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“Putin’s version of Ukrainian history has left a scar on my shoulder.” Maksym Butkevych on his captivity, the show trial, and his release
Source: Grati
Author: Tetiana Kozak
In October, Maksym Butkevych, an officer in the Armed Forces of Ukraine and platoon commander of the 210th Separate Special Battalion “Berlingo,” returned from Russian captivity. A human rights activist who took up arms at the start of the full-scale invasion, he was captured along with part of his platoon in Mirna Dolyna, Luhansk Oblast, in June 2022. Russian propaganda portrayed Butkevych as the exact opposite of who he is—calling him a “propagandist,” a “Nazi,” and the “platoon commander of a punitive detachment.” Later, the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation accused him of firing a grenade launcher at a residential building in Sievierodonetsk, even though he wasn’t there at all—*Grati* found evidence of this. In 2023, on behalf of the Russian Federation, Butkevych was sentenced to 13 years in prison on fabricated charges of a war crime. At first, he confessed under pressure, but during the appeal process, he revealed this and recanted his confession. Butkevych spent two years and four months first in the dungeons of the Luhansk pretrial detention center under inhumane conditions, and then in the Krasnoluts’k penal colony. He was subjected to cruel treatment and interrogations. But he did eventually return home.
Our conversation with Maksym Butkevych takes place a week after his release, while he is still undergoing rehabilitation alongside other former prisoners of war. While in captivity, he lost more than 25 kilograms and his eyesight deteriorated.
Butkevych spoke in detail to “Gratam” about his decision to go to war, how his platoon became surrounded, Russian propaganda, survival in the Luhansk Pretrial Detention Center No. 1 and the Vakhrushevo-2 penal colony, his meeting in captivity with a UN representative, how and why the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation fabricated criminal cases against him and other Ukrainian Armed Forces soldiers, how he was forced to incriminate himself, and why he decided to speak out about it in court. And finally, about how the long-awaited prisoner exchange took place.
Part 1: The Start of the War
“I realized that I wouldn’t be able to be a human rights defender simply because there would be no human rights to defend.”
When the full-scale invasion began on February 24, 2022, I realized I needed to buy up all the drinking water in the supermarket and stock up on cigarettes. I walked out—and was grabbed by the TCC guys. Just kidding! It wasn’t like that at all.
In reality, I slept through the start of the war: I went to bed late and woke up late in the morning, so I missed the first airstrikes. Consequently, by the time I came to my senses and realized what was happening, there were urgent matters to attend to. At that point, we were caring for several refugees—women from various countries—who were in an uncertain legal status. I realized that, given the circumstances and the rapid advance of Russian troops, some of them should find a way to leave for safer regions. So, in addition to their relatives, I got in touch with them. We tried to figure out where they should go. And this effort continued over the following days. Then, toward evening, I finally got myself ready. I had an “emergency bag”—that is, a backpack I’d already packed for an emergency. I took some things out, put others in, and headed to the military registration and enlistment office. At the military registration office, I realized that I’d probably be assigned to the territorial defense forces, since I’m what they call in the army a “jacket.” I graduated from the military department at Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv; my first degree was in philosophy, but that was back in the ’90s. So, it was a very long time ago. According to my military registration specialty—to put it briefly—I’m a political officer: back then it was called one thing; now it’s called moral and psychological support. Even regarding my specialty, I hardly remember anything from what was taught at the military department.
I arrived [at the TCC] with nothing but my passport. And when asked if I had a rank, I said, “Well, I’m a lieutenant, but I don’t have the paperwork.” He said, “No, then it’s not civil defense—you go to that office over there; all officers go there.” I said, “Honestly, I’m not an officer. In what way am I an officer—in terms of knowledge, skills, or experience? I have none of that.”—“It doesn’t matter; officers go there anyway.”
I went in; there was a very tired TCC employee there, very polite. Very tired and very polite. He recorded my information and said, “Get ready; we’ll call you.” And I waited at home for a week. Well, sort of. I was actually helping those who depended on us for advice and guidance to leave; I was guiding them and trying to help get a number of other people who needed to leave out of the country.
Literally a week later… I was sleeping in the hallway, like everyone else back then. I set up a workspace for myself in the hallway—a sleeping bag and everything—a mobile hallway office. And after going to bed at six in the morning and waking up there a little later, on yet another day I was woken up by a phone call. And just from the voice I heard, the person said, “Maksym Oleksandrovych?” Still half-asleep, I replied, “Yes, sir!” And it really was “Yes, sir.” I called my parents and asked them to come pick up the cat and feed the turtle. And that was it. We said goodbye, and I went to the military registration and enlistment office. From there, they sent me to a unit that, as it turned out later, was still in the process of being formed.
As for why I decided to leave right away on the 24th, Obviously, I’d already made up my mind about this internally, because everyone was waiting for it to start. No one believed it would happen, and yet everyone was waiting for it at the same time. We joked about it—all those jokes like, “Let’s meet up after the invasion,” and things like that.
For many, many years now, one of the most important parts of my life has been advocacy—trying to help, to protect people, to defend their rights, to defend their freedoms, civil liberties, and human rights, however that may sound. And it seems to me that, after all, we’ve achieved quite a lot over the years, despite all the processes that were sometimes very painful. Compared to what we wanted to achieve, it’s not much. The scope for action at that time and since then was still enormous, and it remains so today. In fact, it has grown even larger. But there was some progress. If the Russian Federation had invaded, I understood perfectly well what that would mean.
I realized that I wouldn’t be able to be a human rights defender simply because there would be no rule of law. It doesn’t exist in that territory. And those who still do this—and they do, if they’re truly doing it—are in an area of extreme risk. These people are constantly under attack, and they’re tolerated for now because they’ve been doing this for a long time or are simply considered not harmful enough. Most often, they’re simply tolerated for now. They understand that it may just be a matter of time. But here, there simply won’t be any opportunity to do this work—there won’t be any human rights. There simply won’t be any human rights in that territory. In other words, there won’t be the activity that matters most to me, there won’t be that part of my life, there won’t be freedom—not even limited freedom. Accordingly, if I want to defend human rights in the situation that existed back then, the only option is, once again, to go and pick up a Kalashnikov. As strange as it sounds, that’s how it felt, and that’s how it was.
And that was it—I went to the military registration and enlistment office.
Part 2: Surrounded and Captured
“We’re standing there like human targets at a shooting range”
I served—that is, I was in the army for, let’s say, three and a half months. The 210th Separate Special Battalion “Berlingo” was formed while I was already there. At first, our mission was to contain and counter enemy armored vehicle breakthroughs into the city. Then we took part in the liberation of the Kyiv region. We were mainly deployed to reinforce various units. I was in the Kyiv region with my platoon, in the Irpin sector. This was a few days before they began to retreat. Accordingly, we were at the front line, then on the front line itself. We gained our first combat experience there. Fortunately, we didn’t lose anyone—not even a single casualty.
Almost the entire unit consisted of people who had volunteered. They were mobilized, just like me. We were mobilized because we came forward on our own and said, “We’re here.”
On June 14, 2022, we received orders to advance eastward.
So we set out; we received instructions on where to go next along the way, and arrived in Druzhkivka, Donetsk Oblast. After being in Druzhkivka for some time, we received combat orders, and, in accordance with them, advanced to the village of Myrna Dolyna in the Luhansk region, which is south of Lysychansk. Lysychansk was still under our control at that time. Even Severodonetsk—the city was renamed Sievierodonetsk in 2024, but Maksym still uses the old name in conversation—we spent our final days there before it was finally occupied.
I remember thinking back then that heading out to the front lines in a village called Mirna Dolyna—that’s some kind of bad omen. Well, you just can’t go to Mirna Dolyna to fight a war.
When we arrived there—I’m talking about our company—my platoon, which was part of the company, arrived… Obviously, we weren’t moving as a full company, but along the way, unfortunately, we lost a lot of equipment. Fortunately, we didn’t lose any of our men. And it wasn’t just vehicles—we also lost equipment and some of our weapons as a result of the shelling. Well, it’s how it used to be—and probably still is often—when there’s so much of everything: volunteers, among others, collect supplies, give what’s needed, and it gets sent to the front lines, gets hit by incoming fire, and burns up. It’s like Moloch, it seems to me, devouring everything it’s given. And the volunteers just keep throwing things into its maw. But how else can it be done so that it devours more of what they can gather and fewer people?
We received orders—my platoon—to move out to observation posts and monitor possible enemy movements. To make a long story short, we made it there—that is, we managed to get out in time.
We were under mortar fire in Mirna Dolyna—very heavy fire that lasted all night. Then there was a lull in the morning; that’s when we received orders to move out to the observation posts. Then the shelling resumed and continued. In other words, it was a long, drawn-out ordeal. In this situation, half the platoon went out with me, while the other half was supposed to be transported separately and brought up to join us. That never actually happened—fortunately, I suppose.
It was very hot. Let me remind you, this was near the end of June. They were supposed to deliver water and ammunition to us, and they were supposed to improve our communications as much as possible. Because we had problems with communications, though we did have some sort of connection. And then those who had led us out—the scouts—left; they were supposed to return, but they didn’t. Communication cut off very quickly—completely. We could observe, but we couldn’t report back. We ran out of water, and our physical condition was poor after the journey, and after we got out there—the terrain was quite difficult.
The next day, first of all, we observed a large number of vehicles and people entering the neighboring clearing. It took us a while to realize that these were not our vehicles or our people after all. There was a possibility that these might be our own units coming to reinforce us. Second, one of the fighters from a neighboring unit—let’s put it that way—contacted us and reported that we were surrounded, but there was still a way out. And if we followed the directions he gave us, we’d make it out.
It was tough getting out from there. We hadn’t had any water for almost a day. Nevertheless, we made it to the spot he’d indicated. He led us across an open field to a spot close to the landing zone, near the forest. Then he told us that, as it turned out, he’d been a prisoner of war since the previous day. He apologized, but said that if we didn’t lay down our weapons right then, we’d be killed. At the same time, people emerged from the landing zone to make their presence known, so to speak. I realized that we were standing there like human targets at a shooting range. We weren’t defending anything; we weren’t carrying out any mission at that moment. And any attempt to do anything—well, me and my eight guys—that was the most important thing to me—we’d stay right there. Of course, we had to lay down our weapons. That’s how we were taken prisoner.
It’s true, they were there, and it’s true, we were surrounded. It’s true that this guy, who had been in contact with us, was taken prisoner the night before. He and I were later held in a cell at the detention center. There weren’t any serious… Well, there was some mild discomfort, but he didn’t seem to feel it. And he said, “As I was told, if you call them out and lead them away, you’ll be saving their lives, because otherwise we’ll end up covering all those areas where our people aren’t right now.” And maybe that’s how it was—maybe not. I don’t know; I’m not the judge in this case. But that’s how it happened.
By the way, I was captured by the Russians. Russian units—not “LNR” ones, but Russian ones.
Part 3: Interrogations and Propaganda
“If you say ‘war,’ there will be consequences for you.”
There are many things I still don’t know, of course. I think that only those who did, organized, and carried out these things can answer for many of them. I’m referring to both the decision to open a criminal case and these propaganda campaigns.
The first video in which I was identified shows a large group of fighters who were allegedly captured in Hirsk and Zolote. That’s the same road as Mirna Dolyna—it’s not far. Hirske is not far from there to the south, and Zolote is even further south. But these are different units; it’s a different brigade, not the one we were attached to. And we weren’t taken [prisoner] in Hirsk or Zolote—we were taken in Mirna Dolyna.
The [video] was made simply by: they rounded up prisoners of war—as I understand it, those who had actually been captured in Hirsk and Zolote—and then went through the cells, gathered more prisoners, herded them all out, lined them up, and paraded them around with the claim that all of them had been captured there.
They filmed several videos in different locations. One was filmed on the way to Luhansk. So, we were taken prisoner on June 21, 2022. They put us up for the night—I don’t know where—it was some kind of transit point. At first, they transported us in an armored vehicle with our hands tied, but without blindfolding us. Then, at another location, they transferred us to covered trucks. And we could no longer see where they were taking us. Well, then came the next and final stage—they blindfolded us completely. And it was at this unknown location that they recorded the first video with me.
The next day, June 22, two people arrived who, clearly, had been doing this for a long time. Well, not that long, in any case—they seemed to know what they were doing. They had a conversation with me, without using violence. Of course, there were threats. They explained things very quickly.
They started by telling me not to use the word “war,” because there is no war—there is a “special military operation” (SVO)—that’s what the Kremlin calls it.
“You might not understand, but what is war?” It’s a declaration of war, it’s mobilization, it’s shifting the economy to a war footing. That’s war. And what’s happening now is an operation: for us, for Russia, for everyone. It’s all like that—we don’t even notice it, the country doesn’t notice it. That’s just how it is. We’ll crush you without even noticing. But if you say “war,” there will be consequences for you.
And the second thing they explained: “Do you think you’re a prisoner of war? You’re not a prisoner of war. You’ll be prisoners of war once you arrive, once you’re registered, and that’s when the Geneva Conventions will apply. That’s all there is to it. But right now, you simply don’t exist. You disappeared there and haven’t shown up anywhere yet. You might just never show up.”
Those were their words.
“If, in principle, you happen to think differently, then we can take a walk out to the backyard—there’s a pit there. And we can show you the ones who, generally speaking, thought differently—the ones in that pit. Want to go for a walk?”
I didn’t want to go for a walk.
They didn’t explain anything, but they did talk to me. One of them even wanted to argue with me about the history of the church. Then it quickly became clear that it probably wasn’t worth it. Not because I’m so smart, but because he didn’t understand why, for example, this city has been called Istanbul since 1453, while the patriarch, it turns out, is still the Patriarch of Constantinople. For him, this was a revelation.
They seemed to be genuinely interested in attitudes toward the Russian language, the size of the Russian-speaking population in Kyiv, attitudes toward Russian-language issues on the streets of Kyiv, or something else.
But yes, they gave us a political briefing; it was political propaganda. They suggested we record a video describing the circumstances of our captivity. Just like they did with everyone else, they wanted me to say that we—me and my guys, specifically—had been abandoned, that we’d been left without the bare necessities, that we’d been thrown to the enemy, that we were supposed to be killed there, but, fortunately, the Russian military spared our lives and took us prisoner.
“Say that your command—and I’m just quoting here—your command screwed you over and abandoned you.”
I refused to say that, but I didn’t argue. I understood the situation, as far as I could tell. I said that I simply couldn’t say something I didn’t know.
“Do you think they didn’t screw you over?” — “I don’t know. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. The ones who gave the order to move forward might not have known the situation themselves. They might not have had all the information about the situation.” — “You’ll have to put this all into words somehow. Can you do that?”
I said that the information we were given didn’t match reality, if I remember correctly. Because I haven’t reviewed it yet—I’m in no rush to watch those videos just yet. I said that the weapons we had weren’t suitable for the mission. Unfortunately, that was true. Both statements were true. I tried to tell them the truth, too, because I had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, even on camera.
One of them said to the other, “Look, he really was a journalist; he said what he was supposed to say, and he said what he needed to say.” Well, like, he played it off. And they agreed, recorded it, and then said that I could reach out to my family—my loved ones—to reassure them somehow. I said [on the video] that we’d see each other again—in short, so they wouldn’t worry and would look out for one another.
They asked me what I wanted to say to Zelenskyy. They really wanted me to say something to Zelenskyy. And to the other soldiers, to tell them to lay down their weapons. I said that, as an officer, I couldn’t call on them to lay down their weapons. They took it calmly. I also said [in the video] that they weren’t beating us. In fact, they didn’t beat us.
When we were taken prisoner, they gave us water right away at our request, and they let us smoke. Of course, they took everything of value we had: some people’s headphones, some people’s watches. They took a few more things along the way. They took everything bit by bit, but they didn’t beat us. And as for Zelenskyy, I told him I had nothing to say. Well, what was there to say, really? He’s the Supreme Commander-in-Chief; I’m an officer in the Armed Forces of Ukraine. That’s it. What would I say to him? I was taken prisoner; I just said that. Everything was fine.
“If someone stumbled over their words—one blow; if someone mixed up two words—two blows.”
They beat me a few hours later at that very same location. Only different people this time. That was the only beating. I can only guess, but I think it was to show all of us who were prisoners there at that moment… There was me, my eight guys, a few more guys from our company—not from our platoon—who had joined us at an intermediate checkpoint and who had also been captured at other locations in the area. And a couple more people. All in all, there were maybe 13 of us. [They wanted] to show everyone that they could do whatever they wanted to us—that, in fact, was, I think, the primary goal. That is, to intimidate everyone, to show what would happen if we didn’t do what we were told—silently, quickly, and without asking questions.
Second, I think it was a form of political indoctrination, because the pretext was political and ideological. Third—because I was the only officer and the commander. Fourth—I think it’s because the person who did this personally didn’t like me and found me annoying. He was wearing a balaclava. He was also an officer in the Russian Armed Forces who was trying to show us… Well, he was carrying out this operation with us, trying to demonstrate—among other things—his complete control over the situation. And it also seems to me that he took pleasure in it. By the way, he was one of the few people I dealt with who gave me the impression that he actually enjoyed the process itself.
He made quite a few threats from the moment he arrived at the location. We were on a concrete floor, sleeping there as best we could, and whenever he came in, we had to kneel with our hands tied behind our backs or simply clasped behind our backs. And at some point, he would intimidate us and verbally humiliate us. He would talk to married men, asking where their wives were at the moment (they were mostly abroad)—and he would start describing, in very sexually deviant terms, what local men in those countries were doing to their wives right now, in great detail. In short, he clearly had some issues.
Then he walked in and asked who knew the history of Ukraine. Everyone, having already figured out who they were dealing with, naturally remained silent. And he said that since that was the case, we would study it. He took out his cell phone, opened Putin’s address to the Russian people on it—the part concerning Ukrainian history, which begins: “Ukraine first became part of Russia as three regions: Kyiv, Chernihiv, and Zhytomyr,” — and said that he would read excerpts aloud and point to whoever could repeat them word for word. If a person made a mistake, mixed up the words, or hesitated, I’d get beaten up. Me, specifically—for any one of them. He picked up a wooden stick, and sure enough, as soon as the first person stumbled, I got hit on the shoulder—two blows, then one more.
