"And don't forget to send a postcard."
Ksenia Fadeeva's first interview as a free woman
We met with Ksenia two months after her release in Vilnius. Together, we reminisced about her time as a member of parliament, learned why she didn't leave Russia when it was already clear she would be imprisoned, about the conditions in the Tomsk pretrial detention center, about her cellmates, and about the daughter of a State Duma deputy. Catherine Felsinger and a student accused of treason Tatiana Laletina.
And, of course, we listened to a fascinating story about how preparations for the historic exchange actually took place. "Just try to rest, forget everything and relax."“With these words, one of the chiefs of the Lefortovo prison greeted Ksenia. "To Lefortovo?" — Ksenia asked politely.
At rallies, during elections, during the trial that sentenced her to nine years, and in prison, Ksenia—everyone who observed her—saw her never losing her composure or sense of humor. This endeared her to a wide range of people, even those who are decidedly on the wrong side of the fence. The warden of a Novosibirsk prison asked her to send him a postcard from the outside. And she will.
"Ksenia, it's been two months since your release. Why did you take a break and not share your emotions right away?"
"I wanted to come to my senses a little, look around, so to speak. Just rest, get my thoughts in order.
A couple of days after your release, you wrote that you hadn't consented to the exchange, that you'd made a conscious decision not to leave Russia in 2021 after the criminal case was opened, and that you hadn't fled during the investigation. Why didn't you flee when it was already clear you'd be sent to prison?
It's always been my principled position to stay in Russia. And for many reasons, actually. I was still an elected member of the City Duma at the time. I simply felt it was wrong to leave when... We were campaigning, we were actively communicating with voters, we promised them that we would defend their interests, and I simply felt it was wrong to leave. Besides, there are personal reasons; I simply was, and still am, deeply attached to both Tomsk and Russia. Everyone I care about, most of them, live in Tomsk and in Russia, and I simply couldn't leave. I've always wanted to live only in my country and in my hometown.
It's unlikely you can continue your parliamentary activities or communicate with loved ones from prison. You understood that, right?
I understood that this was probably where things were heading, although my situation was rather strange. Unlike some of the other defendants in the FBK case, the "extremist community" case, I was free practically until the end of the trial. I was under a preventive measure—"a ban on certain activities." I wouldn't say I had any hope. Naturally, I had no hope of being acquitted. That's just ridiculous. And it's probably not even accurate to say I had any hope of a lenient sentence. I knew that nothing good was likely in store for me. Well, maybe I had some subconscious illusions about the lenient nature of the preventive measure. But the main thing was simply some kind of emotional attachment. I understood that I simply couldn't pack my bags, say goodbye to everyone, and leave.
When you were already in jail, former Tomsk Duma Speaker Chingis Akatayev declared that he had literally saved the city from disgrace—the head of Navalny's Tomsk headquarters could have become Duma Speaker. True, he wasn't given credit for this achievement and was later ousted. But still, what was your realistic chance of becoming City Duma Speaker in 2020?
Yes, that's a very funny statement. They sent me the transcript of his speech back in the pretrial detention center. For some reason, he called me a "huge black spot." Firstly, not that huge. I weigh 53 kilograms. Secondly, I don't know why he even... It's a strange statement, but okay. Good question. We had a difference in votes. Five votes, as far as I remember. In the end, 20 people voted for Chingis Mametovich, 15 for me. I hadn't planned to run from the start. I thought it was unrealistic for me to get elected, because everyone perceived me as a fairly radical opposition figure compared to the others. And Petrov, the leader of the communists in the city council, was supposed to be the speaker from the opposition. But he changed his mind literally the night before the election. I think they helped him change his mind, but still. And so it was decided that it would simply be wrong if… the opposition, which has a majority in parliament (I mean all parties except United Russia, figuratively speaking), were to put forward no one. It would simply look strange.
Well, the guys asked me to run. The vote margin was small. We still don't fully understand who voted for me and who for Akatayev. Perhaps there could have been a slight edge in my favor, but overall, that's how it turned out. And for a while, we worked quite productively and constructively in the City Duma. We were quite able to reach agreements with representatives of the systemic opposition, and sometimes even with United Russia on certain issues. Of course, there were heated discussions on most issues, but on some, we were able to find compromises.
Looking back, to what extent was this attempt at power justified? Could anything have been changed?
I think it was justified, and now I think it was absolutely the right decision. Many of us in the opposition gained experience running in elections, interacting with people on the streets during the campaign, and I find it very useful because it takes you out of your own information bubble. In any case, I think we're all used to living in our own bubbles, regardless of our views. We're mostly surrounded by people who agree with us on everything. We follow people online who share our views, and they follow us back, we like each other, leave nice comments, and so on. But I think you need to sometimes look around and realize that there are different people with different needs, with different views. This experience, interacting with people on the streets during the campaign, and interacting with different factions in the city parliament, was very useful. I certainly find it interesting and positive. Well, besides, we did manage to break the ruling party's monopoly at that point, when only 11 of the 37 deputies were from United Russia. Many activists who might have participated before did good, cool work, but were known only in their own districts or among, say, other eco-activists—they also gained valuable experience. They gained a certain amount of notoriety in the city. And I hope that in the future, all of this will be useful. In the distant future, perhaps.
It's hard to say when it will be useful. And looking at where we've ended up, it seems like it was all in vain. Doesn't it?
"History didn't end today. Not for Tomsk, not for Russia. Looking at it from today's perspective, we're certainly in the midst of some kind of absolute catastrophe. But once again, history doesn't end today."
