News
In the firing line: To Russia on false promises
View(s):By Namini Wijedasa
Persuaded by local “agents” that they’ll get non-combat jobs with hefty salaries, citizenship and residency for their families, Sri Lankan ex-military are flocking to Russia only to find themselves deployed to the front lines.
“Even last week, a group of 40 arrived,” said one former Special Forces soldier hospitalised in Russia with injuries sustained in a Ukrainian drone attack. “A friend called me after landing. When we tell them that what we face here is not what they have been promised, they don’t believe us.”
The Sunday Times interviewed three ex-soldiers via telephone this week. They were in Russia on 21 to 30-day tourist visas that have since expired. Two are still in training while the third did shifts at the battlefront until the drone incursion left him with shrapnel in his arm and leg.
All of them were awaiting their overdue salaries. An allowance of 195,000 roubles (Rs. 630,000) was deposited into their Russian bank accounts upon signing a one-year contract. However, the online bank statements of several showed that varying amounts were withdrawn without their knowledge or permission.
Names have been changed to protect their identities. We are also not revealing their locations. They have lost contact with some of their friends and relatives who came to Russia. Nobody could say how many Sri Lankans are currently with the Russian army. But the Russian Embassy in Colombo could assist by revealing the number of short-term visas issued to Sri Lankan ex-military—most of them between 45 and 60—over the past few months.
“One ex-SF soldier I know died on the battlefield while I have no news of another two,” the injured fighter, who we will call “Charith”, said. “They have not telephoned their homes either. When you die like that, and your body isn’t recovered, there’s no death certificate. Your wife can’t even claim the widow’s pension back home.”
Modus operandi
As with most scams, recruitment is happening locally by word of mouth: a friend knows a friend who gets the job done, and so on. And there are striking similarities between the experiences of Sri Lankans and those narrated by mercenaries of other nationalities fighting for Russia.
For instance, all left for better pay and prospects for their families, not motivated by political or ideological beliefs. The majority became heavily indebted to pay the agents. They were promised vast benefits they haven’t received. They were sent to the forward defence lines or are being trained for deployment. Some died, some were injured. They haven’t told their families the truth about their situation. And they say they were duped.
But while countries like India and Nepal have spoken out—calling for Russia to discharge and return their men—the Sri Lankan government has not. Earlier this month, however, the Criminal Investigations Department arrested two suspects, including a retired major, for “fraudulently obtaining money from individuals promising employment in the Russian army”.
Meanwhile, there are reports of Sri Lankans fighting for the Ukraine army but larger numbers are said to be with the Russian military.
The journey
Injured Sri Lankan soldier receiving treatment in Russia
“Palitha”, a 52-year-old ex-soldier from Kegalle, arrived in Moscow in March this year. He was verbally promised a monthly salary of 210,000 roubles (Rs. 676,000) plus life and health insurance to work in non-operational areas. “We were told we would be directly recruited to the Russian army,” he said.
The father-of-three worked as a sea marshall, defending ships against Somali pirates, after retiring from the army. The promise of higher pay prompted him to spend Rs. 1.1mn to get to Russia. The money was paid to a retired army major in Kadawatha who organised the assignment. They speedily received 21-day entry permits and flew to Moscow via Dubai.
At Moscow immigration, they showed officers a Russian language letter containing their names that the local agent had forwarded them. They were waved through. A uniformed soldier escorted them to a villa about four hours from the airport. The weather was biting cold.
Eventually, around 17 Sri Lankans gathered in the house. A man who called himself “Andrew” and a woman named “Elina” told them that once they signed an agreement (which—like the letter addressed to Russian immigration—the Sunday Times has seen and got translated), they would receive 250,000 roubles and 195,000 roubles in two installments “as a gift”, Palitha related, from what he had understood. This is a total of Rs 1.4mn.
The contract, however, places Palitha’s salary at a mere 13,318 roubles a month (Rs. 42,878). The documents we saw were confirmation of his enlistment in the armed forces of the Russian Federation and are signed by Russian military commanders. Units, battalions and certain offices are also named. We chose not to publish the details or photographs.
They were also assured injury and life insurance, Palitha said. “So we translated our children’s birth certificates and our marriage certificates from Sinhala to English and English to Russian and brought them with us,” he said. “To date, nobody has collected them from us.” The agent in Sri Lanka has stopped taking their calls.
Two nights later, they were shifted to a location 10 hours away. There was an empty building with small rooms. They were issued uniforms and boots. Blood samples were collected from them. The following day, an army officer and two other women gave them Russian language agreements which they signed. They were contracted for one year. The military handed them dog tags with Russian letters and a number.
The men also provided their information to set up bank accounts and secure ATM cards. The account is accessible on their phones but Palitha claims that the Russians manning this venue had retained the cards and the relevant personal identification numbers (PINs).
Missing money
“We were told they will give it to us after our details are updated and we transfer to the training school,” Palitha said. Four days later, they were spirited 12 hours away to the school. In the dark, they could make out an area “like a desert”. There were many men from different countries, mostly ex-military.
“If not for people like us, who were hardened in the army, nobody else can tolerate these conditions,” he signed. “It was so cold that when you touch water it was like an electric current passing through our fingers. The commander of the centre also stayed there. There were around 50 tents with beds. We had wood stoves to cook on. We were given weapons—bombs, ammunition—of the highest standard.”
