"He stood his ground and defended his rights." An Azov soldier held as a prisoner of war, who refused to admit to being a terrorist in a Russian court, disappeared after the verdict
Source: Grati
Author: Tetiana Katrychenko
For a year now, the Russian Military Court of Appeals has been unable to begin hearing the appeal of Azov soldier Oleksandr Maksymchuk, who was sentenced to 20 years “for terrorism,” but in reality—for defending Ukraine. The first hearing, scheduled for December 18, 2025, in Vlasisi near Moscow, was canceled: the court was unable to establish a connection with Astrakhan Colony No. 6, where Maksymchuk is believed to be held. The next attempt has been scheduled for December 23.
Oleksandr Maksymchuk is a soldier in the Azov Brigade. He was taken prisoner on May 20, 2022, while evacuating from Azovstal. He was transported to Volnovakha Colony No. 120, better known as Olenivka. At first, like the other prisoners, he was held in communal barracks, but on July 27, along with 192 other Azov soldiers, he was transferred to a separate hangar on the colony’s industrial grounds. On the night of July 28–29, an explosion occurred there. More than fifty prisoners of war were killed. Maksymchuk suffered a severe head injury.
Later, Oleksandr found himself in the Rostov Region of Russia at Pretrial Detention Center No. 2 in Taganrog. It was there that the Russians held several hundred defenders of Mariupol, including Azov fighters, for a long time. This detention center is known as one of the most brutal places for holding prisoners of war. Ukrainians were held there in solitary confinement.
In the spring of 2024, Maksymchuk was allowed to write his first letter to his family. He reported that he was being held in Pretrial Detention Center No. 1 in Rostov-on-Don, that the investigation was ongoing, that he refused to admit guilt, and that he understood a long prison sentence awaited him for defending Ukraine.
“I will stand with my head held high. They have no right to try me,” his wife Natalia quotes him as saying.
Throughout 2023–2024, dozens of similar trials against “Azov” fighters were held simultaneously in the Southern District Military Court of the Russian Federation. The outcomes of these cases were predictable even before the hearings began. After the Supreme Court of the Russian Federation added “Azov” to the list of terrorist organizations in the summer of 2022, the Russian judicial system gained a direct basis for prosecuting Azov fighters simply for their membership in “Azov.”
Typically, trials in such cases are conducted under a simplified procedure: the focus is not on analyzing the evidence, but on establishing the fact of service in the unit. Following this, a verdict is handed down without any alternatives. In this way, the Russian Federation not only grossly violates the norms of international humanitarian law—which explicitly prohibits the prosecution of military personnel for participating in war—but also deprives prisoners of war of their right to a fair trial, which in itself constitutes a war crime.
The trial of Oleksandr Maksymchuk began in the summer of 2024 and was held behind closed doors. In December of that year, Judge Pavel Gubarev of the Southern District Military Court handed down the sentence: 20 years in prison. Maksymchuk rejected the charges.
“I disagree with the court’s decision and will appeal it. Because I consider myself an innocent person who has been held criminally liable. I am a soldier who carried out the orders of the Ukrainian state. I have no regrets and do not confess to anything,” he stated.
Maksymchuk also reported severe torture in detention facilities, particularly in Taganrog.
This statement caused a stir because a journalist was allowed into the hearing, so it was published in the media. At the same time, Oleksandr Maksymchuk’s reports of torture led neither to an investigation of these facts nor to any changes in the treatment of prisoners of war. On the contrary—after the verdict was announced, the Azov soldier disappeared.
For nearly three months, his family had no information whatsoever about his whereabouts or conditions of detention. They could only guess that Maksymchuk had been placed in solitary confinement in Taganrog.
Media coverage, particularly in Russia, helped establish contact. After videos of Maksymchuk’s statements about torture appeared on social media, concerned people in Russia and abroad began writing him letters.
