“They said there were options to choose from: either rape, or the murder of civilians, or something else.” The story of Azov fighter Dmytro Danilchuk and his fabricated case in Russia
Source: Grati
Author: Anastasia Moskvichova
On July 4, 2025, one of the defenders of Mariupol, Dmytro Danylychuk, a fighter with the Azov Brigade of the Ukrainian National Guard, returned from Russian captivity. He was brought from Siberia for the prisoner exchange: he had been transferred there following a verdict by the Southern District Military Court in Rostov-on-Don, which found him guilty of alleged participation in a terrorist organization and training in terrorist activities. In reality, Russia—which has included “Azov” on its list of extremist and terrorist organizations—effectively convicted Danylychuk for serving in the Ukrainian military — in violation of international humanitarian law, which prohibits parties to armed conflicts from prosecuting enemy military personnel unless they have committed war crimes. Dmytro’s case was heard by Judge Kostyantyn Prostov, who in May and September 2025 was charged in absentia in Ukraine with violating the laws and customs of war, specifically the requirements of the Geneva Convention regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. Currently, the Prostov case—in which Dmytro Danylychuk is one of the victims—is being heard in absentia by the Shevchenkivskyi District Court of Kyiv.
After several months in a penal colony north of the Arctic Circle, Danylychuk was taken to meet with an FSB officer. He recalls that the officer first spoke of a possible prisoner exchange, and then tried to force him to take the blame for yet another case—and to fabricate the circumstances of it.
“‘Grati’ spoke with Dmytro Danilchuk about Azovstal and Olenivka, ‘press huts’ in Russian detention facilities, and other methods of pressure on prisoners, as well as the fabricated ‘terrorism’ case. We are publishing his account.
The battles for Mariupol and his
capture I joined the army in early 2018, went straight to “Azov,” and stayed there. I took part in combat operations while the Joint Forces Operation (JFO) was still underway.
On the Svitlodarsk Arc—the Svitlodarsk Arc is a line of defense in the Donetsk region to which ATO forces withdrew from Debaltseve in early 2015. It has been reported on multiple occasions that control over this territory was of strategic importance: to the north lies the Vuhlehirsk Thermal Power Plant, and to the south—the city of Debaltseve—where he sustained a gunshot wound from a sniper. After rehabilitation, I returned to duty. By 2022, I had already experienced it all in Mariupol.
I arrived at Azovstal on April 15, 2022. Our commanders gathered us from our positions at night and told us that we were all being moved to Azovstal, since we had been cut off from our own forces: some were at Azovstal, while we were in the city center. Then we set out in a convoy, which came under artillery fire; most of our vehicles were burned, and there were many killed and wounded. We made it to Azovstal, and once everyone had gathered there, we figured out who was where. And we began our defensive operations from the very beginning.
My last battle with the enemy was on April 25. After that, there were no more infantry battles; instead, we were constantly under fire from artillery, as well as from aircraft and naval artillery. We went out several times to help our comrades, but nothing came of it, so we returned.
Then rumors started circulating that there would be an opportunity to surrender. And after May 10, I was [officially] notified of this.
I was taken prisoner on May 20. It was done according to lists; we left in groups. At first, the “DPR” [group] was there with the Russians—they recorded us in a logbook, and our people recorded in a logbook who had left. We left, and they searched us. Present were members of the Wagner Group and someone from our counterintelligence. Then they led us onto buses and drove us away.
Our escorts were from Dagestan. At first, they went through everything we had, took the better items for themselves, and left the worse ones behind. When we arrived, they gave us cigarettes, water, and things like that.
“In Olenivka, some people were treated harshly”
On May 21, we were brought to Olenivka. Olenivka is the unofficial name for Volnovakha Penitentiary No. 120 in the occupied part of Donetsk Oblast. On the night of July 29, 2022, an explosion there killed about 50 Ukrainian prisoners of war from the National Guard’s “Azov” Brigade, and another 150 were wounded. By evening, I had already settled into the barracks.
In Olenivka, the Russians treated some people harshly; they were immediately taken to the disciplinary isolation unit (DIZO), where they were beaten, tortured, and subjected to other abuses. I was interrogated two or three times: the Investigative Committee came and questioned me about what had happened in Mariupol. There was no strict regime as such; we were allowed to sleep. The food was poor, there was no drinking water, and there were no bathrooms.
