Original Material
“We ditched our uniforms and hid in a swamp”: Chechen POWs from “Akhmat” share their accounts from Kursk
Apti Alaudinov, commander of the Chechen “Akhmat” special forces, regularly reports on the exploits of his fighters in Russia’s Kursk Region, where the Armed Forces of Ukraine (AFU) launched a surprise offensive on Aug. 6, 2024. Curiously, these Chechen fighters never seem to succeed in effectively engaging the enemy. Three captured Akhmat soldiers, taken prisoner during the Ukrainian operation, describe to The Insider a far less heroic reality: Chechens are coerced into signing contracts and then abandoned on the front line, left to fend for themselves when combat begins.
Contents- 1.“When the Ukrainian offensive began, our command fled and left us behind”
- 2.“We stayed in a dugout, unable to leave because of drones”
- 3.“We survived by eating apples from the surrounding trees — and had no comms”
This report was prepared in collaboration with the “I Want to Live” project.
“When the Ukrainian offensive began, our command fled and left us behind”
Zaur Chaarov, 35 years old, Junior Sergeant, unit commander
I am from the Chechen Republic. From 2009 to 2023, I worked for the Nokhchiy-Yurt District Department of Internal Affairs. I inspected cars, filed reports, and sometimes took part in raids. I took a break for a few years but eventually returned to the job. I lived a good life — I have a wife and children. Since childhood, I dreamed of riding a sports motorcycle. I wasn’t a member of the Night Wolves biker club, but I had friends in the club, and we would ride together on holidays or at the season’s opening and closing events. I lived like any ordinary person.
In May 2023, we were told at work that we needed to sign a one-year contract with the Ministry of Defense and join the Akhmat-Chechnya regiment. I couldn’t refuse — it would have been seen as cowardice, and I wouldn’t have been considered a man anymore. We were promised that we would stay home in Chechnya and wouldn’t be sent to war. After serving for a year, I planned to retire and live a normal life.
Everyone wants to earn money. We were paid 195,000 rubles [around $2200] upon signing the contract, and then we received a regular salary — 54,000 rubles per month for my position as a unit commander.
After transferring to the regiment, nothing much changed in my life. The work was calm: two days at the military base in Khankala, two days at home. Our regiment had two battalions with three companies each — about 500 people in total. I was appointed commander of a four-person unit that included an operator, a driver, a medic, and a communications specialist. We didn’t receive any special forces-level training — most of our time was spent practicing drills, such as marching and formation exercises.
In March 2024, rumors began to spread in our unit that we would be sent to the Kursk Region to help hold the line alongside conscripts. Those rumors turned out to be true — we were sent there in April, just a month before my contract was due to end. I didn’t sign anything, but we were promised that we would return to Chechnya in six months, by October. In the meantime, they increased our pay to 200,000 rubles per month.
I didn’t even know where Kursk was. When we arrived, they simply said, “This is Kursk,” and I thought, “What a beautiful city!” Later, we were assigned from the Akhmat-Chechnya regiment to various strongpoints, with two to four soldiers at each post. I was stationed with another fighter from Akhmat at a stronghold near Sudzha. There were about 20–25 conscripts there, along with contract soldiers and commanding officers — about 40–45 people in total. Occasionally, I would go to a nearby store to buy energy drinks, juice, or other supplies. There wasn’t any structured schedule — I just ate, slept, and went to the bathroom. We had no assigned tasks; our only duty was to remain at the post in case of inspections.
In the early hours of Aug. 6, shelling began. I asked the company commander, “What’s going on? Who’s firing? Where is it coming from?” He replied that it was the Ukrainian military and that this kind of thing happened often — it was nothing to worry about. But the shelling continued until morning. Two shells hit the headquarters of our stronghold directly, killing four soldiers and injuring nine others.
By morning, we received a radio message from another stronghold: the AFU had launched an offensive, and we were ordered to hold the line — no one was to retreat.
The wounded were evacuated somewhere, but some of the commanding officers decided to retreat immediately, leaving the conscripts and us behind at the stronghold. I was left with another fighter from Akhmat. Half an hour later, we, along with the conscripts and the remaining commanders, decided to retreat into the forest.
When the AFU launched an offensive, some of the commanding officers decided to retreat immediately, leaving the conscripts and us behind.
There, we split up. My group had seven people: four conscripts, a senior lieutenant, another fighter from Akhmat, and me. We kept moving without stopping, while Ukrainian forces had already fully entered the area. Gunfire was heard everywhere, with planes, helicopters, and drones overhead — it was brutal warfare. The conscripts started panicking and crying, saying they didn’t want to die. The senior lieutenant tried to calm them down, saying, “No one wants to die. Just do what I say.”
