“While I was in captivity, they asked me why we were protesting on the Maidan. But I was only 12 at the time.” The story of Mariupol defender Dmytro “Boomer,” who has been fighting with the A
Source: Novynarnia
Author: Anastasia Fedchenko
When Russia launched a war against Ukraine, Dmytro was 13; he attended school in Kyiv and was learning to play the piano. His long, music-loving fingers still look more suited to running their fingers across the keys. However, over the past few years, they’ve pulled the trigger on an assault rifle, loaded a mine into a mortar tube, assembled and disassembled the mortar itself, performed “abort” maneuvers, and played the fugues of this war. Although Dmytro himself prefers sonatas.
Now 23 years old, this tall, stately young man, who captivates with his classic Ukrainian good looks, impresses even more with his strength of spirit. He has five years of combat experience under his belt—first in a regiment and now in the Azov Brigade—a year in captivity, and so many breathtaking situations that they would be enough to fill more than one adventure book or movie.
In an interview with “Novynarnia,” the lieutenant, whose call sign is “Boomer,” spoke about his journey from soldier and mortar gunner to an operations planning officer in the brigade’s artillery command; about how he drank water from a puddle and “celebrated” his 21st birthday with pumpkin porridge in besieged Mariupol; about the breakthrough at Azovstal, his “honorable capture,” interesting conversations in Donetsk, his return from captivity, and why it’s so important for each of us to become a voice for the prisoners of war.
At 14—a member of the Youth Guard; at 18—a mortar
gunner 12-year-old Dmytro walks down Independence Square with his mother. The boy looks at the tents, at the barrels with burning firewood that “smoke” his clothes and hair in two minutes, at the warmly dressed men and women stamping their feet to stay warm. He thinks about how incredibly resilient people can be—those who left their homes and families to fight for others. And he realizes he wants to be like these strong people.
As early as 2016, the teenager joined the paramilitary organization “National Militia,” receiving the call sign “Boomer.” He played sports, underwent medical and tactical training, studied topography, and learned history.
“We always took part in events related to historical occasions—for example, on Heroes of Kruty Remembrance Day—to remind people that our history must not be forgotten, because history tends to repeat itself. We helped those in need. Once, an elderly woman approached us and asked us to chop some firewood. We drove to her village and chopped it up,” Boomer smiles. “She treated us to a nice meal then: potatoes, meat, and cucumbers.”
He then studied bridge construction and civil engineering at a college in the capital. When he came of age, he switched to a part-time program and joined the ranks of the “Azov” regiment. He is currently studying law part-time at one of Odesa’s universities.
In October 2019, Dmytro boarded the Kyiv–Mariupol train. At the station, he and the other recruits were picked up by Azov soldiers.
“They said we’d be manning 120-mm mortars. We were like, ‘Cool.’ But at the time, I didn’t even know what a mortar was,” he smiles. “Then they showed us a mortar and a shell. The mine seemed really scary to me at the time. They even threw it on the ground, and I thought we were all screwed. But it wasn’t live.”
Dmytro recounts how, during the two-month training course for new recruits, “Bitsukha” (Vitaliy Trukhan, who in 2014 deserted from the barracks of Kharkiv National University of Civil Protection to defend the country; who was killed in battle for Mariupol on March 12, 2022—N) didn’t let up on anyone: he made them run, do squats, and during classes on tactics, first aid, and forced marches —all while wearing body armor, helmets, and carrying assault rifles and backpacks.
In his unit, Boomer was fortunate to find a true mentor who supported the young mortar operator and taught him many important nuances of the job. Although the senior gunner, codenamed “Mramor” (Leonid Nikolaenko was killed in action and posthumously awarded the Order “For Courage,” 3rd Class; it is impossible to find the exact date and place of his death in open sources—“N”), at first seemed like a “boring old man,” Dmytro admits.
“He rarely took leave—he was afraid of missing the war.”
Bumer’s first combat missions were near Pavlopil and Hnutove. They loaded the mortar onto a pickup truck, got in, and drove off. Of course, no mission was complete without jokes. Once, while lying in a trench during shelling, Dmytro stuck his arm out of the trench.
“I said, ‘Let it tear my arm off—they’ll give me some compensation and disability benefits.’ Then I realized I had a tattoo there, so I said, ‘Oh, not this arm!’ and stuck out my left one—the ‘bare’ one.” But I already have a tattoo there, too—I got it after my captivity,” laughs the “Azov” fighter.
He shows his right hand, which bears a campfire, a spiderweb, a boxer, and knives—abstract designs for which the prison guards “praised” him while he was in captivity: “Dima has nice tattoos”… and at least because of that, they sometimes didn’t beat him. On his left arm is Motherland-Mother in a bulletproof vest and helmet, with magazines for an assault rifle on her belt and a trident on her shield (he got the trident tattooed before it was replaced on the monument, the young man smiles), a chestnut leaf as a symbol of Kyiv, and a heart made of barbed wire, dedicated to the soldiers taken prisoner.
Boomer really enjoyed working with a mortar. So much so that sometimes he could do the work of an entire crew by himself: load the primer, pack the gunpowder, and insert the detonator: “We didn’t have any irreplaceable people; everyone knew how to do anyone else’s job.”
They were armed with Czech mortars, which were significantly lighter than the Soviet ones—weighing about 160 kg fully equipped. The young man would carry the 80-kilogram barrel himself when necessary.
Dmytro was afraid he wouldn’t see any combat or have a chance to prove himself, so he rarely even took leave. Besides, it was boring in the rear; he wanted to be on the front lines.
The death of Mariupol: shell casings embedded in the asphalt, people searching for food in trash heaps, and graves, graves, graves…
The Guardsmen understood that an escalation on the front was inevitable. So they trained intensively and kept their backpacks packed in case they had to leave. Still, they didn’t lose their optimism.
“I kept encouraging everyone, telling them it would all be over in 10 days. I told the guys to pack civilian clothes in their backpacks so they’d have something to wear when they went for walks in Mariupol later,” Dmytro recalls of the preparations for the full-scale invasion.
On the night of February 23, he was on duty by the sea: he kept watch through binoculars to make sure no Russian ships carrying saboteurs sailed into the base. His shift ended around 1:00 a.m. on February 24. Then, around 5:00 a.m., the commander woke everyone up and said that a full-scale war had begun, so the Russians would be firing at their base in Urzuf.
