When Pavlo Pimakhov and Yuriy Pikhota walk through the suburbs of Kyiv, men who spot them approaching from afar often turn on their heels and scurry off. The military uniforms, the police escort and the black folder tucked under Pikhota’s arm combine to make the pair immediately recognisable: they are one of the Ukrainian army’s mobilisation squads.
These officers roam streets across Ukraine checking the papers of men and handing out military summonses, as Ukraine tries to boost the ranks of its army to continue the fight against Russia.
Pimakhov was a used car salesman before the full-scale invasion in 2022; Pikhota was working on a construction site in Israel and rushed back to Ukraine when war broke out. Both volunteered to fight in the first weeks of the war and were wounded at the front.
Now, while the two 36-year-olds recuperate, they are working to mobilise new recruits. The Guardian accompanied them on a recent day pacing the streets of Kyiv’s Sviatoshyn district.
“I don’t judge people who avoid the draft but I do feel offended,” said Pimakhov. “We stood in long queues desperate to volunteer, and these guys are trying everything to evade serving. All the brave people have already volunteered.”
Facing a Russian army that has superior numbers and weaponry stocks, and with Ukrainian troops at the front depleted and in need of rotation, the government has been attempting to step up the mobilisation drive over recent months. New legislation came into force in May requiring every man aged between 25 and 60 to register their information with the military authorities for a possible call-up.
Pimakhov’s bucket hat, Pikhota’s wraparound sunglasses and the pair’s jovial countenance sometimes give them the feel of a comedy double act, but the consequences for people of an encounter with them can be life-changing. After registering and passing a medical test, new recruits receive 45 days of basic military training and could be at the frontline within a few months.
Ruslan, 40, from the Sumy region and on a visit to Kyiv, was deep in concentration outside a shop, listening to music through his noise-cancelling headphones, when the pair tapped on his shoulder.
He signed the A5 summons form, and Pikhota and Pimakhov photographed him and entered his data in the system. “I didn’t sign up before because I have some health problems, pains in my legs. But I am ready to go when called,” Ruslan said. He had done military service in 2003, and said perhaps he would still remember some of the skills he had acquired then.
Others were less phlegmatic. One man, sitting on a bench with his wife drinking an iced coffee, signed the form with a shaky hand after a 20-minute dispute. Two food delivery couriers, resting by their bikes near an underpass, looked horrified when presented with papers and began making panicked phone calls. One was wearing camouflage trousers and a T-shirt with a Ukrainian army logo. “He’s wearing that T-shirt but he never had anything to do with the army,” Pikhota said in disgust.
The penalties for ignoring a summons include a series of fines and, eventually, criminal liability. Some men have taken to hiding at home, fearful of running into the mobilisation squads. Others have paid bribes to gain medical exemption certificates or sneak out of the country. Many say they are patriots but are unwilling or unready to serve at the front.
As Pimakhov and Pikhota handed out summonses to the couriers, an elderly lady passed by and hissed abuse at them: “Found another victim have you? Scum, why aren’t you at the front yourselves?” These insults are frequent, and are emblematic of the painful social divisions opened up by the mobilisation drive. Polling shows that most Ukrainians support mobilisation in theory, but feelings can change when it comes to the knotty reality.
Mykhailo Podolyak, a key aide to president Volodymyr Zelenskiy, said in an interview in Kyiv: “Of course there will always be communication problems, because it’s never easy to find the right words for people – for mothers, wives, families – when a person goes to war.”
There is also a widespread belief that the mobilising officers have bribed their way into the job and are shirking “real” military duty at the front. Pimakhov said this was not true. “There are 10 people in our group, we only take people who were formerly at the front. I think people who weren’t at the front themselves don’t have the moral right to mobilise others.”
The hostility towards mobilisation officers has been enhanced by a series of corruption cases in which conscription officers have been shown to take bribes to allow men to evade the draft.
Pimakhov and Pikhota have been unwanted stars of a viral TikTok video in which they were berated by a passerby for trying to serve a summons on a young man, and they were mocked mercilessly in the comments.
The people insulting them do not know that Pikhota’s mobile phone is full of photographs of burning buildings, charred military equipment and comrades who are now dead. They do not know that Pimakhov was wounded twice at the front: he still walks with a limp, and he sees poorly out of one eye because an incoming Grad missile hit close to where he was digging a trench, killing a friend and sending skull fragments into his face.
Sometimes they try to justify their combat credentials to the people insulting them; other times they simply sigh and move on. “It’s emotionally very difficult. Sometimes by the end of the day my hands are shaking as much as they were at the frontline,” Pikhota said.
Watching Pikhota and Pimakhov at work in Kyiv offered an insight into the difficulties Ukraine faces recruiting new soldiers, and into the social divides opened up by two years of war, with simmering mutual resentments that may endure long after the fighting is over.
By the end of an afternoon’s work, the pair had handed out about 10 summons and engaged in numerous long discussions and arguments. Both said they hoped to return to active duty at the front soon.
“It’s hard for me to be in Kyiv, to see people relaxing and leading a normal life, when I know my friends are still there at the front,” Pikhota said. “They call me, they ask me: ‘How can people just be getting on with life as usual?’ And I don’t have any answer for them.”
