Captured, beaten, diagnosed to die: One marine’s long road back — and his legal battle for benefits

The 32-year-old Vladyslav Sambur speaks about his captivity and his illness so calmly and with jokes that it surprises people. It is true that he carefully weighs what is worth sharing so that people know the truth about captivity in detention facilities on the territory of Russia, and what to keep quiet about so as not to harm those who remain in captivity.

His bright blue eyes contrast with his black hair. There is a tattoo on his arm: a skull, a woman’s face, and Anubis — the conductor of souls in Egyptian mythology. On his finger is a massive silver ring. He somewhat resembles a character from the hit TV series Peaky Blinders.

From a young age, he aspired to be a soldier, even though he never served in the conscript army. But in 2018, together with a friend, he went to the military enlistment office. That is how he ended up in the 501st Separate Battalion of the marine infantry, which is part of the 36th Separate Marine Infantry Brigade.

Vladyslav’s battalion was based and carried out tasks in Shyrokyne — a settlement near Mariupol, relatively close to Berdyansk in Zaporizhzhia Oblast, where Vladyslav is from. When the full-scale invasion began, their battalion received an order to retreat to Mariupol and defend the city. His father served in this same brigade. Heavy fighting and captivity followed.

“There is such a thing as the initiation. In Olenivka, the welcoming was not great. Maybe a few people got hit with sticks. But in other places, and I’m not exaggerating, they almost killed us. You step out of the vehicle and run through this narrow corridor, and from both sides, they just attack you. They don’t care about your condition, age, rank, unit, or position. They hit you with whatever they have—hands, feet, tasers. Sometimes rubber batons or plastic pipes.

How long it lasts depends on how quickly you follow orders or how many of you there are. If there are fewer of you, it ends faster,” Vladyslav says about the so-called initiation tradition, which, in his words, was repeated at every stage of captivity and transfer.

During the entire time of imprisonment, he was in occupied Olenivka in Donetsk Oblast, in Taganrog in Rostov Oblast, and then there were colonies in Valuyki and Stary Oskol in Belgorod Oblast. And finally, Alekseevka, where the man spent the rest of his captivity, almost two and a half years.

“Things were bad in Stary Oskol because they beat us every day. The door would open, and you knew for sure you’d get hit in the kidneys or ribs. In Alekseevka, they practiced ‘collective responsibility’. That meant if one person messed up, they beat everyone.

What does ‘messed up’ mean? Anything—someone smuggles a cigarette, someone decides to exercise without supervision, someone forgets to return a spoon—anything like that was a reason. One guy wrote ‘Glory to Ukraine!’ on a cigarette and gave it to a friend for his birthday. The friend didn’t smoke it right away; he saved it for later. And they found it. The administration had to hide him in the punishment isolation cell (ShIZO) to keep the special forces from killing him,” Vladyslav recalls.

Vladyslav, together with other captives, was involved in work in the sewing workshop. They initially sewed sleeping bags, which were supposed to be intended for Russian soldiers, but then this practice was stopped, arguing that “it is not possible to involve captives in providing for the defense sector.” Then they sewed special clothing — disposable farm suits. If someone did not want to work or did not meet the norm, they were beaten.

“Special forces staff were there with us all day. The same staff constantly came. We already knew that as soon as they entered the colony, the month for us would be very fun,” the marine recounts.

In March 2023, Vladyslav fell ill.

"For the first ten months, they didn’t know what was wrong with me. At first, it was pneumonia. My muscles ached. A special forces officer also broke one of my ribs—so breathing was hard. They gave me painkillers and some stomach medication. Every day, I had a fever of 38–39°C. If it spiked to 40°C, they’d take me to the infirmary—put me on an IV, bring the fever down.

I was in really bad shape—I couldn’t walk or stand. I’d wasted away to about 45 kilos. They tested me for tuberculosis, but the results came back negative. I was just withering away. Then one day, the colony warden came in with a smile and said, ‘You’re not going home anyway—you’ve got stage four cancer.’ I told him, ‘No problem, at least send my body back home when it’s over.’ By then, I’d already accepted that no one was going to treat me."