The guys—I could tell—were really nervous because it was obvious they wanted to protect me from this. I’m very grateful to them for that. But, of course, if someone stumbled—one blow; if someone mixed up two words—two blows. I don’t know how many blows there were. Then he just started beating me. At first he started asking some nonsensical questions, then he just beat me, saying with every blow, “Isn’t that better? Isn’t that better?” I said, “It’s not better!” He said, “Ah, it’s not better!” And he kept [hitting me]. I said, “It’s better!”—“Ah, is it better for you?” Only his eyes were visible. It seemed to me that he had simply worked himself up to a certain point. I, accordingly, began to lose consciousness, but fortunately didn’t pass out, because I think he would have then turned his attention to someone else—I was very afraid of that.
So I think the goal was intimidation—both ideological and psychological—and to show us that they could do absolutely anything to us if we put up any resistance there, even just mental resistance, which was actually true. They really could have done anything to us in that regard. He continued a little bit more out on the street afterward, but then things were fine.
In short, Putin’s version of Ukrainian history has been etched onto me in the form of a scar on my shoulder for the rest of my life. Now the Russian occupiers’ propaganda version of Ukrainian history is etched into my skin. Which, I think, is quite a beautiful metaphor, though not a very pleasant procedure. To put it mildly.
This happened on the road to Luhansk. Right after that, immediately after that, while the procedure was still being completed, they pulled us up from our knees, made us face the wall, tied our hands behind our backs, blindfolded us very professionally, loaded us into a car, and we drove to Luhansk.
“Then it became clear that the Geneva Conventions exist, but they don’t apply.”
They drove us to Luhansk.
We didn’t know where we were going; we couldn’t see anything. So, when they finally threw us into some kind of room with a concrete floor and those same kinds of walls, removed one of our blindfolds, cut the rope binding our hands, allowed us to take off our blindfolds, and told us to do the same for the others, we realized we were in some kind of cell. We didn’t know where we were. And only later, after a personal search—that is, a body search—and filling out some forms, or maybe the forms came later, it doesn’t matter… In short, when they threw us into a cell with 22-berth bunk beds, we still didn’t know where we were. Then they brought us mattresses—nothing else, just mattresses. And terry towels. Some of them had a stamp that read “Luhansk Pretrial Detention Center No. 1.” And that’s when we realized we were in Luhansk.
I spent about 3.5 weeks in that cell in Luhansk with the guys. I spent a year and two months in this detention center, in various cells, before being transferred to a penal colony. This was after the conviction and the appeals court.
To fast-forward a bit, many prisoners of war were transported from the detention center to penal colonies. We had absolutely no idea what our fate would be or what awaited us. Whether there were prisoner-of-war camps, where they were, or what they looked like—we knew nothing about any of that. We just knew that there seemed to be some kind of camps. Then we realized that, apparently, there weren’t any. And the Geneva Conventions—international multilateral agreements in the field of the laws and customs of war, aimed at protecting victims of armed conflicts. Signed on August 12, 1949, at the UN Diplomatic Conference held in Geneva… We already knew that the Geneva Conventions weren’t exactly popular in this war, in particular. Then it became clear that they exist, but they don’t.
The cells in the pretrial detention center where prisoners of war are held are cut off from information, unlike the regular cells where ordinary defendants accused of criminal offenses are held. So, little by little, as I was transferred from one cell to another and then to yet another, I discovered more and more dimensions of this world inside the detention center.
Many were taken to penal colonies where prisoners of war were held. Later, those who were to be sentenced were brought back. I didn’t know any of this; I remained at the detention center.
We were all interrogated during the first week or week and a half. These included official interrogations recorded in the minutes, unofficial interrogations by unknown individuals, and interrogations at the so-called MGB—“Ministry of State Security” of the “LPR.” They took us there; some were pulled out again, and once more, unknown people questioned them. I was probably taken out a little more often than the others. I don’t know how many times.
At the MGB, though, I only had one interrogation. And it was fairly calm compared to the experiences of the other guys. They didn’t beat me. At the MGB, for those who weren’t so lucky, who ended up there… There’s one infamous investigator there. He was known only by the nickname they gave him—Boxer. He didn’t shy away from physical violence. I was lucky in that regard. I was threatened. Yes, of course, it never goes without that. They showed me the “tapik” and explained how it works, even though I already knew how it worked.
By that point, I already knew that some guys had been taken away and brought back after being subjected to the “tapik.” The “tapik” is a military field telephone. It has a dynamo. Basically, to make a call, you have to turn the crank, and you can use that dynamo by attaching it to a person’s ears, genitals, and so on, to electrocute them.
The “tapik,” as it later became clear, was—at least in the “LPR,” and certainly in some security agencies—apparently the most popular tool for investigating just about anything.
Then, on my birthday, July 16, there was another interrogation; this time there were two people present. I had seen both of them during previous interrogations, though I don’t know which agencies they were from. This time, they were playing the “good cop, bad cop” game. And the one playing the “bad cop” ended the interrogation by saying that I would definitely be imprisoned because I was a war criminal. I said that, in fact, I hadn’t committed any crimes and didn’t know what he was talking about. He said that wasn’t a problem, because everyone who fights against them is a war criminal. All of us.
This happened right after I refused to give an interview about everything they wanted: about Nazis in Ukraine from their perspective, and about the activities of certain well-known international foundations that are eroding traditional values from within—which are actually a cover for espionage and “creeping imperialism.”
The question was: “Do you want to give an interview?” Just an interview with a well-known international media outlet, a very reputable one, like the BBC—only not the BBC. I said, “That’s interesting—which one?” “Do you want to?” I said: “Do you mean, in the sense of whether I have the desire to do it? I have no desire to do so. Or do you mean, in the sense of whether I’ll agree to it? No.”
I said that, of course, they could force me to do it—I understand that perfectly well. And I’ll only talk about what I know. That’s probably not what they need. They laid out the agenda of what I’m supposed to say. I told them I wouldn’t do that. I understand they can force me. And I understand that if they do, I’ll say what they want me to say. But they also understand that it will be obvious that it’s all forced.
And that somehow made him angry. Whether he was just playing a role, I don’t know. He said they’d put me in jail, and so on. It was pretty rough back then; they didn’t beat me, but there are other ways to use physical force. You can force a person to do squats until they start falling, while holding something in their hands or on their arms, pull something, do push-ups, stand on one and a half legs—that is, squat as if on a little chair—in mid-air—that is, make them do all sorts of things. You don’t touch the person, but at some point they might just pass out. Especially in the heat—and it was hot back then. It was the sweltering summer of 2022.
They transferred me to another cell. The next day, they summoned me again. And there was a very tough conversation with one of the detention center staff members, who explained to me in plain language what they could do to me. It was clear that he knew his stuff. Later, I found out more about him—he really does know his stuff.
And he practically told me, “You know why I haven’t beaten you up yet? Because on Sunday people are still in church, and that’s a sin.”
And it seemed like he was saying this very seriously. He ended the conversation. He found out—or pretended to find out—that it had been my birthday yesterday, and he softened a bit. He could see that I wasn’t aggressive and was behaving calmly. He said, “Very important people will be arriving soon, and they’ll be asking important questions, and you’ll answer them properly—otherwise, we’ll come back to this conversation.”
There was a separate interrogation by an unknown person in uniform—a uniform without insignia or rank stripes. It seemed as though this person had come specifically to question me about my attitude toward the events in Kazakhstan, my participation in a solidarity rally for those affected by the events in Kazakhstan, about Belarus, about support and assistance for refugees from Belarus, and who had funded these activities. They knew—that is, I didn’t hide the fact that I worked with refugees, because they asked what kind of work I did. I didn’t mention any countries or anything else. But they said right away, “We’re going to look into everything about you.” Well, they did find out a lot about me; they knew a lot about me.
That, by the way, was one of the problems: you never know exactly what they know about you. And most importantly, I suppose, is how they interpret what they know. Again, I had nothing to hide, so that separate interrogation came to nothing. I explained the facts: that this was human rights advocacy, that it was public, that there was nothing secret about it, and that all donor organizations—including international ones—that supported various projects usually insist that their name appear on all project materials and that it be stated that they support the project—so there’s no secret here, please.
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Part 4: The Criminal Case
“I said there shouldn’t be any dead bodies in this case”
On August 13, they summoned me: they took me out of my cell and led me to where the interrogations were being conducted; there was a separate, small corridor on one of the floors. And there they suddenly dragged me in—well, just to shock me a little—dragged me into an office, immediately slammed my face into the desk, hands behind my back, in a stressful position in which I sat for about the next four hours.
It was very hot, and they didn’t give me any water. There were about five people there, I think. Most of them were wearing balaclavas; one was wearing a bandana. I caught a glimpse of that as they were dragging me in; after that, of course, I couldn’t see anything or anyone.
They questioned me about everything under the sun—what I’d been doing on the Maidan, and everything I’d done after the Maidan. “Here’s a clock for you.” So there I am, lying face-down [on the table], and in front of me—so that I could see it—they’d placed a watch, set to about seven minutes to two; when the hand reaches here—that is, at five—‘During this time, while it’s ticking, you’re going to tell these distinguished gentlemen everything you’ve done, starting with Maidan. If you don’t tell them, you’ll get beaten up again.”
It was clear that this was all meant to create stress, because I was, of course, telling them what I’d been doing after Maidan. It was clear that they weren’t listening to me. But I could tell that if I paused, I’d get a blow to the back of the head or a kick, or something else. Blows to the back of the head—the kind meant not to break anything, but to be felt, mostly to the head.
Once they told me to raise my hands above my head and handed me a baton—an electroshock baton, as I later realized—the handle. In short, a heavy object. And I saw someone putting on a tactical glove. I was hit very hard in the liver. It was a very strong blow. Because when you raise your arm, your ribs rise up and block… It turns out to be extremely painful.
So there I was, sitting on a chair, legs like this, arms like this. Like that for four hours, even though it was hot. They didn’t give me any water or anything. I asked for water—they wouldn’t give me any. They said, “We forgot to buy water on the way.” I said, “What about from the tap?”—“No, we don’t have any; they didn’t give us any glasses to pour it into. What a shame. [Turning to another guard] By the way, are you going to drink?” — [The other replies] “I will.” Gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp. So it was all just some kind of sadistic game.
There were comments—including after that blow—that were also of a perverted nature, whispered in my ear. If you started crying right then, well, that’s when those prison-style sexual fantasies would kick in. They were explaining right in front of me who had anally raped whom yesterday with a stun gun in this very office. And not directly to me, but among themselves, so that I could hear, they explained exactly when they would do that to me if I continued to behave that way. In short, there were direct threats about what they would do to me.
There was a suggestion to finally put an end to all this and take me to a secluded spot in the courtyard. He’d let me smoke and call my family. And actually, I might as well leave this world now, since he’d beat me to death right there. Haven’t I lived long enough already?
“Well, how old are you? 45? Maybe that’s enough for you? How much longer do you want to live?” — “I’d still like to.” — “Why? What for? It seems to me you shouldn’t be living anymore. Well, let’s go”—“No. For us Christians,” I say, “it’s not proper to wish for death”—“Well, why not? After all, paradise is already opening up for you there.” When I said I was a Christian, he said, “You’re a Christian, but we’re not. What do we care about your Christianity?” That’s just how it was.
Some of them saw it as entertainment; others didn’t. Some, obviously, treated it as a job. But there was no serious beating. It was a stressful situation, with a few hard blows, and the rest was just to make my prospects clear.
During the process—already in the second part of all this—they laid out my options for me, explaining that I had three choices: I could confess to the crime, sign what they gave me without reading it—which would be a confession to the crime—and everything would be fine. They wouldn’t bother me anymore, and then they’d release me. Maybe I’d serve a little time, but basically, they’d sentence me just to let me go.
The second option: I refuse to agree. And he goes on to offer two more options: either they’ll take me to the crime scene for a reenactment, and then I’ll be killed while trying to escape. This wasn’t the “take you out to the courtyard and shoot you” proposal, which was an obvious bluff—though I certainly didn’t want to test it, it still sounded like a bluff. But this scenario was much more plausible: that they’d kill me. Or, more likely, they wouldn’t even bother with all that—they’d just leave me sitting here, but I could forget about a prisoner exchange until the end of the war. I’d be sitting in conditions so terrible that I’d regret ever being born. It would be so painful in every sense and so awful that, in short, I wouldn’t come out of here unscathed in any way. Or I’ll sign.
And do I understand that, once again, none of those who care about me know where I am or how I’m doing, that no one will stand up for me, that no one has access to me except them, so they can do whatever they want with me. And as for that last point, I knew it was true.
It’s not that no one cares about me—I don’t believe that. I’ve always known that people are fighting for me. From the very first day I was taken captive. I understood that there was a delay of a few days before the information would reach them. I understood that they might not know where I was. Although, perhaps, they already had an idea by that point, I thought to myself. But I had no doubt that they could do whatever they wanted to me. They tried to demonstrate this to me through their entire demeanor. And that’s exactly how it was.
Consequently, I was presented with this choice. Actually, that’s how I found out they were going to open a criminal case.
Part of this group left; two remained. They printed out the report, then realized something was wrong, because the scene of the incident was Severodonetsk, but I was in
Author: Tetiana Kozak
In October, Maksym Butkevych, an officer in the Armed Forces of Ukraine and platoon commander of the 210th Separate Special Battalion “Berlingo,” returned from Russian captivity. A human rights activist who took up arms at the start of the full-scale invasion, he was captured along with part of his platoon in Mirna Dolyna, Luhansk Oblast, in June 2022. Russian propaganda portrayed Butkevych as the exact opposite of who he is—calling him a “propagandist,” a “Nazi,” and the “platoon commander of a punitive detachment.” Later, the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation accused him of firing a grenade launcher at a residential building in Sievierodonetsk, even though he wasn’t there at all—*Grati* found evidence of this. In 2023, on behalf of the Russian Federation, Butkevych was sentenced to 13 years in prison on fabricated charges of a war crime. At first, he confessed under pressure, but during the appeal process, he revealed this and recanted his confession. Butkevych spent two years and four months first in the dungeons of the Luhansk pretrial detention center under inhumane conditions, and then in the Krasnoluts’k penal colony. He was subjected to cruel treatment and interrogations. But he did eventually return home.
Our conversation with Maksym Butkevych takes place a week after his release, while he is still undergoing rehabilitation alongside other former prisoners of war. While in captivity, he lost more than 25 kilograms and his eyesight deteriorated.
Butkevych spoke in detail to “Gratam” about his decision to go to war, how his platoon became surrounded, Russian propaganda, survival in the Luhansk Pretrial Detention Center No. 1 and the Vakhrushevo-2 penal colony, his meeting in captivity with a UN representative, how and why the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation fabricated criminal cases against him and other Ukrainian Armed Forces soldiers, how he was forced to incriminate himself, and why he decided to speak out about it in court. And finally, about how the long-awaited prisoner exchange took place.
Part 1: The Start of the War
“I realized that I wouldn’t be able to be a human rights defender simply because there would be no human rights to defend.”
When the full-scale invasion began on February 24, 2022, I realized I needed to buy up all the drinking water in the supermarket and stock up on cigarettes. I walked out—and was grabbed by the TCC guys. Just kidding! It wasn’t like that at all.
In reality, I slept through the start of the war: I went to bed late and woke up late in the morning, so I missed the first airstrikes. Consequently, by the time I came to my senses and realized what was happening, there were urgent matters to attend to. At that point, we were caring for several refugees—women from various countries—who were in an uncertain legal status. I realized that, given the circumstances and the rapid advance of Russian troops, some of them should find a way to leave for safer regions. So, in addition to their relatives, I got in touch with them. We tried to figure out where they should go. And this effort continued over the following days. Then, toward evening, I finally got myself ready. I had an “emergency bag”—that is, a backpack I’d already packed for an emergency. I took some things out, put others in, and headed to the military registration and enlistment office. At the military registration office, I realized that I’d probably be assigned to the territorial defense forces, since I’m what they call in the army a “jacket.” I graduated from the military department at Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv; my first degree was in philosophy, but that was back in the ’90s. So, it was a very long time ago. According to my military registration specialty—to put it briefly—I’m a political officer: back then it was called one thing; now it’s called moral and psychological support. Even regarding my specialty, I hardly remember anything from what was taught at the military department.
I arrived [at the TCC] with nothing but my passport. And when asked if I had a rank, I said, “Well, I’m a lieutenant, but I don’t have the paperwork.” He said, “No, then it’s not civil defense—you go to that office over there; all officers go there.” I said, “Honestly, I’m not an officer. In what way am I an officer—in terms of knowledge, skills, or experience? I have none of that.”—“It doesn’t matter; officers go there anyway.”
I went in; there was a very tired TCC employee there, very polite. Very tired and very polite. He recorded my information and said, “Get ready; we’ll call you.” And I waited at home for a week. Well, sort of. I was actually helping those who depended on us for advice and guidance to leave; I was guiding them and trying to help get a number of other people who needed to leave out of the country.
Literally a week later… I was sleeping in the hallway, like everyone else back then. I set up a workspace for myself in the hallway—a sleeping bag and everything—a mobile hallway office. And after going to bed at six in the morning and waking up there a little later, on yet another day I was woken up by a phone call. And just from the voice I heard, the person said, “Maksym Oleksandrovych?” Still half-asleep, I replied, “Yes, sir!” And it really was “Yes, sir.” I called my parents and asked them to come pick up the cat and feed the turtle. And that was it. We said goodbye, and I went to the military registration and enlistment office. From there, they sent me to a unit that, as it turned out later, was still in the process of being formed.
As for why I decided to leave right away on the 24th, Obviously, I’d already made up my mind about this internally, because everyone was waiting for it to start. No one believed it would happen, and yet everyone was waiting for it at the same time. We joked about it—all those jokes like, “Let’s meet up after the invasion,” and things like that.
For many, many years now, one of the most important parts of my life has been advocacy—trying to help, to protect people, to defend their rights, to defend their freedoms, civil liberties, and human rights, however that may sound. And it seems to me that, after all, we’ve achieved quite a lot over the years, despite all the processes that were sometimes very painful. Compared to what we wanted to achieve, it’s not much. The scope for action at that time and since then was still enormous, and it remains so today. In fact, it has grown even larger. But there was some progress. If the Russian Federation had invaded, I understood perfectly well what that would mean.
I realized that I wouldn’t be able to be a human rights defender simply because there would be no rule of law. It doesn’t exist in that territory. And those who still do this—and they do, if they’re truly doing it—are in an area of extreme risk. These people are constantly under attack, and they’re tolerated for now because they’ve been doing this for a long time or are simply considered not harmful enough. Most often, they’re simply tolerated for now. They understand that it may just be a matter of time. But here, there simply won’t be any opportunity to do this work—there won’t be any human rights. There simply won’t be any human rights in that territory. In other words, there won’t be the activity that matters most to me, there won’t be that part of my life, there won’t be freedom—not even limited freedom. Accordingly, if I want to defend human rights in the situation that existed back then, the only option is, once again, to go and pick up a Kalashnikov. As strange as it sounds, that’s how it felt, and that’s how it was.