“I received the first letter after a long hiatus in March 2025,” says Natalia Maksymchuk, Oleksandr’s wife. “A woman from Russia wrote to me.” She saw Sasha’s interview in court, where he spoke about torture, and decided to write. She is a retiree who corresponds with many Ukrainians in Russian prisons. She received a reply from Sasha, in which he included my contact information.
Natalia recalls how she began receiving messages from complete strangers—some tried to write a letter to Oleksandr, others tried to send him a care package. Over time, an informal community seemed to form around her: people helped establish contact with her husband and sent essential items, including clothing and food. However, very little of it actually reached him.
From his letters, Natalia could tell that her husband was in a difficult emotional state.
“I don’t know why, but he started spelling his last name incorrectly—splitting one word into two: Mak Simchuk. I thought it was a hint.” “Maybe they’re beating him, torturing him, humiliating him,” she says.
Natalia couldn’t ask him about it directly, since the letters were subject to prison censorship. So she just noted down the details.
In the summer of 2025, Oleksandr disappeared again: he didn’t respond, and parcels weren’t being delivered to him. When he finally wrote, he asked her not to correspond with anyone, not to send any parcels, and said he wanted to break up with Natalia “for the sake of her and their son’s safety.”
“I felt that he was being mercilessly pressured,” says Natalia. “That’s exactly why Sasha cut off all communication.” Imagine this: a person in dire straits, without personal belongings, proper food, or medicine, struggling with health issues—yet at the same time completely cutting himself off from his family and even strangers who were trying to help. What can you make of that?
“One day, in a letter, Sasha asked for burn ointment and anti-inflammatory medication. He wrote that he had fallen ill and was feeling unwell. I realized that he wasn’t receiving any medical care.” At the time, he explained that he had simply burned himself with a kettle. But later we found out: the last time he asked for burn ointment, it was after being tortured with electric shocks,” says Natalia.
Maksymchuk wrote about the medication after he was once again allowed to correspond following another lengthy stay in the punishment cell of the detention center. Here’s how Maksymchuk describes the conditions in the detention center:
“I admit that I never could have imagined it could be this cold. It became especially unbearable when the sun went down. Detainees are not allowed to wear jackets or hats while in custody—only a prison uniform and whatever light clothing you manage to pull on before they take you down to the basement. Or, to be more precise, not a basement, but a cellar, where there’s a constant draft. There are no electrical outlets there. The water is only cold—or rather, ice-cold. The only source of warmth is the food, which is strictly rationed. Three times a day. But tea became my particular favorite at that time. The simplest kind, brewed in all FSIN facilities (Russian: Federal Penitentiary Service; Ukrainian: FSVP—Federal Service for the Execution of Sentences). And they might even brew the same tea leaves several times. But for me, tea became something more than just a drink. After all, it was warm and even a little sweet. The only downside was that it didn’t last long. And the struggle against the cold began anew.”
Another way Maksymchuk coped with the cold in solitary confinement was through physical exercise:
“Many people probably think that at Taganrog Pretrial Detention Center No. 2, in a place like solitary confinement, there’s always a guard standing by the door, forcing you in a harsh voice to do push-ups and squats. No, that doesn’t happen anymore. They just come at 5 a.m. and lock the bed in place. That’s it. And if you want, you can lie down on the floor to sleep. But even 30 minutes is enough to catch a chill in your kidneys or develop pneumonia. And if you do take the risk, within two weeks the cold and the restrictions will take their toll. And it’ll end in tuberculosis. And a sick prisoner will never be able to handle the regimen again. That’s why I did squats, push-ups—I did everything—but I just wouldn’t lie down on the floor. And yet, my main weapon in this struggle was the thought that my long-awaited spring would finally come. “Hope is the most important incentive for resistance.”
According to other prisoners who were being held in Taganrog at that time, Maksymchuk was held up there as an example of how not to behave in a pretrial detention center and, in general, while in captivity.
