In early 2022, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine shattered any illusion of a peaceful Europe, unleashing chaos on a scale most thought consigned to history books. Cities crumbled, thousands perished, and waves of Ukrainians fled their homes. Inside Russia, Vladimir Putin orchestrated a spectacle of flag-waving fervor, rallying supporters to cheer a war many didn’t dare question. But not everyone bought the Kremlin’s narrative. Dissent, though criminalized, simmered beneath the surface, and for some, the only way out was to run.
This is the story of one man—call him Dimitri—who fled the horrors of Russia’s front lines, aided by a clandestine network of ordinary people risking everything to defy Putin’s war machine. His journey, like those of countless others, exposes the human toll of a conflict built on coercion and deception, and the quiet resistance fighting to unravel it.
Dimitri, a man in his early 30s, wasn’t born a rebel. He was just another guy in a small Russian town, stitching clothes in a factory for over five years, living a life that felt safe, if unremarkable. Then came COVID, then the war, and suddenly his world unraveled. Debts piled up—a million rubles, a crushing sum. Bailiffs hounded him, but they came with an offer: sign a contract with an elite Moscow regiment, and the debt could vanish. It sounded like a lifeline. “They made it seem like I wouldn’t be anywhere near the fighting,” Dimitri recalls, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Just some logistics job in the background.” He signed, lured by the promise of a quick fix.
What’s troubling is how easily the system preyed on men like him—desperate, cornered, and uninformed. The Kremlin’s mobilization cast a wide net, scooping up not just seasoned soldiers but students, office workers, and anyone who could hold a rifle. Promises of safety and fat paychecks masked the truth: many were being funneled straight to the front. Dimitri learned this the hard way. Within a week of signing, he was in a training camp, the reality dawning that he was being prepped for combat, not paperwork.
The front line was a nightmare beyond imagination. Dimitri’s rare footage, shared at great personal risk, paints a grim picture: flooded dugouts, knee-deep in mud, and the inescapable stench of death. “The forests were littered with bodies,” he says, his words heavy with the weight of memory. “Rats everywhere, eating what was left.” The smell—a sickly-sweet mix of decay and burning flesh—clings to him still. His unit suffered staggering losses, with 93% of his comrades dead or wounded. “They throw people into battle like cannon fodder,” he says, anger cutting through his exhaustion. “No planning, no communication, just death.”
For Dimitri, survival meant desertion. The idea crept in slowly, born of desperation and self-loathing, forever signing up. “How could I not see this coming?” he asks himself, even now. A chance internet connection in camp led him to a YouTube video about Idite Lesom—“Go to the Forest”—a covert group helping soldiers escape. Skeptical but desperate, he reached out. “Good afternoon. Can you help me?” That simple message set his escape in motion.
Across the border in Tbilisi, Georgia, Idite Lesom operates in the shadows. Founded by Grigory, a former Russian charity worker who fled the country when the war began, the group serves as a lifeline for deserters. Its name, a play on a Russian phrase, roughly translates to “get lost”—a fitting mantra for those vanishing from Putin’s grip. Grigory, alongside his sister Daria, a logistics expert named Anton, and a PR manager called Ivan, runs a network of eight staff and up to 200 volunteers scattered across Europe. Their mission is as bold as it is dangerous: help soldiers desert, hide, or surrender to Ukrainian forces. Each path carries an immense risk—betrayal, capture, or death.
Grigory’s resolve is personal. Having run Russia’s largest homeless charity, he saw the war as “the end of the world.” When Putin announced mass mobilization, he found his purpose. “I knew I could use my experience, my contacts, my energy,” he says. Within days, Idite Lesom was born, offering escape routes to those who refused to kill or die for a cause they didn’t believe in. Since its inception, the group has helped over 1,400 soldiers desert and 42,000 avoid the draft, striking a quiet blow against the Kremlin’s war effort.
Dimitri’s escape was a race against time. With a planned offensive looming—one he knew he wouldn’t survive—he had just 14 hours to flee. Armed only with his military ID, he relied on a trusted contact to deliver his passport. He booked a hotel, ditched his uniform for civilian clothes, and hired a taxi to the border. A collapsed bridge derailed his train plans, forcing him to pay a driver to smuggle him out. “I had to move fast, under cameras, past police,” he says. He caught a flight to Yerevan, Armenia, but it didn’t feel safe. So he fled again, this time outside the Schengen zone, adrenaline fueling every step. “It felt like treason,” he admits a mix of guilt and relief in his voice.
Five months later, Dimitri is still running—not from soldiers, but from memories. The war left him scarred, addicted to the adrenaline of survival, and unable to settle into a peaceful life. “I lost the value of my own life,” he says quietly. “And the lives of others.” He misses Russia but knows he can’t go back. His old life—friends, routines, a sense of normalcy—is gone. PTSD haunts him, and he worries about the comrades he left behind, many broken by fear or trauma. “Some couldn’t even form a full sentence,” he says.
What’s striking is the broader cost of this war. Dimitri fears for Russia itself, where a generation of traumatized men will return, hardened by violence. “They’ll come back as professional killers,” he warns. “Crime rates will spike. This is going to end very, very badly.” He’s not alone in his fears. Western intelligence estimates suggest 200,000 to 250,000 Russian soldiers have died, with 25,000 to 30,000 recruits fed into the grinder each month. Many, like Dimitri, were lured by false promises, only to face a meat grinder of a war.
Meanwhile, Idite Lesom presses on. Grigory, now farther from Russia, remains unwavering. “We’ll keep going until this regime collapses,” he says, his voice firm with defiance. For him, every deserter is a victory, a crack in Putin’s armor. For Dimitri, it’s a chance at a new life, however fragile. He’s landed a job offer with a mining firm in Central Africa, a fresh start far from the front lines. But as he packs his bags, the war’s shadow lingers. “My life is divided into before and after,” he says. You get the picture: for those who’ve seen the front, there’s no going back.