Ukrainian servicemen of the 82nd Separate Air Assault Brigade prepare for combat Challenger 2 tank in an undisclosed location near frontline in Zaporizhzhia region, on February 12, 2024, amid the Russian invasion of Ukraine. (Photo by Genya SAVILOV / AFP)
Water was rationed. Bathing was on Saturdays and Sundays, inside a large truck with eight shower stalls. The body armour with helmet is around 30kg, Palitha said, and getting to the training ground meant walking three kilometres, each way.
When they eventually got their ATM cards and PINs, they found the numbers didn’t work on the online app downloaded on their phones. “The app wouldn’t accept the details we entered,” Palitha explained, and they suspected that the PINs had been compromised. “Sri Lankans who were here before us had the same experience.”
When they sorted this out, and the PINs started working, payments that had been made to them had been drawn out from several of their accounts. Palitha was one of the lucky ones. While there was no sign of a 250,000-rouble deposit, his 195,000-rouble payment was intact. Some got nothing. All their money was gone.
A few days later, they were transported again: 18 of them, in an army truck, for nine hours. They arrived at midnight in the middle of a scrub jungle with two houses. They are now somewhere near the Black Sea in territory captured from Ukraine, like thousands of other mercenaries. The battle is further afield. Training continues but deployment could be any day.
“Nobody seems accountable to us or responsible for us,” Palitha said. “The insurance is the main problem. They said we signed it but why didn’t they take the information of our close relatives? We don’t know what will become of us.”
Phones can’t be taken to the front lines. Even if the signals worked, they attract drones. That’s how contact was lost with those sent to battle. “Some of our boys are scared, some are confused, some have deserted,” he sighed. “They want to go home. But people in Sri Lanka who want to come here think we are being untruthful.”
The battle front
Charith, 58, is a father-of-two from Kegalle. He retired from the SF after 25 years after which, like Palitha, he had been a sea marshall, first with Sri Lankan Defence Ministry’s Rakna Arakshaka Lanka Ltd, then a Greek-owned private company with an office in Colombo.
In mid-January, a friend (who is now serving at the front and with whom he has lost contact) said he could organise a military job through a Sri Lankan in Russia. He paid Rs. 900,000 in several installments to this friend who deposited it with this local in Moscow. He did not deal directly with the agent.
Three of them got 30-day tourist visas and landed in early March. Unlike Palitha, they did not have a letter to show Russian immigration. A plainclothes civilian drove them in a car to a villa. The next day, several buses of people (of many nationalities) were conveyed to an army camp where they did medical tests. They were the only three Sri Lankans.
Digital message boards displayed their benefits, which Charith took a photo of and got translated. “They said we would get 210,000 roubles as salary and a separate down payment of 195,000 roubles,” he recalled.
After another night in the villa, they were shepherded to a bank where accounts were opened and “green colour cards” given. Early next morning, they were handed over to another camp where they signed an agreement and learned the contract was for one year. There followed a two-day bus ride with intermittent stops, at the end of which was a massive training school. They found eight other Sri Lankans there who were about to be deployed.
“Three were refusing to go,” Charith said. “The others were forced to.” Midway through training, a group of 48 Sri Lankans arrived, all brought by the same Sri Lankan agent in Moscow. While these were ex-military, Charith said that other Sri Lankans in Russia, such as students and those working in farms, are signing up for better benefits.
After the course, the three friends were assigned to different platoons. Charith travelled for two and a half days, crossing the Black Sea with others from India and Nepal. They traversed the Ukraine border into territory the Russians had captured. Their final destination was a yard with bunkers from where they could hear the battle—missiles, artillery, drones, battle tanks.
The drone attack
Every two days, Charith put on body armour, tucking his passport and purse inside, picked up a weapon and manned a bunker at the front line some distance away before returning to the yard. This went on for a few shifts. He learned that a Sri Lankan had died in an armoured car blast.
In early April, around 10am, three Ukrainian drones came in. Two were shot down, the other exploded on the ground. Shrapnel ripped into his arm and leg. He stopped the bleeding with rubber bands and crawled about 50m away.
Two Russians then put him on a sturdy net and dragged him 200m into a bunker. A medic administered two injections to dull the intense pain after which a van transported him 20km to a village clinic that bandaged him and put him in splints. Then he was sent to another hospital about 100km away where he was operated on. After four days, he was loaded onto a train with medical amenities including beds and saline.
Charith travelled five days by rail to the hospital he occupies now, where he says he’s well looked after. “An English-speaking doctor said I will get my insurance when I leave the country,” he said, hopefully. Like Palitha, Charith got his 195,000 roubles which he transferred to Sri Lanka through “undiyal” But it’s been two months and he has not received a kopeck more.
“I have not told my wife and children what has happened to me,” he sighed, adding that he is financially broke. “I can’t put my foot down yet but they might send me to the front once I recover. My visa is expired and I don’t know how to get back to Sri Lanka. I have no documents but my passport. I want my salary somehow.”
Charith now suspects the whole thing is a scam. “There are people in a worse situation than me, at the front line, facing death.” he said. “The government must intervene, like India and Nepal did. We were shown a fairy-tale, not reality.”
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