sunni
08-01-2005, 12:24 AM
THE UNTOUCHABLES
One of the four blocks is earmarked for the outcasts -
the "obizhennye" or "opuschennye" (meaning "humiliated"
and "degraded") - who form a special group at the very bottom of a
hierarchy that dates back to the Gulags.
It is easy to be reclassified as an outcast, and impossible to lose
this lowest-of-the-low status. Fear of this happening acts as a
powerful instrument of control on other denizens of the penal system.
All members of the outcast class are regarded as homosexual whatever
their history, and people often end up there as victims of rape. This
has nothing to do with sexual orientation; it is about power and
caste. Outcasts have no rights, are not allowed to speak, and are
used as slaves to perform menial tasks such as cleaning toilets.
As "untouchables" they are surrounded by an arcane but all too real
set of ritual proscriptions. For example, other prisoners cannot talk
to them, shake hands with them or even look at them. Even using the
same cup or spoon is "contagious", meaning that the offending person
could himself be demoted to outcast status.
The stigma follows them even after they are released from prison, as
word gets out and such men become the object of insults, especially
in a conservative society like Uzbekistan.
The "opuschennye" are subject to humiliation and beatings meted out
by other convicts. In the time I spent at the camp, I witnessed at
least 30 cases where such inmates were assaulted by convicts or
prison guards. After such attacks, only the gravest cases were sent
to the prison hospital at Chirchik. These individuals, who were close
to death when they were taken away, never returned to the camp.
THE GOVERNOR AND HIS BOSS
As a high-profile political case and the object of international
concern, I had much more contact with the people who run Uzbekistan's
penal system than the average convict.
From the summer of 2003 onwards, deputy interior minister Qodirov met
me on a number of occasions, clearly concerned at the damaging
fallout that could result from letters that I had written to the
constitutional court and various international organisations.
His initial tactic was to warn me that I was now within the system he
controlled, and that any public criticism would end very badly for
me. But later, after I sent appeals to the United Nations, Human
Rights Watch and other organisations, he banned me from writing - but
promised that in return, no one would touch me in the prison camp. He
was undoubtedly worried that his own position would be made difficult
if anything happened to me.
This made my life in the prison more secure, and free of major
physical assault.
When I was transferred to a low-security jail in March 2004, it was
Qodirov who personally informed me of the move.
The camp authorities were well aware of my meetings with Qodirov, and
the governor, Mirmahmud Mirazimov, was always at pains to remind me
how his job would be at risk if I said anything bad about the way he
ran the prison.
He told me he had a family to feed and he needed to hold onto his
job. "Every mistake costs me money, Ruslan, and if there's no money,
there will be no more work," he said one day.
So Mirazimov, too, made an effort to keep me away from trouble. His
assistant for political affairs, Sadullo Azimov, spoke to me nearly
every day.
In my contacts with senior prison officers, I learned a lot about the
working of the camp: how the prisoners pay rent to the administration
through the crime boss; and about how some convicts pay a bribe to
win early release. Prison guards and their commanding officers, too,
are caught up in the system - if they commit some misdemeanor they
have to pay off their superiors.
This system of paying "rent" to one's immediate superior, who keeps a
slice and passes the rest onto his boss, and so on up the chain, is
by no means unique to the penal system, and is in fact standard
practice in the hierarchy of local and national government in
Uzbekistan.
OPEN PRISON AND HOUSE ARREST
In March 2004, I was transferred to a low-security prison in Tashkent
to complete the rest of my sentence. This is a kind of open jail,
where the convict is allowed to stay at home some of the time under a
form of house arrest.
In my case, I was permitted to live with relatives in Kibrai just
outside the city, with the requirement that I report to the
authorities every day. But when officials discovered that I was
emailing various international organisations, and meeting their
representatives in Tashkent, they deemed it a breach of the house
arrest conditions. I was recalled to the prison, so in fact I spent
most of my time inside rather than out.
The low-security prison puts its inmates to work through contracts
with outside companies. The jail receives just over 50 dollars a
month per prisoner, but retains the money. The convict is supposed to
receive an allowance, however most of it is withheld as payment for
prison food and other expenses, so in effect he is working as slave
labour.
