“After constant control in captivity, all we want now is peace”: Azov soldier on returning from Russian captivity

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Ivan Sokal shared with Espreso how the prisoner exchange took place and the challenges he faced upon regaining his freedom.

Did you know you were going to be exchanged?

One day, I was called to the headquarters early in the morning, at nine. I had already psyched myself up, thinking there would be another interrogation — there were plenty of those, and everything felt tense overall. I entered the office, where three operatives were sitting. One asked:

– So, are you going for the exchange or staying here?

I didn’t have time to answer when another interrupted:

– Where are you from?

I said:

– Lviv region.

To which he just waved his hand:

– No point in asking.

It seemed like he already understood everything. Then he added with a smile:

– Well, let’s meet at the training ground in Yavoriv (a town in the Lviv region - ed.).

I took a risk and laughed too, understanding that would definitely not happen. This was in late August 2024, closer to the end of the month.

I returned from headquarters, and by noon, they called my name again. I thought, “Damn, back to the headquarters, something’s wrong again…” Bad feelings. But they took us and put us in solitary confinement (disciplinary isolation).

They put us in solitary, and literally five minutes later, they handed us uniforms — our pixelated ones. Some got pixel, some got multicam. And I already understood: this wasn’t random.

There had been similar situations before with exchanges, although there was no hope — I thought maybe they were just dressing us for transfer to another colony. But later, everyone started whispering to each other: “This is an exchange, definitely an exchange.”

We knew they usually took the guys for exchange at a certain time and understood we’d likely be taken in the evening. In the evening, there was an inspection; our cell door opened, and they did a headcount. One of the workers said:

– These are the ones for exchange. Well, maybe.

Everyone understood: it was definitely an exchange. We waited to be taken that evening. It was around August 26. But we weren’t exchanged.

What happened next?

Day two. We started to realize no one was exchanging us or taking us anywhere. That was the hardest part.

The staff walked around mocking us:

– Seems like they forgot about you.

– Hang in there a bit longer — you’ll go back to the barracks.

– Too bad for you that you weren’t taken.

We thought again, “Damn, looks like that’s it.” Another week would pass, and we’d be back in the barracks, walking and singing songs again.

We stayed there for a week. Then a second. The staff laughed more with each passing day. But one day, the cell opened, and they called out our names. We stepped out, and they brought us to a fenced-off area for transfers.

No one explained anything, but we already understood: this was the exchange. We sat there for half a day until the transport arrived. They didn’t tie our hands, but they loaded us into two transport trucks. There were no windows, so we couldn’t see anything, but we could hear voices outside.

We traveled to Taganrog, and from there to Rostov. In Taganrog, more people were added to our group. In Rostov, it became clear we weren’t just in the city — we were at an airport because we heard a plane landing.

They took us out of the transport trucks in front of the plane entrance. They told us to keep our heads down while boarding the stairs. Before boarding, they checked us again — tied our hands, blindfolded us, and seated us inside.

They asked each person their surname and ran checks. We all went through the process and waited for the plane to fill. Then we heard it take off. After landing, they took us out and seated us in buses according to our surnames.

On the way, we realized we were at the Russia-Belarus border because we heard Belarusian being spoken. We traveled for a long time, everyone tense. Our eyes were covered with black tape, secured with duct tape. But my tape loosened a bit, and I saw that we were indeed in Belarus.

They brought us to a checkpoint. There, they removed the masks and untied our hands. They gave us rations, but one for every two people. It was funny because when their people get exchanged, they’re provided everything fully, but here they even skimped on food.

We already understood it was definitely an exchange, but at the same time, we feared it could fall through. That had happened before: guys were taken, but then returned due to a failed exchange.

Their special service representatives came to us and started talking: “Guys, don’t fight anymore. Stay home. We’re exchanging you, but your government doesn’t want this.” It was all aimed at breaking our spirit. But later, when they brought us to the final point and unloaded us, we finally saw our own. Then it became clear — we were really home.

What was your reaction?

