Russian troops who abandon Putin’s conflict receive no champion's reception abroad amidst a surge in asylum applications.
Date: 2024-04-12In ASTANA, Kazakhstan, if the decision boiled down to demise or a bullet grazing the leg, Yevgeny would opt for the latter. As a distinguished champion of Russia’s campaign in Ukraine, Yevgeny instructed his comrade and fellow warrior to aim with precision, avoiding any bone. The tourniquets stood at the ready.
The agony that ensued served as the toll Yevgeny paid for a fresh start at existence. Similar to countless other Russian troops, he deserted the ranks.
“I jest that I birthed myself,” he remarked. “Just as a woman endures excruciating pain to bring forth new life, I underwent intense suffering to give rise to myself anew.”
Yevgeny emerged from the trenches. However, the new life he encountered wasn't what he had envisioned.
The Associated Press conversed with five officers and one enlisted soldier who absconded from the Russian armed forces. Each faces criminal charges back in Russia, where they confront a minimum of 10 years behind bars. They all anticipate a reception from the Western world that has yet to transpire. Instead, with the exception of one, they dwell in clandestine existence.
For Western nations grappling with the extensive and expanding Russian diaspora, Russian servicemen pose specific concerns: Are they operatives? Perpetrators of war crimes? Or champions?
Since the onset of the full-scale invasion, asylum requests from Russian nationals have surged, yet few are being granted protection. Decision-makers remain split on whether to view exiled Russians as potential assets or as threats to national security.
Andrius Kubilius, a former Lithuanian prime minister now serving in the European Parliament, contends that nurturing Russians who oppose Vladimir Putin serves the strategic interests of the West. He asserts that a diminished presence of Russian soldiers on the front lines weakens the military.
“To dismiss Russian democracy is misguided,” Kubilius asserted. “Labeling all Russians as culpable is a misstep.”
With the exception of one soldier, all spoke to AP on the condition of anonymity, fearing deportation and reprisals against themselves and their loved ones. The AP scrutinized legal documentation, including court records, Russian public archives, military credentials, as well as photographic and video evidence to corroborate their narratives, although not every detail could be independently verified.
The independent Russian media outlet Mediazona has recorded over 7,300 instances in Russian courts involving AWOL soldiers since September 2022. Cases of desertion, the most severe charge, surged sixfold last year.
Unprecedented numbers of individuals seeking to abandon their posts – exceeding 500 in the first two months of this year alone – are reaching out to Idite Lesom, or “Get Lost,” a network managed by Russian activists in the Republic of Georgia. Last spring, merely 3% of assistance requests originated from soldiers aiming to depart; in January, over a third did, as per the organization’s leader, Grigory Sverdlin. While the tally of identified deserters may seem insignificant compared to Russia’s overall military force, it serves as an indicator of morale.
“Clearly, Russian propaganda attempts to peddle a narrative that all of Russia stands behind Putin and his war,” Sverdlin remarked. “But that's simply not the case.”
The pressing inquiry now is: where can they seek refuge?
German authorities have indicated that Russians evading military duty can seek sanctuary, while a French court ruled last summer that Russians who refuse to engage in combat can apply for refugee status. However, in practice, it has proven challenging for deserters, the majority of whom possess passports restricting travel to a handful of former Soviet states, to secure asylum, according to lawyers, activists, and deserters.
In the fiscal year 2022, fewer than 300 Russians were granted refugee status in the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol officials encountered over 57,000 Russians at U.S. borders in the fiscal year 2023, a significant increase from around 13,000 in fiscal year 2021.
In France, asylum requests surged by over 50% between 2022 and 2023, totaling around 3,400 individuals, according to the French agency responsible for processing these requests. Additionally, last year, Germany received 7,663 initial asylum applications from Russian nationals, a substantial rise from 2,851 in 2022, as disclosed by Germany’s Interior Ministry to AP via email. However, the data does not specify how many applicants were soldiers.
As they mark the passing days until their lawful residency in Kazakhstan expires, Yevgeny – alongside his comrades – has witnessed other defectors being apprehended by Russian forces in Armenia, deported from Kazakhstan, and subsequently found dead, riddled with bullets, in Spain.
