Emigration
Andrey and Sasha are anarchists, vegans, and former communards who first fled from Russia to Serbia, and then even further, in search of any kind of freedom. In this conversation, they recall living in a St. Petersburg communal apartment with fifteen people and one crazy old woman, how the “E-center” (anti-extremism police) came for them, and why political asylum in Serbia turned out to be not a rescue, but a trap without food, money, or medical care. This is not a success story. It is a story of persistence—and the desire not to be crushed under the state steamroller.
Vegan Jihad, the “E-Center,” and Protests
NTD: Tell us a little about yourselves. Where are you from, and what did you do before emigrating?
Andrey: Before emigrating, I hitchhiked and did body modifications in Russia. In St. Pete, Moscow, Kaluga, various cities. I loved hitchhiking all over Russia. I participated in various actions, different movements, went to concerts. Played in a band with some guys.
Sasha: I have issues with this. I studied a lot, took courses. First to be an advertising designer, then a cartoon artist. I studied storyboarding, animation, and stuff like that. Then I dropped all that shit. Started living in a commune, left to hitchhike. As soon as I met Andrey.
NTD: And you have some kind of “Vegan Jihad” public page on Telegram? Can you tell us a bit about it?
Sasha: Initially, it was conceived as an activist project. Later, well, it mostly turned into a personal blog about my interests, my path, probably about migration in general, and my thoughts. About veganism, feminism, anarchism, and other ideologies close to me.
NTD: And you lived in a commune. What kind of commune was it?
Sasha: It was the “Mogilny Platon” (Graveyard Plato) commune in Moscow. It’s a vegan anarcho-commune that I organized with some friends. Between 8 and 11 people lived there at different times.
NTD: Were you involved in activism, or was it just a house project?
Sasha: We were active. We organized events inside the commune—discussion clubs, some entertainment events.
NTD: Andrey, a question for you. When you went to protests, were you rooting for Navalny, or was it some other conscious choice, like resistance to the Russian regime?
Andrey: No, I never rooted for Navalny at all. I liked watching his videos because they were generally well-shot. For real, the drone footage, the stories about how some bureaucrats or fairly public political figures live—it’s objectively just very interesting. Of course, I watched his videos.
I went to the protest simply because, naturally, I don’t like the regime one fucking bit. I was interested in seeing how it all happens. I was 16 then, I went to a protest. I got interested in the whole topic. I didn’t like Russia’s past or present politics—and I still don’t, because nothing has changed for the better, at least since then.
NTD: Russia is a fairly authoritarian country. How safe was it to attend protests and conduct activist activities? Did you have any incidents with the authorities?
Andrey: Yeah, 100 percent. It all started when I was about 18. As soon as I turned of age, it hit me—everything started right then. At 16, after a rally for Navalny—it was 2020, or 2021, or maybe even 2019, honestly, I don’t remember. Doesn’t matter.
My buddy got a 30,000 ruble fine back then for participating in the rally. They just pinned him there and took him away. I got the hell out of there in time, so they didn’t catch me.
When I was 18, the “eshniki” (anti-extremism police) came for me for the first time—they were looking for me. I was living in a commune with friends then. We had a commune in the center of St. Petersburg.
Basically, it was a communal apartment with two rooms: in one room lived a batshit crazy old woman, and in the second, fuck, 15 people. When the “eshniki” arrived—the guys had already scattered here and there. For some, this place was just to get on their feet: someone came from Krasnoyarsk, someone from Tomsk, someone from Yekaterinburg. We all lived in one room, about 15 square meters, sleeping like cordwood.
Obviously, space was tight, and nobody was fucking happy with it. So, when the “eshniki” came, luckily there were only about 4 people there. And I wasn’t there either.
They turned the whole place upside down, interrogated the guys about my whereabouts. First, they said they were from the military enlistment office, then they started threatening to find drugs, and all that crap. They were looking for any info on me but found nothing.
NTD: What do you think it was all about?