I thought I’d cry from joy. But it was actually different — everything felt gray. I realized nothing was over. The captivity had ended, but we still had work ahead. That’s the situation now.

Of course, it was nice to return, but I realized how much I had changed. In captivity, emotions almost disappeared. Positive or negative — it’s all perceived the same.

In captivity, I realized: life needs to be filled with positive moments. Those are what you remember most. If you accumulate negativity, it will return at the worst times. So, I always tried to recall something good to avoid breaking down or giving up.

I still do that now. And I’ve understood something important: the problems that seemed big weren’t problems at all. Arguments with loved ones or friends, everyday troubles — those are trivial. None of it is worth worrying about.

When you get out of captivity, at first, euphoria overwhelms you: everything seems cool, amazing, perfect. Everyone is happy and supportive. But over time — after a month, two, three — you start to realize things aren’t as great as they seemed.

People’s behavior becomes more noticeable. Attitudes change. I remember in Mariupol, even with access to the internet, I could see how people treated the war then. And how they treat it now. The difference is striking: people used to do more than they do now.

Being among people became hard. I try not to stay in one place for long and avoid crowds. After spending so much time with people in captivity, I’m tired of them. I’ve started to hate crowds.

I need peace. I want to be where there are fewer people because even just walking down the street, hearing them talk, it unsettles me. I’m against wearing uniforms outside of service or official events. But when I see soldiers in uniform and hear people discussing them, I understand: many are tired of the war, even though they do nothing to end it.

It opens your eyes to reality. You realize things are much more complicated and far from as perfect as you’d like.

You say it’s hard for you among people, but you plan to return to service, where there are also many people. By the way, are you scared to go back to the front?

I need an environment with people who share my position and are doing what essentially everyone should be doing.

It’s hard to be among indifferent civilians. Although, of course, not everyone is like that. Many people have been helping since 2014 — volunteers or those who simply did what they could. And they’re still helping. But there are others — those who, in 2022, at the start of the full-scale invasion, did something in a wave of hype but then stopped.

Now the percentage of people helping has significantly decreased. Many have given up on it. I often hear people say they’re tired. But they don’t understand how tired the soldiers on the front lines are. What should they say?

Sometimes people come up to me and ask, “Why do you keep going? Why do you need this?” I don’t answer. There’s nothing to discuss with them. I saw everything that happened in Mariupol — children, ruined lives — and I understand that we need to keep working.

If we give up, this will continue further. So no, I’m not afraid to return.

But there are dreams. Now I’m constantly haunted by dreams about captivity. In them, I return there and experience everything again. You wake up in the middle of the night with the thought that something’s wrong. But then you realize: no, I’m home, everything’s okay.

Still, these dreams happen often. You go outside, look around, and realize things aren’t as great as you’d like to think.

What would you advise families and relatives of soldiers who’ve returned from captivity?

This is a very difficult question because I faced this situation myself. When I was in captivity, it seemed to me that it was harder for my loved ones than for me. For us, it became routine — combat, captivity — but for them, it was something unknown and terrifying.

For two years and four months, my family didn’t know where I was or what had happened to me. It’s hard — both emotionally and physically. When I returned, they wanted to know everything and were ready to give me maximum attention to fill that void. But in reality, this attention irritated me even more because I wanted peace. There were moments when I just didn’t want to talk about anything and wanted to be alone.

People returning from captivity need peace. Don’t ask too many questions, don’t control them, because they’ve already been under control for two years or more. A person needs the opportunity to rest and do what they want. Everyone has the right to decide when and how they want to share their experience.

In rehabilitation, it’s important to work on both the physical and psychological state. The problem is that there are few psychologists who can work with soldiers, especially those who’ve been in captivity. These are very different situations, and you need to approach them carefully.

Regarding meeting family: when I returned, at first, I didn’t want to see my parents because I wanted to get myself in order. Of course, they were very worried and wanted to see me as soon as possible. When we met, there were tears and everything, but I remained unemotional because I’d started seeing things as they were.

That was a tough moment for me, but I understand why they acted that way. They hadn’t seen me for over two years, and it was hard for them.