“There's no established procedure for Russians who opt out of combat, deserters, to find refuge,” Yevgeny lamented. He implores Western policymakers to reassess their stance. “Ultimately, it's far more economically viable to admit an individual into your country -- a robust young man capable of labor -- than to provide Ukraine with weaponry.”
YEVGENY
Perched in his austere quarters in Astana, Kazakhstan, Yevgeny sifted through a cardboard container containing items he deemed worthy of preservation.
“It’s akin to a woman's purse, brimming with various items,” he murmured, delving into a collection of genuine and counterfeit passports, a sentimental letter adorned with hearts, and blister packs of medication.
His military medals elude him. However, he possesses the certificates commemorating his deployments in Syria and Ukraine.
Yevgeny suddenly appears crestfallen. “They mean nothing to me,” he confessed, hastily stuffing everything back into the box.
Born to postal workers, Yevgeny enrolled in military school primarily due to its tuition-free nature. He completed 41 parachute jumps and acquired skills in horseback riding, diving, marksmanship, and explosives handling. The price of his education would manifest post-graduation: five years of obligatory military service.
On the eve of February 23, 2022, Yevgeny and his unit scarcely slept. Their colossal tanks, looming and ominous, cast elongated shadows on the scant layer of snow flanking the railroad tracks that would transport them toward Ukraine. Yevgeny was too overwhelmed by exhaustion to dwell on what the future held.
On Yevgeny’s second day amidst the conflict, he recounted an officer propping against his machine gun and deliberately severing his own finger, he recounted. Later, tragedy struck when an individual dozed beneath a military vehicle, meeting a fatal end as it rolled over him. Others simply vanished amidst the chaos, never to return.
Amidst the disorder, approximately 10 comrades in his unit met their end due to inadvertent gunfire or grenade explosions. Yevgeny pondered incredulously, what were they doing? Testing their bulletproof vests? None of it aligned with a world where every life held value. Yet, Yevgeny realized he no longer dwelled in that realm.
As Yevgeny delved deeper into Ukrainian territory, the brutality of the conflict intensified.
“We didn’t harbor any desire to take lives, but we also yearned to safeguard our own,” elucidated Yevgeny, a senior lieutenant overseeing a platoon of roughly 15 soldiers. “Locals would arrive in civilian vehicles and open fire on our military. What course of action did we have?”
He disclosed that Ukrainian prisoners of war faced execution as repatriation to Russia proved unfeasible, and constructing detention facilities was deemed impractical.
“Individuals with a certain, shall we say, disposition were tasked with this duty, as many others declined,” he divulged. “Those possessing a particular mindset were designated as executioners.”
There are memories etched in Yevgeny’s mind: A 14-year-old Ukrainian boy, seemingly crafting Molotov cocktails, met a grisly fate. A 24-year-old Ukrainian woman, discovered with compromising data on her phone, fell victim to rape by two Russian soldiers.
Yevgeny found himself within striking distance of Kyiv when Moscow mandated a retreat. In a single day in April 2022, approximately seventy comrades from his brigade fell in an ambush, he recounted. The Ukrainian military disseminated footage of the encounter with the retreating convoy.
Explosions echoed – pop, pop, pop – amid the eruption of fireballs. Flags fluttered above the tanks, lending an eerie semblance to a video game. Shells crashed nearby. Then, impact. The footage zoomed in on a Russian tank engulfed in black smoke, two lifeless figures sprawled nearby.
“Very cool,” someone remarked in response.
“The best sight in my life is to witness the demise of Russians,” penned another.
Yevgeny found himself amidst that convoy. He witnesses men he knows succumb to those fiery explosions. His expression remains impassive. He doesn’t want to witness it again.
“Many of my comrades have perished. These were genuinely good individuals who had no desire for conflict,” he uttered. “But they were trapped.”
Tears stream down his face.
If given the chance, Yevgeny would return to 2013, the year he enrolled in military school. He would station himself at the school gates, warning all the boys to go home, to steer clear, for this place harbors unforeseen dangers.
He wishes to impart upon them three words: “You will perish.”
