Ukrainian journalist Dmytro Khilyuk was arbitrarily arrested, detained and forcibly disappeared by Russian armed forces for three years, five months, and twenty-one days— in hunger, cold, and without cause.
Taken from his home region near Kyiv in March 2022, he disappeared into Russia’s prison system. His case illustrates the plight of Ukrainians being forcibly disappeared, facing torture and other ill-treatment, and the dangers civilians — in particular journalists — face under Russian occupation.
Throughout his ordeal, Amnesty International worked with Ukrainian colleagues to trace his path through contacts inside Russia. Dmytro says he survived by “holding on to the thought that it would end one day.”
On November 2, the International Day to End Impunity for Crimes against Journalists, Dmytro shares his story.
Before captivity, I’d often read in books that in prison the main thing is to remain human. Back then, those were just words to me; I didn’t understand what stood behind them. When I found myself imprisoned, I understood what humanity really meant.
In the hardest conditions, you must keep at least some humanity in yourself, not turn into an animal. Stay human. Even when you’re hungry, cold, and terrified.
We “celebrated” birthdays in captivity. The others would give the birthday person their pieces of bread, their breakfast, or their dinner — so that, for just one day, that someone wouldn’t be hungry.
The beginning of Russian occupation
On February 25, 2022, Russian tanks entered Kozarovychi, a village near Kyiv, where I live. I saw military columns moving down the street, one after another. That was the beginning of Russian occupation.
I never imagined there would be fighting in our village, that people would be kidnapped, taken hostage, looted.
On 1 March, they came to our house and forced my father and me into the street. They placed an armed soldier next to my mother. She’s over 70 and had suffered a stroke. Then they went through the rooms.
They “liberated” me of my watch and flashlight, and my parents of their phones. Neighbours later told me the Russians took food from their fridges, they even took children’s games. They took everything, from money and valuables to the cheapest little things.
A few days later, my father and I were detained near our house. We were led to a warehouse 500 meters away. They tied my hands, blindfolded me, and threw me into a room where there were already people. Some had their legs tied, one man’s fingers had been broken with a hammer. My father was taken to another room.
During the interrogation, I told the Russians I was a journalist. They started asking: “What were you filming? What were you looking for? What were you doing here?”
I answered: “I live here.”
My father was soon released, and I was taken further. They transported me to Belarus, where we spent a day and a half. And then we were taken to Russia’s Bryansk region, to Pretrial Detention Facility №2 in Novozibkov town, not far from the border with Ukraine,where I spent more than a year.
“We had no outerwear, even for walks”
The hunger was terrible. I was constantly hungry. People went crazy from hunger. We talked about food from morning till night. You’d look at a bar of soap and think it was ice cream.
The cold was unbearable. We stood by the radiator all day. If we stepped half a meter away, we froze. When the radiators didn’t work, we walked in circles in the cell. I wore socks on my hands, and underwear around my neck instead of a scarf, because I had two pairs and didn’t have anything else. We had no outerwear, not even for walks.
We went outside in what we always wore indoors: synthetic prison trousers and jackets, and the cheapest rubber slippers. In the morning, they forced us to sing the Russian anthem.
The next place was Pakino in the Vladimir region. In Pakino, they would tell us to stand in a circle, then throw a mattress on top of us, and tell the biggest guy to climb up — we had to hold him up. I had scabies – most of us had scabies. Some had tuberculosis.
As far as I know, no one ever visited. Tatyana Moskalkova, Russia’s Commissioner for Human Rights, came to once but we didn’t see her. They staged a Potemkin village – a façade – for her in another building. They gathered some prisoners and, for one day, even opened a canteen for them to eat there.
Later, she sent a representative who brought humanitarian aid from Ukraine, but half of it was stolen. He also brought some clothes. We took underwear and socks, but it was a show for the camera, later they took it all away from us.
“We were forced to read a statement that we had no complaints”
There were many civilians in captivity. Most of them were grabbed on the street or at home in occupied cities. A person would walk down the street and disappear.
“You all say you’re civilians, but in reality, you are not,” the guards would tell us. There were no legal explanations, not even pseudo-legal ones. People in the military at least understood they’d been captured in battle, but the civilians like me had no idea why we were there or what our status was.
No charges were ever brought against me. I signed an interrogation protocol, where I was listed as a witness, and somehow it was about events in Donetsk and Luhansk in 2014. I’d never been to Luhansk at all. And I’d been to Donetsk only a few times for work before 2014.
Civilian people held in Russia are, purely and simply, like hostages. There are no charges.
For all this time I lived with one thought, that it would end someday. I was exchanged on 24 August. Before the exchange, we were forced to read a statement saying that we had no complaints against the Russian Federation. We repeated that ridiculous nonsense on camera.
The recurring thought was: Finally, it’s over. The understanding that I’m home is still “coming to me” even now.
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