Why Do Russian Convicts Fear Freedom?

I once had the opportunity to visit a correctional colony for young people – and it was a unique experience, considering that the colony was located in the resort town of Uitikon in the Swiss canton of Zurich, in an old manor house, and looked like a resort itself.

The director of the "Uitikon" colony, Michael Rubertus, told us that in Switzerland, a special juvenile justice system applies to minors and young people; that a person comes under the jurisdiction of the "children's" law until the age of 22, and in exceptional cases until 25 (until the personality solidifies). That the Swiss judicial procedure is oriented primarily towards education and social rehabilitation, rather than punishment. And this applies to any criminal, but as far as children are concerned, the entire justice system will resist imprisoning a teenager. And in order to impose the maximum sentence – 4 years imprisonment – something quite extraordinary must happen.

"And yet a few people here are serving time for murder," the director added in conclusion. "Perhaps you will see them, although we cannot disclose their sentence."

For the young man whose room I visited (I do not know whether he was a murderer), two years remained to be served. And he had already served two years – in the "strict" unit.

The day before, the colony management asked him if he had any objections to his room being shown to journalists. He had no objections and even, I believe, tidied up before our visit. On the walls of his room were hung posters and soft toys. On the windowsill stood a commonplace fig plant and two other flowers. And between the pots, openly and even defiantly, lay prepared "ammunition" – cigarettes, from which the tobacco had been removed, so that cannabis could subsequently be stuffed into them. And this was not only comprehensive information signalling to Russian journalists – it was also an impudent challenge to the colony's management. Which, in the person of director Rubertus, hesitated on the threshold and explained that narcotics are, of course, strictly prohibited in the colony, but empty cigarettes cannot be banned.

Soon this young man would be transferred from the "strict" unit to the general section – his behaviour is normal, and his sentence is coming to an end. There are entirely different opportunities there. There he will probably attend gardening courses – mixed with civilians from nearby villages, for whom these courses are also open. There he will eat lunch in the same canteen as colony workers. On weekends, he will be allowed into the city.

And it is unlikely that the young man will return to the colony. Recidivism in Switzerland is negligible. Probably the humanity of the penitentiary system does its work here.

Of course, the Swiss justice system, for all its humanitarianism, sometimes makes mistakes. But what is noteworthy: every mistake, justice perceives as its own systemic defect. Not as the fault of a specific person.

There was such a case with them. In the canton of Zurich in 1988, a serial killer named Erich Haurte was caught. 10 rapes, 2 murders, 16 robberies. With such achievements, he certainly received a life sentence. But whilst in prison, he began undergoing voluntary therapy. And the results of the therapy were so excellent that in 1992 he was given leave without supervision.

And then Haurte killed a man. And buried him.

So it turned out that numerous prison specialists had given the serial killer a poor, incorrect "legal prognosis." There was, of course, an outcry. This matter was discussed and debated. The very monstrous improbability of what had occurred shook Swiss society no less than Yevsyukov shook us. But for Russia, Yevsyukov was an event, if not expected, then at least inevitable. But for Switzerland, Haurte became an unpredictable system failure.

As a result, they disbanded the entire penitentiary system of the canton of Zurich and rebuilt it from scratch. Since then, there have been no failures.

A thought comes to mind that would be monstrous in the context of Russian reality: it is precisely in the fact that even bloodthirsty serial killers are given the opportunity by the system (albeit not without errors) to return to society that lies the reason for what is probably Europe's lowest recidivism rate. Switzerland considers crime not as a consequence of human depravity, but as a psychological problem. As a diagnosis, if you will. And various public institutions strive to solve the puzzle: what has gone wrong in a person's mind if he suddenly decided to act contrary to the norm? And their entire penitentiary system is oriented not towards punishment, but towards restoring disrupted patterns and preventing further crimes.

But in Russia, prison is within the norm. Society by and large does not perceive imprisonment as a total destructive circumstance in a person's life. It is assumed by default that anyone who ends up in prison leaves there reformed, improved and enhanced. And is immediately ready to enter free life as a full member of society.

But in reality, our Russian prison system tears a person away from society not just for the duration of their sentence, but altogether.

"When I went in, some people had mobile phones, but I had not even held one in my hand then," Valera, who was released in spring, tells me. "But now, apparently, no one lives without a mobile phone anymore. And the Internet: without it you cannot even get a job; half of people's lives take place online. I have had to learn everything from scratch."

These are practical matters, but there are also broader, systemic ones.

"The historical pace in Russia is very dynamic," says Sergey Enikolopov, head of the department of criminal psychology at MGPPU. "And the released, especially those who served long sentences, are met by a completely different country. This reality seems alien, hostile. No one helps them understand it. If in Soviet times the released were at least given employment, even if treated like slaves, now the state does not interfere in these matters. Often, over the years in the colony, friendships and family ties are destroyed. But those bonds formed in the colony seem eternal."