We went without food for several days. On the third evening, we found a swamp, drank water from it, and kept moving. At that moment, I got a signal on my phone and called my company commander. I told him we didn’t know what to do and asked if they would evacuate us. The commander said he couldn’t help and told us, “Do what the others [Russians] are doing.” We stayed in the same place for three more days — there was nowhere else to go. Ahead was an open field controlled by Ukrainian forces. Every day, we returned to the swamp to drink water.
When it became clear we needed to leave, the senior lieutenant ordered us to remove our body armor and leave our weapons behind so we could move undetected. During the day, we went back to the swamp one last time, now without any gear. We decided to rest there, and a few people lay down to sleep. At some point, I saw someone approaching. Everyone fell silent. [The Ukrainians] came quickly and started shooting. A conscript who had been asleep suddenly stood up and was immediately shot. They shouted at us, “Come out!” We did — and they took us prisoner.
I never thought I would make it out alive. I never imagined I would end up in Ukraine. But fate had it that I was captured, and here I am. I’m just glad to be alive. Everyone values life. I am a believer and know that suicide is a grave sin — it must not be committed. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve never been involved in anything before. I was just captured, like many others. I love my homeland, Chechnya, and my family; I believe in God. Maybe I will be included in a prisoner exchange list.
“We stayed in a dugout, unable to leave because of drones”
Yakub (name changed), 40 years old, Private, rifleman
I had never served in the army and should never have been there — I had undergone two surgeries to remove a brain tumor. In the 2000s, I actively supported Ichkeria [the most prominent Chechen independence movement]. I helped the fighters and was given a suspended sentence for it. My mother supported Ichkeria too and took part in protests. In 2007, I had to leave for Europe and seek asylum. But after 12 years, I returned for my father’s funeral — and stayed. Initially, I was questioned at a police station but eventually released. I started living in Chechnya with my family.
On May 31, 2023, I was summoned to the military enlistment office, where they signed a contract with the Ministry of Defense on my behalf. They called up everyone who was registered. My vision is poor, I see double, and after the brain tumor surgery, I stagger like a drunk. They let me pass without any medical examination. “You’re healthy,” they said. “We won’t waste your time — we have many people to process. Good luck!” There were 18 others like me. I thought about trying to avoid service, but doing so would have meant taking the case to the Supreme Court — something impossible for an ordinary person. And if I refused, they would target my family.
Most Chechens sign contracts with the Ministry of Defense only to protect their families. No one serves in Akhmat-Chechnya willingly. They’ve never even seen their contracts. Those still there, and the men who were captured with me, can confirm this.
Most Chechens sign contracts with the Ministry of Defense only to protect their families.
We served in Chechnya for nearly a year. We spent a month at a training ground [most likely the Burunskoe Training Center — The Insider] in the Shelkovsky District, undergoing tactical training. We were taught to shoot and drive vehicles, but much of it was hard to retain, especially for me, given my poor health. We had to run timed drills and take cover in dugouts under the scorching heat.
On March 29, 2024, we were sent to the Kursk region. I and two other Akhmat fighters were assigned to a stronghold called “Styk” near the village of Sverdlikovo, right on the border with Ukraine. We had no heavy equipment — only AK-12 rifles, two grenades, and six magazines. They told us we would be stationed on Russian territory alongside conscripts. No one mentioned participating in actual combat. I personally know many Ukrainians, including some in Europe. I would have never voluntarily joined this war.
After a month, our contracts expired, but according to rumors, they were automatically renewed every three months. We spent several months just sitting in the stronghold until Ukrainian forces eventually advanced into the Kursk region.
On the very first night of the Ukrainian offensive, the “Styk” stronghold was bombed while I was there with another Akhmat comrade. Twenty-four people were killed, and many more were wounded. We, along with the conscripts, fled to another stronghold called “Moskva” (lit. “Moscow”).
At first, the Ukrainians didn’t attack “Moskva.” They were taking other positions around Sudzha. During that time, we hid in a dugout and maintained radio contact with commanders from other positions whenever there were no Ukrainian forces nearby. We were told that help was on the way and that we just needed to hold on. But soon, I saw Ukrainian Hummer trucks and knew it was only a matter of time before they found us.
We were told that help was on the way. But I soon saw Ukrainian Hummer trucks — and knew it was only a matter of time before they found us.
