"I Went to Fight for a Passport." A Report from a Russian Prisoner of War Camp in Ukraine

How Russian prisoners of war are held in Ukraine, and what they say about the war and their participation in it – in an RBC-Ukraine report from a prison camp.

In its war with Russia, Ukraine strictly adheres to all international standards and agreements. Russian prisoners of war are held in strict accordance with the Geneva Conventions—they receive medical treatment, work, and have their rights and obligations.

Furthermore, the prisoner exchange facilities are open to diplomats, various humanitarian organizations, and the media. One of the camps regularly hosts so-called "open days," where journalists are shown the prisoners' living conditions and given the opportunity to speak with them.

Distribution center and medical unit

One of the Russian prisoner-of-war colonies is located in a small village in western Ukraine. A large stone fence, surrounded by barbed wire, is visible even as we approach. We ask the driver to stop at the main entrance. We are being collected in the morning, and the "tour" itself is scheduled to last until 3:00 PM.

Upon entering, we find ourselves in an iron labyrinth of narrow corridors and bars, where we are met by guards and led deeper into the administrative building, into a neat assembly hall. After a while, Pyotr Yatsenko, a representative of the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War, appears before the journalists.

"We'll be here until three, and I ask you to stay in a group. But we won't be taking everyone out at once. You can stay and interview the prisoners if they want. But I ask you to leave before evening, otherwise the prison staff might confuse you and keep you overnight, " Yatsenko jokes, encouraging the journalists.

After a short briefing, we are led to a small area outside. The Declaration of Human Rights is written on the wall in front of the entrance, and a small plaster angel sits beneath it. As we gather in the courtyard, the guards point to a patch of ground surrounded by stone slabs—a floral representation of the Ukrainian coat of arms. The first thing we see upon entering the camp is a church.

"This is a Greek Catholic church, but Russians can pray here—the rituals are similar, " says a representative of the Koorshtab.

The church doesn't smell of incense, although, judging by the tattered Bibles and candle stubs, prisoners occasionally visit. Incidentally, we'll still find psalters and New Testaments in the living quarters—on about every fifth bedside table.

We're taken along the route the prisoners themselves take when they're brought here. The first stop is the distribution block. Here, the soldiers are examined by doctors, given uniforms, boots, and personal hygiene items, and taken to the showers. The room, filled from floor to ceiling with bags containing their belongings, is permeated with the stale smell of dirty clothes.

"All these bags have tags, and they have names on them. They use these names to find their clothes when they go to the exchange. They are left with various jewelry, chains, wedding rings. One of them had an earring. We don't take anything from them, in accordance with the Geneva Conventions, " says Yatsenko.

In the same room are dozens of boxes—a "gift" to the prisoners from the Red Cross. They contain toothbrushes and toothpaste, soap, toilet paper, and shaving kits.

Despite the lingering smell of bleach, the showers are more pleasant to be in than the room with the bags. Two years ago, the stalls were open, but today each one is closed by a separate curtain.

"Everything here is for their convenience. Even these watering cans—they're quite expensive. I'm sure most Russians haven't even seen anything like them in their own regions, " Yatsenko adds.

When prisoners arrive here, they first undergo quarantine. They are kept separate from the rest for two weeks, not working or living in the common block. When doctors determine they are okay, they are released to join the others. While they're explaining this to us, we walk past identical gray buildings, watched from the windows. For many POWs, each such press visit is a change from their daily routine.

After the distribution center, we find ourselves in the "store." It's a small room with a counter and shelves filled with various products. Canned goods, candy and cookie boxes, instant noodles, toothbrushes, soap, and, for some reason, Easter cakes. The entire bottom shelf is filled with them.

Prisoners earn money in the camp—around 300 hryvnias per month, according to the conventions. In addition, each has an account where their families can send them money. The occupiers don't see any cash. When they want to "buy" something in the store, their expenses are recorded in a notebook and calculated. Prisoners can also order specific products.

"The Red Cross comes regularly, and the prisoners have the right to order whatever they want. And next time, it's delivered to them."

– What's the limit? Can they have ham?

"There are categories, and it's clear no one's going to bring them ham here. But they do order basic items, some meat, canned goods, sweets, and cookies."

Before heading to the sanitary block, we find ourselves on a spacious parade ground and, for the first time during the "tour," see the prisoners themselves – they're gathered along the walls of the sanitary block, stealthily eyeing us. We eye them too, but openly. Then we decide to approach them.

One of the soldiers sits on a bench, stretching out his bandaged leg. He has an Asian appearance, and for some reason, when he sees us, he smiles. We learn that his name is Talibjun, he's from Tajikistan, and he recently turned 31—he "celebrated" the birthday right here in the camp.

