Former POWs in Russia channel their pain into rebuilding lives in Ukraine

Associated Press

5 days ago

KYIV, Ukraine (AP) — Since his release from a Russian prison in April, Stanislav Tarnavskyi has been in a hurry to build the life in Ukraine he dreamed about during three years of captivity.
The 25-year-old has proposed to his girlfriend, bought an apartment and adopted a golden retriever. And that was just what he accomplished one week in July.
But as busy as he is rekindling old relationships and creating new ones, Tarnavskyi cannot shake the trauma he and thousands of other Ukrainian soldiers experienced as prisoners of war. The U.N. says many endured beatings, starvation and humiliation at the hands of their captors — experiences that will leave lifelong scars.
Tarnavskyi, who was captured during the battle for Mariupol in April of 2022, regularly has nightmares about the prisons where he was held.
'I see the officers who watched over us. I dream they want to harm me, catch me,' he said. When he wakes up, his heart pounds, anxiety surges — until he realizes he is in the outskirts of Kyiv, where he was forced to move because Russia occupied his hometown of Berdiansk.
As the three-year war drags on, Tarnavskyi is one of more than 5,000 former POWs back in Ukraine rehabilitating with the help of regular counseling. Regardless of any physical injuries that may require attention, psychologists say it is vital to monitor former POWs for years after their release; the cost of war, they say, echoes for generations.
A marriage proposal
In a photography studio high above Kyiv, Ukraine's capital, sunlight floods the white walls. After a shoot that lasted several hours Tarnavskyi said the brightness was hurting his eyes, which are still sensitive from years spent in a dark cell.
But his mood couldn't be dimmed. The girlfriend who waited for his return had just consented to his surprise proposal.
'I love you very much, I am very glad that you waited for me,' Tarnavskyi said, holding a thick bouquet of pink roses and a ring. 'You have always been my support, and I hope you will remain so for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?'
Tarnavskyi said it was the thought of Tetiana Baieva — whom he met in 2021 — that helped stop him from committing suicide three times during captivity.
Still, he finds it hard to talk with Baieva about his time in prison. He doesn't want to be pitied.
Soon after he returned home, he was paranoid, feeling watched — a reaction to constant surveillance in prison. 'If you stepped out of line, they'd (Russians) come and beat you. I still get flashbacks when I see (surveillance) cameras. If I see one, I get nervous,' he said.
But with each passing week, he is feeling better, progress Tarnavskyi credits to the work he is doing with a psychologist.
Lifelong care is vital
Any small stimulus — a smell, a breeze, a color — can trigger traumatic memories for POWs, says Kseniia Voznitsyna, the director of Ukraine's Lisova Polyana mental health center for veterans on the outskirts of Kyiv.
Yet contrary to stereotypes, ex-POWs aren't more aggressive. 'They tend to isolate themselves, avoid large gatherings, and struggle with trust,' said Voznitsyna.
'They say time heals — five or ten years, maybe — but it doesn't,' she added. 'It just feels less intense.'
A 2014 study in the Journal of Behavioral Medicine found that Israeli ex-POWs and combat veterans tracked over 35 years had higher mortality rates, chronic illnesses and worse self-rated health — conditions partly tied to depression and post-traumatic stress disorder.
The authors of the study said that is why it is crucial to monitor ex-POWs and give them specialized medical and psychological care as they age.
That logic rings true to Denys Zalizko, a 21-year-old former POW who has been back in Ukraine for less than three months but is already sure his recovery will take a long time.
'You can't fool yourself. Even if you really want to, you will never forget. It will always haunt you,' he said.
An artist to be
Zalizko survived torture, suicide attempts and relentless beatings during roughly 15 months in Russian captivity.
The first time his mother, Maria Zalizko, saw him after his release, she barely recognized him. He was thin and appeared 'broken', she said, with torment in his eyes.
Zalizko's physical appearance is now almost completely different. His skin looks healthy, his muscles are taut and he has lots of energy. But still there is sadness in his eyes.
Two things keep him moving forward and help clear his mind: music and exercise.
'Pauses and stillness bring anxiety,' says Zalizko.
Like Tarnavskyi, he is receiving mandatory counseling at the Lisova Polyana mental health center. And like many former POWs, he still battles hypervigilance — listening for threats, scanning his surroundings. At night, sleep comes in fragments, and that was true even before a recent uptick in nightly drone attacks by the Russian army.
For the families of POWs, the reintegration process is also a struggle.
A psychologist advised Maria Zalizko to give her son space, to avoid calling him too often. But it is Denys who often calls her, sometimes singing over the phone — a skill she taught him as a child.
'I love music. Music unites,' he said, touching the tattoo of a treble clef behind his ear — inked after his return. Even in captivity, he sang quietly to himself, composing songs in his mind about love, home and war. Now he dreams of turning that passion into a career as an artist.
'I've become stronger now,' Zalizko said. 'I'm not afraid of death, not afraid of losing an arm or a leg, not afraid of dying instantly. I fear nothing anymore.'