Russian captivity: Dramatic story how hunger slowly kills Ukrainian soldiers

The clinking of aluminum cans echoes down the corridor. Heavy, 25-liter containers repeatedly strike the stairs as the "balandzior"—prison slang for the criminal distributing food—carries them to the basement. Clink, step. Clink, another step. These dull, metallic sounds rouse the prisoners from their half-sleep and stupor. Their sunken faces show signs of life. Lunch is coming! Someone attempts a joke: "I wonder what's on the menu today?" Others join in, listing dishes and recounting where and when they had them. As long as the cans clink in the corridor, they can momentarily transport themselves in their minds to a Kyiv restaurant, a pierogi shop in Poznań, or a steakhouse in Dnipro—anywhere far from the prison squalor.

Once, to pass the time, Vlad measured the cell by pacing: six meters long, three wide. "About 18 square meters. My room at home was bigger," he notes. He continues calculating. "If there are 24 prisoners in the cell, that's 0.75 square meters per person." Most of this space is occupied by unused double-decker bunks. The metal bars painfully dig into emaciated bodies because there are only seven mattresses (0.29 mattresses per person, Vlad calculates).

In the evenings, the prisoners spread all the mattresses on the concrete floor. They lie on their sides, huddling together. The tight quarters have one advantage: it's not cold. The cell's only window, just below the ceiling, has a broken pane. In winter, icy drafts blow through, and the cell's temperature drops below freezing, as Vlad notes each time by pointing to the water frozen in a cup. At night, frost glistens on the patches of blue-green paint still clinging to the walls.

Most of the time, the prisoners sit in silence, numbed by cold and gnawing hunger. Only the clinking of aluminum cans signaling a meal briefly pulls them from apathy. The "balandzior" has already brought them to the basement, and now the squeaky cart and the thud of opening "karmniks"—the small windows through which food is passed—can be heard. "Children await Christmas with such impatience," Vlad thinks

What can a prisoner expect?

• Breakfast: a glass of milk diluted with water

• Second breakfast: two slices of dark bread

• Lunch: a ladle of soup

• Dinner: three tablespoons of pearl barley

Totaling about 500-600 calories. Lunch is the worst. A murky liquid without taste or smell. Sometimes a cabbage leaf floats in it, rarely—a piece of potato or a few grains of groats. Once or twice, there was a chicken skin. Indescribable joy! Meat! Vitamins! Only the cell's duty officer has a problem. How to divide the skin fairly when 24 pairs of hungry eyes watch every move?

The cart squeaks closer. Now the falsetto of the "balandzior" is clearly heard. "Igorek," one of the prisoners notes. There are several "balandziors" in the prison. Some are neutral, others seethe with hatred. Igorek surpasses them all. He's 23 years old, serving time for arms trafficking. Short, dried up by meth or some other poison, with an unremarkable face. He looks like a typical thug from a Donetsk neighborhood. Descending to the prisoners' basement, he feels like a god. He rules unchallenged with his ladle. He decides who gets soup from the bottom of the pot and who remains with an empty stomach.

When the "karmnik" opens, the prisoners stand at attention. Hands along the body, back straight, eyes fixed on the floor. "'Khokhols'! Want to eat? Put on a show for me!" Igorek likes to feel power, but unlike the guards, he lacks flair. When the guards are bored, they lay out their tools of the trade on a table: rubber batons, metal rulers, plastic pipes. They beat leisurely, with perverse deliberation. They perfect their craft. An achievement is when there's not a single unbruised spot left on a prisoner's body.

Igorek's imagination is limited to contests: which cell sings the Russian anthem more beautifully or does 400 squats faster. Sometimes, lacking a better idea, he demands to be shown the prisoner with the smallest penis. Or orders them to lie on the icy floor for three hours. This time, he wants a performance. "Sing!" he yells through the "karmnik." But he suspiciously quickly gives up. The ladle bangs against the edges of the can. Igorek is already handing the duty officer a plastic bucket with liquid. Suddenly, he hurls it onto the floor. The soup splashes and spills onto the ground. "No lunch today!" he cackles.

Late September. In Ukraine, the heat is unrelenting—abnormally high temperatures for the season. Not a drop of rain falls, just the merciless sun burning overhead, yellowed grass, and withered trees. Along the roadside stretch fields of blackened sunflowers. The stalks remain upright, but their heads droop despondently, resembling a scene straight out of a post-apocalyptic film.

