A firsthand account of the shadow routes of illegal migration to Europe

My first encounter with illegal migration was back in the late ’90s—two incidents I witnessed first-hand and relayed at the time with the kind of “Guess what I saw?” energy that I doubt I’m alone in recognising. Both times it was on the London–Dublin bus route, with a ferry crossing from Holyhead to Dublin, though with people of different backgrounds. One was a family—father, mother and daughter—from Eastern Europe. I saw them put their passports into a brown paper bag and toss it overboard. Upon arrival in Dublin, sitting a couple of rows behind and across from me, they told the Irish police officer they had no passports and were removed from the bus.

The other incident was more unusual. A Black Nigerian woman sat directly across from me. Upon arrival, a police officer questioned her. As he told her to get her things and leave the bus, I intervened. I was a migrant in Canada at the time and thought: this is racism of the lowest order. The officer told me, “Don’t get involved—you don’t know the story.” She left the bus smiling. I told everyone who would listen about the horrible, racist scene I’d just witnessed.

In the years that followed, I lived mostly abroad so that with each return home, I found myself increasingly unsure of what was really going on. So, my recent trip around the borders of Europe’s Baltic region was less eye-opening, and more depressingly affirming of what I already knew.

The Case of Khalid

Khalid is from Lahore, Pakistan. Yet his documents are from the military commission in Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine. He speaks very good Russian but swore he’d never set foot in the country. He was coming from Belarus, having paid an agent to get him to Europe. I asked how long he’d been in Belarus and where he learned the language. He was evasive, telling me he was “a natural” at languages.

Eventually, he admitted he’d been in Belarus for a month and had come from Ukraine. When I asked why he was waiting to enter Lithuania, he said it was legal—he was just “waiting for a lift.” With a smile, I told him he was lying and invited him to tell me the truth.

Khalid had, in fact, spent seven years living in Russia and earned a first-class Master’s degree in applied mathematics. His alma mater is reputable—I’ve since confirmed he graduated legitimately. Due to this, he was entitled to permanent residence in Russia, which he obtained. He also holds a Russian passport.

So why the deception? “They told me I had to stay in this character, so the border guards believe I’m from Ukraine,” he explained. The agent who coached him is from Lahore. “He has great business,” Khalid said, grinning.

I left Khalid waiting for his lift into Lithuania. His final words burned in my mind: “Once I get in the European Union, I will go to Germany or Ireland. They will give me a house and I can work.”

Stopping-Off Point

There are dozens of Central and South Asians loitering at the Lithuanian border. Some I spoke with had been there for days, one for over a week. Their stories differ, but a common thread runs through them all: they’ve paid agents to get into Europe, and this is their last resort. Poland, Hungary, Slovakia, Moldova, Russia, and Romania have all tightened controls on trafficked individuals claiming asylum. I’ve interviewed many who ‘escaped’ into the EU before stricter filters were implemented.

Russia, too, has increased its controls. Since 2014, Moscow has taken in refugees from both sides of the Ukrainian conflict, providing housing, jobs, and free education. But the policy changed after 2023, when bad actors from Central Asia began crossing into border regions like Voronezh and Crimea. Radicalised Islamists from Tajikistan, for example, were setting up cells to carry out attacks. Fingers were pointed at Kyiv, London and Washington. In response, Russian universities introduced “sanitary measures” to warn vulnerable students away from extremism.

Despite these efforts, Russia and Belarus are still seen by traffickers as final bridges into the EU. It’s like the fight against doping in sport—the dopers are always one step ahead.

An Afghan Named Rasul

Another “Ukrainian” looking to enter the EU was a 34-year-old Afghan driver with a wife and two children in Afghanistan. He had previously attempted the Russia–Estonia border and was caught last year. He left his home outside Kabul when the Taliban returned to power, having worked with a British NGO—a fact he said left him with a death sentence. His documents were also from Kryvyi Rih, he could pass as Ukrainian, and spoke decent Russian.

He had entered Belarus legally and even found a job, but his Uzbek agent was demanding money. “I paid $5,000 and have to pay another $5,000 when I arrive [in the EU],” he said. “I am to work there, they wait me.”

According to Rasul, his previous failure was due to a fellow migrant panicking when Russian border guards neared their hiding place. Russia does not consider Afghans refugees, but will help with documentation and job placement. After months of working in St Petersburg, he moved to Belarus and got the green light to try again.