And that was it—I went to the military registration and enlistment office.
Part 2: Surrounded and Captured
“We’re standing there like human targets at a shooting range”
I served—that is, I was in the army for, let’s say, three and a half months. The 210th Separate Special Battalion “Berlingo” was formed while I was already there. At first, our mission was to contain and counter enemy armored vehicle breakthroughs into the city. Then we took part in the liberation of the Kyiv region. We were mainly deployed to reinforce various units. I was in the Kyiv region with my platoon, in the Irpin sector. This was a few days before they began to retreat. Accordingly, we were at the front line, then on the front line itself. We gained our first combat experience there. Fortunately, we didn’t lose anyone—not even a single casualty.
Almost the entire unit consisted of people who had volunteered. They were mobilized, just like me. We were mobilized because we came forward on our own and said, “We’re here.”
On June 14, 2022, we received orders to advance eastward.
So we set out; we received instructions on where to go next along the way, and arrived in Druzhkivka, Donetsk Oblast. After being in Druzhkivka for some time, we received combat orders, and, in accordance with them, advanced to the village of Myrna Dolyna in the Luhansk region, which is south of Lysychansk. Lysychansk was still under our control at that time. Even Severodonetsk—the city was renamed Sievierodonetsk in 2024, but Maksym still uses the old name in conversation—we spent our final days there before it was finally occupied.
I remember thinking back then that heading out to the front lines in a village called Mirna Dolyna—that’s some kind of bad omen. Well, you just can’t go to Mirna Dolyna to fight a war.
When we arrived there—I’m talking about our company—my platoon, which was part of the company, arrived… Obviously, we weren’t moving as a full company, but along the way, unfortunately, we lost a lot of equipment. Fortunately, we didn’t lose any of our men. And it wasn’t just vehicles—we also lost equipment and some of our weapons as a result of the shelling. Well, it’s how it used to be—and probably still is often—when there’s so much of everything: volunteers, among others, collect supplies, give what’s needed, and it gets sent to the front lines, gets hit by incoming fire, and burns up. It’s like Moloch, it seems to me, devouring everything it’s given. And the volunteers just keep throwing things into its maw. But how else can it be done so that it devours more of what they can gather and fewer people?
We received orders—my platoon—to move out to observation posts and monitor possible enemy movements. To make a long story short, we made it there—that is, we managed to get out in time.
We were under mortar fire in Mirna Dolyna—very heavy fire that lasted all night. Then there was a lull in the morning; that’s when we received orders to move out to the observation posts. Then the shelling resumed and continued. In other words, it was a long, drawn-out ordeal. In this situation, half the platoon went out with me, while the other half was supposed to be transported separately and brought up to join us. That never actually happened—fortunately, I suppose.
It was very hot. Let me remind you, this was near the end of June. They were supposed to deliver water and ammunition to us, and they were supposed to improve our communications as much as possible. Because we had problems with communications, though we did have some sort of connection. And then those who had led us out—the scouts—left; they were supposed to return, but they didn’t. Communication cut off very quickly—completely. We could observe, but we couldn’t report back. We ran out of water, and our physical condition was poor after the journey, and after we got out there—the terrain was quite difficult.
The next day, first of all, we observed a large number of vehicles and people entering the neighboring clearing. It took us a while to realize that these were not our vehicles or our people after all. There was a possibility that these might be our own units coming to reinforce us. Second, one of the fighters from a neighboring unit—let’s put it that way—contacted us and reported that we were surrounded, but there was still a way out. And if we followed the directions he gave us, we’d make it out.
It was tough getting out from there. We hadn’t had any water for almost a day. Nevertheless, we made it to the spot he’d indicated. He led us across an open field to a spot close to the landing zone, near the forest. Then he told us that, as it turned out, he’d been a prisoner of war since the previous day. He apologized, but said that if we didn’t lay down our weapons right then, we’d be killed. At the same time, people emerged from the landing zone to make their presence known, so to speak. I realized that we were standing there like human targets at a shooting range. We weren’t defending anything; we weren’t carrying out any mission at that moment. And any attempt to do anything—well, me and my eight guys—that was the most important thing to me—we’d stay right there. Of course, we had to lay down our weapons. That’s how we were taken prisoner.
It’s true, they were there, and it’s true, we were surrounded. It’s true that this guy, who had been in contact with us, was taken prisoner the night before. He and I were later held in a cell at the detention center. There weren’t any serious… Well, there was some mild discomfort, but he didn’t seem to feel it. And he said, “As I was told, if you call them out and lead them away, you’ll be saving their lives, because otherwise we’ll end up covering all those areas where our people aren’t right now.” And maybe that’s how it was—maybe not. I don’t know; I’m not the judge in this case. But that’s how it happened.
By the way, I was captured by the Russians. Russian units—not “LNR” ones, but Russian ones.
Part 3: Interrogations and Propaganda
“If you say ‘war,’ there will be consequences for you.”
There are many things I still don’t know, of course. I think that only those who did, organized, and carried out these things can answer for many of them. I’m referring to both the decision to open a criminal case and these propaganda campaigns.
The first video in which I was identified shows a large group of fighters who were allegedly captured in Hirsk and Zolote. That’s the same road as Mirna Dolyna—it’s not far. Hirske is not far from there to the south, and Zolote is even further south. But these are different units; it’s a different brigade, not the one we were attached to. And we weren’t taken [prisoner] in Hirsk or Zolote—we were taken in Mirna Dolyna.
The [video] was made simply by: they rounded up prisoners of war—as I understand it, those who had actually been captured in Hirsk and Zolote—and then went through the cells, gathered more prisoners, herded them all out, lined them up, and paraded them around with the claim that all of them had been captured there.
They filmed several videos in different locations. One was filmed on the way to Luhansk. So, we were taken prisoner on June 21, 2022. They put us up for the night—I don’t know where—it was some kind of transit point. At first, they transported us in an armored vehicle with our hands tied, but without blindfolding us. Then, at another location, they transferred us to covered trucks. And we could no longer see where they were taking us. Well, then came the next and final stage—they blindfolded us completely. And it was at this unknown location that they recorded the first video with me.
The next day, June 22, two people arrived who, clearly, had been doing this for a long time. Well, not that long, in any case—they seemed to know what they were doing. They had a conversation with me, without using violence. Of course, there were threats. They explained things very quickly.
They started by telling me not to use the word “war,” because there is no war—there is a “special military operation” (SVO)—that’s what the Kremlin calls it.
“You might not understand, but what is war?” It’s a declaration of war, it’s mobilization, it’s shifting the economy to a war footing. That’s war. And what’s happening now is an operation: for us, for Russia, for everyone. It’s all like that—we don’t even notice it, the country doesn’t notice it. That’s just how it is. We’ll crush you without even noticing. But if you say “war,” there will be consequences for you.
And the second thing they explained: “Do you think you’re a prisoner of war? You’re not a prisoner of war. You’ll be prisoners of war once you arrive, once you’re registered, and that’s when the Geneva Conventions will apply. That’s all there is to it. But right now, you simply don’t exist. You disappeared there and haven’t shown up anywhere yet. You might just never show up.”
Those were their words.
“If, in principle, you happen to think differently, then we can take a walk out to the backyard—there’s a pit there. And we can show you the ones who, generally speaking, thought differently—the ones in that pit. Want to go for a walk?”
I didn’t want to go for a walk.
They didn’t explain anything, but they did talk to me. One of them even wanted to argue with me about the history of the church. Then it quickly became clear that it probably wasn’t worth it. Not because I’m so smart, but because he didn’t understand why, for example, this city has been called Istanbul since 1453, while the patriarch, it turns out, is still the Patriarch of Constantinople. For him, this was a revelation.
They seemed to be genuinely interested in attitudes toward the Russian language, the size of the Russian-speaking population in Kyiv, attitudes toward Russian-language issues on the streets of Kyiv, or something else.
But yes, they gave us a political briefing; it was political propaganda. They suggested we record a video describing the circumstances of our captivity. Just like they did with everyone else, they wanted me to say that we—me and my guys, specifically—had been abandoned, that we’d been left without the bare necessities, that we’d been thrown to the enemy, that we were supposed to be killed there, but, fortunately, the Russian military spared our lives and took us prisoner.
“Say that your command—and I’m just quoting here—your command screwed you over and abandoned you.”
I refused to say that, but I didn’t argue. I understood the situation, as far as I could tell. I said that I simply couldn’t say something I didn’t know.
“Do you think they didn’t screw you over?” — “I don’t know. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. The ones who gave the order to move forward might not have known the situation themselves. They might not have had all the information about the situation.” — “You’ll have to put this all into words somehow. Can you do that?”
I said that the information we were given didn’t match reality, if I remember correctly. Because I haven’t reviewed it yet—I’m in no rush to watch those videos just yet. I said that the weapons we had weren’t suitable for the mission. Unfortunately, that was true. Both statements were true. I tried to tell them the truth, too, because I had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, even on camera.
One of them said to the other, “Look, he really was a journalist; he said what he was supposed to say, and he said what he needed to say.” Well, like, he played it off. And they agreed, recorded it, and then said that I could reach out to my family—my loved ones—to reassure them somehow. I said [on the video] that we’d see each other again—in short, so they wouldn’t worry and would look out for one another.
They asked me what I wanted to say to Zelenskyy. They really wanted me to say something to Zelenskyy. And to the other soldiers, to tell them to lay down their weapons. I said that, as an officer, I couldn’t call on them to lay down their weapons. They took it calmly. I also said [in the video] that they weren’t beating us. In fact, they didn’t beat us.
When we were taken prisoner, they gave us water right away at our request, and they let us smoke. Of course, they took everything of value we had: some people’s headphones, some people’s watches. They took a few more things along the way. They took everything bit by bit, but they didn’t beat us. And as for Zelenskyy, I told him I had nothing to say. Well, what was there to say, really? He’s the Supreme Commander-in-Chief; I’m an officer in the Armed Forces of Ukraine. That’s it. What would I say to him? I was taken prisoner; I just said that. Everything was fine.
“If someone stumbled over their words—one blow; if someone mixed up two words—two blows.”
They beat me a few hours later at that very same location. Only different people this time. That was the only beating. I can only guess, but I think it was to show all of us who were prisoners there at that moment… There was me, my eight guys, a few more guys from our company—not from our platoon—who had joined us at an intermediate checkpoint and who had also been captured at other locations in the area. And a couple more people. All in all, there were maybe 13 of us. [They wanted] to show everyone that they could do whatever they wanted to us—that, in fact, was, I think, the primary goal. That is, to intimidate everyone, to show what would happen if we didn’t do what we were told—silently, quickly, and without asking questions.
Second, I think it was a form of political indoctrination, because the pretext was political and ideological. Third—because I was the only officer and the commander. Fourth—I think it’s because the person who did this personally didn’t like me and found me annoying. He was wearing a balaclava. He was also an officer in the Russian Armed Forces who was trying to show us… Well, he was carrying out this operation with us, trying to demonstrate—among other things—his complete control over the situation. And it also seems to me that he took pleasure in it. By the way, he was one of the few people I dealt with who gave me the impression that he actually enjoyed the process itself.
He made quite a few threats from the moment he arrived at the location. We were on a concrete floor, sleeping there as best we could, and whenever he came in, we had to kneel with our hands tied behind our backs or simply clasped behind our backs. And at some point, he would intimidate us and verbally humiliate us. He would talk to married men, asking where their wives were at the moment (they were mostly abroad)—and he would start describing, in very sexually deviant terms, what local men in those countries were doing to their wives right now, in great detail. In short, he clearly had some issues.
Then he walked in and asked who knew the history of Ukraine. Everyone, having already figured out who they were dealing with, naturally remained silent. And he said that since that was the case, we would study it. He took out his cell phone, opened Putin’s address to the Russian people on it—the part concerning Ukrainian history, which begins: “Ukraine first became part of Russia as three regions: Kyiv, Chernihiv, and Zhytomyr,” — and said that he would read excerpts aloud and point to whoever could repeat them word for word. If a person made a mistake, mixed up the words, or hesitated, I’d get beaten up. Me, specifically—for any one of them. He picked up a wooden stick, and sure enough, as soon as the first person stumbled, I got hit on the shoulder—two blows, then one more.
The guys—I could tell—were really nervous because it was obvious they wanted to protect me from this. I’m very grateful to them for that. But, of course, if someone stumbled—one blow; if someone mixed up two words—two blows. I don’t know how many blows there were. Then he just started beating me. At first he started asking some nonsensical questions, then he just beat me, saying with every blow, “Isn’t that better? Isn’t that better?” I said, “It’s not better!” He said, “Ah, it’s not better!” And he kept [hitting me]. I said, “It’s better!”—“Ah, is it better for you?” Only his eyes were visible. It seemed to me that he had simply worked himself up to a certain point. I, accordingly, began to lose consciousness, but fortunately didn’t pass out, because I think he would have then turned his attention to someone else—I was very afraid of that.
So I think the goal was intimidation—both ideological and psychological—and to show us that they could do absolutely anything to us if we put up any resistance there, even just mental resistance, which was actually true. They really could have done anything to us in that regard. He continued a little bit more out on the street afterward, but then things were fine.
In short, Putin’s version of Ukrainian history has been etched onto me in the form of a scar on my shoulder for the rest of my life. Now the Russian occupiers’ propaganda version of Ukrainian history is etched into my skin. Which, I think, is quite a beautiful metaphor, though not a very pleasant procedure. To put it mildly.
This happened on the road to Luhansk. Right after that, immediately after that, while the procedure was still being completed, they pulled us up from our knees, made us face the wall, tied our hands behind our backs, blindfolded us very professionally, loaded us into a car, and we drove to Luhansk.
“Then it became clear that the Geneva Conventions exist, but they don’t apply.”
They drove us to Luhansk.
We didn’t know where we were going; we couldn’t see anything. So, when they finally threw us into some kind of room with a concrete floor and those same kinds of walls, removed one of our blindfolds, cut the rope binding our hands, allowed us to take off our blindfolds, and told us to do the same for the others, we realized we were in some kind of cell. We didn’t know where we were. And only later, after a personal search—that is, a body search—and filling out some forms, or maybe the forms came later, it doesn’t matter… In short, when they threw us into a cell with 22-berth bunk beds, we still didn’t know where we were. Then they brought us mattresses—nothing else, just mattresses. And terry towels. Some of them had a stamp that read “Luhansk Pretrial Detention Center No. 1.” And that’s when we realized we were in Luhansk.
I spent about 3.5 weeks in that cell in Luhansk with the guys. I spent a year and two months in this detention center, in various cells, before being transferred to a penal colony. This was after the conviction and the appeals court.
To fast-forward a bit, many prisoners of war were transported from the detention center to penal colonies. We had absolutely no idea what our fate would be or what awaited us. Whether there were prisoner-of-war camps, where they were, or what they looked like—we knew nothing about any of that. We just knew that there seemed to be some kind of camps. Then we realized that, apparently, there weren’t any. And the Geneva Conventions—international multilateral agreements in the field of the laws and customs of war, aimed at protecting victims of armed conflicts. Signed on August 12, 1949, at the UN Diplomatic Conference held in Geneva… We already knew that the Geneva Conventions weren’t exactly popular in this war, in particular. Then it became clear that they exist, but they don’t.
The cells in the pretrial detention center where prisoners of war are held are cut off from information, unlike the regular cells where ordinary defendants accused of criminal offenses are held. So, little by little, as I was transferred from one cell to another and then to yet another, I discovered more and more dimensions of this world inside the detention center.
Many were taken to penal colonies where prisoners of war were held. Later, those who were to be sentenced were brought back. I didn’t know any of this; I remained at the detention center.
We were all interrogated during the first week or week and a half. These included official interrogations recorded in the minutes, unofficial interrogations by unknown individuals, and interrogations at the so-called MGB—“Ministry of State Security” of the “LPR.” They took us there; some were pulled out again, and once more, unknown people questioned them. I was probably taken out a little more often than the others. I don’t know how many times.
At the MGB, though, I only had one interrogation. And it was fairly calm compared to the experiences of the other guys. They didn’t beat me. At the MGB, for those who weren’t so lucky, who ended up there… There’s one infamous investigator there. He was known only by the nickname they gave him—Boxer. He didn’t shy away from physical violence. I was lucky in that regard. I was threatened. Yes, of course, it never goes without that. They showed me the “tapik” and explained how it works, even though I already knew how it worked.
By that point, I already knew that some guys had been taken away and brought back after being subjected to the “tapik.” The “tapik” is a military field telephone. It has a dynamo. Basically, to make a call, you have to turn the crank, and you can use that dynamo by attaching it to a person’s ears, genitals, and so on, to electrocute them.
The “tapik,” as it later became clear, was—at least in the “LPR,” and certainly in some security agencies—apparently the most popular tool for investigating just about anything.
Then, on my birthday, July 16, there was another interrogation; this time there were two people present. I had seen both of them during previous interrogations, though I don’t know which agencies they were from. This time, they were playing the “good cop, bad cop” game. And the one playing the “bad cop” ended the interrogation by saying that I would definitely be imprisoned because I was a war criminal. I said that, in fact, I hadn’t committed any crimes and didn’t know what he was talking about. He said that wasn’t a problem, because everyone who fights against them is a war criminal. All of us.
This happened right after I refused to give an interview about everything they wanted: about Nazis in Ukraine from their perspective, and about the activities of certain well-known international foundations that are eroding traditional values from within—which are actually a cover for espionage and “creeping imperialism.”
The question was: “Do you want to give an interview?” Just an interview with a well-known international media outlet, a very reputable one, like the BBC—only not the BBC. I said, “That’s interesting—which one?” “Do you want to?” I said: “Do you mean, in the sense of whether I have the desire to do it? I have no desire to do so. Or do you mean, in the sense of whether I’ll agree to it? No.”
I said that, of course, they could force me to do it—I understand that perfectly well. And I’ll only talk about what I know. That’s probably not what they need. They laid out the agenda of what I’m supposed to say. I told them I wouldn’t do that. I understand they can force me. And I understand that if they do, I’ll say what they want me to say. But they also understand that it will be obvious that it’s all forced.
And that somehow made him angry. Whether he was just playing a role, I don’t know. He said they’d put me in jail, and so on. It was pretty rough back then; they didn’t beat me, but there are other ways to use physical force. You can force a person to do squats until they start falling, while holding something in their hands or on their arms, pull something, do push-ups, stand on one and a half legs—that is, squat as if on a little chair—in mid-air—that is, make them do all sorts of things. You don’t touch the person, but at some point they might just pass out. Especially in the heat—and it was hot back then. It was the sweltering summer of 2022.
