Former journalist and human rights activist Maksym Butkevych, known for defending the rights of refugees, displaced and stateless individuals, is also a co-founder of the human rights centre ZMINA. At the outset of the Russian invasion, he joined Ukraine’s Armed Forces. In June 2022, while leading a platoon on a combat mission, he was captured in the Luhansk region. During 27 months of captivity, he endured a criminal conviction of 13 years before being exchanged on October 18, 2024.
The Ukrainian Week sat down with Butkevych in Kyiv just weeks after his release as he started adjusting to life outside captivity. In this interview, he gives a detailed account of how the Russian prison system treated Ukrainian prisoners of war—both military and civilian. Butkevych also reflects on what helped him endure his imprisonment and shares his thoughts on what the future holds.
– Where were you held during your captivity?
– I spent three months in a SIZO (detention centre) in Luhansk before being transferred to a strict-regime penal colony, Colony #2, in the occupied territories of the so-called Luhansk People’s Republic (LPR). After a month, I was back in the SIZO for hearings at the Court of Appeal and Cassation Court in Moscow—attended via video link—and then sent back to the same colony in late March 2023, where I remained until my release.
– Were there any differences between your detention in the SIZO and in the colony?
– As POWs, we weren’t allowed any prison walks, leaving us without fresh air for nearly eight and a half months. The food was worse: we could hear the distinct clatter of pots being swapped as they approached the cells for POWs. Portions were so small that hunger became a constant companion, sometimes so intense it kept us awake at night. We had no contact with the outside world.
After Russia’s formal annexation of Luhansk on September 30, 2022, the LPR prison system began transitioning to Russia’s FSIN (Federal Service of Execution of Punishment) standards. This brought some changes: harsh routines, such as morning and evening “check-ups” involving forced push-ups or sit-ups, along with beatings, suddenly stopped. Instead, the guards ignored us. Medical care, though still poor, improved slightly. Initially, we were denied basic items like paper, pens, or even a heating coil, but later, they allowed us minimal provisions. We were also issued standard black prison uniforms with grey stripes, in line with the Russian system.
– Were there any criminal convicts held with you?
– Initially, it was just POWs. Later, so-called “political prisoners” joined us—civilians convicted of charges like “espionage” or “state treason.” After my sentencing, I was moved to a section with individuals charged with criminal offences. Among them were local Ukrainians who had refused to accept Russian or ‘LPR’ passports.
When Russia officially annexed the territory, the ‘LPR criminal code’ was replaced with the Russian one. I’m no lawyer, but I couldn’t help but question how non-Russian nationals who had never lived in Russia could be charged with treason against Russia. How were they going to justify that? From what I understand, they found a simple, albeit temporary, solution: they didn’t bother to explain it at all.
– What happened to the eight people you were captured with?
– We were held together for about three and a half weeks. After enduring prolonged physical pressure, I was moved to a smaller cell. During interrogation, they labelled me a “bad influence” because I tried to keep the other POWs confident.
Two interrogators, likely from the FSB, seemed well aware of my background from Russian media articles that described me as a “Nazi commander of an extermination unit.” They asked if I would give an interview to a “respectable international media outlet”—someone like the BBC, but not actually the BBC.
They wanted me to talk about the Ukrainian leadership, Nazi ideology in Ukraine, international donors, and, specifically, George Soros. I was supposed to say how Soros undermines traditional values, serves as a cover for American imperialism, and supposedly controls Ukraine while promoting LGBT ideology. I told them it wasn’t a problem—I’d be happy to say everything I know: that he supports human rights initiatives, local self-governance, and academic publications.
[The interrogator] grew angry, accusing me of being brainwashed by Western ideology. He claimed that if I wasn’t a spy, I was at least under Western influence and spreading it in Ukraine. He declared me his personal ideological enemy, saying it was a disgrace that I hadn’t killed myself when captured, as an officer should.
He said: “I would kill you if I met you elsewhere, but unfortunately, right here now, I cannot. We’ll sentence you”. When I argued that there was nothing to charge me with, he replied, “All of you, Ukrainian military, are war criminals simply because you fight us. Finding something to charge you with is no problem.” Then there was extended physical pressure.
The following day, the head of “opera” (informal control), a short but physically intimidating man, threatened me with torture. He started with: “You, fucker. Why are you acting out? The only reason I’m not beating you yet is because it’s Sunday morning, and people are still at church. It’d be a sin to beat you now.” He went on to outline what would happen if I continued to misbehave. They don’t use things like scratching a person’s teeth anymore because “we use tapic” (a military phone). He explained where electrodes should be put to make you lie in your own vomit, faeces and piss. “Soon, serious people will ask serious questions, and if you don’t reply, this is what will happen to you.”
About a month later, the Investigative Committee, responsible for fabricating criminal cases, arrived, and I was among their targets.
– You mentioned earlier that you were threatened by an officer when you were captured. Could you elaborate on that?
– We were taken to what looked like the first line and left naked, our hands tied behind our backs, lying on the floor. He singled me out as an officer, questioning what each of us had done before the invasion. He asked who was married, and upon learning that most of their wives were abroad, he addressed the men one by one, graphically describing what was happening to their wives with local men—group sex, but basically rape. It was a deliberate attempt to provoke us into reacting.
