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KHARKIV, Ukraine — Wearing a helmet that’s visibly too big for her, Lesia Goffman is waiting for orders at a makeshift base in the forest near Kharkiv. Although she smiles broadly, she knows that she’ll soon be headed for the front and action, repelling invading Russian troops.  

Desperate to replenish its embattled fighting ranks, Ukraine is freeing prisoners accused of petty crimes and enlisting them for service on the front lines. A surprising number are women. “I was released four days ago,” Lesia laughs. “I’m getting used to army life one day at a time. It’s a bit like prison, but with better food.” 

Ukraine has been enrolling criminal offenders in its military ranks since May 2024. Framed as a pragmatic solution to reinforce exhausted ranks, the measure has sparked controversy. The government insists on strict safeguards — excluding the most dangerous criminals — but human rights advocates fear a slippery slope: the instrumentalization of criminal justice for wartime needs.

A New Life

Sheltered in a sun-dappled grove, Lesia rests between drills, smoking a cigarette with Anya, one of her comrades. They’re the only two women in this unit, which is entirely composed of former inmates.

The men, joking with one another in the shade of some trees, barely acknowledge the women. It’s their way of coping with fear — laughing it away. Tonight, they’ll deploy to the front line in Vovchansk, in the Kharkiv region.

Lesia’s commanding officer, who calls himself Phoenix, explains that these former convicts can expect to see action. “They’re not here to hold positions,” he says. “They’re here to storm them.” The women can expect to be assigned to less dangerous roles — medics, drone operators, that kind of thing.

Still, he emphasizes, none of these roles are safe. “Everything gets hit — drones, glide bombs, missiles. No one is out of reach.”

Lesia, who is of Jewish descent, wears a Star of David on her helmet. Another has been inked on the strap of her AK-47.

“It’s for good luck. I’ve even got one tattooed on my hand,” she says proudly.

Anya, for her part, clings to a more rational assessment of her chances. “We’ll be in drone units, two or three kilometers from Russian positions,” she says. “It’s safer than holding the zero line. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared.”

For her, joining the military was the only way to save herself from an alcoholic husband, drug use, and poverty.

“I’ve been in and out of prison since 2018,” she says. Most of the time it was for theft. “My husband drank himself to death,” she explains. “He died of cirrhosis of the liver in 2024. I stole in order to feed my three kids.”

With greasy black hair and deep lines around her eyes, Anya is only 32 but looks 20 years older.

“When I told my kids I was joining the army, they jumped up and shouted: ‘Mom, you’re a hero! You’re a hero!’”

She pauses. Her gaze turns cold, her voice flat.

“I never told them about my criminal record. I’d leave them with my mother in Poltava and say I was going abroad for work. But deep down, I think they knew.”

Redemption and Stability

For Lesia, joining the army is also about redemption. She insists she didn’t do it just to get out of prison — but to be useful.

“For me, this was about serving my country — a kind of civic duty.”

Her journey is one of downfall and struggle.

She grew up in 1990s Ukraine, the daughter of observant Jewish parents, in a Soviet-era apartment in Mykolaiv. She had a promising start as a professional wrestler, even making it onto the national team.

Then came a bad fight and a devastating injury. Her sponsors vanished. Poverty set in. Painkillers turned to hard drugs. Then life on the street, theft, and finally prison.

“My last theft was a phone from a car. A store camera caught me. The police came to my place. I opened the door — they arrested me on the spot. I got three years. That was in 2024.”

While some new recruits cite patriotism, others have more personal reasons for joining the army.

Anya says the military gives her something civilian life never did. After years of drifting, prison, unemployment, and addiction, the army looks like a lesser evil — especially for a woman.

“It’s a stable life, a steady job, a steady paycheck,” Anya says. “I send everything I make to my mom — she’s taking care of my kids.”

Lesia also admits she’s hoping the army will start a new chapter — and a better future.

“I want to become a drone operator. I know that’s the future. If I can build skills in this field, I know I can be useful.”

Neither of the new recruits plans to leave the army after the war.

“I have family in Israel,” Lesia says. “Sometimes I think about moving there. But there’s war there too. And this — Ukraine — is my home.”

With a cigarette between her lips, Anya shrugs as she cleans her rifle: “Why look elsewhere when I’m fed and housed here? I’m getting training. Why leave when the army gives me a shot at a real career?”