Everyone went down to the basement. But when they realized the missiles weren’t coming yet, they ran out and began loading weapons and ammunition into cars, taking up strategic positions on the outskirts of Mariupol to defend the city. We were living right on the street back then: some were constantly on duty near a deployed mortar, while others took turns sleeping in a car nearby.
When the Russians entrenched themselves at the airport, the “Azov” fighters realized that the enemy was preparing a tank breakthrough. They fired everything they had at it—about a hundred shells. And the tank breakthrough was delayed by a couple of days, Boomer says with a smile.
The Russian encirclement was tightening more and more. But Dmytro admits: even before mid-April, it seemed to him that the situation was normal. After all, they had seen videos of their operations and understood that they were effective, inflicting significant losses on the enemy.
However, it was sometimes difficult to tell where the Ukrainian military’s positions were and where the occupiers’ were.
“Once we went out in search of food—because we were even running short of dry rations—and you could still find something among the rubble of looted stores. We arrived—and near Peace Park in the center, there was a tank with the letter ‘V’…
Another time, it was the opposite: I was teaching my friend—who was in my class and joined the Azov Regiment with me (his name isn’t mentioned in the article for security reasons, and for the same reasons, we’re not showing his face—“N”)—how to drive a manual transmission car. And right then, a car with a “Z” on it drove right toward us. I grabbed my assault rifle and started shooting at them, but my friend, who was behind the wheel, “stalled.”
I yelled for him to start the car and put it in reverse—he started it, knocked me over with the door, and I was lying there, still shooting at their car. My friend asks, “Why are you lying there? Get up, we need to get out of here,” Dmytro recalls with a laugh. “We later saw that there were three Russians in that car, one of them an officer. They just drove into the wrong place—that happens.”
Recalling the defense of Mariupol, Boomer talks about shell tails sticking out of the asphalt and how hungry people searched for food in the trash. Sometimes the soldiers helped put out fires after Russian shelling and pull the bodies of civilians from destroyed homes. They placed their fallen comrades in bags in the hope that they would be collected somehow, and their families would be able to bury the heroes…
The city was dying, building by building, until not a single intact one remained in sight. In the central park, more and more shallow graves and crosses were appearing.
“Small crosses—for children. Large crosses, more crosses… And these are only the ones they were able to find and bury. I’m not even mentioning the mass graves. And all around—dogs. Some are running, others are lying there—dead, too”…
My 21st birthday—with pumpkin porridge in the besieged city; my 22nd—in captivity
The defenders of Mariupol lacked not only food but also water. They collected rain or snow in barrels. But there wasn’t always precipitation, and we had to drink something.
“The hardest part was when we had to fetch water from a nearby swamp. There were disgusting little leeches floating in it. We filtered that water several times through gauze and drank it,” says Boomer.
Helicopters were a great source of support for the city’s defenders, delivering people, as well as small amounts of medicine and ammunition.
“I was ready to kiss those pilots’ hands,” the Azov soldier says earnestly. “They’re true heroes, because not everyone would risk flying like that. And the people who came to reinforce us—they’re heroes, too.”
The mines on board were Czech, Italian, and Soviet. The latter, oddly enough, worked best.
“We had Soviet ignition caps. The holes in the imported mines were wider, so we had to stuff paper in them to keep the ignition caps from falling out. There were often ‘misfires’: either the mine wouldn’t go off, or the pyrotechnic charge would explode into a ‘rose,’ contaminating the breech, and we’d have to quickly disassemble and clean it. Sometimes we’d have as many as four “misfires” in a row. That’s when physical fitness is really important,” he smiles. “Because you have to catch the ‘capsule’ as it falls out of the barrel so it doesn’t hit anything and cause a detonation.”
On March 30, 2022, Dmytro turned 21. Some townspeople whom the “Azov” fighters had helped with food knew it was his birthday, so they gave him a stuffed animal.
“A neighbor made pumpkin porridge, and it was really delicious. My friends were there; we ate together, and they wished me happiness and good health,” he smiles. “My outlook was the best; everyone knew that everything would be all right.
I spent my 22nd birthday in captivity. My cellmates congratulated me, and a classmate shouted across the entire hallway that he was wishing me a happy birthday. He could have been severely beaten or put in solitary confinement for that, but I love him for his determination. On his birthday, I also shouted out my congratulations.”
The Scariest Night of My Life: The Breakthrough at Azovstal
Boomer recalls the night of April 14–15 as the scariest of his life. They received the order to break through to the Azovstal plant, located about 8 kilometers from the city center. They split into groups: the wounded were loaded into vehicles, while the survivors had to go on foot. While waiting for the order, they went down to the piers. Just then, they spotted an enemy drone in the sky. Soon after, the Guardsmen came under fire from artillery and “Grad” rocket launchers.
“I see explosions all around me, the bodies of my comrades. I was really worried about a classmate. Someone said he’d been killed. I looked back—he was lying there. He said he was waiting for the shelling to end. I laughed, and we ran on. It was good that we were moving along the shore, because all the shells were landing in the sea. It was chaos; we were under heavy fire. The wounded were screaming. We helped whoever we could. It was night; we couldn’t see a thing. A guided bomb was dropped on “Bastion” at that moment. And I saw this huge “nuclear” mushroom cloud and told the guys, “That’s where we need to go!” The vehicles got stuck—wires from the power lines (the “H” line) had wrapped around the wheels. And the APCs got stuck that way, too. For those on top, their fingers were torn off. People were getting out and running too.”
It was dark, as if in the afterlife. At some point, Dmytro realized he was running alone—he’d lost track of everyone. He sat down by a tree and thought about what to do. He saw a group running and realized they were his own men. One of the soldiers had a radio. Boomer took it and managed to find his classmate.
“And then—it was like an action movie. We ran around the corner, and there were Russians standing there. We opened fire and retreated. Shells and grenades started flying in from the side. We ran to the other corner, where our guys were still there. And there I met an officer who is now my commander. I was really happy because I knew he’d get us out of there.
We just kept moving forward as a whole column—everyone who was there—taking turns carrying the wounded. We made it to a hangar where they were repairing boats. We were told over the radio that the bridge had been destroyed. We sat there and thought about how to cross to the left bank of the Kalmius. We decided to use inflatable boats, with five people in each. One boat drifted too far away, and I, not wanting to waste any time, just jumped into the water fully geared up and pulled it back,” Dmytro recalls with a laugh, thinking back on those times that were anything but funny.
The breakout, which lasted 5–6 hours, felt like an eternity. We also had to wander around the heavily damaged factory grounds: no one knew their way around the catacombs and passageways.