When we parted ways, I didn’t wish him well. What he’s doing is illegal, immoral, and unsettling. As a migrant worker myself for most of my adult life, I’ve had to jump through endless hoops—and still do. I don’t blame Rasul or Khalid; they’re simply products of corruption, criminality and gross indifference to human life. If there were no demand for cheap labour in Europe, they wouldn’t be risking prison—or worse.

Sitting on my bus, worried I’d miss a connection, I realised this was just the first of five land borders I’d cross in under 36 hours. Looking out the window, I saw three more “Ukrainians” retreat to a café to wait for their ride into who-knows-what. Everyone else on the bus was worrying about flights, meetings, dinners. Those men, including one Indian, were worrying about something far more existential.

Next Stop, America: From India with Love

When I accepted the post to head the newly created International Relations Office in 2019, I was thrilled—for about three weeks. No, four. The first problem I had to solve was helping a suicidal Vietnamese student. A top student back home in Hanoi, she had failed to grasp Russian language and sat silently in her dorm for weeks. Her faculty, the best in the university, asked me to “see what you can do.”

The tiny girl wept in my office. We drew up a plan to get her back on track. As my female colleagues entered to remind me we had sports training, the girl stood and asked, “Is it OK if I give you a hug?” As a father, as a human being, my heart broke. My colleagues nodded. She hugged me.

If that was the human side of the job, the next crisis was criminal and sinister. A friend at the Latvian Embassy in Moscow rang to check on two men who’d applied for tourist visas “for Christmas.” They’d arrived from Dhaka in September, paid for only one semester of a prep course, and forged a letter from the dean of their supposed faculty. They hadn’t attended classes or lived in the dorms—they’d simply vanished into Moscow’s underworld. The embassy refused them.

A week later, as I walked to the metro, the two men confronted me. “You kill us!” one shouted. The other pleaded for a new letter. “We’ll pay for one year,” he promised. I refused and reminded them they’d have to restart their studies. He grew aggressive. “We’ll make you pay,” he said. He grabbed my arm. I stared at him, then at his hand. He let go.

Both men had entered Russia during the 2018 FIFA World Cup as “fans” and never left. I’d reported at the time on the “disappeared.” FIFA, paragons of sporting virtue, said it wasn’t their problem.

The Story of Mohamed

Mohamed had taken a bus from Russia. His story echoed that of the two men I’d met years earlier. He paid for a prep course at a regional Russian university—one later raided for corruption—and arrived to study in autumn. He’d obtained a Lithuanian visa and had a ticket to fly to Germany.

“I have a cousin in Cologne. He can get me work. In one year, or two, I go to America.”

Mohamed’s passport is Indian, and he said he’s from near Kolkata. He paid an agency in Chittagong, which had recruited directly from his college. I asked why not stay in Russia?

“America is the land of dreams,” he said with a huge grin.

His contract with the agency included payment for processing, university acceptance, and “further services”—another $9,000 to secure his Lithuanian visa.

At the Vilnius bus station, late on a Thursday night, I asked if he wouldn’t be better off returning home. He laughed as if I were an idiot. I stopped myself from thinking like a migrant again—stopped myself from recalling that crying girl, who had already written her suicide note.

“It’s really dangerous, Mohamed. If you get caught… prison, disgrace. If you were my child, I’d do everything to stop you.” He looked up from his phone. His thumb stopped scrolling.

“Once I get my place in America, I’ll bring my parents, my youngest sister,” he said, smiling, then returned to his Instagram.

My dad, the week before he died, told me he was glad I’d found my footing in Russia and escaped “all that sports nonsense.” He worried about my dealings with athletes, coaches, officials, and doping experts. I’d just taken a job as project manager with a chain of restaurants. He thought I’d finally escaped corruption.

But within two months, I saw my new boss resist hiring illegal workers—even as upper management demanded higher profit margins.

“Those unfortunates come here like slaves,” he told me. “They send what little they earn back home—to pay off some gang boss threatening their family. This ain’t America, baby.” He grinned.

I remembered that as I boarded another bus, bound for my second border crossing. I thought about it all—and silently wished Mohamed well. I hope he finds his American dream. And avoids another migrant nightmare.

Easter bordersEuropehuman traffickingIllegal migration. shadow routesWeb Exclusive