"The worst was hunger. People lost their minds." 810 days of captivity of Kostyantyn Myrhorodskyi

"In captivity, I dreamed of doing three things when I returned: singing a song by Taras Petrynenko, kissing the ground, and smoking a cigarette with a good cup of coffee," the soldier recalls. "When I was on the bus after the prisoner exchange, I thought why not sing?"

On May 31, 2024, Ukraine freed 75 citizens from Russian captivity. Among them was Kostyantyn Myrhorodskyi, who had spent more than 800 days in captivity. On that day, a video of him singing, recorded by journalists, garnered hundreds of thousands of views on social media.

Myrhorodskyi is the founder and one of the instructors of the volunteer initiative Military Diver School. Russians captured him in March 2022 in the Bucha area. His family knew he was in captivity, but there had been no information about him since then.

By some miracle, Russia never found out what a unique specialist they had captured. Kostyantyn often says "got lucky" about situations that couldn't be considered lucky in normal reality.

Kostyantyn Myrhorodskyi told LIGA.net about the mass abductions of civilians, his captivity, torture by Russian television, and singing that saves. Below is his story.

Bucha, Borodyanka, Klavdiievo-Tarasove. The beginning of the invasion

On February 24, I woke up to a call from a friend who said that rockets were flying at us. I headed to the military enlistment office. I was assigned to a security company at the Bucha Territorial Center for Recruitment.

Only a handful of people had combat experience. My experience was semi-military. I had served in the army and was an expert in diving, but I wouldn't call myself a super soldier.

On the first day of the invasion, our platoon spent time at a position in Borodyanka. Several times, we were ordered to prepare for Russian tanks. All we had were rifles and two magazines each. Luckily, the tanks did not move then.

Later, we were relocated to Klavdiievo-Tarasove. Some guys showed up with bags of weapons, put them in front of us, and said, "You need these more."

The key thing we had was "eyes." The forestry department in Klavdiievo-Tarasove had towers with video cameras to monitor the forest. From there, we could see what was happening on all the roads around us in real-time: what, how many, and where the Russians were moving. I established communication with others and relayed information to Kyiv from several points.

By early March, Klavdiievo-Tarasove was surrounded. Our task was to stay hidden, keep the "eyes" operational, and pass on information.

We managed to do a few good things. We helped evacuate some guys from a special unit that had been broken in battle. Locals were hiding them wherever they could.

Once, a Russian vehicle broke away from a convoy about 50 meters from us and stalled. We were excited, thinking we could hit it. But by the time we jumped out, they had fled. The vehicle remained, though – it was a rocket-loader for a Uragan multiple rocket system. It had 16 rockets with fuses. All of it was meant for us.

We unscrewed the fuses and buried them in the forest. We dismantled the crane from the vehicle, making it impossible to remove the rockets, even if they got the vehicle back. We called in some specialists from the village. They arrived quickly and started the vehicle, but one engine was not working.

We then called a four-axle truck to tow the vehicle into the forest.

"One of the guys sat in the driver's seat. While towing it, the steering wheel fell off in his hands. He looked at it and said, 'What kind of junk did these liberators bring here?'"

Later, I found out that when Kyiv Oblast was liberated, the vehicle and the fuses were handed over to the Ukrainian Armed Forces. All the rockets were successfully returned to the Russians. But there was a catch.

"Some old woman was shooting at us from a balcony with a shotgun!" Captivity

On the morning of March 14, one of my friends texted me, "Kostya, you're in deep trouble, clear your phone so they can't tell you're an instructor." I listened. There were still some general diving photos and maps where I had placed marks. I deleted the compromising information about working with special forces.

That same day, we received instructions to launch a drone to track hidden equipment. The guys launched a hobby drone and decided to get closer to the site. They took a forest road, and we took an asphalt one. Suddenly, a Russian BMD appeared ahead of us from around a corner. On top of it were paratroopers. It was a recon platoon.