“And how did he behave? He stood his ground and defended his rights,” Natalia continues. “Sasha insists that he is a prisoner of war. He stated this in court.” He is being tried for “terrorism,” but in reality—for participating in the war and defending his country. Under international law, this is not a crime. He is being persecuted solely because he is a member of Azov, a serviceman of the National Guard of Ukraine. It is precisely for this reason that a Russian court sentenced him to 20 years in a maximum-security prison.
His wife emphasizes that her husband was one of the first to openly declare his disagreement with the charges in a Russian court and to enter into direct confrontation with the system.
“I think Sasha had a plan to fight from the very beginning and understood the consequences. He knew he might be left to walk this path alone, that even access to a lawyer could be restricted or completely blocked,” she says.
Throughout 2025, correspondence was extremely limited. In one of his letters, Maksymchuk wrote that he had sent 11 letters but had not received a reply to any of them. This was true even for letters from his lawyer, who, according to Natalia, also wrote letters and sought a meeting to discuss preparing an appeal. In Taganrog, there are also known cases where Ukrainian prisoners of war suddenly refuse assistance from their defense attorneys.
“Operatives, investigators, and representatives of the Russian system in general try to undermine the role of the defense or cast doubt on the lawyer’s actions,” says Andriy Yakovlev, an expert in international law who is well acquainted with the Maksymchuk case. — This can be done purely through procedural means, by withholding information or manipulating access to the defendant. It is a well-known phenomenon in professional circles when an investigator deliberately turns a person against their own attorney.
According to Yakovlev, such practices are particularly effective when the defendant and those around him lack the full information needed to critically assess the situation:
— Investigators are skilled at sowing discord—it’s their strong suit. In Maksymchuk’s case, we’re seeing a classic “divide and conquer” tactic. They can use not only physical or psychological pressure against him, but also manipulation of communication among the detainees themselves—to isolate him and break him down.
Natalia says that in November, in Rostov, Oleksandr saw his lawyer for the first time in a year. She describes the meeting briefly:
— It all happened quickly. They weren’t alone, so there was no time to discuss his defense. Sasha was in a difficult emotional state; he had lost a lot of weight compared to how he looked a year ago. He said that, as before, he does not agree with the charges, does not admit guilt, and will appeal to the highest courts. But he said he’s looking forward to another meeting,” she says.
Almost immediately after that, Oleksandra was taken out of Taganrog.
A few weeks later, he got in touch—he wrote a letter from Pretrial Detention Center No. 2 in Astrakhan, a city on the Volga River a thousand kilometers from the border with Ukraine. In it, he described the daily routine in the maximum-security detention center. There were two of them in a cell designed for ten. From 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., they were forbidden to sit or even approach the bed. Checks through the peephole in the door took place every 15 minutes. While sleeping, inmates are not allowed to pull a blanket over their heads.
After the command “Rise!”—singing the Russian national anthem, calisthenics, wet cleaning of the cell, a morning inspection, and a walk. All these activities are mandatory. Movement outside the cell is permitted only by running.
“I was surprised that they transported him to another facility even though his appeal hadn’t been considered yet. Even under Russian law, a person cannot be transferred to a penal colony during this period.” Especially since, before the transfer, Sasha had written several requests asking to be personally present at the appeal hearing—either in the courtroom or via video link,” says Natalia Maksymchuk.
Alexander’s next letter was sent not from the pretrial detention center, but from Maximum-Security Penitentiary No. 6 in the Astrakhan Region.
“I didn’t understand what was happening or why, even without a final court decision, Sasha had been transferred to the penitentiary,” “I couldn’t find any information indicating that Ukrainian prisoners of war are being held at this penal colony,” says Natalia.
According to her, her husband spent about a week there. From there, if his letters are to be believed, he was transferred back to the Astrakhan pretrial detention center. Oleksandr last wrote on December 11, 2025. In the letter, he reiterated that during the appeal hearing, his personal presence must be ensured or a video link must be established.
