Life Inside Russia’s Penal Colonies: Political Prisoners Caught in Putin’s Crackdowns

As Alexei Navalny approaches his 47th birthday, he wakes up in a dimly lit concrete cell devoid of any personal touches. Cut off from his loved ones, he is prohibited from communicating with them through phone calls or visits. Confined to a cramped 2-by-3-meter space, known as a “punishment isolation” cell, Navalny endures a barrage of patriotic songs and President Vladimir Putin’s speeches played by the guards.

In a recent social media post relayed by his attorneys from Penal Colony No. 6 in the Vladimir region, Navalny sarcastically remarked, “Guess who holds the record for listening to Putin’s speeches? Who listens to them for hours on end until they fall asleep?” Navalny is currently serving a nine-year sentence, scheduled to end in 2030, on charges widely regarded as fabricated. Additionally, he faces the prospect of another trial on fresh charges, which could extend his imprisonment for an additional two decades. Rallies have been organized in Russia to express support for him on his birthday.

Navalny has become the most prominent political prisoner in Russia, not only due to his status as Putin’s fiercest political opponent, but also as a result of his poisoning, which he attributes to the Kremlin. His story was brought to international attention through an Oscar-winning documentary. Navalny has documented his arbitrary placement in isolation, enduring nearly six months of such conditions. His prison diet is meager, he faces restrictions on writing letters, and he is occasionally compelled to share his cell with a roommate exhibiting poor personal hygiene, further exacerbating his already miserable existence.

While much focus is directed towards Navalny and other high-profile figures like Vladimir Kara-Murza, who was recently sentenced to 25 years on charges of treason, an increasing number of lesser-known prisoners endure similarly harsh circumstances.

According to Memorial, Russia’s oldest and most prominent human rights organization and the recipient of the 2022 Nobel Peace Prize, there were 558 political prisoners in the country as of April, more than triple the figure from 2018 when the count stood at 183.

While conditions in modern-day penal colonies may vary, Russian law still allows prisoners to engage in labor such as sewing uniforms for soldiers, reminiscent of the Soviet Union’s extensive gulag system that utilized inmate labor for industrial development, including mining and logging. In a 2021 report, the U.S. State Department described conditions in Russian prisons and detention centers as “harsh and life-threatening,” citing issues such as overcrowding, abuse by guards and inmates, limited access to healthcare, food shortages, and inadequate sanitation.

Andrei Pivovarov, an opposition figure who was sentenced to four years in prison last year, has been subjected to isolation at Penal Colony No. 7 in the Karelia region since January, with little possibility of leaving until the end of the year, according to his partner, Tatyana Usmanova. This institution is notorious for its severe conditions and reports of torture.

Pivovarov, the former head of the pro-democracy group Open Russia, spends his days alone in a small cell within a “strict detention” unit, devoid of contact with anyone except his lawyers. He is granted one book from the prison library, a few hours a day to write letters, and 90 minutes of outdoor time. Other inmates are forbidden from making eye contact with him, exacerbating his sense of isolation. Usmanova stated, “It wasn’t enough to sentence him to imprisonment; they are also seeking to destroy his life there.”

Pivovarov was apprehended just before boarding a flight to Warsaw in May 2021 and transported to the city of Krasnodar. Authorities charged him with engaging with an “undesirable” organization, a crime introduced in 2015. Shortly before his arrest, Open Russia disbanded after being labeled as “undesirable.” Following his trial in Krasnodar, the St. Petersburg native was convicted and sentenced in July, during a period marked by Russia’s war in Ukraine and Putin’s extensive crackdown on dissent.

In an interview conducted in December, Pivovarov expressed that he was moved to Krasnodar to distance him further from his hometown and Moscow. Describing prison life as “boring and depressing,” he mentioned that his only diversion is an hour-long walk in a small yard. Inmates with funds in their accounts are allowed a 10-minute weekly visit to a prison store, while the rest must remain in their cells. Letters from supporters provide him with solace, as many previously disinterested individuals have started to gain clarity about Russian politics, according to Pivovarov. Unfortunately, letters now take weeks to reach him.

Conditions are relatively more bearable for some lesser-known political prisoners like Alexei Gorinov, a former member of a Moscow municipal council. In July, he was sentenced to seven years for “spreading false information” about the army during an antiwar speech at a council session. The criminalization of criticism regarding the invasion occurred a few months earlier, and Gorinov, aged 61, became the first Russian to be imprisoned for such an offense. He resides in barracks with approximately 50 other inmates in Penal Colony No. 2 in the Vladimir region, where they can watch TV and engage in activities like chess, backgammon, and table tennis. The unit has a small kitchen for brewing tea or coffee between meals, and prisoners can supplement their diet with personal supplies. However, the unit is subjected to enhanced scrutiny by prison officials, and Gorinov, along with two others, undergoes regular checks due to being labeled as “prone to escape.” Medical assistance is limited, with Gorinov noting his struggles to recover from bronchitis and the prison’s inability to provide proper treatment.

Another prisoner, artist and musician Sasha Skochilenko, faces health issues while awaiting the outcome of her trial following her arrest in April 2022 in St. Petersburg on charges of spreading false information about the army. Her offense involved replacing supermarket price tags with antiwar slogans as an act of protest. Skochilenko, who suffers from a congenital heart defect and celiac disease requiring a gluten-free diet, receives weekly food parcels that often fail to meet her dietary needs due to weight restrictions. Nonetheless, her partner, Sophia Subbotina, noted the relatively better conditions for women compared to male prisoners. The staff members, predominantly women, demonstrate a friendly attitude and offer support to Skochilenko, including acknowledgment of her relationship with Subbotina. The detention facility lacks political propaganda, and dance music plays on the radio, with cooking shows aired on TV, which serves as a distraction for Skochilenko. After arranging for an outside cardiologist to examine her, Subbotina has been granted bi-monthly visits since March.

Subbotina reflects on the complexity of emotions she experienced during their first reunion after a year of separation. She described their visit as a positive experience, but also expressed the hardship endured by Skochilenko during her year behind bars. The trial progresses slowly compared to the swift proceedings often observed in cases involving high-profile political activists, where guilty verdicts seem almost inevitable. Skochilenko faces a potential sentence of up to 10 years if convicted.