After some time, the immigration department of our company contacted me and informed me that the only American embassy where I, as a Russian citizen, could quickly obtain a U.S. visa was located in Kazakhstan. Therefore, after living in Antalya for a month, I started packing my things and set out for Kazakhstan.
On May 2, I was already in Almaty, ready for the next stage of my life. Having rented a studio apartment for a month in the Almaly district on Shevchenko Street in advance, I arrived at night. However, on my way from the airport to the rented apartment, I encountered a taxi scammer who charged me 17,000 tenge, although, as I later found out, the ride should have cost only 1,000–2,000. Thus began my acquaintance with Kazakhstan.
When I moved in and looked out the window, a typical Soviet city unfolded before my eyes—everything looked just like it did in Russia. Although I lived in a newly built apartment, the area was surrounded by old Soviet five- and nine-story buildings, familiar from many Soviet cities. Being on a high floor allowed me to see the surrounding architecture, which conveyed the atmosphere of those very Soviet neighborhoods I knew so well.
These buildings were characterized by simple geometry and a lack of decorative excess; every architectural element was dictated by utilitarianism and functionality. Wide balconies, weathered walls, and facades identical in shape and color—all of this carried the same atmosphere that once defined Soviet districts.
This atmosphere was created not only by the architecture, but also by certain small details—empty courtyards with sandpits, rickety wooden benches, and old asphalt. All of this created a sense of déjà vu—as if I had ended up in one of the familiar corners of Moscow, where time seemed to have stopped.
The next day, the first thing I did was go to buy a local SIM card and found a Beeline office on Zhibek Zholy Avenue, at a place known as Arbat Almaty.
Arbat is a popular unofficial name for a pedestrian street, called that by analogy with Moscow’s Arbat, the famous pedestrian street where artists, musicians, and craftsmen display their works and put on performances.
Strolling along Almaty’s Arbat, I felt as though I had ended up in a familiar Moscow neighborhood—a slightly different pace, different people, but still similar storefronts and the familiar spirit of the Soviet past lingering in the smallest details. This place seemed to me like a mix of Moscow’s Arbat and a typical provincial avenue. After buying a Kazakh SIM card, I walked around the city for a while and got to know its atmosphere.
In Kazakhstan, I was hired at the local EPAM office and received a temporary residence permit (TRP). I was also informed that to enter the United States, a COVID-19 vaccination was mandatory. The vaccination had to be done in two stages, four weeks apart. After the second dose, I needed to wait another month.
Finding a place to get vaccinated turned out to be a real challenge. For a long time, I couldn’t find a clinic willing to vaccinate me: some places were out of vaccines, others refused to treat foreign citizens. However, in the end, I managed to find a clinic where I was vaccinated with the Chinese Sinopharm vaccine.
In this city, I was surprised to learn that Andrey—a friend from the Sun Myung Moon Unification Church, whom I had met back in 2013 on Cosmonauts Street—lived here. We got in touch, and Andrey confirmed that he now lived in Almaty.
On May 7, Andrey came to pick me up by car, bringing his children. He picked me up, and we went to the Ile-Alatau National Park. Our trip began with a ride on the Medeu Cable Car to the Shymbulak ski resort. It was an incredible feeling—slowly ascending, watching the majestic mountains and clear sky.
At the very top, we decided to stop and sit at the Oblaka Restobar, located at 3,200 meters altitude. We enjoyed our meal and the view of the surrounding mountains. The air was fresh, and the atmosphere was peaceful and serene. This place, without a doubt, was memorable for its beauty and the sense of freedom it offered.
The trip with Andrey and his children was not only exciting but also very warm. I watched as Andrey, a caring and attentive father, looked after his lively kids, guiding and helping them. Sometimes I joined in their games and conversations, adding some fun to our day. These moments with the children gave the trip a special charm and filled it with additional joy.
By the end of the day, Andrey invited me to the Sunday service at their church, and I agreed. The next day, I came to their meeting place by ten in the morning. The location was a rented space that served as their church for gatherings, prayers, and sermons. I already knew some of the people there from meetings in Moscow, but there were also new faces—getting to know them turned out to be interesting. After the service, we all went for a walk in the Almaty Botanical Garden. It was a wonderful choice for a walk—a quiet, green place with many trails, exotic plants, and cozy corners for relaxation. The day ended at a Korean café, where I ordered Tom Yum. After that, we gradually parted ways, and I walked for a while with a woman named Bakhyt, a Cossack, discussing with her the problems of the Kazakh people and the Kazakh language.
Andrey also told me about the Kaspi system, which is extremely popular in Kazakhstan. Kaspi is a multifunctional platform that includes a mobile bank, payment and credit services, as well as an online store for goods and services. It not only allows you to easily and quickly carry out financial transactions through the mobile app, but also to buy various goods and pay for services, making it indispensable in everyday life for Kazakh people.