At that point, of course, we didn't know where things would lead. And yet, everything came to this point not because we participated in the City Duma elections or any other ones—opposition representatives in other cities participated—but for other reasons. But at that point, we felt that some clear, legal actions were the right thing to do. That is, yes, rallies, yes, there are ways to defend your rights and interests on the streets, but if you have the opportunity to run for city parliament... And, frankly, there was no resistance from the city authorities or even the regional authorities or the electoral commission. We all registered smoothly, participated in the campaigns, were given permission to set up street posters, and collected signatures. There were no problems with registration. If the opportunity arose, it was necessary to take advantage of it.
I think it's wrong to just sit there and endlessly say everything is bad and nothing will work. We tried, and it worked. Yes, things are like this now, but we don't know what things will be like in a year, two, three, ten years. And I believe that this experience… of civic participation and the participation of candidates themselves in election campaigns, the participation of their volunteers, the participation of observers at polling stations—it can still play a positive role in the future.
About Navalny. You were one of the last people to see him before his poisoning. Tell me, when he was in Tomsk, what did you talk about, and what was he actually doing?
"Alexey came with his team specifically to support us in the elections. Andrey (Andrey Fateyev, Ksenia's colleague from Navalny's campaign, who was elected to the City Duma and emigrated after a criminal case against the campaign for extremism—ed.) and I were practically the two of us, walking together from the campaign headquarters. And to support the Smart Voting project. Alexey and his team had previously come to Novosibirsk to film an investigative movie about local United Russia members. In Novosibirsk, if I'm not mistaken, the story was about some developers. They came to Tomsk to film their own movie, which was later aired on Alexey's main channel. It was called "Tomsk Captive to the Utilities Mafia." And it was about three United Russia deputies who head up utility monopolies and sit in both the Regional Duma and the City Duma. And so, for those three days, if I'm not mistaken, or two and a half days, the team and I spent most of our time simply filming this video. We were in it, and they were simultaneously continuing to research some materials for this investigation. We filmed various interviews, and simply filmed the city. Most of the work revolved around this video. In fact, all of it. Of course, we talked during breaks. Alexey asked us about the political situation in Tomsk. We asked him some questions.
How did you learn of Navalny's death? What were your thoughts and feelings?
— I found out from the Channel One news. I was still in the Tomsk pretrial detention center at the time. It was February 16th. And I had a visit with my parents that day. In the pretrial detention center, you only have a short phone visit through the glass. But that was in the morning. And everything was fine. That is, my parents were in a good mood. I was fine. We talked. Then, after lunch, one of the lawyers came to see me, and at that point, obviously, there was still no information, and by the evening, I wasn't alone in the cell. I had cellmates who had a habit of watching the news to keep up with what was going on, and it just happened to be the Channel One news broadcast. I was either sitting there poring over my letters or reading a book; I usually didn't pay, let's say, close attention to the TV. And there was just a dry phrase from the announcer, I still remember his face, it was some young announcer who said that the Federal Penitentiary Service issued a press release or he simply said that Alexei Navalny died in the penal colony.
I was completely stunned, and to be honest, I was in denial for a very long time, meaning I just couldn't believe it. My first thought was something like, they probably hid him. My first thought was that they probably hid him somewhere far away. They specifically said he was dead so that there would be no access whatsoever from lawyers, or sympathizers via letter, or anything. Well, actually, that was Friday evening. Saturday and Sunday, I was already trying to flip through the channels on the TV myself, there was only the news, nothing else. Well, or maybe I just didn't catch any details or anything.
On Monday, lawyers came to see me and told me it was true. It took me a really long time to realize the reality. I couldn't quite believe it. And it probably gradually overwhelmed me when people wrote letters. They included poems dedicated to Alexei, song lyrics. Such touching things. Then there was the funeral on March 1st. And there were photos from the funeral, with a truly enormous line forming in Moscow. And they sent news of people in various cities, including Tomsk, bringing flowers to monuments to the victims of repression. That the police detained them and warned them. In short, it took me a really long time to realize the reality. And, to be honest, I still feel like I haven't fully accepted it. Because it's difficult to put Alexei Navalny's words and death in the same sentence. I think he was such an embodiment of life, strength, and energy that it's still hard to believe.
Did pretrial detention center censors allow photos from Navalny's funeral?
"Yes, they allowed photographs at the Tomsk pretrial detention center. I remember clearly, they came to me with a monument, and it was completely covered in flowers, so much so that you couldn't even see the cross. And then a little later I received a newspaper—I subscribed to Sobesednik—and there was an issue with an article about the funeral."
Have you received any news about the war?
— Generally, all the instructions on how to write letters to prisoners usually note that you shouldn't write details about the war, because any discussion of it is effectively criminalized in Russia now. And also, simply, to avoid even exposing the person writing the letter. So there weren't any detailed reports from the front. But there were volunteers who simply sent news digests, a few sheets of paper just with one line of news. And pen pals also sent news. So, overall, I can't say I was isolated. In the Tomsk pretrial detention center, where I spent most of my time, letters were delivered three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. So, basically every other day, I'd receive a stack of letters, and they'd always include some kind of news digest.
— Tell me what prison life is like. How quickly did you get used to it?
"It's different everywhere, I must say. Later, during the transfers, I spoke with girls and women from different pretrial detention centers, and it was very different everywhere. In Tomsk, I was first in a four-person cell, and then in a three-person one. Usually, they lock people up based on the offenses they're involved in, and they try to match them. As far as I know, the law generally prohibits first-time and repeat offenders, so-called second-timers, from being jailed; this is strictly enforced. And you can't put together people convicted or under investigation for non-violent crimes and those for violent ones. That is, as a rule, they don't put people convicted of economic murder with those convicted of murder.
