Confessions of a fighter. Revelations of a Volunteer

“Hey, what’s going on in the streets of Slavyansk? What are these barricades?”

“It’s a revolution, granny.”

“Who against who?”

“Our people against the criminal authorities.”

“Really, darling? I don’t see any of our people there, no-one but incomers…”

I arrived home that evening and watched the TV again. People dying… Russian people being killed…

I’ll soon be with you. Hang on!

Next morning I washed, looked in the mirror and said: “Don’t think about going there. No, of course not. I’m not that much of an idiot. Of course I won’t go. There’s nothing for me to do there…” Every day I felt more and more involved. All I was thinking about was the Donbass and all things connected with it. I began to admit to myself that perhaps I would go there after all. But this thought frightened me, and I insistently pushed it away. I couldn’t find any information on how to get to Slavyansk without falling into the hands of the Ukrainian authorities. I was not ready to go there on my own. I was deaf to the arguments of my common sense, which was shouting at me: “Where are you taking me?” But there was a voice in my heart: “Do it! It’s your duty!” And so strong was this voice that the concepts of common sense became irrelevant…

It was the end of May by the time I had found the email of the Slavyansk campaign office. I immediately sent an email saying I wanted to go there. In reply I was told: “You have to get to Slavyansk and come to our office.” I realized it would not be easy to do this, because the Ukrainian authorities were turning all Russian men between 18 and 60 years of age off the trains, to reduce the flow of volunteers pouring into Ukraine.

“What the devil can I do?” I thought. “How can I get there?”

I remembered a friend who lived right on the Ukrainian frontier at Donetsk, in Rostov Province. After the Chechen war, he had been demobilized from the Army and was now smuggling various goods from Russia into Ukraine. I had to find him urgently and ask his help, so that his colleagues from Ukraine would take me to Slavyansk. But – wouldn’t you know it? – my friend seemed to have disappeared off the face of the Earth. After spending several fruitless days looking for him, I returned to my internet searches for information to help me.

I could of course take the risk of going into Ukraine on my own, but there was one thing against this: the debts I had incurred were an obstacle to me moving beyond the bounds of the Russian Federation. I could only see one possibility: crossing the frontier illegally, for which I needed a “window”.

On one of my days off, I went to Ivanovo, where the 98

Division of the Airborne Forces was stationed on the other side of a friend’s fence.

“Max, I’m trying to get to Ukraine”, I told him.

“Why do you need to do that?”

“I don’t want to make a speech about it. I don’t know… I feel drawn there…”

More days off passed by. Everyday, it was all still the same. Morning, the mirror… Don’t think of going… the office… reports about the war… “No, I’m not going anywhere…” I bought a bulletproof vest, a camouflage cloak, combat boots, an assault vest, radios, a knife, medicine, a combat suit and a balaclava. I tried all this gear on in the office, and looking at myself in the mirror, said: “You’re beginning to look like a fighter”.

I thought it over, wondering where all this would take me, and my soul still resisted, I told myself I wouldn’t go. It was hard to imagine that you might simply not exist after this trip. All this has to be pictured in the imagination, and it had to be agreed that it was possible, and you are ready for any situation.

The working day came to an end, and I was still in my bulletproof vest, viewing my new image.

“Hey, where are you off to?” the guard asked when he saw me.

To Ukraine, to fight», I replied.

“What? Seriously?”

“Yes”.

“Good for you! I’d go too, but my son is ill and there’s no-one else to look after him.”

He began talking about his service in the Army, and of course was excited by the idea of fighting. Sitting through each 24-hour shift and looking at the screen, nipping out for a smoke occasionally – who would find that interesting?

He wished me luck and to hit the enemy hard.

“Luck? Thanks, a bit of that will come in handy.”

When I was buying the armor and equipment, I got the impression that everyone was going to Ukraine: anything to do with the military was flying of the shelves at a rapid rate.

On another day off, I go into Ivanovo. The 98

Division is on the march, with all its kit and equipment, towards the Northern airfield. I jump out of the bus. I try to get through to a captain of the Airborne, shouting:

“Where are you going? To Ukraine?”

But my pal Max won’t let me through.

“Yes, that’s where they’re going, but you don’t have to”, he says.

I am burning inside. They’re off to fight, and here I am, stuck in the rear…

I call into a little store a hundred meters or so from the military base. Here it is usually full of 98

Division troops, but now it is empty. I ask the storekeeper:

“Where are they all?”

“The guys have gone to defend us. And have you paid your debt to the homeland?”

“I did that, in Chechnya”, says Max.

“Good for you, I envy you”, I reply. “And what’s it like there, in a war? Will I be muddy and freezing in the trenches?”

“Of course. What do you expect?”

“Fine, I’m ready for everything”, I reply.

“But what if I’m killed?” I think to myself. “And incidentally, how does the body get brought back if you die?”

I look it up on Google. They take it to Rostov-on-Don and the relatives pick it up from there. I don’t want to cause problems for anybody: funeral, tears… No, I won’t give my relatives’ details when I join up. If it comes to it, they can bury me there…

At the beginning of June, reports start appearing on the net on how to reach the recruiting point in an organized manner. “Russian National Unity”, the “Interbrigades”, the draft office of the Donetsk People’s Republic, the Cossacks and other organizations are doing an excellent job of sending off the volunteers. All I had to do was send an email to these organizations and wait for replies. They came telling me to state my full name, my city of residence, my citizenship, military specialty (if an ex-serviceman), combat experience, when I would be ready to travel, and a contact telephone number. All the applications were approved without exception, including mine. And I wrote to all of them I could.

I decided to call in at the church to request a blessing for this trip.

“How can you help them?” asked the priest. “You’d do better to try to overcome your passions. I won’t give you a blessing.”

I thought about his words. Really, how could I help those engaged in this conflict?? But I was already burning with the desire to fight.

When I was getting ready to go to Rostov, someone from the FSB rang me and asked me to call in at their Ivanovo Province office.