The only way I could defend human rights was to take a Kalashnikov in my hands

Veridica: Maksym, you describe yourself as an anti-militarist who believes that your place now is with a Kalashnikov in your hands, defending Ukraine. Some have called you a pacifist, but you reject that label. How did you make the decision to enlist in the Ukrainian army?

As a human rights activist, I helped Russian refugees flee persecution. I knew very well what the situation in Russia was like, that if Russia won in Ukraine, we would no longer have rights and that everything we had managed to achieve through years of campaigning would be erased. Everything I had worked for my entire life would have been in vain. I couldn’t let that happen. That’s why, in 2022, the only way I could defend human rights was to take a Kalashnikov in my hands and join the armed forces. That’s why there is no contradiction between being anti-militarist, a human rights defender, and an officer in the Ukrainian army.

If someone who says they hate war and despise violence calls themselves a pacifist, then I am a pacifist. Not just because I don’t like violence, but because it makes us less human. It dehumanises us. I thought a lot about violence whilst in captivity and realised that violence isn’t just about destroying, killing, injuring another person; it’s about transforming the other into an object, stealing their freedom to act, their ability to make choices. For example, the Russians would tell me to do squats or press-ups, to sing the Russian anthem, to put my hands up, to put them down. I did all these things.

If someone defines themselves as a pacifist by saying they will never use violence or war, then I cannot be a pacifist. I am anti-militarist and I am a major lieutenant in the Ukrainian Armed Forces. And I am in the right place. I don’t see a contradiction.

There were two things I thought about when I joined the army. I had no combat experience before. If you can defend someone who is being attacked and you don’t because you’re a pacifist and never use violence, then you become complicit with the aggressor.

I remember that at the end of 2014, after Russia annexed Crimea and started the war in eastern Ukraine, I was involved in a project helping those leaving war zones and occupied territories. I realised that I could do that only because there were people fighting on the front line who had my back. Thanks to them and their fight against the invaders, I was able to do that. When the full-scale invasion began in 2022, I realised that this time I had to join the front line to allow my colleagues who fight for human rights to do their work.

Now I am a collection of stories on two legs, as I have so many to tell from captivity. I was convicted as a war criminal by the Russians—absurd charges, as the only evidence for these crimes was my confession extracted whilst I was being tortured. I was sentenced to 15 years of strict regime. I was transferred to a prison in Luhansk. There was a library with a few books. When it had been under Ukrainian control, the library was enormous, with thousands upon thousands of books. Two thousand books published in the USSR and just a few Ukrainian books remained. Among the books I borrowed was “Letter to a Hostage” by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He wrote it to a Jewish friend in Nazi-occupied France. The question is: what is the difference between us and the Russian army? Why are we fighting? The answer is: respect for human beings. Whatever the other person believes, we respect them. Respect is what the Russian government and army lack. That’s the difference between the Russian world of this war and Ukrainians. I saw the Russian world of war from captivity. I spoke with those who interrogated me, with criminals imprisoned alongside me. For them, the human being means nothing. It’s dispensable matter for the state. The state makes you and destroys you in their eyes. In Ukraine, all the people I know respect human dignity and see the state as a servant, an instrument tolerated by society. When Zelenskyy was insulted by Donald Trump, Ukrainians wrote on social media: “Mr Trump, don’t insult our president; only we have the right to insult him!” Ukrainians like to insult their politicians. But when aggression occurs, they mobilise.

The Russian Empire has turned their version of history into a weapon of war

Veridica: Is the language of human rights understood by the average Ukrainian? Does it mean anything to them, or is it too dry, too abstract?

Even far-right groups that used to threaten me before, when I was working with refugees, now use the vocabulary of human rights because it’s an accepted framework in society. Before, there may have been people who said that an authoritarian regime is preferable to democracy. Now, if someone says that, they are immediately asked: “Are you from Russia?” Sure, it could be a tactical and temporary thing. But now the language of human rights is understood by the majority of Ukrainian society. Because you say: do you want to be imprisoned for nothing? Do you want to have no right to a fair trial? Do you want your life not to be respected? If you answer no, that’s what human rights are about. And then people understand.

