'We know what Russian captivity means' Mariupol survivor Ivan Gonchar entered an occupation checkpoint in April. His family hasn't seen him since.
Story from iStories. Abridged translation by Sam Breazeale.
Mariupol native Valentina Gonchar lost her home in March when it was destroyed by Russian shelling. After she and her husband escaped with their son Ivan to a nearby basement, they hid there for weeks until that building, too, was hit. When they were subsequently taken by Russian soldiers to a customs office, Ivan was led away for questioning, and Valentina hasn't seen him since. She later learned that even though Ivan's never served in the military, he's effectively being held as a POW for "opposing Russia's special military operation." Neither the family nor their lawyers have been able to determine Ivan's whereabouts or even what condition he's in. Ivan's mother and brother spoke to the independent Russian outlet iStories about their efforts to find him. In English, Meduza is publishing an abridged version of their story.
‘We’re just going to ask him a few questions’
Valentina Gonchar, Ivan Gonchar’s mother
When the war began, my husband and I were living in Mariupol with our youngest son, his girlfriend, and her parents. On March 11, two shells hit our home. We got lucky: they hit the kitchen, and we were all sitting in the living room. The building caught on fire, and we rushed out, got in the car, and got out of there. Outside of the Azovstal plant, there’s the Azovstal stadium and the building where athletes would get dressed. There were already people gathered in the basement there — probably 200 of them. We joined them. They took us in and gave us a small room in the basement. [...] We stayed in that basement until April 4 — almost a month.
That entire time, we had almost no water and almost no food. The guys were so proactive, including my son — they would deliver us food. There were some garages nearby, and some people still had some potatoes and apples in their basements. They would run [to get food] under shellfire. I cried and pleaded [with my son] not to go. He said, “How can I not go when we need to feed the children and everybody else? I’m not going to sit here while everybody else is going.” I was so worried. When they went out for water or food, I would completely tense up with stress. Then my son would come back, and I would relax.
The scariest part was the shelling. Planes would fly over for entire days and nights, and ships would fire at us from the sea. We had five people die while they were cooking: a shell just came from the sea and hit the corner of the building.
On April 4, a shell hit the stadium building and it caught on fire. They quickly got us out of there. It was about 10:00 pm. We spent all night outside at the stadium. There were planes flying overhead; it was very scary. We sat there until 4:00 or 5:00 am — it was very cold. We wrapped up in whatever we had. Then the men went and checked the basement and said that while the building had burned down, the basement was basically fine. We went back down, but two hours later, it started to fill with smoke. The fumes… it was impossible to stay in there. Down the hill from the Azovstal plant is the village of Liapine — the Russians had been there since March. At about 7:00 or 8:00, we decided to go there.
We ran, [because] there was shellfire and explosions everywhere. We didn’t know if we would survive. My son carried an old woman to the checkpoint on his back. And he carried her back. Nobody died, thank God.
[After we went to the nearby village of Liapine, some Russian soldiers] drove us to the filtration camp in Bezimenne, which is in the DNR. Fortunately, we made it through filtration, then we went by bus to the Russian customs office. There, they took the men into offices. They took Ivan and let him out after 15 minutes. We waited for them to grant us permission to cross [the border], but about a half hour later, they took him into another office. That was April 9, and ever since then, I haven’t known where he is, how he is, or what’s happening to him.
Someone in civilian clothes came out and asked me whether Ivan had any things with him. We looked at him and told him we didn’t have any of [Ivan’s] things. His money, his Ukrainian passport, and his driver’s license were all with him. He was wearing his jacket and his hat, because he was cold. I asked, “Where did you take him?” And they told me, “Don’t worry. We’re going to ask him a few questions, then he’ll come out.”
After we sat there for a while, they gave us permission to cross the border to the refugee camp. They had called Vanya’s girlfriend and her parents earlier. Now they were calling my name. And I told them my son still hadn’t been released.
A border officer came out: “Don’t worry. Go to the camp, get something to eat, unwind. Just don’t go anywhere else, don’t leave, wait. Your son will be released.” I’m naive, so I believed them and left. You have no idea how many times I’ve regretted it! I should have said, “No, I’m not going anywhere until you release my son.” But I didn’t think to do that, and I went on to the camp.
I waited for four days. The next morning, I tried to call my son's phone, but it was out of range. Every day, I would go to the border and say to the border officers, “Please call him. Why aren’t they releasing him? They said they would release him.” They either couldn’t get ahold of [the other officers] or couldn’t call. The second day, they said, “Go to the other border checkpoint and talk to [the customs office] on the phone there — the officer will explain everything.” I went there, and [the officer] started trying to comfort me: “Don’t worry, we’ve just had some difficulties and we need to ask him a few more questions. Everything’s fine — just wait.” I told them that without my son, I couldn’t leave. They said they understood.
On the third day, I went to the border officers again, and they called [the customs office]. After about an hour, they came back and said they were still talking to my son, that he was relaxing, and that he had been fed and everything was fine. I said, “How long can you spend talking to him? It’s been three days now! You promised me!” They said it was out of their control. On the fourth day, I went back to the checkpoint where I had talked to them on the phone and said, “Call them, please, and ask them to let me go there. I want to talk to the officers at the customs office.” Eventually, they reluctantly let me. I ran up, and an officer came out and asked what my son’s last name was. I gave it to him, and he said, “Wait — your son was released on the first day, the 9th.” But he could have contacted me — he has a phone and I have a phone. They said, “We don’t know anything, we released him.” And I left, crying. What could I do? Whose door was I supposed to knock on? Who was I supposed to call? I didn’t know.
