15 Nov 24 | News and features, Newsletters, Russia, United States, Venezuela
Russia is haunted by the ghost of Joseph Stalin. Dozens of monuments to the Soviet leader dot the country; his angular face beams from billboards, bookshop displays and subway station walls; multi-episode shows depict him on national TV.
It seems a strange twist in Russia’s story to rehabilitate a highly repressive leader from the former USSR but it makes sense too. Under Stalin, Russia emerged from World War II victorious and with many countries under its control, which chimes with Vladimir Putin’s insatiable desire to restore Russia as a global superpower.
It’s not just Stalin’s image that haunts Russia today – it’s his tactics. The political abuse of psychiatry that was developed towards the end of Stalin’s rule, for example, is being used once again against the Kremlin’s critics. You can read a piece about this from Russian journalist Alexandra Domenech here. This week we were made aware of another tactic straight out of the Stalin playbook – using everyday people to denounce each other. A growing number of people are ratting on their friends, family, colleagues, or in the most recent case – their doctor. On Tuesday a Russian court sentenced a 68-year-old paediatrician, Nadezhda Buyanova, to five and a half years in jail for allegedly criticising the war (she denies these claims). The monitoring group OVD-Info (also former Index award winners) has recorded 21 such criminal prosecutions since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, and a further 175 people have faced lower-level administrative cases for “discrediting” the Russian army because of people informing on them. The word “chilling” is overused in the human rights world, but this is really chilling.
So too is what’s happening to dissidents in the countries that Putin supports. In Venezuela under Moscow-allied President Nicolás Maduro there has been an intensification of attacks against the leading opposition figure Maria Corina Machado and those who support her since the July elections. Arbitrary detentions, torture, and sexual and gender-based violence by the country’s security forces are rife. One such target was 36-year-old opposition activist Jesus Martinez, who died yesterday in custody from a heart problem associated with complications from type II diabetes. Martinez was a member of the Vente Venezuela party run by Machado; Machado has denounced Maduro’s election to a third term as fraudulent. He was arrested without a search warrant and with no reason given, according to Machado. At yesterday’s Magnitsky Awards, which I was privileged to attend, Machado was given the award for outstanding opposition politician. Speaking from captivity, she dedicated her award to Martinez.
Russia’s other ally, Iran, continues its reign of terror too. This week a Kurdish political activist and women’s rights defender, Varisheh Moradi, was sentenced to death. Iran has not yet carried out the death sentence, so there is still a window of time to make noise and we know from our own campaign to free Toomaj Salehi that noise does work. That is if the noise comes internationally. Within Iran itself the regime has less interest and the enormous emotional strain caused by living under that level of repression was laid bare on Wednesday when former VOA Farsi journalist Kianoosh Sanjari jumped to his death after his demands to release four high-profile political prisoners (one being Toomaj Salehi) were not met.
We’re wrapping up with a final friend of Putin – Donald Trump – whose first term can be remembered by him using the very Soviet phrase “enemy of the people” to describe the press. News has just emerged of Trump sending legal letters to The New York Times and the Penguin Random House over their critical coverage of him. Can a leopard change its spots? It seems not.
His re-election last week made many question, with despair, what had happened to the hope that filled the air following the fall of the Soviet Union. This week’s news has done little to stop that despair. Perhaps then Stalin’s ghost doesn’t just haunt those in Russia – it haunts us all.
15 Nov 24 | Russia, Volume 53.03 Autumn 2024
There is no bigger crime than the killing of the soul. “Stop punitive psychiatry!” read the sign held by activist Oksana Osadchaya at a solo protest in the centre of Moscow in June.
The activist – who is visually impaired – was making her protest even though the tiniest acts of dissent can lead to severe punishment.
She was taken to a police station where she wasn’t allowed to meet her lawyer at first, and was released without charge only after being held for several hours.
Osadchaya’s desperate act of protest was meant to draw attention to the use of enforced psychiatric treatment in Russia against defendants in politically motivated cases.
According to independent media outlet Agentstvo, at least 33 such cases have been documented since 2023, when people arrested for opposing the war in Ukraine started being sentenced. Between 2013 and 2022 there were just 22.
