As rumours of a prisoner swap emerge, families cling to hope. But history, and hard experience, suggest we should stay clear-eyed about what exchanges really mean while the war continues.
The second day of the trilateral talks was never going to be simple. In truth, none of this ever was.
That is why, when Trump kept recycling the line “24 hours,” many of us here knew it was unachievable and quietly scoffed at the idea.
The agenda is crowded with the kinds of subjects that resist tidy headlines: ceasefire formulas that don’t quite hold, humanitarian corridors that are still theoretical, and the ever-present question of prisoners of war & children.
President Zelensky recently highlighted the possibility of an exchange, and that single word cut through the noise. For families, “exchange” is not a diplomatic term, it is a lifeline. It is a word I learned very quickly to understand: обмін (obmín). It carries a gravity no communiqué ever can.
We expect a prisoner exchange to take place soon, – Zelensky 🙏 pic.twitter.com/U69QrC3kDf
— Shaun Pinner (@olddog100ua) February 5, 2026
Two stories, every time
Every exchange creates two parallel stories. One is jubilation: a door opens, a familiar face steps through, and a family is whole again after years apart, sometimes reunited with someone they barely recognise anymore. The other is the quiet devastation of those still waiting, scanning lists, refreshing feeds, and counting days that have already turned into years.
That emotional whiplash has become a feature of this war.
Since 2014, Russia and Ukraine have exchanged prisoners in fits and starts, even at moments when the fighting was at its worst.
It is a grim continuity, and it should caution us against reading any single exchange as proof that peace is around the corner. Still, while Russia continues to bomb Ukrainian cities, any movement on prisoners is a small but real positive.
Who counts, and who gets left behind
My own perspective is shaped by visits to a prison camp in western Ukraine and by my time in captivity. I was a Ukrainian Marine, legally resident, captured by an invading force in the country I called home. That matters, because there is a tendency, sometimes deliberate, to blur lines that should remain sharp.
Russians who fought with Wagner, with far-right paramilitaries like Rusich, or in other quasi-military formations sit in a different legal and moral category to regular soldiers. North Korean regulars have now taken a more active role and have paid for it in casualties. These distinctions are important, they shape who is prioritised, who is forgotten, and who is used as leverage, and some are clearly left behind.
Foreign recruits in Russian ranks, many coerced, many sold dreams of citizenship and money, rarely seem to top Moscow’s list. The reason is painfully simple: if they go home, they talk. They talk about the reality of the war, about how they were treated, and about the gap between propaganda and lived experience. Unfortunately for them, Putin’s war effort relies on a patchwork of manpower, and stories like that are a liability.
Humanity, leverage, and hard truths
There is a temptation to see the exchange process as proof that some thread of humanity remains, I want to believe that, honestly, I do, but I also carry a more cynical lesson from my own case. As a friend once told me, the only way you get out, if you’re Russian, is if you’re an officer or you have connections. In my situation, I was valuable to someone, somewhere. That is not a comforting truth, but it is an honest one.
None of this means exchanges should be dismissed. On the contrary, every person who comes home is a victory over the worst logic of this war, but we should be clear-eyed. Day two of talks can produce hope without producing peace, it can also can deliver reunions while the missiles still fall.
In a conflict where prisoners have been traded for more than a decade, that is not a contradiction, but a reality we have to navigate.
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