All this time, I was sitting with women accused under Article 159, Article 4. This is fraud on an especially large scale. Well, then, a young woman became my neighbor. Tatiana Laletina, who was accused of treason for a small transfer of $30 to some Ukrainian funds. She's now been sentenced to nine years. Our relationship was completely non-aggressive, and normal.
— How is life in a pre-trial detention facility?
— First of all, it's a cell. You can only go outside for an hour a day. It's mandatory, you'll be offered a walk every day. You don't have to go outside, that's up to you. They take you to the shower twice a week, and food is brought to your cell three times a day. Basically, all your free time is, well, different for everyone; some watch TV, some manage to sleep for 10 hours a day. And I was mostly just busy writing letters. That is, I literally had time to somehow respond. This, I must say, was a huge help, because firstly, it's simply great support, and secondly, it really takes up time, of which there is a lot and which there is nowhere to spend. And books, of course. That is, reading and writing letters. Well, there used to be TV, there used to be something you could cook with all sorts of improvised means like a kettle, a container, an iron mug.
The Tomsk pretrial detention center is quite clean. People often have the impression that it's gloomy, with peeling walls. It's different everywhere, but that's not the case in the women's wing of the Tomsk pretrial detention center. It's quite bright and clean. The inmates clean their cells themselves. It's relatively recently renovated, you could say. So, in terms of everyday life, there's nothing particularly awful there. Of course, except for the fact that the food isn't very tasty. I always had parcels from my parents, friends, and family. There's a refrigerator there. So, you can have it if you want. Yes, there are decent refrigerators right in the cell. You can make salads and cook for yourself. But, of course, if you don't have support from the outside, it's pretty sad to live on just that prison ration. It's overloaded with carbohydrates, simply tasteless, the pasta is always overcooked, and there are tons of potatoes in every dish. I don’t really understand how some physically healthy man, who is not supported from the outside, can survive there normally and not lose weight and health.
Speaking of health, of course, it's generally a no-no to get into our correctional system. Of course, it's best not to get into it at all, first of all. Secondly, you can't get into it if you have any health issues, because there's no proper medical care there, either in the colonies or in the pretrial detention center. We have a joke there that they give you ibuprofen for everything. It's a joke, of course, but everyone thought that even if you broke your leg, they'd give you ibuprofen anyway. If you have a headache, they might tolerate medication, but if, God forbid, you have back problems—my neighbor had serious back problems—getting you taken for an MRI, much less surgery, is simply unrealistic. In other words, people with serious illnesses completely lose their health there. The same goes for dentistry, for any specialized care. It seems to me that this is a real problem for the entire Russian correctional system.
And, of course, there are hygiene issues. It's clear that certain basic rules can be observed in a cell. There's hot water, of course. Incidentally, not everyone has it. For example, in the Tomsk pretrial detention center, in one of the buildings, men don't have hot water, as far as I know. The women did have hot water. Nevertheless, it seems fundamentally abnormal to me that in the 21st century, someone—especially someone who hasn't yet been officially found guilty, but is under investigation—can shower twice a week. Somehow, that doesn't seem entirely humane or right to me.
"You shared a cell with State Duma deputy Tatyana Solomatina's daughter, Ekaterina Felzinger. When they asked you if you could tell everyone about it, you said no, otherwise they'd resettle us. Why didn't you want to be resettled?"
"The administration doesn't like it when facts come to light. I guess I had nothing to lose. And Katerina isn't accused of such a serious offense (Article 159, Part 4, "Fraud Committed by an Organized Group" – ed.). And she asked that it not be reported. I respected her opinion; if she doesn't want it, then so be it. We had a normal relationship, I wouldn't say friendly, of course; I don't think we really had any friends there. But I found it interesting to chat with her; we read some of the same books, so to speak, and watched some of the same films when we were free. Plus, of course, we had a lot of mutual friends in Tomsk, of course."
Please tell me about the transfer. Why do people have to go through Mariinsky Prison from Tomsk Prison to the Novosibirsk penal colony? And why is everyone afraid of this transfer?
— It's not that they're afraid, but... For some reason, all the transports from Tomsk, at least women, and probably men too, go through Marinsk. Perhaps it's due to the peculiarities of the railway system, which makes Tomsk a bit of an appendix. Marinsk prison looks amazing from the outside. It's a real old red brick castle, very beautiful. Inside, there are none. That is, it hasn't been renovated, well, I'm afraid to lie, but it seems to me like 50, maybe 40 years. There's a smell of sewage. It's just that the living conditions there aren't very good. It's not very clean. And it's not that they're afraid, but any transport is quite difficult, even physically. You're lugging around a bunch of bags and trunks. It's rare that one of the guards will help you carry them. In Tomsk, for example, the guards all know their charges. And when you're already there, somewhere in Mariinsk, in Novosibirsk, you're nobody to them, they have 35 people like you a day, and, generally, they sometimes help, but more often than not, you're the one carrying all these rather heavy bags, dragging them into the Stolypin train car.
I was lucky both times with the Stolypin, if you can call it that. Firstly, they were relatively new carriages, and secondly, well, to put it simply, it looks like a regular Russian Railways carriage on the outside, but with bars inside. While regular compartments in civilian carriages are four-berth, with soft seats and bunks, the Stolypin compartments are six-berth. They have bars on the door, three bunks on one side, three on the other, and they're wooden platforms.
