KYIV – “You have no moral right to die.”

Olha Kurtmalaieva reassured herself as she lay in the intensive care unit, her body failing after emergency chemotherapy sessions. Her cancer had advanced to Stage 4, signifying it had spread to other parts of her body and was now beyond cure. The agony was overwhelming. Doctors were uncertain if she would survive the night.

She was facing death alone in the Ukrainian capital, while her soldier husband was in Russian captivity in the more than three-year war.

“If I die now, who will bring him back?” Olha thought to herself. “He has no one else in Ukraine.”

Defying expectations, she discovered she was in remission last year. Yet, despite numerous prisoner swaps, including one liberating over 1,000 individuals, her husband, a Ukrainian marine, remains a prisoner.

She continues to persevere. At almost every exchange, she stands hopeful, among the many Ukrainian women striving to bring back their husbands, sons, and brothers.

“He’s everywhere in my life,” Olha said. “His (photo) is on my phone screen, in my wallet, on the kitchen wall, in every room.”

Day and night, questions circled in her mind: “What can I do to speed this up? What did I do today to bring him home?”

Life before Russia’s full-scale invasion

Olha was just 21 when she learned she had cancer. It was Hodgkin’s lymphoma, Stage 2. The tumors were growing but were still treatable.

“At that age, you’re thinking: cancer? Why me? How? What did I do?” she recalled. Her husband, Ruslan Kurtmalaiev, promised to stay by her side through every round of chemotherapy.

When they met, in 2015, he was 21 and she was just 15. “It wasn’t love at first sight,” she said with a wide smile, eyes sparkling.

Their attraction blossomed gradually that summer in Berdiansk, in what is now the Russian-occupied zone in the southern Zaporizhzhia region. Three years later, as soon as she turned 18, they wed.

When they first met, it was not long after Russia illegally seized Crimea, Ruslan’s homeland, in 2014, and also invaded eastern Ukraine. Ruslan, a professional soldier, had already served on the front line.

From the beginning, Olha understood that life as a military wife meant constant sacrifice — long separations, missed milestones, and the uncertainty of war. But she never imagined that one day she would be waiting for her husband to return from captivity.

When she describes Ruslan, tears well up in her eyes. “He’s kind, he has a heightened sense of justice,” she said.

“For him, it was a matter of principle to return home and bring our Crimea home,” she said, a loss she fully comprehended only after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022.

“Only when I lost my home did I fully understand him.”

Facing cancer and hair loss

Olha managed to complete only two sessions of chemo before the full-scale invasion. When her long hair began to fall out, she shaved her head. When she sent Ruslan a photo, he didn’t hesitate: “God, you’re so beautiful,” he told her.

Later, he made a confession.

“He told me, ‘Yeah, I saw your hair falling out in the mornings. I gathered it all from your pillow before you woke up — so you wouldn’t get upset.’”

At the time, she believed that losing her hair was the worst thing that could happen to her. But soon after, she discovered what real tragedy meant.

War and captivity

Olha never made it to her third round of chemo.

She stayed in Berdiansk, which was seized by Russian forces in the early days of the war. Cut off from medical care and waiting for news of Ruslan, she quietly began helping the Ukrainian military from inside occupied territory.

“There was no oncology department in Berdiansk. There was simply nowhere to get treated,” she said. “But honestly, I didn’t even care that much at the time.”

In early April, she discovered that Russians had captured Ruslan and others from his marine forces’ unit.

“I started to cry, but then I stopped myself. I thought, ‘Wait. Is this something to cry about? He’s alive. That’s what matters.’”

At the time, she said, their idea of Russian captivity was naive. Only later did it become synonymous with torture, starvation and medical neglect.

Olha left Berdiansk in June of 2022.

“Walking through your own city, but feeling like it’s someone else’s — that’s horrifying,” she said. “There were Russian flags everywhere. I kept Ukrainian music in my headphones. I was scared my Bluetooth might disconnect, and they’d kill me. But it was worth it.”

She spent several months moving between cities, helping to organize peaceful rallies to raise awareness about Ukrainian POWs. Eventually, she settled in Kyiv. Throughout that time, she paid little attention to her cancer diagnosis, even as her health steadily declined.

Then her condition worsened sharply. Her temperature spiked to 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit).

“When the doctor looked at my test results, she said, ‘How are you even walking?’” she recalled.

Her lymphoma, left untreated during occupation, had progressed to Stage 4. Emergency chemotherapy began — and it hit her hard.

“My second round of chemo was disastrous,” she said. She developed an intestinal blockage, couldn’t digest food, and was rushed to intensive care. “It was morphine all night from the pain. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t sit. They moved me like a dead body.”

In the hospital, she overheard doctors say her condition was inoperable. Then a nurse came to her bedside and spoke plainly.

“‘We’re going to try to restart your system manually,’ she told me. ‘But if it doesn’t work, you may not wake up tomorrow. You must help us however you can.’”

It was the thought of Ruslan, still in captivity, that helped Olha survive.

Unanswered letters

In April 2024, five days before her birthday, Olha was told she was in remission. Now she juggles civic activism with running an online cosmetics store. She co-founded the Marine Corps Strength Association, representing over 1,000 Ukrainian POWs still in captivity.

In close contact with former prisoners, Olha gathers fragments of information about Ruslan — she has had only one phone call with him in the past three years. She sent several letters but never received a reply.

Like an investigator, she pieces together every detail. That’s how she discovered that Ruslan had broken ribs and a crushed arm during regular beatings, according to the testimony of one of the POWs.

As part of the psychological torture, he is made to listen to the Russian national anthem repeatedly. A Crimean Tatar and a Muslim, he is given only Christian religious texts to read — not the worst form of pressure, Olha acknowledges, but still a clear violation of his faith.

One day, a Russian guard struck him eight times on the head with a hammer.

“The other prisoners said they had never seen bruises like that in their lives,” she said.

Ruslan spent months in solitary confinement. And yet, somehow, he remains emotionally strong.

“He tells the others about me,” Olha said, her voice softening. “One of the guys who came back said (Ruslan) told him: ‘She’s your age, but she’s got a business, she’s strong, she’s fighting for us. She’ll get us out.’”

That story stayed with her.

“I can’t afford to be weak. How can a marine’s wife be weak?” Olha said. “What matters is that he knows I’ll keep fighting for him — until the very end.”

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Associated Press writers Vasilisa Stepanenko, Evgeniy Maloletka and Volodymyr Yurchuk contributed to this report.

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