by Ben Stewart
Just made a birthday card for Boris. He turned 22 today. He’s up for manslaughter and looking at 8–12 years. It’s one of the saddest most forlorn cards I think I’ve ever written. There was not a single card or letter for him all day. He is never ever getting out of this system. You can just tell it a mile off.
20th October
Reading a book on my bed (approx. 5pm) when I heard Phil’s voice very loud through the hatch of his cell door. He was ranting about being promised his phone call and having waited 3 weeks for it. I could just make out them fobbing him off so I slammed the door of 320 and shouted for them to give him his feckin phone call. He sounded really really upset so I started really slamming the door. The whole hall reverberated. Eventually Phil swore at them saying no one understood a word he was asking. I think he’s at a really low point right now. 3 really young kids, his dad recently died. Poor fucker.
21st October
Still trying to establish what that huge mallet is for. The guards turn up each morning with it but God knows how you’d have room to swing it in a cell. I’m still greeting them with a brisk Good Morning when the cell door opens and we get marched outside for inspection. Yuri says I’m starting to look thin and a bit gaunt. Well there’s a surprise! I like him though. He has got a real spark of life in him. He was so dumbfounded when I beat him at chess last night.
By now all the crew have radios and televisions in their cells. The radio plays soft rock classics, nothing to stir the blood, but the jingle soon feels familiar, even comforting – a glockenspiel playing the first few bars of ‘Midnight in Moscow’ by Kenny Ball. On their TV sets they watch euronews and the music channels, and sometimes Russian state TV.
There are three kinds of programmes. Documentaries about the FSB raiding someone, films about the FSB raiding someone, and soap operas about the FSB raiding someone. Frank sits for hours staring at the screen, flicking from channel to channel, watching uniformed officers bashing down doors in towns and cities across Russia, just like a young Vladimir Putin once did. He sees what’s happening here. It’s being reinforced all the time, how there are bad people out there and the state will protect you.
Camila is watching euronews when she sees video footage of the protest at the Prirazlomnaya. The voiceover is in Russian and she can hear the word ‘hooliganski’ repeated over and over. Then, rolling across the bottom of the screen in English, she sees the news ticker.
PIRACY CHARGES DROPPED
Camila’s heart jumps. She grabs her spoon and drops onto her knees in front of the radiator pipe. In the cell next door Alex is woken by manic tapping. Sini hears it too.
Camila: turn on euronews
Alex: why?
Camila: turn on euronews
Alex: wow
Camila: piracy dropped
Alex: means they can’t keep us in here
Camila: amazing
Alex: no reason to keep us in here
Sini: careful don’t get hopes up now charged with hooliganism
Alex: sure?
Sini: hooliganski means hooligan
Alex: they can’t hold us in here for that
Sini: they can
Alex: not as bad as piracy
Sini: could be worse
For a moment Alex and Camila thought they were getting out, but soon enough Sini convinces them this could actually be worse. They’re moving from the pantomime charge of piracy to something that might stand up in the court of global public opinion. Alex wraps herself in her purple ski jacket and hugs herself.
Across SIZO-1 the activists are reaching the same conclusion. That night the road buzzes with discussion and analysis. Hooliganism carries seven years in jail. Nearly everybody thinks the change of charge is bad news. They fear they’re being set up to get screwed by the Russian courts. Phil sits down on his bunk and writes an open letter, and the next morning he hands it to Mr Babinski.
Why I’m not a hooligan, by Phil Ball, aged 42½ …
Now we, the ‘Arctic 30’, face the charge of hooliganism. At first, it sounds only a bit more serious than naughty rascal or cheeky monkey. Something must be lost in the translation because seven years in prison seems a bit harsh. My sons, aged seven and nine, will be teenagers and my little girl will have forgotten who I am if I get out of here in seven years. Pretty unfunny too.