A new bill, which will become law in 2025, will allow the police to gain access to the medical records of people suffering from certain mental illnesses and who are deemed by psychiatrists to be a threat to public order.
Dmitry Kutovoy, a member of Russia’s Psychiatric Association, told Index he had concerns that amending legislation could contribute to creating a system of oppression using psychiatry. He warned that the authorities might put pressure on medical workers to designate certain people as “activists, political opponents, and so on”.
One recent high-profile case was that of Viktoria Petrova, who was arrested in May 2022. She was accused of “spreading false information” about the Russian military in anti-war social media posts.
Activist Anush Panina went to support Petrova during her trial in St Petersburg.
“All of a sudden, the court announced that the hearings would be closed to the public, and sent her to a psychiatric hospital,” Panina remembered, speaking to Index from exile.
“It was outrageous and frightening.”
Panina suspects Petrova was punished for continuing to speak up while in detention and on trial. In her final statement to the court, Petrova said that Russia’s war in Ukraine was “a crime against humanity”.
Panina felt it was “convenient” for the authorities to put an end to the public trial on grounds of medical confidentiality and said that, at previous hearings, bogus experts who had analysed Petrova’s social media posts had proved to be so incompetent that people were laughing at them.
At the psychiatric unit, Petrova was brutalised by the medical staff, according to her lawyer Anastasia Pilipenko.
She was forced to undress while male nurses were watching, and after she refused to take a shower in front of them, they twisted her arms and threatened to beat her. She was tied to a bed and injected with heavy medications which left her barely able to speak for two days.
Adding that it was unclear whether the abuse had been ordered by the Kremlin, Panina said Petrova’s treatment course could be extended indefinitely, and a medical commission would convene every six months to decide whether to prolong it. In August, soon after Panina spoke with Index, Petrova was released from the psychiatric unit. She will now be observed on an outpatient basis.
Kutovoy said that cases of inhumane treatment such as Petrova’s were, at least for the moment, “isolated incidents”. He added, however, that enforced psychiatric treatment in Russia today was nevertheless “as scary as it sounds”.
“Patients’ rights aren’t really respected,” he explained, adding that heavy medications were given to them at high dosages.
Kutovoy said that, in theory, enforced treatment was ordered by the court instead of punishment. “In practice, however, it’s still punishment – just in a different form,” he said.
But considering the long prison sentences handed out to dissidents under President Vladimir Putin, enforced treatment may be the lesser evil in certain circumstances. This seems to be the case with Viktor Moskalev, another defendant in an anti-war criminal case who was sent to a psychiatric ward.
In March 2023, he was arrested for “spreading false information” about the Russian army after making two comments about war crimes committed in Ukraine on the e-xecutive.ru website.
Moskalev’s lawyer, Mikhail Biryukov, told Index that in 2005, his client had been diagnosed with a mental illness in a private clinic. He was now in remission, and “has a prospect of being set free [from the psychiatric unit] earlier than if he were in prison”.
Abuse of psychiatry to persecute and intimidate state critics was a popular practice in the Soviet Union. Dissident Alexander Skobov was condemned to compulsory psychiatric treatment twice, in the 1970s and the 1980s.
In May this year, he was sent to a psychiatric unit again, for “examination”. He is accused of posting messages justifying terrorism on social media, as well as of taking part in a terrorist organisation, and could face up to 22 years in jail.
“The repressive machine is looking for new methods of persecution,” Kutovoy said. “It’s just the way it works.”
According to Kutovoy, this trend points towards a punitive mechanism of using psychiatry being in demand by the authorities. He said there had been an increase in the number of involuntary hospitalisations of arrested political protesters.
“A person is arrested holding a sign, is taken to a police station, and a psychiatric team is called,” he explained. “Then the psychiatrists have to decide whether there is a need for involuntary hospitalisation.”
If they conclude that’s the case – and, a few days later, decide that this measure must be maintained – the court can order long-term compulsory treatment.
Kutovoy emphasised that in many cases, psychiatrists refused to send dissidents to hospital against their will. Alexey Sokirko, for example, was arrested in July for wearing a T-shirt which read: “I’m against Putin”. Police officers called a psychiatric team after Sokirko asked them whether an “I’m against Stalin” tag would be allowed. In the end, the doctors concluded that there was no need for involuntary hospitalisation.