“It all felt like a sort of video game—I acted faster than I understood what was happening. Later, already in the bunker, while drying off after the Kalmius, I realized how dangerous it had been—and just how much. But I was too scared to go outside. However, when tanks and AGSs started firing at us, I actually calmed down.”
“If only they’d ‘confiscated’ them right before we were captured”
At Azovstal, the mortarman became an ordinary infantryman—they couldn’t take the mortars with them, so they had to leave them behind. But we damaged the barrels as best we could so the Russians wouldn’t get their hands on the weapons.
“We lived in basements; it was cold there. The warm ‘Metinvest’ work jackets really came in handy. We slept on them. I think I ate for the first time on the third day. There just wasn’t any food. From then on, we were fed once a day: porridge or soup. My body went into survival mode. I lost weight; my clothes hung loosely on me—I just tightened my belt—and it was even hard to climb the stairs. I didn’t take off my body armor even while sleeping, because KABs were being dropped on the workshops. That’s how two basements were “leveled”; many people died there. “We thought the next one would be ours. You lie down and think: should I put on my helmet or not—it doesn’t matter either way; you’re going to die anyway,” Boomer says calmly. He adds that he lost even more weight in captivity—when he returned, he weighed 64 kg, whereas his normal weight is 30 kg more.
In Mariupol, he suffered a shrapnel wound to his leg. The observation post he and a friend manned, “Yalta,” was located under a bridge. One day, a bullet whizzed past Dmytro’s cheek; he even thought he’d been hit and fell to the ground.
“I wasn’t afraid—just pure rage. I got up and started shooting at them, and they were in a building about 15 meters away. I had a submachine gun and six VOGs; I raked fire into their window. As I continued fighting, the radio reported that an APC with two dozen people on top was advancing toward us. I thought: We’re done for.
We began retreating toward the tunnel (our friend “Stalker” was still behind us). I grabbed my DP (a Degtyaryov machine gun, 7.62-caliber—“N”), ran to the edge of the tunnel, and opened fire. What a roar it made! It sounded like we had some kind of large-caliber weapon. Over the radio, they said, “The APC has turned around.” We were very happy. Maybe they thought we had a large-caliber machine gun that could easily pierce the vehicle.
And the next day, they told us we were to surrender. I thought: “They might as well have ‘shot us’ right before taking us prisoner,” he laughs.
“Honorable” captivity in Olenivka: “What, do you want to die in a barracks too, like them?”
The regiment commander at the time, Hero of Ukraine Denys Prokopenko (“Radish”), supported the troops the entire time Azov was defending Mariupol. And he personally informed the soldiers of the “highest” order to surrender.
“We trust our commander completely and are ready to go anywhere if he says so. To our deaths, so be it.
I think Redis was born to be a commander and for war. I can’t imagine anyone who could have handled things in Mariupol better than he did. He’s very creative, very kind to the troops, knows how to motivate people, is constantly improving himself, speaks English well, and plays the piano,” says Dmytro, making no secret of his admiration for his commander.
On May 19, Boomer arrived in Olenivka. The soldiers were told that their captivity would be “honorable.” The only “honors” they received were a walk near the barracks.
There was no toilet; the guards dug one themselves in the yard. We bathed once a week—a fire truck with a water tank would come. We drank that same water.
“Because of this, many of us developed kidney problems. We were given porridge—wheat or barley porridge cooked in water—and a piece of bread. For lunch, we had soup: cabbage left over from borscht and red beet broth. They’d sometimes make us line up when their ‘celebrities’ or ‘media people’ came to show what kind of fascists we were. They’d say, ‘First row, take off your T-shirts.’ Everyone took theirs off, and no one had any tattoos. So it turned out there was nothing to show. “We went to another barracks,” he smiles.
At the end of July, some of the prisoners were moved to another barracks, supposedly to provide more space. On the night of the 29th, the prisoners heard a very loud explosion and saw the roof of the “new” barracks, buckled inward, engulfed in flames. Screams. The evacuation came too late.
“I know that one soldier had a pneumothorax. The medics didn’t have a decompression needle, so they pierced his sternum with a screwdriver. There are plenty of horrific stories there,” says Dmytro. “The FSI guys” (an abbreviation for Russian prison guards—“N”) later joked: “So, are you going to cooperate with us? Or are you headed to the barracks too? Do you want to die like that, too?” They’d show him black body bags: “You’ll end up just like that.”
“A prison guard is outraged that a girl won’t go out with him because he stole toilet bowls, but I find it funny.”
When it started to get cold, Bumera was transferred to Donetsk, to Pretrial Detention Center No. 1. He remained there until the prisoner exchange.
“While I was in captivity, they asked me why we were jumping around on the Maidan. I didn’t say anything. What’s the point of talking to them? One guy’s phone wallpaper is a red flag with a hammer and sickle.
They showed me that famous video where an armored personnel carrier breaks through into Mariupol in 2014 (the vehicle was commanded by Mykhailo Drapatiy, now commander of the Ukrainian Armed Forces’ Ground Forces—“N”) and asked if I knew what happened when it broke through.
Me: “So what?” – “It turned its gun around and started shooting at people.” “They just made something up and believe it,” Dmytro says, shaking his head. “But in Donetsk, I overheard some guards drinking beer and talking.” One of them said he’d met a girl, but she turned him down: ‘I’m not going out with a guy who steals toilets in Ukraine.’ He was outraged: ‘But I didn’t steal any toilets!’ I’m sitting here in captivity, handcuffed, with a mask over my head, and I find it funny.
There’s still a statue of Lenin standing in their city. They provide water once every 3–4 days. Here they’re happy they’re not in Ukraine, but here they’re already complaining that they have to fill the bathtub with water and then scoop it out to cook and wash dishes”…
One time, they beat Dmytro nearly to death. He lost consciousness several times, and later he seemed to be completely paralyzed. The guys carried him into the “glass”—a room so small that everyone has to stand—and laid him on the floor.
“Only my pupils were moving. I slowly began to come to: first my fingers started twitching, then, when my whole body ‘came back to life,’ I said, ‘I could really go for something like lunch right now,’ and everyone started laughing. Then they started herding us into cells “in a train”—that’s when people walk one behind the other.” The guards on the side were beating whoever they could get their hands on.”
A small cell with a window, but in the basement. The only light was a bulb that stayed on 24 hours a day.
