When I’m feeling down, I remember: I’m not in the army. And I feel so much better!

I had no desire to fight, and there was a risk I’d be sent to the front. In March, I decided to run. An idea came to me — who might help: people from my computer-game childhood. I was 12 years old, playing online games, chatting on forums with guys.

One day, after we’d been breaking ice, I went into the barracks, changed clothes, opened the window, and climbed out. Walked toward the motor pool — like you’re just heading to your duty shift or coming from the mess hall.

The base is fenced, but you can walk out freely. There was so much snow that year it had buried the fence, and you could just walk over it, like going down a little hill. A taxi to Saint Petersburg was waiting for me there. The driver had a ton of questions, but I said I was going to my brother’s birthday, I’d be back by evening.

I understood I had two days (after 48 hours, a deserter is placed on the federal wanted list — SP). If caught, I was looking at a prison sentence. I wasn’t going to spend my time that way, so I prepared thoroughly: read guides, wilderness survival materials. Read the political asylum procedure and made sure I qualified.

I crossed the border in Pskov Oblast. I was kitted out like a soldier: provisions, sleeping bag, five or six layers of clothing.

I tried to cover my tracks — collected my cigarette butts. Kept my phone in foil so the signal couldn’t be traced. Navigated by compass.

There’s a swamp there; I walked on the ice. I was lucky with the frost — it was minus 15. Still, a few times my foot went through the ice.

At the border, I saw watchtowers. That was the moment of maximum fear. I started praying and making promises before God — that I’d do this and that if He’d see me through.

I zoomed in on the towers with my phone — nobody on them. There’s a war going on, but Russia couldn’t care less about what’s happening on the Latvian border.

I just climbed over the pathetic barbed wire, sprinted across the neutral strip. There was already a Latvian fence, fairly complex, maybe 2.5 meters high.

I shoved my sleeping bag between the barbed wire and the steel fence. There were these spike protrusions sticking out. I should have gotten snagged and stuck, but I got lucky.

My adrenaline was through the roof. But as a kid, I’d been in scarier situations: I decided to show off for some girls and went to shoplift something from a store. They caught me, called my mom. The shame that haunted me for the next two weeks — that someone would find out — was a far greater fear than this.

I crossed the border. Swapped in a different SIM card, wrote to the people helping me that everything was fine. The anxiety ended.

The people who helped me hadn’t slept. I’ll never forget that. All the good things life will bring me in the future, I’ll share with them.

I made it to a bus stop. I was filthy, looked like a homeless person. My forehead was cut — from climbing over the barbed wire.

I had vodka. If not for the vodka, I’d have frozen in the forest. I sat there drinking the vodka, smoking, and a car pulled up.

I saw it was border guards. They spoke in Russian. I explained the situation — that I was requesting political asylum.

The border guards laughed: “That was such an ordeal for you, and you couldn’t even finish the vodka.” Out of 0.5 liters, I had 250 grams left — I had no desire to get wasted at the most critical moment of my life.

They interrogated me all night, then transferred me to a refugee center. I was sure they’d grant me status — I’d been placed on Russia’s federal wanted list.

The refugee center was practically a prison. You move in groups, men live with men, women with women. They’d give you the phone for an hour and a half a day. Concrete and barbed wire again — just like the army. It really messed with my head that I’d traded one prison for another.

Everyone around me was English-speaking; I could only speak Russian with the border guards. But it worked in my favor — now I’m at A-2 in English (one of the beginner levels — SP).

The border guards would troll me: “How’s Latvia?” — “On the other side of the fence, probably great. On this side — not so much.”

After two months, they moved me to an open camp. It’s basically a dormitory — you’re free, go wherever you want.

My parents were calling me every day back then, crying: “What have you done!” Throughout my life, I’ve heard those words so often — what have you done. I was angry: I needed support.

Even as a kid, when I was 14, I’d come to them and say I wanted to see the world. Family would say: “What are you talking about? There are those Yankees out there, there’s no God, everything’s terrible.”

Ulyanovsk is a fairly rough city. People will approach you on the street just because you’re wearing colorful pants and shake you down for money. Here, I don’t have to walk around the city in all black, pretending to be someone I’m not. Those inconveniences are gone. It’s safe to live here.

I held my ground, told my parents I hadn’t done anything wrong — this was a fight for my life, my freedom. Now they have a different attitude; I changed them in that regard. Nobody’s cutting me, nobody’s killing me, I haven’t changed my sexual orientation, and family values are still my top priority.

In August, I received political refugee status. Now I can travel across all EU countries. I went to see a friend — went straight to Poland to visit him.

I’ve made close friends — Belarusians. They were at the protests during the 2020 elections, were imprisoned, and fled the country. Ended up in the refugee camp — we’ve been friends since.

Recently, we were playing Truth or Dare, and the question was: “What’s the happiest thing in your life?” The guy from Belarus answered: “I stood up to the Belarusian KGB, ended up here, sitting here alive, nobody’s persecuting me, I’m free to do what I want.” Everyone ignored it, but I was smiling: he’s the same kind of person as me — we took the challenge and won.

I have Ukrainian friends — not one of them has said a bad word to me this whole time.

As for those who support the war — there are a lot of such people in Latvia. I’ve seen Russian flags here. They want “the Russian world,” but when you start talking about life in Russia, they start thinking: maybe we don’t need that after all.

I had 50 euros. I came to another country not knowing a single person here. Now I live in my own apartment; I recently moved out of the camp — dormitory life is finally over. I’m planning to volunteer — probably join the Red Cross.

It’s really funny watching people’s problems: they’re lazy, can’t find anything to do, they’re unhappy — I used to be like that myself. But now, whenever I feel down, I remember one thought: I’m not in the army. And I feel so great!