Because the money paid by civilian firms cannot be drawn from the
prison's bank account, officials run a scam where cars and other
saleable items are bought by money transfer, and then sold for cash
which they divide among themselves.
Although deprived of most of their allowance, convicts are generally
happy to get a transfer to a low-security jail because food,
healthcare provision and general treatment by warders are much better
than elsewhere.
The government has advertised the increasing use of such prisons as
an example of the kind of penal reform its western interlocutors are
seeking. In reality, the scheme has more than a whiff of venality
about it, as the more convicts are sent here, they more money the
system earns.
For convicts, the drawback is that as income-earners, they are less
likely to win the early release they may be entitled to under Uzbek
laws.
RETURN TO THE CAMPS A DIRE THREAT
Some prisoners rebel and either abscond or refuse to work. In the
latter case, or if they are recaptured, they spend time in the
cooler, the SIZO. The regulations say that anyone who has been sent
to the SIZO twice and then re-offends will be returned to the prison
camp.
Those who refuse to work altogether are liable to be tortured in the
SIZO, and in the worst case sent back to the camps. In the period I
spent there (March until June), only two men were sent back - but
before that happened they were tortured and then paraded before other
inmates as a warning.
Most prisoners are further deterred by the knowledge that on
returning to a high-security prison unit such as the Tavaksay camp
they will face "lomka" - "breaking", a systematic and severe beating.
I myself witnessed this while still at Tavaksay: I saw warders use
truncheons and iron bars to beat three men to a bloody pulp.
The governor's aide Azimov, who was also present, told me this was a
standing order from the MVD's penal affairs department in all cases
where prisoners were being re-admitted after being sent back from a
low-security jail.
The instructions were to inflict lasting damage so that the
convict "fully understands", he said.
But in most cases, the jail authorities let convicts stay on even
when they have re-offended again and again. It's more than likely
this happens because each working inmate carries a monetary value.
Rinat and Bakhtior had eight and six spells in the SIZO behind them,
but were happy to stay in the prison because being used as "slaves"
was better than conditions in high-security facilities.
"Look, they even close their eyes to the offences we commit," said
Rinat.
"The main thing is that we work and bring in money for them."
Few "outcasts" make it to the low-security jails. There were only
three or four in the one I was held in, just enough to do the menial
cleaning work.
The treatment they get here is similar to that in other detention
centres.
CONCLUSION
When deputy minister Qodirov told me I was being transferred to house
arrest in March, he made me sign an agreement not to publicise what I
saw, but to send any complaints direct to him - and he would then act
on any cases of abuse. If I disobeyed, he threatened to make sure I
was returned to the Tavaksay camp and never released.
Qodirov reminded me of the case of famous Uzbek writer Mamadali
Mahmudov, imprisoned since 1999 with no sign that he will ever be
freed.
I no longer consider myself bound by that document, signed under
duress.
I was finally granted conditional release on June 23 this year. The
court attached a lot of strings, insisting that I live 600 kilometres
away in Bukhara and do community work to complete a further two years
of my sentence on parole.
Those were the official hindrances: in secret, I was being told by
security service members that I should get out of Uzbekistan if I did
not want to end up back in jail, or dead. Qodirov himself told me
that once in Bukhara, I would be beyond his reach - and his
protection.
I left Uzbekistan shortly afterwards.
One of the four blocks is earmarked for the outcasts -
the "obizhennye" or "opuschennye" (meaning "humiliated"
and "degraded") - who form a special group at the very bottom of a
hierarchy that dates back to the Gulags.
It is easy to be reclassified as an outcast, and impossible to lose
this lowest-of-the-low status. Fear of this happening acts as a
powerful instrument of control on other denizens of the penal system.
All members of the outcast class are regarded as homosexual whatever
their history, and people often end up there as victims of rape. This
has nothing to do with sexual orientation; it is about power and
caste. Outcasts have no rights, are not allowed to speak, and are
used as slaves to perform menial tasks such as cleaning toilets.
As "untouchables" they are surrounded by an arcane but all too real
set of ritual proscriptions. For example, other prisoners cannot talk
to them, shake hands with them or even look at them. Even using the
same cup or spoon is "contagious", meaning that the offending person
could himself be demoted to outcast status.
