Time to read: 16 minutes(s)

Barracks for political prisoners

In the Magadan penal colony, political prisoners and deserters are kept separate from other inmates, turning them into a new category of “dangerous”

Author: Andrey Grishin

I'm writing this text from abroad, from a safe place where I left Magadan in 2023. In my small homeland, I was a journalist and editor-in-chief of the independent media outlet Vesma. After this ARTICLES A criminal case has been opened against me for "fakes about the Russian army," and the court hearing has now begun. The likely sentence is five to ten years in prison.

If not for a miraculous turn of events, I'd be sitting in a Magadan pretrial detention center right now, awaiting the court's decision. And then I'd be transferred to the so-called troika—a general-security penal colony. That's where a separate barracks for political prisoners and deserters has been established today. 

I was able to speak with two former prisoners recently released from this colony and three family members of inmates serving their sentences in the "troika." These people are not related, but they all confirm that the "politicals" in the colony are kept separately, trying to isolate them from other prisoners. 

Especially for NeMoskva, I'm sharing what I learned from the conversations: how the new Kolyma political prisoners live, who exactly is incarcerated in a separate barracks, and why the system doesn't want to mix them with other prisoners. 

Disclaimer: To avoid causing harm to the prisoners and their families with whom we were able to speak, all names, ages, and some circumstances of the events have been changed. 

A fragment of the past

Since Soviet times, Magadan has been known as a "city of camps," the seat of control over the most horrific prison camps in the USSR. Despite the decades that have passed since the Great Terror, one can still encounter people whose first thoughts when they think of Magadan are images of camps and political prisoners. Yuri Dud's film "Kolyma—The Birthplace of Our Fear" played a significant role in this.

Meanwhile, the reduction of penal colonies in the region began back in the 90s. By 2025, only three colonies remained in Magadan and surrounding villages. 

One of them, a maximum-security penal colony, is located 40 km outside the city in the village of Uptar—IK-4, or "strict regime" or "four." Another, the Splavnaya penal colony-settlement, has the most lenient security and is located 35 km outside Magadan. 

And right in the city is that very same “troika”, correctional colony No. 3. 

After the verdict, I would have been packed into an FSIN car from the pretrial detention center building on Garazhny Lane (almost in the city center) and taken here.

It's not far: from the central Lenin Avenue, turn onto Proletarskaya Street, past the region's main cathedral (on the site of the Dalstroy building, which managed the labor of Kolyma prisoners), then pass a shopping center with a movie theater and continue on to the city's residential "third microdistrict." About ten minutes later, you'll see a "troika" (a 3-person) bus. 

They mostly send first-timers here, people with minor convictions, plus those transferred to ease the regime. And since the beginning of 2024, political prisoners have also been brought here. prisoners i (After the start of hostilities, the number of people convicted under articles on "fake news," "justifying terrorism," and "discrediting the army" in Magadan, according to the Rosfinmonitoring registry, only grew) and "refuseniks"—those who participated in the war in Ukraine and decided not to return to the front. They were all given separate barracks.

"And fuck, six years."

Yuri, Galina's son from the Magadan region, has been in a "troika" prison since last summer. He was convicted of "justifying terrorism." According to his mother, in 2025, he wrote several comments on VKontakte while "drunk." About a month later, when he had completely forgotten about his messages, police and riot police broke into his apartment. 

— I told him: well, don’t take the blame on yourself if you don’t remember how you wrote it! — the woman recalls. "Maybe you didn't write it. Maybe someone took your phone while you were drunk and wrote those damn comments. No, the investigator convinced him: confess, they'll give you less than the minimum sentence, you'll get off with a fine. He, the idiot, signed everything. And fuck, they gave him six years." 

Outside, Yuri worked on apartment renovations and occasionally filmed videos for commission: reels, sometimes commercials. He's currently serving time in a special barracks in a "troika" cell with other "politicals." Neighboring him in the adjacent bunks are businessmen, pensioners, public sector employees, and media workers. All of them, at some point, were targeted by the local "Center E" or the FSB.

Galina is not allowed to meet with her son. 

"I submit applications both on the [colony's] website and through Gosuslugi. I get a message that my son also needs to submit an application to the prison warden, but he can't physically see him! No matter how he goes, they say he's not there; they don't accept visitation requests. But they do accept applications from other people, no problem! Fucking bitches!" Galina comments emotionally.

