The Story of My Escape: Three Rejections, One Campaign of Harassment, and a Country That Wanted Me to Stay Silent

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This is the story of how I tried three times to leave the country legally, because it had become dangerous to stay in Russia. It’s about how working at the visa center gave me hope—and then shattered it. And it’s about why I decided to flee anyway.

In the fall of 2024, after yet another visa denial, I was just going through the motions. I wasn’t living—I was merely existing. I’d wake up feeling empty. Not sadness, not pain—just emptiness. It was as if someone had unscrewed a lightbulb inside me, and I no longer knew how to shine. It didn’t matter what I had, where to go, or what to do. Everything felt equally meaningless.

How One Name Marked the Beginning of the End

If it had just been a matter of getting fired—I could have gotten over it. Let’s call him Amid; he decided that destroying me was a great way to assert himself. He posted on social media, describing me as anything but himself. And people believed it—because anger, especially when it’s widespread, always finds a reason.

The fact that I openly said I was gay became a great source of entertainment for his followers. They came in droves. The crowd always wants blood.

"You haven't accomplished anything except getting fucked in the ass."
"We're going to ruin your life."
"You're a nobody here."

Each new message felt like a blow to the chest—not a strong one, but a steady one. Steady. Devastating precisely because of its regularity.

When I was trying to get a new job, I didn’t need to say a word—people already “knew everything” about me. False stories took on a life of their own. St. Petersburg suddenly became a small village where rumors travel faster than people do.

I stopped feeling safe. There wasn't a single place in the city where I didn't feel like someone knew some dirt on me—dirt that someone else had made up.

In January, after police officers stopped me and searched my phone from top to bottom—including all the photos, videos, and messages that “promote non-traditional values”—I became even more frightened. This is a real threat to my freedom—not only in love, but in my basic way of life as a whole.

Months of Silence That Became Too Loud

Time dragged on, thick and sticky. I sat in my apartment, listening to the old refrigerator hum louder than I did. The St. Petersburg winter weighed down on me—dark, wet, and oppressive. I’d step outside, and it felt as if the city were trying to drown me in its grayness.

I could no longer tell the difference between morning and evening. There was only a gray stretch of time called “just another day.”

The Work That Brought Warmth for the First Time

I was browsing job listings without any expectations. I was clicking through them without feeling anything. And then suddenly— "Specialist at the Spanish Visa Center". “A good opportunity after all those visa denials,” I thought. A ray of hope in the fog. I sent my resume, not even believing that anyone would want me.

But I was invited. The sun was shining outside—unexpected, bright, almost mocking. At the interview, for the first time in months, I felt something that resembled life. They hired me on the spot.

The team was perfect. I didn’t know that in 2025 there could be a place in Russia where people were simply happy to see you. We laughed. We shared strange and funny stories about work. The visa center became an oasis of safety that I had been missing so much.

I studied everything: the requirements, the documents, the procedures. I knew every little detail. And one day I thought: if anyone deserves to get a visa, it’s me.

I submitted the paperwork. I had a ticket to a Lady Gaga concert—an argument that seemed, on the face of it, airtight.

The failure that knocked the wind out of us

Twenty-two days later, an envelope arrived. It was white, thick, and neat—as if it contained something important. I opened it right at the doorstep. And I saw a single word that ruined everything:

REJECTION.

It felt like I’d been punched in the ribs. I couldn’t breathe. I worked with these people every day. They knew my name. They’d seen my face. And yet— no.

It's not about the paperwork. It's about feeling like you're not needed. It's as if the world were saying, "There's no place for you here."

Attempt No. 2: When Hope Is the Only Thing Left to Lose

For a week, I felt like I was falling into a void. I decided that was it. That emigrating wasn't for me. That I'd never make it out of a country that hates me.

But one thought kept nagging at me: if I didn’t try one more time, the chance would be gone forever. I sat down and wrote the appeal. I rewrote every sentence. I tried to sound honest, calm, and convincing. Even though inside, I was trembling all over.

And I submitted it the next day.

A visa is like the first breath of air after being underwater for a long time

Two weeks later, I was holding my passport in my hands. I opened it slowly, as if there were a grenade inside. And there it was—the visa. Short. Fragile. But real.

I walked out of the consulate. The sun was blinding. The air was fresh—so fresh that, for the first time in many months, I took a deep breath.

It wasn't a moment of victory. It was a moment of survival.

The End, Which Is Actually the Beginning

This story isn’t just about visas. It’s about what happens to a country when fear becomes state policy and hatred becomes its language. When LGBT people are declared a threat, persecution is justified, and denunciations are encouraged. When the state ceases to be a space for living and turns into a mechanism of coercion: to remain silent, to hide, to be afraid.

The harassment I went through is not an isolated case. It’s an exact replica of how Russia works today: a signal is sent from the top, and those below happily pick it up. Some do it out of conviction. Others do it out of fear. Still others do it simply because they can. There is no room for human beings in this chain. There are only functions.

My escape was possible not because the system gave me a chance, but because it malfunctioned. Just a little. For a few days. And I managed to slip through. You understand the sheer hopelessness of it when your salvation depends on a bureaucratic glitch.

When I stepped out onto the street with my visa in hand, I didn’t feel like I’d won. It felt as if I’d been pulled out of the water, where I’d already stopped struggling. I took my first breath of fresh air and realized: here, in freedom, my very existence is no longer a crime.

Today I live in a place where my name doesn’t provoke hatred. Where my words aren’t a reason to be denounced. Where the government doesn’t view me as a threat. And most importantly—where I don’t wake up thinking that today might be the very day when it all comes to an end.

People often say to me, “You could have stayed.” No. Staying there would have meant dying a slow death—from fear, from humiliation, from silence. Staying would have meant accepting the rules of a game where your life is worth less than someone’s malicious fantasy.

I chose not to be part of this game.

Russia likes to say that no one understands it. But in reality, it simply doesn’t accept those who aren’t willing to live by its rules. And if you have a chance to leave—you must leave. Even if it’s your last chance. Even if it comes at the cost of your own fragility.

I’m writing this story not to elicit sympathy. But to remind you: in a world where they try to silence you, the most important thing is to keep speaking out. Speak out loud. Speak honestly. Speak in a way that even those who find it unbearable will hear you.

My escape isn't a victory. It's survival.

But sometimes survival is the most important form of resistance.