by Ben Stewart
‘No, it’s definitely tomorrow.’
‘Well, you should know this,’ Roman shouts to Dima over the wall. ‘The Stolypin, it is hell.’ He uses the Russian slang word for a prison transport train, named after the tsarist prime minister Pyotr Stolypin, who commissioned railway carriages to transport revolutionaries to Siberia. ‘They are very fucking horrible. They are bad. They are very bad. It can take a month. You stay in transit prisons on the way. Tough places. We will be in a car cell with many people. Not nice people. There’s no water, it’s very hot, there’s no food. We’ll need to bring plastic bottles with us to piss. It is going to be horrible. I’ve heard about these transports.’
And Dima shouts back, ‘Come on, man. Don’t worry, we’re not even sure we’re going by Stolypin. Maybe we’ll go by bus or by plane.’
‘No, it is going to be very bad. I am not happy about this. It is bad. And in St Petersburg they have Kresty’ – the notorious prison, famous for housing political detainees as far back as Trotsky – ‘It is a tough prison. It has bad cells, poor conditions, a very strict regime. My cellmates, they say it is dark.’
Daniel Simons is terrified.
If he screws this up then he’ll be responsible for the Arctic 30 staying in jail for years. He thinks this is the only good shot Greenpeace has at getting everyone out. There is nothing he has dreaded more than appearing as a witness before the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea.
Twenty-one eminent judges from around the world are sitting in a semi-circle in a vast Hamburg courtroom. All but one of them are elderly men. They look like a council of Jedi Knights in a Star Wars movie. And Simons is standing before them.
He and his boss Jasper Teulings have pushed for weeks for a hearing at ITLOS – the international court empowered to demand the release of the Sunrise and its crew. Now that hearing is starting and Simons is giving evidence. For the Greenpeace lawyers it looks like an open and shut case – the raid on the Sunrise would only have been legal if the Arctic 30 were genuine pirates, and by now not even the Kremlin’s spokesmen are claiming that.
The Russian government is boycotting the hearing, a move taken by observers to be an admission of the weakness of their case. Nevertheless one of the judges, Vladimir Golitsyn, is from Russia, and Simons feels he seems to be speaking for the Kremlin as he fires off a volley of hostile questions.108 Simons reels off answers with a confidence that belies the heavy responsibility he’s feeling.
When the submissions are completed the court announces that it will rule in a fortnight. Daniel Simons breathes a sigh of great relief. He leaves the courtroom and fetches his computer. He and Teulings have one more thing to do today.
They’re still in the court building. They go to the Dutch delegation and tell them they have something that might be of interest. Simons opens his laptop and presses play. On the screen masked armed commandos abseil onto the deck of the Arctic Sunrise. Activists thrust their arms in the air and offer no resistance. Frank is chased up steps and pulled to the ground.
It’s the film from Phil, recorded on the camera card and smuggled out through a matchbox.
The Dutch delegation stares open-mouthed at the screen. They’re impressed by the intensity of it. The activists look nothing like pirates. Immediately the delegation submits the footage to the international court. Greenpeace submits it to BuzzFeed, and within an hour it’s running on TV stations across the globe.
Simons and Teulings are certain the ITLOS panel will see the footage. Nobody’s immune to the impact of those images, they think. Not even these unimpeachable judges. It could play a crucial role. That night they toast Phil Ball.
The next morning, 1,700 miles away, Phil is at gulyat, walking in circles in a box, when he hears Frank’s voice.
‘Phil! Hey, Phil, you there?’
‘Yeah, I’m here. Still fucking here.’
‘You see the TV last night?’
‘No, what?’
‘That footage you shot. It was all over Russian TV.’
‘What footage?’
‘Of the raid on the ship.’
Phil stops walking. ‘Seriously?’
‘All over the news.’
Elation surges through his body. He feels it washing over him, endorphins exploding in his brain. He jumps up and slaps the wall. ‘Yeeees!’
‘Didn’t you see it?’
‘My cellmate doesn’t let me watch the news. He’s into these crappy soap operas. Jesus, I missed the world premiere of my own fucking film.’