Among Magadan's political prisoners are also "guests" from other regions, says our interviewee, Marina, whose husband is serving time in the same barracks as a deserter. For example, two are from Yakutia. One, a doctor by training, wrote a critical comment on social media. The other, a historian, also went to prison for his words. 

"For some reason, he [the Yakut historian] was brought to the 'troika'; he passed through Khabarovsk. He said he was in a pretrial detention center in Khabarovsk with one of the engineers who developed the Superjet." — Marina recounts her husband’s words. 

One of the inmates ended up in prison, although he claims he never wrote anything. The young man has a sister living in Ukraine, and she told him about what was happening in the country. One day, he was drinking with a friend and recounted what his relative had written. 

"And that other drinking buddy started writing on social media about how Ukrainians were suffering and how shitty Russians were for attacking. The cops picked him up, and he said he was writing this based on what a friend of his had told him, who had a sister in Ukraine. The security officers came for him too. He explained he hadn't written anything anywhere. The security officers took his phone and found some Ukrainian videos his drinking buddy had sent him. He explained the videos were sent to him in a chat... Anyway, nothing helped, they gave him five years. For a kitchen conversation, basically," Marina recounts what she learned from conversations with her husband on dates. 

"Our terrorists"—that's what the Federal Penitentiary Service (FSIN) officers call political prisoners. Their attitudes vary. Some are sympathetic, don't punish them for trivial things like an unbuttoned button, and can have a civil conversation. Others are cautious, convinced that "we need to be stricter with these guys." 

People from the political barracks are taken separately and lined up separately—as "especially dangerous," former prisoner Georgy, who served time in the "troika" on criminal charges, told NeMoskva: 

"The warden there has changed now. Rumor has it he told the guards, 'Why are you calling them terrorists? What kind of terrorists are they? They're writers.'"

"Where have you seen such a war?" 

The barracks also holds prisoners with "ordinary" criminal convictions, but political prisoners and "refuseniks" (defectors) make up the majority. The breakdown is roughly as follows: 60% are political prisoners, 30% are refuseniks, and 10% are "common-law prisoners," said Yegor, who was also recently released from this colony, where he served time under the "people's law." 228 article i (illegal acquisition, storage, transportation, manufacture or processing of narcotic drugs, psychotropic substances or their analogues, as well as plants containing drugs, without the intent to sell) He interacted with political prisoners and visited their barracks on various prison matters. 

"Conscientious objectors" were those who returned from the war in Ukraine on leave and then refused to return to the front. All were sentenced to five to seven years in prison under the desertion article. 

"Can you imagine the mood of those guys there? They're adults, 40-50 years old, many of them wounded, with serious injuries. They were refused discharge. And now—trial and prison." 

According to these soldiers, Yegor says, in Magadan, those who refuse to return to war are "caught in bars, in apartments, simply dragged onto planes and sent to fight, without even a trial." One day, a man was brought to the political barracks, who argued in court that he was a deserter. In 2023, he was mobilized and sent to the front. In 2025, he returned on leave and decided he'd had enough of fighting. 

— They detained him and tried to tie him up by force and quietly and send him back to fight, but he made a scene and forced out a lawyer, — says Egor. "And at the trial, the lawyer actually argued that the guy was a deserter, that he'd left his unit without permission. So he'd be jailed, not sent off to fight. It turns out that people used to hire a lawyer to avoid going to jail, but now they hire him to do so." 

One day, Yegor recounts, "filmmakers from the DPR" visited the prison. They made a documentary about the war and showed it to the prisoners, but they had no idea that right there in front of them were those who had fought. 

One of them stood up and said, "Guys, I get it. In your movies, soldiers are in a clearing, eating soup from a pot, dreaming about the future. Everything is beautiful and sunny. I don't know where you've seen a war like this. We fought in a dugout under fire. And one night, rats chewed out the ears of one of our soldiers. That's a real war story, but yours is like a fairy tale." 

“And the film crew somehow calmed down,” Yegor recalls.

"Make a film about us. We all fought there, for years, with wounds, and now we're sitting here," the filmmakers were advised.

Another episode, according to Yegor: when Putin went to Alaska in August 2025 to meet with Trump, the "bugor" [person in charge of the barracks] of political prisoners, appointed by the administration, forced everyone to watch reports from there. The prisoners swore: "Like, 'Fuck.'" of his "He turned it on." To which the "bigwig" replied: "What are you talking about? He's our president. We love and appreciate him very much. Or don't you?" Then everyone "frowned, sat down, and watched."

"In general, the military already agrees with the 'politicals' on many things. They're also angry, with combat experience. But they'll get out, one way or another, — Yegor reasons.

