Misha’s story

Posted on November 11, 2025. Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Asylum, gay, lorean, misha, news, politics, refugee, russia, russian, travel, UK, ukraine, uzbekistan |

My name is Misha, and I’m a russian-born, queer-identifying person of Korean descent (ig: @m_m_zakharov). I am an author and film worker (he/they), with a particular interest in queer and/or decolonial perspectives on Central and Eastern Europe, the Caucasus, and Central Asia (EECCA). 

My Refugee Journey

My refugee journey began in March 2022, when I left russia immediately after its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, escaping potential political persecution due to my pro-Ukrainian stance, evading conscription (I was eligible as a male of draft age), and avoiding paying taxes that would fund the military machine. I also feared an impending anti-LGBTQI+ crackdown, which I was certain would occur (and it did — in the form of harsher anti-LGBTQI+ laws in 2022 and 2023, culminating in the so-called ‘LGBT movement’ being designated as extremist). Most of my work — in publishing, contemporary art, and film — has revolved around queer and racial justice advocacy. 

Initially, I fled to Tashkent, Uzbekistan, where I had friends who could shelter me. The five months I spent in Uzbekistan helped me unlearn many colonial biases about Central Asia that had been instilled by the metropole. It is true that Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan in particular remain dangerous for queer people, as these are the only two ex-soviet states where male homosexuality (referred to as ‘sodomy’ in their legislation) is still criminalised. Lesbian and trans people exist in a grey area: not directly targeted, but not protected either. But there are also pockets of freedom, and I was privileged to befriend queer people from Central Asia and their allies; I consider myself an ally to them as well, doing what I can to amplify their experiences through collaborations with various institutions and festivals in the UK, such as Queer East and Atlas Cinema.  

I spent the summer of 2022 working in Italy, at the first-ever national pavilion of Uzbekistan at the Venice Biennale. It was in Venice that I came across an announcement for a fully funded PhD position in the Department of Film and Television Studies at the University of Warwick in Coventry. Having been expelled from my previous university in russia, I was eager to continue my studies and applied. I was invited to join just hours after the interview. I returned to Tashkent, secured my visa, and travelled to the UK in October 2022. I’m now in the third and final year of my PhD — something I couldn’t have dreamed of, which also happened under unimaginable circumstances.

It was nearly two years into my stay in the UK, in August 2024, that the russian embassy in London rejected my application for a renewed international passport — just four days after submission, despite the full procedure typically taking up to six months. I found this incredibly disturbing, as such applications are usually forwarded to the intelligence services for monitoring, and I may have been flagged by their system. 

As someone engaged in LGBTQI+, racial justice, and pro-Ukrainian advocacy, continuing to rely on a russian passport — when my most important travel document and ID must be mediated through the russian consulate — no longer feels sustainable. There have already been multiple cases of activists being either stripped of their passports and rendered stateless, or facing restrictions on travel due to their dependence on russian international passports. There are also rumours that russia may follow Belarus’s lead and prohibit its citizens from obtaining travel documents abroad — a measure already implemented by the Lukashenka government to control activists following the failed revolution of 2020. 

Asylum process in the UK

“[The substantive interview] is dehumanising, and you are treated like a cog in the machine.”

In late 2024, I conducted a thorough two-month investigation into the asylum procedure, meeting with current asylum seekers, recognised refugees, human rights lawyers, and advocates. I realised I needed to prove two things: that I am a queer person of colour with pro-Ukrainian views, and that I am at risk of persecution in my country of origin because of this. Although I was never specifically targeted, I was nearly detained twice at major anti-government rallies, and many of the initiatives I used to work with in russia have either been shut down—with their staff relocating elsewhere—or raided by the police or intelligence services. This, alongside many other factors I neither have the space nor capacity to list here—such as the censorship of some of my texts and my novel about coming of age queer, Korean, and precarious in putin’s russia—made my case a fairly transparent one. 

My personal statement totalled 60 pages, featuring my own story alongside excerpts from anti-queer and anti-Ukrainian legislation, existing precedents of persecution and imprisonment, and more—demonstrating the systematic and widespread nature of the repression. I self-represented, entering the system without a lawyer, as it was crucial for me to speak for myself and on my own terms. Still, I had some common sense, a good understanding of russian legislation (which is deliberately obscured from citizens, let alone outsiders), and a healthy dose of bravery. 

