‘Fighting against Ukraine since 2015’. Inside the only camp for Russian prisoners of war

Before going to the camp where Russian prisoners are held, I asked Mykhailo Vershynin, call sign “Kot”, who was the head of the Mariupol patrol police and had been captured by Russia, how to contain aggression towards the Russians with whom I would have to communicate.

"The moment you want to be rude to him, he will start to control you. Remember this and don't let him get the better of you," Kot advised.

Mykhailo's guidance helped me to behave correctly when my fists were clenched.

I traveled to the camp with my foreign colleagues.

"It is obvious that the prisoners will lie to us. And we will spread their lies in our reports, and thanks to us, it will come across as truth. How can we prevent this?" complained German journalist Andrea.

And I thought that it was easier for Ukrainians to filter out Russian lies because we had seen the occupiers' actions: murders, robberies, rapes.

The condition for a conversation with a prisoner is that a journalist can only ask questions to someone who agrees to talk. It is up to the prisoner to answer or not.

The Russian prisoners spoke animatedly with my colleagues (British, German, and Saudi journalists). My questions, on the other hand, were received differently: with a gloomy look or a cheeky smile.

"Russians came to protect"

Dmitry Chebotarev, 38, worked as a driver in Lipetsk. In November 2022, he signed a contract and went to war. In August 2023, he was taken prisoner near Robotyne, in Zaporizhzhya Oblast. In the campyard, he prepares boards to repair the roof.

"They told us there that there were bad people here, and I came to fight the bad people. They gave me an order and I came. Everything is decided at the top, I'm just an ordinary private," he explains how he ended up in Ukraine.

"Have you encountered any Nazis?"

"I don't want to think about it."

* * *

Roman Ponomarev, 24, is from Tyumen Oblast. He fought for a year in Kherson and Luhansk oblasts. He says he was captured wounded in August near Kreminna, Luhansk Oblast.

"There was an assault, the Azov units were advancing, there were no options."

I ask him whether he was beaten in the camp, humiliated, or denied medical care, i.e. whether the provisions of the Geneva Convention, the text of which is in Russian on the wall of the room where Roman is currently being held, were violated.

He says that he was not beaten, humiliated, or deprived of food, and that his wounded leg is bandaged every day and he is given antibiotics.

"So what's wrong with Ukrainians?" I ask.

In response, he curls his lips mockingly.

"I signed the contract to earn money, but I didn't think it would be like this, a very brutal war. "Constantly [dead and wounded], there is a lot of blood."

"Did you think they wouldn't shoot back at you?"

He is silent.

"What are you more happy about now: being alive or not having to kill anymore?"

"Being alive," he answers me and curls his lips again.

* * *

Sergei, who did not want to give his last name, is 51 years old. He is being treated at the camp hospital for a broken hip joint. By the way, even the residents of the community where the hospital is located are jealous of the camp's medical care. The prisoners have their own dentist, can undergo an ultrasound, and make use of the digital X-ray machine, etc.

Sergei is lying on his bed, reading Vladimir Arsenyev's novel Dersu Uzala. I loved this book when I was a kid, and it was this book that caught my attention.

Sergei is from the Far North. He says he came to Ukraine to make money fighting in December 2022. He was taken prisoner on the Donetsk axis in July 2023. Allegedly, he was just digging trenches and did nothing wrong.

"He's a real nut," the prisoners on the neighboring bunks openly laugh at Sergei's stories.

And Sergei (is he even Sergei?) continues unperturbed: "I thought there would be tanks and infantry, but there are drones! And you try running away from a drone!"

Yevgeny Klishin, 39, a resident of Stavropol, has a law degree, although he worked as a security guard. He was mobilized last year in October. He joined the army because he faced eight years in prison for evading service. He says he had no choice.

"I was at a checkpoint, checking documents on the Zaporizhzhya axis. We were not supposed to be deployed near Robotyne, we were deployed by mistake. They did not bring us food and water. We did not eat anything for five days. On September 5, the three of us went to look for water, and the Ukrainians took us prisoner. Ukraine did nothing wrong to me, and I did nothing wrong to it. Our task was just to stand our ground."

"What do you think about the reasons for this war? Why, in your words, did you go hungry in a trench for almost a week?" I ask Yevgeny.

"War is wrong. Problems need to be discussed."

"What are the problems between Ukraine and Russia?"

"I don't know. But a lot of innocent people are dying on both sides."

"And who is to blame?"

"I don't know. When the ‘special military operation’ started, I was horrified, I realized that Russia would be dragged into the war."