I was lucky in that when I traveled from Tomsk to Mariinsk and from Mariinsk to Novosibirsk, there weren't many people. One time, I was traveling with four people in one such compartment. That is, everyone could easily lie down and sit down in their seats. The second time, there were only two of me in the same compartment. Men travel in the same car, but, naturally, in separate compartments behind bars. But some people aren't so lucky. And some travel in this six-berth compartment with ten or twenty people. Well, naturally, you can't lie down in there; it's stuffy. Extremely uncomfortable. And, again, I only traveled... eight hours, but for some, the journey can take two days. I don't think this is how people should be transported in the 21st century.
And then there are the pretrial detention centers themselves. They vary in conditions. Women in Tomsk are held in either three- or four-bed cells. I was in a four-bed cell for the first time, then a three-bed cell. In Novosibirsk, I was placed in a 12-bed cell. Honestly, that wasn't as comfortable, and it was incredibly hot, 38 degrees, I think, in the cell; it was just really stuffy. In Mariinsk, I was also placed in an eight-bed cell, though later, because of the article I was in, they moved me to a single-bed cell, but I was rather glad.
Every time you lug around all these bags, and in every pretrial detention center, when you arrive, they search you and, naturally, thoroughly rummage through all your belongings. For some reason, every pretrial detention center has different rules about what's allowed and what's not. In some places, you can use colored pencils, in others, you can't. In some places, you can only have clear shampoo, in others, you can only buy shampoo from the local store. In some places, certain items of clothing are allowed, and in others, you can't. And every time, you rummage through everything. You constantly feel like you have no personal space at all in this system. It's just uncomfortable and difficult. And then again, I'm still a relatively young person, like some grandmothers. I can't really imagine a grandfather or a woman who's almost 70 years old going through all this and enduring all this.
How long did you spend in the Novosibirsk penal colony? How does the routine there differ from that of a pretrial detention facility?
"I was there for literally three weeks. I arrived from the Novosibirsk pretrial detention center on July 2."
As you know, the exchange took place on August 1st. And on July 27th, they took me back to Moscow. When you arrive at the penal colony, you're quarantined. Typically, it's two weeks, but in Novosibirsk, for some reason, it's only one week. This is an adaptation period, where you learn the internal rules and get used to the uniform. That's it, you hand over your civilian clothes as soon as you're admitted, and they give you this silly green uniform. Over the course of that week or two, officers come to you, get to know you, find out what you'd like to do, what your education is, and whether you have any health issues. They bring you food there. Unlike when you're already in the units, you go to the cafeteria, and they bring you food for quarantine.
After quarantine, all prisoners appear before a commission. The prison warden, the entire administration, and the operatives are there. They assign prisoners to units and, as a rule, assign them to a work location. This means that all prisoners in the prisons are required to work. If you refuse to work... No one will physically force you, but you will be placed under strict conditions. And most likely, in solitary confinement, as a precaution. Strict conditions simply mean a limited number of visits, meaning fewer visits, a separate barracks, no phone calls, but letters. In short, it's not good.
So, we went to this commission, along with other convicts, most of them, again, under Article 228. They walk into this commission and a minute later they come out all cheerful, saying, "We have such-and-such a sewing brigade, such-and-such a detachment." I thought, "Well, great." I walked into this commission and spent 15 minutes listening to them tell me I was an enemy of the people, an American spy, and all that jazz. It was unusual, because, frankly, in all my forced interactions with the law enforcement system, I've generally encountered the fact that everyone, including... Well, with rare exceptions, probably, including the investigator, the operative, everyone understands everything, but it's like, "You understand everything," as they tell me. But here, people were downright convinced; that is, there was a whole gamut of propaganda clichés. And in the end, the warden of the colony uttered this strange phrase; he didn't even say it to me, but to the administration. They say there will be no work for her in the next month, and definitely no sewing factory.
I think, oh well. It's not that I'm upset, it's not that I ever wanted to work in a garment factory. In fact, perhaps most prisoners actually want to work. Because, well, time drags on if you're sitting around doing nothing. If you can't replace yourself with anything, then, well, maybe it really is better to work. You just have to understand that the pay is peanuts there, especially in a garment factory...
I won't lie, I don't have any specific statistics, but from what I've heard from other women, they make 1200 rubles a month. That's after all the deductions. You have to understand that in prison, many people have alimony payments, for example, and some debts, like, I don't know, criminal cases, maybe fines, and the like. Plus, prisoners are completely self-supporting. There's a cliché: why should society support criminals? In fact, society doesn't support criminals; they support themselves. People pay their entire rent in prison, their clothes, their food. Everything gets deducted. And in the end, you're left with just pennies. The best salary I've heard of was at a sewing shop—6 or 7 rubles a month. So, there's not a huge incentive to work. People mostly just want to work there to fill their time.
Again, I had no problem keeping myself occupied because I had letters. I must say that this Novosibirsk penal colony has a pretty decent library. I just borrowed some books by Dina Rubina and read some books by Guzel Yakhina. Absolutely decent literature. Generally speaking, you can easily fill in any gaps in your education there. But you have to understand that, unfortunately, most prisoners aren't exactly big book lovers. So they're simply bored and would rather go to work.
They never sent me to work. I don't know what they were afraid of. Was it that I'd start... Start what? I don't know. I'd sit at a sewing machine and advocate for a violent change of power, God knows. I was in a detachment. A detachment, well, roughly speaking, is a barracks. But then again, you shouldn't imagine a barracks as a rickety wooden building. It's a two-story brick building. It's quite light inside, quite clean. On the first floor there's one detachment, on the second, as a rule.