Vladyslav says the colony warden also told Tatyana Moskalkova, Russia’s human rights ombudsman, about him having cancer. Russian TV channels filmed her visit, and the administration gave her a tour. By that time, Vlad could no longer get out of bed.

“Moskalkova promised an oncologist. Two weeks later, an oncologist from Moscow arrived. He examined me and told them: ‘What are you, idiots? He has tuberculosis.’ Then they started treating me for tuberculosis, and after 8-9 months it got better,” Vladyslav recounts.

Once in those three years of captivity, the International Committee of the Red Cross visited the colony, but the mission members did not see the sick marine. He and a few other captives were hidden in the punishment isolator cell for several days. As the man explains: “so that they would not ask for help and not ask stupid questions.”

Although after this visit, says Vlad, conditions improved: captives began to be taken out for walks, they washed the paint off the windows so they could see daylight, allowed ventilation, and turned on the television. But such “easing” did not last long: “Then something happened to them again — they started treating us badly again, beating us, stun guns appeared again.”

As in many other colonies, in Alekseevka, captives were played the Russian anthem and forced to sing at formations.

“It depended on the shift, but they taught the anthem, poems, and songs. Victory Day and Katyusha, [Oleg] Gazmanov, and the band Lyube. The funniest thing is that the guys who return from captivity — from different prisons, say that they were forced to learn the same thing — they have absolutely no imagination there,” Vladyslav recounts, laughing.

In three years of captivity, the man received only one letter — from his mother:

“While we were in Stary Oskol, they gave us an envelope, a pen, a sheet of paper. But I did not write, because where would I send it? My home is in occupied territory, and I did not know the new address. Later in Alekseevka, they did not even give us envelopes. No matter how many guys wrote, not one of their letters reached home.”

The marine, like many other captives, recounts that until the last he did not believe that he was returning home. That day, only he was picked up from the colony.

“They changed me into pixel uniform — but they always did that when they moved us somewhere. I thought it was another transfer. I was afraid they were sending me to some tuberculosis colony. It was only in Gomel (Belarus), when I got off the plane, and they untied my eyes and gave me my documents, that I realized that I was going home.”

On the day Vladyslav returned to Ukraine, the released prisoners were not greeted as people are used to seeing on social media. There were no relatives, no journalists with cameras, no shouts of “Welcome!”—just medical staff and representatives from the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War. This was a repatriation of severely ill and wounded captives: men on crutches, with amputated limbs, grave injuries, and tuberculosis.

In a Ukrainian hospital, Vladyslav underwent a new course of treatment for tuberculosis, since he had no medical records, so it was unknown whether the protocols were followed in the Russian prison.

A year after returning from captivity, he is still undergoing treatment. In addition to the tuberculosis he endured, Vladyslav was also diagnosed with neuropathy of the lower extremities, i.e., damage to the peripheral nerves of the limbs, which leads to disruption of their functions.

“I do not feel my legs. Whether from the medicines, I do not know, from what. They went numb to the knees back in captivity — and I still do not feel them. Reflexes are absent. Doctors say that this will no longer recover. And if they do recover, the treatment will be very long and very expensive.”

Asked whether the state pays for this treatment and rehabilitation, Vladyslav answers jokingly: “Yeah, they will catch up and pay again.”

It turned out that while Vladyslav was in captivity, his military salary had been paid to his mother, a woman who had long since lost her parental rights. So while the legal battles continue, Vladyslav is being supported by his brothers-in-arms, some of whom are also former prisoners of war. Together, they want to pursue higher education and work in veteran support—helping others like themselves.

The report was published as part of the Amnesty International Ukraine campaign “Deafening Silence,” aimed at drawing the attention of the international community to violations of the rights of prisoners of war who are held in Russia.