The young woman in pink was notified two hours earlier that "he" would be there. Yes, her beloved had been "exchanged." On this summer Friday, as the convoy of Ukrainian prisoners who had arrived from Russia via Belarus crossed the courtyard of this hospital in the Chernihiv region, northern Ukraine, the chorus of a hundred women present called out "welcome!" with all their might. Most, however, had not received the miracle call from the HUR, the Ukrainian military intelligence service, as the young woman in pink shorts and shirt had. Their husbands, fiancés, sons, and brothers were not part of this exchange. Only prisoners under the age of 25 were in the convoy.

Some women had nonetheless traveled hundreds of kilometers to be in the hospital courtyard at precisely noon. They formed a "family of pilgrims," as an officer from the HUR, who is used to these exchanges, calls them. A small tribe that holds meetings, calls each other, offers support, and organizes in the face of the great uncertainty surrounding their "men." According to available information, about 8,000 Ukrainian prisoners of war are held in Russia or in occupied territories, but this number only includes those with official status. Many others are "unconfirmed detainees," as non-governmental organizations (NGOs) call them, whose disappearance has plunged families into anxiety. They have no choice but to scroll through Telegram, watching videos of Ukrainian captives filmed by Russian soldiers, and to miss no exchange, holding up signs with their loved one's photo, wearing their portrait on a T-shirt or a banner tied at the waist.

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