even burnt part of the tattoo on my shoulder. To this day I still have the shredded underwear I wore.

In the evening, as I was being taken to the detention centre, the torturer phoned to arrange for a charged shocker as a “farewell fry-up”. But the other party refused to deliver it.

The next morning, I expected more torture, but instead was strapped and transferred to Moscow. A detention centre nurse was stunned by my bruised body and asked the escort why I was beaten; they answered nothing. I merely replied, “I fell.”

These are the events as I recall them. Sadly, such methods remain widespread in Russia. In the year I’ve been held, I’ve met at least five fellow inmates tortured with electricity and other brutal means. I hope those responsible for approving such torture face consequences. Their use of physical force and falsified evidence betrays unprofessionalism on the part of the Investigative Committee and FSB. With the “tapik”, they could have pinned me for the Crimea Bridge bombing if innocent farmers hadn’t already been jailed in that case.

In detention. “It was hard waking up to the anthem each day”

For the first two weeks I was held in Moscow’s Detention Centre 7, in a wing with extremist and terrorist suspects. Waking each morning to the anthem and the song “Where Does the Motherland Begin?” was brutal, especially when I dreamt of walking free…

Initially, I suffered badly: bruised kidneys, painful back wounds, infected cuts, immobile right arm, difficulty walking. Climbing to the upper bunk was laborious. For six months, memories of electric torture replayed vividly as I lay down; the sensation haunted me. I sought psychiatric help and was prescribed medication.

A week in, those present during my torture visited, taunting me about future consequences. This took a heavy toll on my mental health. I even contemplated swallowing poison to avoid further suffering: a spy‑novel fantasy.

After transfer to Detention Centre 1, once I had legal representation, an investigator asked smirking: “Do you think your lawyer will get you released?” He pressed on about my representation and client visits. That night, I had a conflict with a cellmate and was moved. Another cellmate was summoned hours earlier. I found it to be a disturbing coincidence. On other occasions, temporary cellmates showed excessive interest in personal items investigators might seek.

On the positive side, I have met some good people here and would welcome contact if I ever walk free. Despite being an atheist, I sometimes feel what I’ve endured is punishment for taking life lightly. It is a lesson to cherish every day.

Support and hope. “Letters hold a special value in detention”

In Denention Centre 5, agents tried to persuade me to refuse my lawyer. Probably because he is making life harder for them. They questioned who paid him, our discussions, and why he visits frequently. His involvement prevented my full isolation and gave me hope.

I realise I face a heavy sentence and can’t indulge in hopes for a favourable outcome. Exchange deals may be possible: perhaps I’ll be swapped as Russia holds pro‑Russian prisoners in Ukraine who desire exchange, but the Russian side has not reciprocated.

I received my first letters in January, about one month after arrest. Agents claimed everyone would abandon me, and anyone helping risked charges of supporting terrorism. Yet heartfelt letters from strangers have meant so much. In a place cut off from the world, mail brings a smile.

If you wish to support detainees, write letters or send postcards. These acts really bring hope. Sadly, letters often take a long time to arrive or get “lost.” Some correspondence never reaches me. I reply to all letters and collect them in a bag.

In prison, people spend most of their time watching TV, playing games, or reading.

Some correspondents have sent me books on science, programming, foreign languages and fiction. I’m now revising my Italian and hope to learn Ukrainian. One kind interlocutor has subscribed me to scientific journals on space, animals, physics… I study chess occasionally, but primarily prioritise replying to letters. TV watching is now limited to science, travel and nature channels, especially about hamsters or rats.

I consider myself a prisoner of war, as my actions took place within the context of the Russia–Ukraine conflict. I would be a political prisoner if detained for peaceful anti‑war protest or distributing stickers “discrediting” the Russian armed forces.

My actions I qualify as “sabotage”, not “terrorism”. I didn’t aim to terrorise civilians. My goal was tactical: disable aircraft to prevent bombing, disrupt railway logistics. Although the war continues and I’ve been captured, I remain deeply grateful to the Ukrainians who trusted me. If I am behind bars, that responsibility is mine alone. I sincerely hope Ukraine endures and that everyone’s sky will be peaceful.

Editor: Yegor Skovoroda