At one point—as I understand it, the lists were somewhat random—they selected people, up to two hundred men, and moved them to another barracks. They stayed there for a day and a half, I think, and that’s when the attack happened.
That barracks was right next door. When the attack hit, the Russians fired two “Grad” rocket pods right under our windows—directly beneath our area; we could see everything. They fired two “Grad” rocket pods in our direction, toward where the Ukrainian troops were stationed; as I understand it, they wanted to make it [look] as though our side had fired back and hit the barracks, and people had burned to death there. No help was provided—nothing. The [wounded] were bleeding to death, while these guys were walking around, drinking coffee right next to them, filming it on video, and laughing.
Those with minor injuries were sent to the DIZO; they were held in that same colony. There were about 30 of them, and the cell was about two by two meters, no bigger, with a single bathroom; they didn’t have any water either—nothing. And they stayed there until they were transferred: some to Donetsk, and others, like me, to Taganrog.
“They beat us twice a day; some more often, depending on who was available.”
I spent about three months in Olenivka, and on September 26, they transported us by truck to Taganrog. First, they blindfolded us and tied our hands, threw us into the back of the truck, and brought us to the pretrial detention center there. There, we went through what they called “intake”: they beat us for maybe six hours, and then finally took us to our cells. I spent 19 months in that cell. There were seven of us there.
Everyone had their own bed. At first, they didn’t take us to the bathhouse or anywhere else; they didn’t give us razors to shave, and they didn’t cut our hair. We sat like that for about two months. They beat us twice a day; some more often, depending on how they felt. Later, they gave us soap and took us to the bathhouse. The food was so bad that, I don’t know, even a dog wouldn’t eat it in the outside world, but that’s what they gave us. There was a bathroom, and there was water. Later, they started handing out toilet paper, a toothbrush, and a towel.
Then I was transferred to Rostov-on-Don. First, to some kind of room where the FSB investigators were. There, they untied my eyes, told me I would be put on trial, and drew up some kind of report. A lawyer arrived and began questioning me, just as the investigator had done before.
After that, I and two others were transferred to a facility where detainees are held until their court hearing. They took us to court, imposed a so-called pretrial detention measure for two months—or so they said—and dumped us in Rostov, at SIZO-1. I walked into the cell; there were about thirty men being held there. They were prisoners from “Azov,” “Aidar,” and “Donbas”—there were also a few people from those units, several freelance SBU employees, and civilians who had been detained in 2016–2017, mostly in [occupied] Donetsk. The cell was located in the basement. There was basically nowhere to sleep, because there were only about eleven sleeping spots for all of us.
That said, the conditions there were better [than what I’d experienced before], because you could make yourself some coffee—if there was any—or tea. And the food was better. Those whose relatives were in the occupied territories—those from Donetsk or Melitopol, for example—could receive care packages. Their relatives could come for visits and would come to see them at court hearings. There was more interaction, and we got some news.
[During all that time] I was often transported with Russian soldiers who had been imprisoned because they had either killed their own people or done something else. They didn’t treat me negatively; they would say, ‘You’re fighting for your country, and we’re fighting for ours.’ One guy was sentenced to 18 years for a double murder; he said, “I’d rather serve 18 years than go to war.”
A closed trial consisting of three hearings and a denial of the appeal
In Rostov, I was tried over three hearings. They sentenced me to 18 years. The trial was closed: the judge, the prosecutor, the court clerk, my lawyer, and some kind of guard—no one else was there, and there was no television coverage.
They asked, “Were you in ‘Azov’?”—“Yes, I was.” And “Azov” is considered a terrorist organization by them. My comrades testified, confirming that I was in “Azov.” They asked, “Did you undergo training?”—“I underwent training.” Well, that’s it—now you’re a terrorist. That’s how everything went.
The first lawyer they assigned to me didn’t show up for the first court hearing; another lawyer came, but she didn’t do anything—she just sat there and listened. She didn’t even talk to me. Then they replaced her, and there was another lawyer who told me, “Don’t cause trouble, and everything will be fine—they’ll exchange you.” “Don’t make a scene”—meaning I shouldn’t say that Russia is bad and so on. I had one hearing via video link—right from the detention center. And at another hearing, I saw that lawyer in person in court.