Kutovoy said he wished he could speak out more openly on the issue of punitive psychiatry. However, he added: “In Russia today, it’s impossible to make a statement which is not in line with the political agenda [of the state]. And there is an obvious connection between cases of abuse of psychiatric care and the political agenda.”
12 Oct 24 | News and features, Russia, Ukraine
This article was first published on 5 April 2022 and is being republished following confirmation of her death in Russian custody.
I was in Zaporizhzhia on the morning of 12 March. I wanted to get to Mariupol to write an article; I thought that I had to tell the truth from the blocked city. It was my initiative.
I found out that a humanitarian convoy was going to Mariupol. I went to the assembly point but the convoy had already left. I contacted the authorities and asked them if I could catch it up. They replied that I could try. I did not find a personal driver, so I left with another convoy heading to Polohy. We caught up the Mariupol convoy near Vasylivka, and I continued with them.
I came across the occupiers’ first checkpoint in Vasylivka. Russian soldiers thoroughly checked me. They made me unzip my coat and show the contents of my bag. They found a camera and asked if I was a journalist. I confirmed this. They told me that I had no business in Mariupol and that I should return to Zaporizhzhia. They inspected my phone and camera and found nothing. I asked permission to continue with the column. The occupiers did not mind. We stopped overnight in Berdyansk.
We continued our way in the morning but we were stopped near the city limits and we were told to wait for permission. We were waiting for two or three hours by a crossroads where the roads to Mangush, Energodar and Vasylivka go. Rumours started to spread that we wouldn’t be allowed to move.
Cars passed by and a woman from the convoy told us that she had found some local guys who were willing to drive us to Mariupol. When we arrived at the agreed place, the car was no longer there. The Russian military told us to wait and started talking with us.
I stepped aside. I was thinking of returning to the convoy but a Russian soldier approached me and asked me to show him my phone. He told me that he had instructions from above to check me.
He asked if I was a journalist. I did not lie as it could make things even worse. He asked to show him my WhatsApp account and he saw the contact of the security services of Zaporizhzhia. There was a message with a request to publish a video of a Russian soldier who had swapped sides to join Ukraine.
Some other soldiers began to interrogate me. Then they spoke with Metropolitan Luka [a priest of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church]. Luka and other clerics were leading the convoy. When they returned, they said I had to go with them. I was put into a prison van accompanied by four Chechen paramilitaries who took me to the Berdyansk district administration office.
I was met by people dressed in black and wearing balaclavas. They seemed to be very young, less than 30 years old. They started to interrogate me, searching me and inspecting my phone and documents. They told me that I was not a journalist but a spy and a propagandist which I denied. It lasted for an hour. Then, one of them said: “Everything is clear with you”. I realised later they were from the Russian security services, the FSB.
One of the men in balaclavas brought in his commander. When I asked him who he was, he replied: “I am the man. You have two options: you either go to a jail for women or to a Dagestani military base.” I asked them what that meant. They did not explain. Then two men grabbed me, put a blindfold over my eyes and took me out of the room. I was crying, explaining that I was a journalist, that people would be looking for me, and that they would not get away with it. They took me to the local office of the SBU, the Ukrainian Security Service.
I was met by Chechens and Dagestanis who put me in a tiny room with a chair, a table and a window which they closed and told me not to approach it. They brought a blanket on which I slept on the floor. It was light and warm there. I was taken out only to the bathroom. Almost all my stuff was taken. When I asked when they would let me go, they answered, “When Kyiv is taken”. They added “Luka is in charge of the convoy and he refused to take you”.
From time to time, I was interrogated by Russian occupiers.
“We have no conscience. The law does not exist for us,” the FSB guys said. “Ukraine does not exist anymore.”
They repeated this every day.
“If we bury you somewhere here, no one will ever find out. You will be lost forever,” they said.
I had no fear. I knew they were trying to break me. But I felt desperate because I knew nothing about the outside world, and I was not able to do my job.
“We do not fucking care that you are a woman and a journalist,” they shouted.
But I knew the fact that I was a journalist restrained them.