A Russian prisoner was telling me that yes, everything is messed up, but we are part of this great power called Russia, and everyone fears us, so they respect us. When I told him that fear and respect can actually be opposite things, he didn’t understand me. For Russian soldiers, there’s comfort in belonging to a great nation and not feeling responsible, because someone else makes you kill, doesn’t give you the right to choose... That’s why I believe that in Ukraine, today, it’s easier than ever to understand the vocabulary of human rights, while in Russia and the occupied territories, people don’t understand basic concepts.

I remember that when I came to Western Europe in the 90s and said I was from Ukraine, people had no expression. They would say: “Oh, it’s part of Russia?” No. It’s between Russia and Poland. “Oh, so you’re from Poland?” No, Poland is between Ukraine and Germany. Many Russian intellectuals considered that Ukrainians were spoilt Russians. And now, Russian soldiers consider that Ukrainians don’t recognise that they are Russians, they are dumber, second-class Russians.

The Russian Empire has turned their version of history into a weapon of war. It is mythology, not history. They have turned language into a weapon of war. You know Victor Klemperer’s book, The Language of the Third Reich, in which he says that the Nazis transformed people’s vocabulary. The same is happening with the Russians. You can go to prison just for calling a war a “war”, when they say that Russia never launches wars, only ends them. Or if you talk about the Second World War instead of the Great Patriotic War, because the first two years of the war meant an alliance between the Nazis and the USSR, but Russia doesn’t recognise that. If you talk about these things, as an honest historian, you are sent to prison.

In prison, the television was always on Russian channels. The film they repeated most often was BRAT 2 (Brother 2), films made in the 90s, which entire generations grew up with, and which, in fact, serve as an ideological basis for aggression. The positive hero is a war veteran, like Rambo, probably autistic, who listens to music and kills people. He is chauvinistic, xenophobic. He doesn’t like homosexuals, film producers, Americans, he doesn’t like anyone, and he is the positive hero for generations of Russians. Everything he does in this film is to show that justice belongs only to the strong. If you can kill someone else, it means you are right. I saw this phrase from the film, “Truth is power”, written on a cannon. In fact, the opposite was happening: power was considered truth.

Russians use culture as a weapon of war more than I expected.

Veridica: You said in an interview that you were forced to repeat Vladimir Putin’s speech about the history of Ukraine, together with your colleagues in captivity, and if someone smiled or paused, you received a blow. Can you give us more details about your daily life in captivity?

We had no toilet paper, no scissors. But people are both more fragile and stronger than they think. We had concrete walls with a rough surface. So if you rub your nails on them for an hour, your nails will shorten. But you can’t do that with your toenails, that was a problem... We had a corner where we would rub our nails and we called it our manicure salon...

When we were put together with the common criminals, they had scissors, so they shared them with us. Later, after four months, the guards gave us scissors too.

Veridica: I’ve met Ukrainian female soldiers and I interviewed a Moldovan officer who fought in Ukraine, in Transnistria, and I was impressed by their strength and courage to fight for what they believe in. I expected you to be the same, but instead, I discovered a gentle and humorous person. Where does this gentleness and humour come from, and how did you manage to maintain these qualities, in war and then in captivity?

I also admire the strength of my friends who fight. And I can be tough, I’ve been in difficult situations where I had to be strong. But now many colleagues tell me that I shine. And I look at them and see that they are so happy to see me alive. And I tell them: you don’t realise that I’m just reflecting your shine. What helped me continue were thoughts of other people, my trust in them, that they would never forget me, that they would continue to fight for me. I was right. People care about me and I care about them. It’s about love.

There were moments when I was afraid that fear would destroy me

Veridica: This love that you discovered for others, where does it come from, from childhood, from parents, from some existential crisis, from religion?

I think it has a lot to do with my parents. Children feel when they are loved. I think I know some of the best people living on earth now. They are not famous, but they care about others. I was fascinated by them. And I think from here I understood love as an affirmation of the other’s existence. I am happy that you exist. I am happy that you are. That’s love for me. My life is now made up of two intertwining factors: love and war. This war is about defending life and those I love. There were moments when I was afraid that fear would destroy me. Fear is the most difficult thing. Fear of pain, anticipation of pain. Not so much the fear of being killed, but of being tortured. The fear of being transformed into a piece of bleeding meat, screaming. The fear of being dehumanised. I was afraid that under torture, I could be paralysed, I could do something for which I would never forgive myself. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. That showed me how fragile and, at the same time, how beautiful people are.