At one point, he brought over a soldier and demanded that I say on camera, “I wish Russian special forces good hunting.” When I refused, he mocked me, lecturing about an officer’s honour and calling me a disgrace to the military because of my weight. I didn’t respond. Later, some men in balaclavas arrived and took us away one by one for “talks” and filming.
Later, during the filming, he returned and announced that we would be learning Ukrainian history. He pulled out Putin’s July 2021 address to the nation and began reading sections aloud—about the origins of Ukraine, its incorporation into Russia as three regions (Kyiv, Chernihiv, and Zhytomyr), the Left Bank, the so-called ‘Novorossiya’, Western Ukraine, and Crimea. Then he said, “I’ll read a sentence and point to one of you. That person must repeat it word for word. If anyone slips up or confuses the words, he [Maksym] will be beaten.”
He carried on, and I was beaten repeatedly. I saw the others trying their best not to make mistakes, but it was challenging. If someone hesitated, I got a blow. If someone mixed up words, I got two or three blows. He started enjoying it, eventually abandoning the address entirely and just beating me. Then, he pulled out his phone, turned on the video recorder, and demanded I say, “Glory to Russia. We wish the special forces of Russia good hunting. Please forgive me for not wishing this in the morning.” For him, that wasn’t the end of the story.
– Do you think this officer was a sadist, or was it his job to break you before your captivity?
– He came across as both sadistic and methodical, taking care not to break any bones while still inflicting pain. For a while, my hand was partially immobilised. He also used me as a warning to the others, showing them what would happen if we didn’t follow orders. He made it clear that anything could be done to us, with no external instance to answer to.
– Did you meet any other POWs who were captured and described similar experiences?
– I haven’t met anyone with the exact same experience. It seems quite sophisticated to me. I now have this scar on my shoulder and post-traumatic arthritis. It almost feels like too perfect a metaphor—having Putin’s version of Ukrainian history etched into my skin.
On the other hand, from what I was told, soldiers who captured prisoners were calmer or more respectful—at least in a soldier-to-soldier relationship—compared to those on the second line.
When we were captured, we weren’t in the middle of a firefight. But if there had been heavy fighting and casualties, the reaction could have been different.
– You left Ukraine in June 2022 and returned to a very different country. What struck you the most?
– I spent a month in a rehabilitation centre, and it turned out better than I expected. I had thought that a country at war for over two years wouldn’t have any resources. But we were well taken care of and had time to adjust to the idea that we weren’t in captivity anymore. I’ve been back in Kyiv for a week now, so I’m still getting used to it. Some things feel familiar, but many are very different from what I remember. I was hoping for better, but I expected worse—that’s one of my old principles to avoid disappointment.
Things are better than I expected. Even though people are exhausted from the war, the volunteer movement is incredibly large and well-organised. New places have opened up, and there’s this “volunteer military tax” everywhere you go—whether it’s the hairdresser, a coffee shop, or the grocery store. People are donating a lot. It’s very much in the Ukrainian, anarchic way of doing things.
I’m also glad to see the cultural scene flourishing. I remember in the spring of 2022, there were very pessimistic views about Ukrainian book publishing. Some of the publishing industry’s resources were destroyed in the early stages of the occupation. People predicted that Ukrainians would spend what little money they had on survival essentials. But Ukrainian publishing is thriving.
I get the sense that people are more caring towards each other now; they understand how fragile and traumatised any one of us can be.
I still have a lot to discover. I’m on post-captivity leave right now for medical procedures, and then I’ll have to decide what to do next. As a former POW, I have the right to discharge. I know the areas I want to be active in. To me, it doesn’t really matter whether I stay in the army, return to the civil sector where I come from, or go into the state or commercial sector. I want to help bring our people back from captivity and contribute to international solidarity with Ukraine. The rest is about effectiveness, like Ani DiFranco says: “Every tool is a weapon if you hold it right.”
– As a human rights activist, what led you to join the armed forces in February 2022?
– I realised that there was a real need for people in international advocacy, humanitarian programs, and in caring for internally displaced persons (IDPs) from newly occupied regions, as well as volunteering with the army. But I also felt less vulnerable than many others. Almost all of my loved ones, except my parents, were in relatively safe places, and Kyiv needed to be defended. If Kyiv fell, it would mean that much of Ukrainian territory would be under Russian control, where human rights are non-existent. Everything we’ve worked for over decades would be erased. If I wanted to protect that, I had to join. I’d still be fighting for the same goal—human rights—just in a different way, with a Kalashnikov.
There was an inner tension because I’m an antimilitarist, but not taking up arms would have much more serious consequences. I felt a personal responsibility. For people to help IDPs, someone has to be fighting for them on the frontline. Those who fight make it possible for others to do other vital things.
– What helped you stay resilient during the past two and a half years?