It took Yevgeny less than three months in the throes of war to resolve to inflict a gunshot wound upon himself.
“You can only depart wounded or lifeless,” Yevgeny elucidated. “No one desires to depart in death.”
He struck a pact with three fellow soldiers. Dubbed their Plan B, Yevgeny would be the first to receive a bullet, followed by the communications specialist, then the sniper. The machine gunner expressed reluctance to abandon Ukraine without his sibling, who also served, but vowed to corroborate their narrative.
On a brisk May morning, as they trudged amidst orderly rows of pine trees en route to retrieve a downed drone in Ukrainian territory, Yevgeny and his comrades concluded it was time for Plan B. Having already lost one companion in that vicinity, they felt as though they were on a suicide mission.
When the sniper fired at Yevgeny, the agony resembled a robust individual driving a 9 mm metal rod into his flesh. Subsequently, the communications specialist sustained a bullet wound to his thigh. Witnessing the duo crumple and grimace, the third man lost his nerve.
Despite the tourniquet, blood continued to pour, and Yevgeny was startled to find himself unable to walk. His companions dragged him back 300 meters through the woods. Sweet tea was administered, and he was evacuated that very evening.
Yevgeny endured months of rehabilitation, believing he could endure his injury until his contract's expiration in June 2023. However, after Putin's declaration of partial mobilization in September 2022, contractual terms became irrelevant. Soldiers like him were now compelled to serve until the war's conclusion.
Aware that he had to flee, Yevgeny made his way to Kazakhstan in early 2023, with assistance from Idite Lesom. Russian authorities initiated a criminal case against him. His relatives in Russia were interrogated, and his apartment there was searched.
Since then, Yevgeny has strived to vanish. He secured a place in Astana, inhabiting an apartment permeated with the scent of cat. Accompanied by three other men, they had only three cups, spoons, and chairs among them. They resorted to boiling water with an electric coil in a glass jar, as no one was willing to invest in a kettle.
For a few weeks, he worked as a delivery rider, traversing Astana on an antiquated motorcycle. However, his wages never materialized, possibly due to his SIM card and bank account being registered under different names.
Uncertain of his future when his savings dwindle, Yevgeny revealed he had applied for asylum in France, Germany, and the United States – evidently the safest havens from Russia, he noted. He aspired to partake in a U.N. mission elsewhere, yet he struggled to envision a pathway from his current predicament.
He rises at ten o'clock, stepping out of the shower into another scorching, shapeless day. Later that evening, he will groom himself and join other deserters at a bar, relishing a few fleeting hours of normalcy.
During their gathering, someone recalled that it marked the one-year anniversary of Russia's September 2022 mobilization. Putin enlisted 300,000 troops to engage in Ukraine. Tens of thousands of them now lie dead.
A somber silence fell over the table. Yevgeny searched for a term opposite to evil, one they could toast to.
In the end, they raised their glasses to virtue, then to peace.
FARHAD
Shortly after Putin's September 2022 mobilization edict, ominous messages inundated Farhad Ziganshin's phone. A diminutive man with a resounding voice, Farhad had forsaken a musical career for military service to gratify his father. Despite attempts to resign from the armed forces, he claimed his application was rejected by the military academy where he taught.
In a state of panic, he, along with his mother, sister, dog, and aunt, hastily embarked in the family Chevrolet, bound for the Kazakh border under the veil of midnight. They sought to portray their journey as a cheerful family excursion. The roads were congested with fellow Russians fleeing Putin's conscription.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Farhad, thrusting his fists into the air as they departed from Russia.
Farhad secured employment at a burger establishment near the border before following a friend of a friend to Almaty, the largest city in Kazakhstan, where he had been assured a singing position. Instead, he found himself working in a banquet venue, lodging in an opulent, expansive bed within a honeymoon suite, indulging in surplus food.
Life was comfortable yet precarious. Kazakhstan navigated a delicate balance, seeking to appease Russia without alienating European allies. In December 2022, Kazakhstan deported a Russian defector, Mikhail Zhilin, a former intelligence officer. In March 2023, a Russian court sentenced Zhilin to six and a half years behind bars.