The small print of the charge says that hooliganism is a ‘gross violation of public order’ and ‘in contempt of society’. Well, hang on just a moment: ‘contempt of society’? I give blood; volunteer at my local scout group; pick up dog poo off the playing field and I don’t have a dog; went to court as a witness to two violent crimes; helped fight a supermarket development; have taught kids to make award-winning films; have worked on projects for the Stop Aids foundation and the RSPB [Royal Society for the Protection of Birds]; invested £1,000 of my own money to help set up a community wind farm co-operative; and once saved and hand-reared a pigeon called Gerald. But the biggest thing I’ve done in support and protection of society? Coming 180 nautical miles north of the Arctic Circle to protest against Arctic oil drilling, against the greedy mega-rich oil companies Gazprom, Shell and others that do not listen to the warnings about oil spills, runaway climate change, hurricanes, droughts, floods and famines, and continue to make a fortune at the expense of and ‘in contempt of’ the societies of our children and grandchildren.
Hooliganism doesn’t even come close to what they are guilty of. So, no, I’m not a pirate and I’m not a hooligan. OK? Can I come home now?
Phil Ball – father of three cheeky monkeys and one of the Arctic 30
Frank Hewetson’s diary
24th October
Just saw local news item informing that piracy law has been dropped but replaced with hooliganism law that covers 0–7 years as opposed to 10–15 for piracy. Shortly after that our cell had a visit from 9 officers, 1 interpreter and a prosecutor. They claimed my pictures of Nell, Joe, Pluto and Free Frank protest contravened several sections of the prison code as they had been stuck on the wall by my bed. There was a tense stand-off as they repeated the infringements and I was surrounded by 9 screws with Boris and Yuri standing behind me. It was a potentially dangerous moment where I could feel my emotions rising fast. I eventually bowed my head and agreed. They slowly walked out one by one without saying a word. It was awful. I looked back up at Nell and Joe and slowly climbed onto my bunk and removed them with as much care as possible to avoid damage. It was quiet. Boris and Yuri looked down at the floor. Then thank God Yuri looked at me very closely and said, ‘Frank, game chess??’ He read the situation perfectly. Not forgetting that he is looking at 5–7 years inside.
Dima has visitors. Two men in sharp suits, not the cheap acrylic type worn by the investigators at the local FSB headquarters in town.
They’re standing in the middle of his cell, examining the contents of his shelves and the bags of food piled up in the corner, at the peeling green paint and the small barred window. Dima is watching them from his bunk. He doesn’t know who they are, but he’s been in jail long enough to know they’re trouble. Thirty seconds ago they opened the door and walked in unannounced. No greetings and no orders. Instead they merely closed the cell door and each took a step forward then put their hands on their hips.
Both guys are in their mid to late thirties. One is spindly thin. He has greasy hair that’s parted in the middle and sticks to his forehead, small red shaving spots speckle his neck, two deep crevices cut their way from his nostrils to his jaw, above which stand two bony cheeks that collapse into his mouth. Surrounding his thin lips are a few wispy whiskers – a failed attempt at a goatee beard, perhaps? He looks a little like a giant emaciated gerbil. The other guy is carrying some weight, sandpaper stubble, a thick helmet of brown hair that’s cut along a savagely straight fringe.
The men ignore the Russian prisoners and walk over to Dima’s bed. Gerbil kicks the leg of the bunk. It makes a metallic rattle.
‘Dimitri Litvinov?’
Dima sits up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Come with us, please.’
Dima rubs his greying beard and eyes the men suspiciously. Then he swings his legs over and jumps down.
He’s taken from his cell to a small room containing a desk, three chairs and a huge portrait of Putin. One of the men locks the door, Dima is told to take a seat. The men sit opposite him. Dima’s heart is beating fast now. They’re quite obviously senior FSB officers, probably up from St Petersburg. Today has already seen a march in Moscow demanding the release of political prisoners. Twenty thousand attended – a huge number for a protest in Russia, where demonstrators can be plucked off the street and thrown in jail by a political police force empowered to act with impunity in defence of the President’s agenda. One of the columns on the march was dedicated to imprisoned environmentalists, with the focus on the Arctic 30. There was a fleeting, dismissive reference to the protest on the TV news. Is this what the men want to talk about?