“When winter set in, it was absolute hell. Instead of saying ‘good night,’ the guys would say, ‘I’d rather be dead.’ Half of our window was missing. Some were in shorts, some in T-shirts, and those in sweaters were the lucky ones. You’d sleep for an hour, then get up and move around just to try to warm up a little. As for shoes—rubber slippers or nothing at all.”
There were 6 mattresses for 25 prisoners. The rest slept on “grills”—beds made of metal wires.
“You’re already skinny—skin and bones—and the metal wires dig into your body. In the end, we slept like chickens—tucking our legs under us and sitting up. The guards would sometimes say, ‘Go poke that one—see if he’s even alive.’ They were making fun of us.”
“The Best Job in the World”
One night, they heard surnames being called out in the “corridor” (Corridor “H”). They talked among themselves: was it a transfer or an exchange? They were loaded into a KrAZ truck. A Chechen prison guard said in broken Russian: “Sit still, don’t stick your heads out—there’s a car behind us, and if anyone looks out, we’ll shoot. Don’t be afraid—you’ll be home soon. Everything will be fine; just sit quietly.”
Then came a long journey in a truck, the cargo hold of an IL-76, and buses. And finally—freedom.
“Throughout my captivity, I kept thinking about how I’d feel when I returned. I thought I’d cry, that I’d kiss the ground. But then all those emotions seemed to vanish somewhere. And I had the feeling that this was my home, and that everything was as it should be—that I was where I belonged, I’d just been waiting a long time for it. I was very happy. I called my mom right away,” recalls Boomer.
Then came a couple of months of rehabilitation. Despite his young age, Dmytro can list a long series of medical conditions resulting from his time in captivity: a back injury, diagnosed concussions, and the need for dental treatment.
After rehabilitation, in the summer of 2023, Boomer returned to active duty—now as a sergeant in a brigade artillery group, handling larger-caliber weapons. He was taken under the wing of the very same officer he had met during the crossing to “Azovstal.”
On March 8, 2024, Dmytro received his first officer’s rank—second lieutenant—for his combat achievements. However, the specifics of those achievements cannot be disclosed yet.
“If you haven’t made a significant contribution to the brigade, the front, or your comrades, you won’t receive an officer’s rank in ‘Azov.’
We have to prove to the soldiers that you’re worthy. Everyone knows that being an officer means you’re a true fighter, you’ve accomplished a lot, and you’re highly skilled. And if you put him in charge of a unit right now, he’ll be able to do it with ease,” explains the artilleryman, who by the time of the interview had already been promoted to lieutenant—also for combat merits— and is now an operations planning officer in the brigade artillery command.
He was also awarded a commemorative weapon. He received a Czech-made CZ P-10 C pistol last year for his defense of Mariupol. Earlier, for his actions in the besieged city, he also received the Order “For Courage,” Third Class.
Despite the fact that at 23, Dmytro has been through more than enough to fill 10 lifetimes, he has never for a moment regretted his decision to become a soldier. And he plans to remain in the ranks going forward:
“It’s the best job in the world. As long as I’m here, I can protect my loved ones and family.”
“Back in Mariupol, thanks to drones, a single APC could ‘hold’ many positions.”
Currently, “Azov” is fighting in the Donetsk region. Dmytro admits: there isn’t enough ammunition to go around.
“Of course, we can’t fire a thousand shells like Russia can. But we can fire a hundred. We use certain calibers more sparingly. But I think this issue will always be relevant. Because no matter how much we’re given—it will never be enough. We’ll do everything we can to fight, to liberate our land.”
The “war of technology” allows us to adjust artillery fire using drones. Although the Azov Regiment was already using drones during the ATO/JFO. And at the start of the full-scale invasion, when the regiment was defending Mariupol, the “little birds” were a huge help to the Guardsmen:
“Our armored personnel carriers would ‘take out’ tanks. We’d launch drones, figure out how to get behind a tank, and the APC would circle around, firing into the side or rear with its cannon, so the tanks would just be ‘blown away.’ In this way, a single APC could ‘hold’ many positions.
Nowadays, a single FPV drone can take out a tank. We’re moving more and more toward technology. There are already remotely controlled machine guns: a joystick, a camera—and you can sit there and control them remotely. “We don’t have anything like that yet, though,” Boomer notes with regret, speaking enthusiastically about the “digitization” of combat operations—something that was unimaginable just a few years ago.
So they’re fighting with these new realities in mind: setting up anti-lance nets, which are very helpful; frequently establishing new positions; and camouflaging the locations of personnel and equipment as much as possible.
Being the voice of the prisoners of war, remembering the fallen
In the war unleashed by Russia, Dmytro lost many comrades and friends. He admits that thoughts of them often keep him awake at night. Among the fallen is a close friend of his and his classmate’s, paratrooper Oleksandr Serdyukov, who was killed near Tonenkoye… Although most died in Mariupol, particularly during the breakthrough. The fate of some remains unknown to this day.
“On May 6, 2023, my comrade-in-arms and friend ‘Lemis’ and I returned from captivity. And exactly one year later, on May 6, 2024, he was killed (Sergeant Andriy Plytus had joined the regiment during the ATO; after the start of the “great” war, he returned to his comrades in Mariupol, which was already nearly surrounded, and was killed near the Serebryansky Forestry Office – “N”).
On that same day, my comrade “Hrenka” (Nazarii Hryntsevych—a defender of Azovstal who died in battle near Kreminna; he was 21 years old—“N”) was killed. I must remember them; I must tell others and my descendants about them, so that they know these names and learn of their heroic deeds.”
Many of Dmytro’s comrades-in-arms remain in captivity to this day. He is convinced that everyone should participate in protests demanding the release of the captives.
“This provides support both for the captives’ families and for the captives themselves. When they return, they’ll learn how eagerly they were awaited, that Ukrainians never forgot about them. And that will give them even more motivation to return to the ranks,” the soldier reflects. “When I was released, the ‘Free Azov’ protests were news to me, and they inspired me deeply. My mom fought for me. And this movement became like a family to me.”
While he was in rehabilitation, Dmytro also attended rallies calling for the release of prisoners of war. There, he met many people whose loved ones were in captivity, and he told them what he knew about their sons, husbands, and brothers: “so that they would have the strength to keep waiting.”
And now, whenever he’s in Kyiv during such events, he always makes sure to join them:
“It’s very important to me that my friends come back. Maybe somehow, in Russian prisons, they’ll find out that we’re waiting for them, that we’re fighting for them. I’m waiting most of all for my friend, but really for all of them. Freedom is the most important thing for a Cossack.”