There is a legislative gap in our rehabilitation of former convicts. There are those who imprison people, there are those who re-educate them while they are inside. But there is no one to help them return to life – to restore documents, find housing, work. The law on social rehabilitation of the imprisoned has been discussed for years. There has been no real progress so far. It is unclear whether this is due to budget constraints or the ineffectiveness of the law's proponents, endlessly pushing the discussion in what seems to me not the most constructive direction – discussions about humanitarianism. Meanwhile, the main motive behind the adoption of such documents in European countries is society's desire for self-preservation. Our recidivism rate is over 30 per cent. Around 900,000 people at any one time – this is the "contingent." And for many of them, life on the outside seems far more dishonourable and frightening than life behind bars. Therefore, many, once released, would not mind returning.

The Federal Penitentiary Service is also aware of the problem, and at some colonies today so-called rehabilitation centres have been created. But therein lies their principal shortcoming: they are within the Federal Penitentiary Service system. Simply being there is a punishment.

So, for now, the main rehabilitation force in Russia is public initiative, usually with a religious bent. When you search for "rehabilitation of the imprisoned," the search engine gives links to Orthodox, Jewish and Buddhist organisations in the top three results. The experience accumulated by these organisations is, truly, worth the state's attention. But the state is accustomed to looking at convicts from an entirely different angle.

For example, Arkady Baranovsky came up with and launched a project called "Return" a few years ago, which now operates under the auspices of the Foundation "Jewish Charitable Committee." The project turned out to be utterly unconventional, profound, even filled with philosophical meaning. Jews do not merely treat, teach and find employment for their imprisoned. They generally try to turn their lives around in some other way, so that they see that everything could be different. That they, having returned, are people of this world. Not of another.

They came up with such a thing: a theatre of formerly imprisoned people*. They found the money somewhere, hired a truly excellent theatre director and started rehearsals. Nothing of the sort had existed in Russia before, but experience in other countries shows that such a method of rehabilitation is very effective.

I observed the theatre's rehearsals from the side, and I was impressed. The actors are adults, mature people with eventful biographies. Without illusions about life. Who have gone through difficult trials, both external, physical, and internal. And yet these people, every other day at rehearsals, sing songs from cartoons and perform little scenes full of absurd theatrical conventions. What is happening takes consciousness out of a state of equilibrium. I cannot comprehend: how can this abstract thing, theatre, exist within such concrete people.

And before the next rehearsal, I get a chance to chat with Dima. He is one of the brightest actors in this theatre, completely uninhibited. At the café I order myself a coffee, and he straight away asks me to treat him to vodka.

To give you a better picture of Dima, I should say: he has two convictions. The first – as a youth, he robbed someone and got a year and a half in a colony. The second – more serious. A casual girlfriend decided to leave him, and he could not bear her decision and reached for a knife. The girlfriend was saved, and Dima was given four years in a strict regime facility. Dima later repented, of course, begged his girlfriend for forgiveness, and she even waited for him a little, until she got together with someone else.

And now he is free. And his entire life arrangement is fragile, uncertain and transparent, like a bottle made of cheap clear glass. Never in his life has he held a job for longer than two months. ("But what if it happens that I need money and my parents will not give it to me?" – "Anything can happen. Then I suppose I will have to take something from someone.") Never has he had a relationship with a woman lasting more than two weeks. And Dima is nearly thirty. And the only person of whom he speaks with unconcealed warmth is his four-year-old nephew. "He is my real friend, of course."

And everything Dima has in life suits him. He is guilty, certainly guilty, of all the crimes he was convicted of. And the sentences, it must be said, were quite in accordance with Russian law. But somehow it happened that whilst judges and prosecutors were tossing Dima's fate around since childhood, there was nothing left of it but a sliver of soap.

One can only speculate what would have happened if, long ago, at the time of his first imprisonment, there had been a separate prosecutor specialising in juvenile justice. Who would have understood how a tragedy like this crime had befallen the teenager in his life. But with us, such a possibility is not provided for, so speculation is pointless.

Dima reasons about his future, and in that future there is even a theatre.

"Now this is a matter. A whole theatre! Such responsibility, such great trust… Who knows, perhaps, after all, something will come of it. I was given a chance – what if it works out!"

Ending our conversation on this naively enthusiastic note, we head to rehearsal. Rehearsals up until now took place at the social services centre "Khoroshevsky" – the excellent, all-understanding and tolerant management there simply let the guys use their assembly hall for free. But now it turns out that the centre can no longer afford to do this.

Deputy Director Anna Sazhina, who over years of bureaucratic work has not lost the talent to think freely, beyond boundaries, appeals for understanding:

"Our main clientele are pensioners. And you know how pensioners are… The elderly are such a complex, capricious and suspicious category. And not everyone likes being neighbours with such a theatre. And we also get dissatisfaction from some of our employees. There is no tolerance, no culture of understanding… They will start writing complaints, and we will have inspections. We are, after all, a paper-obsessed country! I am sorry it has turned out this way."

And everyone is sorry.

After rehearsal, Dima and the other actors pooled their money, bought a bottle of vodka and drank it right outside the walls of the social services centre. To avoid being overly dramatic about the situation, I should say that they have done this before too.