I wanted to file an appeal to stay in the detention center longer. I was hoping that way I’d be closer to the border, and at some point they’d be able to exchange me. I wrote an appeal, but it probably never made it out of the detention center. Because they have this practice where they don’t let appeals leave the detention center—and before you know it, you’ve been convicted and sent on your way.
Transfer to Norilsk, north of the Arctic Circle
And that was it; then they sent me back to Taganrog for two months. The conditions were better than the first time: we were allowed more, and they beat us less. The administration applied psychological pressure: they forced us to sing the [Russian] national anthem and made us do push-ups.
A visit by prosecutors, public observers, and the Children’s Rights Ombudsman to Taganrog Pretrial Detention Center No. 2, February 2022. Photo: Federal Penitentiary Service Directorate for the Rostov Region of the Russian Federation
Then I was transferred to Rostov, to Pretrial Detention Center No. 5; after Rostov came Voronezh, Samara, Orenburg, Chelyabinsk, and Krasnoyarsk. In Krasnoyarsk, I spent about two weeks in the pretrial detention center attached to the prison with their inmates—or more precisely, one week with them and one week in solitary confinement.
They brought two of us there: me and another Aidar fighter. An officer from the Federal Penitentiary Service spoke with us and told us to sign a document stating that I agreed to report everything that happened to [the administration]; I refused, so they threw me into a cell with Russian inmates so they could “put some pressure” on me.
Then they flew me to Norilsk—that’s north of the Arctic Circle, in the Krasnoyarsk Krai—to the penal colony. And there I was held for about three months with Russian inmates. I was sentenced to “strict regime,” which meant “strict conditions of detention” (Russian: Strogiye usloviya sderzhaniya (SUS)—a special regime in Russian penal colonies intended for prisoners considered particularly dangerous or prone to escape or violating the rules in a strict-regime colony. It’s like a prison: you sit in a cell, you don’t go anywhere. But it was already much easier for me there. There was a TV; I watched some of their news. There was a kettle, so I could make tea.
I was the first of the prisoners to arrive there at that time. There was one other [Ukrainian] from Odesa, but he was imprisoned back in 2021 on terrorism charges; they accused him of having ties to the “Right Sector.” He was sentenced to nine years, and he’s still there to this day.
I remember maybe once or twice when [the Russian prisoners in Norilsk] acted negatively toward me, but they mostly kept their distance; I rarely interacted with them. Others asked questions; they wanted to know what was going on and didn’t want to go to war.
They also made me—well, how should I put it: it was a mix of voluntary and forced—shovel snow. I shoveled snow for about two weeks. It’s almost always winter there; I experienced temperatures as low as minus forty, and even in the first months of summer, there’s still snow here and there. The building had hot water and heating, but it was still cold. At least they gave us all the clothing they were supposed to provide. The administration was kind of picky. I didn’t understand: did they want something from me, or did they just want to find out what was happening in this war?
“They said: ‘Make up a story; if we don’t like it, things will get worse for you.’”
Then an FSB officer arrived and said they’d send me back to Krasnoyarsk, where I’d take a “lie detector” test: supposedly, if I passed and told the truth, they’d exchange me.
I arrived in Krasnoyarsk. I took one “lie detector” test; they asked if I would go back to fight. They said the test showed I would go, but that was the wrong answer, and that I was covering for someone because I hadn’t told them who did what.
And they wanted me to take the blame for the killing of civilians. They said: if you confess, they’ll give you an extra two years, but if you don’t—life in prison.
The FSB investigator’s name was Menshikov—I don’t remember his first name—a colonel. He started spinning this case. It went on for three months. They turned the inmates against me. There’s a term called “press-khata”—I was held in such a “press-khata” with those inmates. For the first two weeks or so, they put a lot of pressure on me: they beat me and forced me to clean the cell, then they eased up on the physical pressure and focused more on psychological pressure. The operatives and investigators told me they’d take me somewhere where I’d be raped. They threatened me with sexual violence.
There was video surveillance everywhere, but then they moved me to a cell where the audio was being recorded. The inmates asked me questions, and I had to answer them.
They wanted me to take the blame for two murders of civilians in Mariupol. They told me I had three options to choose from: either raping civilians, killing civilians, or something else. They said, “Make up a story; if we don’t like it, things will get worse for you.” They liked one story but not the other—they told me to rewrite it. I rewrote it, but I had already been exchanged by that time.
They also forced me to record a video apologizing to “Russian soldiers” and “Russian mothers” for something. TV crews came—I think it was “Rossiya-1”—and filmed a video about me. They gave me some incomprehensible script where I was supposed to say that we had “barrier detachments”—units positioned behind the main forces to prevent soldiers from fleeing the battlefield. They existed in various countries, including the USSR, and I was supposedly a member of such a unit—as if there were TRO soldiers in front of me, and if any of them abandoned their position, I was supposed to shoot them, and that the order had come from our commander. They pointed to a piece of paper: “Say this on camera.”
“Sign the pardon document, but don’t put a date on it.”
And then at some point, they came in the morning and said, “Danylychuk, sign this.” I asked, “What is this?” And it said: “Entry into the territory of the Russian Federation is prohibited for 10 years.” Then, two hours later, they came back and said, “Sign the pardon document, but don’t put a date on it.” I thought then that it would be a while before I was exchanged if I didn’t put a date on it, and besides, how long would it take to get there—a month or a month and a half to the nearest border.
But literally a few hours later, they told me, “Get your things and get out,” and they led me out. I had already seen other prisoners who had been brought from prisons to this detention center; I saw some people I knew. In our presence, our cases were closed; we signed the documents, and we were transported to the airport, where we were handed over to the military police and put on a civilian plane. This time, they didn’t tie our hands or blindfold us.
We flew to Novosibirsk, I think, and there they handcuffed us and started adding more people to the plane. I don’t remember how many times—maybe three or four—we landed and took off; the whole thing lasted about a day and a half. Then they took us into some kind of hangar; we sat there for three or four hours, tied up, while they took roll call by last name. Another plane landed with prisoners. They gathered all of us onto one plane and transported us to Belarus, to Gomel. Once there, they untied our eyes, put us on buses, and took us to the border with Ukraine.
I’m still undergoing rehabilitation. After rehabilitation, there’s supposed to be a three-month leave period, which is granted to everyone who was held captive. Then you decide whether to return to duty or discharge yourself.
I decided to remain in service.
This article was prepared with the support of the International Renaissance Foundation. The views expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the International Renaissance Foundation.
Author: Anastasia Moskvichova
On July 4, 2025, one of the defenders of Mariupol, Dmytro Danylychuk, a fighter with the Azov Brigade of the Ukrainian National Guard, returned from Russian captivity. He was brought from Siberia for the prisoner exchange: he had been transferred there following a verdict by the Southern District Military Court in Rostov-on-Don, which found him guilty of alleged participation in a terrorist organization and training in terrorist activities. In reality, Russia—which has included “Azov” on its list of extremist and terrorist organizations—effectively convicted Danylychuk for serving in the Ukrainian military — in violation of international humanitarian law, which prohibits parties to armed conflicts from prosecuting enemy military personnel unless they have committed war crimes. Dmytro’s case was heard by Judge Kostyantyn Prostov, who in May and September 2025 was charged in absentia in Ukraine with violating the laws and customs of war, specifically the requirements of the Geneva Convention regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. Currently, the Prostov case—in which Dmytro Danylychuk is one of the victims—is being heard in absentia by the Shevchenkivskyi District Court of Kyiv.
After several months in a penal colony north of the Arctic Circle, Danylychuk was taken to meet with an FSB officer. He recalls that the officer first spoke of a possible prisoner exchange, and then tried to force him to take the blame for yet another case—and to fabricate the circumstances of it.
“‘Grati’ spoke with Dmytro Danilchuk about Azovstal and Olenivka, ‘press huts’ in Russian detention facilities, and other methods of pressure on prisoners, as well as the fabricated ‘terrorism’ case. We are publishing his account.
The battles for Mariupol and his
capture I joined the army in early 2018, went straight to “Azov,” and stayed there. I took part in combat operations while the Joint Forces Operation (JFO) was still underway.
On the Svitlodarsk Arc—the Svitlodarsk Arc is a line of defense in the Donetsk region to which ATO forces withdrew from Debaltseve in early 2015. It has been reported on multiple occasions that control over this territory was of strategic importance: to the north lies the Vuhlehirsk Thermal Power Plant, and to the south—the city of Debaltseve—where he sustained a gunshot wound from a sniper. After rehabilitation, I returned to duty. By 2022, I had already experienced it all in Mariupol.
I arrived at Azovstal on April 15, 2022. Our commanders gathered us from our positions at night and told us that we were all being moved to Azovstal, since we had been cut off from our own forces: some were at Azovstal, while we were in the city center. Then we set out in a convoy, which came under artillery fire; most of our vehicles were burned, and there were many killed and wounded. We made it to Azovstal, and once everyone had gathered there, we figured out who was where. And we began our defensive operations from the very beginning.
My last battle with the enemy was on April 25. After that, there were no more infantry battles; instead, we were constantly under fire from artillery, as well as from aircraft and naval artillery. We went out several times to help our comrades, but nothing came of it, so we returned.
Then rumors started circulating that there would be an opportunity to surrender. And after May 10, I was [officially] notified of this.
I was taken prisoner on May 20. It was done according to lists; we left in groups. At first, the “DPR” [group] was there with the Russians—they recorded us in a logbook, and our people recorded in a logbook who had left. We left, and they searched us. Present were members of the Wagner Group and someone from our counterintelligence. Then they led us onto buses and drove us away.
Our escorts were from Dagestan. At first, they went through everything we had, took the better items for themselves, and left the worse ones behind. When we arrived, they gave us cigarettes, water, and things like that.
“In Olenivka, some people were treated harshly”
On May 21, we were brought to Olenivka. Olenivka is the unofficial name for Volnovakha Penitentiary No. 120 in the occupied part of Donetsk Oblast. On the night of July 29, 2022, an explosion there killed about 50 Ukrainian prisoners of war from the National Guard’s “Azov” Brigade, and another 150 were wounded. By evening, I had already settled into the barracks.
In Olenivka, the Russians treated some people harshly; they were immediately taken to the disciplinary isolation unit (DIZO), where they were beaten, tortured, and subjected to other abuses. I was interrogated two or three times: the Investigative Committee came and questioned me about what had happened in Mariupol. There was no strict regime as such; we were allowed to sleep. The food was poor, there was no drinking water, and there were no bathrooms.
At one point—as I understand it, the lists were somewhat random—they selected people, up to two hundred men, and moved them to another barracks. They stayed there for a day and a half, I think, and that’s when the attack happened.
That barracks was right next door. When the attack hit, the Russians fired two “Grad” rocket pods right under our windows—directly beneath our area; we could see everything. They fired two “Grad” rocket pods in our direction, toward where the Ukrainian troops were stationed; as I understand it, they wanted to make it [look] as though our side had fired back and hit the barracks, and people had burned to death there. No help was provided—nothing. The [wounded] were bleeding to death, while these guys were walking around, drinking coffee right next to them, filming it on video, and laughing.
Those with minor injuries were sent to the DIZO; they were held in that same colony. There were about 30 of them, and the cell was about two by two meters, no bigger, with a single bathroom; they didn’t have any water either—nothing. And they stayed there until they were transferred: some to Donetsk, and others, like me, to Taganrog.
“They beat us twice a day; some more often, depending on who was available.”
I spent about three months in Olenivka, and on September 26, they transported us by truck to Taganrog. First, they blindfolded us and tied our hands, threw us into the back of the truck, and brought us to the pretrial detention center there. There, we went through what they called “intake”: they beat us for maybe six hours, and then finally took us to our cells. I spent 19 months in that cell. There were seven of us there.
Everyone had their own bed. At first, they didn’t take us to the bathhouse or anywhere else; they didn’t give us razors to shave, and they didn’t cut our hair. We sat like that for about two months. They beat us twice a day; some more often, depending on how they felt. Later, they gave us soap and took us to the bathhouse. The food was so bad that, I don’t know, even a dog wouldn’t eat it in the outside world, but that’s what they gave us. There was a bathroom, and there was water. Later, they started handing out toilet paper, a toothbrush, and a towel.
Then I was transferred to Rostov-on-Don. First, to some kind of room where the FSB investigators were. There, they untied my eyes, told me I would be put on trial, and drew up some kind of report. A lawyer arrived and began questioning me, just as the investigator had done before.