There were three of us. We were in civilian clothes, in a civilian car.

"They made us turn toward the hood and started searching us. Told me to unlock my tablet, but I snapped it over my knee. That's when they started yelling, firing shots at the ground near our feet, checking through our phones. They ended up finding a map on me."

They took me for questioning as the most defiant one. They told my friends to come back in an hour. If I was clean, they could take me. They took me to the commander, who said, "If you're not an artillery spotter, you'll live. If you are and we get hit, you won't leave."

I once had a guy in my course from the Special Operations Forces. He said they trained him that if someone wants to extract information from you, they will. When they start pulling out your nails, you'll spill everything unless you're a superhero. I'm not a superhero. So, you need to know how to lie: tell 90% of the truth and hide the most important 10% within the lies. So, during interrogations, I began weaving stories. I played the part of either a civilian or a territorial defense member while trying to avoid giving away my comrades.

I was lucky. These were young paratroopers, not yet hardened. They were the only ones who didn't lay a finger on me. They even kept the idiots away who wanted to stab me with a knife.

When their commander found out that there were others with me, he ordered them to be brought immediately. The paratroopers went to the meeting appointed for my guys. But they were watching the place, saw that the Russians had arrived without me, and retreated.

That was my second big stroke of luck – I had witnesses that I had been taken prisoner.

A day later, a diver joined the interrogation. They asked where the training bases were and what the special forces were doing. I said, "What special forces? Who would let me near them?"

I started telling them I was a diver, selling gear. I also said that Special forces were way above my level. I knew my field, but playing dumb was easier. They didn't learn anything interesting from me and said they would send me to Hostomel for further questioning.

Before they sent me, a massive officer came up and started shouting, "What's wrong with your people? I've never seen anything like this! We entered Bucha, and there was some old woman shooting at us from a balcony with a shotgun! What kind of people are you? It's true what they say: take these people out and bring in new ones."

In Belarus later, I also heard tank crews complaining about the losses they had suffered. In general, I watched them several times as they were frankly f*cked up because of their losses.

In Hostomel, they immediately took me to a basement. They said I was lying. Stripped me naked.

"They threw me on the ground covered in broken glass. Dragged me over it. Psychological tricks, so I'd see blood. On the table, there were wire cutters, a gun, and other stuff."

Then they tied me up in some strange way – legs behind my ears, arms twisted. When one knot is tightened, all the joints twist. They were going through my phone while asking questions. That was the first serious interrogation.

I got lucky again – I passed out. They revived me and made me sign papers that I was a combatant, meaning I had a better chance of not being shot secretly. They threw me in one of the cold storage units at the airfield, which they used as cells.

There were 28 people there, most of them civilians from Kyiv Oblast. Some were wounded. There was no water or food. We all slept together on filthy rags. We used a jar as a toilet.

Our forces were bombing day and night. A few times, explosions came very close. We hoped the wall would collapse so we could escape, but it didn't work out.

"They moved TVs from cell to cell." Detention center in Novozybkov

On March 23, we were loaded onto "Urals" and taken to Belarus. In a neighboring vehicle, one boy tried to escape – he opened the emergency hatch, climbed onto the roof, and jumped off. Two accompanying "Tigers" opened fire. I heard the machine gun. They say he was killed.

Another thing – Russians were very afraid of gadgets. They were paranoid, thinking the devices had trackers that could reveal our location. So, they smashed everything, even digital watches. While we were being transported, a clever guy said, "They've destroyed all our gadgets. Now think about what to say next. They won’t confirm anything."

After that, I calmly played the role of a regular territorial defense force member and didn't have to mention my diving work – there were no records left of us.

From Belarus, we were transferred in several stages to Bryansk Oblast, Russia. In Novozybkov, we ended up in Detention Center No. 2.