‘It was amazing. Soldiers coming down the rope, guns, me getting roughed up. I’m on TV getting pushed over. Seriously, they look like thugs.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Phil, how did you do it? Last I heard, you’d shoved it in the extractor fan in the galley.’
Phil looks up. Through the wire mesh he can see the guard patrolling on the bridge above. Around him he can hear shouted conversations in Russian.
‘Come on, Phil. How did you do it?’
‘You know what, Frank. When we get out of this place you can buy me a beer and I’ll tell you.’
Then, before the day is out, Putin’s own Presidential Council for Civil Society and Human Rights, led by Mikhail Fedotov, announces it has written to the head of the Investigative Committee offering to act as guarantors for the Arctic 30 if they are released on bail. It’s the same offer that Kumi Naidoo made, but this time it’s coming from someone inside the Kremlin.
Pete Willcox’s diary
6th November
The IMO Tribunal [International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea] meets today. They are supposed to have a decision by the 21st. That’s two weeks. I asked if there was any chance the court would hold us over for another 60 days … and [the lawyer] Alexandre de Moscow said he EXPECTED IT. Boy he is changing his tune! He now says Russia will want to think about the ruling for at least a month. So there goes Thanksgiving, and probably Christmas. And I went right down the tubes. Sounds like we will catch a two day train to St Pete on Saturday. If we could all be together in one car on the train, it would be wonderful. But it does not seem likely at the moment. Came back with JB [New Zealander Jon Beauchamp] & Marco Polo [Kruso]. I got left in a holding cell again for an hour. At least I was alone. I wonder what I did to piss off the front gate guards. We were on the news tonight. I wonder what it was?
The Kremlin appears contemptuous of the ITLOS legal case. Even if it rules against Russia there’s no guarantee the order to release them won’t just be ignored. And anyway, the Arctic 30 are far more concerned by the imminent move to St Petersburg. They’ve been told by their lawyers that they’ll be split up. Most of the men will be held in Kresty, some of them will go to another prison and the women will be held at the all-female St Petersburg SIZO-5. And still nobody can tell them when the move will happen, how they’ll be transported and, most importantly, why. Even the guards ask the activists the same questions. Of course everybody has a theory, especially their Russian cellmates.
‘They’re getting ready to release you, but they want to sweeten you up first, get you out of this shithole, make sure none of you get beaten up, no black eyes for the cameras.’
‘I guess they’re getting ready to really screw you, send you down for years, put you in a real prison.’
‘It’s because the trial is going to start. They’re going to have a trial and they want it in a big city, big lights, big show.’
The activists join in the speculation – nothing can stop them doing that – but they also know not to believe anything until it happens.
Don’t Trust Don’t Fear Don’t Beg.
The women are worried that contact with the others will be restricted in St Petersburg. At SIZO-1 during the daily walks they’re able to communicate with their friends. It’s the best part of the day, shouting over the walls in those dark and cramped boxes and being able to hear the voices of the others coming back. But what if they can’t talk to each other in St Petersburg? What if they’re alone?
Pete Willcox’s diary
9th November
Quiet day. Exercise pit 7. Then around 4.30pm, the jail rights lady came for a visit. She had a one page typed paper on how to survive the move to St Pete. She said 90 or 95% chance we will go in plane or passenger train. But if we go by prisoner train, then we are fucked. The prisoner train takes 2 to 3 days. There are cells with four bunks in them, but they often put 20 prisoners in them. And they don’t let you out to go to the bathroom. I am praying …
TWENTY-FIVE
Frank Hewetson’s diary
10th November
Just got confirmed by guard + doctor that transport will be all 30 of us and tomorrow. I can tell Boris is a bit upset with my departure. I guess I must have brought a distinct change and foreign flavour to the cell for the last 42 days. He enjoyed it I’m sure. For Boris time just drifts by, more or less like his life will.
What awaits us in St P and how long we’ll be there is the next venture.
Frank is emptying hoarded Valium tablets into the palm of his hand, wondering how the hell he’ll smuggle them into Kresty. The guards have just come round saying the move is happening tonight. He has to pack.
After thinking for a while he starts feeding the pills into the lining of his jacket.
‘No, no, no,’ says Yuri. ‘Bad, Frank, bad. They search. You go to kartser in Kresty. No no, put here.’
