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The Missing: What have they done with our sons?
A tragic story of the events taking place because of Putin's War in the Ukraine.
“Our warrior was someone’s son, and someone is looking for him. It’s better that he’s identified; there shouldn’t be a single unknown soldier left.”
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In the early evening of 28 August 2014, Andrey Lozinsky phoned his mother.
Andrey, a 21-year-old conscript in the Ukrainian army’s 93rd Mechanised Brigade, was calling from just outside the eastern town of Ilovaisk, where Ukrainian forces were fighting to reclaim territory taken by pro-Russian insurgents. His mother, Yadviga, was at her office in Dnipropetrovsk, 350km to the west. The conversation was short: in the background, Yadviga heard another soldier say “They’ll get a fix on us,” and she cut off the call almost immediately. Everyone knew mobile phone calls at the frontline could give away a position to the enemy.
“If I’d known what the situation really was, I would have asked him more,” she told me 10 months later. But in their brief call, Andrey had time to tell her, as he always did, that everything was fine.
"Scammers of the families of the missing soldiers."
In October 2014, Lena Kalyberda got a call from an unknown number. A few weeks earlier, she had posted a photograph of her brother online, along with her phone number, appealing for information. She snatched up the phone.
The man at the other end of the line explained he was a doctor from a hospital in Luhansk region, in the conflict zone north east of Ilovaisk. One of his patients was a tall, dark and young Ukrainian soldier: Artyom Kalyberda.
“He said, ‘He’s in bad way and urgently needs medications. I understand you can’t bring them yourself, so send money,’”
"This is what the families of the missing soldier's had to face from these scammers. I guess, Putin and his army of follower's will go to any lengths to add more misery to the innocent."
They sent clothes, food, medications and money to swindlers who subsequently disappeared. Sometimes callers offered apparently conclusive proof. Two young women from the Dnipropetrovsk region, whose father in the 93rd had gone missing at Ilovaisk, were sent a photograph over social media that clearly showed him being held prisoner. The daughters sent medicines, and asked if they could bring him warm clothes. “Come if you want,” was the reply. “But you may end up locked in the same basement along with your dad.” Soon after, their contact vanished from the internet.
"The final burial and ceremony's for Andrey Lozinsky."
Alexey froze as he looked at each picture, before looking away toward a point in the distance. He recognised Maxim Anikin, who had lived next-door to him in barracks before the war. “Turnov – he’s dead, he was our driver … What about Simko?” Alexey said, his thousand-yard stare focusing briefly. “Our machine gunner. No one knows anything about where he is.”
“Someone said they stripped prisoners naked,” Yadviga said.
“Yes.”
“And they shot the injured.”
Alexey nodded.
No one had debriefed Alexey and his fellow soldiers when they returned from three days as prisoners. Their commanding officer had broken down in tears; a sheaf of death certificates had already been made out with their names.
"As final thought to this story."
When Artyom came home on leave in early August 2014, he had given his old phone to his mother. It was loaded with photographs and videos he had shot from his army service.
Together with relatives, I had watched many ugly videos of captives after Ilovaisk, searching for Andrey, Artyom, Maxim. Artyom’s videos were different.
The weather is sunny; the trees are green. Artyom and his fellow servicemen are cooking potatoes over a fire, chopping wood, laughing; all young, tall, handsome.
“Kindergarten,” Yadviga said. “Children.”
“Artyom’s hand,” said Svetlana. His hand opens a box and sifted through the bullets inside, accompanied by his cheerful commentary. The camera pans along a departing convoy. There is Maxim Anikin with his shark tattoo. Andrey seated on a tank passes by, flashes a smile, and is gone.
A tragic story of the events taking place because of Putin's War in the Ukraine.
“Our warrior was someone’s son, and someone is looking for him. It’s better that he’s identified; there shouldn’t be a single unknown soldier left.”
[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
In the early evening of 28 August 2014, Andrey Lozinsky phoned his mother.
Andrey, a 21-year-old conscript in the Ukrainian army’s 93rd Mechanised Brigade, was calling from just outside the eastern town of Ilovaisk, where Ukrainian forces were fighting to reclaim territory taken by pro-Russian insurgents. His mother, Yadviga, was at her office in Dnipropetrovsk, 350km to the west. The conversation was short: in the background, Yadviga heard another soldier say “They’ll get a fix on us,” and she cut off the call almost immediately. Everyone knew mobile phone calls at the frontline could give away a position to the enemy.
“If I’d known what the situation really was, I would have asked him more,” she told me 10 months later. But in their brief call, Andrey had time to tell her, as he always did, that everything was fine.
"Scammers of the families of the missing soldiers."
In October 2014, Lena Kalyberda got a call from an unknown number. A few weeks earlier, she had posted a photograph of her brother online, along with her phone number, appealing for information. She snatched up the phone.
The man at the other end of the line explained he was a doctor from a hospital in Luhansk region, in the conflict zone north east of Ilovaisk. One of his patients was a tall, dark and young Ukrainian soldier: Artyom Kalyberda.
“He said, ‘He’s in bad way and urgently needs medications. I understand you can’t bring them yourself, so send money,’”
"This is what the families of the missing soldier's had to face from these scammers. I guess, Putin and his army of follower's will go to any lengths to add more misery to the innocent."
They sent clothes, food, medications and money to swindlers who subsequently disappeared. Sometimes callers offered apparently conclusive proof. Two young women from the Dnipropetrovsk region, whose father in the 93rd had gone missing at Ilovaisk, were sent a photograph over social media that clearly showed him being held prisoner. The daughters sent medicines, and asked if they could bring him warm clothes. “Come if you want,” was the reply. “But you may end up locked in the same basement along with your dad.” Soon after, their contact vanished from the internet.
"The final burial and ceremony's for Andrey Lozinsky."
Alexey froze as he looked at each picture, before looking away toward a point in the distance. He recognised Maxim Anikin, who had lived next-door to him in barracks before the war. “Turnov – he’s dead, he was our driver … What about Simko?” Alexey said, his thousand-yard stare focusing briefly. “Our machine gunner. No one knows anything about where he is.”
“Someone said they stripped prisoners naked,” Yadviga said.
“Yes.”
“And they shot the injured.”
Alexey nodded.
No one had debriefed Alexey and his fellow soldiers when they returned from three days as prisoners. Their commanding officer had broken down in tears; a sheaf of death certificates had already been made out with their names.
"As final thought to this story."
When Artyom came home on leave in early August 2014, he had given his old phone to his mother. It was loaded with photographs and videos he had shot from his army service.
Together with relatives, I had watched many ugly videos of captives after Ilovaisk, searching for Andrey, Artyom, Maxim. Artyom’s videos were different.
The weather is sunny; the trees are green. Artyom and his fellow servicemen are cooking potatoes over a fire, chopping wood, laughing; all young, tall, handsome.
“Kindergarten,” Yadviga said. “Children.”
“Artyom’s hand,” said Svetlana. His hand opens a box and sifted through the bullets inside, accompanied by his cheerful commentary. The camera pans along a departing convoy. There is Maxim Anikin with his shark tattoo. Andrey seated on a tank passes by, flashes a smile, and is gone.