At some point Chechens joined in with the daily moral pressure of the FSB guys. They guarded me and tried to convince me to cooperate.
“They are serious. They won’t let you go for nothing. You’d better to cooperate with them because you are so young. Otherwise, you will stay here forever,” they said.
They added: “We are the power. They are the brains.”
They brought me some food, but I refused. The first days I ate my remaining supplies from Zaporizhzhia. When it was finished, I took nothing but sweet tea. I felt my energy leave me. It was difficult just to get on my feet. During the last visit of the FSB men, I was not able to stand. But I continued to demand my release. When I cried too loud, one of the Chechens hit me and told me that I wasn’t at home, and I should watch my tone.
There were a few empathetic men among them, nevertheless. They came to ask if I was OK, asked me to eat something and begged me not to kill myself.
I asked to be allowed to make a call. They refused. Afterwards, the FSB told me that there would be a neutral interview and then I would be released. I insisted that I wouldn’t lie. They agreed. They brought a camera after a while. They had a prepared text with them, and they demanded I read it. I did not agree with the wording “high probability of having saved her life”. Eventually I agreed to shoot the video and they dropped the previous demands regarding full support of Russian actions and accusations against Ukraine.
Once the video was completed, they took me to another place. It was the local jail in Berdyansk. They refused to return my phone and camera as they considered them “propaganda tools”.
I spent the night in a room with a Russian soldier, who was supposed to guard me. The electricity and heating were cut off during the night. It was very cold. With my flashlight I counted the hours until morning. The soldier told me that the people who had interrogated me were from FSB. He was afraid that I would kill him during the night. He asked me whether I considered them as occupiers. Then he put the Ukrainian flag and the national emblem near me and said: “This is to calm you down. You see, we did not destroy them.”
In the morning, they blindfolded me again. Then they took me out of the jail and showed me the direction to go. I reached the closest bus station and went to the location of an evacuation convoy. I left with them the next day to territory controlled by Ukraine.
I am sincerely grateful to everyone who put in their efforts to find me and release me.
This account was first published by independent Ukrainian news channel hromadske and is published here in English for the first time.
11 Oct 24 | News and features, Russia, Ukraine
The Ukrainian government has confirmed the death of journalist Victoria Roshchyna, who died during a prisoner swap in September. Free expression organisations, including Index on Censorship, are calling on Russia to disclose the circumstances in which the 27-year-old died.
According to Russian news outlet Mediazona, she died whilst being transferred from a prison in Taganrog, a city in the southwest of Russia near the Ukrainian border, to Moscow.
Petro Yatsenko, a Ukrainian government spokesperson for prisoner of war coordination, and Yaroslav Yurchyshyn, head of the Ukrainian parliament’s committee on freedom of speech, yesterday confirmed Roshchyna’s death. Her father has been notified of her death by the Russian authorities, according to Yurchyshyn.
Roshchyna wrote from the front line for several Ukrainian media outlets before she was seized by Russian forces in August 2023 whilst travelling to east Ukraine for a report. Her capture was confirmed by Russia in April 2024.
This was not the first time Roshchyna had been taken by the Russian forces in eastern Ukraine. In April 2022, Index published a powerful piece about her experience of being arrested while travelling from Zaporizhzhia to Mariupol. It is an exemplary piece of level-headed reporting. But it contains some chilling detail, including the moment when a member of the FSB, the Russian secret service, tells her: “If we bury you somewhere here, no one will ever find out. You will be lost forever.”
Index on Censorship will ensure that the memory of Victoria Roshchyna will never be lost.
Jemimah Steinfeld, chief executive of Index on Censorship, said: “The death in custody of any journalist is always gut-wrenching but especially so when it is one we have published. Victoria Roshchyna was a talented young journalist with her life ahead of her. We are proud to count her as an Index writer.
“Her death is a great loss, one that has shaken the Index team. It is also a stark reminder of the threat that Putin’s regime poses to freedoms more generally and to media freedom specifically, which has only increased several years into Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine.
“We call for an immediate and thorough investigation into the cause of her death and for those responsible to be held accountable. And our thoughts go out to her family, friends and colleagues at this challenging time. May her memory be a blessing.”