On September 13, 2024, Ukraine and Russia executed a prisoner exchange: "103 for 103." Among them was Vlad. We meet him a few days later at a rehabilitation center for freed prisoners (the location and names of the center’s staff remain confidential).

The center’s expansive courtyard features a fountain, benches, and gazebos. Yet, in this idyllic setting, ghostly figures shuffle by—stooped, emaciated bodies. Their gaunt faces, with sunken eyes wide and alert, betray disbelief and a lingering sense of caution.

Vlad is 27 years old. He spent 848 days in Russian captivity. Before his imprisonment, he was a professional sprinter with a chiseled physique. Now, he is all bones, sagging skin, and severe muscle atrophy.

"This is, unfortunately, the norm," explains Dr. Valeriy, the center’s director. "Every single one of them experiences hunger and torture. They come back weighing 20 to 30 kilograms less, but there are extreme cases of starvation. Some lose 60 to 70 kilograms—they look like they’ve stepped out of photos from concentration camps. Add to that muscle wasting, organ failure, and festering wounds on their legs that often require amputation. And the psychological trauma? I won’t even start."

Vlad, "Volt," Igor, Vladyslav Zadorin, and other Ukrainian soldiers interviewed by WP were taken captive at different times and held in prisons ranging from Donetsk to Siberia. Yet, apart from the dates and geography, their stories are eerily similar.

Vlad recalls, "It hurts like hell when your ribs are broken, your genitals electrocuted, or your nails torn off. But the pain eventually subsides, the wounds heal. Hunger, though—that never leaves you, not for a second. It kills slowly, day by day. Do you know what starvation madness feels like? I’ll tell you, though many will be ashamed to hear it. I’ll be ashamed too."

The cell is in the basement. The clinking of aluminum containers echoes through the corridor.

Vlad’s thoughts drift to home. As a child, he couldn’t understand his grandparents’ reverence for bread.

The fridge was always full, yet they treated every crumb like a sacred object. If a slice fell to the floor, they’d kiss it and place it back on the table. It seemed odd—an overreaction, surely—but he now realizes it was the trauma of the Holodomor, the Great Famine.

"In captivity, I understood: bread is everything. Survival. Currency. Strategy. The cause of fierce battles and deep philosophical debates," Vlad explains.

The food hatch opens with a bang. The balandzior—the prisoner responsible for distributing rations—hurls the daily allotment inside: two slices of bread per person. The cell’s appointed caretaker jumps up to catch the bread mid-air, but it still hits the filthy floor. The bread is dark, nearly black, and always underbaked. It crumbles easily into small fragments. The floor is sticky with filth and leaking sewage, but the caretaker scrambles to pick up every piece. He hands out the larger chunks first, then carefully divides the crumbs.

Everyone drags themselves back to their spots along the wall. What happens next is all about strategy.

Some devour their bread greedily, desperate to fill the void in their stomachs. They feel a brief relief. But when the emptiness returns, they drown it in water, which only leads to diarrhea that further weakens them.

Others eat over makeshift handkerchiefs, torn from their clothing, so no crumb is lost. They meticulously fold and store the cloths, gathering crumbs over the course of a week. By then, they might have half a spoonful—precious nourishment to thicken the watery soup.

The most disciplined among them dry their bread. A stale slice can last an entire day. They nibble at it bit by bit, suck on it for a long time, and then slowly chew it. They avoid the frantic pangs of hunger, but they never feel satisfied. Their hunger is constant, steady—a dull, unending ache, like a persistent toothache.

The rehabilitation center for recently freed prisoners. The sun blazes down, yet Volt is bundled up in a thick, warm sweatshirt. Seeing us in short sleeves, he asks in disbelief, "You’re not cold?"

Like Vlad, Volt was captured on the day Mariupol fell.

"When we left Azovstal, they told us the Red Cross guaranteed our safety, that captivity would be honorable," he recalls.

After a year, I weighed 42 kilograms.

Taganrog. A pre-trial detention center. Time between meals stretches endlessly, like chewing gum. Minds clouded by fog, broken only by a single, overpowering thought: eat, eat, eat!

One prisoner, his eyes burning with intensity, speaks in a deadly serious tone: "When I get home, I’ll get a job at a chocolate factory. I’ll stand at the end of the conveyor belt and eat as much as I want."

