• Ukraine

“I am a burden on the Ukrainian state,” Sheyko said inside the medium-security prison for first-time offenders, which Foreign Policy was granted rare access to visit earlier this month. Sheyko is awaiting court approval to join the military. “I cannot benefit my country from here, I can only do that on the battlefield.”

In May, Ukraine’s parliament introduced a new law allowing convicts to be mobilized into the military from prisons as part of efforts to address critical troop shortages and strengthen frontline defenses. The move mirrors Russia’s use of convicts, which by one estimate has involved 100,000 recruits—although Ukrainian officials assert their method will be more regulated and humane. Two-and-a-half years of war have sapped Ukraine’s ammunition and manpower, while the country’s failed counter-offensive last year sank morale. The government aims to mobilize up to 10,000 convicts to urgently replenish numbers, and between a third and half of that number are thought to have already signed up. The justice ministry has estimated that around 27,000 inmates could potentially be eligible for the new program.

The Boryspil prison yard near Kyiv on July 2.

In return, the newly enlisted are offered early release. Inmates at Boryspil said recruitment officers visited the prison the day after the law was passed, and that it has remained the main topic of discussion. The exact rules on pay and length of service are yet to be made clear to inmates, though. Some believe they will remain in the armed forces until the end of the war regardless of what was left of their sentence, yet many want to enlist just to escape the confines of their cell. Some also see it as an opportunity to seek redemption, redefining themselves as war heroes rather than criminals.

The risk is acute, however. It is the units who have lost the largest numbers of soldiers who are most in need of new recruits. They include the assault brigades, who are often deployed along the front to bolster areas in risk of collapse and to engage in dangerous frontline attacks.

Sheyko, who has a tattoo on his face that says “self-made”, says he knows what to expect and he is not afraid of dying. He has friends already on the battlefield and completed military service in Crimea in 2011, specializing as a radio telegrapher. Yet he has a daughter and an ex-wife who live abroad, in Germany, as well as a mother who works in a military hospital, who do not agree with his decision to fight. “My mother sees every day what happens to soldiers who serve at the front,” Sheyko said. “She says there is no need for me to go, but I have already made the decision … Death is something that awaits all of us in the future. Its just that some have more time and some less.”

A portrait of Volodymyr Baranich, 32, inside the Boryspil prison on July 2, before he joined the Ukrainian army.

Volodymyr Baranich, 32, who is also from Kyiv, was already fighting on the frontline when a court convicted him for distributing drugs in 2023, handing him a six-year sentence. The case, which he says is the result of a “misunderstanding” with a friend, has been going on since before the full-scale war. Serving as a combat vehicle gunner in the Presidential Brigade’s special forces, he defended the capital during the battle for Kyiv and was then sent to Avdiivka. He is also waiting for approval to reenlist. “Now it is time for everyone to stand up for the defense of our country, wherever their situation is,” he said. “I don’t care which unit I serve in, but I would like to serve where the situation is hotter. I think I will join an assault brigade.”

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According to a representative of Boryspil prison, who asked to be named only by his first name, Oleksandr, 98 convicts have already been released from the prison into the army. They are expected to start on the front line by the end of the summer. Sheyko and Baranich are part of a second wave of 45 inmates waiting for approval to start training. The process takes about one month from expressing interest to enlisting, with steps including checks by doctors and psychologists, writing two letters to confirm interest, and a court hearing. It is this process, with freedom of choice and mental state thoroughly checked, that Ukraine believes sets its new units apart from Russia’s.

Another difference between the two countries’ programs is that Ukraine also currently excludes those convicted of serious crimes like murder, rape, terrorism, and treason. Convicted corrupt officials holding responsible positions, including members of parliament and ministers, are also ineligible. Ukraine often refers to the Russian units as meat battalions, sent to die as cannon fodder or to attract Ukrainian fire so that commanders can identify positions. But inmates at Boryspil believe the Ukrainian military will treat them as equals with other members of the military—which is also the official policy.

“We have a completely different approach” to Russia, said Oleksandr Palkin, commander of the 4th Specialized Assault Brigade under the 1st Separate Assault Battalion, also known as the “Da Vinci Wolves.” The separate brigade is made up only of volunteer convicts, and it already has 63 members who are now training near the frontline in Zaporizhzhya after initiation near Kyiv. “We want to teach convicts to perform combat tasks as well as possible. The attitude towards them is the same as towards all our other soldiers and the conditions are the same. They will fight just like everyone else, no more and no less.”

A portrait of Oleg Omelchuk, 31, inside the Boryspil prison on July 2.

Not all inmates want to sign up to fight, however. Some expressed concern over a lack of available information as to the terms of the release. Oleg Omelchuk, 31, from Kyiv, has already served three years of a six-and-a-half-year sentence for distributing and selling drugs and has one year left before he is eligible for parole. He said he had originally wanted to enlist but had changed his mind after realizing he had a lot of questions that no one was able to answer. He hasn’t seen his mother for three years and fears he may not be granted leave once in the military, meaning it could be another three years or more before he can visit her.

“Initially, I was motivated by the idea that I could change society’s attitude towards me, so that I would no longer be seen as just a drug dealer,” he said. “Yet no one has accurate information. I decided there was no point in changing one prison for another.”

The Boryspil prison yard in Kyiv on July 2.