They transferred me to another cell. The next day, they summoned me again. And there was a very tough conversation with one of the detention center staff members, who explained to me in plain language what they could do to me. It was clear that he knew his stuff. Later, I found out more about him—he really does know his stuff.
And he practically told me, “You know why I haven’t beaten you up yet? Because on Sunday people are still in church, and that’s a sin.”
And it seemed like he was saying this very seriously. He ended the conversation. He found out—or pretended to find out—that it had been my birthday yesterday, and he softened a bit. He could see that I wasn’t aggressive and was behaving calmly. He said, “Very important people will be arriving soon, and they’ll be asking important questions, and you’ll answer them properly—otherwise, we’ll come back to this conversation.”
There was a separate interrogation by an unknown person in uniform—a uniform without insignia or rank stripes. It seemed as though this person had come specifically to question me about my attitude toward the events in Kazakhstan, my participation in a solidarity rally for those affected by the events in Kazakhstan, about Belarus, about support and assistance for refugees from Belarus, and who had funded these activities. They knew—that is, I didn’t hide the fact that I worked with refugees, because they asked what kind of work I did. I didn’t mention any countries or anything else. But they said right away, “We’re going to look into everything about you.” Well, they did find out a lot about me; they knew a lot about me.
That, by the way, was one of the problems: you never know exactly what they know about you. And most importantly, I suppose, is how they interpret what they know. Again, I had nothing to hide, so that separate interrogation came to nothing. I explained the facts: that this was human rights advocacy, that it was public, that there was nothing secret about it, and that all donor organizations—including international ones—that supported various projects usually insist that their name appear on all project materials and that it be stated that they support the project—so there’s no secret here, please.
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Part 4: The Criminal Case
“I said there shouldn’t be any dead bodies in this case”
On August 13, they summoned me: they took me out of my cell and led me to where the interrogations were being conducted; there was a separate, small corridor on one of the floors. And there they suddenly dragged me in—well, just to shock me a little—dragged me into an office, immediately slammed my face into the desk, hands behind my back, in a stressful position in which I sat for about the next four hours.
It was very hot, and they didn’t give me any water. There were about five people there, I think. Most of them were wearing balaclavas; one was wearing a bandana. I caught a glimpse of that as they were dragging me in; after that, of course, I couldn’t see anything or anyone.
They questioned me about everything under the sun—what I’d been doing on the Maidan, and everything I’d done after the Maidan. “Here’s a clock for you.” So there I am, lying face-down [on the table], and in front of me—so that I could see it—they’d placed a watch, set to about seven minutes to two; when the hand reaches here—that is, at five—‘During this time, while it’s ticking, you’re going to tell these distinguished gentlemen everything you’ve done, starting with Maidan. If you don’t tell them, you’ll get beaten up again.”
It was clear that this was all meant to create stress, because I was, of course, telling them what I’d been doing after Maidan. It was clear that they weren’t listening to me. But I could tell that if I paused, I’d get a blow to the back of the head or a kick, or something else. Blows to the back of the head—the kind meant not to break anything, but to be felt, mostly to the head.
Once they told me to raise my hands above my head and handed me a baton—an electroshock baton, as I later realized—the handle. In short, a heavy object. And I saw someone putting on a tactical glove. I was hit very hard in the liver. It was a very strong blow. Because when you raise your arm, your ribs rise up and block… It turns out to be extremely painful.
So there I was, sitting on a chair, legs like this, arms like this. Like that for four hours, even though it was hot. They didn’t give me any water or anything. I asked for water—they wouldn’t give me any. They said, “We forgot to buy water on the way.” I said, “What about from the tap?”—“No, we don’t have any; they didn’t give us any glasses to pour it into. What a shame. [Turning to another guard] By the way, are you going to drink?” — [The other replies] “I will.” Gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp. So it was all just some kind of sadistic game.
There were comments—including after that blow—that were also of a perverted nature, whispered in my ear. If you started crying right then, well, that’s when those prison-style sexual fantasies would kick in. They were explaining right in front of me who had anally raped whom yesterday with a stun gun in this very office. And not directly to me, but among themselves, so that I could hear, they explained exactly when they would do that to me if I continued to behave that way. In short, there were direct threats about what they would do to me.
There was a suggestion to finally put an end to all this and take me to a secluded spot in the courtyard. He’d let me smoke and call my family. And actually, I might as well leave this world now, since he’d beat me to death right there. Haven’t I lived long enough already?
“Well, how old are you? 45? Maybe that’s enough for you? How much longer do you want to live?” — “I’d still like to.” — “Why? What for? It seems to me you shouldn’t be living anymore. Well, let’s go”—“No. For us Christians,” I say, “it’s not proper to wish for death”—“Well, why not? After all, paradise is already opening up for you there.” When I said I was a Christian, he said, “You’re a Christian, but we’re not. What do we care about your Christianity?” That’s just how it was.
Some of them saw it as entertainment; others didn’t. Some, obviously, treated it as a job. But there was no serious beating. It was a stressful situation, with a few hard blows, and the rest was just to make my prospects clear.
During the process—already in the second part of all this—they laid out my options for me, explaining that I had three choices: I could confess to the crime, sign what they gave me without reading it—which would be a confession to the crime—and everything would be fine. They wouldn’t bother me anymore, and then they’d release me. Maybe I’d serve a little time, but basically, they’d sentence me just to let me go.
The second option: I refuse to agree. And he goes on to offer two more options: either they’ll take me to the crime scene for a reenactment, and then I’ll be killed while trying to escape. This wasn’t the “take you out to the courtyard and shoot you” proposal, which was an obvious bluff—though I certainly didn’t want to test it, it still sounded like a bluff. But this scenario was much more plausible: that they’d kill me. Or, more likely, they wouldn’t even bother with all that—they’d just leave me sitting here, but I could forget about a prisoner exchange until the end of the war. I’d be sitting in conditions so terrible that I’d regret ever being born. It would be so painful in every sense and so awful that, in short, I wouldn’t come out of here unscathed in any way. Or I’ll sign.
And do I understand that, once again, none of those who care about me know where I am or how I’m doing, that no one will stand up for me, that no one has access to me except them, so they can do whatever they want with me. And as for that last point, I knew it was true.
It’s not that no one cares about me—I don’t believe that. I’ve always known that people are fighting for me. From the very first day I was taken captive. I understood that there was a delay of a few days before the information would reach them. I understood that they might not know where I was. Although, perhaps, they already had an idea by that point, I thought to myself. But I had no doubt that they could do whatever they wanted to me. They tried to demonstrate this to me through their entire demeanor. And that’s exactly how it was.
Consequently, I was presented with this choice. Actually, that’s how I found out they were going to open a criminal case.
Part of this group left; two remained. They printed out the report, then realized something was wrong, because the scene of the incident was Severodonetsk, but I was in
Some of the group left; two stayed behind. They printed out the report, then realized something was wrong, because the incident took place in Severodonetsk, but I’d been picked up in Mirna Dolyna. They asked, “Why did you shoot at that apartment building?” I said, “What residential building?” — “In Severodonetsk.” I said, “We weren’t in Severodonetsk.” — “So where did they pick you up? And this is your Mirne… or whatever it’s called?” They weren’t from around there; they didn’t know the geography. “You fired it—you had that German Panzerfaust (a German-made handheld anti-tank grenade launcher) in your arsenal. “That’s right. You fired it in Mirna Dolyna and destroyed a house in Severodonetsk.” Despite the situation, I almost laughed. I mean, I said, “You guys don’t know anything: not geography, not T&T [tactical and technical characteristics], nothing.”
They were Russians. At one point, they were talking among themselves—maybe it was just another ploy against me, maybe not—that they had been officially designated as a special unit investigating war crimes for the Investigative Committee. And from then on, I was being handled by the Investigative Committee, and the case was already public. And then I saw my own investigator.
As a result, they tried to call their superior—but couldn’t get through. So they printed out two versions of the report: one was “Mirna Dolyna,” where I fired a shot, and the other was “Sievierodonetsk,” where I also fired a shot. I was supposed to sign both. I couldn’t read either one. “Just sign right here—lift your head a little, lift it up and sign.” I signed.
While one went to print them out, the other stayed with me. Trying to kill some time, they struck up a conversation with me. One of them was interested in the Ukrainian language.
“Do you know Ukrainian?” I said it was my native language. “Then why do you speak Russian so well?” I said, “That’s also my native language. I’m bilingual. I have two native languages. It happens.” “And how do people greet each other in Ukrainian?” “It depends on the situation: ‘pryvit,’ ‘dobro dnia,’ ‘vitay.’ “And when do people say ‘zdorovenki buvali’?” “Never. Usually only if they’re trying to be funny.” “So they don’t really say it like that? Come on!” The second guy comes in with a printed transcript, and the first one says to him, “Listen, he says they don’t say ‘zdorovenki buvli.’ ” The other guy’s like, “Come on, we don’t know a damn thing at all.” Or something like that. He was also curious about “thank you”: “How do you say ‘spasibo’?”
Then this guy went to print out a second version because something didn’t work out with the first one, and now the one who was left started talking to me. He was even curious as to why I’d returned to Ukraine from Britain so long ago. He started telling me, “After all, I think you’re no ordinary person.”
“You’re not just anyone; you’re not an ordinary person, and you ended up where you did for a reason. You had some kind of mission; you’re someone over there… In short, a Cossack sent on a mission.” As I understood it, he was hinting that I was some kind of British spy. I replied accordingly that if I really were some important figure, I wouldn’t be talking to him here right now. I simply wouldn’t have ended up in this situation. It all clicked for her instantly. She thought for literally half a minute and said, “Oh, right, wait—they sent you there on purpose so we could take you out, because you know too much.” I’m bringing this up not just because it’s funny, but because so many of the conversations worked that way.
The most glaring contradictions in what they themselves said, they resolved by amplifying those very contradictions. The main thing was just to get out of there somehow. It was absolutely like Orwellian doublethink.
First, there was a psychiatric forensic examination. They had to establish that I was of sound mind. And so, actually, when they brought me in—it was a few days later—they brought me in for the psychiatric evaluation, and there was already one person sitting there, obviously one of those who had been present during the first interrogation; he was sitting in a bandana, right behind the so-called psychiatrist. Well, that guy was probably really a psychiatrist, although he wasn’t acting like one. And he asked me questions about my mental capacity—as is always the case in such evaluations—my attitude toward alcohol, my alcohol consumption, “How would you understand or interpret this or that proverb, saying, idiom; tell me about yourself, about your parents; how would you describe yourself?” All of this was needed for the criminal case.
They followed procedure, and it was very strange when, right before the trial, I spoke with one of the investigators—not the one assigned to my case, but another one who seemed like a smarter and calmer person. To be honest, I just asked them, “What’s the point of all this? Seriously, why? Why take me to court? Are they going to drive me there?” They say, “Of course!” “Why?” I ask. “Everyone already understands everything anyway. Everyone understands what this case is about. Everyone understands what this trial is about. Why not just rubber-stamp the decision and be done with it, and move on?” “No, no, we have to follow procedure.” I say, “Why?” He says, “Because that’s the procedure.”
And this psychiatrist, actually, asked if I knew what I was accused of under the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. And I didn’t know. Because they didn’t let me read any of the protocols I’d signed.
I knew there were two versions regarding the location of the events. I recalled the conversation about the residential building. I said, “Yes, I think—if I’m not mistaken—that I fired a grenade launcher at a residential building.” “Correct. And where was that?” I guessed, “In Mirnaya Dolina.” In reality, it was Severodonetsk. The psychiatrist snorted, looked at the records, snorted again, and said, “All right. But why did you do that if you knew there were civilians there?” That wasn’t even mentioned. So I said there were no civilians there. There was no one there at all. In short, what I told this psychiatrist completely contradicted his notes. But what can you do? He had a job to do, too, so he turned a blind eye to it all. That didn’t make it into the record. That’s medicine for you. And the man in a bandana, sitting behind him in uniform, was giving me signals, indicating that if I gave the wrong answer, I’d get hit on the head.
When it was all over, they led me out into the hallway, made me stand—as always—facing the wall, in the “stretch” position, and then normally. He came out and said, “Well then, Maksym Oleksandrovych, we can settle this calmly—not like last time—in a civilized manner. You did everything right.” And a proposal was made right there on the spot. It was now formalized as a proposal that I agree to have these documents in the criminal case processed as quickly as possible. I’ll just sign absolutely everything without even looking at it. Well, and then they’ll quickly convict me and quickly transfer me.
It later turned out that I was, apparently, one of the very first people in the “LPR” to whom this applied. This whole conveyor belt of fabricated cases.
Of course, I said, “So, do I have a choice?” And he said that, actually, I didn’t. “To be honest, there isn’t one at all. What we talked about last time—all of that still applies.” I said that I agreed, that I’m not in a position to set conditions, unfortunately, but I do have two conditions anyway. And they’re important. The first condition is that I won’t testify against anyone else but myself. I didn’t receive any criminal orders from anyone, I didn’t have any commanders who ordered me to commit genocide. I don’t know what they’re going to accuse me of, but I made all the decisions to commit the crime on my own. That’s it. No one else is involved in this case, and I’m the only one standing trial for it. He said, “That’ll work, fine. What’s the second one?” I said there shouldn’t be any dead bodies in this case.
In fact, there are guys who’ve had dead bodies pinned on them. But I said that for me, for religious reasons, this is completely unacceptable. And, again, they can force me, but I’ll just resist up to a certain point—as far as I can. Beyond that, of course, no, but I’ll keep resisting. In short, it won’t happen quickly. Just then, he came out and said, “So, why are you so sad anyway? Everything’s fine; you’ll be going home soon. You should be happy—everything’s going well and very quickly; you’ll be going home soon. Why are you so sad?” I said, “Well, because sin is bad.” He asked, “What kind?”—“Perjury—actually, that’s a sin.” He says, “Ah-ah-ah-ah, we’ll share this sin together.” I thought, “Oh, right.” That was my interrogator.
He said that, yes, basically, we’ve found a spot and a hole for you. I mean, a hole from your grenade launcher hitting it, and the victims. “It’s a good spot; it’ll work. There won’t be any bodies; everything will be peaceful.”
That’s it—August 19 is the official start date of my criminal case. So the first interrogation was on the 13th; it wasn’t recorded in the documents. Although it did happen in reality.
“You understand that they’ll leave, and you’ll stay behind.”
Somewhere in between, there was a meeting (the meeting took place in late August 2022—G) with the so-called “LNR” human rights commissioner [Viktoria Serdyukova]. She arrived with a representative of the UN Human Rights Mission [Dinu Mitcu]. And I, to be honest, didn’t understand: which version should I stick to if they suddenly asked me there…
At the same time, we were still being summoned by other investigators from the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation to formally fill out reports detailing where we had been. We had been questioned many times before that about where we had been, how we had traveled, and which settlements we had visited—excluding Severodonetsk, for example. What else could I say? Well, I just repeated what I had said before. Consequently, part of the Investigative Committee knew that we hadn’t been in Severodonetsk. This group from the Investigative Committee was fabricating a case against me in Severodonetsk. They obviously didn’t coordinate very well with each other.
The UN representative was, in fact, with this human rights commissioner. They arrived together and gathered prisoners of war—as we were told, those whose relatives had contacted her regarding these people. So they gathered us up. As it turned out, someone had reached out regarding me—a relative of mine had written to her. Maybe that’s why, or maybe for some other reason, but they brought me there. And that was the first time I tried to somehow let someone know where I was. Because I didn’t have a way to make a phone call.
There was a camera there; they were filming a propaganda segment—for “Russia-24” or “Russia-1”: a soldier calls; his child was about to be born, and he finds out that she’s already been born—she was several months old at that point. They were filming it all—the emotional moment, everything was perfect. We could actually have asked them not to film us, and they would have allowed it, because there was a UN representative present. Obviously, we had no complaints; there was nothing.
He asked questions. Before that, we were briefed that “you understand that they’ll leave, but you’ll stay behind; that no one cares about your problems; and that if he offers to speak with you privately, we advise you to refuse. Because, even if we find out that someone—we don’t know who—complained to him, everyone will be held accountable.”
The principle of collective responsibility is what this entire system is built on. Everyone will be held accountable, and everyone will suffer.
On the other hand, I worked—albeit briefly—within UN structures. I could see that this person also had experience. I could tell he understood everything perfectly. I mean, when someone’s hands are completely covered in bites—and there are people whose skin reacts like that. When he asked, “Do you have skin problems?”—they’d say, “I guess so. You know, it’s the mosquitoes. I’m just allergic to mosquitoes.” They’re like, “Oh, right. Well, are they treating you—giving you some antihistamines or something?”—“Well, you know, I don’t even want them, because mosquito season is already ending.” Things like that. In the middle of it all, we see a bedbug—I’m not kidding—run out from under the pant leg of one of the people sitting in this lovely, soft corner and scurry into the couch. And we can barely keep from bursting out laughing.
And, of course, they “feed us wonderfully.” He asks if we can do our laundry. And of course, we can do our laundry. And we really can, because we have sort of sinks with cold water in the cells. And they’d even handed out a bar of soap by that point. They didn’t hand out soap at first. There was no toilet paper at all—and there never was. We somehow figured out how people manage without toilet paper. Of course, we learned to trim our fingernails in various ways, using whatever we could find—or just rubbing them against the concrete. It’s a little trickier with the feet. You can’t really bite them off, to be honest. There are other things, too. They told us we’d survive here.
“Can you do laundry right in the cell?” Oh, well, he doesn’t know what it’s like there. “And can you wash your face often there?” — “Yes, of course, we wash our faces every day. We take showers. We shower right in the cell.” Well, and all that… But I could tell that, in principle, he understood the value of these answers perfectly well.
Those were the first few months. Later, the conditions of detention were different, but for the first few months, that’s how it was. In other words, it was simply a matter of getting by on what we had with us, our resourcefulness, and the bare minimum they gave us—because it was just the bare minimum of food and such.
“We have to lock you up”
Soon I began to meet other prisoners of war against whom criminal cases had been opened. They were just as fabricated, following the same pattern. Different towns, different victims. Perhaps the charges differed by one or two articles, but in all cases, the core charge was Article 356 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation: “Prohibited Methods of Waging War.” Article 356 is a general classification, so to speak, and then it gets specific about what you actually did. In my case, it was attempted murder with aggravating circumstances and intentional property damage. For some, it’s murder; for others, something else.
