Tetiana Vyshniak, 47, (centre) gathers with relatives and friends of Ukrainian prisoners of war from the Azov Brigade during a rally calling for their exchange with Russian prisoners of war in Kyiv on August 30, 2026. [AFP]

As car horns blared out in central Kyiv and campaigners waved bright flags calling for the release of captured soldiers, a woman with long dark hair stood in large sunglasses with a banner draped over her shoulders.

"Mama Tania," a girl shouted from the crowd, rushing over for a hug.

Known widely by the affectionate name, 47-year-old Tetiana Vyshniak is the driving force of a movement urging for the release of Ukrainian prisoners of war.

Her son, Artem, was captured in 2022 in the southern city of Mariupol after a weeks-long siege by Russia's army.

Four years -- and more than 400 rallies later -- news arrived.

"I got a call from the Security Service: 'Congratulations ...' And I was just frozen in shock," Tetiana said, recalling the moment she learnt her son was being freed.

But, she added: "I couldn't bring myself to be completely overjoyed just because my child was home".

"I knew he was at home, that he was safe. But my whole heart and soul were with those girls who'd stood by me here for so long."

"They're still waiting," she said, referring to the wives, mothers, daughters and sisters not yet reunited with their captured loved ones.

Alongside Artem, around 2,500 Ukrainian soldiers were captured following a weeks-long Russian siege of the port city of Mariupol.

Holed up in the Azovstal steel works and surrounded by Russian forces, Artem had sent his mother a message shortly before his capture.

"'I love you, I'm proud of my parents. I won't be in touch for a long time, but everything really is fine, don't worry,'" Tetiana read.

When it was confirmed he had been taken prisoner of war, she was in denial.

"I didn't believe it until the very end, I couldn't accept it at all."

"I didn't get out of bed for the whole of June (2022), I refused to eat," she told AFP.

After a month of psychological rehabilitation, Tetiana mustered the strength to start the public fight for the return of her son -- and the hundreds of others.

She recalled telling Artem when he was a child: "'Mum can do anything. There's no such thing as a hopeless situation.'"

With other relatives of prisoners of war, she joined the "Association of Families of Azovstal Defenders" group to push for their release.

Since then, the previously quiet and shy woman has become one of the country's most famous campaigners -- embarking on a never-ending cycle of public speaking, trips abroad, and interactions with the media and government officials.

"I wouldn't call it a life. It's just a 24/7 battle," she said.

Some 10,000 Ukrainians have been freed in dozens of prisoner exchanges with the Russian side.

Kyiv does not have a say over who Moscow releases at any given time.

The Azov fighters captured at Mariupol have iconic status in Ukraine, with their weeks-long hold-out in the sprawling steelworks contributing to a nationwide narrative of resistance.

Formed as a paramilitary unit to fight Russian-backed separatists in 2014, its Far Right roots led to criticism in both Russia and the West.

Kyiv later brought it into the official army and started reforms. In 2024, the United States lifted a ban on supplying weapons for the unit.

More than 500 of its soldiers remain in Russian captivity, according to Azov commander Denys Prokopenko.

Tetiana said her son's return has not changed her daily routine.

She still campaigns fiercely to see other families reunited -- a commitment that means she has not had significant time to spend with Artem.

With military discipline, she comes every day to protest outside the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War, the government agency set up to deal with POW affairs.

Artem, meanwhile, is trying to catch up on moments of lost youth -- seeing friends, taking trips.

He has also joined some of his mother's rallies.

However, like many Azov fighters, he has also expressed a desire to return to the front.

Sadness in her eyes, Tetiana said she can "either support him and be there for him, or say no -- but he'll go anyway."

She is reluctant to interfere.

"It's his destiny. And he has to shape it for himself."

All she can do is wait -- and be ready to fight again.

"It's my duty to fight for my child. Because my child is my life."