Ukraine Holds First War Crimes Trial of the Russian-Ukrainian War

In the icy dawn of January 6, 2024, a Russian assault unit stormed Ukrainian positions near the village of Pryiutne in the eastern Zaporizhzhia region.

The Russian force, made up largely of convicts offered release in exchange for service, broke through three foxhole positions, killing five Ukrainians and suffering heavy losses themselves.

Amidst the devastation, Ukrainian soldiers fought fiercely, managing to repel the attackers and reclaim their ground within hours.

When the smoke cleared, the aftermath revealed the bodies of Ukrainian defenders lying in unnatural positions, unarmed and exposed, setting the stage for troubling questions about the conduct of the Russian unit.

One of the fallen was 41-year-old Vitalii Hodniuk, known by the call sign “Penguin,” a veteran who had only arrived at his post the day before.

The circumstances of Hodniuk’s death were immediately suspicious, as witnesses found him face down, with no weapon nearby and in a position inconsistent with battlefield combat.

Survivors from both sides soon became central figures in an unprecedented investigation that would attract international attention.

As Ukrainian authorities regained control of the area, they detained several members of the Russian assault unit, including Dmitriy Kurashov, a former convict now serving in the Storm-V detachment.

The incident ignited an intensive probe, marking the beginning of one of Ukraine’s first war crimes trials to feature a physically present Russian defendant.

The events of that fog-shrouded morning would ripple far beyond the front, drawing scrutiny to Russia’s treatment of prisoners and the grim policies guiding its war effort.

Dmitriy Kurashov, call sign “Stalker,” was frog-marched into a Zaporizhzhia courtroom in early 2025, the first Russian soldier to stand trial in Ukraine for the alleged execution of a prisoner of war.

Short, subdued, and missing an eye from battle, Kurashov sat in a glass-enclosed dock, watched closely by Ukrainian guards and a trained rottweiler.

He was accused of killing Hodniuk after ordering him to kneel and surrender—a direct violation of the laws of war and the Geneva Convention.

While initially pleading not guilty in pre-trial proceedings, Kurashov reversed course and confessed in court, although he continued to maintain his innocence outside the formal record.

According to Ukrainian prosecutors and witness testimony, Kurashov shot Hodniuk at close range, executing him on the spot.

The trial was historic: never before had a captured Russian soldier faced such charges in a Ukrainian court with physical presence.

Adding complexity, three of Kurashov’s fellow unit members, also prisoners, agreed to testify against him, making the courtroom a tense arena for reckoning with atrocities.

The prosecution’s case relied heavily on their statements, which detailed not only the act itself but the climate of orders and attitudes within their unit.

Kurashov’s own narrative shifted repeatedly, at times blaming another Russian, a medic with the call sign “Sedoi,” for the fatal shots.

Despite his conflicting accounts, the seriousness of the charges—and the weight of the moment—hung over the proceedings, drawing scrutiny from legal and human rights observers worldwide.

Kurashov’s unit, Storm-V, was a grim experiment in Moscow’s war machine, composed almost entirely of convicted criminals offered freedom in return for combat.

These men, “pushed down by life and rejected by society,” received minimal training and were often deployed as expendable shock troops on the most dangerous parts of the front.

Testimonies from the trial painted a bleak portrait: the unit’s trainers allegedly told them explicitly not to take prisoners, instructing recruits to execute enemy soldiers even if they surrendered.

There was no instruction in international law or the rules of armed conflict; instead, cruelty and lawlessness were woven into the fabric of their orders.

Russian POWs recounted that commanders emphasized the logistical burden of prisoners and urged direct, lethal action rather than capture.

These policies matched broader patterns reported by Ukrainian authorities and international monitors, who have documented a surge in POW executions by Russian forces.

Witnesses at the trial, including the unit’s commander, stated clearly that orders to kill prisoners were given before the assault that ended in Hodniuk’s death.

The Storm-V unit’s use and their brutal training underscored systemic issues, raising chilling questions about whether such acts were isolated atrocities or state-sanctioned policy.

Kurashov’s case, therefore, became a lens for examining not just individual culpability but the machinery of violence driving Russia’s war in Ukraine.

The battlefield conditions in Zaporizhzhia complicated every aspect of the investigation into Hodniuk’s death.