After our Sunday service meeting, the next week I decided to apply for a Kaspi bank card. I went to one of their branches, and the card was printed right there, on the spot, by a machine. That’s how I got my own Kazakh bank card, which was very convenient for future trips and purchases.
So, I started living in Almaty, working remotely. Sometimes I walked around the city, went shopping, and gradually got used to this new place.
On the night of June 1, as usual, I decided to go out for a beer. On my way back, just as I reached my building, I noticed two girls sitting on a bench—they were also drinking beer and clearly in the mood for conversation. Thinking it was a good opportunity to spend the evening, I approached them. We got acquainted, and one of them was named Asel. The conversation flowed easily, and soon they admitted they were looking for a place to use the restroom.
I offered to let them up to my place—I had a bathroom, after all. They glanced at each other and, laughing a little, agreed. We went upstairs together, a bit tipsy but in the mood for adventure. Asel’s friend, upon entering the apartment, immediately lost interest in everything and lay down on the bed, soon falling into a deep sleep.
Asel, on the contrary, seemed to come alive. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and she wouldn’t leave me alone, bombarding me with personal questions. We stood by the window, her hands gently touching the windowsill, and I stood very close, feeling her warmth and breath. Then she sat on the windowsill while I stood nearby, leaning towards her, and we talked—trying not to reveal too much. She was persistent, and each of her questions got deeper. She even asked me if I wanted children.
Finally, tired of our conversation, Asel stretched, smiled at me, and went over to her friend, who had been dozing for a while. She lay down next to her, and soon their quiet breathing blended into one melody, leaving me alone with my thoughts about what had just happened.
At dawn, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to go to McDonald’s for breakfast, as there was nothing else nearby except the McDonald’s, which opened at seven in the morning. When I returned, I woke the girls up with food, and we had breakfast together. They were happy, although it turned out they were already quite late for work. I watched as they made excuses to their bosses, inventing various reasons for being late.
My communication with Asel continued through messaging. She mentioned that on the weekend, she and her friends planned to go hiking to Furmanov Peak. I couldn’t resist and asked if I could join them. Asel and her friends agreed, and on the designated day, we went together to the Ile-Alatau National Park.
Furmanov Peak is named after Dmitry Andreyevich Furmanov, a Soviet writer and political figure known for his works about the revolution and civil war. Furmanov was also a commissar in Vasily Ivanovich Chapaev’s division, and this experience inspired him to write the famous novel “Chapaev”.
His literary work and activity for the benefit of the Soviet Union left a significant mark on history, and many geographical sites in the former USSR were named after him. Furmanov Peak in Ile-Alatau is one such place, symbolizing not only the natural beauty of the region but also the memory of the past.
My physical condition at that time left much to be desired, and I fell a bit behind. The girls reached the summit first, while I arrived a bit later, watching them easily conquer the last stretch of the ascent. When I finally joined them at the top, all of us were smiling—the feeling of accomplishment was incredibly inspiring.
After that, we descended a bit and had a light picnic in front of a picturesque valley. We enjoyed the fresh air, simple snacks, and pleasant conversation.
After our picnic, refreshed and satisfied, we continued our descent. The trail led us to one of the most striking and unusual places on the route—the famous swings set on one of the hills near Furmanov Peak. That became our next stop.
These swings, located high above a deep gorge, immediately captured our attention. We took turns sitting on them, swinging above the abyss, feeling the wind rush through the space around us. With every swing, dizzying panoramas of the Ile-Alatau mountains opened up before us, creating a sense of flight and complete freedom. That moment became a symbol of adventure and freedom for us, filling us with a feeling of joy and absolute lightness, as if for a brief moment we could soar and become part of these majestic landscapes.
At the end of the day, we took the bus home, tired but happy. That hike became a special moment for me—not only because of the beautiful views and fresh air, but also because of the new acquaintances and amazing emotions we shared with Asel and her friends.
However, it didn’t turn into anything more—Asel and I just messaged each other from time to time, as I was expecting to move to the U.S. soon.
During one of my conversations with Andrey, he mentioned that he had an apartment that he usually rented out, but at the moment it was vacant. He offered to let me rent it cheaply if I was interested. At first I hesitated, but in June I decided to move into his place, located on Turgut Ozal Street, also in the Almaly district.
After I moved in, Andrey immediately ordered the installation of an air conditioner, explaining that it would make my life much more comfortable given the high floor and hot Almaty climate. The air conditioner was installed in my room, which significantly improved my living conditions.
