Don’t forget about us. “Lex,” an Azov fighter sentenced to 22 years, has appealed to Ukrainians from captivity
Source: Svoi.City
Author: Hanna KURTSANOVSKA
We met on social media on my birthday
Pavlo and Anastasia met in the fall of 2020. She is from Donetsk and moved to Mariupol after the occupation. He is from the village of Lebedynske, which is very close to Mariupol. Pavlo was still in school when the Russian army launched its offensive—in 2014, he and his family hid in a cellar, shielding his younger brother. It was then that the young man decided that as soon as he turned 18, he would go to defend his homeland. He didn’t spend much time choosing which unit to join—he immediately submitted his application to “Azov.” That was in 2017.
“Pavlo messaged me on my birthday. He found my profile on a dating site and used it to find my Instagram page. I knew right away that he was in the military, even though Pavlo didn’t admit it until the very end. Girls who are in relationships with soldiers will understand me.
They have a special vibe, and you can tell right away that they’re soldiers—by the way they talk, by their actions, and even when they’re in civilian clothes. I told him I could even guess exactly where he served. Pavlo sent a photo of himself in uniform and said with a smirk, “Well, go ahead and try.” And I replied, “Oh, that’s a military uniform—so you’re in ‘Azov.’” The thing is, I worked as a hairdresser across the street from the regional police station, so I saw that uniform often. He was impressed by my knowledge.”
He couldn’t imagine himself in any other unit—only in “Azov”
Anastasia says that from their very first message, she felt as if she’d known this person her whole life. Because with Pavlo, things were easy and fun for her. They messaged each other for almost a month while “Lex” was in training. And when he returned, they finally met. And Pavlo and Anastasia have been together ever since.
“During our first meeting, he was so nervous and blushed in front of me. Anyone who says that all soldiers are serious and intimidating simply hasn’t gotten to know them better. They’re just people, with their own feelings and experiences.”
September 19, 2020—that’s the date considered the start of their relationship. And two weeks later, they moved in together, renting an apartment in the Primorsky district of Mariupol.
“My boyfriend always talked enthusiastically about his work, especially if there were any interesting lectures or training sessions. He didn’t just talk about it—he even tried to teach me. We wrote notes together and worked through various problems. He’s really good at teaching. I think Pavlo could be a great instructor in the future. He always said, ‘I can’t even imagine myself anywhere else. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.’ Overall, we had a normal, peaceful life together.”
He Proposed 9 Days Before the Invasion
On February 15, 2022, Pavlo proposed to Anastasia. He had just returned from another mission, and two days later he left for the base. And the couple never saw each other again.
“On the night the invasion began, a friend was staying over with me so I wouldn’t be so scared on my own. On the morning of February 24, Pavlo called and told us to pack our things and leave quickly. In a panic, I booked bus tickets to Dnipro, but then realized I’d booked them for the next day. My friend had planned to travel separately with another carrier, but their trip was canceled at the last minute.”
So she stayed behind, and on February 25, we left Mariupol together on a bus that was almost empty. It was only later that I found out that was the last bus
to leave. Before the trip, Anastasia deleted all her messages with her husband from her phone. She had almost nothing left—just memories in her head and a few photos of them together. During his three months in besieged Mariupol, “Lex” never once communicated with his beloved, except for a few messages.
“And even those he passed on through other guys. I’d ask them how Pavlo was, and in response I’d get ‘+ he’s alive and well’ or ‘they didn’t say anything over the radio, so he’s fine.’ So I just sat by the phone—waiting for one ‘+’ after another.”
In Russia, he was sentenced to 22 years in prison
“Lex” was taken prisoner on May 18, Anastasia’s mother’s birthday. Anastasia’s parents were forced to stay in Donetsk because they were caring for Anastasia’s grandmother. But in 2017, for the sake of her younger brother, they finally left and settled in Cherkasy. Anastasia also lives there, not far from Mariupol.