Author: Anastasia Fedchenko
When Russia launched a war against Ukraine, Dmytro was 13; he attended school in Kyiv and was learning to play the piano. His long, music-loving fingers still look more suited to running their fingers across the keys. However, over the past few years, they’ve pulled the trigger on an assault rifle, loaded a mine into a mortar tube, assembled and disassembled the mortar itself, performed “abort” maneuvers, and played the fugues of this war. Although Dmytro himself prefers sonatas.
Now 23 years old, this tall, stately young man, who captivates with his classic Ukrainian good looks, impresses even more with his strength of spirit. He has five years of combat experience under his belt—first in a regiment and now in the Azov Brigade—a year in captivity, and so many breathtaking situations that they would be enough to fill more than one adventure book or movie.
In an interview with “Novynarnia,” the lieutenant, whose call sign is “Boomer,” spoke about his journey from soldier and mortar gunner to an operations planning officer in the brigade’s artillery command; about how he drank water from a puddle and “celebrated” his 21st birthday with pumpkin porridge in besieged Mariupol; about the breakthrough at Azovstal, his “honorable capture,” interesting conversations in Donetsk, his return from captivity, and why it’s so important for each of us to become a voice for the prisoners of war.
At 14—a member of the Youth Guard; at 18—a mortar
gunner 12-year-old Dmytro walks down Independence Square with his mother. The boy looks at the tents, at the barrels with burning firewood that “smoke” his clothes and hair in two minutes, at the warmly dressed men and women stamping their feet to stay warm. He thinks about how incredibly resilient people can be—those who left their homes and families to fight for others. And he realizes he wants to be like these strong people.
As early as 2016, the teenager joined the paramilitary organization “National Militia,” receiving the call sign “Boomer.” He played sports, underwent medical and tactical training, studied topography, and learned history.
“We always took part in events related to historical occasions—for example, on Heroes of Kruty Remembrance Day—to remind people that our history must not be forgotten, because history tends to repeat itself. We helped those in need. Once, an elderly woman approached us and asked us to chop some firewood. We drove to her village and chopped it up,” Boomer smiles. “She treated us to a nice meal then: potatoes, meat, and cucumbers.”
He then studied bridge construction and civil engineering at a college in the capital. When he came of age, he switched to a part-time program and joined the ranks of the “Azov” regiment. He is currently studying law part-time at one of Odesa’s universities.
In October 2019, Dmytro boarded the Kyiv–Mariupol train. At the station, he and the other recruits were picked up by Azov soldiers.
“They said we’d be manning 120-mm mortars. We were like, ‘Cool.’ But at the time, I didn’t even know what a mortar was,” he smiles. “Then they showed us a mortar and a shell. The mine seemed really scary to me at the time. They even threw it on the ground, and I thought we were all screwed. But it wasn’t live.”
Dmytro recounts how, during the two-month training course for new recruits, “Bitsukha” (Vitaliy Trukhan, who in 2014 deserted from the barracks of Kharkiv National University of Civil Protection to defend the country; who was killed in battle for Mariupol on March 12, 2022—N) didn’t let up on anyone: he made them run, do squats, and during classes on tactics, first aid, and forced marches —all while wearing body armor, helmets, and carrying assault rifles and backpacks.
In his unit, Boomer was fortunate to find a true mentor who supported the young mortar operator and taught him many important nuances of the job. Although the senior gunner, codenamed “Mramor” (Leonid Nikolaenko was killed in action and posthumously awarded the Order “For Courage,” 3rd Class; it is impossible to find the exact date and place of his death in open sources—“N”), at first seemed like a “boring old man,” Dmytro admits.
“He rarely took leave—he was afraid of missing the war.”
Bumer’s first combat missions were near Pavlopil and Hnutove. They loaded the mortar onto a pickup truck, got in, and drove off. Of course, no mission was complete without jokes. Once, while lying in a trench during shelling, Dmytro stuck his arm out of the trench.
“I said, ‘Let it tear my arm off—they’ll give me some compensation and disability benefits.’ Then I realized I had a tattoo there, so I said, ‘Oh, not this arm!’ and stuck out my left one—the ‘bare’ one.” But I already have a tattoo there, too—I got it after my captivity,” laughs the “Azov” fighter.
He shows his right hand, which bears a campfire, a spiderweb, a boxer, and knives—abstract designs for which the prison guards “praised” him while he was in captivity: “Dima has nice tattoos”… and at least because of that, they sometimes didn’t beat him. On his left arm is Motherland-Mother in a bulletproof vest and helmet, with magazines for an assault rifle on her belt and a trident on her shield (he got the trident tattooed before it was replaced on the monument, the young man smiles), a chestnut leaf as a symbol of Kyiv, and a heart made of barbed wire, dedicated to the soldiers taken prisoner.
Boomer really enjoyed working with a mortar. So much so that sometimes he could do the work of an entire crew by himself: load the primer, pack the gunpowder, and insert the detonator: “We didn’t have any irreplaceable people; everyone knew how to do anyone else’s job.”
They were armed with Czech mortars, which were significantly lighter than the Soviet ones—weighing about 160 kg fully equipped. The young man would carry the 80-kilogram barrel himself when necessary.
Dmytro was afraid he wouldn’t see any combat or have a chance to prove himself, so he rarely even took leave. Besides, it was boring in the rear; he wanted to be on the front lines.
The death of Mariupol: shell casings embedded in the asphalt, people searching for food in trash heaps, and graves, graves, graves…
The Guardsmen understood that an escalation on the front was inevitable. So they trained intensively and kept their backpacks packed in case they had to leave. Still, they didn’t lose their optimism.
“I kept encouraging everyone, telling them it would all be over in 10 days. I told the guys to pack civilian clothes in their backpacks so they’d have something to wear when they went for walks in Mariupol later,” Dmytro recalls of the preparations for the full-scale invasion.
On the night of February 23, he was on duty by the sea: he kept watch through binoculars to make sure no Russian ships carrying saboteurs sailed into the base. His shift ended around 1:00 a.m. on February 24. Then, around 5:00 a.m., the commander woke everyone up and said that a full-scale war had begun, so the Russians would be firing at their base in Urzuf.
Everyone went down to the basement. But when they realized the missiles weren’t coming yet, they ran out and began loading weapons and ammunition into cars, taking up strategic positions on the outskirts of Mariupol to defend the city. We were living right on the street back then: some were constantly on duty near a deployed mortar, while others took turns sleeping in a car nearby.