"The detention center started with the 'reception'. They strip you naked. From the gate to the building, you are driven through two lines of FSIN officers. While you are walking, you are beaten and mauled by dogs. Dogs tear someone's legs. If you fall, they jump on you. Someone's ribs are broken. They kick everyone forward."

My role as a territorial defense soldier spared me from the harshest interrogations. I got lucky again.

We were guarded by prison special forces and local spooks. The special forces changed every few months – there were Ossetians, Kadyrovites, and the devil knows who. When the defenders of Mariupol were brought from Olenivka in early May, they were brutally abused. The guys with combat specialties, snipers, and grenade launchers, were especially badly treated.

Some people had severe injuries. There were a few deaths, not just from interrogations but from everything. A special forces officer hit an older civilian, broke something, and he died.

Some were tortured so severely their screams were inhuman. It was constant -you'd be interrogated more or less normally but could hear people in neighboring cells being tortured.

The cell was huge – the prison dated back to the era of Catherine the Great – and it was freezing cold all the time. The food was distributed by prison workers. We were never taken out of the cell, except for interrogations and searches.

They fed us just enough to keep us alive. The guys calculated it – less than 1,000 calories a day. Everyone started losing weight.

At 06:00 AM we had to get up. Exercise was not allowed. At 6:15 or 6:30, breakfast was quickly distributed. Then we cleaned up and prepared for inspection. Inspections were brutal.

"The one on duty in the cell must drop to their back or stomach, quickly crawl under the bunks, return, stand up, close their eyes, and spread their arms and legs like a star. If a speck of dust is found on the uniform, everyone suffers. If you crawl too slowly – same thing."

Inspections lasted an hour or an hour and a half. Afterward, there were operational-regime procedures, and we were taken for interrogations. At 1:00 PM – lunch, and more interrogations. At 5:00 PM – dinner. At 7:00 PM – another hour and a half of inspection. At 10:00 PM – lights out. They didn't disturb our sleep. Fluorescent lights were constantly shining in our eyes, but we were never raised.

In our cell, there were three military personnel – me, a marine officer, and a senior warrant officer from the communications unit. The other ten prisoners were civilians.

One guy had been captured with his father. The father was a veteran of the Afghan war, he was shot in the legs and taken away from his son. The son, a young, burly guy, had a mental disorder. It was incredibly hard for him. He didn't understand what was happening at all.

Civilians were also taken for interrogations, but they weren't pressured as much. The Russians quickly divided people into two groups: those who were being charged – mortar operators, artillerymen – and those intended as an exchange pool. They needed a group of people they could convict of "killing civilians." The rest were extras.

At first, they tried to educate us politically. They moved TVs from cell to cell, played the news, and broadcast programs by Mikhalkov from flash drives. We were forced to recite all this. But we quickly learned how to extract the rational points.

For example, when HIMARS arrived in Ukraine, they threatened to destroy them all. Weeks passed, and the HIMARS remained intact. So, we drew conclusions from that.

On weekends, there was a weekly roundup program at midnight with detailed analysis. I really wanted to watch it. Once, we were lucky – a TV arrived in our cell on a Sunday. After everyone fell asleep, I hid from the peephole (we called it the Eye of Sauron) so the guard wouldn't see. I turned the sound down to a whisper and watched as they discussed the aid package from the U.S. I memorized it. It helped lift my spirits for a while.

But overall, that "box" was deeply demotivating.

From the news, we immediately learned that northern Ukraine had been liberated. We saw how nervous they became when the battles for Kharkiv Oblast began. Then all our information was abruptly cut off. It was an immediate order to hand over our TV sets and that was it. That's when I realized that Ukraine had held on.

From then until our release, we were in complete information isolation. But they discussed the situation among themselves, and we could hear that things weren't going well for them.

"We don't give a f*ck, let him die". The prison in Pakino

I spent more than a year in Novozybkov. In May 2023, we were packed up and taken to Tula.