I was in my unit's quarters, reading books, writing letters. There's always some kind of work to do: mopping the floors, helping someone, doing something. Plus, all prisoners are required by law to do about two hours a week of community service. In our case, it was plucking grass in the restricted area. The restricted area is between the fence and... between the colony and the outside world, and between the fences, there are several of them, there's a strip of land to make escape as difficult as possible. And there shouldn't be any grass there. Apparently, so that tracks are visible if someone runs. Most of the grass is removed somehow, I don't know, maybe with lawnmowers or by ripping it out, digging it up, probably. But weeds still grow, and so we go and pluck them in the restricted area by hand. Or sweep the parade ground. Or, for example, my favorite was there, on the parade ground, the asphalt is pretty uneven, there are potholes and a huge puddle. So, every time it rained, my mood soured, because I knew that in the next few hours, most likely...we'd be scooping water out of this gigantic puddle with buckets. I don't know, it's kind of a rhetorical question, why can't we have proper drainage, actually. Why, if you have 800 women, some of whom aren't working, can you send them out with buckets to scoop out this water? That's the kind of mandatory work they have there. Or help out in the cafeteria, like setting the dishes, clearing away the dirty stuff. I literally spent a couple of weeks doing all that. At the same time, lawyers came a couple of times, there were calls, they got phone cards, everything was fine in that regard, meaning they let you call your parents. And you can call relatives without any time limits.
Overall, I have to say that EK-9 in Novosibirsk, in terms of living conditions, is probably not the worst. I asked around and talked to other convicts, some of them... well, not even convicts, but those who were still being transported, some of them who were in other colonies. In terms of living conditions, everything is pretty good. That is, recent renovations, decent plumbing, doorbells. In other places, things are much worse. But the management, I must say, is certainly very peculiar. And you can easily end up in solitary confinement there. There are no political activists there. Now there are none at all, but there was me. Just some ordinary girls. You can end up in solitary confinement for anything. You looked the warden in the eye, even though he asked you to lower your eyes, and there was one girl who didn't lower her eyes and ended up in solitary confinement for several days. These are the kind of strange stories that happen, but they say worse can happen.
Let's move on to your unexpected release. Tell me how it happened, and did you submit a petition for clemency?
"It was all very strange. At some point, back in Tomsk, after the sentence had come into force, I decided to write a petition for clemency. There was, let's say, no remorse or anything like that. I outlined the essence of my accusations. I said that I had ceased my activities in the organization even before it was officially designated extremist. I was a member of the city council and concluded by asking for clemency. I gave this petition to the Tomsk pretrial detention center administration, but it disappeared somewhere. So, the lawyers simply found out, they ended up never sending it anywhere. I don't know how this happened, whether it was intentional or unintentional, or maybe it was somehow incorrectly formatted, but nevertheless."
Soon I was in Novosibirsk, I ended up in a penal colony. And there I thought, maybe I should try writing again, or maybe not. I consulted with lawyers about it. And I didn’t take any initiative. I thought I still had plenty of time, if anything, I could do it. And at some point, I think it was July 23rd, the unit commander calls me in. The unit commander is an FSIN employee, a woman. And she asks me: do you have the verdict in hand? I say, well, it’s not exactly in hand, it’s in the warehouse with the rest of your things here. She hesitated for a while and said, okay, maybe you won’t need it. You have 15 minutes, go write a petition for clemency. I say, what’s with the urgency? Well, that’s complete nonsense. As a rule, it’s the convict’s initiative. The colony administration doesn’t care at all. Whether you write or not. Well, if the president pardons you, they'll let you go. If he doesn't pardon you, they won't let you go. But they have no interest in that.
- You have 15 minutes.
— What's the urgency?
— Don’t ask anything, go write.
I had with me a draft of what I'd written in Tomsk. I simply rewrote it there, using the same wording. Fifteen minutes later, the head of the special unit of the colony came and took the paper from me. The next day, I was summoned by the operative who regularly called me. He apparently liked talking politics. I don't know, maybe he was bored there. And he was a little sarcastic and said, "So, what did you do yesterday?" I said, "I was cleaning the floor." He looks at me like I'm not quite rational and says, "Maybe there's something else interesting?" I say, "I wrote letters." Anything else? I mention the letter of pardon, and he asks, "Well, what do you think about it?" I say, "I don't think anything." It's just strange that it's you who are taking the initiative. He says, "This is the first time we've seen anything like this, that we're taking the initiative." And he started asking me some stupid questions, like, what if they ask you for some favor in exchange? I asked, what favor? Like, say Putin's a hottie. I said, no one would believe it, everyone would think I'm a hostage. Well, maybe they'll believe it or not, it doesn't matter. What if they ask you? I said, well, no one's asking. How do you imagine that, what would it even look like? Anyway, it all ended on a slightly sarcastic note.
I ask him, what's this all about? Did some kind of order come from Moscow? He says, we're just prison guards, we were told, so we do it. Well, I see. And for the next three days, probably, nothing happened. And then Saturday came. Every morning and every evening in the colony there's... a check, that is, the prisoners line up on the parade ground, are counted, they quickly introduce themselves and go off to their detachments. And then the morning comes, we all go out to the parade ground. On Saturdays, everyone works there too, normal people, the majority, except for people like me and pensioners, and the disabled, first and second groups. Everyone's at work, we're standing on the parade ground, they're counting us, I see that even though it's Saturday, the colony director has arrived, the chief operative of the colony and an operative from the FSIN office for the Novosibirsk region have arrived. It also flashed through my mind that somehow it's strange, maybe they're coming for my soul. I quickly pushed this thought away, thinking that everything wasn’t revolving around me, there were 800 people sitting here, you never know what could have happened.