With the frontline in constant flux and the positions changing hands rapidly, bodies lay exposed for weeks under shellfire, snow, and rain, degrading physical evidence.

Ukrainian security services (SBU) and prosecutors faced immense challenges: the crime scene itself was inaccessible for months, and forensic evidence was limited.

Instead, investigators relied on detailed witness statements from the captured Russian soldiers, as well as intercepted communications and painstaking cross-checks of identities via social networks.

Initial reports hinted at multiple possible executions during the assault, but lack of concrete evidence narrowed the case to the killing of Hodniuk.

The SBU’s work included polygraph tests, filmed reconstructions, and rigorous cross-examination of the Russian POWs, each with complex personal histories and their own motives for testifying.

Physical evidence—such as the absence of a weapon near Hodniuk’s body—remained largely circumstantial, further elevating the importance of testimony.

The unit’s battered AK-47s and scattered gear, often swapped among men, blurred lines of accountability for the shots fired in the chaos.

Despite these difficulties, prosecutors assembled a case they believed could stand up in court, determined to pursue justice even when the circumstances were far from ideal.

The trial thus became a test of Ukraine’s ability to investigate and prosecute war crimes impartially, despite the immense fog of war.

Three Russian soldiers, all former convicts like Kurashov, became the trial’s most crucial witnesses, providing detailed and often damning testimony.

Testifying via video link from an adjacent room for security, they described the moments when Hodniuk surrendered, knelt, and was shot.

One key witness recounted seeing Kurashov call for the Ukrainians to come out and then fire the fatal burst as explosions echoed across the mud-soaked field.

Another, the assault group’s commander, insisted that only Kurashov was close enough to the victim, explicitly rejecting claims that another Russian could have been responsible.

A third described how “Stalker” threw grenades into the dugout before the execution and later took a watch from Hodniuk’s body.

All three men faced their own dark pasts—murder, grievous bodily harm—and had agreed to fight in Ukraine for the promise of freedom from lengthy sentences.

Their accounts were consistent on the critical points: Hodniuk emerged unarmed, surrendered, and was killed at close range with no other Russians nearby.

Despite being POWs, their motives for testifying were scrutinized by both the defense and legal experts, raising questions about possible incentives or coercion.

The prosecution, however, maintained that their corroborated stories and the absence of other credible suspects justified moving forward.

Their words, broadcast into the courtroom, formed the backbone of a case that could set precedents for future war crimes trials in Ukraine.

Leading the prosecution was Mykyta Manevskyi, a young prosecutor more familiar with civil crimes than the chaos of wartime murder.

Unlike typical homicide cases, the battlefield left little usable forensic evidence—no immediate access to the body, degraded by time and artillery strikes, and no murder weapon recovered.

Instead, Manevskyi’s case rested almost entirely on the testimony of Russian POWs, whose stories were tested and retested through repeated interrogations.

The local court, unaccustomed to war crimes trials, became an improvised venue for a process more familiar to international tribunals.

Legal experts observed the proceedings closely, noting that POWs are a vulnerable category of witness, their reliability subject to doubts about pressure, future exchanges, or hopes of leniency.

The defense raised the specter of personal grudges among the witnesses, as some openly resented Kurashov for the circumstances that led to their capture.

Nevertheless, the prosecution pressed forward, arguing that the totality of evidence—witness accounts, battlefield reports, and the broader context of Russian orders—met the threshold for conviction.

Manevskyi and his colleagues saw the case as both a duty to the victims and a warning to those who would violate the laws of war.

The trial’s outcome, they believed, would send a signal about accountability, even in the midst of a war that has blurred lines and shattered norms.

As the hearings dragged on, the stakes for justice, legitimacy, and memory became ever clearer.

Beyond the courtroom, Ukraine’s war crimes investigators have worked to expose what they believe is a pattern of systematic executions ordered by Russian commanders.

Deputy Prosecutor General Taras Semkiv stated that his department had established dozens of cases where orders were given not to take prisoners, but rather to execute them on the spot.

Data from the United Nations and Ukraine’s own records indicate a sharp rise in battlefield executions by Russian troops, with 79 documented cases since August 2024 and at least 124 POWs killed since the full-scale invasion began.