And Yuri points at a little flap in Frank’s trousers – a tiny pocket inside another pocket just above his knee.
‘Here. Better.’
Across the prison the activists are packing their bags, saying goodbye to their cellmates and writing final letters to friends and family, unsure if they’ll be able to communicate from St Petersburg, hoping Mr Babinski can get their messages to their loved ones despite Popov’s crackdown.
It’s 4 a.m. The guard is waiting at the open door. Time for Frank to say goodbye. He turns around and shakes his cellmates’ hands.
‘Boris, Yuri, thank you.’
‘Goodbye my friend Frank.’
‘Good luck in Kresty. We like very much having you here.’
Frank pumps their hands then he thinks, no, this isn’t enough. He goes to hug Boris but the Russian jumps back with a look of panic on his face.
‘Oh, stop being so damn homophobic!’ Frank throws his arms around Boris. Slowly the Russian raises his hands and pats Frank on the back. ‘Thank you,’ says Frank. ‘Thank you for welcoming me to your home. I’ll never forget how you treated me here. Never.’
Then Frank hugs Yuri. ‘Thank you for what you did for me. You taught me so much. I was very lucky to be put in with you.’
‘Thank you my friend,’ says Yuri, whose face is buried in Frank’s shoulder. ‘We will miss you.’
The activists are taken out floor by floor. For the last time they cross the yard. The lights of SIZO-1 are blazing around them. The doroga is cooking, the prison is living, it’s the same scene they faced when they arrived here seven weeks ago. Dima stops and turns around and faces the windows. He lifts a fist into the air and shouts a single word.
‘AUE!’
AUE. Pronounced ah-oo-yeah. It’s an abbreviation, it stands for Arestanskoe Urkaganskoe Edinstvo. Translation: Arrestees Criminal Union, the society of the incarcerated, a banned exclamation to identify yourself with the thieves in their struggle against the stars. A call to non-submission.
‘AUE! Vitaly, AUE! My cellmate, farewell, may you see freedom soon!’
And from the windows comes a wall of noise.
‘AUE!’
‘Go pirates!’
‘Your freedom must come!’
‘AUE!’
The Arctic 30 are leaving SIZO-1 with the solidarity of the prisoner community ringing in their ears. In single file the crew walk towards a waiting avtozak, their bags slung over their shoulders, their breath lit by spotlights as it freezes on the cold night air. They glance back to take a final look at Murmansk isolation prison.
Some of the crew take a moment to think about the cellmates they’re leaving behind, men who in many ways they’ve come to like and respect. Ivan, Boris, Yuri, Vitaly. Some of them are imprisoned because they’ve done bad things to good people, but in SIZO-1 they did what they could to help strangers survive.
The activists are slipping from Popov’s grasp, but what awaits them in St Petersburg? Can Kresty be as bad as their cellmates claim? And are they being taken to a place that will be their home for the next seven years of their lives?
Next to the bus stands an officer in a sharp camouflage uniform. ‘I am in charge until we hand you over in St Petersburg,’ he announces. ‘There are rules and I expect you to obey them. My men expect nothing less than your absolute co-operation. Our journey is by Stolypin. I cannot tell you how long it will take. As long as you recognise our absolute authority, you will be treated well. I see no reason why this should be unpleasant for any of us. Okay, let’s go.’
They’re loaded onto the bus, it pulls away and they drive through the gates. Behind them the shouts and screams from the windows die out and all they can hear is the crunch of tyres on grit as they leave SIZO-1.
The Stolypin is comprised of old-fashioned carriages hooked onto the back of a passenger train. The corridor goes down one side of the carriage, with cells along the other. There are no windows in the cells, just shelves, like benches, two rows of four in each. Only the top ones have enough headroom. The windows on the corridor are frosted glass with little gaps that the activists can see through. At one point they glimpse birch trees with snow on the ground, then they pass some buildings and they see the lights of a town.
It’s like Doctor Zhivago, Frank thinks. Everyone banged up on the train, and this carriage is pretty much from the same era. Maybe Julie Christie’s going to turn up.
They can touch each other, they can speak to each other without shouting, without a guard interrupting. For some of them, it’s a revelation.
