The bell rings at the town hall door. Moscow, Lomonosovsky district. Two police officers – one in a leather jacket, one in a uniform – ask for Artyom Klyga. Klyga, 26, a lawyer in the opposition district administration, is sitting in his office when the men line up in front of him. The one in civilian clothes slams a piece of paper on the table. Klyga should sign and report to the Russian army recruiting office “with ID and some clothes.”
Klyga is not surprised. Since Vladimir Putin announced the partial mobilization two days earlier, on September 21, 2022, the military and police have been specifically looking for opposition members in order to send them to Ukraine as soldiers. As a lawyer, he knows that according to the law he doesn’t actually have to sign. But what does the law apply in Russia in 2022? He saw videos online of people being arrested and then sent to Ukraine. He gathers his courage: “I’m not signing,” he says. The police counter that he is committing a criminal offense. Eventually they leave without arresting him.
Will they come back and take him with them? He gets scared and buys train tickets the next day. Seven days and nine changes later he reached Tashkent in Uzbekistan. In his luggage: a toothbrush, ID card, clothes and an Orthodox picture of Jesus that his mother gave him. He is applying for a German visa from Uzbekistan. In May 2023 he will move to Baiersbronn in the Black Forest.
When the police entered Klyga’s office in September 2022, another young Russian, Alexandr Misko, 26, had just arrived at his girlfriend’s in Munich. He had a performance at a Romanian guitar festival and actually wanted to return to Russia. Since the outbreak of war, he has been constantly updating news, reading in forums and watching videos on YouTube. And everywhere it suddenly says: partial mobilization.
Misko has no idea what that means, who will be drafted, or whether he too has to fight now. But he knows two things: that the Russian government’s military draft is completely opaque. And that he doesn’t want to go to the front. On his cell phone he sees how his compatriots are fleeing in droves. One of his friends is also trying to leave Russia via the Georgian border. Misko is happy to be with his girlfriend in Munich. He stays with her until his visa ends. Then there is no way around home.
Back with his parents in Krasnodar, Misko still feels the pressure that this could happen any day. He is not afraid that Putin’s people will knock on his door. But an email is enough. Once he has been registered with the authorities for military service, he can no longer register a business or leave the country. His career as an international musician would be destroyed. In July 2023, the German authorities finally approved his work visa. Misko takes a half-time position at the Tübingen guitar maker Baton Rouge. He flies to Germany – and stays.
Spring 2024. Misko walks through Tübingen with his guitar bag covered in stickers on his back. The city inspires him. The old buildings, the Neckar Bridge, and there, he points his finger at his favorite snack bar. “I also like that I no longer have to constantly pack my bags,” he says. Germany is the perfect place for a musician. Even in smaller cities there are always festivals taking place.
Shared room, 25 square meters, mold on the walls. This is how Klyga lives in Baiersbronn. Before fleeing, he had just rented an apartment in Moscow. Now he has to go to a café to work because the internet in his room is too slow. Klyga gets a coffee at the counter and sits down at a table. Headphones on, laptop on. He browses his Telegram chats. Dozens of new inquiries again.
As a lawyer, Klyga specializes in military law. On some days, up to 50 Russians who don’t want to join the army ask him for advice. That’s how he tells it. Most recently, sitting in the Baiersbronn train station café, he represented a young Muscovite in court. The man had already received his draft notice. Klyga fought to be allowed to complete his architecture studies first. He posted the success on his blog so that others could point this ruling out to the authorities.
He does not charge money for his consultations. Instead, he has been working for the movement of Russian conscientious objectors since last year. For example, the organization supports around 50 Russian deserters who are stuck in Kazakhstan and Armenia. They are being investigated in Russia for desertion, and they cannot travel further because they do not have passports. “They’re worse off than I ever was,” he says.