Another pauses, then adds, "I’ll sign a deal with a bakery. Every day they’ll deliver a van full of warm bread to me. And I’ll eat, eat, eat."

Volt catches himself realizing this is delirium. He wants to sleep, but his empty stomach won’t let him. His body feels stiff, his nerves stretched taut.

Dinner arrives—barley porridge. Three spoonfuls. Just enough to barely cover the bottom of a plate. You want to eat it all at once, but you know that won’t help. No, it’s better to wait. You reach for the bread heel hidden in the mattress. Mixing the soft inside of the bread with the porridge, you stuff it back into the slice. By the third day, it will be full.

Then comes the task of choosing the right moment to eat. Not in the morning—you’ll digest it too quickly. Not at midday either, because at any moment they could call you in for interrogation. A few shocks to your genitals with a stun gun, and you’ll vomit it all up. Three days of effort wasted.

No, it’s best to eat in the evening. To lie down on your bunk. Close your eyes and savor every bite slowly. You feel warmth, the bliss of a full stomach. As you place the last morsel into your mouth, you drift off. The next time you’ll feel full will be three days from now.

Wladyslav Zadorin recounts, "Remember the iconic phrase, ‘Russian warship, go f**k yourself’? I was there, on Snake Island."

"I was taken captive on the first day of the invasion. I came back after 679 days, 60 kilograms lighter. Now I know—there’s nothing a person wouldn’t eat out of hunger."

Kursk. Pre-trial detention center. Every sudden movement triggers a collapse. You feel a nauseating sweetness in your mouth, and then everything goes dark. Next frame: someone slapping your cheeks, trying to wake you up.

Hunger shifts from delirium and helplessness to pure rage. There’s no morality, no disgust—only raw animal instinct. And that instinct commands one thing: get food.

You scan the cell with hungry eyes. Toilet paper is the first target. Guys swallow it in pieces. It fills the stomach but clogs the intestines. They writhe in pain, suffering from constipation and hemorrhoids, but they keep eating the paper.

I turn to toothpaste. I smear it on bread. It tastes exquisite—sweet and fruity, like dessert. My stomach burns, but I can’t stop. I eye the gray bar of soap on the sink. I think, There must be protein in there. Russia is still mentally the Soviet Union—they’re probably still making soap from dog fat.

The first to eat a worm is Romchyk, a 20-year-old guardsman. He does it half-jokingly, as part of a bet. Soon, there’s a line for worms. We breed them under the toilet, watering the area to encourage faster reproduction. This one’s mine, that one’s yours. Just remember: don’t place it on your tongue or bite into it—they’re bitter.

Over time, the guys start hunting mice. At night, you sprinkle crumbs on the floor and wait. When you hear the faint squeaking, it’s time. Focus. One precise throw. The plastic plate comes down evenly, trapping the mouse.

You pull it out, stun it. In the morning, you skin it, discard the insides. There’s not much meat, but you gnaw every bit off the tiny bones. Other soldiers look away in disgust, but eventually, they admit it—those who eat mice stop fainting from hunger.

I envy those guys, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I watch a pigeon that sometimes perches on the windowsill. I’ve eaten roasted pigeon before. I can eat it raw. I scatter crumbs between the pane and the bars, then hide behind the wall. One swift move, but its feathers slip through my fingers.

Today, I’ll have to settle for a snail. They’re actually pretty tasty—except for the slime. I smear it on a slice of bread.

Igor says, "I used to be a successful man. I ran a business, dabbled in local politics. Everything I touched turned to gold. Now I feel like nothing. A man stripped of his dignity."

"I spent 801 days in captivity. Every single one of them was hell."

"I’ve lost count of how many times the Russians took me out for a mock execution. At first, it was like something out of a Vietnam War movie: they kept us in cages, standing knee-deep in water. Then, in stages, they transferred us to a penal colony in the Vladimir region."

"The guards were sadistic. They brought us bread cut unevenly. One guy would get a bigger slice, another a smaller one. Instinct kicks in: fight to survive. People turn on each other, clawing for the larger piece. The guards found it hilarious."

"Or take this, for example: a full day passes with no bread. The soup is as filling as a glass of warm water. Three spoonfuls of porridge vanish in a second."