Lawyer Andriy Yakovlev emphasizes that convicting a person without ensuring their personal presence in court and denying them the right to defend themselves against unlawful charges constitutes a serious violation of the right to a fair trial. He believes that such actions by the judge should be considered complicity in criminal activity.
Yakovlev also sees joint criminal activity in the actions of all those involved in the system of punishment of Ukrainian prisoners of war. This includes judges of the Supreme Court of the Russian Federation, who included Ukrainian military units on the list of terrorist organizations, equating military personnel with terrorists. It also includes judges of other courts, investigators, prosecutors, and prison system employees. All of them are acting in concert to achieve a single goal—to sentence Ukrainian prisoners of war to imprisonment.
Despite the obvious coordination among many Russians in committing these crimes, their actions are not considered joint criminal activity either in Ukraine or at the international level. Instead, the cases are being investigated as individual incidents. This also applies to crimes against Ukrainian prisoners of war who are being unlawfully tried in Russia. According to the International Institute for Human Rights (IIHR), the Security Service of Ukraine is handling several such cases; the Office of the Prosecutor General has announced charges against several Russian judges; and several cases have been referred to court.
— The concept of joint criminal activity has a clear basis in international criminal law. It involves several key elements: the participation of multiple individuals in committing a crime, the existence of a common plan or goal, and a substantial contribution by each participant to the implementation of that plan,” the lawyer notes.
In this context, Andriy Yakovlev recalls the case of Adolf Eichmann, who was responsible for the mass deportation of Jews to death camps. During his trial in Jerusalem, Eichmann argued that he was not involved in the crimes because he dealt exclusively with logistics: he drew up train schedules and managed transport flows. However, his claim that he was merely “a small cog in a large state machine” did not absolve him of responsibility.
Maksymchuk’s wife and defense team are awaiting December 23. This will be the second attempt by the appellate court in Vlasis to establish contact with the facility where Oleksandr is being held.
This article was prepared with the support of the International Renaissance Foundation. The content reflects the authors’ views and does not necessarily reflect the position of the International Renaissance Foundation.
Author: Tetiana Katrychenko
For a year now, the Russian Military Court of Appeals has been unable to begin hearing the appeal of Azov soldier Oleksandr Maksymchuk, who was sentenced to 20 years “for terrorism,” but in reality—for defending Ukraine. The first hearing, scheduled for December 18, 2025, in Vlasisi near Moscow, was canceled: the court was unable to establish a connection with Astrakhan Colony No. 6, where Maksymchuk is believed to be held. The next attempt has been scheduled for December 23.
Oleksandr Maksymchuk is a soldier in the Azov Brigade. He was taken prisoner on May 20, 2022, while evacuating from Azovstal. He was transported to Volnovakha Colony No. 120, better known as Olenivka. At first, like the other prisoners, he was held in communal barracks, but on July 27, along with 192 other Azov soldiers, he was transferred to a separate hangar on the colony’s industrial grounds. On the night of July 28–29, an explosion occurred there. More than fifty prisoners of war were killed. Maksymchuk suffered a severe head injury.
Later, Oleksandr found himself in the Rostov Region of Russia at Pretrial Detention Center No. 2 in Taganrog. It was there that the Russians held several hundred defenders of Mariupol, including Azov fighters, for a long time. This detention center is known as one of the most brutal places for holding prisoners of war. Ukrainians were held there in solitary confinement.
In the spring of 2024, Maksymchuk was allowed to write his first letter to his family. He reported that he was being held in Pretrial Detention Center No. 1 in Rostov-on-Don, that the investigation was ongoing, that he refused to admit guilt, and that he understood a long prison sentence awaited him for defending Ukraine.
“I will stand with my head held high. They have no right to try me,” his wife Natalia quotes him as saying.
