“No one hears us”: Russian mothers describe the agony of not knowing if their kids are dead or missing, as well as the struggle for information regarding their whereabouts.
It has been five months since Vladimir Putin launched soldiers into Ukraine, and four since Russia released any sort of casualty tally.
They stated at the time that 1,351 Russian soldiers had been killed, but there has been no update since.
No word either on the missing.
Valentina Melnikova, who oversees the Committee of Soldier’s Mothers in Russia, explains, “The families are not informed of the facts surrounding their disappearance.”
“Only very seldom do they elicit information from their fellow service members about what transpired.”
The end of March was the last time Svetlana (not her real name) heard from her son.
She states, “They were retreating and there was a battle.” My son was murdered. They were unable to retrieve the dead because there were so many of them. “Natives buried them,”
She claims that her son’s military unit informed her of his death, but the Russian Ministry of Defense has informed her that he is missing.
She wants his remains to be returned so she can bury him, and she has joined forces with other mothers to obtain answers from the Kremlin.
We meet them at the Leningradsky station in Moscow.
Some have traveled great distances from across Russia to meet with President Putin and offer their appeal. Each woman holds a pile of papers in plastic file folders, which represents the correspondence they’ve accumulated regarding the loss of their kid or husband.
Irina Chistyakova states, “No one hears us, and no one wants to hear us.” “I can no longer withstand it. I’m only 44 years old, yet I’m already an elderly woman.”
Kyrill, her 19-year-old son, has been missing for four months. She gives us a snapshot of a smiling, slight young guy wearing the traditional Russian fur hat, the ushanka.
Why was my son present?
When he was transferred to Ukraine, he had only served three months in the army as a conscript. She does not know if he signed a contract, but on February 22 he texted her that he was headed to the Ukrainian border for training.
“He wanted to be a soldier, he wanted to defend his country,” she recalls, “and it appears they were requested to assist in restoring the independence of the Donetsk People’s Republic (DNR) and Luhansk People’s Republic (LPR)” (LNR).
“My son went missing in the Kharkiv region, so please explain why he was there.”
The Ministry of Defense is unable to establish if her son is missing or incarcerated. His name is absent from all lists.
She believes he will only be considered for a prisoner exchange if she can verify that he is in a Ukrainian prison.
“Please invite me to Ukraine!” “Allow me to search your camp, and I’ll find my son and be at peace,” she offers.
None of these ladies judged the actions of their sons or husbands in Ukraine. They only seek solutions.
Those may not arrive for quite some time.
Ms. Melnikova stated, “Never before in our history have we encountered a circumstance in which our inquiries with very specific queries were met with meaningless responses.” None!”
Outside the Kremlin administration building’s mirrored door, the women contemplate their next steps.
The receptionist informed them that the office is closed on Mondays, adding even more layers to the bureaucracy they’ve been fighting for months.
They agree to meet the next morning.
Svetlana laments, “Honestly, I’ve given up hope.”
