When Raed Hammad, a 54-year-old Jordanian cab driver, saw the Telegram advertisement in early 2025, it seemed like a lifeline. The message was simple: sign up for a year to fight on Russia’s side in its so-called “special military operation zone”—the war in Ukraine—and receive citizenship, free healthcare, money, and even land. For Hammad, whose herniated disk had made long hours behind the wheel impossible, the offer felt like the opportunity he’d never found in his home country.
The ad was just one of many that began flooding Telegram and similar platforms in 2024, right after Russian President Vladimir Putin issued a decree promising foreign nationals in Russia’s armed forces passports for themselves and their families. According to The Los Angeles Times, this move kicked off a wave of recruitment efforts, with travel agencies and brokers targeting would-be soldiers from across the Middle East, Africa, and Asia. They called it Russia’s “elite international battalion,” and the pitch was hard to resist for those facing economic hardship at home.
Hammad contacted a Russian businesswoman named Polina Alexandrovna—her surname sometimes appears as Azarnykh in other media reports, and it’s unclear if that’s a pseudonym. He sent his passport details, and by August 2025, he had a visa and a plane ticket to Moscow. “As a 54-year-old who was sick, he had a hard time finding employment here in Jordan. When he found this job, and they accepted him with a very attractive salary and benefits, he didn’t think twice,” said Lamees Hammad, his wife, in a tearful video she posted on social media in September.
Because of his age, Hammad assumed he’d be working as a driver or cook. Lamees insisted he’d confirmed multiple times with Alexandrovna that he wouldn’t see combat. “He wanted to provide for our kids, to give them what he couldn’t give them in the past,” she explained. Hammad is a father of four sons, the youngest just 13.
But the reality was starkly different. Just days after signing a 17-page contract—one he couldn’t read because he was denied a Russian translator and wasn’t given WiFi to translate it on his phone—Hammad found himself bunkered in a drone-stalked forward position somewhere in Russian-occupied southeastern Ukraine. “He’s facing all kinds of danger... If a rifle is raised in his face, he can’t even run. They’re being treated like livestock over there,” Lamees Hammad told a Jordanian TV channel. When Hammad pleaded with Alexandrovna to break his contract, he was told he’d need to pay 500,000 rubles (about $6,000)—an impossible sum for most foreign recruits.
Hammad’s story is far from unique. Accurate numbers are hard to pin down, but The Los Angeles Times and other outlets estimate the number of foreign fighters in Russian ranks to be in the tens of thousands. Many come from disadvantaged backgrounds in the Middle East, Africa, and South and East Asia. About 2,000 Iraqis are thought to have enlisted, with thousands more from Egypt, Algeria, Yemen, and Jordan. Fighters from Nepal, Afghanistan, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Cuba, and Syria—who in the past joined in significant numbers—are now barred from enlisting, according to the Russian defense ministry.
The recruitment process is as varied as the soldiers themselves. Some foreigners first arrive in Russia as students, then overstay their visas and seek a way to stay. Others travel on tourist visas after military approval. Once in Russia, they may visit companies like Alexandrovna’s to sign contracts with the Russian Ministry of Defense, or they’re met at the airport by brokers and Russian officers. The offers can be lucrative: a signing bonus of 1.5 million rubles (about $17,000), and monthly salaries between $2,500 and $3,500—life-changing sums in countries where average wages often don’t top $300 a month.
Training lasts four to six weeks, including language lessons so recruits can follow basic commands in Russian. New soldiers are promised citizenship soon after joining and a two-week paid vacation six months into their one-year deployment. If they’re killed or wounded, their families can claim both the money and citizenship.
Yet, the risks are immense. Lamees Hammad’s appeals for help have grown increasingly desperate. She’s pleaded with Jordan’s King Abdullah and government officials to intervene with the Russian foreign ministry and bring her husband home. Legal experts, however, say governments have little recourse to repatriate citizens who signed contracts voluntarily—unless they can prove duress.
The recruitment effort is powered by a sprawling network of Telegram channels, some with tens of thousands of subscribers. Alexandrovna’s channel, titled “Friend of Russia” and featuring a picture of Putin, regularly posts photos of recruits arriving in Russia and later, beaming with their new passports. “Each of my soldiers is a source of pride,” she wrote in one post, claiming they contribute to “victory against the neo-Nazis from Ukraine.” In another, she insisted, “Every soldier must proudly and steadfastly defend the new homeland of Russia, because Russia becomes a new homeland for each of them!”
Despite the dangers, interest hasn’t waned. Another channel, run by an Iraqi man who goes by Bahjat, boasts almost 30,000 subscribers. Members of a Telegram community led by an Iraqi nicknamed Abbass the Supporter—who served in the Russian military for three years and now acts as a broker—ask in chat how quickly they can get their visas and travel. Bahjat, contacted by The Los Angeles Times, was blunt about the reality facing foreign recruits: “What, you think a country is going to give you money and citizenship so you come and cook?” he said via WhatsApp. “I’ll give it to you straight. Everyone coming here is going to the frontline and to the war. Anyone saying otherwise is speaking nonsense.”
Alexandrovna denied giving false information to would-be recruits when questioned, but did not answer detailed questions about Hammad’s case. Nevertheless, most ads on her channel explicitly state that foreigners must fight in Ukraine, with no mention of support roles like driver or cook. Ultimately, the decision of where a recruit serves is up to the defense ministry, not the recruitment brokers.
For families like the Hammads, the consequences are devastating. Lamees Hammad has called on Jordanian authorities to at least block recruitment channels like Alexandrovna’s, hoping to prevent others from following her husband’s path. “People should know if they do this,” she warned, “they’re going to their death.”
As Russia’s war in Ukraine grinds on, the lure of fast money and a new life continues to draw thousands into its ranks—often with tragic results for those caught between hope and harsh reality.