This inspection was over, and we returned to the units. There are all sorts of leisure activities on Saturdays and Sundays. Well, something like checkers and chess tournaments. And since most of the prisoners are at work, those who are in the units are sent to play. So, I went to play checkers. I had to. Not expecting anything unusual, I go out to the local area, which is a fenced-off area in front of the units, with a checkers board and checkers. I get up and wait for us to leave. Then the unit's caretaker flies out. The caretaker is a convict, the head of the unit, a kind of liaison between the convicts and the administration. She's absolutely panicked. She says: "Ksenia, the phone rang, go to the duty station quickly, without the mattress and with your things."
- What does it mean?
— I don’t know. This is the first time this has happened.
So, if it's with both the mattress and the things, then it could be a transfer to another unit, for example. Although it's strange that it's on a Saturday... But everything's strange for me anyway, so I think, well, you never know. I start hastily unloading my things. I have half a fridge full of food, I just stocked up on it yesterday. Some shampoos, and I start unloading everything else. The duty station calls again. They're yelling at me about why it's taking me so long to get ready. I call them back and say, maybe you can tell me what's going on. They say, "Don't ask any questions, get ready quickly." Oh well.
I barely drag my bag to the duty station, and then some uncoordinated actions begin. The officer searches me thoroughly and says, "Well, don't take too much stuff, be back in a week."
- Where?
- Here.
- Почему?
- Well, your term hasn't ended yet.
- Well, why am I going somewhere?
- You'll find out later.
Okay, so... They bring me all my other things from the warehouse. And there are, well, some clothes, books that weren't cleared, some old letters, and something else. Basically, a whole bunch of stuff. They take me to another room, where two operatives are sitting, right from Novosibirsk, from the administration and the penal colony. They start spouting some nonsense, saying that now I'm going to Tomsk to review some materials. I ask: am I going to go through Mariinsk and the Novosibirsk pretrial detention center again? They say, "Did you come here like that?" I say, "Well, yeah."
So, I think, great, Mariinsk again, another two weeks. I start frantically stuffing some coffee and candy into my bag, because when you're being transported, you can't buy anything. That is, money moves from prisoner to prison, but that takes a while. While you're being transported, you can't buy anything; they don't even open an account for you there. And they look at me and say: you don't need to take so much stuff with you. I say, no, you do! Believe me, I'm going to Mariinsk, I'll need it. And at some point, when the operative from the administration, the colony operative, comes out, he starts telling me very gently, like, don't take a lot of things, you won't need it, believe me. I try to find out something, but he doesn't tell me anything.
I've been wearing my uniform this whole time, this green one. I ask if I can change. He says no, you're a convict, you're just going to walk around like that in the pretrial detention center. Well, that's too bad. So they call someone. Someone tells them to change. I change into a denim shirt, then into normal clothes, and finally into sneakers. There was some weird situation in the colony: they ran out of summer shoes in the summer, and all the convicts were wearing autumn combat boots. And in 35-degree heat, that's, well, not very comfortable, to be honest, especially since they were a size too big. I happily slip into my soft, comfortable sneakers. And they lead me to the airlock.
The airlock is the entrance to the colony. You can think of it as a garage. There's a gate on one side, a paddy wagon drives in, gets checked, and then the gates open, and the paddy wagon enters the colony grounds. They lead me to the airlock, the gates open, and I see the beaming head of the colony there. He's as good-natured as can be, unlike himself, and here he is, all happy. So, there are other administration employees, a Gazelle van is already there, and they start joking about how you're carrying the whole of Tomsk in your bag, how big it is. But I'm heading to Mariinsk, I'm already prepared for the worst. And they start chatting among themselves, and one of them, an FSIN employee who arrived in a Gazelle van in civilian clothes, says to me, "You have a very big bag." I say, "My bag is fine." I've been traveling with it for the last six months, and no one was bothered by its size. It's a normal bag, comfortable, like I'll travel with it.
- Why don't you put it in some kind of bag?
- No, it’s more convenient to carry everything in a cloth bag.
- It won't fit in your carry-on luggage.
- Interesting.
I understand that we're flying somewhere, so I ask the head of the colony: where am I flying? He says in a very pompous tone, like, it doesn't matter where you're flying to. But he asked me to send him a postcard. When I get around to it, I'll have to get around to it and send him a postcard. Anyway, they don't tell me anything, I just understand that we're flying somewhere.
They load me into a Gazelle van. I ask the staff accompanying me: where are we going? They say we're flying to Moscow.
- Why?
— We really don’t know anything, just this morning, Saturday… They pulled us out of the house and said they urgently needed to escort a person to Moscow.
We pulled up to the Novosibirsk airport, to some kind of back entrance, not the main one. There wasn't any proper security check, just police. So, they boarded us... We boarded a regular C-class plane, just the first passengers, there was no one else on board yet. I was in regular clothes, no handcuffs. So, there was one officer sitting next to me, and two others were somewhere back there in the cabin. And so, basically, I just flew.
It was a very strange feeling, because it was such a sharp contrast after prison. Ordinary people, with normal faces, all with phones, flying somewhere with their families, summer. And we landed at Domodedovo, I think. I'm walking with an escort, without handcuffs.
