Ansuz

Leaving Russia was a decision I made quickly, though the thought had been lingering in my mind for months. Life back home had become unbearable—a series of dead-end jobs, broken relationships, and a constant struggle to make ends meet. I was 25, still living with my parents in a small apartment in Moscow, feeling like my life was going nowhere. I needed a fresh start, and Israel seemed like a place where I could find it. Tel Aviv had always seemed like a dream to me. I’d seen pictures of the sunny beaches, the vibrant nightlife, the modern skyline. It looked like a place where anything was possible, where people came to start over. So I took the leap. I sold whatever I could, saved up just enough for a plane ticket, and left Russia without looking back. When I arrived, the energy of the city hit me immediately. It was fast-paced, alive with possibilities, but also overwhelming. I didn’t know anyone, and though I had some money saved, it wasn’t nearly enough to last long. I had a small apartment rented for the first month, but after that, I had no idea what I was going to do. Finding work as a Russian immigrant in Israel wasn’t easy, and my Hebrew was limited to a few basic phrases. I had experience working as a waitress, but the pay in Tel Aviv was low, and the cost of living was higher than I had expected. After a few weeks of searching for jobs and scraping by, reality started to set in. The freedom and excitement I had felt when I first arrived were fading, replaced by the anxiety of not knowing how I was going to survive. That’s when I met Katya. Katya was Russian too, though she had been in Israel for a few years by the time we met. She was confident, glamorous, and seemed to have everything figured out. I ran into her at a café near the beach one evening, and we started talking. She asked about my life, why I had come to Israel, and what I was doing for work. When I told her about my struggles, she listened quietly, and then said something that changed the course of my life. “You know, I can help you,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “There’s a way to make real money here. You don’t have to keep struggling.” I didn’t fully understand what she meant at first, but as we continued talking, it became clear. Katya worked as an escort. Like many of the girls who came to Israel from Russia and Eastern Europe, she had found herself in a difficult situation—unable to make enough money through traditional jobs and searching for something more. Escorting had provided her with the lifestyle she wanted. She had a nice apartment, expensive clothes, and traveled often. Most importantly, she wasn’t struggling anymore. At first, I was taken aback. Escorting wasn’t something I had ever seriously considered. I knew girls back home who had gotten involved in it, but it always seemed so far removed from my own life. Yet, here I was, in a foreign country, with no job, no stability, and no plan. Katya made it sound so easy, almost like a business transaction. She explained that the clients were wealthy, respectful, and often looking for companionship rather than just physical encounters. It was about offering an experience—dinners, parties, even travel. “I’m not saying it’s for everyone,” she said, seeing the hesitation in my eyes. “But if you’re open to it, you could make enough money in a year to completely change your life.” I spent the next few days thinking about her offer. My financial situation was growing more desperate by the day, and the idea of going back to Moscow, defeated, was unbearable. I had come to Israel for a new life, and maybe this was part of that journey. Eventually, I called Katya and told her I wanted to try. The first few months were a blur. Katya introduced me to her network, and I began working almost immediately. At first, it felt strange, even uncomfortable. But the clients were polite, and Katya had been right—the work wasn’t just about sex. Many of the men I met were businessmen, traveling from Europe or the U.S., looking for someone to spend time with during their trips. They wanted conversation, companionship, and a bit of fun, yes, but it was rarely as transactional as I had feared. The money came quickly, more than I had ever earned back in Russia. I started saving immediately, keeping my eyes on the future. For the first time in my life, I felt in control of my financial situation. Within six months, I had enough to pay off my debts, and by the end of the year, I had saved enough to start thinking about buying my own apartment in Tel Aviv. The idea seemed unreal—I had gone from barely making rent to considering property ownership in one of the most expensive cities in the world. As time went on, I became more comfortable in the role I was playing. I learned how to navigate the business, how to maintain boundaries with clients, and how to manage my own expectations. But there were moments when the reality of what I was doing hit me hard. I had to keep my work a secret from almost everyone I knew. My family back in Russia believed I was working a regular job, sending home money from a steady office gig. I never told them the truth. I couldn’t. There were nights when I would come home to my apartment, look at the expensive furniture I had bought, and feel a strange emptiness. I had everything I wanted—financial security, freedom, independence—but it came with a cost. Escorting had changed me, in ways I hadn’t expected. I became more guarded, more distant from the girl I used to be. The girl who had come to Tel Aviv with nothing but hope and a dream was gone, replaced by someone who knew how to navigate a world of luxury, secrecy, and transaction. But despite the emotional toll, I couldn’t deny the freedom it gave me. By the end of that year, I had bought my own apartment—a small but beautiful place near the beach. I had my own space, my own life, and I didn’t owe anyone anything. I could travel when I wanted, take time off when I needed it, and live life on my own terms. Looking back, I’m still not sure how I feel about the choices I made. Part of me is proud—I survived, I thrived, I made a life for myself in a foreign country. But another part of me wonders what I’ve lost along the way. The relationships I’ve missed, the parts of myself I’ve had to suppress, the lies I’ve had to tell. Now, as I sit in my apartment, the Mediterranean breeze coming through the window, I think about what comes next. I know I can’t do this forever, and I don’t want to. But for now, I’m taking things day by day, grateful for the life I’ve built, even if it wasn’t the one I had imagined. Tel Aviv gave me a new life, but it also changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand. I came here looking for freedom, and I found it—just not in the way I expected