"Who was it that dragged Russia into the war?"

"I don't know."

According to Yevgeny, his family does not know that he is in captivity. When he is exchanged, he plans to come up with something to avoid being mobilized again.

Now he says that after all the blood that has been shed, Russians and Ukrainians are no longer one people, that war and captivity are horrible. And even that it is now obvious to him that Russia should not have come to foreign territory and used its people as cannon fodder, because there were no successes.

"And if there were successes, would it be worth it?" I ask.

"I want to go home."

* * *

Semen Andreev, 28, is an Evenk by ethnicity and came all the way from Yakutia. He categorically refused to be photographed. Semen assures us that the Russians are not shooting at civilian Ukrainians because they came to protect them. And there is no need to slander Russian soldiers. He did not "defend" for long, fighting only a few months after signing the contract. In August 2023, he was taken prisoner near Klishchiyivka (Donetsk Oblast - ed.).

"How far in God's name is Yakutia – why did you come all the way from there to Ukraine?"

"I don't know. I was probably drunk. I didn't think I would be captured. But I should be exchanged."

"Are you going to go to the front again?"

"No, I'll run away to the forest, it's a big forest."

We are talking to Semen at the very end of a large production workshop where 100, maybe even 150 prisoners work. Fellow journalists are also interviewing here. The camp workers step inaudibly between the prisoners and the film crews.

I stand with my back to the workshop and suddenly feel that something has changed, something heavy and oppressive has appeared in the air. I look back and notice a single guard with a rubber baton in the distance, near the door; there is not a single journalist in the shop, except for me and the camp officials who accompanied us.

The mood of the prisoners, artificially revitalized by their presence, became gloomy and pressured again. I have to walk from end to end of the shop through the gloom of the blue robes. It is so thick that I can actually feel the lack of air.

A church, a prayer room, and soul-savers

This facility in western Ukraine used to hold criminals who had committed minor offenses. Now it is occupied by Russians.

Everyone here is provided with camp clothes: a robe, socks, underwear, rubber shower slippers, winter and summer boots, etc. They also receive bedding, toilet paper, and hygiene products.

The prisoners visit the bathhouse every week, so their underwear is changed every week. Thanks to the generator, hot water is available in all circumstances.

New arrivals must pass through the room of a paramedic who records their injuries and wounds. After arrival, they are quarantined for two weeks; when it ends, prisoners who do not need medical treatment start working.

Have you seen wicker chairs and other furniture in stores? Some of it is made by Russian prisoners. And souvenir bags with naively romantic inscriptions: "Greetings from...".

The prisoners are also involved in repairs. On the day the journalists arrived, for example, they were repairing the roof of a building, carefully treating the boards with an anti-rotting solution.

The camp is off on Sundays. There is a Greek Catholic church on the premises, where weekly services are held. The prisoners attend them, especially on major religious holidays.

A room was set up for Muslims to perform prayers, with ritual rugs and a window facing east, as required by Islam. An imam visits them from time to time. Overall, the prisoners are visited by representatives of various religious communities, offering help in saving their souls.

Calling home

Nikita Sedov is 20 years old. He is from the Urals. He was captured in August near Robotyne. Nikita does not know that the Russian command has already informed his mother about his capture, so he is very worried about how to talk to her when a colony worker dials her number.

But apparently, the mother was not only informed, but also given appropriate instructions: she asks only about food and health, assures him that she is waiting and loves him. The son asks her to contact the military enlistment office and speed up the exchange process, saying that he will call once a month.

Prisoners make family phone calls in a special room, dialed by workers using numbers provided. Beforehand, prisoners state their names and who they call on recording, ensuring no possibility of impersonation.

They eat like Ukrainian soldiers

All the camp's living quarters are the same. There are beds in a strict row, carefully made up. Some nightstands contain icons, boxes of checkers, and books in Russian from the camp library. The Geneva Convention requires that the language of the books be understandable to the prisoners. Mostly older prisoners read in their free time. Young people run to the sports ground where they can do gymnastics and play football.

The toilets, showers, and washbasins are of hospital-grade cleanliness. In the kitchen with a refrigerator, one can make tea, coffee and store food bought in the camp store or received from home. None of the prisoners I talked to complained about the food. According to the Geneva Convention, prisoners of war should be fed as if they were members of the country’s own army. Therefore, the food of the camps is not inferior to the food of the Ukrainian Armed Forces in terms of diet and calories.