That was a terrifying moment. The same "reception." The same beating. We were herded into exercise yards. By evening, it started raining. We stood there all night in the rain. Guards patrolled above, shouting to kneel or cover our heads with our hands. It was physically and mentally draining. One guy had an epileptic seizure. We asked for medicine – his condition was severe. They shouted back, "We don't give a f*ck, let him die". We barely made it through the night.

It turned out to be a transfer to a prison in the village of Pakino, in the Vladimir region. There, about 300 of us were held in the prison grounds. We found a sock from the Ukrainian Armed Forces in the cell. We thought, "Whoa! Our predecessors. Our people."

Everything started all over again – the same routine, the same interrogations. The conditions were slightly better. It was warmer. The cells were smaller, but they crammed more people into them.

The worst thing here was the hunger. The staple food was a broth made from rotten potato peels. We started losing weight quickly (those who still had any weight left) and strength. For me, there wasn't much left to lose, so I was just falling.

We were literally surviving on bread. They often gave out bread more or less normally – a loaf, cut into five pieces. It really saved us. The bread was sacred.

We were always being shuffled from one cell to another. One time, I ended up in a cell right across from the guards' break room. The peephole on the door didn't close all the way, and through a small gap, we could spy on their news. That's how we found out – Kherson was ours again.

At the Pakino prison, they let us out for walks. In the winter, they even gave us jackets. In Novozybkov, there were no jackets. There, before showers, they'd throw us into the exercise yard in freezing weather. After 20 minutes of shivering, they'd drag us into the showers, where, without hot water or soap, we had three minutes to wash. It was insane.

In Pakino, however, they provided no medical care. We called the doctor a vet.

He didn't even have antiseptic. The guys were rotting away. Everyone had terrible ulcers. You had to wait at least a month for the doctor to come and apply some lousy fucorcin. I was lucky – I didn't develop ulcers, I didn't rot. But for the others, it was horrifying. They'd be taken to the hospital. Some started losing their minds. One guy committed suicide – he couldn't take it anymore.

The Red Cross came to Pakino. They hid half of the people from them – just locked the barracks and told everyone to lie down on bunks (which was usually strictly prohibited). Some prisoners were called for interviews, allowed to fill out registration cards, and given a chance to finally contact their families.

"And then there was something so naive: 'We brought board games and treats. Demand them from the administration.' You listen to this under the watchful eyes of the special forces and think you know exactly what will happen if you try to demand anything."

Russian human rights defenders also came. They prepared us seriously for this visit. For several days, they trained us to walk upright, not like usual – with hands behind our backs and faces to the floor. They brought a table into the cell. They put a tablecloth on it – something unheard of.

Then the door opened – guys in vests entered, "human rights defenders from the president of the Russian Federation," something about human rights, some woman named Moskalkova. Behind them stood the special forces and the head of the prison, who had already "coached" us on what we were allowed to say. The human rights people asked how the food was. We were thin and exhausted, but we just said, "It's fine." They nodded and said, "We understand, this isn't a resort." We nodded back.

Most of the time, we talked about food. We reminisced about what we wanted to eat and fantasized about the dishes we would cook at home. We made up recipes. Everyone mentally started creating businesses in agriculture and opening restaurants.

"But at a certain point, not everyone could handle these conversations. Due to hunger, people literally lost their minds. It was terrifying."

And the Russians toyed with us: they overfed some and kept others on starvation rations.

There were no exchanges with Pakino for a year. We were already in an emotional decline. In captivity, it's much easier when you know someone has gone home. You genuinely rejoice because you might be next.

In the last month, I regained some mental balance. I was placed in a cell with some really cool marines. We had common interests – music, motorcycles.

I adjusted my attitude towards food – I just didn't care anymore. Plus, they allowed us to exercise. There was a so-called fitness house where everyone worked out when they had the strength. There was a clear pattern: if they gave us an extra two scoops of porridge – bam! – everyone was training again. If they fed us poorly, most people paused and waited out the rough period.