Statements from Russian POWs, corroborated by social media posts and intercepted communications, suggest a clear chain of command promoting or approving such actions.

Public calls by Russian officials—including senior figures like Dmitry Medvedev—have further fueled a climate of impunity, advocating for the elimination of enemy soldiers rather than capture.

The UN’s human rights mission expressed alarm at the trend, warning that such acts may constitute a deliberate policy rather than isolated war crimes.

Prosecutors are now aiming higher, seeking to hold not just foot soldiers like Kurashov accountable, but also those who issue and implement unlawful orders at every level.

The quest for justice faces formidable obstacles: lack of access to occupied territory, difficulties in securing evidence, and the political complexities of international law.

Yet the accumulation of cases, data, and testimony continues, building a record for eventual prosecution on a broader scale.

The trial of Kurashov is, in this context, both a landmark and a harbinger of larger efforts to come.

The man at the center of the case, Vitalii Hodniuk—“Penguin”—was a seasoned Ukrainian soldier with years of frontline experience defending his homeland.

A native of a small Ukrainian village, he had previously fought in Donbas from 2015 to 2020 and volunteered again when Russia launched its full-scale invasion in 2022.

Arriving at his new position just a day before the fatal assault, Hodniuk found himself hopelessly outnumbered as the Russian attack unfolded in thick fog.

Understanding the futility of resistance, he laid down his weapons, raised his hands, and emerged from his dugout, hoping to survive by surrender.

Witnesses say Kurashov ordered him to kneel, then shot him in cold blood, violating the most basic rules of war.

For two months, his body lay in no-man’s land, unreachable due to relentless fighting and bombardment.

When at last he was brought home in May, his funeral was a moment of solemn communal mourning, with villagers lining the road on their knees as the coffin passed.

Hodniuk’s family declined public comment, but they worked closely with investigators to ensure that the circumstances of his death would be known.

His life and death became a symbol of the brutality of the conflict—and the urgent need for justice and accountability.

His story now forms a touchstone for ongoing efforts to honor and protect the rights of prisoners of war.

The prosecution of Kurashov has exposed not only the horrors of the battlefield but also the legal and ethical dilemmas inherent in seeking justice during war.

Ukraine, lacking specialized war crimes courts, relies on local jurisdictions like the Zavodskyi District Court to handle cases with international implications.

The use of POW testimony, while essential, raises unavoidable questions about fairness, pressure, and the possibility of ulterior motives among witnesses.

Experts note that convicted soldiers may be influenced by hopes of better treatment, earlier exchanges, or personal grievances—a reality acknowledged by the court and observers alike.

Kurashov’s shifting narrative, repeated pleas of innocence, and willingness to plead guilty for expediency further complicate assessments of his true culpability.

Yet the broader context—a documented policy of execution, rising numbers of POW killings, and explicit public incitement by Russian officials—cannot be ignored.

Ukrainian prosecutors emphasize their dual obligations: to honor the rights of victims by pursuing justice and to protect their own citizens who remain hostages in Russian captivity.

The possibility of future prisoner exchanges looms over every verdict, blurring the line between legal principle and realpolitik.

Nonetheless, the pursuit of justice in this and similar cases remains a vital statement of principle, one that echoes beyond the immediate confines of the courtroom.

As the trial of Dmitriy Kurashov continues, it has already set important precedents for accountability in wartime.

For the first time, a Russian soldier stands physically present in a Ukrainian court, answering for the execution of a prisoner of war.

The process has revealed not only the specifics of a single tragedy but also the systemic forces—orders, training, and policies—that drive violence on the front.

It has highlighted the immense challenges of investigating war crimes amid chaos, including degraded evidence, conflicting accounts, and vulnerable witnesses.

Yet, it has also demonstrated Ukraine’s commitment to the rule of law, even when the country itself is under relentless attack.

Observers from around the world watch closely, recognizing that the stakes go beyond one man’s fate or a single battle.

The outcome will resonate in future prosecutions, in the eyes of victims’ families, and in the broader struggle for justice in conflicts everywhere.

For now, the trial stands as both a reckoning and a warning—a sign that even in war, accountability is possible, and the pursuit of truth endures.

The legacy of Vitalii Hodniuk and the judgment on Kurashov will shape the narrative of this war, and perhaps, the shape of future peace.