“My mom and I spent the holiday in tears and on tranquilizers. My boyfriend managed to text me that they were being taken prisoner. He stayed in Olenivka almost until the end of August, and after that, he was taken to Taganrog. Later, he was also in Horlivka and Donetsk. And now he’s in the Makiivka penal colony.”
In October 2023, members of the “Azov” regiment — Pavlo Stepanov, Vladislav Kurka, and Serhiy Shevela — were convicted under Russian law for cruel treatment of the civilian population and the use of prohibited methods in an armed conflict, intentional damage to another person’s property in a manner posing a public danger, resulting in significant harm. The sentence was 22 years in prison.
She spent a year in court to become her beloved’s
official representative Anastasia spent almost the entire past year trying to prove in court that she is Pavlo’s wife and has the right to be his official representative in matters related to his captivity.
“I was waiting for him to come home from captivity, because the authorities had made plenty of promises about his quick return. A year went by, and I could see that things weren’t going in the right direction. Later, I also found out that they were preparing my husband for trial. And I thought that if there were any opportunity for contact with Pavel, he should have a legal representative to advocate for his interests and handle various issues. So that I wouldn’t be treated like just a girlfriend—after all, it’s not our fault that we didn’t get married sooner. There are so many girls in the same situation.”
From the very first day of his captivity, Anastasia was considered Pavlo Stepanov’s common-law wife everywhere.
“In various agencies and organizations—the Security Service of Ukraine, the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War, the International Committee of the Red Cross, and the police—everyone relied solely on my account and took my situation into consideration, because apart from me, Pavel has no other relatives in Ukraine. I wasn’t entitled to receive most of the documents from the military unit because, legally, I’m nobody to him, and I was sent rejections.”
The first trial lasted 8 months, and, unfortunately, the judges were not on Anastasia’s side. They said there wasn’t enough evidence, even though the young woman had documents confirming Pavlo’s captivity, as well as photographs and correspondence. She even had bank statements showing that Pavlo had sent money transfers to Anastasia.
“But the judges kept coming up with new ‘pieces of paper’ every time, spending a month reviewing them. Sometimes the judges would go on vacation for a month; other times they’d postpone the hearing because something hadn’t been made clear to them. By that time, my husband was already writing me letters from prison. I suggested adding them to the case file, but the judge refused to consider them because ‘it’s unclear who wrote them.’ And in the end, the court ruled against me. The judge’s words were: “I understand you, but if he had joined us via video conference, we would have reconsidered our decision.” Appearing via video from captivity—those words still don’t make sense to me. Unfortunately, 50% of such cases end in failure. And that’s absolutely horrifying, because these young women are fighting for their loved ones and don’t even have any rights. They’re treated as if they were merely acquaintances of the prisoner.”
After the rejection, there was a hearing at the Court of Appeals, where Anastasia resubmitted all these documents. And this time, she succeeded. But it took Anastasia a year, a great deal of effort, and a lot of nerves to obtain official status as the representative of Pavel Stepanov, a prisoner of war from the “Azov” regiment.
A 10-minute phone call in nearly three years
As a convicted prisoner, “Lexa” has the opportunity to write letters and have them delivered. A letter from occupied Makiivka takes 2–3 months to arrive.
“Through a volunteer, my beloved got in touch a few times, so at least I was able to hear his voice over the course of nearly three years. When this volunteer first wrote to me saying that my husband wanted to talk to me, I immediately thought it was a scam. There had already been many cases where people demanded money from the families of prisoners based on fabricated information. No one demanded money from me; I simply answered the call and heard my husband’s voice. I didn’t doubt for a second that it was him, because you can’t mistake the voice of a loved one for anyone else’s. Pavlo said he had been convicted and told me where he was being held. I replied that I knew all of this because I’m working on this issue, and he’s officially recognized as a prisoner of war everywhere. That no one has forgotten about him, and we’re doing everything possible to get him out of captivity as soon as possible.”