In short, I finally realized at the end of this whole process that criminal cases on this “assembly line” are churned out at random, without any distinction as to who is involved. At first, the theory was that it was only officers. It turned out that wasn’t the case when the first person I encountered was a soldier. Just a contract soldier—but according to my documents, I was mobilized, and anyway, I’m not a contract soldier. Just that kind, but no.
I was the first to be tried, and apparently, in my case—as one of the first, or perhaps the very first—the decision was made to open a case at all. I think my previous activities actually contributed to that. As for the rest, they continued trying to round up as many people as possible.
And right there, while the paperwork was being processed and the criminal investigation was underway—that is, while I was signing documents without reading them, not knowing what they were—during the investigative experiment, when they were transporting us, at one of the stops, they told us… There was one of their officers who treated us humanely and with understanding—meaning we were allowed to drink water and even get some sleep there… He said: “Guys, it’s all very simple. Your side is sentencing our servicemen to long terms so they can swap convicts for convicts. We need to put you in jail. Nothing personal. It’s just one side against the other. We don’t have any plans to beat you up. So the faster we do this, the faster the exchange will happen. Basically, we’ll get you sentenced quickly, swap you out quickly, and you’ll be home. If you’re sent back to the front lines, it’s better not to end up there a second time. If you do, don’t get mad.”
But this sounded like the only rational explanation for why they were doing all this in the first place, because there were no other rational explanations. Of course, our cases were used in propaganda to portray us as Ukrainian war criminals, but that seemed like a side effect. It didn’t seem to be the goal for which they needed to run the conveyor belt and churn out cases. And they were clearly trying to accumulate a certain number of cases—as many as possible—in a very short period of time.
Part 5: The Show Trial
“Why are you resisting us?”
I was tried and convicted in the name of the Russian Federation. Perhaps, by the way, they were in a hurry to convict me in an “LNR” court after all, but they didn’t have time. And then there was a pause of several months while they transferred all the case files to the Russian system. I was convicted by the “LPR” Supreme Court, but the “LPR” was already formally a constituent entity of the Russian Federation. They simply incorporated it into the Russian Federation.
In September [2022], they finished finalizing the criminal case and transferring it to court, as I learned during another round of signing documents.
At that same time, they took me to this investigative experiment. They actually took me to Severodonetsk, to some location, showed me the address, and said, “Remember this.” They led me to a certain spot and said, “Raise your hand, point to the window. Not that window—that one.” They didn’t explain why—after all, I didn’t know at the time that this was part of a criminal case. They just told me, “Raise your hand, point over there, lower your hand. Turn to face this way.” There was some kind of pothole, a hole. “Point to the hole.” I pointed. “Point to the window.” I pointed. “Memorize the address.” I memorized it. “Let’s go.” That was it—that was the investigative experiment: documenting the events, documenting the scene. And only later did it turn out that I had been pointing to the window from which I had fired, the window that I had damaged.
There were some local residents there as well. All those scenes of destroyed cities—I’d already seen them just outside Kyiv: bonfires in the yards with teapots and everything else. And when they were leading me to the car, the investigator who was escorting me suddenly stopped, held me back, and said, “Are you looking around? Do you see? So, do you like it?”—“What’s there to like?”—“Do you see what you’ve done to the city and to the people?” I froze, to be honest. We did that?! I mean, they came, they destroyed the city—and “we did it.” They were trying, in any case, to push this logic on us: that we were to blame for all the destruction and casualties. I’m talking about Ukraine as a country, the community, the people, and the Armed Forces of Ukraine specifically, because we dared to defend ourselves.
From all sorts of people in different organizations, especially in the first few months; then it kind of faded away. By the way, I heard a very witty saying: “If you can’t take a shit, don’t strain your ass.”
“Why are you resisting us? Just look at how many of us there are and what we’re like—you won’t be able to defend yourselves. Like, ‘Enough already.’ Like, ‘Damn it, you’ve pissed us off; we’ll crush you—that’s just how we are!’ ‘If you can’t do it, don’t push it.’” Then they stopped using that line, probably because they realized we could fight back. I don’t know why. But here’s the thing: you dared to defend yourselves, so you ruined it for yourselves; you did this—you should’ve just surrendered.
That’s why they took me there. After that, they quickly filled out the paperwork. I signed them—these records of the on-site investigative actions. They said the documents would be sent to the prosecutor’s office, which would then forward them to the court.
But that was already sometime in the first half of September. At the end of September, as we know, the “annexation” took place: on September 30, 2022, in the Kremlin, the heads of the administrations of the occupied Ukrainian territories of the Luhansk, Donetsk, Kherson, and Zaporizhzhia regions, along with Vladimir Putin, signed documents annexing the occupied regions to the Russian Federation. This was preceded by illegal votes—which the occupation administrations called referendums—on the incorporation of the territories of eastern and southern Ukraine into the Russian Federation. And that was it. We had to start all over again.
The prosecutor’s office, the court—everything switched to the Russian legal system. In January, I even had to undergo a forensic medical examination all over again. There were two psychiatrists: an older woman with an intellectual air and a young woman with an intellectual air—both very polite. At some point, to be honest, I started to open up a little. It seemed to me that, apart from a few of my cellmates, I had come across some intelligent people. I had to pull myself together somehow, snap out of it, because they were performing the exact same role as that previous psychiatrist.
And it was then that I was convicted in the name of the Russian Federation. It was already March [2023].
“The same script for all these cases”
I was brought to court [the “Supreme Court” of the “LPR”]. There were two hearings. One was on Friday, March 3, and the other on Monday, March 6.
I was in an isolated section of the courtroom. I was waiting because I didn’t know what to expect—whether there would be [television] cameras or not. I asked the investigator; by the way, he honestly said he didn’t know, but there were no cameras. There was Russian military police escorting me instead of the usual escort; there was also an unnamed Investigative Committee officer acting as an escort. I saw him several times. There were security guards, a judge, a court clerk, and a prosecutor.
I even had a lawyer. This is interesting because at first there was one lawyer assigned to the case; I never saw him, but I saw his signature on all the documents, and he was with me during all the interrogations regarding those documents. Then he withdrew from the case, but another one appeared, whom I had also never seen. They all received money from the federal budget of the Russian Federation for their work, without doing anything except filling out paperwork and providing those signatures.
Then this man from the Investigative Committee—the one who had been driving us around—came to me and said I needed to write a statement waiving my right to a lawyer, that it had nothing to do with my financial situation or anything else. I said, “But the trial is coming up soon. You brought me this paper—when is my trial?” He said, “We’ll find one; there will be a lawyer.” They found some local female lawyer the day before the trial. She came without having seen the case file or met me. The previous ones hadn’t seen me either.
She asked to speak with me for 20 minutes. She said I needed to show remorse. And I said, “Listen, what difference does it make what I say?” — “No, no, no, what are you talking about?” This is, like, a court—everything will be decided fairly here. She had a “United Russia” badge shining on her lapel. I realized she was one of the activists—you know, the ones pushing for annexation and all that.
And it looked like everything would be settled in a single hearing. But they announced a recess; the prosecutor and the judge talked about something in the hallway, and she adjourned the hearing until the next session. They checked the calendar, and it became clear that to get this done faster, they’d have to hold the hearing on Monday. They held the hearing on Monday, and the verdict was handed down immediately.
I don’t know the specific reason or why. Perhaps because they essentially copied the verdict from the indictment. They gave me [the text of the verdict] at the pretrial detention center, and two days later they came and took it back. They took it and said they’d return it to me for safekeeping (I knew they wouldn’t—and indeed, they never did return it). The entire text was copied from the indictment, except for one episode, which they corrected. I suspect that’s why they took a break—because that episode directly contradicted one of the adjacent paragraphs of the victims’ testimony. When I read the case file, I was actually glad that I hadn’t seen it before—it was so poorly cobbled together.
And as I understand it, of all the materials in this case, the victims’ testimonies appear to be the most credible. In other words, these are real, living people who actually suffered the injuries, damage, and other problems documented there. And the same is true in the cases of the other men. Clearly, there are people who were wounded or killed—but not under these circumstances.
Almost everywhere, it was mortar fire. And even in the victims’ testimonies in my case, they begin by stating that “at 5:00 p.m., mortar fire began, and we left the apartment and went out onto the stairwell.” I supposedly chose, for the sake of the case, mortar fire at that exact time in order to, so to speak, introduce [into the case’s narrative] a grenade launcher. Another victim says, “A mine fell right there under the window.” But that’s not a mine—it’s [logically] my grenade.
People were also dying because mines were hitting their homes. Moreover, in the vast majority of cases—as in my case—it is absolutely clear that the mortar fire was carried out by Russian troops. Russian troops were shelling, and as a result, civilians were killed or wounded. Then, when they occupied these cities, they blamed the deaths or injuries of these people on Ukrainian soldiers, against whom they subsequently brought criminal charges. I have one of those cases myself. And it was exactly the same scenario for all of these cases.
Almost everyone who was imprisoned with me in the penal colonies had cases of this type. Almost all of them. Sometimes it was absurd: one person was accused of throwing a grenade 350 meters, another of firing a “Grad” rocket 60 meters. There were some completely absurd things, but nobody cared at all because, again, there was a constant feeling that absolutely everyone understood everything, including the judges.
I was even curious at the beginning of the trial—maybe the judge really didn’t know—but those doubts were quickly dispelled. When the first point of contention came up, I saw how she reacted. Of course, she understood perfectly.
Part 6: Refusal to Testify
“You’re still here, and haven’t been exchanged, only because your lawyer filed an appeal.”
Before the appeal hearing, I saw my defense attorney for the first time—a real defense attorney (during Maksim Butkevich’s appeal and cassation proceedings, he was defended by Russian attorney Leonid Solovyov), not those unknown, fictitious people who were fictitious to me—the ones assigned to me, whom I had never seen even once—and not that woman with the “United Russia” badge who was present in court just for show.
We [my attorney and I] had a little time to talk and discuss all of this via video call before the hearing. In particular, we briefly discussed whether I would insist just as strongly on the first of the two points in his appeal—namely, that this case is based on a false confession, and that these charges and confessions were extracted from me. Well, we came to the conclusion that, in fact, that was the case. That was my opinion as well, but his opinion was important to me—to what extent it might influence the outcome.
Why? Some time before the appellate hearing—a week or two, or however long—they brought me to court so I could review my case file. And that was the first time I saw my case file as it was supposed to be: two volumes, with all the expert reports and so on. And there, at that court, in the holding cell where I was reviewing the case, a representative of the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation arrived—the same person who had previously accompanied me to the trial court. I understand that he had previously been an employee of either the prosecutor’s office or the security agencies in Russia, somewhere in Russia. And he had a “counseling” conversation with me, telling me that I should simply withdraw my appeal.
He asked why I needed this appeal, whether I understood that it made no sense, that it was pointless. I said that I hadn’t written it—my lawyer had. He then asked how my lawyer could have written it without my knowledge. I said that I couldn’t have known, because I had no contact with either my lawyer or anyone else. And, of course, they wouldn’t let me have any contact. And he said very cheerfully: “In that case, I need to write a waiver of the appeal.” And a waiver of my lawyer’s services, and I must specify that he did this without my consent, that I object, and that he took actions contrary to the will of his client. And to state that, in fact, on June 4, 2022, while in the city of Severodonetsk, I did indeed commit the acts I am accused of.
They were Russians. At one point, they were talking among themselves—maybe it was just another ploy against me, maybe not—that they had been officially designated as a special unit investigating war crimes for the Investigative Committee. And from then on, I was being handled by the Investigative Committee, and the case was already public. And then I saw my own investigator.
As a result, they tried to call their superior—but couldn’t get through. So they printed out two versions of the report: one was “Mirna Dolyna,” where I fired a shot, and the other was “Sievierodonetsk,” where I also fired a shot. I was supposed to sign both. I couldn’t read either one. “Just sign right here—lift your head a little, lift it up and sign.” I signed.
While one went to print them out, the other stayed with me. Trying to kill some time, they struck up a conversation with me. One of them was interested in the Ukrainian language.
“Do you know Ukrainian?” I said it was my native language. “Then why do you speak Russian so well?” I said, “That’s also my native language. I’m bilingual. I have two native languages. It happens.” “And how do people greet each other in Ukrainian?” “It depends on the situation: ‘pryvit,’ ‘dobro dnia,’ ‘vitay.’ “And when do people say ‘zdorovenki buvali’?” “Never. Usually only if they’re trying to be funny.” “So they don’t really say it like that? Come on!” The second guy comes in with a printed transcript, and the first one says to him, “Listen, he says they don’t say ‘zdorovenki buvli.’ ” The other guy’s like, “Come on, we don’t know a damn thing at all.” Or something like that. He was also curious about “thank you”: “How do you say ‘spasibo’?”
Then this guy went to print out a second version because something didn’t work out with the first one, and now the one who was left started talking to me. He was even curious as to why I’d returned to Ukraine from Britain so long ago. He started telling me, “After all, I think you’re no ordinary person.”
“You’re not just anyone; you’re not an ordinary person, and you ended up where you did for a reason. You had some kind of mission; you’re someone over there… In short, a Cossack sent on a mission.” As I understood it, he was hinting that I was some kind of British spy. I replied accordingly that if I really were some important figure, I wouldn’t be talking to him here right now. I simply wouldn’t have ended up in this situation. It all clicked for her instantly. She thought for literally half a minute and said, “Oh, right, wait—they sent you there on purpose so we could take you out, because you know too much.” I’m bringing this up not just because it’s funny, but because so many of the conversations worked that way.
The most glaring contradictions in what they themselves said, they resolved by amplifying those very contradictions. The main thing was just to get out of there somehow. It was absolutely like Orwellian doublethink.
First, there was a psychiatric forensic examination. They had to establish that I was of sound mind. And so, actually, when they brought me in—it was a few days later—they brought me in for the psychiatric evaluation, and there was already one person sitting there, obviously one of those who had been present during the first interrogation; he was sitting in a bandana, right behind the so-called psychiatrist. Well, that guy was probably really a psychiatrist, although he wasn’t acting like one. And he asked me questions about my mental capacity—as is always the case in such evaluations—my attitude toward alcohol, my alcohol consumption, “How would you understand or interpret this or that proverb, saying, idiom; tell me about yourself, about your parents; how would you describe yourself?” All of this was needed for the criminal case.
They followed procedure, and it was very strange when, right before the trial, I spoke with one of the investigators—not the one assigned to my case, but another one who seemed like a smarter and calmer person. To be honest, I just asked them, “What’s the point of all this? Seriously, why? Why take me to court? Are they going to drive me there?” They say, “Of course!” “Why?” I ask. “Everyone already understands everything anyway. Everyone understands what this case is about. Everyone understands what this trial is about. Why not just rubber-stamp the decision and be done with it, and move on?” “No, no, we have to follow procedure.” I say, “Why?” He says, “Because that’s the procedure.”
And this psychiatrist, actually, asked if I knew what I was accused of under the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. And I didn’t know. Because they didn’t let me read any of the protocols I’d signed.
I knew there were two versions regarding the location of the events. I recalled the conversation about the residential building. I said, “Yes, I think—if I’m not mistaken—that I fired a grenade launcher at a residential building.” “Correct. And where was that?” I guessed, “In Mirnaya Dolina.” In reality, it was Severodonetsk. The psychiatrist snorted, looked at the records, snorted again, and said, “All right. But why did you do that if you knew there were civilians there?” That wasn’t even mentioned. So I said there were no civilians there. There was no one there at all. In short, what I told this psychiatrist completely contradicted his notes. But what can you do? He had a job to do, too, so he turned a blind eye to it all. That didn’t make it into the record. That’s medicine for you. And the man in a bandana, sitting behind him in uniform, was giving me signals, indicating that if I gave the wrong answer, I’d get hit on the head.
When it was all over, they led me out into the hallway, made me stand—as always—facing the wall, in the “stretch” position, and then normally. He came out and said, “Well then, Maksym Oleksandrovych, we can settle this calmly—not like last time—in a civilized manner. You did everything right.” And a proposal was made right there on the spot. It was now formalized as a proposal that I agree to have these documents in the criminal case processed as quickly as possible. I’ll just sign absolutely everything without even looking at it. Well, and then they’ll quickly convict me and quickly transfer me.
It later turned out that I was, apparently, one of the very first people in the “LPR” to whom this applied. This whole conveyor belt of fabricated cases.
Of course, I said, “So, do I have a choice?” And he said that, actually, I didn’t. “To be honest, there isn’t one at all. What we talked about last time—all of that still applies.” I said that I agreed, that I’m not in a position to set conditions, unfortunately, but I do have two conditions anyway. And they’re important. The first condition is that I won’t testify against anyone else but myself. I didn’t receive any criminal orders from anyone, I didn’t have any commanders who ordered me to commit genocide. I don’t know what they’re going to accuse me of, but I made all the decisions to commit the crime on my own. That’s it. No one else is involved in this case, and I’m the only one standing trial for it. He said, “That’ll work, fine. What’s the second one?” I said there shouldn’t be any dead bodies in this case.
In fact, there are guys who’ve had dead bodies pinned on them. But I said that for me, for religious reasons, this is completely unacceptable. And, again, they can force me, but I’ll just resist up to a certain point—as far as I can. Beyond that, of course, no, but I’ll keep resisting. In short, it won’t happen quickly. Just then, he came out and said, “So, why are you so sad anyway? Everything’s fine; you’ll be going home soon. You should be happy—everything’s going well and very quickly; you’ll be going home soon. Why are you so sad?” I said, “Well, because sin is bad.” He asked, “What kind?”—“Perjury—actually, that’s a sin.” He says, “Ah-ah-ah-ah, we’ll share this sin together.” I thought, “Oh, right.” That was my interrogator.
He said that, yes, basically, we’ve found a spot and a hole for you. I mean, a hole from your grenade launcher hitting it, and the victims. “It’s a good spot; it’ll work. There won’t be any bodies; everything will be peaceful.”
That’s it—August 19 is the official start date of my criminal case. So the first interrogation was on the 13th; it wasn’t recorded in the documents. Although it did happen in reality.
“You understand that they’ll leave, and you’ll stay behind.”
Somewhere in between, there was a meeting (the meeting took place in late August 2022—G) with the so-called “LNR” human rights commissioner [Viktoria Serdyukova]. She arrived with a representative of the UN Human Rights Mission [Dinu Mitcu]. And I, to be honest, didn’t understand: which version should I stick to if they suddenly asked me there…
At the same time, we were still being summoned by other investigators from the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation to formally fill out reports detailing where we had been. We had been questioned many times before that about where we had been, how we had traveled, and which settlements we had visited—excluding Severodonetsk, for example. What else could I say? Well, I just repeated what I had said before. Consequently, part of the Investigative Committee knew that we hadn’t been in Severodonetsk. This group from the Investigative Committee was fabricating a case against me in Severodonetsk. They obviously didn’t coordinate very well with each other.
