Ben Stewart - Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg

13th November

In the cell. It sucks. Not freaking but way bummed. Went to the exercise yard. At least you can see some sky, but it is shitty. Saw the isolation cells on the way. They looked really bad. Got a copy of the prison rules in English. Tried to read them but quit when I got to the place where the family of the inmate can recover his body. The prosecutor (new for St Pete) stopped by after dinner. They all had a good laugh when I said Igor ‘killed’ me at chess today (they saw the board out). I almost asked him what he was going to do with us. But I chickened out. I did not like seeing him.

On the afternoon of the second day in St Petersburg the SIZO governors tour the activists’ cells, bringing with them a retinue of officials. When the door of Alex’s cell opens, Marina jumps to attention with a look of terror on her face.

Fifteen men file in, one after the other, prison guards and the head of the prison.

‘Do you have any problems?’ asks the governor.

‘No,’ says Alex. ‘I just want to go home.’

The man sniffs. He looks around. His eyes fall on the old woman. He walks over to Marina and starts asking her questions. She speaks quickly, he nods and makes some notes. The delegation leaves, the cell falls silent. Then Marina starts to weep.

‘What’s wrong?’ asks Alex, putting an arm around her. ‘Don’t cry Marina. What’s wrong?’

One of the other women, a young Russian, sits on the bed and puts a hand on Marina’s shoulder. ‘She cries because she’s been here two years. She asks for help many times and receives nothing. Then they visit you and for first time she speaks to governor. First time he knows who she is. First time they are nice to her. First time.’

In the other jails – Kresty and SIZO-4 – the activists are also being visited by the delegation of officials. An array of huge hats, immaculate uniforms and medals. There’s barely enough room for them in the cells.

They ask Dima, ‘How is it?’ and, ‘Is it okay?’ and, ‘Is it all to your liking?’

‘Apart from being in jail, it’s all fine.’

The men nod and pat each other on the back then stream out of the cell.

On day three, the activists are visited by the chief prosecutor of the St Petersburg region, accompanied by a colonel and a phalanx of junior officers. The head of the regional human rights commission brings up the rear with the head of the prison. In each cell the chief prosecutor asks the same questions.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Do you have any complaints?’

‘Are you satisfied with the conditions?’

And Roman tells them, ‘Every time, every day, you ask us this. Well, my answer is I don’t have any fucking complaints about the conditions, it’s not a sanatorium, the only complaint I have is that I’m here at all, together with my twenty-nine friends.’

14th November

Went to sleep early last night + woke up really early thinking every noise outside was the porridge trolley. Feeling the blues today a fair bit. Guess it may be the ‘3 day’ transition period that I feel it takes to get grounded. However I feel down. The isolation is hard. Much more so than Murmansk as conversation over the walls at ‘gulyat’ is nigh on impossible. Been thinking about Mama a fair bit which always brings me very close to tears. I keep feeling she may die while I’m in prison, which would be unbearable. The cells are more comfortable but the complete lack of contact with the other GP crew is miserable.

Day Four. In each cell the door opens and in come two generals, a lieutenant general and a major general, accompanied by the chief prosecutor, the head of the prison and a clutch of civilians. One by one this collection of sharp suits and enormous hats – this gang that resembles the reviewing party at a Red Square May Day parade – files in and out of the activists’ cells.

One of the civilians appears to command the respect of the delegation. The man introduces himself to Dima. ‘My name is Fedotov. I am Vladimir Putin’s presidential adviser on human rights. My colleague here, the general, is head of the prison system for the Russian Federation, ministerial level. Do you have any complaints? Any questions? How are the conditions here? Oh, I see you have plenty of shelf space.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Dima replies. ‘Actually, I do have a complaint.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I’ve been jailed on trumped-up charges.’

‘Yes yes, very unfortunate. I understand your concern.’

‘The investigators tell me I’ll be here for many years.’

‘Oh really?’ Fedotov glances at the general, his bottom lip protrudes then he looks back at Dima. ‘And these investigators, did they tell you what the President says about your case?’

‘Actually, no, they didn’t.’

‘Do you think they’ve spoken to the President about your case?’

‘I suspect not.’

‘Well I have.’

‘And?’

Fedotov looks around the cell. ‘You have a lot of things in here. The conditions here are good.’ Then he turns on his heels and walks out, a long trail of uniforms and suits following him, until they have all left and the cell door slams shut. Vasily looks at Dima, his mouth wide open. And he says, ‘Who next in our little home? Putin?’

The legal team by now has a new lead lawyer, Andrey Suchkov, a criminal litigator experienced in running successful legal strategies that are inconvenient to powerful interests. His first move on taking over is to establish a line of communication with the lead investigator, and through that channel he soon learns devastating news.

Mads Christensen comes on the video link to address the core team. He looks tired. He lifts his glasses and rubs his eyes.

‘Okay everybody, listen up. I’ve got some bad news. This new lawyer we’ve got, he’s found something out, and… look, it’s bad, okay.’

The teams in Moscow, London and Amsterdam share concerned glances.

‘This lawyer’s been speaking to the investigators,’ says Christensen. ‘They’ve told him that when the current detention period expires, they’re going to apply to keep them in prison. Another three months. Nobody’s getting out.’

Arms wrap around heads. Eyes well up.

‘Nooooo.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Shit shit shit.’

The Kremlin is doubling down. The campaign has failed.

Ben Ayliffe heads up a team that has organised hundreds of protests in dozens of cities. He’s run an operation that has energised people across the globe and signed up nearly two million people to the campaign. But now he’s slumped in his chair in the Room of Doom, shaking his head. ‘What are we actually doing here?’ he mumbles. ‘Was all this for nothing?’

For families and campaigners around the world the news hits like a hammer. The Arctic 30 are nine days out from the end of the current two-month detention period, the ruling of the ITLOS court is due around the same time, the campaign is a global phenomenon – world leaders, celebrities, newspapers and millions of people are lining up to demand freedom for the thirty. But now Putin has shrugged his shoulders and slammed the door.

In the Russian office the staff have been spied on, lied to, lied about and abused. They have been on the verge of being raided, shut down and arrested. Many of them have come under pressure from their families to quit the campaign, to resign from the organisation. They’re branded enemies of Putin now, with all that entails for themselves and their futures. But still they came, every morning, to battle the state media and the FSB and those claims that the Arctic 30 are agents of foreign intelligence agencies determined to undermine Russian economic development. And now they’re back where they started. No, worse, the position of the Kremlin has hardened. It feels like it’s all been a waste. All of it.