Stanislav Tarnavskyi, a 25-year-old Ukrainian, is racing to rebuild the life he envisioned during three grueling years as a prisoner of war in Russia. Freed in April, he’s proposed to his girlfriend, bought an apartment, and adopted a golden retriever—all in one week this July. Yet, the nightmares linger. Captured in Mariupol in 2022, Tarnavskyi still wakes with a pounding heart, haunted by memories of prison officers and constant surveillance. “I see them in my dreams, trying to harm me,” he says from Kyiv’s outskirts, where he relocated after Russia occupied his hometown, Berdiansk.

Tarnavskyi is among over 5,000 former Ukrainian POWs navigating life after captivity, supported by ongoing counseling. The United Nations reports many endured beatings, starvation, and humiliation, leaving deep psychological wounds. Experts stress that monitoring ex-POWs for years is critical, as the trauma of war reverberates across generations.

In a sunlit Kyiv photography studio, Tarnavskyi’s eyes, still sensitive from years in a dark cell, struggled during a recent shoot. But his spirits soared as his girlfriend, Tetiana Baieva, accepted his surprise proposal. “You’ve always been my support,” he told her, clutching pink roses and a ring. Baieva, whom he met in 2021, was his lifeline during captivity, preventing three suicide attempts. Still, he avoids discussing his prison experiences, wary of pity. “I get nervous seeing cameras,” he admits, a remnant of the paranoia from constant surveillance.

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Psychologists like Kseniia Voznitsyna, director of Lisova Polyana mental health center near Kyiv, emphasize the fragility of recovery. “A smell, a breeze, anything can trigger memories,” she says. Contrary to myths, ex-POWs often withdraw rather than lash out, struggling with trust and crowds. “Time doesn’t heal completely,” Voznitsyna notes. A 2014 study in the Journal of Behavioral Medicine found Israeli ex-POWs faced higher mortality and chronic illnesses decades later, underscoring the need for lifelong care.

Denys Zalizko, 21, knows recovery is a long road. Released three months ago after 15 months of torture and beatings, he was unrecognizable to his mother, Maria, upon return—thin, with torment in his eyes. Now healthier, he channels energy into music and exercise to quiet his mind. “Stillness brings anxiety,” he says. Hypervigilance haunts him, worsened by recent Russian drone attacks disrupting his sleep. At Lisova Polyana, mandatory counseling helps, but memories persist. “You can’t forget. It will always haunt you,” he says.

Maria struggles too, balancing giving Denys space while cherishing his calls, often filled with songs he composes—echoes of her childhood lessons. A new treble clef tattoo behind his ear marks his dream of becoming an artist. “I’ve become stronger,” Zalizko says. “I fear nothing now—not death, not loss.”

For Tarnavskyi and Zalizko, each step forward—whether a proposal or a song—is a defiance of their past, a testament to resilience amid scars that may never fully fade.

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