We get out and I see a gigantic paddy wagon. I've never seen such a paddy wagon in my life, and unfortunately, I've seen them before. A truly enormous FSIN paddy wagon. I think about 30 people could fit in there. He came for some reason to pick me up alone. An FSIN colonel emerged from an ordinary car. Some very friendly man asked how I got there. I said, well, apart from the fact that I'm under escort, and I don't understand what's going on. Maybe you could tell me? Well, no, unfortunately, we won't tell you about that. And you're all very polite. So, do you have any complaints about the escort? They always ask that after every transfer. I say, no, no. Well, good. So that's it, that wonderful, free moment on the plane and in a normal airport among normal people is over for me. Another paddy wagon, another cage. I can hear the Moscow officers riding in the paddy wagon talking to each other, saying things like, "Something strange is going on, this is already the fourth trip we've seen today." I wonder if they're taking anyone to Moscow. And I figured it could be, well, political prisoners, or maybe, well, who knows, who gets transferred to the Federal Penitentiary Service for what reasons. And then they're talking among themselves again, and one asks the other, "How long do you think it will take us to get there?" Like, "Where?" To Lefortovo. And then I realized that it was obviously an exchange, because Lefortovo is, well, formally it's a pretrial detention center that belongs to the Federal Penitentiary Service, but everyone knows it's an FSB pretrial detention center, meaning people are held there whose cases the FSB is investigating, all sorts of big shots, like real terrorists, including the ones who blew up Crocus, for example, and various deputy defense ministers, all these people involved in high-profile cases and just people whose cases the FSB is investigating. They're being held there, and I realized that this must be some kind of operation connected to the FSB. And if it is an operation connected to the FSB, then what could it be other than an exchange? But no one is saying anything. We get to Lefortovo. There, they take literally everything from me. They left only one pair of underwear and socks. They even took my hair tie. Maybe they were afraid we'd hang ourselves for good, I don't know. I barely managed to knock my plastic comb back. Some shampoos, face washes, and cream weren't forbidden for some reason. They allowed another, but never mind. They gave me a black men's uniform. It was really funny because the pants were three sizes too big, so I couldn't even move in them, I just had to hold onto this black robe. And no one explained anything. And then this officer, a grown-up, older man, probably a man. Later, we found out he was the deputy head of Lefortovo. He said very politely: "Do you understand why you're here?"
- No. Maybe you can tell me?
— I can’t tell you, just try to forget about everything, rest and relax.
— To Lefortovo?
- Well, what's the big deal? It's not animals working here.
- Yes, but the atmosphere is still not very relaxing.
- Well, I guess it will all be over for you soon.
After that, they put me in a single cell, or rather, it's a double cell with two beds, but I was alone. Naturally, there was no TV, no refrigerator, no radio, not even a partition by the toilet. Every 15 minutes, an officer peers through the peephole and passes by. Naturally, there's a video camera above the door. And no one says anything. So, they brought me there on Saturday evening, and the entire time, I hadn't had any walks or showers. They only opened the so-called feeding trough, a small window in the cell door, and fed me three times a day. And no one answered any questions.
I sat in this complete isolation and bewilderment until the morning of Thursday, August 1st. And already on the morning of August 1st, the officers came to my cell, brought bags with my things, and said, "Get ready, you have half an hour." I said, "Where to?" Well, that's it, like, you're leaving the facility. And they left. I happily started changing into my normal clothes, leaving these uniforms behind. Another inspection was underway, and another officer came in with a piece of paper. He said, "Sign." He showed me the paper, it had my photo on it, and it said, "Release Certificate." The reason was a presidential decree granting a pardon. But there was no number, no date, just a presidential decree granting a pardon. And it said... "Do," followed by my registered home address in Tomsk.
— Can I ask questions?
- Try it.
—Am I being released?
- Yes, here is the certificate.
— And the second question. Should I go home now?
"I can't tell you. Sign this, and we'll give you the certificate later."
I signed, they didn't give me the certificate, they lied to me, who would have thought... About 15 minutes later, I think, the officers came for me, led me down the corridors, I go down and see, well, I don't know, 10-15 strong guys in paramilitary uniforms. In masks, in caps, basically, they asked me to introduce myself, and I did, and one of them gently but firmly took me by the shoulder and led me. He led me outside, where a bus was already there, a regular bus, not a paddy wagon. They led me onto the bus, and there I saw Ilya Yashin, and, I think, someone else there, someone already known. Liliya Chanysheva was already there. Sasha Skochelenko, I think, was already sitting there. Everything became completely clear. Then they brought in the rest of the prisoners. And an officer sat next to each of us. They themselves told me, it was the Alpha squad of the FSB.
Then this distinguished-looking guy came in, no longer in uniform, wearing a jacket. He said something funny. Anyway, good afternoon. He said he was a representative of the Federal Security Service, and we would now proceed to the airport, from where a plane would pick us up and take us to the place where the exchange would take place. So, the word "exchange" was first mentioned on this bus. The bus drove us through rainy Moscow straight to Vnukovo Airport. There was no customs control there. They drove us right up to the plane's steps. This was a special Russian flight detachment. Again, they boarded next to each of us. An Alpha officer assigned to each of us sat down.
We were told the flight would continue to Ankara. We realized the exchange would take place in Ankara. We flew, chatting among ourselves, socializing. We were perplexed. There were some dark jokes. One of the officers, I think it was Ilya, asked: "So, how do you like flying on a plane full of bloody crap?" To which they were grimly told: "At least there's a chance we won't be shot down."
We landed safely in Ankara. After some time, we were escorted off the plane. Representatives, apparently from the Turkish secret service, were already there. They put us on a bus that was already parked on the tarmac, and we were already sitting on that bus and watching as they led those we'd been exchanged for onto our plane, the one we'd just arrived on. They were also being escorted from some bus onto the steps. Well, then, representatives from Germany came to see us. It was funny how they greeted us: they had printouts of our photos from the internet—meaning, we had no documents other than our internal passports—and they had a stack of papers. For example, there were photos of me from interviews, from rallies, just different ones, from different angles. And they approached each of us and asked: show us your left ear, show us your right ear, show us your forehead, turn your nose, so they could identify us as real people, and not someone else. After that, they took us to some airport lobby, where there was coffee, tea, and some tables. There they let us make a phone call.