Andrey: It was winter, closer to spring. Everyone was getting busted then—friends were being rounded up, hauled off. And since I socialized with them and was “in the theme,” of course, they were interested in me too. Plus, they didn’t know me personally—and in the movement, practically everyone had been interrogated by an “eshnik” at least once. But I hadn’t. Maybe they wanted to get acquainted. Maybe they wanted to find out something about my comrades. They really wanted to put them away. In the end, one was imprisoned. The “eshniki” just need information. The more people, the more info, the higher the chance someone gets packed away for a long time.
Sasha: There weren’t many major precedents, except that I was often told there was a BOLOs (be-on-the-lookout) for me. I have a fairly memorable appearance, and I doubt it was solely related to political activity. But back then I was a minor, and basically—they couldn’t do anything to me.
They often stopped me on the street, tried to pressure me.
NTD: Was the communal lifestyle a conscious choice for you? Or rather a forced measure?
Sasha: Not entirely conscious, but it was what I was striving for. I moved out of a room where I lived with a roommate to organize a commune. I wanted a space based on mutual aid, more contact with like-minded people. I just wanted to exist in a safer environment for myself.
Andrey: First of all, it’s productive. When you all live together, you can do different things together—actions, help each other, discuss things. It’s fun, more interesting. Personally, I see only pluses. The only minus—it’s not even a minus, just a thing… it depends on who you live with. This “rubbing along”—when people are in one space, you have to get along. Not necessarily to introduce rules, just to understand how to arrange life together. Overall—very productive, interesting, and fun.
“Ate our last money at the airport”: How the new life began
NTD: How did you get the idea to leave? Did you go to Serbia by hitchhiking first?
Andrey: No, we didn’t go to Serbia by hitchhiking. Not exactly.
Sasha: Initially, we wanted to fly to Spain. To stay there—on a visa. We thought we could get ourselves a visa. But they didn’t approve it, not a fucking bit. When the refusal came, we decided to go to Serbia.
Andrey: Actually, initially—to Montenegro. But it happened so spontaneously that we got off the plane in Serbia. We were given a place to stay there. One acquaintance was found in Serbia, so we stayed there. In Montenegro—nobody.
Actually, before that, we traveled from St. Pete to Sochi—not by hitchhiking, by the way. We flew out of Sochi, through Turkey—to Serbia. Belgrade. And we just stayed there.
NTD: Were you traveling light, with one backpack? Or did you have a major relocation plan?
Andrey: No, no, no—just two small backpacks and like 200 rubles, basically.
Sasha: We had five thousand initially. By the time we were in Serbia, we had 200 rubles left.
Andrey: We ate those 5 thousand at the airport. We had a very long layover in Istanbul, and we were hungry. We were like: “Well, we have 5 thousand rubles,” exchanged almost all of it into Lira, and just gorged right at the airport.
NTD: What can you say about Serbia?
Andrey: It’s awesome, man. I really like Serbia, I love this country.
Serbs are very cheerful people.
I like their protests because they are, well, for real just fun, like a holiday. If you didn’t know, you’d think it was just a party. But actually, it’s a protest: they have fun, celebrate, wave flags, everyone honks, they support each other, absolutely everyone. They drive in cars, honk, rejoice.
And it’s not just a show—it really works. The state reacts. The Serbs achieved a complete dissolution of the government and assembled a new one. And that’s not the only case. In general, Serbs are very persistent; they get their way. They go out every day around 11 o’clock, block roads for 15 minutes of silence—that was an action after the tragedy in Novi Sad, where 16 people died. First they spoke of 15, so it was a “15-minute” block, and then the death toll rose. In general, Serbia is cool, good. I liked it.
NTD: Who took you in? Was it street communities, anarchists?
Andrey: Anarchists. In general, the guys consider themselves anarchists. Punks from Russia—we found two people there, stayed with one overnight. Then we somehow figured out a hostel, the cheapest one. I negotiated something around 12 euros a night for a room. We were able to live there on credit for a bit because the hostel administrator was very loyal, a very good woman; she also helped us partly.
NTD: What can you say about Serbia in general? How would you characterize it?
Andrey: The new generation—very progressive people. But the older generation—they are post-Soviet, conservative, who, for example, support Russia.
