In western Ukraine, a camp surrounded by high walls and guarded by heavy iron gates houses a group of men who were captured while fighting for Russia.
Many of the men squatting in the shade around the prison yard came from big cities like St. Petersburg and Yekaterinburg, rather than mainly from remote and impoverished areas, as was the case in the early days of Russia's full-scale invasion.
But not all prisoners of war here are Russians.
Among them were also soldiers from Ukraine itself, those who chose to go to war with their own country.
Interviewing prisoners of war is not easy. First, it must be determined that they are not forced to accept the interview, and then it must be judged how candid they are in this environment.
But since journalists don't have access to troops inside Russia, interviewing these prisoners of war provides an opportunity to understand what was happening inside the war and what drove these men to fight.
This also includes soldiers who were born in Ukraine but sided with Russia.
We gave everyone the right to refuse to be interviewed and to talk to those who wanted to be interviewed, away from any guards and without cameras. In addition to several official visits, I also spoke directly to prisoners of war in Russian in several places.
When Anton was 10, his hometown in the Donbass region of eastern Ukraine came under the control of pro-Moscow forces.
In 2022, when Russian President Vladimir Putin escalated the war into a full-scale invasion, Anton had just turned 18 and immediately signed up to join the army to fight for Russia.
"I don't regret my choice. I went to defend my land," Anton insisted. He said that his friends also volunteered to join the army.
"Then you'll get text messages. One is dead, and another is dead, and another is dead."
Other prisoners of war also said the same thing. They said that all the people who participated in the war with them had been killed.
They also say that even with Russia offering huge signing bonuses, fewer and fewer people are willing to volunteer to replenish their troops. This shows that Putin has been hoping to avoid another large-scale mobilization, but this approach may soon be tested.
When Ukrainian authorities capture their own citizens on the battlefield, they try them for treason.
But these men would still be sent to prisoner-of-war camps together with Russian prisoners of war.
Officially, Kyiv still regards them as Ukrainian citizens and Russia's control of the areas as a temporary occupation. But the reality is much more complex.
"They are very pro-Russian, and their national identity is also very vague," described Petro Yatsenko of Ukraine's "Headquarters for the Coordination of the Treatment of Prisoners of War," which is the Ukrainian government's official agency responsible for prisoner-of-war affairs.
Anton obviously does not consider himself a traitor.
"I consider myself Russian. A country in itself means nothing, it is national identity that matters. My family are all from Russia, my roots are all there," he said.
When we asked him about his Ukrainian surname, he dismissed it as unimportant.
An entire generation of people born in Ukraine has now grown up under Russian occupation. They receive a Russian education and are exposed to media completely controlled by the Kremlin. For years, these education and media outlets have portrayed the Kiev authorities as "Nazi" and an illegitimate regime.
After Russia's full-scale invasion, more Ukrainian territories fell into the same situation.
Anton accepted these statements in their entirety and now speaks almost entirely in official Russian political slogans.
He calls Putin "my president" and believes Putin should go on the offensive to seize the rest of Donbas, even though hundreds of thousands of people have died in the war.
"Of course it's a shame that someone dies, especially an innocent person," Anton said. "But war is war. This war could have ended, but no one wanted to."
In the prison hospital, Artyom was lying on a bed in a corner with shrapnel in many places in his body. He had only been in the war for two months.
Like Anton, he was from Donetsk and joined the war voluntarily, and not just for money.
"We have our own grudges," Artyom said. He recalled that his hometown came under heavy shelling in 2014 when Ukrainian troops tried to prevent the area from breaking away from Kiev's control.
But his military experience left him resentful. He said his commander was "terrible" and that he had not received a penny of the 400,000 rubles (US$5,000; 32,400 yuan; NT$167,900 NT) signing bonus promised to him.
What made Artyom even more angry was that the injured Russian soldier in the hospital bed opposite received a signing bonus five times that of his.
All the Ukrainian-born prisoners of war we visited came from areas occupied since 2014, and almost all of them voluntarily joined the Russian army.
But one man from the Donetsk region told us he was forced to fight.
His eyes were darting around as he spoke, as if he didn't know who he could trust.
An official count, citing "intelligence" data, said more than 50,000 Ukrainians were forcibly conscripted in the occupied territories. Other estimates suggest the actual number is much higher.
The man told us that when Russia invaded, his family chose to stay, not out of any political affiliation or national identity, but simply because Donetsk was their home.
Today, his only wish is to return to his wife and children and then try to avoid being sent to the front again.
"I'll just hide," he whispered to us.
Under the hospital windows and freshly whitewashed walls, strawberries and cucumbers cultivated by prisoners of war were planted in rows.
Further on, the strong and pungent smell of varnish came from an outbuilding.
An official took out a golden plastic handle from a bag by the door and asked us with a smile, "Guess what this is for?"
After walking in, I couldn't help but take another look. The man inside was beating a pair of coffins with wooden boards. I was told that the prison's last contract was for the construction of garden sheds. In comparison, this time the work seemed particularly eerie.
In another factory on the other side of the yard, several prisoners of war were making artificial Christmas trees, with gaudy Christmas balls hung on the machines. They, like those who made the coffins, said they would use their wages to buy extra food and cigarettes.
Sergei was born in the Ukrainian city of Luhansk, but he says that he is as Russian as his parents. His parents moved to Donbas when both Russia and Ukraine were still part of the Soviet Union.
He joined the Russian army 10 years ago, saying he wanted to "defend my homeland." But he claimed that if he could go back, he would retire and would not return to the front line. "I have done what I should do."
But most people don't have that option.
Stacking plastic branches next to Sergei was a man convicted of drug trafficking. Like many others, he joined the army "purely" to avoid a long prison sentence.
"For me, 15 years in prison is too long," Konstantin explained. "I know this probably doesn't excuse myself, but that's the fact. I'm 44 now, and I'll be 60 when I get out of prison. So, I don't want to."
But these prisoner soldiers, known as "Vshniki", must survive until the end of the war before they can be released. And they are often sent to assault troops, and their chances of survival are not high.
Three men jailed for murder told us they thought they would be free after going to war for a year, only to find out their contracts automatically renewed.
"I don't see any good in any war, and there can be no good in a war like this." Konstantin replied carefully. "I'm not saying that we are exactly the same as Ukrainians, but we are very close to each other. We all have relatives there. It's just not good."
"But everyone I know there has had enough," Constantine said. "I just want this to be over as soon as possible."
During lunch time, prisoners of war wearing dark blue overalls walked into the dining hall one after another. They lowered their heads and clasped their hands behind their backs.
As they ate soup and stew, a video called "Myths About Crimea" played on a loop, refuting Russia's historical claims to Crimea. Russia seized Crimea from Ukraine in 2014.
But no one paid the slightest attention to the film.
These "re-education" efforts seem to be only perfunctory. What is really important for Kiev is to use these prisoners of war to exchange Ukrainian soldiers held by Russia and get them home. But when it comes to negotiating the prisoner exchange list, these people from Donbas do not seem to be Russia's priority in exchange.
"Only about a dozen people were exchanged back this year," Constantine complained. "It seems they don't want to exchange us at all. I think we will be the last ones to leave."