The forty-year-old Argentine sailor Hernan Orsi pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen. ‘Okay,’ he shouts out, ‘here’s your chance to say who you want to play you in the movie of this shit. Me, I’m getting played by Benicio Del Toro. Colin, you’re Jeremy Irons.’
‘Jeremy fucking Irons? Are you kidding me?’
‘Andrey, you’re Gérard Depardieu.’
‘No no,’ someone crises out. ‘Andrey is Dustin Hoffman.’
‘Okay, Dustin Hoffman.’
It takes an hour for the train to agree on a full cast list – Frank is Jason Statham, Alex is Jennifer Connelly, Camila is Jennifer Garner, Sini is Naomi Watts, Phil is Jude Law, Kieron is Orlando Bloom and Dima is Jean Reno, the kindly assassin from the movie Léon. Pete is Jon Voight – ‘What? Again?’ – and Denis is ‘Sickboy in Trainspotting’ (aka Jonny Lee Miller, who was once married to Voight’s daughter Angelina Jolie, making Pete a sort of celebrity father-in-law to Denis).
The women are in cages together. They play games all day, they don’t want to sleep because they don’t know when they’ll be this close again. They hold hands and talk – about their lives back home, boyfriends and families. Camila has photographs with her, of her parents and her brothers and sisters. She shows them to the others, then she reads out a letter her father sent her, translating the words as she goes.
‘Dear Bochi,’ she says. ‘That’s what he calls me. Bochi. It means bold. He says I was bold when I was born. Okay, so … Dear Bochi, The things you are fighting for are worth the risk. You cannot imagine how proud your mother and I are, seeing how you’ve grown up with the values, the solidarity and the humility we tried to raise you with. When people ask me how I’m doing, I tell them I’ve seen the most beautiful flower in the world, and she is mine.’
Alex and Sini stare at Camila then throw their arms around her.
In Amsterdam Faiza’s mother Mimount is trying to process the move, fearing the worst. ‘I wondered why they were being transferred to St Petersburg. I was sceptical, I was doubtful of the Russians
’ intentions, and there was absolutely no information on why this was happening. I was scared it might be bad news. I was afraid, afraid that they were being taken to a permanent detention centre. I feared for my daughter. I wanted to take her place because I feared for her.’
It’s Anthony’s birthday, and for a present Frank has given him a Valium tablet. It takes the top of his head off. He sleeps for sixteen hours straight. When he wakes up he tells Frank it was one of the best birthday presents he’s ever had.
This Stolypin has a toilet, and visiting it is a joy for some of them. They get to see all of their friends, the people they never spoke to in prison. As they walk down the long thin corridor in front of a guard, hands poke through the bars, so they touch them as they walk, like a rock star running down the front row at a concert.
But for some of the thirty, the journey is a chance to air frustration, even anger, at Greenpeace. Some of the activists think they’re only in jail because of a monumental internal mistake. They’re hurting and they have something to say. It’s the first time they’ve all been in such close proximity since coming off the Sunrise and there’s tension between Frank and two others. They’re pointing the finger at him and Dima.
Frank was the co-ordinator of the protest, Dima was the lead campaigner on the ship. Ultimately the action was their responsibility. Now Frank is in a compartment with two guys who want to know why the piracy charge wasn’t predicted. The argument goes back and forth. Nobody’s shouting, but this is heavy.
‘You dumped us in this shit, Frank. You need to face up to what you did. You were responsible for the action, you were in charge, this is your fault. You and Dima, you’re to blame. Bringing a bunch of activists to Russia, messing with the FSB. What did you think was gonna happen?’
‘What do you mean I brought us to Russia? We weren’t in Russia, it was international waters. Everyone knew the score.’
‘Nobody knew. That’s the point, isn’t it? Nobody knew because nobody stopped to think how heavy it could get. And that was your job.’
It’s a line that’s been running in the global media – that Greenpeace should have known an action on a Russian oil platform would be met with a legal hammer. Four weeks ago Dominic Lawson – the son of Lord Nigel Lawson, the UK’s most prominent climate change sceptic – took a full page in the Daily Mail, the world’s most read newspaper, to eviscerate the organisation.109