There are three meals a day. Meat, fish, and vegetables are served every day. We, the journalists, had lunch in the camp canteen together with the prisoners. The first course was borshch, which was quite homemade in terms of the amount of potatoes, beets, and carrots in it. The second course was corn porridge floating in oil, a cutlet, and a cabbage salad.

Vladimir, 23, from Orenburg (three months in captivity) and Andrey, 33, from Perm (four months in captivity), who were distributing food, told me that the camp has a garden where prisoners grow greens, potatoes, onions, beets, carrots, and eggplants. They cook their own food, and even learned how to bake bread.

Four people sit at the tables in the dining room. They ate and put the dishes on a tray. At the command of a camp staff member, they stand up, hands behind their backs. One of the four speaks quietly: "Take it away," and they chant clearly and loudly in Ukrainian: "Thank you for lunch!"

"Even if it's just for the food, it’s good they thank us," one of the employees explains this "educational moment" to me.

Bandera watching over

There are many unobtrusive educational moments in the camp. For example, a trident planted with marigolds and a stele with Shevchenko's poem “Zlonacynayushchykh spyny” (‘Stop the Malevolent’). The Ukrainian anthem is played every morning.

Several times a day, particularly during line-ups, prisoners find themselves in the alley between the two walls. On one wall along the alley are portraits of Ukrainian hetmans. On the other wall, there are stands telling the modern history of Ukraine. Among them is a stand about the participants of the liberation movement. Here are Petliura, Chuchupak, Konovalets, Shukhevych, and Bandera.

"Ukraine attacked us first"

The prison bakery is even cozy because of the warmth of the oven and the smell of dough. Maksym, 29, is watching the flour being sifted to make bread.

"I fought to prevent Ukrainians from destroying my home in Donbas. I was not shooting at my compatriots, I was shooting at the enemy. Ukraine was attacked us first. Shells have been flying in Donbas since 2014. I was defending myself," he says.

* * *

Dmytro from occupied Horlivka turns 50 in October. He has been in captivity for nine months.

"I fought for a year and didn't kill anyone. I didn't shoot on purpose because I have a 22-year-old son from my first marriage in Dnipro. Maybe he is also at the front – how could I shoot? I was just sitting in a trench with my weapon when the Ukrainians captured me. I didn't break any laws."

He dreams that he is about to be exchanged and return to Horlivka.

"Ukraine will lose the war in any case. In general, Ukraine cannot exist without Russia. And what is Ukraine? I woke up in 2014, and Ukraine was no more."

According to Dmytro, the war will end when both countries run out of money and the presidents reach an agreement.

"This is politics, ordinary people cannot influence it. But after the war, Ukraine will be very angry. It will be angry at whomever the TV says it will be angry at. It will be the same on the other side. This is politics."

* * *

Ruslan, a 42-year-old from Donetsk, plays with intonations and pauses, appealing to me and his two comrades with whom he works in the shop. His comrades absolutely agree with him and constantly add their "wow, that's right."

"In 2014, my dear homeland Ukraine came to pacify us with tanks because Donbas wanted neither NATO nor Europe. Donbas was working, and Ukraine was jumping on the Maidan. And illegally overthrew Yanukovych. We wanted autonomy, like in Crimea, and we were called terrorists. Ukraine started killing us first. We had to take weapons from museums and police stations to defend ourselves. I personally have been fighting against Ukraine since 2015."

Ruslan is sure that Russia could have bombed the whole of Ukraine a long time ago. But it does not do so because it does not bomb civilians. And in his opinion, Mariupol was destroyed by the Azov fighters. He is sure that all the problems are in the government, which is dragging the country into NATO and the EU.

Listening to these men from the occupied Donbas, I realize that Russian propaganda is working.

We are not like them

While waiting for transportation to the train station, I walked around the village. I wanted to talk to the locals about the camp and the Russian prisoners.

"What do I think of them? Nothing good. They killed our children, pregnant women. I don't believe they didn't know where they were going, I don't believe they didn't shoot. They have no place in Ukraine, they should be exchanged for our people as soon as possible," says 73-year-old Maria Stepanivna.

Her neighbor, 63-year-old Iryna, adds: "My son got a concussion at the front, now he is in the territorial defense. I'm very worried about those guys over there (nodding towards the camp - ed.). They tell us here that they cry with joy when they are brought home. They cry and then go fight against us again. There were some who were captured twice. Look, we put plastic windows for them so they wouldn't freeze. Apparently, they didn't have such things at home as they have here. They live at our expense. They are well-fed, not like our poor guys in captivity. But we have to feed them, because we are not like them. We need to feed them and exchange them for our guys."