He asked that we all keep the issue of prisoners of war in the public eye—that we talk about and speak out for those who are still in Russian prisons. Because there are wounded men there, and they need to be rescued. At the end, he said he loved me and asked me to wait
.
Pavlo Stepanov called Anastasia for the second time from the Makiivka Correctional Colony on December 24, 2024. Their conversation lasted 10 minutes. That’s practically nothing over the course of nearly three years. “Lex” asked his beloved to record his words and share them, so that both ordinary Ukrainians and those in power would not forget the defenders of Mariupol who are being held as prisoners of war.
We are publishing the letter in its original language.
“I appeal to our authorities and our people!
It’s been almost three years since we’ve been here. I’m here with guys who’ve been wounded; their arms and legs don’t work, and during this time their health hasn’t improved—you can only imagine what will happen next.
Second… If you think we’re made of iron, you’re wrong. Yes, we’re holding on, but you know how things are here in captivity.
We’re holding on and believe we’ll return home. We want to believe that we haven’t been forgotten—after all, we’re human beings too; we have feelings.
Our lives are passing us by. We want to live; we want to be with our families, watch our children grow up, and be happy.
Our loved ones and we are constantly on edge. We don’t need empty promises that everything will be fine; we need action and for words to be backed up by deeds.
Don’t forget about US; don’t forget about our families.
WE’RE STILL HERE!”
I promised to wait, and I will do
so. Right now, Pavlo Stepanov and his fellow prisoners are awaiting new sentences. “Lex” doesn’t know when he’ll be able to speak with his wife again. And it’s unclear when Anastasia will receive a letter from her beloved.
“Unfortunately, people who are unfamiliar with this issue won’t understand the pain of the families of prisoners and those missing in action. Many people say, ‘Well, he’s in prison. He’ll get out someday—why are you so worried?’ People don’t understand that our lives are ‘on hold’ without them, because all our energy is focused on saving them. We cling to any opportunity to get them out of that hell as soon as possible. I promised my husband I’d wait for him, and I’ll do it. The main thing is that it’s not too late and that there’s still someone to wait for…”
Author: Hanna KURTSANOVSKA
We met on social media on my birthday
Pavlo and Anastasia met in the fall of 2020. She is from Donetsk and moved to Mariupol after the occupation. He is from the village of Lebedynske, which is very close to Mariupol. Pavlo was still in school when the Russian army launched its offensive—in 2014, he and his family hid in a cellar, shielding his younger brother. It was then that the young man decided that as soon as he turned 18, he would go to defend his homeland. He didn’t spend much time choosing which unit to join—he immediately submitted his application to “Azov.” That was in 2017.
“Pavlo messaged me on my birthday. He found my profile on a dating site and used it to find my Instagram page. I knew right away that he was in the military, even though Pavlo didn’t admit it until the very end. Girls who are in relationships with soldiers will understand me.
They have a special vibe, and you can tell right away that they’re soldiers—by the way they talk, by their actions, and even when they’re in civilian clothes. I told him I could even guess exactly where he served. Pavlo sent a photo of himself in uniform and said with a smirk, “Well, go ahead and try.” And I replied, “Oh, that’s a military uniform—so you’re in ‘Azov.’” The thing is, I worked as a hairdresser across the street from the regional police station, so I saw that uniform often. He was impressed by my knowledge.”
He couldn’t imagine himself in any other unit—only in “Azov”
Anastasia says that from their very first message, she felt as if she’d known this person her whole life. Because with Pavlo, things were easy and fun for her. They messaged each other for almost a month while “Lex” was in training. And when he returned, they finally met. And Pavlo and Anastasia have been together ever since.
“During our first meeting, he was so nervous and blushed in front of me. Anyone who says that all soldiers are serious and intimidating simply hasn’t gotten to know them better. They’re just people, with their own feelings and experiences.”
September 19, 2020—that’s the date considered the start of their relationship. And two weeks later, they moved in together, renting an apartment in the Primorsky district of Mariupol.
