Graft permeates every level of the Russian Army, from the top brass to the grunts. The military’s commanders are fiscal hostages, responsible for their unit’s equipment, much of which had been sold by the previous commander. The officer would be blamed for “not monitoring the equipment” and penalized, so instead of reporting it, the officer would sell some of the military’s fuel to repair the machinery. (And) the actual number of deserters is much higher than reported because commanding officers don't want to officially declare a subordinate AWOL so they won't get knocked by superiors for losing a man.Over the last year and a half, I reported from eight countries across four continents, including more than a year interviewing 18 deserters of the Russian military, for my story “The Deserter.” Together, their experiences gave me a vivid picture of the Russian war operation, its corruption, its chaos and its brutality. The deserters also gave me a window into how they found themselves fighting in the first place and why they then took the extreme measure to flee. My story focuses on one deserter named Ivan and his wife, Anna — pseudonyms we used for their protection.
For Ivan, a kid from nowhere, the military was an honorable path. It held the promise of adventure, defense of the homeland and brotherhood. The reality, however, was very different.
Here is what we can learn about the Russian military and its soldiers from Ivan and Anna, as well as from my conversations with military experts, other deserters and human rights organizations.
At first, soldiers didn’t realize they were being sent to war. Then they couldn’t refuse.
Almost 200,000 Russian service members were stationed at the border with Ukraine for weeks before the invasion in 2022. They had been told this was just an exercise, yet they had been handed weapons, medical kits and gear. After the first few months of the invasion, stories trickled home from the front lines, and volunteers began to dry up. The authorities began an enlistment drive, promising that combatants of the S.V.O., the so-called special military operation, would be considered veterans under Russian law, entitled to a host of lucrative long-term benefits. Recruiters promised cash bonuses for “heroic deeds.”
Officers in Russia faced a different kind of pressure to deploy, including public shaming and threats of violence. Once they arrived behind “the ribbon,” as the front was called, there were additional dangers to refusing orders. They had all heard rumors about the pits, basements where officers were held against their will for refusing to fight. There was a bulletin board, which soldiers called the Wall of Shame, at the center of Ivan’s base, displaying the portraits of these men.
Everyone knew that the Russian military was not squeamish about extrajudicial reprisals.
Before the war, most people enlisted for economic reasons.
Even before the war, the Russian military offered financial incentives for enlistment. When Ivan talked to his men at the front line in Ukraine, they said they hadn’t been dragged there against their will. Some were career enlisted; others signed three-month contracts thinking they could make some money and go home.
After signing, they were told to report back the next morning for transport to the S.V.O. None of Ivan’s men had received the training they were promised.
They told Ivan they fought in the war because the authorities had promised that their children could be admitted into schools normally reserved for those with high marks, bribes or connections.
In the Russian military, appearances outweighed reality.
Under Defense Minister Sergei Shoigu, who led the military until this spring, the most glaring example of this disconnect was the emphasis on metrics, verified by the “photo report.” A commanding officer was not only supposed to do his job but also document everything on camera, from trainings to storehouse checks.
As the slide shows went up the district ladder, Russia appeared to be the most fearsome army on earth. For commanders, it doubled the workload; for grunts, it meant an absurd amount of time wasted standing around posing.
Behind the scenes, it verged on cartoonish — typically one man was chosen and photographed. He swept the barracks, did the dusting, cleaned the bathrooms, fixed the piping and raked the lawn for the camera. Everyone knew it was bogus.
The system is built on corruption, and theft is part of the job.
Graft permeates every level of the Russian Army, from the top brass to the grunts. Ivan watched as one of his commanders stole state-subsidized fuel from the military and sold it on the side at the civilian-market price. He was also ordering his subordinates to saw wood from the base’s firing range so he could sell it.
Few civilians realized that most of the military’s commanders were fiscal hostages. When an officer assumed his position, he was responsible for all his unit’s equipment, much of which had been sold or bartered by the previous commander and so was not actually there. This made it impossible to abdicate his job because it would look as though he stole the equipment, and he would have to use his own money to replace it. The equipment that was there was outdated and broke frequently — the parts were old and unserviceable or the repair unit just didn’t feel like going out. Still, the officer would be blamed for “not monitoring the equipment” and penalized.So instead of reporting a break, the officer would sell some of the military’s fuel to repair the machinery.
The war has resurrected a culture of military brutality.
The Russian casualty toll is now astronomical. During a push for territory this May, British intelligence estimated that roughly 1,250 Russian soldiers were killed or injured each day — and that up to half a million Russians have been killed or wounded since the beginning of the invasion. Still, Russia continued to recruit 25,000 to 30,000 soldiers per month, about the same number that leave the battlefield as casualties.
Russian slang for killed in action is “200.” Many of the 200s were platoon leaders, younger officers leading ill-prepared troops on the offensive.
Rumors across group chats flashed with stories about brutal careerists sitting fat in the back basements and sending young officers to die without a second thought, without intelligence, without provisions.
Cruelty has long been part of the Russian military experience. During the time of the Soviet Army, the lack of a professional noncommissioned officer corps to manage millions of conscripts led to a hazing system known as dedovshchina, in which second-year conscripts — deds, or grandfathers — brutalized first-years. Though the service time has been shortened and the first- and second-year distinction eliminated, this war has resurrected the savagery of dedovshchina.
The younger officers who were abused by their superiors in Russia’s earlier wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya are now the generals, reviving the culture of violence.
Rounds of attempted reforms have meant very little to wartime command.
Deserters’ own commanders don’t want to report them.
It’s impossible to know the real statistics of desertion. Mediazona, an independent Russian investigative outlet in exile, says there have been almost 7,400 AWOL cases in military courts since the start of the mobilization, but experts agree that’s only a small fraction of the number who have tried to escape. This is while the Russian authorities have made it more and more difficult to avoid service.
Last year, the authorities also raised the maximum age of conscription to 30 from 27, which will increase the number in the pool to at least 700,000 by 2025. In April, Mediazona wrote that the rise in the number of deserters in 2024 was “unprecedented.” But soldiers most frequently receive suspended sentences so they can return to base, apologize and be sent straight back to the front line.
The actual number of deserters is most likely much higher because few commanding officers want to officially declare a subordinate AWOL; they don’t want to get knocked by superiors for losing track of a man. So everyone tries to solve the situation on their own to avoid officially entering a soldier’s name into the system.
Desertion is dangerous, and deserters are afraid to speak out.
Very few deserters from the Russian military have spoken to the news media. They know that inside and outside the country, Russians who speak out against President Vladimir Putin can end up dead. Seemingly unimportant individuals are hunted and harassed, thrown off balconies in Europe or the United States. Journalists and activists have been poisoned.
Many deserters can’t flee to safety. Without an international passport, they are trapped in the countries of the Collective Security Treaty Organization, Russia’s answer to NATO, where they are still within easy reach of the Kremlin. Many of the men I spoke to believe that their salvation is farther away, in Europe or the United States. But they say that neither place will have them
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