I had to walk long distances completely dehydrated, I was worried for my boys, then for myself. In interrogations, I was very afraid, I was told to repeat one thing or another and I found myself saying no. I understood that they were going to force me to do this, but at least they would have to work for it. I wasn’t going to give up my will just out of fear.

Veridica: In prison, you taught English to your cellmates, you said and composed prayers. How did Christianity help you resist in captivity?

It’s a personal story. For me, it’s important to spread the word. But what I’ve often seen in religious groups is that they don’t share it, they impose it. That’s not my story. I consider myself an Orthodox Christian. I have an ecumenical vision (Christians of different churches should work together, ed. note).

I didn’t grow up Christian. My parents are agnostic, they gave me space to decide for myself. But my grandmother, may she rest in peace, taught scientific atheism. Thanks to her, I developed an interest in religion. I wondered: why is religion so important? As a teenager, I knew all the contradictions of the New Testament from my grandmother. She educated me. But, around 12-13 years old, I decided to read the Bible myself and I realised that this book is not about contradictions, that the contradictions don’t matter, that its message is different and important. And I began this evolution that ended with me becoming a Christian. I was baptised in church. I think some of my Christian brothers and sisters wouldn’t even consider me a Christian, because I have my own views, but for me, the main Christian message is that of the victory of life over death.

The most important holiday for me is Easter. It’s about overcoming death. About immortality. About freedom and responsibility. About valuing the lives of others. This is the main message for me.

For me, heaven and hell is not like a criminal code, that if you commit a sin, you go to hell. It looks too much like the penitentiary system. For me, heaven is doing things that support and protect life, valuing life in you, that’s how you can reach eternal life. When you cause death, pain, when you destroy, you grow death in you. This is hell for me, when you value death in yourself, causing it to others. For me, God is not a judge looking down on us from above, but a forest of life and love that embraces us all and is in us all.

Veridica: These ideas must have given you a lot of strength.

Maksim Butkevîci: Yes, they gave me a lot of strength in captivity.

Veridica: Do you remember the prayers you created? Could you share one with us?

Yes. I said the Lord’s Prayer, typical prayers, then I composed my own prayers, I prayed for those I love, for my parents, for the people I met, I prayed for them to be safe, to be loved, to feel the light, to be protected from evil. I prayed to see them again in this world, if possible, and that if it’s not possible, to meet them in the other world. I prayed for my country, for the Ukrainian armed forces, for people I know. I prayed for those who tortured me, to be stopped in their wanderings, to be enlightened, to not repeat what they did to me and others, to my brothers and sisters, to not condemn their eternal souls to death. I prayed for them to understand what they are doing and to have a chance to save themselves. If not, to be stopped, so they no longer generate pain and suffering. I prayed for invaders, that they would no longer be able to create suffering and death and captivity, to no longer kill a living soul, to no longer create a second of pain, to no longer hold anyone in captivity. I prayed for the leader of Russia and his accomplices to be judged fairly for their deeds.

Veridica: What do you think about the fact that [the Russian Orthodox Church’s] Patriarch Kirill blesses tanks?

I belong to the independent Ukrainian Church, under the Patriarchate of Constantinople. But I respected the way the Orthodox Christian world is organised in sister-Churches. That was my attitude towards the Russian Orthodox Church. I thought they were wrong in their political affiliations, but I considered them a sister church. But now I no longer do. When I read that Patriarch Kirill proclaims the so-called special military operation a holy war, that he blesses genocide, I understood that, using religious vocabulary, if there is an Antichrist, it is him. The Antichrist is the subjugation of political authorities. Idolatry.

It’s a disaster for the Christian world what happened to the Russian Church. My heart aches for it, even if I don’t belong to it. Patriarch Kirill is a war criminal. He incites genocide. I think he should be tried at The Hague, along with Putin and other Russian leaders.

In captivity they made us watch Russian television constantly

Veridica: You said earlier that Ukraine has become more hedonistic in war. How has Ukrainian society changed as a result of the invasion?

When I got out of captivity, people were talking about corruption, about thieves. But for me that was a joy, that means the freedom to criticise the government without fearing that you will end up in prison for it. My family said the news was terrible. I said it was wonderful. Because in captivity they constantly put Russian television on and I was in an information space where they only talked about how Russia was winning this war.

I expected, whilst in captivity, that people might become more dogmatic, more incapable of accepting other points of view. But that didn’t happen. People are exhausted by war, but there is a great variety of opinions, lively public discussions.