– How did you end up at war?

– I went and signed the contract myself.

– For what?

– Well, I already live in Russia… I have my own house there. I needed a passport, so I went.

– So you went to war for the sake of citizenship?

– Well, yes.

Taliban continues to smile, and this smile doesn't fade even when he's unsure how to answer a question. For example, about why Russia attacked Ukraine. He claims he doesn't really understand the matter, calling the war "politics." It later turns out that this answer is actually quite typical for Russian prisoners. They don't want to think about why they ended up in war and then in captivity. Or perhaps they simply don't want to talk about it.

Prisoner of war Talibjun (photo: Vitaly Nosach/RBC-Ukraine)

Ukrainians who have decided to fight alongside the Russian army, on the contrary, behave quite aggressively and answer all such questions simply: they are fighting for their "homeland." This "homeland" most often turns out to be occupied Donetsk, which they call a republic.

One of them introduces himself as Sergei, but refuses to speak on camera. During the conversation, he becomes irritated that we refer to Donetsk as occupied. When our arguments run out, he quickly says, "You should be occupied too," pulls a medical mask over his face, and steps aside.

Talibjun, on the other hand, is the opposite – he calls journalists over and struggles to find the right words to describe his predicament. It turns out he's constantly being offered for exchange, but for some reason, they don't exchange him. He's convinced it's the Ukrainian side's fault – supposedly several Ukrainian soldiers are out to get him. When we point out that they might simply not be eager to bring him home, he freezes for a second and, for the first time in the entire conversation, stops smiling.

"Aren't you offended that in order to get citizenship, you have to fight for this country? And it's not entirely clear why."

– For example, if I want to live in this country, the most dignified way for me is to obtain citizenship this way.

– Is this really worthy?

– Well, that's what I decided. It's my personal decision. So that no one can hold it against me in the future.

Then two young men sit down on the bench. One of them is 19-year-old Alexander, originally from the Khabarovsk region. When we ask how many kilometers it is to his home, he says "nine thousand" and turns away, refusing to talk on camera.

The sanitary block looks like a regional hospital after a high-quality renovation. The walls and floors are tiled in cream-colored tiles, and the offices are filled with expensive medical equipment—an X-ray machine, an ultrasound machine, and analytical equipment. Yatsenko explains that the equipment was purchased by the Red Cross, but the renovations were financed by Ukraine itself. A box labeled "Complaints and Suggestions" is pinned to the wall near the sanitary block's exit. Inside, the box is empty.

Residential block

Before going to lunch, we are taken to the living quarters, where the prisoners sleep and rest after work. We find ourselves in spacious, bright rooms with bunk beds and bedside tables. Almost every room is covered with books. Many of the prisoners, judging by their choice of literature, are either religious or trying to be—Bibles lie on the shelves, and icons stand on the walls.

Some read historical fiction, like "When Chersonesus Fell" and "Vasily III." Others are apparently engaged in self-improvement, reading "The DNA of a Genius" and "From Time to Eternity: The Afterlife of the Soul." Most of the books are in Russian, but there are also some in Ukrainian—they're apparently read by Ukrainians who lived in the occupied territories but were sent to war by Russia.

However, camp staff say that over the years of their stay, the Russians themselves are gradually learning Ukrainian. After a while, they not only understand it, but can even speak it. The guards' words will later be confirmed by Maxim from Yekaterinburg, who utters the phrase "Of course, I understand you" with almost no accent.

After the sleeping quarters, we're taken to a room where the prisoners watch television. Beyond that is a small room with tables and refrigerators. Here they can play chess, take notes, and eat whatever they buy from the store.

The refrigerators are stocked with soda, sausages, canned goods, mayonnaise, and containers of food. Everyone also has their own box. On one of the shelves sits a notebook with the words "For me" scrawled in crooked handwriting.

Dining room

As we're being led to Hetman's Alley, we pass a small vegetable garden where zucchini grows. The prisoners are being taught to grow their own produce. Beyond the vegetable garden, six greenhouses have been set up. They grow tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. Everyone is surprised by the basil—a large purple spot sprouting between the tomato plant and the dill.

"Hetman's Alley" is the name given to the stone corridor on the street near the canteen. Portraits of Ukrainian hetmans hang on the walls, along with a map and symbols of Ukraine, like in schools—a viburnum, a coat of arms, and a flag. By this time, the prisoners are ready to be fed—the canteen already smells a scent that's probably typical of all canteens.

The prisoners pass through the gates, their hands behind their backs as usual, and stand in neat rows of three. They don't look at the hetmans or the map of Ukraine.

The dining hall is noisy, mostly from journalists; the prisoners try to speak quietly. The food is prepared by the prisoners themselves, who work in the kitchen.