I created mental practices, recalling encounters and conversations. My first degree is in philosophy, but to me, philosophy isn’t some abstract theory—it’s a way of life. I needed time to reflect on certain fundamental matters, and eventually, that time was given to me. My faith helped me a lot. I’m a Christian and had kept it quite private before, not because I was ashamed but because it’s something deeply personal, and I dislike imposing my beliefs on others. While still in the army, I realised that faith was far more central to me than I had realised in times of peace.
I remember a passage from the New Testament, describing the guards tormenting Jesus before his crucifixion. They covered his eyes, beat him over the head, and mocked him, saying, “Tell us who hit you. If you’re a prophet, you should know.” Two thousand years later, in a corridor in Luhansk, the same scene played out. Some things never change. I also wanted to help the people I love, and the only thing I could do was pray for them.
Then there were books and letters. From the end of February, we were allowed to write and receive letters, but only with Russia and other countries. I was told by the guards that I received more letters than the rest of the colony. I managed to respond to every one of the hundreds of letters—except three. I remember writing, “It’s really important to keep hope.” I held on to that hope, but I made sure it didn’t consume me, because I had to be ready for the long haul.
I adapted to the lack of food and poor hygiene. Fear was the hardest to deal with—it was a basic, instinctive emotion, terrifying and humiliating. I was scared of being forced to do something I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for. But that never happened. They did force me to do things, but most of the time, it was manageable. I refused at times, and they didn’t push, or they did, but I somehow managed to shift the situation in my favour.
Soon enough, I realised that what I needed most was time, health, and patience. I wasn’t very good with patience before, but you learn it well in captivity.
– What can be done to support Ukrainian POWs and imprisoned soldiers?
– Solidarity, on all levels, would be crucial, especially when they could stay in touch with the outside world. I received letters from France, Lithuania, Germany, the Czech Republic, the Balkans, and more.
I believe something needs to be done internationally: Russia must feel outside pressure in the form of sanctions. What worries me, and I’ve yet to see evidence to the contrary, is that the issue of POWs held in Russia is still seen as just another part of the war. Everyone knows that the Geneva Conventions are being violated—“too bad, so sad,” as the saying goes, but violations are always happening. After being inside, I see it differently. They don’t just breach conventions here and there—they completely undermine international humanitarian law, rendering it ineffective and irrelevant. There was once an attempt to establish an international humanitarian law structure to preserve humanity, but these efforts are consciously dismantled by the political leadership of the Russian Federation.
When it comes to civilian prisoners, the situation is even worse, in my view, bordering on genocide. POWs convicted on false charges—criminal cases—become mere objects of trade. We were sentenced to be swapped for something, not just someone. When you force someone to confess to a crime and imprison them for long sentences, that’s not just a POW situation; it’s hostage-taking, a form of slavery, rather than being part of a war—this is a terrorist practice. And I fear that internationally, it’s not seen as such.
I have no idea to what extent international monitoring of Ukrainian POWs and detention facilities is taking place. We never saw anyone. At first, we hoped for a visit from the International Red Cross. Then we stopped hoping. Eventually, the International Red Cross became almost a curse word. We realised they should have been there, but they weren’t. The only visit we had was from someone from the UN Human Rights Mission, accompanied by LPR Ombudsman Serdyukova. Later, we were visited by the next Ombudsman, Soroka.
The lack of independent oversight at these sites made us, Ukrainian POWs, extremely vulnerable. I was personally told as much—“We can do whatever we want with you, break you for the rest of your life, because no one is watching.”
I understand how difficult this is. The Russian leadership has no intention of allowing international presence at these sites. But there are still tools available to at least try to push for more consistent oversight.
There are also specific cases that I still can’t comprehend. Some POWs, in poor health, don’t receive the proper medical treatment they need and should be prioritised for exchange. How can OSCE officers, who have been imprisoned for over two years and charged with espionage after confessing under torture, still be held despite the protections guaranteed by the Vienna Convention for diplomatic staff and international organisations? These officers were with me in the same barrack. And yet, Russia continues to be part of the OSCE while still holding these people.
– Do you believe international justice could one day hold those responsible for the treatment of POWs accountable?
– I would love to see that happen. For many POWs, it’s incredibly important. I understand that some perpetrators might escape justice, but above all, the ICC’s judgment is crucial to ensure these crimes are recognised and never repeated.
– Do you think the mistreatment of POWs has been part of Russia’s state policy?
– Yes. They received instructions; some of them enjoyed it, some didn’t. A special group was responsible for setting up the conveyor belt of fabricated criminal cases. They needed to ensure a certain number of cases were sent to court. It was clear they were following orders, not acting on their own initiative.
Their methods were designed to replicate Stalinist purges. In the neighbouring region of Poltava, in 1938, my great-grandfather was arrested, charged with espionage, tortured into confessing, and then executed as an enemy of the people. He was later rehabilitated, and I read through his case.
More than 80 years later, in the neighbouring region, I faced a similar charge under torture—though, unlike him, I was “only” sentenced to 13 years, not shot. The same machinery is still in place, meaning no safeguards have been implemented to stop these practices.
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This article was produced as part of a project supported by a grant from the German N-Ost Foundation, funded by the European Union.