We couldn’t leave. Every time someone stepped out, a kamikaze drone would strike immediately. After Aug. 8, we lost all communication. Our food ran out — we finished the last of our canned meat and bread. By then, there were about 120 people with us, including wounded soldiers. We had nothing to treat them with, aside from basic bandages. We had some morphine, which we used, but we wouldn’t have lasted much longer.
We were stormed early in the morning on Aug. 14. The Ukrainians approached and threw something through a pipe — I don’t even know what it was — but it became impossible to breathe, and we couldn’t open our eyes. They shouted through a loudspeaker: “Russians, occupiers, surrender or we’ll burn you!” We had no choice but to come out.
The Ukrainians evacuated the conscripts, provided medical assistance, gave everyone water, and even cigarettes to some. I never expected to be treated this way. Whatever they were eating, drinking, or smoking, they shared with us too.
The Ukrainians evacuated the conscripts, provided medical assistance, gave everyone water, and even cigarettes to some.
If I return home, I know there will be questions about why I was captured. Apti Alaudinov, a general in the Ministry of Defense, once said: “If you’re taken prisoner, you’re not a Chechen. How will you look your family, wife, mother, or children in the eyes?” I don’t agree with that. Men like me fight and sit in trenches full of mud while their commanders’ children and families live luxurious lives. We understand this well. I hope they will understand us too. Right now, I think of nothing else but seeing my family at least once more.
“We survived by eating apples from the surrounding trees — and had no comms”
Rustam Mastaev, 40 years old, Corporal, rifleman
Before 2022, I worked as a taxi driver, a construction laborer, and a security guard in a store. Later, I decided to join OMON, the former “Oil Regiment” of Chechnya, where some of my friends and relatives worked and helped me get in. The pay was good — between 50,000 to 60,000 rubles — which was a decent income for me.
In May 2023, I was transferred from the National Guard of Russia to the Akhmat-Chechnya regiment under the Ministry of Defense. I could have refused, but honestly, I didn’t want to make the effort. The conditions were the same, and I received a 195,000-ruble signing bonus for the contract. Initially, we underwent training at a military range, going home every weekend, and later served on a two-days-on, two-days-off schedule at the military base.
When we were sent to the Kursk Region, everyone believed that if they really intended to send our regiment to Ukraine, they would have done so right away. Instead, we were deployed to the border on what was supposed to be a temporary assignment. Everyone was just waiting for it to end so we could return home. I didn’t even know whether my contract had been extended — rumors suggested that it was automatically renewed for three months.
My stronghold was called “Moskva.” We didn’t have any special tasks — just standing guard and watching over the conscripts. I started experiencing severe back pain due to herniated discs. I tried to arrange for a discharge, and my brother, using his connections, even managed to negotiate it. But then the Ukrainian Armed Forces launched their offensive.
It all started on Aug. 5, 2024. It was an unusual day — drones were flying everywhere from the morning, and everyone said it felt strange. That night, we were bombarded by tank fire and mortar shelling. By the morning of August 6, heavy fighting had begun. On the second or third day, the Ukrainians broke through the line between Sverdlikovo — where we were stationed — and Nikolaevo-Daryino. However, they initially left our stronghold untouched, saving it for later.
We didn’t retreat — there was nowhere to go. We hid underground from drones and shelling. Eventually, we were completely surrounded — by three, maybe four rings — and lost all communication. There were no firefights. Once, a tank approached us, but what can you do against a tank with just a rifle?
On the night of August 13, the company commander sent me and my squad leader, call sign “Dobry” (lit “Kind”), to retrieve rocket launchers from a nearby village, Sverdlikovo, about a kilometer from our stronghold. Conscripts who had fled to “Moskva” in fear had abandoned the launchers there. By the time we crawled over, we were completely surrounded by drones and motion sensors. There was no way back. The next day, I climbed a tree and saw that the “Moskva” stronghold had surrendered to the Ukrainians.
I climbed a tree and saw that the “Moskva” stronghold had surrendered to the Ukrainians.
For several days, we tried to stay hidden — moving at night through fields and resting during the day in wooded areas. We survived on military rations and apples from [the surrounding] trees. But our food and water ran out quickly, and we had no comms.
On Aug. 19, the Ukrainians captured us. We risked moving during the day because we had been without water for too long. I think a drone spotted us. We didn’t even try to resist. Being captured is considered a deep shame among Chechens. But I had no choice. What could I do? War is war — everyone gets captured, whether it’s our side or theirs. In situations like this, you have to think rationally. No one would sacrifice themselves for nothing. Hope is the last thing to die. I wait for an exchange every day and just want to return home.
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