‘I called the FSB the very first day’
Ilya Gonchar, Ivan Gonchar’s brother
I learned about my brother’s abduction the day after it happened. My first reaction was confusion and anger. My brother and my mom had sat in a basement for more than a month, trying to survive. And now he had been detained on the border for some reason, a civilian who was helping his mother and his girlfriend survive, because it was no longer possible to stay in Mariupol. We [initially] hoped that they would check him out and let him free after a few hours or the next day.
My brother had a store: he sold brand-name items like shoes, clothing, and bags. And his items were bought by both Ukrainian civilians and soldiers. And we thought maybe he was detained because [Ukrainian] soldiers had purchased something from his store. But it wasn’t an army store, it was just a regular clothing store.
On that first day, I called the Russian FSB to find out what had happened to my brother. They told me they didn’t know anything and redirected me to the border service, who told me the exact same thing. At that time, I was in Chernivtsi (Editor’s note: a city in Western Ukraine) and was getting ready to drive [to the border] in my car to try to get my brother out, to try to negotiate. But everyone talked me out of it. [...]
I began monitoring all of the Telegram channels and searching for lists — unofficial ones. I found a bunch of groups and joined them. Then I met some guys who were looking for their civilian fathers who had been taken by Russian soldiers. They advised me to make a post on Facebook asking anyone who had heard or seen my brother to contact me. A friend of mine had managed to get in touch with someone who had been in a [Russian] prison with her Dad that way.
I made two posts, but then I was flooded with messages from scammers. They said they were guards, prison employees, who could put him on a bus to Ukrainian territory that very day. They would threaten me if I took a long time to think. And every message brought so much stress. I clung to every little detail. At one point, I was getting ready to send one of them money, but then I thought of a way to verify it. I asked where my brother’s tattoo was located, and he sent me an answer. But my brother doesn’t have a tattoo. I badly wanted to believe it wasn’t a scammer. I really wanted to believe that he could put my brother on a bus and send him to me.
In August, my older brother saw a list on [pro-Russian blogger] Anatoly Shariy’s Telegram channel that included Ivan’s last name and sent it to me. We started the entire process over again, reaching out to all of the authorities. I wrote to Shariy, his wife, the Red Cross, all of the authorities in Russia and Ukraine, the Defense Ministry, the [Russian and Ukrainian] Justice Ministries, the ombudsman, and the so-called DNR and LNR, asking them to tell me where my brother was. I asked them to put me in touch, to give me a chance to talk to him, or at least to let my mother hear his voice. In the DNR, they told me that they didn’t have him in their records. At the customs office where they detained him, they said that nobody with that name had passed through and that he wasn’t on their lists. I wrote to a lot of human rights advocates and foundations; I was looking for any possible way to get my brother out.
There were moments of disappointment when I threw up my hands and just didn’t know what to do. No matter what doors I knocked on, nobody could help. That really weighs on you, especially when you don’t know anything. They could have at least told Mom that they were detaining him because he had opposed [the Russian army]. Then we would know that he was [likely] taken to a detention facility, and we could write to him and send him things, like how it usually is [when people are incarcerated]. But instead, they hid everything they could, and they continue to hide it.
It wasn’t until November that I received a response from the Russian Defense Ministry. That was the first official confirmation we got that he was really detained for “opposing the special military operation.” I’m glad they confirmed that they took him prisoner. Now we at least have some understanding that he’s being held captive. We’re really hoping that he’s physically and psychologically okay. We’re hoping, although we understand what it means to be held captive by the Russians.
‘I just want to hug him’
Valentina Gonchar, Ivan Gonchar’s mother
When I saw his name on the list [of prisoners], I cried all night. But I had so much joy in my heart that he’s alive. When my [youngest] son was taken, I told my middle [son], “Ilya, it would be better if they killed me so I wouldn’t have to endure this.” But since he’s on the lists, it means he’s alive. He’s a civilian — he’s never served, he has no tattoos, nothing.
You know, [before I learned he was being held prisoner], a lot of thoughts went through my head, but I was confident he was alive. He’s a strong person. I know he’s smart and strong enough to get through this.
I just don’t have the strength – I want to hug him so badly, to hear his voice. I just want to see him. On [December] 9th, it will have been eight months. I’m also worried about the temperature dropping. Is he cold? He’s such a clean freak, he used to bathe twice a day. And know, you see, he’s in a place where you can’t cut your nails, nothing. I worry about every little thing like that.
‘He’s not a POW, but he’s been in prison for eight months’
Polina Murygina, founder of the human rights organization Every Human Being
In theory, civilian POWs shouldn’t exist at all — the practice is banned by the laws of war. Unfortunately, these kinds of detentions with no legal basis are widespread in the occupied territories. In response [to requests for information about Ivan], the Russian Defense Ministry has written, “Detained for opposing the special military operation.” Ivan’s case is outside of any legal framework, because “opposing the special military operation” is not a criminal or misdemeanor offense. He’s not officially a detainee, a suspect, or a defendant, but he’s been held captive for eight months. That's a gross violation of his rights.
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In the same document, the [Russian Defense Ministry] said that the “detainee” is being held in accordance with the Geneva Convention relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War. But Ivan is a hostage, not a prisoner of war — he can’t [legally] be held in captivity at all. That’s made clear in the Fourth Geneva Convention relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War. At the same time, the ministry is contradicting itself and violating the very rules it’s citing. According to the Third Geneva Convention, Ivan has the right to correspond with his relatives, to receive packages, to be treated with dignity, and to receive medical care. But we can’t say which of these rights are being respected, because for eight months, he’s been unable to communicate [with outsiders], and we have no way of knowing what’s been happening to him during this time. The minimum we would like from the Russian side is to inform us of his whereabouts. That would make it much easier to work towards his release.
Story from iStories
Abridged translation by Sam Breazeale