Gerbil crosses his legs, explores the inside of his mouth with his tongue, lifts an eyebrow in a way that says, Well, here we are then.
‘How are you guys doing?’ says Dima nervously.
Gerbil nods slowly. ‘Good, Dimitri, good. How are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘Yeeees, I can imagine.’ The man leans forward, sniffs, meshes his fingers together to form a two-handed fist. ‘Listen, now the piracy charge has been dropped we thought it was time we started talking. You and us.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s getting serious now, Dimitri. We’re in the end game. The hooligan charge is going to stick, you’re looking at seven years, you know that. So we’d really like to hear from you, this time without any protocol’ – he means Article 51 of the constitution, the right to silence – ‘and it would be really good if you gave us some answers. To the questions, I mean. You know, about what happened out there.’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘We know most of it anyway, but just to get it confirmed. It’s your only chance of skirting that rap.’
‘Okaaay.’ Dima draws a deep breath. ‘And who are you, exactly?’
The man clears his throat. ‘Well …’ He smiles. ‘We’re the competent authorities.’
‘The competent authorities?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what is your field of competence, exactly?’
His bottom lip protrudes for a moment as he shrugs. ‘This.’
‘And … what is this?’
‘Don’t you understand what I’m saying to you?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘We’re the competent authorities.’
‘You already said that.’
‘Dimitri, please, come now, stop messing around, stop playing these …’ his face creases, he touches his nose ‘… these childish games. Let’s just get the questions answered, okay? Better for everyone.’
‘I’m perfectly willing to answer any questions from the investigators.’
‘Ah, good.’
‘With my lawyer present of course.’
‘Aaaaah, the lawyers.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Come come, don’t you understand what these lawyers are after? They want to keep you in prison for as long as possible, you know that, Dimitri. Paid by the hour. Making a lot of money.’ Gerbil taps the edge of the table with a finger. ‘How much do you make, Dimitri? At Greenpeace?’
‘It’s not about the money.’
‘Sure.’ He nods with faux sincerity. ‘Sure it’s not.’
‘Really.’
‘Well I’ll tell you, they make a lot more money than you do, those lawyers you’ve hired. A lot more. They really don’t want to get you guys out, not while they’re raking it in. Nooooo. So look, let’s forget about the lawyers for a moment and let’s talk about you, about what’s in your interests. We can make your stay here much more comfortable, a lot more comfortable than it is now. And all you have to do is answer our questions.’ He looks away. ‘It’s just for background anyway.’
‘My stay in prison is perfectly comfortable already, thank you.’
‘Well, you know, it could be much worse. Think about that, Dimitri.’
Gerbil pushes the chair back and stands up. His colleague does the same.
‘That’s it?’ Dima asks.
‘For now.’
The other cop unlocks the door. Gerbil tugs Dima’s arm and leads him out. Putin looks down, silent, inscrutable.
TWENTY-ONE
Dima is lying on his bunk, smoking a cigarette, running over what happened back there. Is he being singled out for special treatment? Is he going down for years while everyone else gets released? Nobody else is getting this shit, or if they are then they’re not talking about it on the road. For hours Dima’s been reconstructing the conversation with the competent authorities, but he can’t work out what it means, and now he’s exhausted.
He sucks on the butt of his cigarette, crushes it against the inside of a tin can and lights up another.
Dima Litvinov never thought he’d become a real smoker, but honestly, there’s no point not smoking in here. Vitaly and Alexei both smoke strong Russian cigarettes all day long and a thick fog hangs in the cell whenever somebody is awake. Sometimes Dima can barely see the opposite wall. Just by being in here he inhales as much smoke as he’d ever get from actually smoking himself. So sometime around the second week he decided he might as well get some pleasure from it. He took up cigarettes.