“My boyfriend always talked enthusiastically about his work, especially if there were any interesting lectures or training sessions. He didn’t just talk about it—he even tried to teach me. We wrote notes together and worked through various problems. He’s really good at teaching. I think Pavlo could be a great instructor in the future. He always said, ‘I can’t even imagine myself anywhere else. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.’ Overall, we had a normal, peaceful life together.”
He Proposed 9 Days Before the Invasion
On February 15, 2022, Pavlo proposed to Anastasia. He had just returned from another mission, and two days later he left for the base. And the couple never saw each other again.
“On the night the invasion began, a friend was staying over with me so I wouldn’t be so scared on my own. On the morning of February 24, Pavlo called and told us to pack our things and leave quickly. In a panic, I booked bus tickets to Dnipro, but then realized I’d booked them for the next day. My friend had planned to travel separately with another carrier, but their trip was canceled at the last minute.”
So she stayed behind, and on February 25, we left Mariupol together on a bus that was almost empty. It was only later that I found out that was the last bus
to leave. Before the trip, Anastasia deleted all her messages with her husband from her phone. She had almost nothing left—just memories in her head and a few photos of them together. During his three months in besieged Mariupol, “Lex” never once communicated with his beloved, except for a few messages.
“And even those he passed on through other guys. I’d ask them how Pavlo was, and in response I’d get ‘+ he’s alive and well’ or ‘they didn’t say anything over the radio, so he’s fine.’ So I just sat by the phone—waiting for one ‘+’ after another.”
In Russia, he was sentenced to 22 years in prison
“Lex” was taken prisoner on May 18, Anastasia’s mother’s birthday. Anastasia’s parents were forced to stay in Donetsk because they were caring for Anastasia’s grandmother. But in 2017, for the sake of her younger brother, they finally left and settled in Cherkasy. Anastasia also lives there, not far from Mariupol.
“My mom and I spent the holiday in tears and on tranquilizers. My boyfriend managed to text me that they were being taken prisoner. He stayed in Olenivka almost until the end of August, and after that, he was taken to Taganrog. Later, he was also in Horlivka and Donetsk. And now he’s in the Makiivka penal colony.”
In October 2023, members of the “Azov” regiment — Pavlo Stepanov, Vladislav Kurka, and Serhiy Shevela — were convicted under Russian law for cruel treatment of the civilian population and the use of prohibited methods in an armed conflict, intentional damage to another person’s property in a manner posing a public danger, resulting in significant harm. The sentence was 22 years in prison.
She spent a year in court to become her beloved’s
official representative Anastasia spent almost the entire past year trying to prove in court that she is Pavlo’s wife and has the right to be his official representative in matters related to his captivity.
“I was waiting for him to come home from captivity, because the authorities had made plenty of promises about his quick return. A year went by, and I could see that things weren’t going in the right direction. Later, I also found out that they were preparing my husband for trial. And I thought that if there were any opportunity for contact with Pavel, he should have a legal representative to advocate for his interests and handle various issues. So that I wouldn’t be treated like just a girlfriend—after all, it’s not our fault that we didn’t get married sooner. There are so many girls in the same situation.”
From the very first day of his captivity, Anastasia was considered Pavlo Stepanov’s common-law wife everywhere.
“In various agencies and organizations—the Security Service of Ukraine, the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War, the International Committee of the Red Cross, and the police—everyone relied solely on my account and took my situation into consideration, because apart from me, Pavel has no other relatives in Ukraine. I wasn’t entitled to receive most of the documents from the military unit because, legally, I’m nobody to him, and I was sent rejections.”
The first trial lasted 8 months, and, unfortunately, the judges were not on Anastasia’s side. They said there wasn’t enough evidence, even though the young woman had documents confirming Pavlo’s captivity, as well as photographs and correspondence. She even had bank statements showing that Pavlo had sent money transfers to Anastasia.