When the Russians entrenched themselves at the airport, the “Azov” fighters realized that the enemy was preparing a tank breakthrough. They fired everything they had at it—about a hundred shells. And the tank breakthrough was delayed by a couple of days, Boomer says with a smile.
The Russian encirclement was tightening more and more. But Dmytro admits: even before mid-April, it seemed to him that the situation was normal. After all, they had seen videos of their operations and understood that they were effective, inflicting significant losses on the enemy.
However, it was sometimes difficult to tell where the Ukrainian military’s positions were and where the occupiers’ were.
“Once we went out in search of food—because we were even running short of dry rations—and you could still find something among the rubble of looted stores. We arrived—and near Peace Park in the center, there was a tank with the letter ‘V’…
Another time, it was the opposite: I was teaching my friend—who was in my class and joined the Azov Regiment with me (his name isn’t mentioned in the article for security reasons, and for the same reasons, we’re not showing his face—“N”)—how to drive a manual transmission car. And right then, a car with a “Z” on it drove right toward us. I grabbed my assault rifle and started shooting at them, but my friend, who was behind the wheel, “stalled.”
I yelled for him to start the car and put it in reverse—he started it, knocked me over with the door, and I was lying there, still shooting at their car. My friend asks, “Why are you lying there? Get up, we need to get out of here,” Dmytro recalls with a laugh. “We later saw that there were three Russians in that car, one of them an officer. They just drove into the wrong place—that happens.”
Recalling the defense of Mariupol, Boomer talks about shell tails sticking out of the asphalt and how hungry people searched for food in the trash. Sometimes the soldiers helped put out fires after Russian shelling and pull the bodies of civilians from destroyed homes. They placed their fallen comrades in bags in the hope that they would be collected somehow, and their families would be able to bury the heroes…
The city was dying, building by building, until not a single intact one remained in sight. In the central park, more and more shallow graves and crosses were appearing.
“Small crosses—for children. Large crosses, more crosses… And these are only the ones they were able to find and bury. I’m not even mentioning the mass graves. And all around—dogs. Some are running, others are lying there—dead, too”…
My 21st birthday—with pumpkin porridge in the besieged city; my 22nd—in captivity
The defenders of Mariupol lacked not only food but also water. They collected rain or snow in barrels. But there wasn’t always precipitation, and we had to drink something.
“The hardest part was when we had to fetch water from a nearby swamp. There were disgusting little leeches floating in it. We filtered that water several times through gauze and drank it,” says Boomer.
Helicopters were a great source of support for the city’s defenders, delivering people, as well as small amounts of medicine and ammunition.
“I was ready to kiss those pilots’ hands,” the Azov soldier says earnestly. “They’re true heroes, because not everyone would risk flying like that. And the people who came to reinforce us—they’re heroes, too.”
The mines on board were Czech, Italian, and Soviet. The latter, oddly enough, worked best.
“We had Soviet ignition caps. The holes in the imported mines were wider, so we had to stuff paper in them to keep the ignition caps from falling out. There were often ‘misfires’: either the mine wouldn’t go off, or the pyrotechnic charge would explode into a ‘rose,’ contaminating the breech, and we’d have to quickly disassemble and clean it. Sometimes we’d have as many as four “misfires” in a row. That’s when physical fitness is really important,” he smiles. “Because you have to catch the ‘capsule’ as it falls out of the barrel so it doesn’t hit anything and cause a detonation.”
On March 30, 2022, Dmytro turned 21. Some townspeople whom the “Azov” fighters had helped with food knew it was his birthday, so they gave him a stuffed animal.
“A neighbor made pumpkin porridge, and it was really delicious. My friends were there; we ate together, and they wished me happiness and good health,” he smiles. “My outlook was the best; everyone knew that everything would be all right.
I spent my 22nd birthday in captivity. My cellmates congratulated me, and a classmate shouted across the entire hallway that he was wishing me a happy birthday. He could have been severely beaten or put in solitary confinement for that, but I love him for his determination. On his birthday, I also shouted out my congratulations.”
The Scariest Night of My Life: The Breakthrough at Azovstal
Boomer recalls the night of April 14–15 as the scariest of his life. They received the order to break through to the Azovstal plant, located about 8 kilometers from the city center. They split into groups: the wounded were loaded into vehicles, while the survivors had to go on foot. While waiting for the order, they went down to the piers. Just then, they spotted an enemy drone in the sky. Soon after, the Guardsmen came under fire from artillery and “Grad” rocket launchers.
“I see explosions all around me, the bodies of my comrades. I was really worried about a classmate. Someone said he’d been killed. I looked back—he was lying there. He said he was waiting for the shelling to end. I laughed, and we ran on. It was good that we were moving along the shore, because all the shells were landing in the sea. It was chaos; we were under heavy fire. The wounded were screaming. We helped whoever we could. It was night; we couldn’t see a thing. A guided bomb was dropped on “Bastion” at that moment. And I saw this huge “nuclear” mushroom cloud and told the guys, “That’s where we need to go!” The vehicles got stuck—wires from the power lines (the “H” line) had wrapped around the wheels. And the APCs got stuck that way, too. For those on top, their fingers were torn off. People were getting out and running too.”
It was dark, as if in the afterlife. At some point, Dmytro realized he was running alone—he’d lost track of everyone. He sat down by a tree and thought about what to do. He saw a group running and realized they were his own men. One of the soldiers had a radio. Boomer took it and managed to find his classmate.
“And then—it was like an action movie. We ran around the corner, and there were Russians standing there. We opened fire and retreated. Shells and grenades started flying in from the side. We ran to the other corner, where our guys were still there. And there I met an officer who is now my commander. I was really happy because I knew he’d get us out of there.
We just kept moving forward as a whole column—everyone who was there—taking turns carrying the wounded. We made it to a hangar where they were repairing boats. We were told over the radio that the bridge had been destroyed. We sat there and thought about how to cross to the left bank of the Kalmius. We decided to use inflatable boats, with five people in each. One boat drifted too far away, and I, not wanting to waste any time, just jumped into the water fully geared up and pulled it back,” Dmytro recalls with a laugh, thinking back on those times that were anything but funny.
The breakout, which lasted 5–6 hours, felt like an eternity. We also had to wander around the heavily damaged factory grounds: no one knew their way around the catacombs and passageways.