How did you realize Serbia wasn’t the final stop?
Sasha: We applied for political asylum. In Serbia. We spent about four months in a camp, and the conditions there were, to put it mildly, not very good. Lots of rejections, everything is extremely delayed. They never found us a lawyer, the file wasn’t sent, there was no interview. It took a very long time.
By May, I suggested moving to Croatia because everything was at a standstill, plus the terrible living conditions.
NTD: Can you tell us more about those conditions?
Andrey: To start with, some doors didn’t have locks at all. They didn’t provide plant-based food. There was no food for allergy sufferers. Sometimes there was no food at all. Keeping animals was forbidden. The administrator tried to kill our dog—well, that was a very unpleasant moment.
NTD: How do you mean kill?
Sasha: That’s a separate story.
Andrey: We had a puppy, sick, tiny. No vaccinations, weak. One time we weren’t in the room, and since we had no lock, the administrator went in. The puppy ran out, the neighbors saw him. A neighbor tried to bring the dog back in, but the administrator was talking her into throwing him out onto the street. And on the camp territory, there were large adult dogs that were being fed. If our puppy had ended up on the street, they could have mauled him.
There was no medical aid in the camp. When I approached the head, he said he was the “boss of the camp.” I told him that for religious reasons we couldn’t eat animal products—because veganism for religious motives can at least be somewhat justified. He said: “We already provide pork-free food for Muslims.” Which, by the way, is a lie. And he added: “Nobody is going to cook specifically for you.” At most—you can ask for an apple. Well, I don’t know, maybe it was a taunt.
And meanwhile—you aren’t allowed to work for the first six months. If anyone sees us at a side job—they’ll kick us out of the camp and deny asylum. So, by their logic, you either give up your beliefs or starve to death.
Sasha: We were also entitled to payments.
Andrey: Yeah, payments were owed, but we didn’t receive them. Maybe they were going into this “boss’s” pocket, I don’t know. I won’t lie, but they didn’t reach us.
NTD: Did you work somehow to survive?
Andrey: Yeah, off the books. The only thing I found was as a cleaner. A couple of times a week, for an hour and a half—sweeping an office. They paid me 30,000 dinars a month. That’s with extra work if I filled in for someone. Roughly a bit over 200 euros a month.
Sasha: Not much.
Andrey: Especially if you smoke. Tobacco costs 5 euros, once a week. That’s already 20 euros a month. Leaves very little to survive on.
NTD: What do other friends from Russia, Iran, Sudan say? Do they have any common views? What was the emigrant vibe like?
Andrey: I don’t know, we didn’t really socialize. The only thing is, a guy from Somalia bummed a cigarette off me—that was basically it. Otherwise, we didn’t really talk to any of them.
“Just said—let’s go, and we went”: Migration as impulse and escape
NTD: Whose was the first decision to leave Serbia for Spain?
Sasha: Mine, but only to Croatia. I thought we would stay in Croatia. Serbia and Bosnia are visa-free countries for Russians. From Bosnia, you can get into Croatia via a pedestrian border crossing: either by officially requesting asylum or illegally, by bypassing. We reached Bosnia by bus from Serbia, and then walked to the border with Croatia and requested asylum there—so that they would let us through.
After crossing the Croatian border, we went to Hungary by bus. We did this because in Croatian airports, during boarding, they check visas thoroughly and often remove people from flights. In Hungary, they practically don’t do this. When boarding the bus to Hungary, nobody checked our documents (although they supposedly should), and between Croatia and Hungary—it’s an internal Schengen border, so there are no border posts there. The bus arrived directly at the Budapest airport, from where you can fly freely to any country.
Andrey:
One day we were walking along the highway, and Sasha says: “Man, let’s go to Croatia.”
I’m like: “Fuck it, let’s go.” We sharply planned everything right away and… How many weeks passed?
Sasha: Well…
Andrey: I mean, we scheduled it for a week later because I had that cleaning job. And I wanted to get my paycheck first. And go after that. But I warned the employer, accordingly. Actually, a very good woman, really. Because she really helped me out. She gave me loans periodically when I had no money at all.