During that same month, Farhad resolved to relocate to Armenia, believing it to be a safer haven. However, he encountered obstacles preventing him from boarding his flight. A border official perused Farhad's passport, inquiring, "Are you wanted?" Farhad's complexion turned pale, cold sweat permeating his body.
He was escorted to an interrogation room, where a civilian-clad individual awaited him.
"You are my Muslim brother," he assured Farhad. "I, too, oppose the war. Share everything with me."
Farhad confessed.
Farhad braced himself for the impending ordeal. He packed his essentials – toothbrush, toothpaste, socks, slippers, snacks, and a copy of Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment" – into a transparent bag. His cell at the detention center featured a metal door with a small window and a slot for food, a surveillance camera, and a floor hole serving as a toilet.
Throughout the night, Farhad stared at the ceiling, his anxiety escalating: How will I survive here? Will I face violence or assault? I'd rather end my life first.
On the third day of his detention, three sizable bags arrived for Farhad, containing provisions, clothing, and cigarettes from local human rights advocates. "I lay down and thought that’s the end," Farhad recalled. "Kaput." Why would he need all these items if his imprisonment wasn't prolonged?
Two hours later, a police officer arrived. "Take your things and get out," he commanded.
Farhad was liberated.
His lawyer informed AP that Farhad's release stemmed from provisions within the Kazakh criminal code and multilateral agreements with Russia, prohibiting the extradition of suspects accused of military offenses. Farhad found temporary safety.
"We don't know what tomorrow will bring," remarked his lawyer, Artur Alkhastov, affiliated with the Kazakhstan International Bureau for Human Rights and Rule of Law in Astana. "In Kazakhstan, politics supersede the law... Everything can change."
In July, independent Russian media claimed that France rejected Farhad's asylum application. Alkhastov clarified that Farhad's request for a travel permit to France to apply for asylum had been denied.
Stranded in Kazakhstan without an international passport, Farhad faced heightened fears of renewed interest from Russian authorities. Relocating from Almaty to Astana, the capital, he aimed to minimize his visibility.
"It's unsafe to remain in Kazakhstan," he asserted. "I strive to lead a discreet life, adhering to Kazakhstan's laws, avoiding undue attention. We have a saying: 'Be quieter than water and lower than grass.'"
He regularly changed his SIM card, avoided his registered address, and steered clear of employers with probing inquiries. After six weeks, he depleted his funds and moved in with another Russian deserter, Yevgeny. Their makeshift bed comprised coats and sweaters on the floor, rendering sleep nearly impossible. His thoughts drifted to his former life in Russia.
"In Kazan, I had a completely different life... Here I am, living in destitution, without means. It's profoundly disheartening," he lamented. Online, he faced accusations of cowardice and betrayal, accompanied by calls for his demise.
Farhad secured employment at a real estate startup without the need for documentation. Each morning, he serenaded his colleagues with Whitney Houston's "I Have Nothing."
In the evenings, Farhad wandered through Astana, crooning melancholic tunes to himself as dusk descended. He harbored aspirations of starting a family but lacked the means to court a woman with movie dates. "I can't afford to fall in love," he lamented. "So I wander and sing."
Despite his circumstances, Farhad sought validation for his decisions.
"I came to realize that I couldn't align myself with a Russian army that devastates cities, targets civilians, and forcibly seizes foreign territories," he reflected. "If sharing my story could persuade even one individual to see reason, then I would consider it a worthwhile contribution."
Six months later, the real estate venture collapsed, prompting Farhad to transition to selling flooring. While he secured his own apartment, he struggled to keep up with rent payments. Warnings of his impending legal status expiration in Kazakhstan loomed overhead. Uncertain of his next move, Farhad finds himself at a crossroads.
SPARROW
From the outset, Sparrow understood the pivotal role money played in survival. Prior to his birth, his father fell victim to a fatal altercation stemming from a gambling disagreement over finances. Raised by his mother in a remote village, alongside his siblings, Sparrow's upbringing was shaped by her toil as a cook in a local orphanage.
In subsequent years, he ventured northward to a diamond-mining settlement situated in close proximity to the Arctic Circle.