"Some men panic from starvation; others sink into apathy, sleeping standing up. Then suddenly, the hatch slams open. The balandzior throws loaves of bread into the cell. You rub your eyes in disbelief as more and more hit the floor. A whole loaf of bread for each prisoner! Eat, eat, eat! You tear off chunks and shove them into your mouth."

"The guard barks: ‘You have until the evening inspection.’"

"You glance at the clock—15 minutes to eat an entire loaf. You wolf down half in one go. You’re still hungry, but your stomach is no bigger than a fist. You feel the tickle rising in your throat. Your mind races, like an animal in a trap. Should you hide the rest? Save it for the night? But if the guard finds it, he’ll beat you unconscious. Give it away? No! Better to be beaten than to go hungry."

"An hour passes. Prisoners’ faces turn as pale as chalk. Stomachs can’t digest it. Vomiting, diarrhea. There’s only one toilet, a bucket in the corner with no partition. Someone sits, only to be yanked away by the next guy: ‘Get up!’ Another doesn’t make it in time. The stench becomes unbearable."

"The hatch slams open again. The guard sneers, ‘What, shit yourselves?’"

"And then you understand why they did it. You feel utterly dehumanized."

Vlad recalls, "I didn’t know a person could eat fish bones. But you can. The spine, the tail. You’ll eat anything that has protein."

"Once, there was a pork bone in the soup. We broke it, sucked on it, gnawed it like dogs. Some people’s teeth cracked from the effort. They’d just switch sides and keep biting the bone."

"I could have eaten toilet paper or even soap. But we didn’t have those luxuries in the cell. We were hungry, filthy, and naked."

Winter came, and the cell temperature dropped below freezing. We wore nothing but T-shirts, shorts, and torn socks. The clothes we were given reeked of sweat and bodily fluids. Lice infested the seams. We had scabies. After lights out, the cell floor came alive—rats, mice, cockroaches, bedbugs. At night, we scratched our bites until they bled. By morning, we were covered in festering wounds. We were rotting alive.

In ten months at the Donetsk prison, they never took us outside even once. We were allowed to bathe only three times. It wasn’t until the bathhouse that I realized—we were skeletons wrapped in pale skin.

Sunken cheeks, sharp collarbones, protruding ribs, and bloated, jelly-like stomachs. Our legs swelled so badly that from the knees to the toes they formed almost a right angle. Later, after the exchange, a doctor explained: it was starvation edema, or protein deficiency edema. A total breakdown of the body due to malnutrition. During the Holodomor, when recording death by starvation was prohibited, official documents listed edema as the primary cause of death.

Your senses dull. Your vision narrows, like looking through a peephole. Your hearing fades. Someone is always fainting. You’re too weak to climb to the top bunk.

You just want to sleep, but during the day, sitting down is forbidden. We learned to drift into a stupor while standing. You’re too exhausted to think, forgetting names, dates, even basic facts.

At interrogation, the investigator asks:

"What’s your mother’s birthdate?"

"I don’t remember."

"How old are you?"

"I don’t remember."

"Where did you serve? What’s your unit number?"

"I don’t remember."

You return to the cell, bleeding, on the verge of collapse. One thought consumes you: Eat, eat, eat!

How far are you willing to go to fill your stomach? You try to hold on, thinking about the day you’ll return home. But then, you wonder—when that day comes, will you be able to look yourself in the eye?

The basement cell. The balandzior, Igor, slams a bucket of soup onto the floor. Dejected, the prisoners retreat to lean against their patches of wall. But Sashka is up to something. He inches closer to the wet spot on the ground, pretending to pick something up. Then his restraint breaks. Dropping to all fours, he begins gathering grains of barley and scraps of cabbage leaves from the filthy floor.

The sight is revolting, but no one says a word.

Vlad recalls, "That’s how it started."

A few days later, we wake up in the morning. The balandzior brings in "milk porridge," a watery, milky-colored liquid. The guys reach for their stashed dried bread. Suddenly, they freeze. Every piece is nibbled. One loaf is missing its crust; another has its soft center hollowed out. Silence falls. The cell is filled only with Azov fighters.

Someone finally mutters, "Must’ve been a rat."

The others nod, but their agreement is unconvincing. That night, they stay on guard. Sashka is caught red-handed.