They come free on the doroga, all you do is send a note out and the kotlovaya will arrange for a packet to be sent your way. And once he started, he realised there was no point in giving up. He could have quit but he’d still suffer the same harm to his health, and without getting any of the pleasure. Cigarettes give a rhythm to the day. They break the boredom. The only way it would be worthwhile quitting smoking in this cell is if he could get the other two to quit as well, but there’s no chance of them giving up because the rest of the cell is always smoking.
Dima takes a drag and stares at the ceiling. It’s a classic paradox. It only takes one of them to light up to make it pointless for the others to give up, because they share the same air. Maybe I should just quit, he thinks. Then persuade the others to give up too. Maybe somebody just needs to jump first.
The women tap to each other in code. Frank has his Valium prescription. Dima smokes cigarettes or goes uyti v tryapki – ‘into the rags’. Each of the thirty finds a different way to survive. For Anthony Perrett, it’s the Gulag Chronicle.
The idea came one night soon after they were jailed, when he was talking to Phil on the road. Both love to draw, from day one they immersed themselves in sketches of the cells, of the other prisoners, the guards, the raid on the ship. And it’s not like there was a shortage of news. So Phil suggested they start a newspaper. His plan was to circulate a daily with empty space where the other prisoners could write their own stories. Anthony was less interested in what the others had to say, instead he wanted to write, edit, illustrate, publish and circulate his own paper. Phil pushed ahead with his idea and for two days his publication – the Gulag Gazette – had a tabloid monopoly. But Anthony was merely biding his time, for he had an altogether different concept in publishing.
The Gulag Chronicle.
He launched with three editions on a single night, including an editorial that ripped into Phil and his dirty rag. ‘Do not read the Gazette, it’s nonsense, the editor’s a moron.’ Then he sent it all out on the road.
Soon enough the Gazette folded and demands flowed into Anthony’s cell to make the Chronicle into a daily. It became a prison fixture. His serving of satire and gossip was eagerly anticipated by the activists. The sixteenth edition was a particular hit with the readers. On the front page, in banner type, sat the headline: ‘SIT STILL AND SAVE THE WORLD’. And below that ran the day’s lead story.
It has been observed that we merry few locked in our cells are, willingly or not, completing many campaign objectives b
y sitting on our arses thinking of home. Despite our jailors, we are doing our jobs better the longer our incarceration continues. Allow a small prophecy if you will. This detention shows many nations that Greenpeace will not cower in the face of adversity, it will persevere where others fear to tread. This persistence will put negative press at the top of all oil companies’ board meeting agendas. These risk-averse project-monkeys will be forced to look at new energy sources, which will eventually lead to new economies and end the march into the northern wilderness for black gold!
Five weeks into their ordeal, with their story making front pages across the globe, the Chronicle has become the Arctic 30’s own in-house newspaper. Every evening the activists would read the Chronicle, tick off their names to say it’s passed through their cell, then pass it on. There’s a comments box in the corner – letters to the editor – and a stocks and shares section that gives updates on who’s in which cell. Frank = 320 or Phil = 313.
It takes Anthony hours to write it and illustrate the pages. There are stories about the Prirazlomnaya, about helicopters, a balaclava sale. One story details the invention of the colour invisible by the artist Lucian Fraud. He illustrates it by cutting a hole in the paper where a drawing would normally be. But the Chronicle is mostly rants against oppression. Anthony worries that someone will get caught with a copy that castigates Popov and the regime. So he starts writing the Chronicle in such a way that if you speak English as a first language you’ll understand the double-entendres and the sarcasm – ‘Popov’s moustache has no fascist connotations and is indeed one of the superior facial growths of the faculty’ – but it won’t get anybody into too much trouble if the authorities find a copy.