I also told Andrey that in Turkey, while traveling by bus from Istanbul to Antalya, I had spilled something on my laptop, and the screen stopped working. Andrey said he knew a repair guy. He took my laptop and brought it to the technician, and a while later he returned it to me. The repair was quite inexpensive.
On Sundays, I occasionally attended church services and gatherings, which became an important source of support for me. This helped me realize that, despite challenges and loneliness, there were still people around willing to share their kindness and attention. After the service, there was usually a communal lunch that started with a group prayer. This moment united us, creating an atmosphere of warmth and support, where everyone felt part of something bigger.
By the end of June, I decided to take a vacation and went to Russia. This was my first trip back home since the war began. In the first days, I did everything I had planned, and then simply enjoyed the summer. One day, I was drinking beer outside and approached the Stolitsa shopping center near my house. There were many people around; it was a lively summer. In conversation with some people, I asked their opinion about the “special military operation.” In response, I heard propagandistic statements that NATO had attacked Russia. This made me very angry, and I started speaking out, calling them idiots and insisting there had been no attack. In the end, I got beaten up. I headed home, and as I tried to enter my building, the police arrived and detained me. I was charged with petty hooliganism and spent the night at the police station.
The next morning, I was woken up early and brought outside, told to wait a bit. With me was another man—a migrant who apparently had violated immigration laws and was now awaiting a deportation hearing. We stood together, the police smoked, and gradually a conversation started between us.
As I reflected on our different fates, the police turned their attention to me. They began to claim that my brain had been washed and tried to convince me that things were not so bad in the country. I, in turn, tried to argue back. At one point, the conversation turned to conspiracy theories. One of them asked, “You know, some people believe that the USSR never actually collapsed. Do you believe that too?” The question was tricky.
Formally, the Soviet Union collapsed on December 26, 1991, when the Supreme Soviet of the USSR adopted the declaration on the dissolution of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. However, in my view, the power structure remained the same. The bureaucracy, the people in power, and the management principles—all this survived, just adapted to the new reality. Political transformation does not always mean real change. On the one hand, much has changed formally, but the deep-seated problems and approaches remained the same. This conversation continued as we waited, and eventually we were taken to the Nagatinsky District Court of Moscow.
I remember how the bright summer morning was reflected in the car windows. When we arrived, we faced a long and tiresome wait, but there were no judges present. After an hour of useless waiting, the police decided to take me back to the station.
I was placed in a cell again and informed that I’d have to wait until lunchtime. The mere fact of being in a cell with no certainty frightened me. To distract myself, I asked the police for a newspaper. They agreed, and having received a newspaper, I settled on the cell bench to forget about my situation for a while. Soon, fatigue overcame me and I fell asleep, hugging the newspaper.
In the middle of the day, I was woken up again and taken back to court. As before, the same man—the migrant—was with me, looking even more dejected. The police told him that the court would order his deportation at his own expense, and he seemed to have accepted this idea. Watching him, I realized his situation was worse than mine—he was facing not just a hearing, but actual expulsion from the country.
Upon arrival, we were left to wait again. This time, the wait was a bit more interesting. I sat and talked to the police officers, who tried to convince me that everything was fine in the country and there was no need to be upset. They said they saw no deterioration in the situation and that the authorities weren’t doing anything terrible. One of them noted that his life hadn’t changed—in his opinion, everything was calm in the country and there was no reason for concern. I tried to argue with them, but at some point, I grew tired of debating—it was useless to persuade people whose opinions were already formed. Instead, I just kept the conversation going to distract myself. Their calmness and informal manner helped me relax a little, and I responded more openly. One of them even jokingly suggested we go have a barbecue together sometime. I smiled and said, “Yeah, sure, why not.” That strange, almost absurd moment of friendliness in such a situation gave me mixed feelings, but I couldn’t help but agree.
When my hearing finally came up, I entered the courtroom and stood at the stand. The judge began asking questions, one of which was, “Do you have any medical conditions that might affect your participation in the hearing?” Somewhat embarrassed, I replied that I had hearing loss in one ear. She smiled, encouraging me: “Well, we’ll just speak up, no problem.”
Then the judge delved into the documents. She leafed through them for a long time, and suddenly her expression changed. She frowned and exclaimed sharply, “What is this? I don’t understand these documents!” It was obvious her irritation was directed at the police, and she continued in an annoyed voice: “Let the guy out of the courtroom and give him back his passport.”
The police, clearly disappointed, returned my passport and drove me back to the police station. There, they made me sign a statement promising to return in a week. They also asked me to unlock my phone and give it to them for a short time. I found it strange, but I didn’t really have a choice, so I complied. After a while, the officer standing nearby said, “Look, we’ve loaded some viruses onto it,”—but I didn’t find it funny. Maybe they really did. Not that I had anything to hide, so I didn’t care. I did what I had to, and finally left the station, heading home.