A meeting is called. What to do? How do you punish someone who went through hell with you at Azovstal? But order must be maintained. Sashka gets a warning. The next time, he’s assigned extra cleaning duty. The third time, tempers snap. Fists fly.

But nothing gets through to Sashka. It all rolls off him like water off a duck’s back. He’s already gone, lost to the other side. He doesn’t speak to anyone, and the hunger madness burns in his bulging eyes. He’s just waiting for the right moment to steal someone’s crumbs.

The guys start wrapping their bread in plastic bags and hiding it under their pillows. The bread doesn’t dry; it grows mold. They eat it anyway. They vomit, suffer diarrhea—but they keep eating.

"Volt" explains, "Hunger brought out the worst in people. If someone had a crack in their character, hunger split it wide open."

"There was a man in one of the cells, built like a mountain. He’d take food from the weaker ones."

"Another sold himself for a portion of soup."

"Evenings in the corridor, you’d hear Petro’s voice: ‘Gospodin naczalnik!’ (in Russian, ‘Comrade Warden!’—the only way we were allowed to address the guards). ‘Permit me a double portion—I need to regain my strength before I enlist in the Russian Armed Forces!’"

"Or another: ‘Gospodin naczalnik! Permit me a meeting with the investigator. I just remembered who was shooting at civilians in Donbas.’"

"An hour later, he’d return with a grotesque smile on his face. He’d seen candies on the investigator’s desk. ‘Let’s pin it on those who’ve already been swapped,’ he’d urge the others."

Wladyslav Zadorin reflects, "What do you even know after two years in captivity? Positions? Weapons? No. The investigators didn’t care about intelligence. They were building criminal cases for everyone. Killing civilians in Donbas, raping grandmothers, crucifying children. Even Orwell couldn’t have imagined this."

"They would pick the weakest link in the cell and torment everyone until that person broke. They’d withhold food and beat us excessively. The message was clear: ‘It’s because of him.’"

"When they got what they wanted, they’d reward their favorites. The cell would get full bowls of soup, extra slices of bread—but always at someone else’s expense. If one person got more, someone else went hungry."

Vlad recounts, "We all came close to madness. You wake up in the middle of the night, look at your friend, and see him staring blankly at the ceiling, his face frozen. You say something—he doesn’t respond."

"In the morning, you strain to hear the clink of aluminum cans. The cart creaks rhythmically. You wait for your portion of liquid. But what’s the point? You eat, and all it does is prolong your agony. Why endure this suffering?"

"But killing yourself is even harder than staying alive."

"One guy dismantled a razor, trying to slit his throat with the blade. The guards beat him unconscious. Another pulled a string from his pants to hang himself. The string snapped, and he cracked his head open."

Wladyslav Zadorin recalls, "It was summer 2023. Another interrogation—beatings, a stun gun. I could feel myself dying. That nauseating sweetness filled my mouth; my strength was leaving me. Suddenly, rage consumed me. I lunged at the guard. Kill me or let me go! I can’t do this anymore!"

"I woke up in solitary confinement, completely naked. The walls and floor were covered in rubber. No light. No way to tell if it was day or night. For two days, I had nothing to eat and soiled myself where I lay."

"Volt" says, "A guard joked, ‘Hey, you! Auschwitz! I’d send you up in smoke!’"

"The others roared with laughter. Then they called us Nazis, while starving, beating, and dehumanizing us. To them, we weren’t people. The hardest part was not believing it ourselves."

"I learned to control my thoughts. Instead of thinking about food, I thought about my family. I imagined having a camper from Tucson, a generator, a grill, a tent, sleeping bags, foam mats, and, most importantly, a small chainsaw. My stomach ached, but in my mind, I was taking my wife and son on a trip through Europe."

Vlad adds, "Some give in to animal instincts and sink low; others, even in these inhuman conditions, hold on to their humanity. The cell was below freezing. Water in a glass turned to ice. I was fading, out of strength. My commander, an officer, would wrap his entire body around me every night, warming me and rubbing my numb feet. I’m not ashamed to say it: I never slept that closely with my fiancée. He saved my life."

The basement cell.

At the end of July, something suddenly changes. Vlad senses that something isn’t right. The guards stop beating the prisoners. Instead of the usual interrogator, a Russian officer sits behind the desk.

"Are you going for the exchange or staying?" he asks.

Stunned, Vlad’s knees nearly buckle.