I expected fatigue and it’s there, along with sadness. I remember that in 2022 I read an article about how the demand for books would decrease in war, that people would buy helmets or vests instead. But, at the same time, in Kyiv, new bookshops are appearing everywhere. On the outskirts of the city, there is a residential building with two bookshops in it. I don’t know how they survive. Many books are published, they are popular. There is a huge cultural boom. It is connected to the feeling of life, to war hedonism. It’s not about partying as if it’s the last time, although there is that feeling too, but about no longer postponing things, that you don’t know if there is a later. Every night there are explosions, so you might not see the next morning. It depends on chance, you don’t know who will survive the next day. Then you realise that whatever you want to do, you have to do now. There is no tomorrow. Every bar collects money for one regiment or another, displays the information on posters, with a QR code. Then people enter the bar, make a donation, then go to drink a cocktail. That’s the mood now.

Veridica: Romania and the Republic of Moldova have received many Ukrainian refugees since the full-scale invasion. Moldovans knew Ukrainians, having once been part of the USSR together. The war, however, has helped Romanians discover their Ukrainian neighbours, with whom they share the largest border, but about whom they didn’t know much. How have Ukrainians changed their view of Romanians and Moldovans?

Moldova has always had the sympathy of Ukrainians, although there were many stereotypes about Moldova from the Soviet era. But these have changed, slowly, due to the fact that we have a common adversary: Russian interference. Similarly, with the presidential elections in Romania, many Ukrainians realised that we and the Romanians are in the same boat, in which Russian influence is trying to destroy the democratic elements of the Romanian system. I saw on social media that many Ukrainians kept posting news about the elections in Romania. When the elections were cancelled, many Ukrainians said: look, they too are trying to defend their freedom. We are allies. Thus, Ukrainians understood that we are not just neighbours, but also allies, with the same values and that we are on the same side of the front line.

Veridica: What message do you have for the public in the Republic of Moldova and Romania?

First of all, I think we should discover more about each other. Romania’s invitation to the Leipzig Book Fair was a pleasant surprise for me. I feel that Romanian literature is not translated enough in Ukraine. Now that Ukraine has a strange cultural boom, it would be good to have a cultural exchange that would enrich us all. We share not only common geography, but also local traditions. I have friends from Transcarpathia, who sing music shared by both Romanians and Ukrainians at the border, especially in Maramureș. At the level of the message, I think we are part of the same story. When we go to the West, we see free societies, where freedom is taken for granted. We have learned, the hard way, that freedom does not come for granted, that it must be valued, protected, defended.

Veridica: What is freedom for you?

It is the ability to change things, alone or together. There are no people totally independent of others. We all exist thanks to others. So when we want to change things, we can choose to become better, more encouraging, more compassionate. It’s a free choice. We must value this freedom to choose better versions of ourselves. I learned, the hard way, that the main thing for me in life is others. They are the foundation. The state is just an instrument. Businesses are just an instrument. Ideology is a worldview. What matters are human beings and the relationships between them. They must be valued and treated with respect, with dignity. Sometimes, some want to come and take your freedom. But we must defend and protect it, that’s what many people in the Republic of Moldova, Romania, Ukraine are trying to do. We share this common story and we must continue it together.

Veridica: What should Europe do, in your view?

We’ve wasted time. But we can no longer afford to do so. We need to regroup, to organise ourselves, to rely on ourselves militarily, economically, technologically, politically, in terms of values. This war against Ukraine is a war of values. It’s not a war of territories, because Russia doesn’t need territories, it doesn’t know what to do with the ones it already has. One of the most popular T-shirts in Ukraine today is with the slogan “Make Russia small again”. It’s about subjugating an inconvenient neighbour. Ukraine is fighting to defend European values, that’s how it looks from inside Ukraine. It’s about trust in the fact that people can change their lives and societies, that they can live freely, in solidarity, without fear. That is the opposite vision to Russia’s war ideology. Ukraine is paying the price for defending this vision. When Europe suddenly realised that it needed to gather and defend its subjectivity, Ukraine had the feeling that yes, we told you so. Because of this, some Ukrainians consider Ukraine the most European country at the moment. Because it insists on its European identity as the identity of free people, without imperial history, but only with colonial history, which also matters in the European context.

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Maksym Butkevych

Interview by Paula Erizanu

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