“There were accusations that we were performing castration surgeries on Russians,” said a medic from Azovstal, reflecting on his nearly two years in captivity
Source: Slidstvo Info
Author: Karina Bugaychenko
Military medic Andriy Nayman spent nearly two years in Russian captivity. In January 2024, he was taken from Gorlivka Colony No. 27 to be sent for an exchange. However, the Russians forced the plane carrying Andriy and other Ukrainian prisoners of war to turn back mid-flight because the first Il-76 aircraft had crashed near the Belgorod region. At the time, the Russian Ministry of Defense stated that there were 65 Ukrainian military prisoners of war on board who were being transported for an exchange. The captive doctor spent another week in the Taganrog pretrial detention center before he was returned to Ukraine. He told journalists from “Slidstvo.Info” about his two years in captivity, the medical prisoners who helped one another, the terrorist attack in Olenivka, the abuse by the Russians, and his first reunion with his son.
This is detailed in an article by “Slidstvo.Info.”
Military medic Andriy Naiman is 31 years old. He decided to join the military back in 2006, when he enrolled in the I. Bohun Lyceum. After graduating, he chose to study medicine and enrolled in the O. Bogomolets University’s faculty for training doctors for the Armed Forces of Ukraine. Later, he graduated from the academy and was assigned to the 61st Military Mobile Hospital in Mariupol. The 555th Military Hospital was established on its premises, where Naiman headed the neurology department.
Shortly before the Russians destroyed the hospital on March 16, 2022, Andriy was sent to rescue soldiers in the Azovstal bunker. Until May 18, the medic continued to work in the makeshift “Zalizyaka” hospital under constant shelling. It was there that he learned of the birth of his first child, whom he was only able to see after his release.
Do you agree with the statement that Mariupol was the best-fortified city in the event of an offensive?
I can’t agree with that, because back in 2018, when I arrived to serve in the 61st Mobile Brigade, my colleague Mykola and I were looking at a map of the city and immediately realized that the protrusion above Mariupol didn’t look very promising. And if Russia didn’t stick to the Minsk agreements, we would be the first to be surrounded.
How has the work at your hospital changed since the start of the full-scale invasion?
The hospital’s focus changed. Before the full-scale invasion began, most patients were medical cases. With the start of the full-scale invasion, a classic situation arose—one described by all military surgeons, whom few listen to until war breaks out. War is an epidemic of injuries; it is an epidemic of combat trauma. And everything revolves around the surgical unit. In our military unit, a so-called “operations headquarters” was established. I was appointed commander of this headquarters. We gathered information about wounded and sick service members who had been admitted to civilian healthcare facilities. After we were completely surrounded, only one air evacuation was carried out from the hospital, along with several ground evacuations; after that, we were unable to send out the wounded. Their numbers reached a critical point. That’s when reinforcement teams were set up in civilian hospitals.
At what point was the decision made to redeploy you to Azovstal?
When the area of the city controlled by Ukrainian troops began to shrink, the decision was made to set up treatment facilities for the wounded at the plant. On March 13, I was sent to the Azovstal plant, to the “Zalizyaka” bunker, where medical care was being provided. The first group of doctors from our hospital was already there. They began actively transporting patients from the city there—those who required long-term treatment and could not immediately return to duty. Then, on March 16, when the hospital itself came under attack, a decision was made to divide the hospital’s personnel and resources. The patients, medications, and equipment were divided between two plants—Ilyich and Azovstal.
In the destroyed hospital, there were books that had been given to me—related to my field of neurology—and they were very good. I was only able to take one book with me; it was with me for practically the entire duration of my captivity, but it was left behind at the Horlivka penal colony (Horlivka Correctional Colony No. 27—Ed.). After the search, I wanted to take it with me, but the Russians said, “You won’t need it for the next 10 years.”
How did the situation change from March 13, when you first arrived at Azovstal, until May 18, when you were forced to surrender?
That was a time when the number of patients was growing, while supplies of medication were dwindling. The additional treatment stations that were set up did not solve the critical question of what to do next. The bunker was designed to hold 60 patients, but the number inside always exceeded 300. After the bunker was hit by shrapnel three times, we realized that even a six-meter-thick ceiling wasn’t good protection—we couldn’t feel safe.