"I’m going, sir!"

Vlad remembers, "I couldn’t sleep that night. I listened to every sound coming from the courtyard. After ten days, I was transferred to another detention center. For the first time in ten months, I saw the sun. It was blinding—my eyes weren’t used to daylight. I walked endlessly around the exercise yard, circling, feeling like I was floating above the ground."

Some prisoners were so nervous they couldn’t say a word. Others couldn’t stop talking. The final hours dragged on endlessly. Only on the plane did relief finally hit: This is really happening! I survived! I’m going home!

The exchange at the border was euphoric. Familiar faces from the brigade were everywhere. Wherever you turned, dozens of hands stretched out toward you with food. "Try this, eat that."

Vlad took two tomatoes. His taste buds exploded—the first fresh vegetables in two years.

But the emotions faded quickly.

Wladyslav Zadorin recalls, "In those first days after my release, I ate, vomited, and ate again. I couldn’t feel anything. I had imagined my return from captivity as a touching scene—hugs, tears of joy. But at that first meeting, I looked at my parents like they were strangers. No feelings, no emotions. Neither good nor bad. Just shame. And guilt. There was a guy in the cell with me, already severely emaciated. He grew weaker every day. Surely, he deserved the exchange more than I did."

"A psychologist explained to me that it’s survivor’s guilt—a normal reaction. Supposedly, it’s also normal that even a year after the exchange, whenever I feel hunger, I still have panic attacks. My hands tremble, my heart races. I’m convinced the door will swing open, and they’ll take me back for interrogation."

"I search my pockets frantically. There has to be a Snickers bar somewhere. One bite, then another. Okay. It’s fine. Everything is fine, right?

I’m 25 years old and a war invalid. Closed head trauma from too many bottles smashed over it. Spinal injuries from vertebrae shattered with a hammer. My gallbladder removed—most prisoners end up with gallstones caused by prolonged malnutrition."

The rehabilitation center for freed prisoners. A sprawling courtyard with benches and gazebos.

Vlad’s days are meticulously scheduled: medical checkups, IV drips, trips to government offices.

The worst is supposedly over, yet he feels overwhelmed. He can’t keep up. He doesn’t understand anything.

Lunchtime approaches. In the dining hall, a homemade meal awaits: hearty vegetable soup, roast with potatoes and tender pork, a salad with mackerel and grated cheese, compote, coffee, cake. White bread with a crispy crust. You can eat as much as you want, and everything is delicious.

But his stomach can’t handle it. Vlad picks at the potatoes with his fork. His mind is a mess. His subconscious screams: Eat! The hunger will come back! His body counters: Stop! The potatoes are already stuck in your throat.

Vlad tries to get up from the table but finds he can’t move. The guilt crushes him like a boulder. He knows all too well what’s happening now in the basement cells. The clinking of aluminum containers echoes down the corridor. The balandzior ladles a flavorless liquid into a bucket. The caretaker distributes scraps of cabbage leaves. Hunger in Russian captivity kills slowly, but not before stripping away all dignity.

Vlad stares at his full plate. He forces down another spoonful.

***

A pre-trial detention center in the Sumy region.

The warden leads us through the cells where Russian prisoners of war captured during the Kursk offensive await their exchange.

Each cell holds a dozen or so men. Along the walls are double-decker bunks, and in the center stands a large table with benches. During one inspection, Red Cross workers noted that the lack of privacy in the toilet area violated the prisoners’ dignity. They provided funding, and the detention center renovated the facilities.

"Now they come back every so often to weigh the Russians," the warden says. "They want to make sure they haven’t lost weight."

According to Igor and "Volt," Red Cross workers also visited the prisons where they were held. But they never made it to their cells.

Igor recalls, "We were so emaciated that they hid us in an unused wing. Through a hole in the floor, I could see the cell below where other prisoners were kept."

Data from Ukraine’s Prisoner of War Headquarters shows that over eight thousand Ukrainian servicemen are in Russian captivity. Thousands more are listed as missing, and many of them are likely being held in Russian prisons. To date, 177 Ukrainian deaths in Russian captivity have been confirmed. Cases of suicide have also been documented. However, these figures likely represent only a fraction of the true numbers.

Since the start of the invasion, nearly 60 prisoner exchanges have taken place, bringing 3,767 Ukrainians back home.