«I don’t tell my story to be pitied. I tell it so people know what Russian captivity is really like»

Tetiana Buhai is a former combat medic of the 12th Special Purpose Brigade «Azov» of the National Guard of Ukraine, a veteran and member of the VETERANKA movement, who joined the defense of the country on the first day of the full-scale invasion. She survived the siege of Mariupol, the loss of her mother and husband, and two and a half years in Russian captivity.

During a prisoner exchange in September 2024, the defender returned home.

In civilian life, Tetiana worked as an emergency medical technician in Mariupol. When Russian troops launched their assault on her hometown, she evacuated her younger sister but refused to leave herself and instead took up the defense of the state.

Now the veteran lives in Lviv, where she underwent rehabilitation after returning and stayed together with her sister. She works as a military-patriotic education specialist at Lviv State University of Internal Affairs and trains cadets.

In this interview, she spoke about the defense of Azovstal, the criminal case accusing her of aiding terrorists, captivity, and life in Lviv.

The decision to join Azov and the defense of Mariupol

We were living on the outskirts of Mariupol when Russia launched its full-scale assault on the city. During one of the first airstrikes on a neighboring street, my husband shielded me with his body. Then we went to my parents and sister to evacuate them. My mother refused to leave, my father was at work, and we decided to evacuate my 15-year-old sister to Berdiansk. My father asked me to stay with her, and I said I would, just to calm him down.

I had medical experience and had firmly decided to defend the country. My husband wanted me to be safe, but in the end he accepted my choice.

For me, there was never a question of where exactly to serve. My husband was a border guard; he had already taken the oath, and as of February 24, his contract had just ended.

That is how we both joined the 12th Special Purpose Brigade «Azov» of the National Guard of Ukraine. We became medics in the howitzer artillery division: I was a combat medic, and my husband was a paramedic.

I did not have a callsign because it was the first day of the full-scale war — there was no time to come up with one. But everyone called me «Tanchyk», because it sounded similar to my name.

The hardest losses — my mother and husband

When the district came under heavy bombardment, I moved my parents to the territory of Azovstal. My father, who had worked at the plant his entire life, also joined the defense. My mother stayed to help — she cooked food for my unit.

On March 9, she was killed during an airstrike — shattered glass fragments killed her. It was the third airstrike on Azovstal. We had just arrived to pick up the food she had prepared.

I saw the wounded people who had been there, among them a 17-year-old boy in critical condition. They told me my mother had died. I ran to look for her and at first did not even understand that I was seeing her body. It was shock, screaming, despair.

At that moment, I had to choose: stay with my mother or save the wounded boy. I realized I would never see my mother again, but I also understood that I could not leave someone who could still be saved.

I knew that was exactly what my mother would have wanted. I took the boy away, and he received medical help.

Later at the hospital I found my husband, who had miraculously survived the shelling. We managed to transport my mother’s body to the morgue on the hospital grounds. My father wanted her buried at Azovstal. After returning from captivity, I learned that civilians had buried my mother in Mariupol. She is buried under a number, but everyone knows where exactly.

Two weeks later, on March 26, 2022, my husband was killed. He had gone to the city center to evacuate wounded soldiers. On the right bank opposite Azovstal, a Russian sniper opened fire and shot him.

After that, I think I stopped feeling pity, compassion, or fear. It broke me deeply, but I did not collapse.

We defended Mariupol for 86 days.

On May 17, 2022, I was taken into Russian captivity, where I spent two and a half years.

On September 13, 2024, I was released in a prisoner exchange.

Memories of captivity: feeling nothing in order to survive

In captivity, they told me a criminal case had been opened against me — I was accused of aiding terrorists because I had been a combat medic in Azov. I faced 15 to 20 years in prison, and I was prepared for that.

They told us we would be exchanged within three months. We wanted to believe it. But over time I began to understand that perhaps there would be no exchange at all.

Back then, I hardly felt anything. Exchanges usually happened around certain dates or holidays. You sit there thinking, «Maybe this time it will be me…» About a year passed like that.

I stopped crying just a few months into captivity. Then the intense psychological pressure began. I realized that any emotion you show — fear, pain, tears — gives them an understanding of what to use against you.

For example, they constantly told me that my sister had been taken off a bus, abducted by Chechens, and killed. At that moment, I understood: if I react, they will use it against me. After that, I stopped showing any emotions at all.

They tried to break me — shouting, pressuring me. But I became so used to feeling nothing that even after returning to Ukraine I felt neither joy nor relief — nothing.

Only about six months after returning did I begin to feel something again. That was also the first time I managed to cry.

Life in the cell

At first we were held in Olenivka: men in barracks, women in cells. Then we were transferred to a detention center.

There were 22 of us in the cell — servicewomen from different units: Azov, the Armed Forces of Ukraine, and others. There were only ten sleeping bunks, a toilet, a sink, a table, and about six square meters of space to move around. From 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., sitting was strictly forbidden — we could only stand or walk. We walked in circles, one behind another, like a train.

In 11 months, I left the cell only three times: for a psychiatric evaluation, for a shower before New Year’s, and on Maundy Thursday. That was all. I never left the cell otherwise.