In January 2025, I contacted the Asylum Intake Unit and underwent my screening—the initial procedure for collecting data—later that month. It was then that I officially became an asylum seeker, and my student visa was curtailed. I wasn’t supposed to disclose this information, as the russian authorities were not to be made aware of any of it. After that, I simply had to wait. I was invited to attend my substantive interview — considered the most important part of the asylum process — in mid-April; the interview took place in late May. I can’t disclose the details of the process, but I will say this: as expected, it is dehumanising, and you are treated like a cog in the machine. 

Usually, people wait several days, weeks or even months before a decision is issued. Additional interviews may also be requested. In my case, the decision arrived just a few hours after the substantive interview. 

Again, my case is by no means representative. I arrived in the UK as a PhD student, with a stable university stipend, perfect command of English (a language I’ve practically considered a second native tongue since early childhood), and a rapidly growing network of friends and connections. Thousands of refugees do not share this privilege: those who arrive in the UK by boat, risking their lives to find safety; people housed in hotels with no autonomy over their lives, in constant fear of their location being exposed and attacked by white supremacists; those surviving on benefits; and people with limited or no English and no support networks. 

I would like to draw particular attention to the systemic injustices faced by refugees from Ukraine: it is now practically impossible to obtain refugee status—especially if one returned to Ukraine after the full-scale invasion—as the Home Office then deems the country ‘safe’ enough for return. Instead, Ukrainians must rely on temporary humanitarian protection, which must be periodically renewed. The same applies to refugees from South Caucasian countries such as Georgia and Armenia, and Central Asian countries like Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, which are still considered safer than russia—though even a cursory glance at the news from these regions (and some lived experience) reveals this is far from the truth. 

The asylum system is by no means transparent, but it does have its logic. I would suggest doing some research about the procedure—the differences between asylum seekers and refugees, solicitors and barristers, refugee status and humanitarian protection, screening and substantive interview—and making up your mind as soon as possible, as the recent attacks on migrant and trans rights are seriously endangering future asylum seekers (particularly trans women). The so-called ‘illegal’ refugees—who often happen to be the most vulnerable, having risked their lives crossing the border by boat—will never be able to fully naturalise. 

What now?

I will now be able to travel more freely once I receive my Geneva Travel Document, also known as a refugee passport. If the soon-to-be-introduced changes to current legislation do not affect me, I will be eligible for Indefinite Leave to Remain in five years, and a British passport a year after that. I harbour no illusions about my status: this merely means exchanging the papers of one imperial entity for another—to live in relative safety from the first, while remaining fully aware of the second’s historical and ongoing crimes. But for the time being, I can’t help but experience this as a huge victory. 

This journey is by no means easy—it can easily make one jaded and disillusioned with structures of support that in reality turn out to be quite the opposite, turning you into that tired cliche they use to demonise immigrants: the ungrateful refugee. What I found especially moving—and what propelled me forward—was meeting queer refugees or immigrants who cannot return to their lands because of war (Ukraine and the Republic of Artsakh), or who are effectively stateless (East Turkestan and Palestine). Now that I am a refugee in the UK, surrounded by people of all imaginable ethnicities and genders, and can finally live openly as a queer person of colour, I have neither the desire nor the need to return to russia. Instead, what I find incredibly important is contributing to the visibility of these people’s causes—for instance, through the festival I curated as part of my PhD, and through the belief that they might one day return home. 

I’m not proud of being a refugee in a legal sense, although practically it is of course very important to have the opportunity to travel and naturalise; nor do I wish to define my entire identity by refugee status. Instead, what I’m proud of is having maintained a sense of humanity throughout this incredibly dehumanising process, and the ability to see things clearly. 

I want to thank all my friends who supported me during this time—especially the individuals who wrote supporting letters—and particularly Darianna from Rainbow Migration for her comments on my personal statement. To those escaping countries or regions in EECCA, I would strongly suggest getting in touch with Rainbow Migration and Queer Svit, a volunteer-run organisation that has been doing incredible work in terms of helping queer asylum seekers of colour from the region. 

This story was originally published at https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/mishas-story/

Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )