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

Video conference meetings involving people on multiple continents are dominated by the Denis dilemma. People are throwing their hands up or banging their heads on the table, saying, ‘Can’t someone just speak to him?’ or ‘Doesn’t he understand what’s at stake here?’ It’s like a powerful wind is blowing the campaigners towards an outcome that suits both Greenpeace and the Kremlin, one where they both sweep their pieces off the chessboard and declare a draw. Denis gets fifteen, maybe twenty phone calls. He’s subjected to pressure from every corner. He’s not sure who to believe. Nobody is. But eventually, for the good of everybody, he gives in and signs the amnesty. But he feels cheated. By the investigators and by Greenpeace.

‘It means we get our freedom,’ Phil tells the others in the bar that night. ‘But I agree with Denis. He wanted to fight it through the courts. But the thing is, you can’t trust the system here. I want justice to be done and this amnesty isn’t justice. They haven’t dropped the fucking charges. The amnesty sucks. It feels shit, it feels like a letdown. But we have to admit, it’s the news we wanted. It’s the only hope we have to get out. It’s the only way we’re going to get home.’

‘In life, everything comes and goes,’ says Camila. ‘Let’s look at it differently. Maybe one day we’ll give them amnesty, but for a crime they did commit.’

It’s Christmas, ninety-nine days since the protest, five weeks since the Arctic 30 were released from prison. All they need now is a stamp in their passports that says they can go home.

25th December

Despite being kept waiting for 30 minutes in a cab while [French activist] Franky Pisanu had coffee + ciggies, we made it to the Investigative Committee in time. Process was quick and 3 of us with our respective lawyers departed at 12:00 with our copies of signed amnesty. This officially halts the prosecution case against us. What a very strange Christmas morning. Off to the migration service at 3pm to hopefully complete the final process of this farce + get an exit visa.

26th December

Quite a momentous day with everyone of A30 focused on travel plans + returning home. Dima L actually leaving tonight on train to Helsinki and then ferry to Stockholm. I’ve still yet to see my travel tickets to and back from holiday with the family. Looking forward to hugging the whole family, running into the sea and knocking back too many cold beers.

Dima is sat in the hotel lobby with the head of the media team, writing a statement for the press. His train is leaving in two hours. When he’s finished writing it he pushes his spectacles up his nose and spins the laptop around. ‘Release that,’ he says, then he throws his pink bag over his shoulder, takes his wife’s hand and walks through the doors of the hotel and out onto a St Petersburg street. Two hours later, just after midnight, when his visa becomes valid, he approaches the border with Finland.

The female border guard surveys his passport. She reads a letter from the Investigative Committee explaining that they’ve decided not to prosecute Dima for entering Russia illegally. The guard folds the letter and slides it back into the passport.

‘You people are trouble,’ she says.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why don’t you protest in America? Only in Russia. You are against Russia.’

‘Actually I’ve protested many times in America.’

‘Huh. Well maybe you should stay there.’ She holds out his passport, he takes it, she moves on to the next person. Two minutes later the train crosses the border. He’s in Finland.

From that first day in Murmansk at the Investigative Committee headquarters, Dima has felt a fist of fear in his stomach. It tightened then loosened then tightened again, depending on how scared he was, but it was always there. But when the train crosses the frontier, it lets go. And for the first time he feels truly free.

As he’s heading towards Helsinki, the rest of the crew are gathered in the hotel bar, coming to terms with a wide selection of potent Russian alcohol. That night everybody stays up until 4 a.m. They want to spend every last minute together. It could be a long time before they see each other again. An hour after they call it a night, their alarms go off. Alex, Sini and Camila sit on the bed in Alex’s room and hold each other. It’s time to leave.

At St Petersburg airport activists are dispersed across the check-in counters, about to scatter to destinations all over the surface of the Earth. Alex, Kieron, Phil, Anthony and the British engineer Iain Rogers are flying to Paris then taking the train into London. Po-Paul is with them, he’s taking a connection to Montreal. But Frank isn’t. He’s leaving alone, heading for a rendezvous with a family holiday.

The plane to Paris is full. Almost all the other passengers are well-dressed Russians. The aircraft taxies onto the runway then waits. Five minutes pass, another five, nothing. Nobody says much. Anthony makes a phone call, the others just stare ahead, waiting. Finally the engines fire and the plane launches down the runway. As it lifts off, Phil punches the air.

27th December

That was quite a night of celebration. Finding it pretty hard-going this morning. Had a phone call from Anthony on the plane. Said it was a media scrum at the terminal. He talked me through the TAXI and TAKE-OFF! ‘See you on the other side…’ He’s very relieved to be out of there. Feels a bit weird being the last Brit left in Russia of the A30.

In Paris they board the Eurostar, destination London. It races through northern France, towns and villages fly past the window. There’s a sucking sound as the train enters the Channel Tunnel, and twenty minutes later they burst out into the English countryside. The train slows as they approach St Pancras station in London. When it pulls into the platform the station manager jumps into their carriage and tells them to wait. She says there are many journalists waiting on the concourse, more than eighty, maybe a hundred.

The manager asks them to follow her. She leads them through passport control and customs. As they approach the open doors to the concourse Alex can see people lining the staircase, the buzz from the media throng is palpable. A press officer skips ahead and peers around the corner. There’s a bank of cameras there, more than anybody imagined. The press officer walks back to the five activists and asks them to pause for a second.

‘There are loads of journalists there. Shitloads. Are you ready?’

But before any of them can answer, Anthony has pushed past and the others are following him. They walk through the doors, the flashlights explode and their loved ones surge from the crowd with open arms.

At the station in St Petersburg, Sini and Kruso are climbing onto a train. Sini’s journey home will be short, just three hours, while Kruso is going overland back to Switzerland. The media interest in Sini is huge, a scrum of journalists is expected in Helsinki, some are planning to board the train as soon as it’s on Finnish soil. Kruso’s never been comfortable with the media so he’s booked a seat a few carriages down from her.

As the train pulls out of St Petersburg, Sini feels an odd sense of deflation. She stares out of the window, confused, searching her body for the euphoria she was expecting. Even when she presents her passport to the Russian border guards and they stamp it without a second look, she feels nothing. They cross the frontier. She’s in Finland now. Russia is behind her and Sini thinks, okay, this should feel like something, but it doesn’t.