The corporation Sparrow was employed by exercised control not only over diamonds but also over the entire town, sponsoring its cultural institutions, educational facilities, medical center, sports amenities, and residential complexes. Unbeknownst to Sparrow, they also held sway over his destiny.
On the afternoon of Friday, September 23, 2022, Sparrow wrapped up his shift and was tidying his Bobcat when his supervisor approached, instructing him to report immediately to human resources. There, his passport and military ID were confiscated and secured in a safe.
"You're terminated," they informed Sparrow. "You have one hour to report to the military recruitment office. Failure to comply will result in criminal charges."
With little choice, Sparrow acquiesced. At 6 a.m. the following morning, he and numerous other conscripts boarded a dated aircraft bound for a military base in the regional capital.
The prospect of warfare didn't cross Sparrow's mind; he was preoccupied with thoughts of his lost employment. Sparrow, with his delicate features and Asian complexion, had abandoned his university education to toil diligently as a road worker. Enduring harsh winters, he persevered through extreme temperatures that could fracture machinery. Why had he been dismissed?
Upon arrival, the military base was in disarray. Sparrow estimated some 6,000 individuals crammed into the barracks, devoid of any semblance of order. Amidst the chaos, men congregated in small clusters, indulging in alcohol. Unable to locate a vacant bed, Sparrow settled for a corner of the floor to rest his weary body.
The following day, Sparrow sought guidance at an information kiosk, only to be confronted with images of deceased individuals and incitements to eliminate Ukrainian soldiers. "What is all this?" he pondered. "I refuse to participate in taking lives – ever!"
Confronting his commander, Sparrow attempted to negotiate an alternative service arrangement, offering financial compensation. Disinterested in bribery, the commander warned him of the consequences: either fight alongside the Russian armed forces or join a private military contractor like Yevgeny Prigozhin's formidable Wagner Group. "You have one option," his commander asserted. "Submit a refusal, face imprisonment, and we will ensure you end up with PMC Wagner."
At 30 years old, Sparrow turned to his mother for assistance.
Overwhelmed, Sparrow's nerves buckled. He sought solace in the bathroom, pacing anxiously before finally making a break for it. As his commander enjoyed lunch, Sparrow seized the opportunity, retrieving his identification, phone, and civilian attire before slipping through a crevice in the wall where his mother awaited.
By morning, they were aboard the first available flight out of town. Forty hours later, Sparrow found himself in Kazakhstan.
Astana welcomed him with a sense of warmth and liberation. For the first time in his life, Sparrow realized he had been living in the cold confines of oppression.
"I am emancipated," he affirmed to himself.
For Sparrow, newfound freedom paradoxically led to a more confining existence.
Just two weeks following his escape, Russian authorities initiated a criminal investigation against him. Media coverage of his case heightened his sense of vulnerability, amplifying the threat looming over him. Subsequently, the charges against him were elevated under a stringent provision in Russia's penal code, exposing him to a potential sentence of up to 15 years behind bars upon repatriation.
Back in Russia, security operatives subjected his mother to interrogation. Before disposing of his Russian SIM card, Sparrow endured calls from law enforcement, asserting knowledge of his whereabouts. In October, purported Kazakh law enforcement officers attempted to arrange a meeting with him, yet no formal summons materialized.
Fearful of the scrutiny accompanying permanent employment, Sparrow resorts to sporadic gigs involving waste collection or laboring on construction sites.
His sleep patterns become erratic, retiring at 4 a.m. and rising at noon. He lamented his inability to return to Russia to bid farewell to his grandfather.
Sparrow's eyes welled with tears.
"I desire nothing in life. I lack interest in my own affairs," he confessed. "At times, I find myself perplexed by my own thoughts. I spend entire days browsing the internet, watching YouTube, and devouring news updates on the situation in Ukraine. That's the extent of it."
The fate of his asylum petitions remains uncertain to Sparrow. Even if granted asylum, lacking a foreign passport poses a formidable obstacle to his departure from Kazakhstan. Each glimmer of hope he entertained has been dashed by disappointment. What's the point in striving?
