BBCA Ukrainian official told the BBC he hoped a prisoner exchange with Russia could take place in the new year “any day”, although arrangements could fall through at the last minute.
Petro Yatsenko, of the Ukrainian Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War, said negotiations with Moscow on a prisoner exchange have become more difficult in recent months since Russian forces began making significant advances on the front line.
There were only 10 exchanges in 2024, the lowest number since the full-scale invasion began. Ukraine does not publish the numbers of prisoners of war held by Russia, but the total is believed to be more than 8,000.
Russia has made significant gains on the battlefield this year, raising concerns about rising numbers of Ukrainians captured.
One of those repatriated in the last exchange, in September 2024, is Ukrainian marine Andriy Turas. In an apartment in the Ukrainian city of Lviv, Andrei and his wife Lena told me the remarkable story of their ordeal. They were captured while defending the city of Mariupol in 2022.
“They lectured us about how Ukraine never existed,” Lena, a combat medic, says of her Russian captors. “They tried to annihilate our Ukrainian identity in our heads.”
Lina was released after two weeks of captivity. But the psychological scars left by what she experienced in a Russian prisoner-of-war facility remain. “We constantly heard screaming, and we knew that the men (in our unit) were being tortured,” she says.
“They beat us mercilessly, with their fists, sticks, hammers, anything they could find,” says Andrei. “They stripped us naked in the cold and forced us to crawl on the asphalt. Our legs were torn off, leaving us terrified and frozen.”
“The food was horrible — sour cabbage and rotten fish heads. It's just a nightmare,” the Marine says. “It's like waking up from a bad dream in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, terrified.”
Andrei's imprisonment lasted much longer than his wife's, two and a half years.
Upon his release in a prisoner exchange three months ago, Andrei met his two-year-old son Leon for the first time. When Russian forces arrested the couple, Lena did not know she was pregnant.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I cried, first from happiness, then from sadness, because I couldn’t tell my husband.”
“I was constantly writing him letters, telling him that he would finally have a child that he had wanted for a long time,” Lina says, her eyes shining. “But he didn't get a single letter.”
I asked Andre how he felt when he met his son for the first time. “I thought I was the happiest person in the world,” he says with a smile.
While the BBC cannot independently verify everything Lena and Andrey told us, their accounts have been confirmed by international organisations, who have interviewed hundreds of Ukrainian prisoners of war.
The United Nations says Russia is subjecting Ukrainian prisoners to “widespread and systematic torture and ill-treatment… including severe beatings, electric shocks, sexual violence, suffocation, prolonged stress positions, forced excessive exercise, sleep deprivation, and mock executions.” And threats of violence and humiliation.”
In a statement to the BBC, the Russian Embassy in London said: “The allegations I have described are patently false. The detained Ukrainian militants are treated humanely and in full accordance with the provisions of the relevant Russian legislation and the Geneva Convention. They are provided with provision.” With good food, shelter, medical assistance, and religious and intellectual nourishment.”
Andrei is undergoing rehabilitation in a medical facility in Lviv. But he still has time to enjoy the holiday with his wife and son. It's the Torras family's first Christmas together, and the best gift for little Leon is to host his father at home.
But many Ukrainians are still desperately waiting for news of their loved ones. In central Kiev, relatives and activists gather for a Christmas demonstration to demand the release of Ukrainian prisoners.
They stand for hours in the bitter cold, lining one of the capital's main streets, while passing motorists honk their horns in a deafening cacophony of solidarity.
“We are hoping for a Christmas miracle,” says Tetyana, whose 24-year-old son Artem was arrested nearly three years ago. “My son’s release is my deepest wish. I imagined our meeting 100 times, when I was hugging us.” Each other, his eyes light up, and he is finally home.”
Also present at the protest, carrying a red banner, was 29-year-old Lilia Ivashchik, a ballerina at the National Operetta Theater in Kiev. Her boyfriend, Bohdan, was detained by Russian forces in 2022. She has not contacted him since then.
“I could say it's hard for me to be alone, but I don't want to say it, because I always think about how he works there,” Lilia says.
Backstage at the theatre, Lilia shows us the letters she still sends to Bohdan almost every day – pictures of little hearts. “I miss him so much,” she says, her lower lip trembling. “He needs to be rescued and regain his freedom.” Messages are unread.
Lilia invites us to watch her perform a special show on Christmas Day. The dance is a favorite festive dance in Ukraine: Johann Strauss's Blue Danube Waltz, written in 1866 to lift the spirits of the post-war Austrian public. The theater is crowded.
“The Christmas holidays are a painful time,” she says as she prepares to go on stage. “There's not really a festive mood.”
As the show ends, theatergoers rush to gather their coats. After nearly three years of war, almost everyone has loved ones fighting on the front line, in captivity, or killed in action.
“A lot of people in Ukraine face difficult situations,” Lilia says. “We are just waiting for the time when we will be able to celebrate together again. We must remember to thank our military for the fact that we have any holidays at all.”