“It all felt like a sort of video game—I acted faster than I understood what was happening. Later, already in the bunker, while drying off after the Kalmius, I realized how dangerous it had been—and just how much. But I was too scared to go outside. However, when tanks and AGSs started firing at us, I actually calmed down.”
“If only they’d ‘confiscated’ them right before we were captured”
At Azovstal, the mortarman became an ordinary infantryman—they couldn’t take the mortars with them, so they had to leave them behind. But we damaged the barrels as best we could so the Russians wouldn’t get their hands on the weapons.
“We lived in basements; it was cold there. The warm ‘Metinvest’ work jackets really came in handy. We slept on them. I think I ate for the first time on the third day. There just wasn’t any food. From then on, we were fed once a day: porridge or soup. My body went into survival mode. I lost weight; my clothes hung loosely on me—I just tightened my belt—and it was even hard to climb the stairs. I didn’t take off my body armor even while sleeping, because KABs were being dropped on the workshops. That’s how two basements were “leveled”; many people died there. “We thought the next one would be ours. You lie down and think: should I put on my helmet or not—it doesn’t matter either way; you’re going to die anyway,” Boomer says calmly. He adds that he lost even more weight in captivity—when he returned, he weighed 64 kg, whereas his normal weight is 30 kg more.
In Mariupol, he suffered a shrapnel wound to his leg. The observation post he and a friend manned, “Yalta,” was located under a bridge. One day, a bullet whizzed past Dmytro’s cheek; he even thought he’d been hit and fell to the ground.
“I wasn’t afraid—just pure rage. I got up and started shooting at them, and they were in a building about 15 meters away. I had a submachine gun and six VOGs; I raked fire into their window. As I continued fighting, the radio reported that an APC with two dozen people on top was advancing toward us. I thought: We’re done for.
We began retreating toward the tunnel (our friend “Stalker” was still behind us). I grabbed my DP (a Degtyaryov machine gun, 7.62-caliber—“N”), ran to the edge of the tunnel, and opened fire. What a roar it made! It sounded like we had some kind of large-caliber weapon. Over the radio, they said, “The APC has turned around.” We were very happy. Maybe they thought we had a large-caliber machine gun that could easily pierce the vehicle.
And the next day, they told us we were to surrender. I thought: “They might as well have ‘shot us’ right before taking us prisoner,” he laughs.
“Honorable” captivity in Olenivka: “What, do you want to die in a barracks too, like them?”
The regiment commander at the time, Hero of Ukraine Denys Prokopenko (“Radish”), supported the troops the entire time Azov was defending Mariupol. And he personally informed the soldiers of the “highest” order to surrender.
“We trust our commander completely and are ready to go anywhere if he says so. To our deaths, so be it.
I think Redis was born to be a commander and for war. I can’t imagine anyone who could have handled things in Mariupol better than he did. He’s very creative, very kind to the troops, knows how to motivate people, is constantly improving himself, speaks English well, and plays the piano,” says Dmytro, making no secret of his admiration for his commander.
On May 19, Boomer arrived in Olenivka. The soldiers were told that their captivity would be “honorable.” The only “honors” they received were a walk near the barracks.
There was no toilet; the guards dug one themselves in the yard. We bathed once a week—a fire truck with a water tank would come. We drank that same water.
“Because of this, many of us developed kidney problems. We were given porridge—wheat or barley porridge cooked in water—and a piece of bread. For lunch, we had soup: cabbage left over from borscht and red beet broth. They’d sometimes make us line up when their ‘celebrities’ or ‘media people’ came to show what kind of fascists we were. They’d say, ‘First row, take off your T-shirts.’ Everyone took theirs off, and no one had any tattoos. So it turned out there was nothing to show. “We went to another barracks,” he smiles.
At the end of July, some of the prisoners were moved to another barracks, supposedly to provide more space. On the night of the 29th, the prisoners heard a very loud explosion and saw the roof of the “new” barracks, buckled inward, engulfed in flames. Screams. The evacuation came too late.
“I know that one soldier had a pneumothorax. The medics didn’t have a decompression needle, so they pierced his sternum with a screwdriver. There are plenty of horrific stories there,” says Dmytro. “The FSI guys” (an abbreviation for Russian prison guards—“N”) later joked: “So, are you going to cooperate with us? Or are you headed to the barracks too? Do you want to die like that, too?” They’d show him black body bags: “You’ll end up just like that.”
“A prison guard is outraged that a girl won’t go out with him because he stole toilet bowls, but I find it funny.”
When it started to get cold, Bumera was transferred to Donetsk, to Pretrial Detention Center No. 1. He remained there until the prisoner exchange.
“While I was in captivity, they asked me why we were jumping around on the Maidan. I didn’t say anything. What’s the point of talking to them? One guy’s phone wallpaper is a red flag with a hammer and sickle.
They showed me that famous video where an armored personnel carrier breaks through into Mariupol in 2014 (the vehicle was commanded by Mykhailo Drapatiy, now commander of the Ukrainian Armed Forces’ Ground Forces—“N”) and asked if I knew what happened when it broke through.
Me: “So what?” – “It turned its gun around and started shooting at people.” “They just made something up and believe it,” Dmytro says, shaking his head. “But in Donetsk, I overheard some guards drinking beer and talking.” One of them said he’d met a girl, but she turned him down: ‘I’m not going out with a guy who steals toilets in Ukraine.’ He was outraged: ‘But I didn’t steal any toilets!’ I’m sitting here in captivity, handcuffed, with a mask over my head, and I find it funny.
There’s still a statue of Lenin standing in their city. They provide water once every 3–4 days. Here they’re happy they’re not in Ukraine, but here they’re already complaining that they have to fill the bathtub with water and then scoop it out to cook and wash dishes”…
One time, they beat Dmytro nearly to death. He lost consciousness several times, and later he seemed to be completely paralyzed. The guys carried him into the “glass”—a room so small that everyone has to stand—and laid him on the floor.
“Only my pupils were moving. I slowly began to come to: first my fingers started twitching, then, when my whole body ‘came back to life,’ I said, ‘I could really go for something like lunch right now,’ and everyone started laughing. Then they started herding us into cells “in a train”—that’s when people walk one behind the other.” The guards on the side were beating whoever they could get their hands on.”
A small cell with a window, but in the basement. The only light was a bulb that stayed on 24 hours a day.