With his NGO salary and some legal assignments from Russia, Klyga lives on around 1,700 euros gross per month. He doesn’t need much. Sometimes he goes to visit a friend in Prague. Otherwise he sits in the Baiersbronn train station café and works, day in and day out. Loneliness depresses him, especially in winter. When it rains again for days, he longs for the Russian snow. He would also have liked to travel to his grandfather’s funeral. Or go to the country with friends again, that’s what he enjoyed doing back home. Now all he can do is watch his acquaintances go out on Instagram. He hardly has any hobbies anymore. “The other evening I sat for hours studying a new Russian law. Maybe this is my hobby now.”
When Russian opposition politician Alexei Navalny challenged President Putin in the spring of 2018, Klyga volunteered as an election observer and even met Navalny in person at the constituency office. “I became an activist because of him,” he says.
Navalny’s campaign spread rapidly via YouTube, Instagram and the Russian platform VK. So fast that in 2018 Misko will also be paying attention. He’s not a political person yet, but the fact that corrupt politicians reside in their villas and castles makes him angry. Navalny must be allowed to run for the presidential election, believes Misko, who is joining peaceful protests in Krasnodar. Sometimes he goes with friends, sometimes alone.
He always remains cautious, also for the sake of his parents. They don’t think it’s good that their only son is going to demonstrate. Misko always stays on the edge of the demonstrations, looking for side streets where he could run away. He shouts the slogans, but not too loudly. Holds up a sign, but without naming Putin. No backpack with loops and straps to hold it onto. No open pockets where a cell phone could fall out of while running away. He doesn’t want to end up with a criminal record or be thrown out of college.
When Russia invades Ukraine, followers call on him to take a stand for war. Misko, who is in Russia at the time, hesitates. He reaches millions on social media. If he posts something critical now, he could endanger himself or his relatives.
On February 28, 2022, four days after the Russian attack, he made an Instagram post. He takes several hours to do this, weighing every single word. In the text he refers to his Ukrainian family tree. He says how much it bothers him that innocent people are suffering. He leaves the question of guilt open.
At the end of 2022, Misko will become clearer. “The war must end immediately,” he demands on his social channels. Sometimes he considers protesting even more forcefully. If German authorities see a video of him burning his Russian passport, they may grant him asylum. Then they would understand that he can no longer return. But maybe he’ll want to do that again at some point. What if the war is over and he has burned all his bridges?
March 2024. Klyga’s phone vibrates in the train station café in Baiersbronn. A mother writes via Telegram: Her son received mail. He should report to the army for recruitment. The mother now wants to know what happens if her son simply doesn’t go. She also sent along the letter from the authorities.
Klyga opens the document. At first glance, it looks like an ordinary conscription letter. But then he notices something: Normally, conscripts have to report to one of the 30 or so army offices in the city. But this letter says something about a “recruitment center” that Klyga has never heard of. He investigates: Moscow’s mayor has decreed that all recruitments are to be processed in the new center in the city center. The mayor is breaking the law, and quite brazenly, says Klyga. A municipality cannot decide something like that, only the central government can.
Klyga is well connected with Russian lawyers. Together they accuse the Moscow administration. She is “a good opponent,” he says with almost sporting ambition. The process is now underway. But even if Klyga wins, he will not stop the mobilization in Russia. Why the Sisyphus work? Why represent the law when it is being undermined and manipulated by the government? Sure, sometimes he would like to give up. But then he thinks: “I am one of the few who can help these people.”
Misko writes under his latest music video: “Every action counts.” In the clip he is lying on the wooden planks of a forest path, then, during the chorus, his hair swirls wildly through the image. He covers “Zombie” by the Cranberries, a protest song against indifference in the face of war and violence. Misko actually wanted to release the video when Navalny was released from prison. But his idol died in prison in February 2024. Misko publishes the video anyway. Navalny’s sacrifice must now be a wake-up call for everyone, he writes below. A wake-up call to speak out against the Russian regime, like Navalny did. “Don’t be a zombie, the future of Russia belongs to the living!”
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The original for this article “Artjom (26) lives on 1,700 euros – he fights against Putin’s regime in the train station café” comes from STUTTGARTER ZEITUNG.