Throughout 2023–2024, dozens of similar trials against “Azov” fighters were held simultaneously in the Southern District Military Court of the Russian Federation. The outcomes of these cases were predictable even before the hearings began. After the Supreme Court of the Russian Federation added “Azov” to the list of terrorist organizations in the summer of 2022, the Russian judicial system gained a direct basis for prosecuting Azov fighters simply for their membership in “Azov.”
Typically, trials in such cases are conducted under a simplified procedure: the focus is not on analyzing the evidence, but on establishing the fact of service in the unit. Following this, a verdict is handed down without any alternatives. In this way, the Russian Federation not only grossly violates the norms of international humanitarian law—which explicitly prohibits the prosecution of military personnel for participating in war—but also deprives prisoners of war of their right to a fair trial, which in itself constitutes a war crime.
The trial of Oleksandr Maksymchuk began in the summer of 2024 and was held behind closed doors. In December of that year, Judge Pavel Gubarev of the Southern District Military Court handed down the sentence: 20 years in prison. Maksymchuk rejected the charges.
“I disagree with the court’s decision and will appeal it. Because I consider myself an innocent person who has been held criminally liable. I am a soldier who carried out the orders of the Ukrainian state. I have no regrets and do not confess to anything,” he stated.
Maksymchuk also reported severe torture in detention facilities, particularly in Taganrog.
This statement caused a stir because a journalist was allowed into the hearing, so it was published in the media. At the same time, Oleksandr Maksymchuk’s reports of torture led neither to an investigation of these facts nor to any changes in the treatment of prisoners of war. On the contrary—after the verdict was announced, the Azov soldier disappeared.
For nearly three months, his family had no information whatsoever about his whereabouts or conditions of detention. They could only guess that Maksymchuk had been placed in solitary confinement in Taganrog.
Media coverage, particularly in Russia, helped establish contact. After videos of Maksymchuk’s statements about torture appeared on social media, concerned people in Russia and abroad began writing him letters.
“I received the first letter after a long hiatus in March 2025,” says Natalia Maksymchuk, Oleksandr’s wife. “A woman from Russia wrote to me.” She saw Sasha’s interview in court, where he spoke about torture, and decided to write. She is a retiree who corresponds with many Ukrainians in Russian prisons. She received a reply from Sasha, in which he included my contact information.
Natalia recalls how she began receiving messages from complete strangers—some tried to write a letter to Oleksandr, others tried to send him a care package. Over time, an informal community seemed to form around her: people helped establish contact with her husband and sent essential items, including clothing and food. However, very little of it actually reached him.
From his letters, Natalia could tell that her husband was in a difficult emotional state.
“I don’t know why, but he started spelling his last name incorrectly—splitting one word into two: Mak Simchuk. I thought it was a hint.” “Maybe they’re beating him, torturing him, humiliating him,” she says.
Natalia couldn’t ask him about it directly, since the letters were subject to prison censorship. So she just noted down the details.
In the summer of 2025, Oleksandr disappeared again: he didn’t respond, and parcels weren’t being delivered to him. When he finally wrote, he asked her not to correspond with anyone, not to send any parcels, and said he wanted to break up with Natalia “for the sake of her and their son’s safety.”
“I felt that he was being mercilessly pressured,” says Natalia. “That’s exactly why Sasha cut off all communication.” Imagine this: a person in dire straits, without personal belongings, proper food, or medicine, struggling with health issues—yet at the same time completely cutting himself off from his family and even strangers who were trying to help. What can you make of that?
“One day, in a letter, Sasha asked for burn ointment and anti-inflammatory medication. He wrote that he had fallen ill and was feeling unwell. I realized that he wasn’t receiving any medical care.” At the time, he explained that he had simply burned himself with a kettle. But later we found out: the last time he asked for burn ointment, it was after being tortured with electric shocks,” says Natalia.