Beyond the walls of his austere abode, he catches snippets of lives that aren't his own: the laughter of unfamiliar children, the thud of a ball in a game he's not partaking in, the chatter of men conversing with friends he hasn't made.
"There are moments tinged with regret, but ultimately, I made the right choice," he affirmed. "I'd rather endure my suffering here, searching for a semblance of hope, than partake in a conflict I don't comprehend, one that's unequivocally the fault of Russia. I have no regrets."
SPORTSMASTER
During his childhood, the youngster didn't excel academically, but he possessed a talent for running. Raised by his mother in a village nestled amidst defunct coal mines in Western Russia, a region fraught with scant opportunities and dwindling prospects, she reached out to a friend to secure her son a spot at a military institution. The arrangement required no financial burden on the family and seemed to offer a pathway to a brighter future.
At the military academy, the boy pursued studies in engineering, aspiring to become a proficient radio technician. Yet, his true ardor lay in athletics; he harbored aspirations of outpacing his peers on the track.
Dubbed Sportsmaster, he eventually led a contingent of 30 men, though he insisted he never engaged in combat. Despite fulfilling his initial five-year term, he remained in service, unwilling to become a financial burden on his mother and unsure of where else he could earn a living while indulging his passion for athletics.
The night Russia initiated a full-scale incursion into Ukraine, Sportsmaster was stirred from sleep by an inexplicable impulse at 3 a.m. For three agonizing hours, he remained glued to the television screen, grappling with disbelief. By daybreak, a sense of despair had engulfed him entirely. He knew he would be summoned to the battlefield.
"In that moment, I made a firm decision—I would not lend any support to the unfolding events, not even lift a finger," he recounted. "I realized this marked a irreversible turning point that would alter the fate of the entire nation, including mine."
Sportsmaster recounted ceasing his attendance at the base. By October 2022, his pay ceased. His coach, a figure of trust, offered him a seemingly benign role at the base, with the promise of reinstated pay. It was an enticing proposition.
However, upon his arrival, he was met by his superiors beneath a towering portrait of a revered military figure. As they began to speak, the gravity of the situation dawned on him: Special Military Operation. Orders. Luhansk.
He discerned they were reading out his combat directives. Feeling deceived, he refused to comply, declining to sign the papers presented to him. Confronted with the ultimatum of jail or compliance, he felt a surge of panic. Fleeing was his only recourse.
He made a daring escape, hurdling over a fence without sustaining injury. Disgusted by the coercion he faced, he sought refuge with Idite Lesom, who provided him with guidance on slipping out of Russia.
Before his departure, he recorded a video conveying a political message, denouncing the coercion he faced to fight in Ukraine. As a final act of defiance, he discarded his military uniforms.
Amidst tearful farewells, he departed with his girlfriend, filled with optimism for the future. Though facing legal repercussions in Russia, he remained resolute that better days lay ahead.
"The worst has passed," he declared. "Now, only positivity awaits."
Sportsmaster and his partner secured a modest studio apartment nestled within one of Astana's sprawling, indistinguishable complexes erected on the outskirts of the city.
Half a year later, like many other defectors, he navigates the city discreetly. Operating without a personal SIM card, his quest for citizenship or asylum remains obscured, overshadowed by the constant threat of unannounced visitors.
"There are clandestine Russian operatives attempting to influence Kazakhstan," he remarked. "It's hard to deem this place entirely secure, as Kazakhstan often sways with the political winds."
Lacking an international passport, any attempt to cross borders would likely result in his apprehension due to the pending criminal charges against him in Russia.
In the interim, Sportsmaster has found employment as a fitness instructor in Astana, where business thrives.
"I aim to instill a love for running in my students," he exclaimed, his face lighting up with infectious enthusiasm. "I advocate for individuals to keep moving forward."
During his routine jogs, Sportsmaster effortlessly covers 10 kilometers in a mere 40 minutes, displaying a natural, graceful athleticism. His respiration remains steady, his pulse tranquil, momentarily at peace with his role in the world.
He strives to demonstrate that there exist Russians of integrity.
"A new chapter is unfolding," he declared. "I refuse to surrender control of my fate to others."