"I sang Ukrainian songs – it was very supportive. Resistance songs, Taras Chubay, Skryabin, Tartak. I sang everything I knew by heart."

But I sang very quietly – you could get beaten for speaking Ukrainian, let alone singing. The last time I got beaten was because they somehow found out about my singing.

When things were really bad, I tried not to feel sorry for myself. I thought, "You'll get out no matter what. No matter how awful it gets – you have to hang on." We had a moratorium on the word "soon." You could get slapped for saying it. We'd go outside: "So, when are they going to swap us? Oh, guys, it'd be nice just to see the sky." Or we'd look up – hey, those clouds are heading towards Ukraine. I'd tell them: "Guys, I'm not saying 'soon.' But we'll see our native sky before long."

"The guards didn't care at all. They weren't taking us to the prison." The exchange

May 7. They called me and another guy – with our things, we were told to leave. There was a special cell where they only put you if you were going somewhere. They tossed us into this departure cell. We were decently fed. They had us fill out a copy of an autobiography and something like a waiver saying we had no complaints against Russia. We were called into the office of an operative. The operative was all politeness.

"Just last week, this guy was landing kicks to my liver, and now here he is, all like, 'Stand this way, don't fall.' We had this other guy with us – skinny as a skeleton, looked like an anatomy chart brought to life. The operative asked him why he was so thin, and the guy just shrugged and said, 'Well, sir, I don't really know. I seem to have dropped some weight.' The operative shot back, 'Really? That's odd. I wonder what could've caused that.'"

They kept us in this cell for two days and then sent us back. But by then I knew I was on the list somewhere. And I waited. I prayed in the evening: "God, send me home. How much longer?"

May 30. They called us again. The guys already knew this meant an exchange. They packed my things. We agreed that whoever got home would contact all the parents.

They put bags on our heads. They took us to an airfield. We spent the night in an Il-76, and in the morning, we flew. When we landed, they crammed us into paddy wagons again. I thought, "Oh no!" But then I realized the guards didn't react to us. They didn't care at all.

That meant they weren't taking us to the prison.

We arrived. The doors opened, and a guy announced, "If your name's called, step out. The rest, stay put." We quickly said our goodbyes. They called my name. I stepped out. I pulled the bag off my head – they were loading prisoners, hands tied, into civilian buses parked in an ordinary lot.

We drove for another hour, the tension almost unbearable. All we could do was hope nothing would go wrong. Half of the people had been left behind in the paddy wagon. They were swapping us with the guys from the Sukhodilsk prison at the same time, and half of them were left behind, too. As we passed through the Kursk region, the bus screen started showing instructions on what to do during shelling. I couldn’t help but think, "Wow. That’s something."

"We arrived. One of our guys walked in and said, 'Five seconds, and we'll take you away.' After the exchange went through, he asked, 'So, what are you gonna do now?' I was sitting up front and, without even thinking, said, 'We're gonna be f***ing shocked!'"

During the exchange, we saw Russian prisoners walking towards us. All of ours were battered, heads cracked, skin-and-bones. Theirs were well-fed, and looking decent. They were "doing fine." We knew our prisoners were being treated fairly. I even told the guys that torture by starvation wasn't part of our culture. But the contrast was stark.

In Sumy Oblast, people ran out to meet us with flags, waving, some kneeling. I had an idea that I was returning to a different country. But I was truly blown away by the changes.

Our generation was handed the moment when we had to fight for independence. It might sound grand, but I feel it deep down: they couldn't break us. I have a strong belief that we're going to make it through. It's going to be tough, and it's going to hurt. But in the end, we'll have a better country.

The best part of being back? It's having breakfast with my wife. I used to dream about us finally finishing the kitchen renovation – it would be this big, bright space. Well, it's not done yet. But we're sitting there together again, and honestly, that's what matters. I also dreamed I would cook her breakfast, but we quickly realized it would be better if she did it. Whatever she makes, it's always the best meal ever.