37 months and 13 days of captivity in Russia: "I counted the days"

Special Envoy to Morshyn (Ukraine)The room smells of tobacco. It's about twelve square meters, with two beds and a nightstand. A pack of cigarettes, cell phones, water, medication, and little else. Maksym and Mykyta have been making this small room their home for two weeks. There is nothing else because they have nothing else. They were released on May 24th. in the second major exchange of prisoners of war between Russia and Ukraine after the talks last month in Istanbul. They were held captive for "37 months and 13 days" and for "555 days," respectively. Each has their own way of counting the time of their hell, in captivity at the hands of the Russian army. "I counted the days," says Maksym.

Maksym and Mykyta are two of the 46 soldiers released in recent weeks who are recovering in a reception center in Morshyn, in western Ukraine. It is an imposing Soviet-style molten shell, which decades ago had functioned as a rehabilitation center and which, since the start of the major Russian invasion of Ukraine, has resumed its former function. Physical recovery, but also—and above all—psychological recovery. It belongs to the State Border Guard Service, which is gradually renovating it to accommodate people affected by the war. In addition to those released in prisoner exchanges, there are now 115 wounded soldiers—many of them with amputated limbs—19 women—wives and mothers—and six children. And 31 people have been displaced from Russian-occupied Ukrainian territory.

Maksym, 39, sits on his new bed, dressed in a tracksuit and flip-flops, his body hunched over, hands between his knees. His eyes are fixed on the floor for long periods of time. He is thin, with strong features. He is shaved and clean-shaven. It's hard to imagine what he looked like three years ago. He doesn't give details about where and how he was captured. But he says he's from Mariupol.

Mariupol fell into Russian hands on May 20, 2022 after one of the worst sieges of this war, just weeks after Vladimir Putin launched the large-scale operation against Ukraine on February 22.

Maksym’s eyes mostly reflect sadness. His demeanor reveals signs of post-traumatic stress, and likely fear.

— They treated you very badly, didn’t they?

— Yes.

A laconic "yes," an instant reaction. No further words.

— Can you sleep and rest at night?

This time, he hesitates. It takes him a few seconds to answer.

— There are difficulties. But the situation is improving.

“We’re recovering and gaining strength,” adds his companion Mykyta. He is thirty years old and was captured in Bakhmut. They both speak with Sister Lucía Caram, who on her last humanitarian expedition to Ukraine has transported, among other products, hundreds of items of clothing for the Ukrainian soldiers who have been released in recent weeks. It's a short conversation; words are hard to come by after three years. Maksym says he has a wife and children, aged thirteen and seventeen.

— When you were in captivity, did it help you to think about them?

— Yes, every day.

— Have you seen them yet?

— Not yet. We talk online.

— Where do they live?

— In Mariupol.

Maksym's family is in a city occupied by Russia. Mykyta has been luckier. He's from Kharkiv and was able to see his wife in Kyiv when he was released.

Maksym still hopes to be reunited.

— They're planning to come from Mariupol to visit me.

— Can they leave freely?

— They'll try to leave via another country.

She looks like she wants to smile, but tears might well up at any moment. "It's very important for us to understand that we're not alone, that there are people who support us."

"It was a very hard experience, but we endured it," summarizes Vitaliy, who is trying to recover from his trauma in another room at the center. He wears a T-shirt with the Ukrainian coat of arms and a psalm written on it: "The Lord will give strength to his people." Psalm 28:11. He explains that the support of the Ukrainian people is what has allowed them to endure. "We cried when we saw the people along the road the day we were liberated," he recalls. And he concludes with the omnipresent cry in this country: "Slava Ukraini" (Glory in Ukraine).

Missing in action

This outcry, always followed by the automatic response "Heroyam slava" (Glory to the heroes) is repeated almost like a mantra in Kyiv's Maidan Square during a rally of families of missing soldiers. There are signs denouncing the silence surrounding the whereabouts of their husbands, sons, or brothers: "Silencing the fate of the disappeared means torturing them with your own hands," reads a cardboard sign held by a young woman. Next to her, two young women hold a large Ukrainian flag with a photo of their missing loved one.

The square is full of these flags, covered with images of men—many of them young—dressed as soldiers, whose fate remains unknown: whether they are alive, dead, or have become prisoners of the Russian army.

"It’s been half a year since I last had my husband by my side. DNA? DNA tests take a long time to process," says Nataliya, one of those gathered. "But we don't wait for DNA, we wait for them alive. We're waiting, we're waiting..." she repeats, her voice breaking. Two other women, wives of soldiers from the same brigade, echo the same message. They also denounce that the police are not cooperating with the families and that the brigade commanders are not providing any information either.

Official information indicates that more than 70,000 Ukrainians are considered missing, the vast majority of them soldiers, according to the figure released on May 1 by the commissioner for missing persons under special circumstances, Artur Dobroserdov. "In most cases, we will only be able to find out what happened to them after the war is over," he admitted. So far this year, 30,000 Ukrainians have been added to the list, while some 12,000 have been removed from the registry after being found, released from Russian captivity, or their bodies identified by forensic teams.

There are only three crematoriums in Ukraine: in Odessa, Lviv, and Kyiv. "The one in Kyiv works every day," explains Andrii Zimin. The war has made visiting morgues, crematoriums, and cemeteries part of his work routine. He is the director of AU International Service, a company that provides assistance services to foreigners in Ukraine. "Before the war, funeral services represented 20% of our work. Now, it's at least 50%. And the rest is medical assistance to the wounded," he says. His company has assisted in the repatriation of the bodies of dozens of foreigners, mainly International Legion fighters, but also aid workers, such as Catalan Emma Igual, director of the NGO Road to Relief, who died in September 2023 in Bakhmut.

In the shopping center on Maidan Square, there's a children's competition playing Rubik's cubes and other mental agility games. "This is the future of Ukraine. Not the army," says Andri. "But they must learn to fight, because we have crazy neighbors," he adds resignedly.