If you turn away from Kyiv’s busy Khreshchatyk street, pass by the large farmer’s market under the dome, and climb a steep hill, you’ll find an old set of stairs.
It’s been ages since I last walked up. Yet whenever I pass the familiar turn, my mind wanders to my past in this place; always blanketed with yellow and red maple leaves in my imagination. I imagine a man leaning over the handrail in the autumn night, sharing stories from his war. And I reciprocate with my own. Our humor, though dark, still manages to bring laughter, as it always has.
From those leaf-strewn stairs, my thoughts inevitably travel to Mariupol (now destroyed and occupied.) Traveling in a tiny, brightly colored minivan — an unlikely military vehicle — we arrive at Mariupol beach. And after parking, we breathe in the sea air and talk. Reality returns when the worn-out old vehicle refuses to start. My friend is upset, not about the breakdown — that was always possible and expected — but about how to explain our beach visit to the commander. Why did we come here?
“For a laugh?” I suggest an answer, earning a mock scowl in response.
We’ve known each other since 2013, we met during the Revolution of Dignity just before Ukraine’s war first started. The “little” war. We weren’t such close friends in the classical understanding, but by some twist of fate, we kept reuniting on frontline roads or in Kyiv for spontaneous adventures or being stranded on the beach.
Nothing like that has happened in the last two years, and I miss him a lot. His unit remained stationed in Mariupol, defending the Azovstal steelworks. Later, wounded, he was taken captive by Russian forces.
I don’t know if he’s still alive. There has been no word from international organizations or Russian authorities, no letters — only sporadic reports of a few prisoners. Many are thought to be held in Russia, their fate uncertain. But even if someone is confirmed as a PoW, there’s painfully little information. Families have been left in the dark about confirmed deaths, too.
The Geneva Conventions afford prisoners of war certain rights. First drafted during the American Civil War, these did not foresee technologies like phones that are now essential for communication. Russian prisoners are nonetheless afforded that right by Ukraine; Kyiv’s own men and women held captive by the Russians are not.
Ukraine has established mixed medical commissions, a mechanism to facilitate exchanges by evaluating PoWs’ health conditions with doctors from neutral countries — a provision the Geneva Conventions endorse. Russia, however, refuses such oversight.
I wonder: could someone initiate a modest step? Could they advocate for Russia to honor at least a portion of the Geneva Conventions, ceasing torture and executions, and permitting contact with families after years of captivity since 2014? I’ve heard volunteer fighters from pre-2022 invasion times are consistently excluded from Ukrainian exchange lists.
I don’t know. Yet with each time I see that turn off Khreshchatyk in Kyiv, I feel increasingly powerless —more so than in the face of death. Because death is, at least, not a daily torment for someone you care about.
Soon, those old stairs will be cloaked in autumn leaves once more. I would give much to believe I might walk them again with my old friend.
I know his wife loved him deeply, but now after more than two years, she has moved on to another relationship. It hurts almost physically to see her pictures on social media, as I imagine how it could hurt him.
But who can fault her? Not knowing his fate, unsure if news of his life or death will ever reach her, is a torment deeper than losing a loved one. It eats at your soul, a maddening uncertainty you wish to avoid to stay alive. To stay alive and normal at least for the children. Because if you gaze into an abyss long enough, you fall in.
And I understand. My abyss is painted with yellow leaves and echoes of laughter. It’s a common pain shared by thousands of us whose loved ones — spouses, sons, daughters, siblings, parents, friends — are held in unknown locations in Russia. And yet, agonizingly, we all understand that they — as long as they’re still alive — remain just a phone call away.
A phone call that, despite the efforts of the civilized world, they cannot make.
Lera Burlakova was a Democracy Fellow at the Center for European Policy Analysis (CEPA.) She is a Ukrainian journalist and former soldier who served as an infantrywoman from 2014-2017 after joining up following the Russian invasion of Crimea. Her war diary ‘Life P.S.’ received the UN Women in Arts award in 2021. She lives in Kyiv.
Europe’s Edge is CEPA’s online journal covering critical topics on the foreign policy docket across Europe and North America. All opinions expressed on Europe’s Edge are those of the author alone and may not represent those of the institutions they represent or the Center for European Policy Analysis. CEPA maintains a strict intellectual independence policy across all its projects and publications.
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