"You’re done for – the judge doesn’t like Russia." The sentence hit like a stone. No legal argument, no doubt, no room for interpretation. Just a verdict that had already been made long before any hearing began. That’s what it sounds like when justice has been replaced – by posture, rejection, refusal. Today, anyone standing at America’s border as a Russian refugee doesn’t need to be guilty. It’s enough that they are simply there.
He had an ear infection and waited two months to see a doctor. In the end, the officer said, "If you have a stroke – just apply for deportation." The words weren’t spoken in cynicism, but in indifference. Every attempt to be heard was met with the same phrase: "Then apply for deportation." In the facility where he was held, a man tried to kill himself. They had taken away a razor blade from him and punished him by putting him in solitary confinement. Only after he tore open his veins with his teeth was he given treatment. Russians hanged themselves. Diabetics didn’t get medicine – just a finger prick to check blood sugar, and nothing more. And he too, he says, eventually became so sick that even painkillers stopped working. On one of the rare occasions when they were allowed outside, he met someone who had been transported along with his wife. It turned out she was in the same facility. Starting from the third hearing, they were brought into the courtroom together, seated side by side – then separated again. They weren’t allowed to touch each other. One wrong look, too much closeness – and the guards would storm in. "No physical contact!" They didn’t say it. They screamed it. Some Russian families were completely torn apart. The woman sent to Louisiana. The child to a shelter. Some men received letters from their wives: "I applied for voluntary departure. I can’t take it anymore." And no one knew what was worse – staying or leaving. Only around the turn of the year did they begin to release people who had been detained for more than five months. His wife was released in December, he in January. No explanation. No apology. Just an empty space in the cell.
Now they live somewhere in the United States. Waiting for a court date that might come next year – or never. They have a sponsor, health insurance, but no right to work. Any mistake, any little thing – and they’ll be sent back. Back to the bars, the numbered mattresses, the land without time. "We lived in fear in Russia," he says. "And now we live in fear in America." They’ve kept their Telegram channel. For now. For now, they haven’t given up. They say: "We’ve lost everything – our life there, our hope here." And anyone who hears it realizes: hope is not always a beginning. Sometimes it’s the last thing you lose. He says, "I know I have no rights. They’re letting me stay here. That’s all." And then he says the sentence that hits like a punch to the chest: "Your life no longer belongs to you." Because anyone who is deported doesn’t simply return. They vanish. Upon arriving in Russia, you pass through passport control – and after that, every trace disappears. The officers hand back your papers. Your phone. Your file. And then the thing you fled from begins – officially. A deportation flight is not a return. It’s a sentence without a judge.
Dmitry Valuev, chairman of Russian America for Democracy in Russia, calls the situation "catastrophic." Since mid-2024, he says, Russian refugees have been held in so-called "detention centers" – that is, prisons for people who have committed no crimes. Almost all are cut off from the outside world. There are indications that a secret directive exists requiring people from certain post-Soviet states – Russia, Georgia, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan – to remain in detention until their cases are fully processed. No official version. No document. Just clues. In some facilities, Russians now make up over 60 percent of the detainees – even though they are a clear minority among asylum seekers. Alina Kats, an immigration lawyer, says, "Most cases fail because they’re poorly prepared. Since the fall of 2024, government attorneys have challenged more than 90 percent of the granted asylum applications." Her "Detentions Project" helps families who have been separated. It organizes free translations, connects them with legal support, builds networks. But she also says, "It’s not enough. Families with children are the most vulnerable. Often, they’re never reunited." And she says the sentence that sticks: "If you want to apply for asylum in the U.S. – prepare for everything. You don’t need courage. You need a plan."
English 
German 
