The Hill spoke with half a dozen former prisoners of war and their families this month about what life has been like for those captured by Russian forces since Moscow launched its invasion of Ukraine more than four months ago.
Thousands of Ukrainians have been detained during the war, with many exchanged for Russian prisoners of war and released. Among them was Igor Kurayan, a 55-year-old Ukrainian activist who joined the fight against Russia and was arrested in April.
He said Russian soldiers discovered he had been supplying Ukrainian soldiers on the front lines since 2014, when Russia seized Crimea, and accused him of funding terrorist organizations and preparing a terrorist attack against Russian soldiers.
During weeks in Russian captivity, Kurayan said soldiers beat and shocked him for information, and twisted and cut his fingers using pliers and metal scissors. Other prisoners were beaten so badly they died, he added.
“Every day they called him about the torture and wanted him to hand over his friends,” said a translator for the PR Army, an organization that helped connect former captives with The Hill and translate interviews.
“They even offered him to become the mayor of Kherson, but he refused all their offers,” he added.
Russian forces also allegedly took Kurayan’s phone and used his social media accounts to post earlier photos he took with Ukrainian forces, but added captions suggesting he supported Ukrainian forces surrendering to Russia.
Kurayan’s daughter Karina provided The Hill with screenshots of some of the posts Russian soldiers made on her father’s account. Kurayan deleted all posts once he was exchanged and released from Russian captivity.
While Russian forces kept some captured Ukrainian soldiers in Ukraine, others were transferred to Russia.
Anzhelika Todorashko, 32, said her mother, a Ukrainian soldier, and her sister, a civilian, were captured by Russian forces shortly after the invasion began.
Russian soldiers were able to quickly occupy her small village near the Russian border, cutting off all supplies to the town and encouraging residents to take a bus to Russia, where they would be sent to an “infiltration camp,” according to Todorashko, the who spoke English.
She said her mother, Viktoria, 52, was arrested in February for her work with the Ukrainian military, then taken to Russia where she said she was electrocuted, photographed naked, given little food and water and heard screams from other detainees. asking for death.
Todorashko said Russian soldiers would humiliate the prisoners, with her mother telling her the prisoners had to hold their hands above their heads for hours a day and if their hands fell they would be beaten. Soldiers also shaved women’s heads and drowned others.
“[Russia] they had all the people in masks. You will never see their faces,” Todorashko said.
Viktoria was freed weeks after her imprisonment and taken to a Ukrainian hospital only for Todorashko’s sister Valeria to be captured in March for 10 days as the Russians worked to find evidence that she was working for Ukrainian forces, Todorashko added.
She was released when Russia could find no evidence of such activities.
The Russian embassy in Washington did not respond to questions from The Hill about the abuse and torture described by former Ukrainian detainees.
Twenty-five-year-old Hlib Stryszko told The Hill that he was defending a bomb shelter in Mariupol shielding women and children when he was wounded by Russian forces.
He said he was standing on a third-floor balcony when he saw a Russian tank approaching the building. The tank fired at him, causing him to fall from the third floor with debris falling on top of him.
Stryszko was taken to hospital where he discovered he had broken his pelvis, was unable to open his eyes and injured his jaw. He said he was treated for his injuries, but two days later Russian forces took over the hospital and he was transferred to another hospital where doctors refused to treat anyone who spoke Ukrainian.
Even after speaking Russian, Stryszko said he was not treated for the injuries he suffered during the explosion.
“He said he spent about a week in the hospital without getting the necessary help or treatment,” Natasha Sennett, another translator from the PR Army, said of Stryszko. “Basically, they kind of sarcastically came up to him every morning, saying, ‘Hey, hang in there soldier, maybe something’s coming for you.’
Along with limited care, Stryszko said music would be played for the soldiers and Chechen fighters, notorious for their cruelty, would come to the hospital and taunt the wounded.
“They’re going to pull out their knives, take the knife and start grazing the knife on the bodies of the wounded soldiers,” Sennett said.
Stryszko said he was eventually transferred to Russia, where authorities realized he could not be sent to prison because of his condition. He was eventually flown to Russian-controlled Crimea, where he was exchanged and transferred to a Ukrainian hospital, where he is still recovering.
Family members, meanwhile, spent weeks not knowing whether their loved ones were dead or alive.
“It was hell on earth,” said Karina, Kurayan’s daughter, in an interview, with the help of translator Natsya Popandopulos, another member of the non-profit PR Army, which works to share the stories of Ukrainians with the world.
Only Karina, who is currently in the UK, could speak about her father’s captivity, with family members fearing for their own freedom and livelihood if they spoke out.
Todorashko, whose mother and sister were arrested, said she did not know her mother was being held by Russian forces until she was released and was able to contact her. She only learned of her sister’s capture because her younger brother, who was in the village with her sister, was able to hide a phone and text her.
Todorashko’s brother had to hide the device because Russian soldiers were going into homes and taking anything they wanted, including phones and laptops, according to Todorashko.
“It was scary. It was scary,” Todorashko told The Hill of being out of touch with her mom and sister for so long amid the war.
For Ukrainians in Russian-annexed Crimea, fear and abuse were nothing new.
Volodymyr Balukh, a 51-year-old activist, said he saw his home in Crimea overrun by Russian forces in 2014. He refused to obey soldiers’ orders, still flying his Ukrainian flag, and switched from Russian to Ukrainian.
He said he ran food and supplies to Ukrainian soldiers on the front lines for years as he was arrested several times by Russian forces, who eventually planted ammunition and explosives in his home in an attempt to label him a terrorist.
Balukh then spent three years in prison from 2016 to 2019, where he says Russian soldiers doused him with water, stripped him, gave him electric shocks, threatened him with rape and gave him limited food.
“In captivity, it’s a battle for modesty to preserve your honor and dignity every second, 24 hours,” said Popantopoulos, one of the translators, quoting Baloch. “The Russian system is made to take everything, every person away from yourself and feel only fear.”
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Today, Balukh still tries to help Ukraine’s war effort and works to raise money for vehicles needed to defend its territory.
After his time in Russian captivity, he had some advice to share for Ukrainians under Russian control.
“Stamina, loyalty and stability are very important in captivity,” Popandopulos said of Balukh. “It’s important to know, what are you fighting for? What do you live for?’
