Originally, I wrote this story in Russian around eight years ago, at the lowest point of my life. I had no job, was buried in debt, and completely burnt out. This is an adapted and translated version, with added context for non-Russian readers.PART 1. 2012 — Fourth Year of University
You know how movies portray spies or criminals living double lives? Well, I wasn’t James Bond or a serial killer — but I did have two totally separate social circles.
One circle was “normal”: family, classmates, university friends, colleagues. The other… not so much. These were people who weren’t exactly criminals, but not exactly law-abiding either. Every single one of them had tried drugs. Most had driven drunk. They lived for the thrill, the party, the chaos. That’s probably why I stuck around — some moments were really fun. Others? Terrifying.
By the time I reached my fourth year at university, I was pretty much done with that second group. I had swapped out party girls for smart university women and my friends from the “normal” world were still around — amazing people, then and now.
But sometimes, out of boredom, I’d still meet with people from that old circle. One evening, I got a call from someone I’ll call Peter, asking for a favor. He wanted me and another mutual friend to vouch for him in front of some “business partners” — he owed them money.
Now, in Russia, especially in the early 2010s, informal loans from shady businessmen were not uncommon. And "co-signing" in such situations didn’t mean paperwork — it meant you were morally and sometimes physically on the hook if things went south.When we entered the office, five heavyset guys in leather jackets were already there. But the scariest person in the room was an elderly man in an expensive suit — the lender. For a moment, I thought I was in a scene from the ’90s. I even texted a girl I liked at the time, just in case this was my last night alive.
That man — a loan shark — wasn’t a killer, just an intimidating relic of post-Soviet capitalism. He had a small armed escort and dealt with late payments… in his own way.
Peter owed about 10 million rubles (roughly $320,000 at the time). His business had flopped and he could repay only 2 million. So we had to vouch for him. We signed a statement, gave our personal details, and the loan shark told us:
“Your friend loves to gamble. One day it’ll kill him. If he dies before repaying the debt, it’s on you.”
Some of the guards had visible firearms. I thought they were corrupt cops — later I found out they worked for a private security agency.
Peter was grateful and even invited us to celebrate afterward. To him, it was salvation. For us? It was a mess.
A few months later, Peter vanished. Even his family didn’t know where he went. The lender called us and said: “Alright, four million from each of you.”
When they found out I was a university student earning 5,000 rubles/month (about $160), living in my grandma’s apartment, their faces said it all.
They didn’t know I freelanced and made another 15–20k/month. But eventually, the old man allowed me to repay in small installments — 5,000 a month. Brutal, but fair. He said that once I graduated and got a full-time job, the payment would increase.
Nobody in my “normal” life knew about this. I once considered asking my best friend for a loan but decided against it.
So by the end of that year, I was making around 20,000 rubles/month and had a debt of 4 million.
PART 2. 2013–2014 — Graduation and First Jobs
Living under that kind of debt — especially to shady people — is crushing.
As I was finishing university, I quit my low-paying campus job and went to work in the Novosibirsk Akademgorodok Technopark — a government-sponsored tech incubator in Siberia’s academic capital.
The job sucked. I made iOS ad-based games in Objective-C, 10 per day — literal shovelware. I bounced between offices, companies, and floors. Tedious as hell.
But thanks to that job, I was able to secure a bank loan and repay the loan shark. I figured, better be in debt to a bank than to a man with bodyguards.
In early 2014, I left Technopark for an unpaid internship that let me complete my final project. I was told I should be grateful just to have the opportunity.
After graduation, I joined Russian Railways — a massive state-owned transport monopoly — because I was a “targeted student” (a company-sponsored scholarship with mandatory post-grad work). If I had refused, I would have owed them nearly a million rubles up front.
My RZD salary was 25–30k/month, and my debt was down to 2.8 million rubles. But with 12-hour alternating shifts, I couldn’t freelance anymore.
PART 3. The Business That Destroyed Me
I still believed I could repay everything. After all, I had once earned 200–250k/month freelancing. So I thought: I need a business. I need something big.
A friend suggested starting a mid-sized food production company. He knew someone whose relatives worked in government agencies and could handle all the red tape.
The plan:
- I’d handle tech and marketing — websites, branding, etc.
- My friend would run production (he had the background).
- The third partner (our friend’s connection) would handle finances, accounting, and paperwork.
We needed $500,000 total. Roughly 18 million rubles at the time.
Here’s where it gets wild: that third guy had ties to banks and got us foreign currency loans. We each borrowed around $170,000. (Yes, somehow that was possible in Russia in 2014.)
The factory was built. Equipment purchased. Social media was buzzing. Everything was ready… except the final legal registration.
We submitted the documents. Then, a few days later, my friend called:
“Max, we’re not listed as company founders.”
Turned out, his government-connected relatives had swapped the paperwork. In the eyes of the law, we had no claim. No shares. No business.
I met with the third partner. He promised a meeting with someone “important.” That guy explained very clearly:
“Try to sue and we’ll reveal you got your loan illegally. That’s criminal fraud. Want to play hero? You’ll end up in jail. Walk away. Repay your loan. Do your own thing. Lesson learned.”
I had lost 6 million rubles. But it got worse.
In late 2014, the Russian ruble crashed. The dollar almost doubled in value against the ruble, making foreign currency loans explode overnight. My $170,000 debt essentially became $300,000 in ruble terms — almost instantly.
Total debt: 15 million rubles.
My friend declared bankruptcy and vanished. I tried to tough it out.
PART 4. The Fallout
Years of refinancing. Countless projects. Long hours. I clawed my way back.
Current debt: around 7 million rubles.
But I was overzealous. I increased my monthly payments to $2,000 to kill the debt faster — then COVID hit. My emergency fund dried up. Income dropped from 250k/month to 50k.
Worse, half the debt was in my wife’s name. I hate that. I know relationships are about equality, but I believe a man should shield his partner from this kind of hell.
Now I’m considering bankruptcy. It’ll destroy my business unless I can transfer the company shares.
What can I say?
This is real life in Rashka — a slang term some Russians use to describe a corrupt, dysfunctional version of their own country.
Running a clean, honest business in Russia as a young guy without connections felt impossible.
So I work. I pay. I rebuild. And one day, I’ll move to Canada with my wife — and I don’t think I’ll ever come back.
P.S.
If you’re going through hell — maybe my story helps. Maybe it just makes you appreciate your own problems a little more.
Either way: don’t co-sign shady loans. And don’t trust people just because they “know a guy.”
Update, 2025
It’s been almost a decade since all this happened. And just recently — in 2025 — I found out that the very people who scammed us were finally arrested. Not for what they did to me, of course, but for other crimes. I won’t see a cent back.
And I probably couldn’t return to Russia even if I wanted to.
Since leaving in 2022, I’ve been openly critical of the war, supported Ukraine, and fully cut ties with the Russian system. A lawyer told me I might be on an unofficial “blacklist” — just for speaking out.
But I’m still here. Still building.
Still paying off what they left behind.