After that, I and two others were transferred to a facility where detainees are held until their court hearing. They took us to court, imposed a so-called pretrial detention measure for two months—or so they said—and dumped us in Rostov, at SIZO-1. I walked into the cell; there were about thirty men being held there. They were prisoners from “Azov,” “Aidar,” and “Donbas”—there were also a few people from those units, several freelance SBU employees, and civilians who had been detained in 2016–2017, mostly in [occupied] Donetsk. The cell was located in the basement. There was basically nowhere to sleep, because there were only about eleven sleeping spots for all of us.
That said, the conditions there were better [than what I’d experienced before], because you could make yourself some coffee—if there was any—or tea. And the food was better. Those whose relatives were in the occupied territories—those from Donetsk or Melitopol, for example—could receive care packages. Their relatives could come for visits and would come to see them at court hearings. There was more interaction, and we got some news.
[During all that time] I was often transported with Russian soldiers who had been imprisoned because they had either killed their own people or done something else. They didn’t treat me negatively; they would say, ‘You’re fighting for your country, and we’re fighting for ours.’ One guy was sentenced to 18 years for a double murder; he said, “I’d rather serve 18 years than go to war.”
A closed trial consisting of three hearings and a denial of the appeal
In Rostov, I was tried over three hearings. They sentenced me to 18 years. The trial was closed: the judge, the prosecutor, the court clerk, my lawyer, and some kind of guard—no one else was there, and there was no television coverage.
They asked, “Were you in ‘Azov’?”—“Yes, I was.” And “Azov” is considered a terrorist organization by them. My comrades testified, confirming that I was in “Azov.” They asked, “Did you undergo training?”—“I underwent training.” Well, that’s it—now you’re a terrorist. That’s how everything went.
The first lawyer they assigned to me didn’t show up for the first court hearing; another lawyer came, but she didn’t do anything—she just sat there and listened. She didn’t even talk to me. Then they replaced her, and there was another lawyer who told me, “Don’t cause trouble, and everything will be fine—they’ll exchange you.” “Don’t make a scene”—meaning I shouldn’t say that Russia is bad and so on. I had one hearing via video link—right from the detention center. And at another hearing, I saw that lawyer in person in court.
I wanted to file an appeal to stay in the detention center longer. I was hoping that way I’d be closer to the border, and at some point they’d be able to exchange me. I wrote an appeal, but it probably never made it out of the detention center. Because they have this practice where they don’t let appeals leave the detention center—and before you know it, you’ve been convicted and sent on your way.
Transfer to Norilsk, north of the Arctic Circle
And that was it; then they sent me back to Taganrog for two months. The conditions were better than the first time: we were allowed more, and they beat us less. The administration applied psychological pressure: they forced us to sing the [Russian] national anthem and made us do push-ups.
A visit by prosecutors, public observers, and the Children’s Rights Ombudsman to Taganrog Pretrial Detention Center No. 2, February 2022. Photo: Federal Penitentiary Service Directorate for the Rostov Region of the Russian Federation
Then I was transferred to Rostov, to Pretrial Detention Center No. 5; after Rostov came Voronezh, Samara, Orenburg, Chelyabinsk, and Krasnoyarsk. In Krasnoyarsk, I spent about two weeks in the pretrial detention center attached to the prison with their inmates—or more precisely, one week with them and one week in solitary confinement.
They brought two of us there: me and another Aidar fighter. An officer from the Federal Penitentiary Service spoke with us and told us to sign a document stating that I agreed to report everything that happened to [the administration]; I refused, so they threw me into a cell with Russian inmates so they could “put some pressure” on me.
Then they flew me to Norilsk—that’s north of the Arctic Circle, in the Krasnoyarsk Krai—to the penal colony. And there I was held for about three months with Russian inmates. I was sentenced to “strict regime,” which meant “strict conditions of detention” (Russian: Strogiye usloviya sderzhaniya (SUS)—a special regime in Russian penal colonies intended for prisoners considered particularly dangerous or prone to escape or violating the rules in a strict-regime colony. It’s like a prison: you sit in a cell, you don’t go anywhere. But it was already much easier for me there. There was a TV; I watched some of their news. There was a kettle, so I could make tea.
I was the first of the prisoners to arrive there at that time. There was one other [Ukrainian] from Odesa, but he was imprisoned back in 2021 on terrorism charges; they accused him of having ties to the “Right Sector.” He was sentenced to nine years, and he’s still there to this day.
