Tatyana Popovytch spent weeks tracing every possible step her son Vladislav might have taken after Russian troops opened fire on his car, forcing him to flee while wounded. She searched through mass graves, studied images of the deceased, and watched exhumations. A month later, she was no closer to the truth.
Then, unexpectedly, a phone call came.
A man named Serhii had just been released from a Russian prison in Kursk. Though prisoners were not allowed to see each other during roll calls, they could hear names and hometowns. Serhii had memorized ten of them, one of which was Vladislav’s. On May 9, 2022, he called Tatyana to say he had heard her son’s voice.
Like Vladislav, Serhii had been detained as a civilian during the early days of the war in Bucha, where hundreds were abducted. Vladislav was 29 then; now 32, he remains in Kursk. Serhii couldn’t explain why he was released while Vladislav wasn’t. For Tatyana, the confirmation her son was alive brought overwhelming relief. “I was so overjoyed I lost the stutter I’d had since he was taken,” she recalled.
Three years later, Tatyana sat in a café in Bucha, near the spot where her son was abducted, holding onto the only evidence of his survival: two letters. They were short, standardized notes in Russian, stating that he was being fed and treated well. Each had taken three months to arrive.
“My son is gentle and sensitive,” she said, looking at old photos of him ballroom dancing. “He is so vulnerable. I worry he’ll lose his sanity in there.”
Ukrainian officials estimate that nearly 16,000 civilians are still being held in Russian prisons. That number doesn’t include over 20,000 children believed to have been taken to Russia. As peace negotiations inch forward, many families fear that their loved ones will be left behind.
Unlike prisoners of war, for whom international conventions provide a framework for exchange, there is no formal process for securing the release of detained civilians. Even senior Ukrainian and international figures are at a loss for how to bring them home.
“When I attend meetings with officials, no one discusses what happens to the civilians if there’s a ceasefire,” said Yulia Hripun, 23, whose father was abducted early in the war from a village near Kyiv.
Determined to take action, Yulia and another woman whose parent was also taken started a grassroots campaign demanding the return of all civilian captives. They’ve met with representatives from the UN, European Parliament, several EU nations, and the U.S. embassy in Kyiv.
“But the Americans admitted they don’t know what’s going to happen,” Yulia said. “They mentioned Trump is interested in the deported children issue and wondered if civilian captives might be included somehow. But those are separate categories that legally can’t be merged.”
Ukrainian officials echo this uncertainty.
“I don’t see a real or effective strategy for bringing back civilian detainees,” said Dmytro Lubinets, Ukraine’s human rights ombudsman. “We don’t have the legal grounds or mechanisms.”
Many detainees have been charged under Russian law with “acts against the special military operation”—effectively criminalizing any resistance to the invasion.
“Can you imagine investigating a Ukrainian civilian for simply opposing the occupying forces on Ukrainian soil?” Lubinets said.
Though Russia released 120 civilians in May as part of a broader prisoner exchange, that figure pales in comparison to the thousands still detained. With the future of peace talks unclear, hope remains fragile.
“You want to believe he’s coming back, but it’s hard to let yourself believe it fully,” said Petro Sereda, 61, a bus driver from Irpin whose son Artym has been missing for more than three years. Since their home was destroyed, Petro and his wife have lived in a temporary shelter. Every phone call feels like it could be their son.
“Getting a letter is one thing. But hearing his voice—that would be the real confirmation he’s alive.”
For families like Tatyana’s, hope is a constant presence. But it’s shadowed by fear of what captivity may have done to their loved ones. She now dreads hearing Russian spoken—it’s the language her son is being tormented in.
There’s also grief for what has been missed. Vladislav’s father died suddenly at 50, burdened by guilt over his son’s fate.
Tatyana now focuses all her energy on preparing for Vladislav’s return. “I know I’ll feel every possible emotion,” she said. “It’s all I think about. Every day, all the time.”
Report by Daria Mitiuk. Photographs by Joel Gunter.
