Ukraine’s desperate draft-dodgers drown in the river of death
MATVIY, A 24-YEAR-OLD Ukrainian engineer, counts himself among the lucky ones. There were moments, he says, when he thought he wouldn’t make it. The frigid waters of the Tysa river, which form part of the border between Ukraine and Romania, proved far more formidable than he and the trio of fellow draft-dodgers had bargained for. The fast currents carried the strongest swimmer 200 metres downstream. Two were thrown twice that distance, reaching the other side only by a minor miracle. “We could barely breathe by the time we emerged,” Matviy says. “We very nearly drowned.”
War has turned the Tysa (or Tisza, as it also spelt) into a desperate frontier. Forbidden from leaving their country legally, thousands of Ukrainian men of military age (currently 18-60) gamble their lives by swimming across it. At least 33 have drowned since the start of the war, the youngest just 20. The death toll is probably much higher, Ukraine’s border service says, with bodies still stuck in the reeds under the water and unlikely ever to be recovered. After the tenth corpse was discovered, officials began posting graphic photos and videos in an attempt to deter others. But the growing fear of conscription and the promise of a better life in Europe mean the men keep coming. Romania says it recorded 2,373 illegal crossings from Ukraine in the first three months of this year alone.
The southern floodplain of the mountainous Transcarpathia region is the starting point for most of the crossings. The area has long earned its living from the border: from contraband petrol, cigarettes, and other smuggling. The local settlements, rich and well-stocked by Ukrainian standards, owe much to such illicit dealings. But market forces are forcing local criminals to switch from trafficking cigarettes to draft-dodgers. It’s a risky but lucrative business, with fees ranging from $3,000 to $12,000 per person. Matviy, for instance, paid $5,000. In one border town, a few whispered inquiries lead to a short, bald, gold-toothed fixer. Switching in and out of prison jargon, the man offers a competitive price of $3,500.
The fixer is not alone in complaining that his work is getting much harder. “Two weeks ago we were moving them like flies,” he says. “Now there are a hundred soldiers any way you look.” An order from the capital has seen the area reinforced with national guard units and a dozen new checkpoints. There are rapid rotations of officers, he continues, meaning it is hard to develop a business relationship with any of them. The fixer now favours mountain routes to Romania, which can take from ten hours to several days. “Don’t even try the river. They keep finding bodies in the river for some reason. I don’t understand why.”
Another local smuggler going by the name of Vasyl insists that the river remains the most viable route. Contacted by phone, Vasyl says he uses it to slip in and out, even to visit family for the recent orthodox Easter holiday. His routes take a couple of hours. “You just need to know the places. I can show you where you can cross without getting your balls wet.” Vasyl says he helped with the onward transport of a group of 96 Ukrainians from Romania after returning from his Easter trip. The entire group had crossed in a single day. That was above average. Usually, he says, it’s 30-40 a day.
Ukraine’s border service won’t confirm the numbers. But Lesia Fedorova, a spokesperson, says new border protections, sensors and drones stop as many as seven in ten before the men get to the river. “The guys aren’t used to the law. They break right away when we stop them. It’s easy to figure out what they are doing.” Those caught are fined and handed over to the security services. Many try their luck again and again. One was stopped four times.
Ms Fedorova shows one treacherous section of the river, just upstream from the village of Teresva. It was near here that Matviy set out on a cold morning several weeks ago at 5am. The path to the water demands a short hike, followed by a hazardous descent on slippery and jagged banks. The river, ice-cold even in late May, appears calm but is often unexpectedly wild, with strong currents. Traffickers prefer the cover of night for these crossings, so they often leave the young men unaware of the river’s true ferocity until it is too late. The men injure themselves. They get muscle spasms. They get caught in the branches. “The body becomes uncontrollable after five minutes in cold water, even in a wetsuit,” Ms Fedorova says. “Add the current, anxiety, darkness, and the victim stops fighting for his life.” Border guards point to the spot where they found a new body just a few days earlier.
Recounting his own near-death experience, Matviy says he does not remember seeing any border guards when he was in the river. It was so dark, and so scary, he might not have noticed them if they were. The guides had by this point long abandoned the group, leaving them with ripped wetsuits and unclear instructions. But on the other side of the river, things soon picked up. The wetsuited Ukrainians shivered their way to the nearest Romanian village, where they were taken in by locals. Police filled out paperwork, and stamped the passports they had carried with them in watertight bags.
Matviy is now in another European country, chasing an engineering career that he says would have been cut short in Ukraine. He understands other Ukrainians may criticise him, but says he was driven by a survival instinct. He had seen enough of the “safari” in his own city in western Ukraine, where draft officers scour the streets for potential recruits. He still believes in his country, he insists. Ukraine will continue fighting for its freedom and independence. It could rise again after the war. But it will be without him. “The country does not exist for me any more. There’s no way back.” ■