Maksym Butkevych’s university education in 1990s Kyiv included compulsory basic military training, which he never imagined having to draw upon decades later after becoming one of Ukraine’s most prominent human rights activists.
But on the first day of Russia’s full-scale invasion of his country three years ago, Butkevych signed up for the armed forces to help save Ukraine from occupation by an autocratic neighbour that would inevitably crush its freedom and democracy. The decision would lead him to the front line, then into captivity and more than two years of sometimes brutal imprisonment, and eventually back home, free of any regrets.
“I was a citizen of a country that needed to be defended,” says Butkevych, co-founder of Ukraine’s Zmina human rights group and the Hromadske radio station, a longtime advocate for refugees and free speech, and a campaigner against fascism.
“Even in 2014 ... I realised that I could only do what I was doing because there were people at the front line protecting me and allowing me to do that,” he says, recalling the year Russia occupied Crimea and formed proxy militias that seized part of the eastern Donbas area. “Now, I thought it was my turn.”
Hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians from all walks of life volunteered to join the military after Russia’s all-out invasion, and demand for equipment vastly outstripped supply.
After signing up on February 24th, 2022, Butkevych was assigned to a newly formed battalion in early March and sent to the front line in Kyiv region later that month, shortly before Russian forces began to withdraw from areas such as Bucha, where they had committed atrocities including war crimes during weeks of occupation.
“We came under fire and defended our positions, but as it turned out we were quite lucky, because we didn’t suffer any losses and we took part in the liberation of several villages,” he says. “It was an unforgettable experience, how people came out into the streets to greet us. It was heartbreaking. We felt very honoured.”
The perfunctory training received while studying philosophy 30 years earlier meant Butkevych (47) was made a platoon commander, even though he had no military experience, and was put in charge of some men who had fought in Donbas since 2014.
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“I tried not to pretend to be someone I am not. I told my guys that we should share our knowledge and experience as much as possible,” he says. “Of course, the last word would be mine as commander and I would bear responsibility if something went wrong, but otherwise I would be happy to listen and learn.”
Morale was high among Butkevych’s men after the liberation of the Kyiv region, and in summer 2022 they were sent to reinforce regular infantry units in eastern Luhansk; but fighting on the parched steppe between isolated villages favoured Russia’s bigger and better armed forces, and the platoon soon ran into trouble.
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Under heavy shelling and nearly surrounded in intense June heat, Butkevych’s men spent about 24 hours with no water and no communication with other units.
Then a Ukrainian soldier from another group made contact and guided them along a route that he said would lead to safety. When they reached a clearing, he suddenly told them to stop and said he had been captured by the Russians and forced to lure the platoon into a trap.
“We saw the Russians pointing their guns at us. We were standing in an open field with no chance to run or hide or put up a fight. I knew that with one wrong move my guys would be shot down. So I gave the order to lay down our weapons.”
As Russian state media accused Butkevych of being a “fascist” and a spy – he studied anthropology in Britain and worked for the BBC World Service – his captors taunted his men with claims that their wives were being gang-raped and made them repeat Russian president’s Vladimir Putin’s pronouncements about Ukraine.
“If anyone misquoted or paused, the Russians beat me with a stick,” says Butkevych, who was subsequently accused by Russia of intentionally firing a grenade launcher at civilians, even though evidence showed he was nowhere near the site of the alleged attack.
I know better now what the ‘Russian world’ really is. I saw it from inside. I don’t want to say all Russians are torturers, but the system of values that Russia is built upon ... is strikingly different to ours
“After they opened a criminal case against me, the first interrogation lasted for several hours and involved stress positions, kicks and punches and some beating, and some electric shocks. And they threatened to shoot me. But I was lucky because I was tortured less than some prisoners of war I met.”
To end the torture and increase his chances of being freed in a prisoner exchange, Butkevych signed a confession and was given 13 years in jail.
“The only thing I was really worried about and felt extremely uncomfortable about was signing that confession under duress,” he says.
“I wondered whether it would have been possible to withstand everything they would have done to me – maybe it would have been worth the risk, maybe it would even have been better to be dead than to be accused of those things. But in the end, I think I made the right choice – I wanted to live and tell the story.”
Even having “confessed” and been convicted, Butkevych had no idea how long he would be kept in Russian jails or whether he would survive the ordeal. He knew from his work as a human rights advocate and his contacts with Russian human rights defenders that Putin’s prisons could be deadly places for his enemies.
“But I had not a single moment of doubt or regret about my decision to join the army,” he says.
“I felt I should go through this to experience it at first hand. So I could talk about breaches of human rights and what the Russians are doing to Ukrainian prisoners of war and civilians not just as an observer, but as someone who has gone through it.
“I know better now what the ‘Russian world’ really is. I saw it from inside. I don’t want to say all Russians are torturers, but the system of values that Russia is built upon ... is strikingly different to ours. So I could really see what we are defending ourselves against.
“Respect for the human being is what we try to treasure, while what I witnessed is based on total disregard for the individual and their rights, where the state is everything and the person is nothing, and the state is embodied in its rulers and a ‘great national leader’.”
Last October, after two years and four months in Russian jails, Butkevych was freed in a prisoner exchange and came home to find Ukraine still standing and its people enduring by being “flexible and adaptive and stubborn”, he says.
Now Butkevych sees the picture around his country darkening, as US president Donald Trump seeks a deal with Putin and far-right parties are emboldened in Europe.
“It does feel like a dystopian world is approaching. But that doesn’t shake the main fact that we defend our values and they must be defended even more in these circumstances,” he says.
“Obviously someone has to be in the eye of the storm – and it just happens to be Ukraine.”
