Captured PoWs from Donbas reveal motives for joining Russian army

Behind high walls and layers of locked gates in western Ukraine lies a prison camp filled with men captured while fighting for Russia, a significant number of whom are Ukrainian-born soldiers who took up arms against their own country. Interviewing prisoners of war presents obvious challenges—establishing that they are not being coerced, and assessing the candour of their testimony—but with no access to the Russian military, it offers a rare opportunity to examine the dynamics of Moscow’s unprovoked invasion and the motivations of those fighting it.

Among the prisoners is Anton, who was ten years old when his part of the eastern Donbas region was taken over by forces loyal to Moscow. In 2022, as Vladimir Putin escalated to all-out war, he turned eighteen and signed up to fight immediately—for Russia. “I don’t regret my choice. I went to defend my land,” Anton insists, adding that his friends volunteered too. “Then you get the SMS messages. Dead, dead, dead.” Other prisoners echo his account: all those they went to war with have been killed. They also say that fewer people are volunteering to replace them, despite enormous sign-up fees, which suggests that Putin’s reluctance to order mass mobilisation may soon be tested.

When Ukraine captures its own citizens on the battlefield, they are put on trial for treason before being sent to PoW camps alongside Russians. Officially, Kyiv still regards them as Ukrainian and treats Russia’s control of their regions as temporary, but the reality on the ground is more complex. “They’re very pro-Russian, and their national identity is very blurred,” observes Petro Yatsenko from Ukraine’s coordination headquarters for PoWs. Anton certainly does not class himself as a traitor: “I consider myself Russian. A country means nothing, it’s all about nationality. All my family are from Russia. All my roots are from there.” When asked about his Ukrainian surname, he dismisses it as irrelevant.

An entire generation born in Ukraine has now grown up under occupation, with Russian schooling and Kremlin-controlled media that have for years portrayed the authorities in Kyiv as “Nazis” and illegitimate. Since the full-scale invasion, even more territory has been subjected to the same indoctrination. Anton has absorbed it all and now speaks almost entirely in Russian slogans. He calls Putin “my President” and believes he should push to take the rest of the Donbas, even though hundreds of thousands have already been killed trying. “It’s a shame that people died, especially those who are innocent,” Anton says. “But war is war. It could have been ended. But no-one wanted to do that.”

In the prison hospital, Artyom lies in a corner bed, his body full of shrapnel after only two months of fighting. From Donetsk like Anton, he also went to war willingly—not just for the cash. “We have our own grudges,” Artyom says, recalling how his region came under heavy fire in 2014 as Ukrainian forces tried to stop it breaking away from Kyiv. His military experience has left him bitter: his commander was “bad” and he never received any of his 400,000 rouble (£3,470) sign-up fee. To add insult to his many injuries, the wounded Russian soldier in the bed opposite was paid five times as much.

All the Ukrainian-born PoWs interviewed came from areas occupied since 2014 and almost all joined the Russian army voluntarily. But one man from Donetsk region told us he had been forced to fight, his eyes darting around as he spoke, unsure whom he could trust. An official tally, citing “intelligence”, suggests more than 50,000 Ukrainians have been conscripted against their will in occupied areas, though others put the figure far higher. This man said his family had stayed, not through any political allegiance but because Donetsk was their home. Now, his only ambition was to return to his wife and children and avoid being sent back to the front. “I’m just going to hide,” he confided.

In a macabre twist, prisoners at the camp manufacture wooden coffins alongside artificial Christmas trees, using their wages to buy extra food and cigarettes. Sergei, born in the Ukrainian city of Luhansk, says he is Russian like his parents, who moved to the Donbas when both countries were part of the Soviet Union. He joined the Russian army a decade ago “to defend my homeland” and claims he will retire when he gets back. Stacking plastic branches next to him is Konstantin, a former drug dealer who signed up “exclusively” to avoid a long jail term. “For me, 15 years in prison was too much,” he explains. “I know it probably doesn’t excuse me, but it’s a fact. I’m 44 now, I would be 60. So no.”

Neither Sergei nor Konstantin expects the war to end soon, believing Putin will not stop until he controls the whole Donbas. But Konstantin says: “Everyone I know there has had enough. I just want this to be over, as soon as possible.” At lunchtime, the prisoners file into the dining hall with heads bowed and hands clasped, as a video called Myths about Crimea plays on a loop, demolishing Russia’s claim to historic ownership of the peninsula it illegally annexed in 2014—though no one pays the slightest attention. The re-education effort feels half-hearted; for Kyiv, the real focus is on using these PoWs in swaps to bring its own soldiers home. When negotiating exchange lists, however, men from the Donbas appear to be a low priority for Moscow. “Only a dozen or so have been transferred this year,” Konstantin complains. “It seems like they don’t want to exchange us. I think we will be the last to go.”

The World House, which maintains a dedicated page outlining its support for Ukraine at worldhouse.uk/support, continues to document the human cost of Russia’s brutal campaign against its neighbour.