At Azovstal, I was responsible for examining neurological patients and sorting medications. There were virtually no medicine deliveries; during the entire air evacuation, there was only one shipment.
Communication problems persisted, although a fairly large number of “Starlink” units had arrived since the first air evacuation—I’d been participating in these operations from the very beginning. My aunt and my pregnant wife would usually ask, “What are you doing? How are you?” My answer was always the same: “I’m alive; we’re working.” I found out about my son’s birth while I was already at Azovstal. I was so anxiously awaiting the news and was overjoyed when I received the first photo, because the next one didn’t come until a whole year later in a letter that arrived while I was in captivity. We named our son Yaroslav; my wife and I had chosen the name together beforehand. Yaroslav was born on April 19, and on May 18, it was my turn to leave Azovstal.
Do you remember your first encounter with the Russians?
I had several syringe tubes of painkillers with me, since we were evacuating the wounded, and some of them needed injections so they could at least make it to the bus. The Russians saw the syringes. One of them said, “Wow! I need that.” They took them right away.
I was in Olenivka from May 19 to October 12, 2022. I was there when the terrorist attack happened. We woke up to a loud noise. We looked out the window—and then there was an explosion. From the second floor of our barracks, you could see the place where everything was burning. The roof had been destroyed from the inside. How can we even talk about rocket strikes when the Russians themselves were the ones who started firing rocket artillery in the first place?
What kind of medical care did you provide to the prisoners of war?
General medical care. Once we had to perform a surgical procedure when a patient fell and hit his head. We did the initial dressing. At first, there were four doctors in our barracks: a surgeon, two anesthesiologists, and me—a general practitioner. There were also two cases of stroke. I examined them—since neurology is my primary specialty—made a preliminary diagnosis, and then informed the “administration” that the person needed to be hospitalized.
There are a great many prisoners with chronic illnesses. There are people with cirrhosis, people with HIV, and people who have suffered strokes and heart attacks. They need ongoing treatment and medication, which they don’t have, leading to their deaths. And there have been cases—I know of two for sure—one had HIV, and the other had cirrhosis of the liver.
How did the Russians treat you? What did they ask you about?
The Russians asked me about my entire career. At first, I didn’t quite understand where I was. And when they started asking me how I felt about Ukrainian nationalism, I said, “Positively.” They said, “Are you absolutely sure?” I said, “Well, yes—nationalism is when you love your own and take pride in it.” They told me, “No, no, no. Nationalism is when you put your own above others.” And that’s when I realized where I was, and, basically, that’s where we ended the discussion.
The Russians also forced us to sing the Russian national anthem. Twice a day, without fail: in the morning and in the evening. For example, when we went to the cafeteria, we had a whole playlist of Russian songs: “Katyusha,” “Victory Day,” “A Soldier Walks Through the City,” “March of the Aviators,” “A Young Soldier.” A huge number of songs. And sometimes the problem was that we didn’t even know the melodies. There was no way to avoid singing. Anyone who didn’t sing was physically punished. And then they’d start singing.
I’m not going to forget this. You can’t forget this. Because it allows you to remember who you are, who they are, what stands between you, and what the difference is between you.
What was the attitude toward medics in captivity? You were unarmed, but the Russians still tormented
you
There were accusations that we performed castration surgeries on Russian prisoners of war. No such accusation was ever made against me personally. But many surgeons suffered for this. And when asked, “Why are you in captivity?”—everyone we encountered daily from the Federal Penitentiary Service gave the same answer: “We’re just carrying out orders.”
Throughout his captivity, the Russians held Andriy Nayman in three different detention facilities. On January 23, 2024, he was taken from Gorlivka Colony No. 27. We were told that he was being sent for an exchange. But the Russians turned the plane carrying him and other prisoners of war around in mid-air, because the first “Il-76” aircraft had crashed near the Belgorod region. At that time, the Russian Ministry of Defense stated that there were 65 Ukrainian military prisoners on board who were being transported for a prisoner exchange. So Andriy spent another week in the Taganrog pretrial detention center.
On the way home, did you feel that you were returning as a completely different person?
