All Ukrainian‑born prisoners of war interviewed by the BBC said they originated from territories occupied since 2014 and each had enlisted in the Russian forces voluntarily. However, one man from the Donetsk region told the outlet that he had been compelled to fight. His eyes moved nervously as he spoke, uncertain whom he could trust.
An official tally, citing "intelligence," indicates that more than 50,000 Ukrainians have been conscripted against their will in the occupied zones; other estimates place the figure considerably higher.
The same interviewee explained that when Russian forces entered, his family remained—not out of any political or patriotic motive—but because Donetsk was their home. His sole aim now is to return to his wife and children and avoid being sent back to the front. "I'm conscionable going to hide," he confided.
Beneath the infirmary windows and freshly whitewashed walls, prisoners have planted rows of strawberries and cucumbers. Further along, the sharp smell of varnish from an outhouse hangs heavily in the air.
An officer lifts a gold‑coloured plastic grip from a container beside the door and asks, "Guess what this is for?" smiling.
Inside, I did a double‑take: the men inside were hammering together wooden coffins. I was told the previous assessment described the work as making garden sheds; this one feels macabre.
Across the courtyard in another building, a handful of POWs are assembling artificial Christmas trees, stringing bright baubles onto their machines. Like the coffin‑makers, they say they use their wages to buy extra food and cigarettes.
Sergei, born in the Ukrainian city of Luhansk, says he considers himself Russian, like his parents, who relocated to the Donbas when both countries were part of the Soviet Union. He joined the Russian military a decade ago "to support my homeland," but maintains he will stop fighting once he returns home, rather than go back to the front. "I've done my bit."
Most will have no alternative.
Stacking plastic branches next to Sergei is a trader who enlisted, like many, "exclusively" to avoid a lengthy prison term. Konstantin, 44, explains, "For me, 15 years successful situation was excessively much," adding, "I cognize it astir apt doesn't excuse me, but it's a fact. I'm 44 now, I would beryllium 60. So no."
But the so‑called Vshniki—convict‑soldiers—must serve until the war’s end to earn release, and their odds in combat units