Alexey, Marina's husband, is serving time in a troika prison for "desertion," even though, as Marina says, "he's done his job": he suffered a shrapnel wound to his spine, it hurts to walk, and he can't bend over. Still, they declared him fit for service and wanted to send him back. Alexey refused, didn't show up at the recruitment office, and was living with relatives and friends, but they tracked him down and caught him. He was sentenced to five years. 

After meetings with her husband, she explains that recruiters still visit the prison from time to time offering to send them to war. The campaign is conducted only among "regular" prisoners and "refuseniks." "Political prisoners" are not approached with such offers; they won't be recruited even if they wanted to.

The last time, in January 2026, Marina claims, they promised 3,5 million rubles from the governor (currently the size up up to 4 million). 

"In the end, two Kyrgyz, two Chukchi, and one Yakut went to defend the 'Russian world.' None of them had fought before. My husband says they'll only survive there for a month at most. Everyone who had fought said, 'Fuck off,'" Marina says. "No one had agreed to do that for a long time." 

The prison warden sometimes comes to agitate us personally and scolds us: "Why are we feeding you, you parasites? Go fight."

"The police come and talk to us," Marina continues. "They say, 'If you talk nonsense, you'll get even longer sentences.' It's a preventative measure to keep people from discussing sensitive topics with each other or other prisoners."

Her husband will not be released until 2029.

Barracks order

The third prison colony in Magadan is one of the so-called red zones. Unlike the "black" zones, where criminals operate, the regime is worse. The administration controls all aspects of life in the colony.

The Russian prison system has an unofficial division into "red" and "black" zones. This division determines who actually runs the institution from the inside, shaping the daily life and relationships between inmates. 
Red zone. Power rests entirely with the prison administration. Order is maintained by activist prisoners ("goats," "reds," and "activists") who collaborate with the Federal Penitentiary Service. This is usually worse for the prisoner: a strict regime, constant monitoring, a lack of informal rights, and a high risk of pressure from the administration through the "activists."
Black zone. Power in the zone is effectively divided between or vested in the "blatnye" (criminal authorities). The administration has minimal interference in daily life, and the rules are set by the thieves-in-law. For the average prisoner, this means (mostly, though not always): a more relaxed atmosphere with respect for the rules, less pressure from the administration, and more opportunities to get "warmth"—unofficial packages and other perks from the outside, such as a cell phone, alcohol, or drugs. 

The barracks designated for political prisoners are designed to hold 120 people—the equivalent of a company in the army. There's a supply room and a washroom with toilets. As you enter, there's a dressing room, then the bunks. The room has rows of bunk beds, close together, almost touching. Each prisoner has a small nightstand. Or rather, half a nightstand, because they're forced to share it with a neighbor. The walls are peeling, and the smell of damp and unwashed bodies pervades (the bathhouse is only available once a week).

Yegor describes the atmosphere in the political prisoners’ barracks as “friendly,” although “a regime is a regime.” 

"There's a lot of nonsense. Endless searches, humiliation. You can't even sit on your bed during the day, even on the weekends—you're sent straight to solitary confinement." 

Wake up at 5:45 AM, lights out at 22:00 PM. Dinner is already served at 17:00 PM. As a result, people are hungry until the morning. 

Many people need medical care, almost everyone needs a dentist, but there is “no talk” about this, just as there are no medications: “A complete disregard for all needs.”

— During the day, there are endless and stupid chores, — says Egor. "Not the kind where you can earn a salary, but, as they say, just to get fucked up. In the winter, they're constantly shoveling snow, in the fall, they're drying up puddles with shovels. The clothes are old, thin, everyone's freezing." 

Overall, the barracks are very cold. In severe frost, the walls are coated with frost from the inside. But pea jackets are issued according to regulations—only in November. Meanwhile, in Magadan, temperatures drop below freezing in September, and freezing in November. 

In terms of living conditions, the political prisoners' barracks are no different from other prisons. It's "like a regular prison camp—the same as 70 years ago," Yegor concludes.

"For example, cigarettes are the same currency as before. Plus, you have to contribute three packs a month to the 'obshchak' (common fund): for the 'harem' [homosexuals or similar individuals who do all the dirty work], for the 'atas' [warning about the approach of security or management], and so on. Donations are accepted every two months. The store was closed for a month once—the saleswoman quit, and everyone there nearly went crazy without cigarettes."

The attitude of the other inmates towards the "politicals" is neutral, says another former prisoner, Georgy.