No, I didn’t really think about that. Given the nature of my profession, I understood that I had experienced some impact and changes in my higher nervous activity. Only time and specialists in the relevant field will show how significant they are. Because no one comes back exactly the same as they were before. Not even from an ordinary trip—and certainly not from a “tour” like this.
Reuniting with My Wife and Son
I was met by our doctor, who had also been held captive with me but had been released earlier. I immediately called my wife, Olga. I told her I was back from my “business trip.” That’s it—my “business trip” is over. There. And I’m finally home. I had tears in my eyes. When I first saw my wife, I didn’t know how to act—one moment I was smiling, the next I was crying. And while I was undergoing rehabilitation at the Kyiv hospital, I finally saw my son for the first time.
My wife had made sure he knew who I was. I mean, I wasn’t a complete stranger to him, but there was this shock—the photos he was used to were still images, but here I was moving and reaching out to him. At first he stared, but then he got used to it.
Did you ever have thoughts that you might never see him again?
At Azovstal, when our bunker was hit several times, I had those thoughts. It’s not that I dwelled on them, but thoughts flashed through my mind that we might never make it out of there. And in Olenivka, when they started separating the officers, soldiers, and sergeants. First, they took the soldiers and sergeants out of Olenivka, while the officers were left there for a while. And I was strongly reminded of the Katyn tragedy (the mass execution of Polish citizens carried out on the orders of the Soviet Party and state leadership—Ed.). And the thought flashed through my mind then that history might repeat itself. But, fortunately, that didn’t happen.
What are your plans for the future? Will you return to active duty?
Yes, I will return to active duty. I made my decision a long time ago. I believe that our country is fighting for our captives. But for society to understand that this is a problem, we need demonstrations in support of the captives’ return. I’ve already had the chance to take part in them. This isn’t a problem limited to a small group of people whose relatives are there. Ukrainian citizens are being held illegally. They are not criminals. They are simply hostages of the regime. Russia understands only the language of force, so we need to support those who can put pressure on them. That means our Armed Forces.
If you’d prefer to watch the video with subtitles in another language, go to YouTube Settings → Subtitles → Auto-translate and select the language you want.
Author: Karina Bugaychenko
Military medic Andriy Nayman spent nearly two years in Russian captivity. In January 2024, he was taken from Gorlivka Colony No. 27 to be sent for an exchange. However, the Russians forced the plane carrying Andriy and other Ukrainian prisoners of war to turn back mid-flight because the first Il-76 aircraft had crashed near the Belgorod region. At the time, the Russian Ministry of Defense stated that there were 65 Ukrainian military prisoners of war on board who were being transported for an exchange. The captive doctor spent another week in the Taganrog pretrial detention center before he was returned to Ukraine. He told journalists from “Slidstvo.Info” about his two years in captivity, the medical prisoners who helped one another, the terrorist attack in Olenivka, the abuse by the Russians, and his first reunion with his son.
This is detailed in an article by “Slidstvo.Info.”
Military medic Andriy Naiman is 31 years old. He decided to join the military back in 2006, when he enrolled in the I. Bohun Lyceum. After graduating, he chose to study medicine and enrolled in the O. Bogomolets University’s faculty for training doctors for the Armed Forces of Ukraine. Later, he graduated from the academy and was assigned to the 61st Military Mobile Hospital in Mariupol. The 555th Military Hospital was established on its premises, where Naiman headed the neurology department.
Shortly before the Russians destroyed the hospital on March 16, 2022, Andriy was sent to rescue soldiers in the Azovstal bunker. Until May 18, the medic continued to work in the makeshift “Zalizyaka” hospital under constant shelling. It was there that he learned of the birth of his first child, whom he was only able to see after his release.
Do you agree with the statement that Mariupol was the best-fortified city in the event of an offensive?
I can’t agree with that, because back in 2018, when I arrived to serve in the 61st Mobile Brigade, my colleague Mykola and I were looking at a map of the city and immediately realized that the protrusion above Mariupol didn’t look very promising. And if Russia didn’t stick to the Minsk agreements, we would be the first to be surrounded.
How has the work at your hospital changed since the start of the full-scale invasion?
