On Fighting - A Veteran's Return to Training

More parts from my book "War Tourist"

I flew to Thailand to start over. MMA training. Sweat. Pain. The illusion of control.

But war doesn’t respect geography.

A week into my reset, I found myself in a reggae-themed marijuana café off Chalong’s Fight Street, the kind with stoned staff, Bob Marley looping on the speakers, and Russian draft dodgers pretending the war didn’t exist.

We talked. English first, then Russian.

"You were in the war?" one asked, grinding flower into his vape.

I showed him my name on the Foreign Combatants page. The one that calls me a war criminal.

His face didn’t flinch.

"Fuck Ukraine," he said. "Bandera state. Nazis. I hope Russia finishes that shit country off."

I grabbed the knife off the café table. Pressed it against his chest.

"You want to live another day?" I said. "Then shut your fucking mouth about Ukrainians."

I dropped the knife at the door like a spent shell casing and walked out.

SLAVA UKRAINI. SLAVA AZOV.

I came to that café in peace.

But the war found me anyway.

Thailand doesn't ask questions it doesn't want answers to. But the ghosts you carry don’t wait for customs clearance.

And some enemies don’t wear uniforms.