“But the judges kept coming up with new ‘pieces of paper’ every time, spending a month reviewing them. Sometimes the judges would go on vacation for a month; other times they’d postpone the hearing because something hadn’t been made clear to them. By that time, my husband was already writing me letters from prison. I suggested adding them to the case file, but the judge refused to consider them because ‘it’s unclear who wrote them.’ And in the end, the court ruled against me. The judge’s words were: “I understand you, but if he had joined us via video conference, we would have reconsidered our decision.” Appearing via video from captivity—those words still don’t make sense to me. Unfortunately, 50% of such cases end in failure. And that’s absolutely horrifying, because these young women are fighting for their loved ones and don’t even have any rights. They’re treated as if they were merely acquaintances of the prisoner.”
After the rejection, there was a hearing at the Court of Appeals, where Anastasia resubmitted all these documents. And this time, she succeeded. But it took Anastasia a year, a great deal of effort, and a lot of nerves to obtain official status as the representative of Pavel Stepanov, a prisoner of war from the “Azov” regiment.
A 10-minute phone call in nearly three years
As a convicted prisoner, “Lexa” has the opportunity to write letters and have them delivered. A letter from occupied Makiivka takes 2–3 months to arrive.
“Through a volunteer, my beloved got in touch a few times, so at least I was able to hear his voice over the course of nearly three years. When this volunteer first wrote to me saying that my husband wanted to talk to me, I immediately thought it was a scam. There had already been many cases where people demanded money from the families of prisoners based on fabricated information. No one demanded money from me; I simply answered the call and heard my husband’s voice. I didn’t doubt for a second that it was him, because you can’t mistake the voice of a loved one for anyone else’s. Pavlo said he had been convicted and told me where he was being held. I replied that I knew all of this because I’m working on this issue, and he’s officially recognized as a prisoner of war everywhere. That no one has forgotten about him, and we’re doing everything possible to get him out of captivity as soon as possible.”
He asked that we all keep the issue of prisoners of war in the public eye—that we talk about and speak out for those who are still in Russian prisons. Because there are wounded men there, and they need to be rescued. At the end, he said he loved me and asked me to wait
.
Pavlo Stepanov called Anastasia for the second time from the Makiivka Correctional Colony on December 24, 2024. Their conversation lasted 10 minutes. That’s practically nothing over the course of nearly three years. “Lex” asked his beloved to record his words and share them, so that both ordinary Ukrainians and those in power would not forget the defenders of Mariupol who are being held as prisoners of war.
We are publishing the letter in its original language.
“I appeal to our authorities and our people!
It’s been almost three years since we’ve been here. I’m here with guys who’ve been wounded; their arms and legs don’t work, and during this time their health hasn’t improved—you can only imagine what will happen next.
Second… If you think we’re made of iron, you’re wrong. Yes, we’re holding on, but you know how things are here in captivity.
We’re holding on and believe we’ll return home. We want to believe that we haven’t been forgotten—after all, we’re human beings too; we have feelings.
Our lives are passing us by. We want to live; we want to be with our families, watch our children grow up, and be happy.
Our loved ones and we are constantly on edge. We don’t need empty promises that everything will be fine; we need action and for words to be backed up by deeds.
Don’t forget about US; don’t forget about our families.
WE’RE STILL HERE!”
I promised to wait, and I will do
so. Right now, Pavlo Stepanov and his fellow prisoners are awaiting new sentences. “Lex” doesn’t know when he’ll be able to speak with his wife again. And it’s unclear when Anastasia will receive a letter from her beloved.
“Unfortunately, people who are unfamiliar with this issue won’t understand the pain of the families of prisoners and those missing in action. Many people say, ‘Well, he’s in prison. He’ll get out someday—why are you so worried?’ People don’t understand that our lives are ‘on hold’ without them, because all our energy is focused on saving them. We cling to any opportunity to get them out of that hell as soon as possible. I promised my husband I’d wait for him, and I’ll do it. The main thing is that it’s not too late and that there’s still someone to wait for…”
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.