EARLY VOTING in Mariupol began on March 10th, courtesy of armed election brigades who criss-crossed the city in search of participants. Sometimes, mobile ballot boxes were unveiled to the sounds of rousing hits such as Sergei Voitenko’s “My Russia” (Russia! Russia! My Russia! / Great country! Motherland!). Other times, guns did the talking. Those preferring to wait until the official start had a harder job. The locations of polling booths were not advertised ahead of the vote—a provision, officials explained, designed to ensure the safety of organisers. By the time polls closed on the evening of March 15th, the first of the three official ballot days, a stratospheric 69% of the region had already voted. This was all the more remarkable given the absence of accurate voting lists to calculate the number from.

The vote in Mariupol could be written off as a farce, were it not for everything that went before it. The second day of voting came exactly two years after Russian planes dropped bombs on the city’s main theatre while a large number of children were taking shelter inside, killing hundreds of them. Local authorities estimate that at least 22,000 civilians were killed in the city during weeks of bombardment. It may be considerably more. Only 120,000 of a pre-war population of 450,000 remain in Mariupol, plus a similar number of new migrants from Russia and central Asia.

Local sources, whose identities we are withholding for their protection, report that Mariupol has been unusually deserted over the days of the vote. The city still bears obvious war scars, they say. Central streets alternate between ruins and, where houses have been cleared, empty pits. Only collaborators who have proven their worth to the occupying Russian forces have been given homes in the few new-builds, hastily constructed for the cameras on the edge of the city. Access to the city is still tightly controlled, with checkpoints on the roads in and out. Anyone wanting to enter has to get permission at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, 1,000 km away.

The Kremlin has been nonetheless keen for Mariupol to display loyalty. One of the very first acts of the occupying forces—even before the theatre was filled in with concrete in an attempt to contain the stench of rotting corpses—was to wheel in massive video screens showing Vladimir Putin. “They hadn’t even opened the shops or the market, or the hospitals, but they had the big propaganda screens,” one local said. In the run-up to the presidential elections, there was a campaign to encourage locals to take up Russian passports. Its lack of success was perhaps most clearly shown in the decision in December 2023 to allow people to vote using their Ukrainian IDs, a rare example of a state allowing nationals of another one to take part in a presidential election. It is one of many avenues for voting fraud, suggests Mariupol’s elected mayor Vadym Boychenko, now based in Ukrainian-controlled Dnipro.

Solomiia Bobrovska, a member of Ukraine’s parliamentary intelligence committee closely connected to resistance movements, says that Mariupol remains a partisan hotbed. “That’s why they are so strict about the city. They don’t trust locals with anything important.”

The resistance effort can broadly be split between military and civilian wings. Partisan and diversionary activity in the former category is overseen by agencies like the SSO, Ukraine’s special forces, and HUR, its military intelligence agency. The SBU, the domestic intelligence outift, leads on civilian resistance.

Alongside this are other more independent activist groups, like Yellow Ribbon, which says it has 15,000 activists across Ukraine’s occupied territories. The resistance is mostly low-level: printing anti-Putin posters and organising underground Ukrainian flag production. Its social media channel offers suggestions about how to avoid voting and share information about election organisers with prosecutors. “It’s about giving people support, to show they are not alone,” says “Alex,” a co-founder of the movement. “Our aim is to irritate the hell out of the Kremlin.”

Civil and military representatives are hesitant to discuss the extent of their networks, but it’s clear that their work has become much more difficult since the early days of the war. Many agents have been compromised, hauled off to prison in the best case scenarios. Russia has dispatched tens of thousands of security officers to the occupied territories. Petro Andryushchenko, an adviser to the mayor of Mariupol, also in exile, admits the resistance was “losing too many people,” and suggests Ukraine should become more careful. He suggests encouraging locals to vote unless it was safe not to do so; a boycott was unlikely to change anything and could attract dangerous attention, he says. “The Mariupol resistance is different to everywhere else given our history and the level of control. At this stage we need to think about keeping people alive. They are our stake.”

The Ukrainian government, perhaps surprisingly, has not produced a unified position on what its citizens should do: take part in the electoral farce to avoid reprisals, or ignore it. That is partly down to disagreement inside the corridors of power. But it is really because officials find it hard to admit that the liberation of Mariupol now looks remote. For Mr Boychenko, the exiled mayor, who has been criticised for his decision to leave his city in the early days of the war, the focus should be on helping the 200,000 or so survivors now scattered across Ukraine. “We are an evacuated city, a people in exile. But we haven’t disappeared.” ■