“When winter set in, it was absolute hell. Instead of saying ‘good night,’ the guys would say, ‘I’d rather be dead.’ Half of our window was missing. Some were in shorts, some in T-shirts, and those in sweaters were the lucky ones. You’d sleep for an hour, then get up and move around just to try to warm up a little. As for shoes—rubber slippers or nothing at all.”
There were 6 mattresses for 25 prisoners. The rest slept on “grills”—beds made of metal wires.
“You’re already skinny—skin and bones—and the metal wires dig into your body. In the end, we slept like chickens—tucking our legs under us and sitting up. The guards would sometimes say, ‘Go poke that one—see if he’s even alive.’ They were making fun of us.”
“The Best Job in the World”
One night, they heard surnames being called out in the “corridor” (Corridor “H”). They talked among themselves: was it a transfer or an exchange? They were loaded into a KrAZ truck. A Chechen prison guard said in broken Russian: “Sit still, don’t stick your heads out—there’s a car behind us, and if anyone looks out, we’ll shoot. Don’t be afraid—you’ll be home soon. Everything will be fine; just sit quietly.”
Then came a long journey in a truck, the cargo hold of an IL-76, and buses. And finally—freedom.
“Throughout my captivity, I kept thinking about how I’d feel when I returned. I thought I’d cry, that I’d kiss the ground. But then all those emotions seemed to vanish somewhere. And I had the feeling that this was my home, and that everything was as it should be—that I was where I belonged, I’d just been waiting a long time for it. I was very happy. I called my mom right away,” recalls Boomer.
Then came a couple of months of rehabilitation. Despite his young age, Dmytro can list a long series of medical conditions resulting from his time in captivity: a back injury, diagnosed concussions, and the need for dental treatment.
After rehabilitation, in the summer of 2023, Boomer returned to active duty—now as a sergeant in a brigade artillery group, handling larger-caliber weapons. He was taken under the wing of the very same officer he had met during the crossing to “Azovstal.”
On March 8, 2024, Dmytro received his first officer’s rank—second lieutenant—for his combat achievements. However, the specifics of those achievements cannot be disclosed yet.
“If you haven’t made a significant contribution to the brigade, the front, or your comrades, you won’t receive an officer’s rank in ‘Azov.’
We have to prove to the soldiers that you’re worthy. Everyone knows that being an officer means you’re a true fighter, you’ve accomplished a lot, and you’re highly skilled. And if you put him in charge of a unit right now, he’ll be able to do it with ease,” explains the artilleryman, who by the time of the interview had already been promoted to lieutenant—also for combat merits— and is now an operations planning officer in the brigade artillery command.
He was also awarded a commemorative weapon. He received a Czech-made CZ P-10 C pistol last year for his defense of Mariupol. Earlier, for his actions in the besieged city, he also received the Order “For Courage,” Third Class.
Despite the fact that at 23, Dmytro has been through more than enough to fill 10 lifetimes, he has never for a moment regretted his decision to become a soldier. And he plans to remain in the ranks going forward:
“It’s the best job in the world. As long as I’m here, I can protect my loved ones and family.”
“Back in Mariupol, thanks to drones, a single APC could ‘hold’ many positions.”
Currently, “Azov” is fighting in the Donetsk region. Dmytro admits: there isn’t enough ammunition to go around.
“Of course, we can’t fire a thousand shells like Russia can. But we can fire a hundred. We use certain calibers more sparingly. But I think this issue will always be relevant. Because no matter how much we’re given—it will never be enough. We’ll do everything we can to fight, to liberate our land.”
The “war of technology” allows us to adjust artillery fire using drones. Although the Azov Regiment was already using drones during the ATO/JFO. And at the start of the full-scale invasion, when the regiment was defending Mariupol, the “little birds” were a huge help to the Guardsmen:
“Our armored personnel carriers would ‘take out’ tanks. We’d launch drones, figure out how to get behind a tank, and the APC would circle around, firing into the side or rear with its cannon, so the tanks would just be ‘blown away.’ In this way, a single APC could ‘hold’ many positions.
Nowadays, a single FPV drone can take out a tank. We’re moving more and more toward technology. There are already remotely controlled machine guns: a joystick, a camera—and you can sit there and control them remotely. “We don’t have anything like that yet, though,” Boomer notes with regret, speaking enthusiastically about the “digitization” of combat operations—something that was unimaginable just a few years ago.
So they’re fighting with these new realities in mind: setting up anti-lance nets, which are very helpful; frequently establishing new positions; and camouflaging the locations of personnel and equipment as much as possible.
Being the voice of the prisoners of war, remembering the fallen
In the war unleashed by Russia, Dmytro lost many comrades and friends. He admits that thoughts of them often keep him awake at night. Among the fallen is a close friend of his and his classmate’s, paratrooper Oleksandr Serdyukov, who was killed near Tonenkoye… Although most died in Mariupol, particularly during the breakthrough. The fate of some remains unknown to this day.
“On May 6, 2023, my comrade-in-arms and friend ‘Lemis’ and I returned from captivity. And exactly one year later, on May 6, 2024, he was killed (Sergeant Andriy Plytus had joined the regiment during the ATO; after the start of the “great” war, he returned to his comrades in Mariupol, which was already nearly surrounded, and was killed near the Serebryansky Forestry Office – “N”).
On that same day, my comrade “Hrenka” (Nazarii Hryntsevych—a defender of Azovstal who died in battle near Kreminna; he was 21 years old—“N”) was killed. I must remember them; I must tell others and my descendants about them, so that they know these names and learn of their heroic deeds.”
Many of Dmytro’s comrades-in-arms remain in captivity to this day. He is convinced that everyone should participate in protests demanding the release of the captives.
“This provides support both for the captives’ families and for the captives themselves. When they return, they’ll learn how eagerly they were awaited, that Ukrainians never forgot about them. And that will give them even more motivation to return to the ranks,” the soldier reflects. “When I was released, the ‘Free Azov’ protests were news to me, and they inspired me deeply. My mom fought for me. And this movement became like a family to me.”
While he was in rehabilitation, Dmytro also attended rallies calling for the release of prisoners of war. There, he met many people whose loved ones were in captivity, and he told them what he knew about their sons, husbands, and brothers: “so that they would have the strength to keep waiting.”
And now, whenever he’s in Kyiv during such events, he always makes sure to join them:
“It’s very important to me that my friends come back. Maybe somehow, in Russian prisons, they’ll find out that we’re waiting for them, that we’re fighting for them. I’m waiting most of all for my friend, but really for all of them. Freedom is the most important thing for a Cossack.”
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.