The hospital’s focus changed. Before the full-scale invasion began, most patients were medical cases. With the start of the full-scale invasion, a classic situation arose—one described by all military surgeons, whom few listen to until war breaks out. War is an epidemic of injuries; it is an epidemic of combat trauma. And everything revolves around the surgical unit. In our military unit, a so-called “operations headquarters” was established. I was appointed commander of this headquarters. We gathered information about wounded and sick service members who had been admitted to civilian healthcare facilities. After we were completely surrounded, only one air evacuation was carried out from the hospital, along with several ground evacuations; after that, we were unable to send out the wounded. Their numbers reached a critical point. That’s when reinforcement teams were set up in civilian hospitals.
At what point was the decision made to redeploy you to Azovstal?
When the area of the city controlled by Ukrainian troops began to shrink, the decision was made to set up treatment facilities for the wounded at the plant. On March 13, I was sent to the Azovstal plant, to the “Zalizyaka” bunker, where medical care was being provided. The first group of doctors from our hospital was already there. They began actively transporting patients from the city there—those who required long-term treatment and could not immediately return to duty. Then, on March 16, when the hospital itself came under attack, a decision was made to divide the hospital’s personnel and resources. The patients, medications, and equipment were divided between two plants—Ilyich and Azovstal.
In the destroyed hospital, there were books that had been given to me—related to my field of neurology—and they were very good. I was only able to take one book with me; it was with me for practically the entire duration of my captivity, but it was left behind at the Horlivka penal colony (Horlivka Correctional Colony No. 27—Ed.). After the search, I wanted to take it with me, but the Russians said, “You won’t need it for the next 10 years.”
How did the situation change from March 13, when you first arrived at Azovstal, until May 18, when you were forced to surrender?
That was a time when the number of patients was growing, while supplies of medication were dwindling. The additional treatment stations that were set up did not solve the critical question of what to do next. The bunker was designed to hold 60 patients, but the number inside always exceeded 300. After the bunker was hit by shrapnel three times, we realized that even a six-meter-thick ceiling wasn’t good protection—we couldn’t feel safe.
At Azovstal, I was responsible for examining neurological patients and sorting medications. There were virtually no medicine deliveries; during the entire air evacuation, there was only one shipment.
Communication problems persisted, although a fairly large number of “Starlink” units had arrived since the first air evacuation—I’d been participating in these operations from the very beginning. My aunt and my pregnant wife would usually ask, “What are you doing? How are you?” My answer was always the same: “I’m alive; we’re working.” I found out about my son’s birth while I was already at Azovstal. I was so anxiously awaiting the news and was overjoyed when I received the first photo, because the next one didn’t come until a whole year later in a letter that arrived while I was in captivity. We named our son Yaroslav; my wife and I had chosen the name together beforehand. Yaroslav was born on April 19, and on May 18, it was my turn to leave Azovstal.
Do you remember your first encounter with the Russians?
I had several syringe tubes of painkillers with me, since we were evacuating the wounded, and some of them needed injections so they could at least make it to the bus. The Russians saw the syringes. One of them said, “Wow! I need that.” They took them right away.
I was in Olenivka from May 19 to October 12, 2022. I was there when the terrorist attack happened. We woke up to a loud noise. We looked out the window—and then there was an explosion. From the second floor of our barracks, you could see the place where everything was burning. The roof had been destroyed from the inside. How can we even talk about rocket strikes when the Russians themselves were the ones who started firing rocket artillery in the first place?
What kind of medical care did you provide to the prisoners of war?
General medical care. Once we had to perform a surgical procedure when a patient fell and hit his head. We did the initial dressing. At first, there were four doctors in our barracks: a surgeon, two anesthesiologists, and me—a general practitioner. There were also two cases of stroke. I examined them—since neurology is my primary specialty—made a preliminary diagnosis, and then informed the “administration” that the person needed to be hospitalized.
There are a great many prisoners with chronic illnesses. There are people with cirrhosis, people with HIV, and people who have suffered strokes and heart attacks. They need ongoing treatment and medication, which they don’t have, leading to their deaths. And there have been cases—I know of two for sure—one had HIV, and the other had cirrhosis of the liver.