Maksymchuk wrote about the medication after he was once again allowed to correspond following another lengthy stay in the punishment cell of the detention center. Here’s how Maksymchuk describes the conditions in the detention center:
“I admit that I never could have imagined it could be this cold. It became especially unbearable when the sun went down. Detainees are not allowed to wear jackets or hats while in custody—only a prison uniform and whatever light clothing you manage to pull on before they take you down to the basement. Or, to be more precise, not a basement, but a cellar, where there’s a constant draft. There are no electrical outlets there. The water is only cold—or rather, ice-cold. The only source of warmth is the food, which is strictly rationed. Three times a day. But tea became my particular favorite at that time. The simplest kind, brewed in all FSIN facilities (Russian: Federal Penitentiary Service; Ukrainian: FSVP—Federal Service for the Execution of Sentences). And they might even brew the same tea leaves several times. But for me, tea became something more than just a drink. After all, it was warm and even a little sweet. The only downside was that it didn’t last long. And the struggle against the cold began anew.”
Another way Maksymchuk coped with the cold in solitary confinement was through physical exercise:
“Many people probably think that at Taganrog Pretrial Detention Center No. 2, in a place like solitary confinement, there’s always a guard standing by the door, forcing you in a harsh voice to do push-ups and squats. No, that doesn’t happen anymore. They just come at 5 a.m. and lock the bed in place. That’s it. And if you want, you can lie down on the floor to sleep. But even 30 minutes is enough to catch a chill in your kidneys or develop pneumonia. And if you do take the risk, within two weeks the cold and the restrictions will take their toll. And it’ll end in tuberculosis. And a sick prisoner will never be able to handle the regimen again. That’s why I did squats, push-ups—I did everything—but I just wouldn’t lie down on the floor. And yet, my main weapon in this struggle was the thought that my long-awaited spring would finally come. “Hope is the most important incentive for resistance.”
According to other prisoners who were being held in Taganrog at that time, Maksymchuk was held up there as an example of how not to behave in a pretrial detention center and, in general, while in captivity.
“And how did he behave? He stood his ground and defended his rights,” Natalia continues. “Sasha insists that he is a prisoner of war. He stated this in court.” He is being tried for “terrorism,” but in reality—for participating in the war and defending his country. Under international law, this is not a crime. He is being persecuted solely because he is a member of Azov, a serviceman of the National Guard of Ukraine. It is precisely for this reason that a Russian court sentenced him to 20 years in a maximum-security prison.
His wife emphasizes that her husband was one of the first to openly declare his disagreement with the charges in a Russian court and to enter into direct confrontation with the system.
“I think Sasha had a plan to fight from the very beginning and understood the consequences. He knew he might be left to walk this path alone, that even access to a lawyer could be restricted or completely blocked,” she says.
Throughout 2025, correspondence was extremely limited. In one of his letters, Maksymchuk wrote that he had sent 11 letters but had not received a reply to any of them. This was true even for letters from his lawyer, who, according to Natalia, also wrote letters and sought a meeting to discuss preparing an appeal. In Taganrog, there are also known cases where Ukrainian prisoners of war suddenly refuse assistance from their defense attorneys.
“Operatives, investigators, and representatives of the Russian system in general try to undermine the role of the defense or cast doubt on the lawyer’s actions,” says Andriy Yakovlev, an expert in international law who is well acquainted with the Maksymchuk case. — This can be done purely through procedural means, by withholding information or manipulating access to the defendant. It is a well-known phenomenon in professional circles when an investigator deliberately turns a person against their own attorney.
According to Yakovlev, such practices are particularly effective when the defendant and those around him lack the full information needed to critically assess the situation:
— Investigators are skilled at sowing discord—it’s their strong suit. In Maksymchuk’s case, we’re seeing a classic “divide and conquer” tactic. They can use not only physical or psychological pressure against him, but also manipulation of communication among the detainees themselves—to isolate him and break him down.
Natalia says that in November, in Rostov, Oleksandr saw his lawyer for the first time in a year. She describes the meeting briefly:
— It all happened quickly. They weren’t alone, so there was no time to discuss his defense. Sasha was in a difficult emotional state; he had lost a lot of weight compared to how he looked a year ago. He said that, as before, he does not agree with the charges, does not admit guilt, and will appeal to the highest courts. But he said he’s looking forward to another meeting,” she says.