Conditions in captivity and tasteless food

When I arrived at the detention center, they took away my sneakers and gave me worn-out size 45 flip-flops instead of my size 37 shoes. There were no proper clothes, underwear, or pillows.

Glass appeared in the windows only at the end of November, and even then there were holes in it. Blankets were provided in mid-December — one for three people.

In captivity, I lost 33 kilograms. Formally there was food, but it was of terrible quality: mostly wheat porridge without salt or taste. They gave us bread — half a loaf per person — but it was spoiled: sticky inside and almost inedible.

Water supply was inconsistent. Once, there was no water at all for eight days — nothing to drink and no way to flush the toilet. On the eighth day they gave one large bottle of water for 22 people. We survived on 50 milliliters of uzvar or jelly drink per day.

Hygiene was also extremely difficult, especially for women. There were no sanitary products whatsoever. We washed ourselves by filling bottles with water, warming them against our bodies, and washing right there in the cell. A single bar of soap was shared between four to six people and had to last for an unknown amount of time.

There were bedbugs, cockroaches, fleas, and scabies in the cells.

There was virtually no medical care. I suffered from purulent tonsillitis, developed infected wounds on my legs, and one of my fingers was in very bad condition. Only later was I given Vishnevsky ointment.

The resource that kept me going was my younger sister Dasha, who had become an orphan. My mother was dead, my father had been taken prisoner, and throughout my captivity I believed he was no longer alive because I had only seen him in Olenivka when he was captured.

I understood that I had to survive for my sister.

For a long time, I blamed myself for everything that had happened: my mother’s death, my sister’s suffering, my father ending up in captivity. But that guilt also helped me survive.

In captivity, I «wrote» many poems. Writing was forbidden, so the lines formed only in my head. Most of them were in Russian. About a month before the exchange, I composed my first poem in Ukrainian in my mind — I dedicated it to Ukraine and my sister.

The exchange and returning home

I was not sure I was being taken for an exchange. I thought they were transferring me to another colony. Then we were moved to a detention center, and the very next day we were exchanged.

The moment we saw Ukrainian flags was incredible. But even after returning, there was still fear that it was all a dream and that they could send us back.

After returning, I immediately began speaking Ukrainian again. For me, it was a matter of principle because I had lost almost everything I had.

After the exchange, they brought us to a hospital: we showered, were given clothes and phones, and were fed. It was the most delicious food I had ever eaten.

Doctors examined us, and I remember we were changing clothes in the ward when suddenly the door opened. Instantly, you put your hands behind your back and lowered your head. At every moment there was fear that someone would say: «You got a taste of normal life — pack your things, you’re going back».

Survivor’s guilt

When I returned from captivity, there were times when I would walk into a store and be unable to buy anything. At first, I did not buy clothes for myself and barely ate. I craved sweets but refused to eat them. I felt ashamed.

You think: you have the opportunity, while those who are still there continue eating that slop. And God willing, if it is even slop.

The feeling of guilt is overwhelming. You understand that you are home, happy to have been exchanged. Meanwhile, our boys and girls are still imprisoned, while you are here living your life. And it feels like you have no right to that.

Rehabilitation and adapting to life after captivity

After returning, I underwent treatment for a long time and stayed in hospitals. I have hearing problems (50% hearing loss), vision problems, and damaged joints. Physical rehabilitation helped, but full recovery is difficult.

For a long time, I slept only 1.5 to 2 hours a day. Nothing helped — neither sleeping pills nor antidepressants. I suffered from prolonged depression.

About six months later, I began to realize that I would not be sent back into captivity, but often upon waking I still saw the cell again. You blink, trying to «erase» the image, but nothing helps. Panic begins: how is this possible, I am already here? Gradually, it passes.

It was difficult to find a psychotherapist — many could not handle the emotional burden. I learned to live with this experience on my own. I learned how to «save» myself.

Reuniting with my sister and waiting for my father’s return

My first meeting with my sister Dasha happened on her birthday. I was exchanged exactly two weeks before she turned eighteen. And we met for the first time on that very day.

Now we live in Lviv. We love each other very much, but we have also become distant. Dasha had lived independently since she was 15. That independence became part of her character. She became used to relying only on herself.

We gravitate toward one another, but we have also become lonely. Today, by supporting each other, we are building our lives. Each of us — her own.

Right now, I carry a lot of responsibility, including bringing my father home from captivity. I know he is alive, and that is the most important thing. I am doing everything I can: reaching out to everyone possible.

Life in Lviv

Now I work at Lviv State University of Internal Affairs as a military-patriotic education specialist. It is important to me that young people respect military personnel and veterans and know how to communicate with them. That is exactly what I work on. It is difficult to change adults, but young people can still be shaped.

My main task as someone who has experienced war and captivity is to convey the importance of respecting service members and the veteran community. These are strong people whom society often fails to understand.

There is often a stereotype that military personnel returning from war are somehow «not normal» — unstable or mentally ill. But that is not true. People simply need an individual approach, in addition to general principles of communication.

The university is now actively involving veterans — this is important both for them and for students. We hold events, communicate, and build trust.

For now, I regret nothing. I truly love my work at the university and feel deeply passionate about it. As for what comes next — we will see.