The UN representative was, in fact, with this human rights commissioner. They arrived together and gathered prisoners of war—as we were told, those whose relatives had contacted her regarding these people. So they gathered us up. As it turned out, someone had reached out regarding me—a relative of mine had written to her. Maybe that’s why, or maybe for some other reason, but they brought me there. And that was the first time I tried to somehow let someone know where I was. Because I didn’t have a way to make a phone call.
There was a camera there; they were filming a propaganda segment—for “Russia-24” or “Russia-1”: a soldier calls; his child was about to be born, and he finds out that she’s already been born—she was several months old at that point. They were filming it all—the emotional moment, everything was perfect. We could actually have asked them not to film us, and they would have allowed it, because there was a UN representative present. Obviously, we had no complaints; there was nothing.
He asked questions. Before that, we were briefed that “you understand that they’ll leave, but you’ll stay behind; that no one cares about your problems; and that if he offers to speak with you privately, we advise you to refuse. Because, even if we find out that someone—we don’t know who—complained to him, everyone will be held accountable.”
The principle of collective responsibility is what this entire system is built on. Everyone will be held accountable, and everyone will suffer.
On the other hand, I worked—albeit briefly—within UN structures. I could see that this person also had experience. I could tell he understood everything perfectly. I mean, when someone’s hands are completely covered in bites—and there are people whose skin reacts like that. When he asked, “Do you have skin problems?”—they’d say, “I guess so. You know, it’s the mosquitoes. I’m just allergic to mosquitoes.” They’re like, “Oh, right. Well, are they treating you—giving you some antihistamines or something?”—“Well, you know, I don’t even want them, because mosquito season is already ending.” Things like that. In the middle of it all, we see a bedbug—I’m not kidding—run out from under the pant leg of one of the people sitting in this lovely, soft corner and scurry into the couch. And we can barely keep from bursting out laughing.
And, of course, they “feed us wonderfully.” He asks if we can do our laundry. And of course, we can do our laundry. And we really can, because we have sort of sinks with cold water in the cells. And they’d even handed out a bar of soap by that point. They didn’t hand out soap at first. There was no toilet paper at all—and there never was. We somehow figured out how people manage without toilet paper. Of course, we learned to trim our fingernails in various ways, using whatever we could find—or just rubbing them against the concrete. It’s a little trickier with the feet. You can’t really bite them off, to be honest. There are other things, too. They told us we’d survive here.
“Can you do laundry right in the cell?” Oh, well, he doesn’t know what it’s like there. “And can you wash your face often there?” — “Yes, of course, we wash our faces every day. We take showers. We shower right in the cell.” Well, and all that… But I could tell that, in principle, he understood the value of these answers perfectly well.
Those were the first few months. Later, the conditions of detention were different, but for the first few months, that’s how it was. In other words, it was simply a matter of getting by on what we had with us, our resourcefulness, and the bare minimum they gave us—because it was just the bare minimum of food and such.
“We have to lock you up”
Soon I began to meet other prisoners of war against whom criminal cases had been opened. They were just as fabricated, following the same pattern. Different towns, different victims. Perhaps the charges differed by one or two articles, but in all cases, the core charge was Article 356 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation: “Prohibited Methods of Waging War.” Article 356 is a general classification, so to speak, and then it gets specific about what you actually did. In my case, it was attempted murder with aggravating circumstances and intentional property damage. For some, it’s murder; for others, something else.
In short, I finally realized at the end of this whole process that criminal cases on this “assembly line” are churned out at random, without any distinction as to who is involved. At first, the theory was that it was only officers. It turned out that wasn’t the case when the first person I encountered was a soldier. Just a contract soldier—but according to my documents, I was mobilized, and anyway, I’m not a contract soldier. Just that kind, but no.
I was the first to be tried, and apparently, in my case—as one of the first, or perhaps the very first—the decision was made to open a case at all. I think my previous activities actually contributed to that. As for the rest, they continued trying to round up as many people as possible.
And right there, while the paperwork was being processed and the criminal investigation was underway—that is, while I was signing documents without reading them, not knowing what they were—during the investigative experiment, when they were transporting us, at one of the stops, they told us… There was one of their officers who treated us humanely and with understanding—meaning we were allowed to drink water and even get some sleep there… He said: “Guys, it’s all very simple. Your side is sentencing our servicemen to long terms so they can swap convicts for convicts. We need to put you in jail. Nothing personal. It’s just one side against the other. We don’t have any plans to beat you up. So the faster we do this, the faster the exchange will happen. Basically, we’ll get you sentenced quickly, swap you out quickly, and you’ll be home. If you’re sent back to the front lines, it’s better not to end up there a second time. If you do, don’t get mad.”
But this sounded like the only rational explanation for why they were doing all this in the first place, because there were no other rational explanations. Of course, our cases were used in propaganda to portray us as Ukrainian war criminals, but that seemed like a side effect. It didn’t seem to be the goal for which they needed to run the conveyor belt and churn out cases. And they were clearly trying to accumulate a certain number of cases—as many as possible—in a very short period of time.
Part 5: The Show Trial
“Why are you resisting us?”
I was tried and convicted in the name of the Russian Federation. Perhaps, by the way, they were in a hurry to convict me in an “LNR” court after all, but they didn’t have time. And then there was a pause of several months while they transferred all the case files to the Russian system. I was convicted by the “LPR” Supreme Court, but the “LPR” was already formally a constituent entity of the Russian Federation. They simply incorporated it into the Russian Federation.
In September [2022], they finished finalizing the criminal case and transferring it to court, as I learned during another round of signing documents.
At that same time, they took me to this investigative experiment. They actually took me to Severodonetsk, to some location, showed me the address, and said, “Remember this.” They led me to a certain spot and said, “Raise your hand, point to the window. Not that window—that one.” They didn’t explain why—after all, I didn’t know at the time that this was part of a criminal case. They just told me, “Raise your hand, point over there, lower your hand. Turn to face this way.” There was some kind of pothole, a hole. “Point to the hole.” I pointed. “Point to the window.” I pointed. “Memorize the address.” I memorized it. “Let’s go.” That was it—that was the investigative experiment: documenting the events, documenting the scene. And only later did it turn out that I had been pointing to the window from which I had fired, the window that I had damaged.
There were some local residents there as well. All those scenes of destroyed cities—I’d already seen them just outside Kyiv: bonfires in the yards with teapots and everything else. And when they were leading me to the car, the investigator who was escorting me suddenly stopped, held me back, and said, “Are you looking around? Do you see? So, do you like it?”—“What’s there to like?”—“Do you see what you’ve done to the city and to the people?” I froze, to be honest. We did that?! I mean, they came, they destroyed the city—and “we did it.” They were trying, in any case, to push this logic on us: that we were to blame for all the destruction and casualties. I’m talking about Ukraine as a country, the community, the people, and the Armed Forces of Ukraine specifically, because we dared to defend ourselves.
From all sorts of people in different organizations, especially in the first few months; then it kind of faded away. By the way, I heard a very witty saying: “If you can’t take a shit, don’t strain your ass.”
“Why are you resisting us? Just look at how many of us there are and what we’re like—you won’t be able to defend yourselves. Like, ‘Enough already.’ Like, ‘Damn it, you’ve pissed us off; we’ll crush you—that’s just how we are!’ ‘If you can’t do it, don’t push it.’” Then they stopped using that line, probably because they realized we could fight back. I don’t know why. But here’s the thing: you dared to defend yourselves, so you ruined it for yourselves; you did this—you should’ve just surrendered.
That’s why they took me there. After that, they quickly filled out the paperwork. I signed them—these records of the on-site investigative actions. They said the documents would be sent to the prosecutor’s office, which would then forward them to the court.
But that was already sometime in the first half of September. At the end of September, as we know, the “annexation” took place: on September 30, 2022, in the Kremlin, the heads of the administrations of the occupied Ukrainian territories of the Luhansk, Donetsk, Kherson, and Zaporizhzhia regions, along with Vladimir Putin, signed documents annexing the occupied regions to the Russian Federation. This was preceded by illegal votes—which the occupation administrations called referendums—on the incorporation of the territories of eastern and southern Ukraine into the Russian Federation. And that was it. We had to start all over again.
The prosecutor’s office, the court—everything switched to the Russian legal system. In January, I even had to undergo a forensic medical examination all over again. There were two psychiatrists: an older woman with an intellectual air and a young woman with an intellectual air—both very polite. At some point, to be honest, I started to open up a little. It seemed to me that, apart from a few of my cellmates, I had come across some intelligent people. I had to pull myself together somehow, snap out of it, because they were performing the exact same role as that previous psychiatrist.
And it was then that I was convicted in the name of the Russian Federation. It was already March [2023].
“The same script for all these cases”
I was brought to court [the “Supreme Court” of the “LPR”]. There were two hearings. One was on Friday, March 3, and the other on Monday, March 6.
I was in an isolated section of the courtroom. I was waiting because I didn’t know what to expect—whether there would be [television] cameras or not. I asked the investigator; by the way, he honestly said he didn’t know, but there were no cameras. There was Russian military police escorting me instead of the usual escort; there was also an unnamed Investigative Committee officer acting as an escort. I saw him several times. There were security guards, a judge, a court clerk, and a prosecutor.
I even had a lawyer. This is interesting because at first there was one lawyer assigned to the case; I never saw him, but I saw his signature on all the documents, and he was with me during all the interrogations regarding those documents. Then he withdrew from the case, but another one appeared, whom I had also never seen. They all received money from the federal budget of the Russian Federation for their work, without doing anything except filling out paperwork and providing those signatures.
Then this man from the Investigative Committee—the one who had been driving us around—came to me and said I needed to write a statement waiving my right to a lawyer, that it had nothing to do with my financial situation or anything else. I said, “But the trial is coming up soon. You brought me this paper—when is my trial?” He said, “We’ll find one; there will be a lawyer.” They found some local female lawyer the day before the trial. She came without having seen the case file or met me. The previous ones hadn’t seen me either.
She asked to speak with me for 20 minutes. She said I needed to show remorse. And I said, “Listen, what difference does it make what I say?” — “No, no, no, what are you talking about?” This is, like, a court—everything will be decided fairly here. She had a “United Russia” badge shining on her lapel. I realized she was one of the activists—you know, the ones pushing for annexation and all that.
And it looked like everything would be settled in a single hearing. But they announced a recess; the prosecutor and the judge talked about something in the hallway, and she adjourned the hearing until the next session. They checked the calendar, and it became clear that to get this done faster, they’d have to hold the hearing on Monday. They held the hearing on Monday, and the verdict was handed down immediately.
I don’t know the specific reason or why. Perhaps because they essentially copied the verdict from the indictment. They gave me [the text of the verdict] at the pretrial detention center, and two days later they came and took it back. They took it and said they’d return it to me for safekeeping (I knew they wouldn’t—and indeed, they never did return it). The entire text was copied from the indictment, except for one episode, which they corrected. I suspect that’s why they took a break—because that episode directly contradicted one of the adjacent paragraphs of the victims’ testimony. When I read the case file, I was actually glad that I hadn’t seen it before—it was so poorly cobbled together.
And as I understand it, of all the materials in this case, the victims’ testimonies appear to be the most credible. In other words, these are real, living people who actually suffered the injuries, damage, and other problems documented there. And the same is true in the cases of the other men. Clearly, there are people who were wounded or killed—but not under these circumstances.
Almost everywhere, it was mortar fire. And even in the victims’ testimonies in my case, they begin by stating that “at 5:00 p.m., mortar fire began, and we left the apartment and went out onto the stairwell.” I supposedly chose, for the sake of the case, mortar fire at that exact time in order to, so to speak, introduce [into the case’s narrative] a grenade launcher. Another victim says, “A mine fell right there under the window.” But that’s not a mine—it’s [logically] my grenade.
People were also dying because mines were hitting their homes. Moreover, in the vast majority of cases—as in my case—it is absolutely clear that the mortar fire was carried out by Russian troops. Russian troops were shelling, and as a result, civilians were killed or wounded. Then, when they occupied these cities, they blamed the deaths or injuries of these people on Ukrainian soldiers, against whom they subsequently brought criminal charges. I have one of those cases myself. And it was exactly the same scenario for all of these cases.
Almost everyone who was imprisoned with me in the penal colonies had cases of this type. Almost all of them. Sometimes it was absurd: one person was accused of throwing a grenade 350 meters, another of firing a “Grad” rocket 60 meters. There were some completely absurd things, but nobody cared at all because, again, there was a constant feeling that absolutely everyone understood everything, including the judges.
I was even curious at the beginning of the trial—maybe the judge really didn’t know—but those doubts were quickly dispelled. When the first point of contention came up, I saw how she reacted. Of course, she understood perfectly.
Part 6: Refusal to Testify
“You’re still here, and haven’t been exchanged, only because your lawyer filed an appeal.”
Before the appeal hearing, I saw my defense attorney for the first time—a real defense attorney (during Maksim Butkevich’s appeal and cassation proceedings, he was defended by Russian attorney Leonid Solovyov), not those unknown, fictitious people who were fictitious to me—the ones assigned to me, whom I had never seen even once—and not that woman with the “United Russia” badge who was present in court just for show.
We [my attorney and I] had a little time to talk and discuss all of this via video call before the hearing. In particular, we briefly discussed whether I would insist just as strongly on the first of the two points in his appeal—namely, that this case is based on a false confession, and that these charges and confessions were extracted from me. Well, we came to the conclusion that, in fact, that was the case. That was my opinion as well, but his opinion was important to me—to what extent it might influence the outcome.
Why? Some time before the appellate hearing—a week or two, or however long—they brought me to court so I could review my case file. And that was the first time I saw my case file as it was supposed to be: two volumes, with all the expert reports and so on. And there, at that court, in the holding cell where I was reviewing the case, a representative of the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation arrived—the same person who had previously accompanied me to the trial court. I understand that he had previously been an employee of either the prosecutor’s office or the security agencies in Russia, somewhere in Russia. And he had a “counseling” conversation with me, telling me that I should simply withdraw my appeal.
He asked why I needed this appeal, whether I understood that it made no sense, that it was pointless. I said that I hadn’t written it—my lawyer had. He then asked how my lawyer could have written it without my knowledge. I said that I couldn’t have known, because I had no contact with either my lawyer or anyone else. And, of course, they wouldn’t let me have any contact. And he said very cheerfully: “In that case, I need to write a waiver of the appeal.” And a waiver of my lawyer’s services, and I must specify that he did this without my consent, that I object, and that he took actions contrary to the will of his client. And to state that, in fact, on June 4, 2022, while in the city of Severodonetsk, I did indeed commit the acts I am accused of.
They gave me a piece of paper and a pen, and he said that, of course, no one was going to force this out of me: it was of my own free will. To quote him: “We’re not the Gestapo like you have over there. We don’t force people.” Which wasn’t even funny, actually.
I said that I wasn’t going to do it; I had no desire to sign or write anything like that. Are they going to force me? He said, “No, we’re not the Gestapo here; everything is completely voluntary, and it’s entirely up to me.” But if I don’t refuse, there will, of course, be consequences.
For example, even if we imagine—he says—that your appeal will succeed, although, of course, it won’t. And even if we imagine that the court will hear it, although, of course, it won’t. What happens next? The case will be sent back to the trial court for reconsideration. That’s the only thing you can do within the legal system. And accordingly, if it’s sent back for further investigation, the interrogations will be repeated. Do you remember your first interrogation in the case? He asked me that. Of course, I remembered my first interrogation in the case—even though it never made it into the case file—but I remembered that first interrogation. It was exactly that stressful interrogation. Do I want to go through that again? If I insist on filing a complaint, then, in fact, that’s a very real possibility. Do I want to go back to that first interrogation with all its details? I said, of course not.
“Well, then think about it,” he said to me, “especially since you’re still here and haven’t been exchanged solely because your lawyer filed an appeal. If he hadn’t filed it, you would have already been exchanged.”
I understood that to believe them would be to disrespect myself, as they say. But, in principle, the fact that it was likely—that this could indeed have somehow influenced the unresolved nature of the trial and the sentence, leading to further manipulation of me— well, that could very well have been the case. Nevertheless, I refused to sign a waiver of the appeal. He said, “Sit down, think it over.” I sat down, thought it over, reviewed my case file, and they took it away. I left—or handed back, I don’t remember which—those blank sheets of paper to the court clerk who was sitting there.
While he [the Investigative Committee representative] was speaking, there were security guards, the escort, and the court clerk present in the courtroom. She asked, “Who are you?” He simply said, “I’m from the Investigative Committee.” She paused for a moment and said, “Oh, okay.” And right there in front of her, he basically told her the whole story. They were staring at the floor the whole time, trying to pretend they couldn’t hear a thing. I handed over the blank sheets of paper and the pen. Either he or one of the security guards said, “Oh, so you didn’t write it after all.” Me: “No, I didn’t write it.”
There was a moment when I was debating whether to write it or not. Maybe I should really refuse, and they’ll replace me, but trusting them would be sheer folly. Most importantly, I understood that such a statement—especially the part claiming that the lawyer supposedly acted against my will, or that the fact we had no contact didn’t mean he acted against my will—wasn’t true. I fully agreed with his decision to file an appeal and was pleased about it. Such a statement could have had consequences for him, because, in theory, the bar association to which he belongs could have taken up this statement for review, and it could have ended badly for him, at least professionally. Of course, I didn’t want that. We weren’t acquainted yet, but he did everything he could to secure my release. And I’m very grateful to him, by the way. That’s how it was.
But when we consulted with him after this incident, ahead of the appeal hearing, so to speak, it turned out that my cell phone logs for June 4 were already available. And these logs showed that I was in Kyiv, not in Severodonetsk at all. But they hadn’t yet been properly certified. In other words, they were just copies—scans, so to speak—of the documents. And he said that the court might simply refuse to accept them on that technicality. We had no illusions that the appeals court would make any radical changes to the case. We understood perfectly well that these verdicts in these cases aren’t actually written in court. But it was still worth at least trying.
Well, and then there were those words—that, supposedly, they wouldn’t change my sentence as long as the legal proceedings were ongoing. After all, there might have been some grain of truth in that. And it was clear that, indeed, if the court were to suddenly take it into consideration, it would mean a retrial, and it would last quite a long time—an indefinite period. Because a retrial—and even more so a new investigation, as they would call it—could simply mean that I would be held in pretrial detention for, in principle, an almost indefinite period of time. I would just sit there; nothing would happen, my detention would be extended—and that’s it.
