With tears of joy and anguish, Ukraine awaits prisoners of war

In a parking lot in the Chernihiv region, a couple of hours north of Kiev, two sisters arrived with a chocolate cake under their arms and some candles: two red hearts and the numbers 2 and 5 in orange. Their brother, Yuriy Dobriev, had turned 25 in April, but they couldn't celebrate because he was in a Russian prison. In addition to the cake, they carried a pack of Winston cigarettes, lighters, a bottle of Coca-Cola, and several chocolates. While they waited for him, the sisters wondered: Does he still have his sense of humor? Will it still be the same?

Sisters Anastasia Dobrieva and Inha Palamartxuk, along with 150 other people, waited with hearts full of excitement and anxiety to be reunited with their loved ones after eighteen months of separation. They had been informed that the buses were already arriving, with 205 Ukrainian prisoners of war on board. They had just been exchanged for 205 Russian prisoners in the 64th exchange since the beginning of the war, the largest of all.

"We're so anxious—we don't know if he's really there or not," Anastasia said. "We just want to see him. It's very emotional for us: we haven't seen him for a year and a half."

Each reunion came after years of pain. There were tears of disappointment and joy, and every now and then, an almost epic coincidence. In one exchange, for example, a female soldier was reunited with her son, also a soldier and a prisoner. Neither of them knew that the other had been captured.

A Blind Hope

Since Russia began the full-scale invasion in February 2022.More than 4,550 Ukrainian prisoners of war have been exchanged, but thousands remain locked up in Russian prisons. The Ukrainian government has not provided exact data on the total number of prisoners.

Many released Ukrainians have reported cases of torture and extreme starvation, in addition to being forced to sing the Russian anthem every day. In several interviews, prisoners explained that they were constantly told that Ukraine no longer existed and that their country had forgotten about them.

That Tuesday afternoon, in the parking lot, many people clung to a blind hope: perhaps their loved one would arrive on one of the buses, and if not, perhaps one of the ex-prisoners would recognize a photograph. Because of this, many relatives held photos inside crumpled plastic sleeves, often with a name, a brigade, and a date of disappearance.

"I've been waiting for my son for so long," said Yulia Kohut, 55, holding his photograph. "We've waited for him for so long." When the final list of prisoners returning to Tuesday's buses was made public, Vadim Kohut was not on it. His mother began to cry uncontrollably.

Dobrieva and Palamartxuk, the sisters with the cake, had been informed that their brother's name was on the list, but said they wouldn't be sure until Dobriev got off the bus. Dobriev, a National Guard soldier, disappeared in a forest in the Luhansk region of eastern Ukraine at the end of 2023. Before then, his sisters had suspected something serious might be wrong: he had written them letters, also in keeping with his promise, to tell them he loved them. After that, they heard nothing more. They began searching social media and eventually found a video showing him in sub-zero temperatures, wearing little clothing, his hands tied. At least, they thought, he was still alive.

Over the next few months, the sisters spoke with other released prisoners who had seen Dobriev. The International Committee of the Red Cross confirmed that he was a prisoner, but they learned where he was thanks to the last exchange: some returning soldiers recognized him. By April 17, he was in a penitentiary in Sverdlovsk. "The kids told us the food in prison is terrible: rotten fish and cabbage," Dobrieva said.

On Monday, the sisters took an overnight train from Odessa to Kiev and then drove to the meeting point. At 3:21 p.m. local time, the government office in charge of prisoner exchanges sent a text message to Palamartxuk: "Congratulations! Yurii Dobriev has been released."

Glory to the heroes!

Before the buses, two ambulances were the first to arrive, each carrying a soldier unable to walk. They were unloaded on stretchers, amid applause and shouts from the crowd: "Glory to Ukraine!" "Glory to the heroes!" The soldiers saluted, their gestures slow and their eyes half-closed, still visibly disoriented.

Just before 5:00 p.m., the sirens of the police cars escorting the four buses carrying the prisoners of war sounded. They soon entered the parking lot, and the men descended en masse. Many were already draped in Ukrainian flags, having been received by government officials near the border. Most were exhausted from their time in Russian prisons, with skeletal bodies, blank stares, and shaved heads.

Serhi Laptiev, 23, had spent three years in captivity. He explained that in the last prison he was held in, he was treated with a certain dignity. He learned of his mother's death through a Red Cross message. The memory of his daughter, who had been born just before he was taken prisoner, helped him stay alive. "I had someone to live for," he said. "I didn't lose hope." As he moved through the crowd, people surrounded him, showing him photographs: "Have you seen this soldier? And that one?" Most of the time, Laptiev shook his head, as when Mother Kohut asked him if he recognized the image of her son.

His friend, Anzhelika Yatsina, 52, who was searching for her older brother, was luckier than she was. Laptiev had shared a cell with Oleh Obodovski for the past two years: his brother was alive. She burst into tears and took his hand. "I didn't want to let go, because he was a part of me and I was a part of him," Yatsina explained. "I feel like at that moment he gave me a little bit of Oleh."

Then Dobriev arrived and ran off the bus to his sisters. "Girls, I'm home now," he said. He couldn't eat the cake or the chocolates because he had to see a doctor first. However, the sisters lit the candles so he could make a wish and blow them out.

"How do I feel? I have no words to describe it," he said. His sisters hugged him from both sides while he held the cake. They kissed him on his cheeks and didn't let go. Inha Palamartxuk, 38, cried as she stroked her younger brother's head. "Come on, let's call them," she said. "Everyone is waiting for you." First, he called his mother: "Yes, Mom, I'm home." Then he took out a pack of Winston cigarettes, lit one, and laughed.

Copyright The New York Times