I called my dad from there and told him for the first time, "If you've been following the news, I'm in Turkey, everything's fine, and we're going to fly to Germany now." And after a while, Russian political prisoners and dual citizens, German citizens with Russian citizenship, or just Germans who were also with us, they all flew with us to Germany. On two jets. Scholz met us at the steps. He simply shook everyone's hand. We were checked for radiation there. Everyone was given a checkup, just in case...
— You found yourself free. What was your first wish?
— That's a difficult question. I had very mixed feelings, to be honest. To begin with, it was all completely unexpected. I mean, I assumed I wouldn't serve out the full eight years I had left. But I didn't think it would be literally three weeks in a penal colony. And that was, of course, a joy, absolutely. On the other hand, I understood that this wasn't just a pardon; it was, essentially, exile. And naturally, I wanted to contact my loved ones, and I did so quite quickly. I called them, finally had an uncensored, unwired conversation. We exchanged normal photos, had video calls, and got in touch with all my friends. Of course, there was a strong desire not only for me but also for other Russian political prisoners to return home as soon as possible, but obviously, that was impossible. To be honest, it's all just these ordinary, everyday desires... Well, just to go for a walk without restrictions, probably in the fresh air. The hospital where we were first placed in Koblinz has this really green area, so I remember being there... I walked around, talked to a friend on the phone for about two hours, just walking in circles. It's really nice to walk without bars in some normal place, surrounded by trees.
If you could do it all over again, would you agree to become head of Navalny's headquarters again?
— I think so. We don't know yet how this whole story will end. Russian history isn't over yet, and it's difficult to draw any conclusions. I don't think we did anything bad. That is, we probably made some mistakes, like everyone else, like any political organization. But we always had only good motives, and some things worked out, and some didn't. And it was certainly an interesting experience. I met a bunch of great, interesting, driven, sincere people, patriots in the best sense of the word, who were genuinely trying to make both the country and the city better. And, as I already said, I don't regret my experience as a member of parliament at all. And it's unlikely that my life would have turned out the way it did, that I would have ended up as a member of parliament if I hadn't previously become a campaign coordinator. So now I can say that no, I don't regret it.
— Two months of emigration. How are you finding them?
— It's fine. Of course, as the classic said, freedom is better than captivity. But, of course, I really want to go home. I think about it all the time. Well, and I'm probably not the only one who thinks this way; I think all the guys who were in prison and are now free think this way. We talk, and this topic always comes up: I really want to go home, because everything that's important, and most of those who are important, are still there. This thought constantly haunts me. In Europe, it's comfortable, everything is wonderful. And there are a lot of good people living here now, too, who were also forced to leave. I've already met many of them.
But, of course, a home is a home, and probably the feeling when you can live at home, probably nothing can replace it, no comfort.
— What are your feelings about the Russian political opposition now? Can we expect any effective and meaningful political action from it?
I think the Russian opposition has found itself in a horrific situation, with part of it forced into exile. The leader of the Russian opposition was killed in prison. Those who remain in Russia, if they can do anything, do so in very limited ways. In fact, they're not really engaged in pure politics, but rather in some minor matters. I'm not saying it's bad, but it's clear their influence on the situation is extremely limited.
Just today, before going to this interview, I read that Shlosberg, Yabloko deputy chairman Lev Shlosberg, had been searched in Pskov. He's a very soft-spoken man, not radical, but even that is now unacceptable. So the situation... it seems to me, is extremely complex. The Russian opposition is plagued by conflicts and contradictions. This is due to some difficult external factors, a difficult environment, and difficult times. On the other hand, when there are specific projects, the Russian opposition can unite. Well, for example, there's the well-known case of the marathon in support of fellow prisoners, which takes place every year, where literally everyone—I don't know, independent journalists, supporters of Maxim Katz, supporters of the Anti-Corruption Foundation, and supporters of Khodorkovsky—host livestreams and jointly raise money in support of political prisoners. Or, for example, when they signed for Boris Nadezhdin. As I understand it, there was a relatively consolidated opinion that this movement needed to be supported.
And, again... Taking our city council as an example, although, of course, it was a bit... Times were a bit different, although it was only three years ago, but the situation was much softer. You could also say that when there are specific issues, specific goals, the Russian opposition can unite, reach agreements, and divide its circles when it goes to elections. Right now, of course, everything is very difficult and very sad, but I... I have no doubt that all of this will be overcome, simply because public demand hasn't gone away. And it seems to me that there are tens of millions of people in Russia who don't support the war, who don't support Putin. In any case, they want to have their representatives, those who respect their interests, their point of view. So I think that over time, the situation will somehow improve. I'd like to believe so.
— Do you already have an idea of what you’ll be doing next?
— I don't fully believe it yet, to be honest. I'm still sort of getting a feel for the situation. Perhaps it will be something closer to human rights activism. I'm considering it, let's put it this way. The number of political prisoners is growing simply every day. And, unfortunately, we know nothing about most of them. That is, if before, probably anyone from journalism or politics could quickly list all the political prisoners, now there are simply hundreds. And often these are unknown guys from the regions or pensioners. Just today I read that Memorial has, I think, about 140 people over 60 listed as political prisoners. No one knows these people, and, of course, I want them to be known, to be talked about, because it's important. This is also important from the standpoint of potential exchanges. Of course, they probably won't all be exchanged; that's too many, but some could be. Perhaps, sooner or later, there will be some kind of amnesty for political offences, perhaps. Plus, simply speaking out about someone helps to ensure their safety in detention. So, perhaps I'll take up something related to human rights work, but, frankly, I haven't quite decided yet.