With that in mind, I said that it would probably be better for me not to insist on the point about self-incrimination, but to give it a few months. In other words, I said that if, in a few months, there were no changes to the court’s verdict or the appellate decision—no deal or hints of one regarding me—then we would file a cassation appeal. In fact, I asked him for that. We agreed on this. And that’s exactly what happened.
In the cassation appeal, of course, the focus will be on what actually happened. And so, nothing happened; I was sent to a penal colony, and it was clear that I was simply serving my sentence there, just like our other prisoners of war. Especially since it later turned out that they had completely lost track of me. But it became clear that nothing was happening. So, at the appeal hearing—as they say in legal jargon—I “went all out,” meaning I challenged everything and basically told it exactly as it happened.
[The appeal hearing]—it was a shock, to be honest. I had some sheets of paper; I just wrote on them with a pen right away. First of all, I suddenly saw that they were letting people into the courtroom—that my acquaintances, my friends, my family, and my colleagues were there. They had come in! And, of course, when it became clear that during the breaks—and there were breaks—we could talk… I mean, that was my first somewhat normal contact with the outside world.
They let me call my parents once. I had to provide a copy of my passport. That’s how I found out that my passport—which, along with my officer’s ID, had been confiscated during my captivity—had somehow been lost by them, just like almost everyone else’s. And they demanded that I figure out how to get a copy of my passport—via email or something else. If I didn’t come up with a solution by the day after tomorrow, then—again, the same old story—I’d get my ass kicked. And I mean that seriously. If I come up with a solution, then they’ll let me make a call. And I remembered how I could try to do this through a third party. Of course, I really didn’t want to drag anyone—neither colleagues, nor friends, nor family—into this mess. But I managed it anyway. The only phone number I remembered was my mother’s. They let me call her. It was in September 2022, and the call lasted only 20–30 seconds, but she heard me, and I heard her.
I found out then that, as it turned out, there was already some kind of group—a chat, so to speak—about me. I mean, I already knew people remembered me. The main thing for me was to hear whether they were alive and well. A huge weight was lifted off my shoulders, to be honest, because when you’re sitting in isolation, all sorts of thoughts go through your head. I wasn’t letting myself think the worst, but those thoughts just creep in on their own—and here, things became calmer. And I was absolutely certain that they knew about me and remembered me, but being certain simply because you know these people is one thing, and when you actually get confirmation—that’s another. But that was the only exception. Before that video call [in the appeals court], I had nothing. I saw people; I was able to communicate with them at least a little and show them something.
Part 7: Pretrial Detention Center and Prison
“Did you fight with ‘Wagner’?”
Conditions at the pretrial detention center changed drastically. The hardest part was the first few months leading up to October [2022]. There was a period when all prisoners of war were regularly subjected to “cleansing.” Prisoners of war are held separately, in a separate “wing”: the so-called “frozen cells,” meaning they are completely cut off from information. There’s a difference in how these cells are treated at the detention center.
And there was a period of constant psychological and physical pressure, including being forced out into the “prodol” once or twice a day, squats, “flip to the right,” “flip to the left”—you had to fall on the correct side, and if you didn’t, you risked being forced to do push-ups on the floor. There were all sorts of things like that. Some guys from the large “cells”—where there were over 20 people—would pass out. Sometimes they’d be doused with water; among them were members of the “300,” including the heavyweights—all sorts of things happened there. We had a “T-junction.” By the time they reached us at the end of the corridor, they were clearly already exhausted.
There were different situations, too, but, in short, the food was very poor, and the treatment depended on who was dealing with you—but all sorts of things happened. Then it suddenly stopped. It just stopped, and they didn’t even come to see us anymore. [This happened] in October 2022, after the “LPR” joined the Russian Federation.
Things got a little calmer, but our daily living conditions remained just as bad. Especially in the winter—we spent the winter there. Part of the windowpane in our cell was broken, so snow blew in, and icicles formed. It was very cold, but we managed to cope somehow, wrapping ourselves in our pea coats. It wasn’t like we were freezing to death. There was a period when we were quite hungry, and a period when it was quite cold. There were periods like that.
Then things gradually started to get better, and after the verdict, I was transferred to be held with ordinary criminals, so to speak, rather than with prisoners of war.
I was the first one to be transferred to the Luhansk pretrial detention center. Well, not the very first, actually—there was another [Ukrainian prisoner of war] there, in a different cell. But people reacted to me as if I were some kind of oddity: “How long? 13 [years in prison]?! Are you kidding me?!” But it was already much easier. First of all, physically, because people were receiving care packages, as required by law, and prisoners always thrive on what they share with one another. They support each other. Even if they have completely different lifestyles, aside from certain peculiarities of this caste system.
From time to time, there were those with whom arguments would flare up—not on my initiative. I quickly realized that arguing made no sense, but agreeing didn’t make sense either. In other words, I didn’t provoke these conversations. If they started, I simply responded. I said what I knew, what I thought. Pretending to think something I didn’t make no sense, and besides, I didn’t see the need for it. People are different. There were some very unpleasant moments, but in the end, if we were in the same space with that person, we’d find common ground on everyday matters.
Especially since the people I met could voice three contradictory statements within the span of half an hour. At the same time, they didn’t see any contradiction in this.
For example, someone from Luhansk might say that things were actually best when we were part of Ukraine: “Back then, it was great. Luhansk—that was a city. Whatever it was like, it was developing. We had such great prospects.” The same people might say, “You came to kill us; we didn’t ask you to liberate us,” while at the same time cursing “Lugandonia.” All at the same time. And curse both the Russian leadership and the war. Except, of course, for one person. One person is absolutely untouchable to everyone. That person is the monarch, the tsar. The tsar is simply the tsar; he is not the president. I’m referring to Putin.
There was a moment when they were taking me to the appeals court, when they threw me onto a bus along with the “Wagnerites” (Wagner PMC)—it was interesting. But they treated me with respect. Like: “Is this a Ukrainian? A real Ukrainian? So, you fought in the war, huh? Wow, hello there! Yeah, come here. Did you fight with Wagner?” — “I didn’t get the chance.” “And if you had?” — “Well, if I had to, I would have.” — “Okay, got it. Got any cigarettes?” — “No cigarettes, but here’s some coffee.”
A lot of people fighting on the other side come here on criminal cases from various regions of the Russian Federation, from the armed forces, and from private companies.
People are different everywhere, but generally speaking, we got along just fine.
It’s interesting that those with combat experience from previous years would sometimes argue with those who had no combat experience, appealing to me. For example: “Stop watching this propaganda.” There’s a TV that never turns off, 24 hours a day, and it’s showing propaganda like “our glorious artillery is crushing the Ukrainian Nazis.” Then suddenly, someone who’s been in combat says, “Turn all that off.” What follows is an unprintable description of what it’s like. “Max knows what this is, and I know what this is, but you don’t, because you weren’t there. You don’t understand at all what you’re watching. It’s utter nonsense. Turn it off. Switch to Muz-TV.” To music, to music videos.
Politics is taboo there. Don’t bring up politics, because we’re all under one roof. Don’t do it. The prisoners of war were condemned, as was made clear to us very quickly: “You don’t belong in our world at all. I mean, you don’t fit into the common fund, or anything else, or the caste system. On a purely human level, though, if you need anything, just ask.”
“Shall we be friends?” Actually, after the verdict, it was easier to serve my time. That’s when I first came across some books, because my cellmates had them. I saw the pretrial detention center librarian for the first time. That’s because the cells there are normal, and things there are more or less the same as what happens to inmates in pretrial detention centers. Things are completely different for prisoners of war at the pretrial detention center. There, they’re held under a completely different status.
When I arrived at the “Vakhrusheve-2” penal colony (formerly known as Krasnoluchskaya, then Vakhrusheve. It used to be VK-19; now it’s Russia’s Penal Colony No. 2), an investigator called each of us in for a meeting. They photographed us there—tattoos, scars—and conducted a preliminary interview. The conversation was calm, quite friendly—as much as possible under these circumstances. They asked how I felt about the people of Donbas, “how I feel about the Russian language, about Russia,” and things like that. And the conversation ended with the investigator saying, “Well, then, let’s be friends.”
I asked if there was a library, what kinds of books were there, and what the general conditions of detention were like. “Shall we be friends?” he asked. I said, “We’ll wait for the exchange.” He said, “Well, okay, fine.”
By the way, I told him that I needed them to inform my lawyer of my whereabouts. It’s not just that they’re required to do this. I need to get in touch with him because I may still have an appeal pending. He said that after completing the two-week quarantine, I should ask about it—inquire through the squad leader, the administration representative in charge of a specific squad, a specific barracks.
Two weeks later, I did just that. That squad leader took my lawyer’s contact information—phone number and all that—and came back after a while. Of course, I thought they wouldn’t let me talk to my lawyer, but at least they’d tell me where I was. He [the squad leader] said that, unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to reach the lawyer. I said, “Wait, just tell me—if it’s not possible, then it’s not possible.” He said, “No, no, no—why can’t I? I can; I tried, but someone was on the line there, and someone else kept hanging up on me.” Then he started going on about text messages and mobile carriers—which ones have coverage here and which ones don’t. In short, the whole thing was just very disorganized.
I insisted that they try again—once, twice, and three times. And for several weeks, he kept coming to me and saying that they were trying to do it, but something wasn’t working out. In the end, he said, “A new staff member is handling your case; here’s her middle name—though I’m not sure if that’s correct—and I’m no longer involved in this.” What case?! All he had to do was pick up the phone and call the person. That’s all. There was no case to handle.
After that, I wrote a formal request to the prison warden stating that I needed to contact my lawyer—I have the right to do so. I have a case pending in the court of cassation, and I asked that they grant me this opportunity. There was no response to this request. I wrote another one; I realized they wouldn’t let me speak with him. But prison staff assured me that they would, of course, inform him of my whereabouts. So, two written requests, preceded by about a month of verbal communication, yielded nothing. But later, in December, I found out that, as it turned out, they didn’t just refuse to let me contact him— they hadn’t notified my lawyer or anyone else, and that as far as the outside world was concerned, I had simply vanished. All this time, I was being held at the Krasny Luch penal colony in Vakhrushevo, and I was trying just as hard to let people know I was still alive.
Part 8: The Exchange
“I really wanted to believe it, but I couldn’t”
I found out completely out of the blue. Everyone was waiting—they wait every day. As always, rumors of varying degrees of absurdity or credibility constantly circulate among all prisoners, not just the captives.
But we had a morning roll call. At 9:00 a.m., we lined up in the local sector near the barracks for roll call. We were just getting ready to switch to our winter uniforms, so everyone had to be wearing hats, pea coats, and so on. Immediately after that, we were summoned to the duty station, where we were told that Sergei [another prisoner of war] and I had half an hour to pack our things because we were being transported to a transit camp. When we asked which transit camp and where we were going, they said they didn’t know.
There were rumors it was a hospital, because there had been a medical incident earlier—a minor heart attack. The administration promised the ambulance doctor who arrived that I would be taken to the hospital. It was obvious that they weren’t going to take me anywhere. And my friend, who had been released, also needed medical attention. But we knew they wouldn’t take us to a hospital. Another possibility was that they’d take us on a transfer, somewhere into Russian territory. Rumors about that circulated from time to time. Well, and the third possibility was this one. I really wanted to believe it, but I couldn’t bring myself to.
Later, when they took us to another prison colony in the Luhansk region, where they searched us very thoroughly once again—much more thoroughly than anywhere or at any time before— including an examination of all body cavities—all of that—and they went through everything, taking every letter out of its envelope to see what was inside. At the same time, they called me over and led me into the next room, and made us sign some papers again without reading them, but I managed to see that it was a blank form with “Certificate of Release” written at the top. And that’s when I began to realize that, it seemed, it was true after all. And that was it.
We’d actually already figured it out when we heard that we’d arrived at the airfield. And then they threw the “Azov” guys from the police van—who were in summer uniforms—in with us. They took absolutely everything from them, and it was cold. They held us for a long time; that was the hardest part. We spent a day in the police van, half of it with six of us crammed into a single compartment—we couldn’t even turn around. We had our bags with us because we were being transported to a detention center, unlike those “Azov” guys. At least we were able to clothe them, thanks to the fact that we had some clothes: we managed to give them some sweaters to warm them up a little.
Then they tied our hands and blindfolded us with duct tape. We thought they were going to load us onto a plane, but something went wrong.
They loaded us back into the “cubes,” and that’s how we spent the evening, night, or morning—unable to move, bound in that duct tape. The whole time, there was no water or food. Not a single sip, nothing at all. The atmosphere was pretty rough—physically, I mean. I just hoped that among the others in the other cups, there wasn’t a single heart-shaped one, because I think if someone in there started feeling sick, it could ultimately—purely pragmatically—derail the exchange. But no, everyone held out.
Then the plane, then an extremely uncomfortable but joyful journey—also, in fact, by plane. We didn’t know where we were, but based on the time—and basically, how long we’d been flying and what it was like—it was clear where we were. And Belarus. We realized it was Belarus. Well, that was it; from there, it was just a matter of a few hours.
We had winter hats pulled down over our eyes: they were pulled down to our ears and taped over with duct tape. And our hands were bound with tape. [They untied our eyes] when they put us on the bus and brought us food—it was Russian army rations—but they told us not to lift our heads. We could take off our hats, eat, and put them back on, but we weren’t allowed to lift our heads.
There [on the way to the border], the treatment was already different. There was a bus there, not a police van; there were seats, not benches; and there was already food—Russian military rations. I mean, this was food—real food! There was water there, too.
“When I got off the bus, I was, of course, thinking about them—about those who were left behind there.”
As for why I, specifically, was exchanged—all these questions about who they exchange, what criteria they use, what and whom they want—these are all very interesting, very important questions, because future exchanges depend on them, but we can only speculate. Only those who are involved know the answers.
I think that [in my case] the solidarity campaign played a role. I’m certain of that. But these are just my thoughts. And besides that, there are, of course, other factors, but I can only guess at them. So it would be speculative.
I really did attract a lot of attention. That is, both I and, let’s say, the detained OSCE staff members—former members of the OSCE Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine, Maxim Petrov and Dmitry Shabanov. Shabanov was a security assistant, and Petrov was an interpreter. The OSCE withdrew its observers following Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. However, the “LPR” authorities unilaterally banned the OSCE’s activities in the region and detained two of its staff members. In September 2022, the “LPR Supreme Court” sentenced Maxim Petrov and Dmitry Shabanov to 13 years in prison on charges of treason. Petrov was accused of allegedly passing materials concerning the 2nd Army Corps of the “People’s Militia”—which constitute state secrets—to an “American supervisor” from the mission. Shabanov is accused of “passing on classified military information to representatives of foreign intelligence services and acting to the detriment of the republic’s security.” The OSCE is demanding the immediate release of those still held captive there—who, in fact, are prisoners who have already been convicted. Clearly, as I now understand, given the scale of the support campaign, he really did attract attention. Perhaps they wanted to get rid of this irritating factor in this way; that’s also possible.
As for the fact that I’m a “media figure”—and I’m quoting here—“media figure” is exactly what this Investigative Committee official told me when he came to see me before the appeals court. And that’s when I realized that people on the outside really are talking about me—not just mentioning me once or twice, but talking about me a lot. He said, “Well, you’re a media personality,” or something like “famous” or along those lines, and it turned out that, yeah… And in my lawyer’s appeal brief, I read a reference to materials from the publication “Grati.” I was very pleased by the very fact that the material existed, but the main thing was that everything had been established absolutely clearly, and everything mentioned in the appeal was true. This material was then cited during the appellate trial, in the cassation proceedings, and in the relevant court documents.
This is the first exchange with our colony [Vakhrusheve-2]. We were all really looking forward to it; we talked about it a lot. The guys said that if even one person from here were exchanged, we’d know that the colony had been “thawed out” and that the process had begun. So, of course, I knew that those who remained would find out immediately—or very quickly—that an exchange was taking place, and they’d be happy. But I still thought about them. And when I got on the bus, and when I got off the bus, I was, of course, thinking about them—about those who were left behind. It couldn’t be any other way.
I asked myself when I would cry [after my release], even while I was still sitting there. And everyone who’s waiting imagines what it will be like. I thought: What will happen when I step onto the ground, when I get on the bus?
It was simple, natural. Of course, I’m in Ukraine. Hooray! Finally! I’d imagined this so many times—here it is… It turns out that’s how it happens.
On the other hand, it’s still a process… For example, it wasn’t until a week later that I finally felt like I was actually experiencing this as reality. And it’s a gradual process. Every day, you sink deeper into the realization that what’s behind you is truly behind you, and you’re here.
***
This article was produced with the support of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Netherlands
I said that I wasn’t going to do it; I had no desire to sign or write anything like that. Are they going to force me? He said, “No, we’re not the Gestapo here; everything is completely voluntary, and it’s entirely up to me.” But if I don’t refuse, there will, of course, be consequences.
For example, even if we imagine—he says—that your appeal will succeed, although, of course, it won’t. And even if we imagine that the court will hear it, although, of course, it won’t. What happens next? The case will be sent back to the trial court for reconsideration. That’s the only thing you can do within the legal system. And accordingly, if it’s sent back for further investigation, the interrogations will be repeated. Do you remember your first interrogation in the case? He asked me that. Of course, I remembered my first interrogation in the case—even though it never made it into the case file—but I remembered that first interrogation. It was exactly that stressful interrogation. Do I want to go through that again? If I insist on filing a complaint, then, in fact, that’s a very real possibility. Do I want to go back to that first interrogation with all its details? I said, of course not.
“Well, then think about it,” he said to me, “especially since you’re still here and haven’t been exchanged solely because your lawyer filed an appeal. If he hadn’t filed it, you would have already been exchanged.”
I understood that to believe them would be to disrespect myself, as they say. But, in principle, the fact that it was likely—that this could indeed have somehow influenced the unresolved nature of the trial and the sentence, leading to further manipulation of me— well, that could very well have been the case. Nevertheless, I refused to sign a waiver of the appeal. He said, “Sit down, think it over.” I sat down, thought it over, reviewed my case file, and they took it away. I left—or handed back, I don’t remember which—those blank sheets of paper to the court clerk who was sitting there.