How did the Russians treat you? What did they ask you about?
The Russians asked me about my entire career. At first, I didn’t quite understand where I was. And when they started asking me how I felt about Ukrainian nationalism, I said, “Positively.” They said, “Are you absolutely sure?” I said, “Well, yes—nationalism is when you love your own and take pride in it.” They told me, “No, no, no. Nationalism is when you put your own above others.” And that’s when I realized where I was, and, basically, that’s where we ended the discussion.
The Russians also forced us to sing the Russian national anthem. Twice a day, without fail: in the morning and in the evening. For example, when we went to the cafeteria, we had a whole playlist of Russian songs: “Katyusha,” “Victory Day,” “A Soldier Walks Through the City,” “March of the Aviators,” “A Young Soldier.” A huge number of songs. And sometimes the problem was that we didn’t even know the melodies. There was no way to avoid singing. Anyone who didn’t sing was physically punished. And then they’d start singing.
I’m not going to forget this. You can’t forget this. Because it allows you to remember who you are, who they are, what stands between you, and what the difference is between you.
What was the attitude toward medics in captivity? You were unarmed, but the Russians still tormented
you
There were accusations that we performed castration surgeries on Russian prisoners of war. No such accusation was ever made against me personally. But many surgeons suffered for this. And when asked, “Why are you in captivity?”—everyone we encountered daily from the Federal Penitentiary Service gave the same answer: “We’re just carrying out orders.”
Throughout his captivity, the Russians held Andriy Nayman in three different detention facilities. On January 23, 2024, he was taken from Gorlivka Colony No. 27. We were told that he was being sent for an exchange. But the Russians turned the plane carrying him and other prisoners of war around in mid-air, because the first “Il-76” aircraft had crashed near the Belgorod region. At that time, the Russian Ministry of Defense stated that there were 65 Ukrainian military prisoners on board who were being transported for a prisoner exchange. So Andriy spent another week in the Taganrog pretrial detention center.
On the way home, did you feel that you were returning as a completely different person?
No, I didn’t really think about that. Given the nature of my profession, I understood that I had experienced some impact and changes in my higher nervous activity. Only time and specialists in the relevant field will show how significant they are. Because no one comes back exactly the same as they were before. Not even from an ordinary trip—and certainly not from a “tour” like this.
Reuniting with My Wife and Son
I was met by our doctor, who had also been held captive with me but had been released earlier. I immediately called my wife, Olga. I told her I was back from my “business trip.” That’s it—my “business trip” is over. There. And I’m finally home. I had tears in my eyes. When I first saw my wife, I didn’t know how to act—one moment I was smiling, the next I was crying. And while I was undergoing rehabilitation at the Kyiv hospital, I finally saw my son for the first time.
My wife had made sure he knew who I was. I mean, I wasn’t a complete stranger to him, but there was this shock—the photos he was used to were still images, but here I was moving and reaching out to him. At first he stared, but then he got used to it.
Did you ever have thoughts that you might never see him again?
At Azovstal, when our bunker was hit several times, I had those thoughts. It’s not that I dwelled on them, but thoughts flashed through my mind that we might never make it out of there. And in Olenivka, when they started separating the officers, soldiers, and sergeants. First, they took the soldiers and sergeants out of Olenivka, while the officers were left there for a while. And I was strongly reminded of the Katyn tragedy (the mass execution of Polish citizens carried out on the orders of the Soviet Party and state leadership—Ed.). And the thought flashed through my mind then that history might repeat itself. But, fortunately, that didn’t happen.
What are your plans for the future? Will you return to active duty?
Yes, I will return to active duty. I made my decision a long time ago. I believe that our country is fighting for our captives. But for society to understand that this is a problem, we need demonstrations in support of the captives’ return. I’ve already had the chance to take part in them. This isn’t a problem limited to a small group of people whose relatives are there. Ukrainian citizens are being held illegally. They are not criminals. They are simply hostages of the regime. Russia understands only the language of force, so we need to support those who can put pressure on them. That means our Armed Forces.
If you’d prefer to watch the video with subtitles in another language, go to YouTube Settings → Subtitles → Auto-translate and select the language you want.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.