Ukrainians who fought for Russia and were captured told why they continue to love it

"I consider myself Russian"

Talking to prisoners of war is not easy. First, you need to make sure no one is pressuring them. Then, you need to understand how openly they are willing to speak under such conditions.

But gaining access to Russian military personnel in Russia itself is almost impossible. Therefore, conversations with prisoners allow for a better understanding of what is happening in the war and what motivates people to participate in it. Including Ukrainians fighting on Russia's side.

Journalists gave each interviewee the opportunity to refuse the interview. Those who agreed were spoken to without cameras and away from guards. In addition to these few official interviews, it was possible to speak personally with prisoners in Russian in various locations.

Павялічыць

Anton was ten when the part of the Ukrainian Donbas where he lived came under the control of pro-Russian forces.

In 2022, when Vladimir Putin began the full-scale war, Anton turned 18. He immediately volunteered to fight for Russia.

"I do not regret my choice. I went to defend my land," Anton says firmly.

His friends also volunteered.

"And then you start getting SMS. Died. Died. Died."

Other prisoners tell almost the same story: everyone who went to war with them died.

According to them, fewer and fewer people are willing to fight – despite large payments for signing a contract. This could mean that it is becoming increasingly difficult for Putin to avoid a new mass mobilization.

When Ukraine captures its own citizens in battle, they are tried for treason. But first, they are sent to prisoner-of-war camps along with Russians.

Officially, Kyiv continues to consider them Ukrainians, and Russian control over their regions as temporary. But the reality is much more complex.

"They are very pro-Russian, and they themselves don't have a clear sense of who they consider themselves to be," says Petro Yatsenko from the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War.

Anton, in any case, does not consider himself a traitor.

Павялічыць

"I consider myself Russian. The country doesn't matter, it all depends on nationality. My whole family is from Russia. All my roots are from there," he says.

When asked about his Ukrainian surname, he just shrugs it off. In his opinion, it changes nothing.

A whole generation of people born in Ukraine has grown up under occupation – with the Russian education system and media completely controlled by the Kremlin. For years, they heard the same thing from them: the Ukrainian government in Kyiv is "Nazi" and illegitimate. After the start of the full-scale war, even more people and territories fell under this influence.

Anton absorbed this propaganda and now almost literally repeats its main tenets. He calls Putin "my president" and believes that he must continue the offensive and seize the rest of Donbas – even despite the hundreds of thousands of people who have already died for it.

"It's a pity that people died, especially innocent ones," says Anton. "But war is war. It could have been ended. But no one wanted to do that."

Павялічыць

"We have our own grievances"

In the prison hospital, Artem lies on a bed in the corner. His body is covered in scars from wounds. He was only in the war for two months.

Like Anton, Artem is from Donetsk and volunteered to fight – not just for money.

"We have our own grievances," says Artem, recalling how his region was heavily shelled in 2014 when Ukrainian troops tried to prevent it from falling under Russian control.

But military experience adds bitterness. He says the commander was "bad." And Artem himself never received the promised 400,000 Russian rubles ($5,000) for signing the contract.

And that's not all. Wounded Artem lies next to a Russian soldier who was paid five times more for the same contract.

All Ukrainians with whom journalists spoke in captivity were from territories occupied by Russia back in 2014. And almost all of them voluntarily joined the Russian army.

But one man from the Donetsk region said that he was forced to fight. During the conversation, he constantly looked around, as if he was not sure whom he could trust at all.

According to intelligence data, more than 50,000 Ukrainians were forcibly mobilized in the occupied territories. In other sources, the figures are significantly higher.

This man said that after the Russian invasion, his family did not leave not because of any political or national beliefs, but simply because Donetsk was their hometown. Now he wanted only one thing – to return to his wife and children, and then do everything possible to avoid ending up on the front again.

"I'll just hide," he admitted.

From coffins to Christmas trees

Under the hospital windows, the prisoners have planted strawberry and cucumber beds.

A little further, from a utility building, a sharp smell of varnish can be heard. One of the workers takes a golden plastic handle from a bag.

"Guess what this is for?" he smiles.

Stepping inside, you initially don't even realize what you're seeing. Men here are crafting wooden coffins. They explain that the last order was garden sheds. The current one looks much sadder.

At the other end of the yard, in an adjacent workshop, several prisoners of war are making artificial Christmas trees. Bright tree decorations hang on the workbenches.

Like those who make coffins, they say they spend the money they earn on extra food and cigarettes.

Serhiy was born in Ukrainian Luhansk but says he is Russian – as were his parents, who moved to Donbas when Ukraine and Russia were still part of the USSR.

He joined the Russian army ten years ago to, in his words, "defend the Motherland." Now he wants to go home, leave the army, and no longer fight:

"I've done my part."

Most prisoners do not have such a choice.

Next to Serhiy, a former drug dealer assembles plastic branches. Like many other prisoners, he went to war "solely" to avoid a long prison sentence.

"For me, 15 years in prison is too much," Konstantin explains. "I understand that this probably doesn't justify me, but it's a fact. I'm 44 now. I would get out at 60. So no."

But V-shniki – as prisoners who became soldiers are called – must survive until the end of the war to be free. And in assault units, the chances of that are slim.

Three men convicted of murder said they initially expected to be released after a year of service. But then their contracts were automatically extended.

Павялічыць

When Serhiy is asked how he felt when killing his compatriots in battle, he calls the question "provocative" and refuses to answer.

Konstantin answers cautiously:

"I see nothing good in any war. And in a war like this, nothing good can come of it. I'm not saying we are the same as Ukrainians, but we are close. Everyone has relatives there. It's just wrong."

Despite this, he still believes that the decision to go to war was the right one.

Neither Serhiy nor Konstantin believes the war will end soon. Both believe Putin will not stop until he seizes all of Donbas.

"But everyone I know there is already tired," says Konstantin. "I just want all this to end. As soon as possible."

"It seems they don't want to exchange us"

At lunch, prisoners in dark blue overalls silently walk to the dining hall. Heads bowed, hands behind their backs.

They eat soup and stewed meat. On the screen, a video titled "Myths about Crimea" plays continuously. It refutes Russian claims about Russia's supposedly historical right to the peninsula, which it seized from Ukraine in 2014.

But the prisoners don't look at the screen. Attempts to convince them of anything seem more like a formality.

For Kyiv, the main goal is to use these prisoners of war for exchange and bring its own people home. But when exchange lists are compiled, it turns out that men from Donbas are not a priority for Russia.

"Only about a dozen people have been transferred this year," Konstantin complains. "It seems they don't want to exchange us. I think we will be the last."

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