I remember maybe once or twice when [the Russian prisoners in Norilsk] acted negatively toward me, but they mostly kept their distance; I rarely interacted with them. Others asked questions; they wanted to know what was going on and didn’t want to go to war.
They also made me—well, how should I put it: it was a mix of voluntary and forced—shovel snow. I shoveled snow for about two weeks. It’s almost always winter there; I experienced temperatures as low as minus forty, and even in the first months of summer, there’s still snow here and there. The building had hot water and heating, but it was still cold. At least they gave us all the clothing they were supposed to provide. The administration was kind of picky. I didn’t understand: did they want something from me, or did they just want to find out what was happening in this war?
“They said: ‘Make up a story; if we don’t like it, things will get worse for you.’”
Then an FSB officer arrived and said they’d send me back to Krasnoyarsk, where I’d take a “lie detector” test: supposedly, if I passed and told the truth, they’d exchange me.
I arrived in Krasnoyarsk. I took one “lie detector” test; they asked if I would go back to fight. They said the test showed I would go, but that was the wrong answer, and that I was covering for someone because I hadn’t told them who did what.
And they wanted me to take the blame for the killing of civilians. They said: if you confess, they’ll give you an extra two years, but if you don’t—life in prison.
The FSB investigator’s name was Menshikov—I don’t remember his first name—a colonel. He started spinning this case. It went on for three months. They turned the inmates against me. There’s a term called “press-khata”—I was held in such a “press-khata” with those inmates. For the first two weeks or so, they put a lot of pressure on me: they beat me and forced me to clean the cell, then they eased up on the physical pressure and focused more on psychological pressure. The operatives and investigators told me they’d take me somewhere where I’d be raped. They threatened me with sexual violence.
There was video surveillance everywhere, but then they moved me to a cell where the audio was being recorded. The inmates asked me questions, and I had to answer them.
They wanted me to take the blame for two murders of civilians in Mariupol. They told me I had three options to choose from: either raping civilians, killing civilians, or something else. They said, “Make up a story; if we don’t like it, things will get worse for you.” They liked one story but not the other—they told me to rewrite it. I rewrote it, but I had already been exchanged by that time.
They also forced me to record a video apologizing to “Russian soldiers” and “Russian mothers” for something. TV crews came—I think it was “Rossiya-1”—and filmed a video about me. They gave me some incomprehensible script where I was supposed to say that we had “barrier detachments”—units positioned behind the main forces to prevent soldiers from fleeing the battlefield. They existed in various countries, including the USSR, and I was supposedly a member of such a unit—as if there were TRO soldiers in front of me, and if any of them abandoned their position, I was supposed to shoot them, and that the order had come from our commander. They pointed to a piece of paper: “Say this on camera.”
“Sign the pardon document, but don’t put a date on it.”
And then at some point, they came in the morning and said, “Danylychuk, sign this.” I asked, “What is this?” And it said: “Entry into the territory of the Russian Federation is prohibited for 10 years.” Then, two hours later, they came back and said, “Sign the pardon document, but don’t put a date on it.” I thought then that it would be a while before I was exchanged if I didn’t put a date on it, and besides, how long would it take to get there—a month or a month and a half to the nearest border.
But literally a few hours later, they told me, “Get your things and get out,” and they led me out. I had already seen other prisoners who had been brought from prisons to this detention center; I saw some people I knew. In our presence, our cases were closed; we signed the documents, and we were transported to the airport, where we were handed over to the military police and put on a civilian plane. This time, they didn’t tie our hands or blindfold us.
We flew to Novosibirsk, I think, and there they handcuffed us and started adding more people to the plane. I don’t remember how many times—maybe three or four—we landed and took off; the whole thing lasted about a day and a half. Then they took us into some kind of hangar; we sat there for three or four hours, tied up, while they took roll call by last name. Another plane landed with prisoners. They gathered all of us onto one plane and transported us to Belarus, to Gomel. Once there, they untied our eyes, put us on buses, and took us to the border with Ukraine.
I’m still undergoing rehabilitation. After rehabilitation, there’s supposed to be a three-month leave period, which is granted to everyone who was held captive. Then you decide whether to return to duty or discharge yourself.
I decided to remain in service.
This article was prepared with the support of the International Renaissance Foundation. The views expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the International Renaissance Foundation.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.