— Everyone treats the guys from the "terrorists" barracks normally, no one bullies them. If you're a decent person, not a pig, not crest i (words from prison slang: chushka - an offensive designation for a person who does not take care of himself, is dirty, unkempt, socially low; greben - a person from the lowest caste of the prison hierarchy, close to the category of "lowered", usually the word is associated with a passive homosexual status in the prison system or with people who have been subjected to "lowering") "There won't be any problems. Moreover, there are smart guys there: if anything, they'll help you file a complaint and give you legal advice. Some of them are like our "deniers," who you can't bend. I know a guy from that barracks who was arrested for his politics." (justification of terrorism - editor's note)In court, he said his only wish was for Putin to die. He got a full seven years. In prison, he's restless, as they say, "he's a dick to the administration." He constantly admonishes the guards for violating the Constitution and prisoners' rights. And he's always in solitary confinement, essentially solitary confinement. They hardly ever let him out. But the guy doesn't smoke, and he exercises in his cell. Basically, he's holding up. He chose this path, and he's highly respected for it.

In the "political" barracks, Vitaly, another relative of a prisoner, says it's all straight out of Solzhenitsyn: people live in hope: there are constant rumors that the war is about to end, and an amnesty will be announced for the holidays. 

But even the release of a "political prisoner" isn't the end of his suffering. Recently, one of the inmates, convicted for comments under the "extremism" article, was released from prison. The court sentenced him to eight years of supervised release, an unusually long sentence (the average sentence ranges from one to three years). Now, for the next eight years, he must be home every day by 22 p.m. and report to the police every week.

Sometimes cases are reinstated. For example, according to our interviewee, one of the prisoners had two years left in prison, but a new case was opened against him "for donating to an extremist organization." Now he could be convicted again and given a longer sentence.

“I also used to believe that there would be some changes, I had hopes, but now I think that it was in vain, there is no need to do this, — Vitaly quotes one of the political prisoners in the Magadan colony. "It's better, on the contrary, to expect the worst. Then, if something good happens, it will be unexpected and pleasant." 

Postscript from the author

Those serving time in the Magadan "troika" aren't some outspoken opposition figures, dissidents, or politicians. They're ordinary people who wrote something "off" on social media. People rarely covered by the media. Many of them voted for Putin, had no particular grievances against the government, lived simple lives, and then received prison sentences for words spoken or written in the heat of the moment or while drunk. Many of them understand that continuing to say "off" is costly and could lead to another prison sentence. For many, the most important thing is to finish their sentence and get out. 

And yet, the prison administration prefers not to mix them with others. Why? We don't know for sure. 

Perhaps this is a quirk of the local authorities: just in case, to prevent anything from happening. Perhaps there's a Federal Penitentiary Service circular on this matter. It's also possible that the colonies have their own plans for sending prisoners to war. In that case, the leadership wouldn't want anyone influencing potential soldiers by telling them about what's happening at the front. Clearly, this can't be done effectively: there's only one prison zone, and people run into each other during walks and chores. But isolating deserters and political prisoners at least minimizes unnecessary interaction. 

The division seems to be an invention of the current FSIN officers, but in fact the system has returned to its old patterns. 

At the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, isolation was out of the question: everyone caught in the repressive steamroller—from deserters to those accidentally encircled—was thrown into general camps with common criminals. Moreover, it was precisely the repressed party members who had experienced the civil war and the 1917 revolution who more often than others took up arms and went to the front to serve in penal battalions—essentially the equivalent of today's Russian assault units. 

Varlam Shalamov in his “Essays on the Criminal World” recalled how this experiment of "mixing" prisoners The war ended in disaster for the criminal underworld. Officers and soldiers who had served at the front, as well as former criminals from penal units, had no intention of bending to the camp's rules. They knew how to fight, were organized, and posed a danger both to their "socially close" non-political prisoners and to the regular camp staff.

By 1948, Stalin's leadership realized that mixing such prisoners together was a sure path to rebellion. They then created the so-called Special Camps (Osoblags) as an attempt to sterilize the zone. The authorities realized that political prisoners, along with military personnel, were creating a dangerous core of resistance. This is how the camps, where the “enemies of the people” sat separately, under numbers, locked in their barracks. 

It's impossible to say for certain that the creation of a "barracks for political prisoners" in the Magadan penal colony was a deliberate move by the Russian authorities and the beginning of a new prisoner distribution system. But if so, the choice of Magadan as the testing ground for such an experiment is more than symbolic.