High iron gates close behind us: The old Soviet prison in eastern Ukraine – the exact location must remain secret – is the largest camp of the Ukrainian army for Russian prisoners of war. The exact number of prisoners is a military secret. Here alone there are over a thousand.
In the first room it smells of blood, mud, and kerosene. Here the camouflage uniforms of the newcomers from the front are stacked, some still riddled with bullets. Next come the showers, the shaving room, then a courtyard surrounded by gray walls and barbed wire.
A siren gives the signal for the hour of yard time. The prisoners walk in pairs in a row, hands behind their backs, dressed in cobalt blue uniforms.
See the interview with Ivan, 24:
Here, the Russian prisoners of war wait to be exchanged for Ukrainian prisoners of war. These exchanges take place regularly since the beginning of the invasion.
Unlike Russian prisoner-of-war camps, the Ukrainian camp is accessible to the Red Cross and international organizations.
Ivan, 24 years old, comes from Rostov. He says he enlisted because 'the motherland ordered it,' he tells the reporter from Radio and Television of Italian Switzerland (RSI). Long pauses follow each answer. 'I only carried out orders,' he says. And to the question of whether a war in which so many civilians die is just, he replies: 'If we attacked, then we had the right to do so.'
'How did you feel when you killed?' 'Bad.'
But it is not remorse that makes him wish for the end of the war. It is rather fatigue: 'After four years, I've had enough of fighting.'
Sergey, 31 years old, comes from a prison in Samara. He was a street musician but lived mainly from thefts. By enlisting for military service, he avoided a conviction for grievous bodily harm. 'Either prison or war,' he says.
Moscow has not yet declared general mobilization of its own population, but has already emptied more than half of its prisons to fill the units sent to the front line. The majority of prisoners here come from these ranks.
Sergey is the only survivor of his group: 'The rumors about captivity were so terrible that many said it was better to commit suicide.'
Instead, he says, the Ukrainian soldiers who captured him shared water, bread, and cigarettes with him. 'We kill each other, but we both know we are only at war because someone ordered us to.'
Foreign prisoners of war
Also living in the camp are hundreds of foreigners who fought for Russia: Congolese, Egyptians, Bengalis, Colombians, Brazilians.
They are lured by the prospect of a Russian passport. And by high bonuses: up to $25,000 upon signing the contract, plus monthly wages for front-line service that are up to five times the Russian average. 'The same desperation that makes us risk our lives on the sea brings us here,' says an African prisoner of war.
The foreigners are not part of the regular prisoner exchanges. 'No one wants them back,' says the Ukrainian intelligence officer in charge of the camp.
In the canteen, the prisoners receive the same food as Ukrainian soldiers at the front. They have fifteen minutes to eat. Then they must stand up and thank the provider in chorus in Ukrainian for the meal.
The reports from the front are all similar: drones everywhere, suicide attacks, bodies left in the fields. 'It's not like in the movies,' says a young Egyptian who was captured after only three days of fighting. 'It's too terrible to tell.'
RSI, Falo, June 2, 2026, 8:45 p.m.; liea