A week later, I went back to the station. I was asked to go up to the second floor, where I was met by a woman named Margarita. She said, “Here’s the thing: your documents aren’t ready yet. You’ll have to come back again in a week.” I said, “Okay,” and she added, “And please, don’t show your indignation so openly, or it could be a different article.” I replied, “I know, for discrediting the army. But that’s exactly what bothers me.” She laughed, and we said goodbye. I went home and waited another week, but no one called me.
Realizing that my vacation was coming to an end and I couldn’t wait any longer, I decided not to waste time and returned to Kazakhstan. Once I was back, my company informed me that some people from Google wanted to interview me for their project. I agreed, and on the appointed day, I had the interview.
There were two interviewers—one of them was Black, which seemed quite unusual to me, since I had never previously discussed work with African Americans. It was an interesting experience, and I felt that the world was truly becoming global. Some time later, I received a response: they had decided to take me onto the team.
That same evening, just a few hours after I’d received a positive reply from Google, I got a call from a police officer named Margarita. She told me my documents were ready and that I needed to appear at the police station and in court. I calmly replied that I was in Kazakhstan and had no plans to return anytime soon. She paused for a moment and then, with a faint note of disbelief, joked: “And what if I check with the migration service?” I answered simply, “Go ahead and check — I really am in Kazakhstan.”
After a short silence, I asked her how long it would take before my administrative case was archived. Margarita replied with irony: “You’re joking, right? Well, normally, two years.” I chuckled and said, “All right then, see you in two years.” We said goodbye, and I hung up feeling a mix of relief and bitterness. I realized I probably wouldn’t return to Russia for at least two years — and that decision, strangely enough, gave me a sense of freedom.
Soon after, I filled out a form on the website of the U.S. Embassy in Almaty to schedule a work visa interview — and almost immediately received an appointment for mid-August. That marked the start of an intense preparation period: I gathered every required document, double-checking that nothing was missing.
One day, while waiting for the interview and growing tired of staying home, I decided to drink. In the evening, I went out and bought some beer. The second time I went out for more, already tipsy, I felt like having company — some real, human conversation. On the street, I met a couple of local men, clearly in their forties and in a good mood, drinking as well. They were both Kazakh, and soon another man joined us.
This newcomer turned out to be Russian. He had come to Kazakhstan on personal business, though things weren’t going well for him: his phone was pawned, and he’d left home indefinitely. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe a sudden surge of compassion, but I decided to help him — and I bought his phone back from the pawnshop. That’s how we started talking, and eventually, I even invited him to my place.
At home, we kept drinking late into the night. He looked exhausted from the road and, as if trying to restore a bit of order in his life, he washed his socks — a small gesture that somehow felt symbolic, as though he’d finally found a place to rest. But after he left, I noticed that my second phone — the one I rarely used — was gone. To my disappointment, he had taken it. It was a strange and unpleasant realization: the man I’d welcomed with such warmth had become the first and only person to steal from me since I’d been abroad.
A few days later, tired of sitting inside again, I decided to take a cab to Lake Kapshagai, located north of Almaty near the city of Konaev (Қонаев), Kazakhstan. I ordered a Yandex.Taxi and soon arrived by the water. The weather was perfect — sunny and clear, as if designed for a day outdoors. I decided to swim, and in the water, I met another man.
This new acquaintance was… a bit of a shady character. From his disjointed sentences, I gathered he was somehow involved in business on the darknet. I didn’t press for details — it all sounded too slippery for my taste — and I preferred to keep the conversation neutral.
Still, the day turned out to be quite pleasant. We swam together, talked about a few harmless topics, and later grabbed a bite at a small café nearby. He turned out to be decent company, and by evening, when it was time to head back, I called a cab and returned to my neighborhood in Almaty. It had been an unexpectedly eventful day.
Finally, the day of the interview arrived. At the embassy entrance, I had to hand over all my electronic devices, and the waiting room felt oddly tense — perhaps because there were no clocks anywhere, and time seemed to have stopped. I sat next to another guy who was also applying for a work visa. We started talking; he was headed to New York and worked in a field unrelated to IT. Listening to his story helped pass the time while we both waited for our turn.
When my name was called, I was invited to the booth of the consul’s assistant — his name was Konstantin. We began speaking in Russian, and from the first moments the interview had a friendly, informal tone. At one point, Konstantin smiled and asked me in English, “Do you speak English?” I smiled back: “Yes, of course.” He nodded: “Just checking.” Then, without any further delay, he added, “Alright, everything’s approved. Have a good flight to California.”
At that moment, I felt the tension melt away. My interview had gone smoothly, and my work visa was approved.