Almost immediately after that, Oleksandra was taken out of Taganrog.
A few weeks later, he got in touch—he wrote a letter from Pretrial Detention Center No. 2 in Astrakhan, a city on the Volga River a thousand kilometers from the border with Ukraine. In it, he described the daily routine in the maximum-security detention center. There were two of them in a cell designed for ten. From 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., they were forbidden to sit or even approach the bed. Checks through the peephole in the door took place every 15 minutes. While sleeping, inmates are not allowed to pull a blanket over their heads.
After the command “Rise!”—singing the Russian national anthem, calisthenics, wet cleaning of the cell, a morning inspection, and a walk. All these activities are mandatory. Movement outside the cell is permitted only by running.
“I was surprised that they transported him to another facility even though his appeal hadn’t been considered yet. Even under Russian law, a person cannot be transferred to a penal colony during this period.” Especially since, before the transfer, Sasha had written several requests asking to be personally present at the appeal hearing—either in the courtroom or via video link,” says Natalia Maksymchuk.
Alexander’s next letter was sent not from the pretrial detention center, but from Maximum-Security Penitentiary No. 6 in the Astrakhan Region.
“I didn’t understand what was happening or why, even without a final court decision, Sasha had been transferred to the penitentiary,” “I couldn’t find any information indicating that Ukrainian prisoners of war are being held at this penal colony,” says Natalia.
According to her, her husband spent about a week there. From there, if his letters are to be believed, he was transferred back to the Astrakhan pretrial detention center. Oleksandr last wrote on December 11, 2025. In the letter, he reiterated that during the appeal hearing, his personal presence must be ensured or a video link must be established.
Lawyer Andriy Yakovlev emphasizes that convicting a person without ensuring their personal presence in court and denying them the right to defend themselves against unlawful charges constitutes a serious violation of the right to a fair trial. He believes that such actions by the judge should be considered complicity in criminal activity.
Yakovlev also sees joint criminal activity in the actions of all those involved in the system of punishment of Ukrainian prisoners of war. This includes judges of the Supreme Court of the Russian Federation, who included Ukrainian military units on the list of terrorist organizations, equating military personnel with terrorists. It also includes judges of other courts, investigators, prosecutors, and prison system employees. All of them are acting in concert to achieve a single goal—to sentence Ukrainian prisoners of war to imprisonment.
Despite the obvious coordination among many Russians in committing these crimes, their actions are not considered joint criminal activity either in Ukraine or at the international level. Instead, the cases are being investigated as individual incidents. This also applies to crimes against Ukrainian prisoners of war who are being unlawfully tried in Russia. According to the International Institute for Human Rights (IIHR), the Security Service of Ukraine is handling several such cases; the Office of the Prosecutor General has announced charges against several Russian judges; and several cases have been referred to court.
— The concept of joint criminal activity has a clear basis in international criminal law. It involves several key elements: the participation of multiple individuals in committing a crime, the existence of a common plan or goal, and a substantial contribution by each participant to the implementation of that plan,” the lawyer notes.
In this context, Andriy Yakovlev recalls the case of Adolf Eichmann, who was responsible for the mass deportation of Jews to death camps. During his trial in Jerusalem, Eichmann argued that he was not involved in the crimes because he dealt exclusively with logistics: he drew up train schedules and managed transport flows. However, his claim that he was merely “a small cog in a large state machine” did not absolve him of responsibility.
Maksymchuk’s wife and defense team are awaiting December 23. This will be the second attempt by the appellate court in Vlasis to establish contact with the facility where Oleksandr is being held.
This article was prepared with the support of the International Renaissance Foundation. The content reflects the authors’ views and does not necessarily reflect the position of the International Renaissance Foundation.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.