While he [the Investigative Committee representative] was speaking, there were security guards, the escort, and the court clerk present in the courtroom. She asked, “Who are you?” He simply said, “I’m from the Investigative Committee.” She paused for a moment and said, “Oh, okay.” And right there in front of her, he basically told her the whole story. They were staring at the floor the whole time, trying to pretend they couldn’t hear a thing. I handed over the blank sheets of paper and the pen. Either he or one of the security guards said, “Oh, so you didn’t write it after all.” Me: “No, I didn’t write it.”
There was a moment when I was debating whether to write it or not. Maybe I should really refuse, and they’ll replace me, but trusting them would be sheer folly. Most importantly, I understood that such a statement—especially the part claiming that the lawyer supposedly acted against my will, or that the fact we had no contact didn’t mean he acted against my will—wasn’t true. I fully agreed with his decision to file an appeal and was pleased about it. Such a statement could have had consequences for him, because, in theory, the bar association to which he belongs could have taken up this statement for review, and it could have ended badly for him, at least professionally. Of course, I didn’t want that. We weren’t acquainted yet, but he did everything he could to secure my release. And I’m very grateful to him, by the way. That’s how it was.
But when we consulted with him after this incident, ahead of the appeal hearing, so to speak, it turned out that my cell phone logs for June 4 were already available. And these logs showed that I was in Kyiv, not in Severodonetsk at all. But they hadn’t yet been properly certified. In other words, they were just copies—scans, so to speak—of the documents. And he said that the court might simply refuse to accept them on that technicality. We had no illusions that the appeals court would make any radical changes to the case. We understood perfectly well that these verdicts in these cases aren’t actually written in court. But it was still worth at least trying.
Well, and then there were those words—that, supposedly, they wouldn’t change my sentence as long as the legal proceedings were ongoing. After all, there might have been some grain of truth in that. And it was clear that, indeed, if the court were to suddenly take it into consideration, it would mean a retrial, and it would last quite a long time—an indefinite period. Because a retrial—and even more so a new investigation, as they would call it—could simply mean that I would be held in pretrial detention for, in principle, an almost indefinite period of time. I would just sit there; nothing would happen, my detention would be extended—and that’s it.
With that in mind, I said that it would probably be better for me not to insist on the point about self-incrimination, but to give it a few months. In other words, I said that if, in a few months, there were no changes to the court’s verdict or the appellate decision—no deal or hints of one regarding me—then we would file a cassation appeal. In fact, I asked him for that. We agreed on this. And that’s exactly what happened.
In the cassation appeal, of course, the focus will be on what actually happened. And so, nothing happened; I was sent to a penal colony, and it was clear that I was simply serving my sentence there, just like our other prisoners of war. Especially since it later turned out that they had completely lost track of me. But it became clear that nothing was happening. So, at the appeal hearing—as they say in legal jargon—I “went all out,” meaning I challenged everything and basically told it exactly as it happened.
[The appeal hearing]—it was a shock, to be honest. I had some sheets of paper; I just wrote on them with a pen right away. First of all, I suddenly saw that they were letting people into the courtroom—that my acquaintances, my friends, my family, and my colleagues were there. They had come in! And, of course, when it became clear that during the breaks—and there were breaks—we could talk… I mean, that was my first somewhat normal contact with the outside world.
They let me call my parents once. I had to provide a copy of my passport. That’s how I found out that my passport—which, along with my officer’s ID, had been confiscated during my captivity—had somehow been lost by them, just like almost everyone else’s. And they demanded that I figure out how to get a copy of my passport—via email or something else. If I didn’t come up with a solution by the day after tomorrow, then—again, the same old story—I’d get my ass kicked. And I mean that seriously. If I come up with a solution, then they’ll let me make a call. And I remembered how I could try to do this through a third party. Of course, I really didn’t want to drag anyone—neither colleagues, nor friends, nor family—into this mess. But I managed it anyway. The only phone number I remembered was my mother’s. They let me call her. It was in September 2022, and the call lasted only 20–30 seconds, but she heard me, and I heard her.
I found out then that, as it turned out, there was already some kind of group—a chat, so to speak—about me. I mean, I already knew people remembered me. The main thing for me was to hear whether they were alive and well. A huge weight was lifted off my shoulders, to be honest, because when you’re sitting in isolation, all sorts of thoughts go through your head. I wasn’t letting myself think the worst, but those thoughts just creep in on their own—and here, things became calmer. And I was absolutely certain that they knew about me and remembered me, but being certain simply because you know these people is one thing, and when you actually get confirmation—that’s another. But that was the only exception. Before that video call [in the appeals court], I had nothing. I saw people; I was able to communicate with them at least a little and show them something.
Part 7: Pretrial Detention Center and Prison
“Did you fight with ‘Wagner’?”
Conditions at the pretrial detention center changed drastically. The hardest part was the first few months leading up to October [2022]. There was a period when all prisoners of war were regularly subjected to “cleansing.” Prisoners of war are held separately, in a separate “wing”: the so-called “frozen cells,” meaning they are completely cut off from information. There’s a difference in how these cells are treated at the detention center.
And there was a period of constant psychological and physical pressure, including being forced out into the “prodol” once or twice a day, squats, “flip to the right,” “flip to the left”—you had to fall on the correct side, and if you didn’t, you risked being forced to do push-ups on the floor. There were all sorts of things like that. Some guys from the large “cells”—where there were over 20 people—would pass out. Sometimes they’d be doused with water; among them were members of the “300,” including the heavyweights—all sorts of things happened there. We had a “T-junction.” By the time they reached us at the end of the corridor, they were clearly already exhausted.
There were different situations, too, but, in short, the food was very poor, and the treatment depended on who was dealing with you—but all sorts of things happened. Then it suddenly stopped. It just stopped, and they didn’t even come to see us anymore. [This happened] in October 2022, after the “LPR” joined the Russian Federation.
Things got a little calmer, but our daily living conditions remained just as bad. Especially in the winter—we spent the winter there. Part of the windowpane in our cell was broken, so snow blew in, and icicles formed. It was very cold, but we managed to cope somehow, wrapping ourselves in our pea coats. It wasn’t like we were freezing to death. There was a period when we were quite hungry, and a period when it was quite cold. There were periods like that.
Then things gradually started to get better, and after the verdict, I was transferred to be held with ordinary criminals, so to speak, rather than with prisoners of war.
I was the first one to be transferred to the Luhansk pretrial detention center. Well, not the very first, actually—there was another [Ukrainian prisoner of war] there, in a different cell. But people reacted to me as if I were some kind of oddity: “How long? 13 [years in prison]?! Are you kidding me?!” But it was already much easier. First of all, physically, because people were receiving care packages, as required by law, and prisoners always thrive on what they share with one another. They support each other. Even if they have completely different lifestyles, aside from certain peculiarities of this caste system.
From time to time, there were those with whom arguments would flare up—not on my initiative. I quickly realized that arguing made no sense, but agreeing didn’t make sense either. In other words, I didn’t provoke these conversations. If they started, I simply responded. I said what I knew, what I thought. Pretending to think something I didn’t make no sense, and besides, I didn’t see the need for it. People are different. There were some very unpleasant moments, but in the end, if we were in the same space with that person, we’d find common ground on everyday matters.
Especially since the people I met could voice three contradictory statements within the span of half an hour. At the same time, they didn’t see any contradiction in this.
For example, someone from Luhansk might say that things were actually best when we were part of Ukraine: “Back then, it was great. Luhansk—that was a city. Whatever it was like, it was developing. We had such great prospects.” The same people might say, “You came to kill us; we didn’t ask you to liberate us,” while at the same time cursing “Lugandonia.” All at the same time. And curse both the Russian leadership and the war. Except, of course, for one person. One person is absolutely untouchable to everyone. That person is the monarch, the tsar. The tsar is simply the tsar; he is not the president. I’m referring to Putin.
There was a moment when they were taking me to the appeals court, when they threw me onto a bus along with the “Wagnerites” (Wagner PMC)—it was interesting. But they treated me with respect. Like: “Is this a Ukrainian? A real Ukrainian? So, you fought in the war, huh? Wow, hello there! Yeah, come here. Did you fight with Wagner?” — “I didn’t get the chance.” “And if you had?” — “Well, if I had to, I would have.” — “Okay, got it. Got any cigarettes?” — “No cigarettes, but here’s some coffee.”
A lot of people fighting on the other side come here on criminal cases from various regions of the Russian Federation, from the armed forces, and from private companies.
People are different everywhere, but generally speaking, we got along just fine.
It’s interesting that those with combat experience from previous years would sometimes argue with those who had no combat experience, appealing to me. For example: “Stop watching this propaganda.” There’s a TV that never turns off, 24 hours a day, and it’s showing propaganda like “our glorious artillery is crushing the Ukrainian Nazis.” Then suddenly, someone who’s been in combat says, “Turn all that off.” What follows is an unprintable description of what it’s like. “Max knows what this is, and I know what this is, but you don’t, because you weren’t there. You don’t understand at all what you’re watching. It’s utter nonsense. Turn it off. Switch to Muz-TV.” To music, to music videos.
Politics is taboo there. Don’t bring up politics, because we’re all under one roof. Don’t do it. The prisoners of war were condemned, as was made clear to us very quickly: “You don’t belong in our world at all. I mean, you don’t fit into the common fund, or anything else, or the caste system. On a purely human level, though, if you need anything, just ask.”
“Shall we be friends?” Actually, after the verdict, it was easier to serve my time. That’s when I first came across some books, because my cellmates had them. I saw the pretrial detention center librarian for the first time. That’s because the cells there are normal, and things there are more or less the same as what happens to inmates in pretrial detention centers. Things are completely different for prisoners of war at the pretrial detention center. There, they’re held under a completely different status.
When I arrived at the “Vakhrusheve-2” penal colony (formerly known as Krasnoluchskaya, then Vakhrusheve. It used to be VK-19; now it’s Russia’s Penal Colony No. 2), an investigator called each of us in for a meeting. They photographed us there—tattoos, scars—and conducted a preliminary interview. The conversation was calm, quite friendly—as much as possible under these circumstances. They asked how I felt about the people of Donbas, “how I feel about the Russian language, about Russia,” and things like that. And the conversation ended with the investigator saying, “Well, then, let’s be friends.”
I asked if there was a library, what kinds of books were there, and what the general conditions of detention were like. “Shall we be friends?” he asked. I said, “We’ll wait for the exchange.” He said, “Well, okay, fine.”
By the way, I told him that I needed them to inform my lawyer of my whereabouts. It’s not just that they’re required to do this. I need to get in touch with him because I may still have an appeal pending. He said that after completing the two-week quarantine, I should ask about it—inquire through the squad leader, the administration representative in charge of a specific squad, a specific barracks.
Two weeks later, I did just that. That squad leader took my lawyer’s contact information—phone number and all that—and came back after a while. Of course, I thought they wouldn’t let me talk to my lawyer, but at least they’d tell me where I was. He [the squad leader] said that, unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to reach the lawyer. I said, “Wait, just tell me—if it’s not possible, then it’s not possible.” He said, “No, no, no—why can’t I? I can; I tried, but someone was on the line there, and someone else kept hanging up on me.” Then he started going on about text messages and mobile carriers—which ones have coverage here and which ones don’t. In short, the whole thing was just very disorganized.
I insisted that they try again—once, twice, and three times. And for several weeks, he kept coming to me and saying that they were trying to do it, but something wasn’t working out. In the end, he said, “A new staff member is handling your case; here’s her middle name—though I’m not sure if that’s correct—and I’m no longer involved in this.” What case?! All he had to do was pick up the phone and call the person. That’s all. There was no case to handle.
After that, I wrote a formal request to the prison warden stating that I needed to contact my lawyer—I have the right to do so. I have a case pending in the court of cassation, and I asked that they grant me this opportunity. There was no response to this request. I wrote another one; I realized they wouldn’t let me speak with him. But prison staff assured me that they would, of course, inform him of my whereabouts. So, two written requests, preceded by about a month of verbal communication, yielded nothing. But later, in December, I found out that, as it turned out, they didn’t just refuse to let me contact him— they hadn’t notified my lawyer or anyone else, and that as far as the outside world was concerned, I had simply vanished. All this time, I was being held at the Krasny Luch penal colony in Vakhrushevo, and I was trying just as hard to let people know I was still alive.
Part 8: The Exchange
“I really wanted to believe it, but I couldn’t”
I found out completely out of the blue. Everyone was waiting—they wait every day. As always, rumors of varying degrees of absurdity or credibility constantly circulate among all prisoners, not just the captives.
But we had a morning roll call. At 9:00 a.m., we lined up in the local sector near the barracks for roll call. We were just getting ready to switch to our winter uniforms, so everyone had to be wearing hats, pea coats, and so on. Immediately after that, we were summoned to the duty station, where we were told that Sergei [another prisoner of war] and I had half an hour to pack our things because we were being transported to a transit camp. When we asked which transit camp and where we were going, they said they didn’t know.
There were rumors it was a hospital, because there had been a medical incident earlier—a minor heart attack. The administration promised the ambulance doctor who arrived that I would be taken to the hospital. It was obvious that they weren’t going to take me anywhere. And my friend, who had been released, also needed medical attention. But we knew they wouldn’t take us to a hospital. Another possibility was that they’d take us on a transfer, somewhere into Russian territory. Rumors about that circulated from time to time. Well, and the third possibility was this one. I really wanted to believe it, but I couldn’t bring myself to.
Later, when they took us to another prison colony in the Luhansk region, where they searched us very thoroughly once again—much more thoroughly than anywhere or at any time before— including an examination of all body cavities—all of that—and they went through everything, taking every letter out of its envelope to see what was inside. At the same time, they called me over and led me into the next room, and made us sign some papers again without reading them, but I managed to see that it was a blank form with “Certificate of Release” written at the top. And that’s when I began to realize that, it seemed, it was true after all. And that was it.
We’d actually already figured it out when we heard that we’d arrived at the airfield. And then they threw the “Azov” guys from the police van—who were in summer uniforms—in with us. They took absolutely everything from them, and it was cold. They held us for a long time; that was the hardest part. We spent a day in the police van, half of it with six of us crammed into a single compartment—we couldn’t even turn around. We had our bags with us because we were being transported to a detention center, unlike those “Azov” guys. At least we were able to clothe them, thanks to the fact that we had some clothes: we managed to give them some sweaters to warm them up a little.
Then they tied our hands and blindfolded us with duct tape. We thought they were going to load us onto a plane, but something went wrong.
They loaded us back into the “cubes,” and that’s how we spent the evening, night, or morning—unable to move, bound in that duct tape. The whole time, there was no water or food. Not a single sip, nothing at all. The atmosphere was pretty rough—physically, I mean. I just hoped that among the others in the other cups, there wasn’t a single heart-shaped one, because I think if someone in there started feeling sick, it could ultimately—purely pragmatically—derail the exchange. But no, everyone held out.
Then the plane, then an extremely uncomfortable but joyful journey—also, in fact, by plane. We didn’t know where we were, but based on the time—and basically, how long we’d been flying and what it was like—it was clear where we were. And Belarus. We realized it was Belarus. Well, that was it; from there, it was just a matter of a few hours.
We had winter hats pulled down over our eyes: they were pulled down to our ears and taped over with duct tape. And our hands were bound with tape. [They untied our eyes] when they put us on the bus and brought us food—it was Russian army rations—but they told us not to lift our heads. We could take off our hats, eat, and put them back on, but we weren’t allowed to lift our heads.
There [on the way to the border], the treatment was already different. There was a bus there, not a police van; there were seats, not benches; and there was already food—Russian military rations. I mean, this was food—real food! There was water there, too.
“When I got off the bus, I was, of course, thinking about them—about those who were left behind there.”
As for why I, specifically, was exchanged—all these questions about who they exchange, what criteria they use, what and whom they want—these are all very interesting, very important questions, because future exchanges depend on them, but we can only speculate. Only those who are involved know the answers.
I think that [in my case] the solidarity campaign played a role. I’m certain of that. But these are just my thoughts. And besides that, there are, of course, other factors, but I can only guess at them. So it would be speculative.
I really did attract a lot of attention. That is, both I and, let’s say, the detained OSCE staff members—former members of the OSCE Special Monitoring Mission to Ukraine, Maxim Petrov and Dmitry Shabanov. Shabanov was a security assistant, and Petrov was an interpreter. The OSCE withdrew its observers following Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. However, the “LPR” authorities unilaterally banned the OSCE’s activities in the region and detained two of its staff members. In September 2022, the “LPR Supreme Court” sentenced Maxim Petrov and Dmitry Shabanov to 13 years in prison on charges of treason. Petrov was accused of allegedly passing materials concerning the 2nd Army Corps of the “People’s Militia”—which constitute state secrets—to an “American supervisor” from the mission. Shabanov is accused of “passing on classified military information to representatives of foreign intelligence services and acting to the detriment of the republic’s security.” The OSCE is demanding the immediate release of those still held captive there—who, in fact, are prisoners who have already been convicted. Clearly, as I now understand, given the scale of the support campaign, he really did attract attention. Perhaps they wanted to get rid of this irritating factor in this way; that’s also possible.
As for the fact that I’m a “media figure”—and I’m quoting here—“media figure” is exactly what this Investigative Committee official told me when he came to see me before the appeals court. And that’s when I realized that people on the outside really are talking about me—not just mentioning me once or twice, but talking about me a lot. He said, “Well, you’re a media personality,” or something like “famous” or along those lines, and it turned out that, yeah… And in my lawyer’s appeal brief, I read a reference to materials from the publication “Grati.” I was very pleased by the very fact that the material existed, but the main thing was that everything had been established absolutely clearly, and everything mentioned in the appeal was true. This material was then cited during the appellate trial, in the cassation proceedings, and in the relevant court documents.
This is the first exchange with our colony [Vakhrusheve-2]. We were all really looking forward to it; we talked about it a lot. The guys said that if even one person from here were exchanged, we’d know that the colony had been “thawed out” and that the process had begun. So, of course, I knew that those who remained would find out immediately—or very quickly—that an exchange was taking place, and they’d be happy. But I still thought about them. And when I got on the bus, and when I got off the bus, I was, of course, thinking about them—about those who were left behind. It couldn’t be any other way.
I asked myself when I would cry [after my release], even while I was still sitting there. And everyone who’s waiting imagines what it will be like. I thought: What will happen when I step onto the ground, when I get on the bus?
It was simple, natural. Of course, I’m in Ukraine. Hooray! Finally! I’d imagined this so many times—here it is… It turns out that’s how it happens.
On the other hand, it’s still a process… For example, it wasn’t until a week later that I finally felt like I was actually experiencing this as reality. And it’s a gradual process. Every day, you sink deeper into the realization that what’s behind you is truly behind you, and you’re here.
***
This article was produced with the support of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Netherlands
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.