The stigma follows them even after they are released from prison, as
word gets out and such men become the object of insults, especially
in a conservative society like Uzbekistan.
The "opuschennye" are subject to humiliation and beatings meted out
by other convicts. In the time I spent at the camp, I witnessed at
least 30 cases where such inmates were assaulted by convicts or
prison guards. After such attacks, only the gravest cases were sent
to the prison hospital at Chirchik. These individuals, who were close
to death when they were taken away, never returned to the camp.
THE GOVERNOR AND HIS BOSS
As a high-profile political case and the object of international
concern, I had much more contact with the people who run Uzbekistan's
penal system than the average convict.
From the summer of 2003 onwards, deputy interior minister Qodirov met
me on a number of occasions, clearly concerned at the damaging
fallout that could result from letters that I had written to the
constitutional court and various international organisations.
His initial tactic was to warn me that I was now within the system he
controlled, and that any public criticism would end very badly for
me. But later, after I sent appeals to the United Nations, Human
Rights Watch and other organisations, he banned me from writing - but
promised that in return, no one would touch me in the prison camp. He
was undoubtedly worried that his own position would be made difficult
if anything happened to me.
This made my life in the prison more secure, and free of major
physical assault.
When I was transferred to a low-security jail in March 2004, it was
Qodirov who personally informed me of the move.
The camp authorities were well aware of my meetings with Qodirov, and
the governor, Mirmahmud Mirazimov, was always at pains to remind me
how his job would be at risk if I said anything bad about the way he
ran the prison.
He told me he had a family to feed and he needed to hold onto his
job. "Every mistake costs me money, Ruslan, and if there's no money,
there will be no more work," he said one day.
So Mirazimov, too, made an effort to keep me away from trouble. His
assistant for political affairs, Sadullo Azimov, spoke to me nearly
every day.
In my contacts with senior prison officers, I learned a lot about the
working of the camp: how the prisoners pay rent to the administration
through the crime boss; and about how some convicts pay a bribe to
win early release. Prison guards and their commanding officers, too,
are caught up in the system - if they commit some misdemeanor they
have to pay off their superiors.
This system of paying "rent" to one's immediate superior, who keeps a
slice and passes the rest onto his boss, and so on up the chain, is
by no means unique to the penal system, and is in fact standard
practice in the hierarchy of local and national government in
Uzbekistan.
OPEN PRISON AND HOUSE ARREST
In March 2004, I was transferred to a low-security prison in Tashkent
to complete the rest of my sentence. This is a kind of open jail,
where the convict is allowed to stay at home some of the time under a
form of house arrest.
In my case, I was permitted to live with relatives in Kibrai just
outside the city, with the requirement that I report to the
authorities every day. But when officials discovered that I was
emailing various international organisations, and meeting their
representatives in Tashkent, they deemed it a breach of the house
arrest conditions. I was recalled to the prison, so in fact I spent
most of my time inside rather than out.
The low-security prison puts its inmates to work through contracts
with outside companies. The jail receives just over 50 dollars a
month per prisoner, but retains the money. The convict is supposed to
receive an allowance, however most of it is withheld as payment for
prison food and other expenses, so in effect he is working as slave
labour.
Because the money paid by civilian firms cannot be drawn from the
prison's bank account, officials run a scam where cars and other
saleable items are bought by money transfer, and then sold for cash
which they divide among themselves.
Although deprived of most of their allowance, convicts are generally
happy to get a transfer to a low-security jail because food,
healthcare provision and general treatment by warders are much better
than elsewhere.
The government has advertised the increasing use of such prisons as
an example of the kind of penal reform its western interlocutors are
seeking. In reality, the scheme has more than a whiff of venality
about it, as the more convicts are sent here, they more money the
system earns.
For convicts, the drawback is that as income-earners, they are less
likely to win the early release they may be entitled to under Uzbek
laws.
RETURN TO THE CAMPS A DIRE THREAT
Some prisoners rebel and either abscond or refuse to work. In the
latter case, or if they are recaptured, they spend time in the
cooler, the SIZO. The regulations say that anyone who has been sent
to the SIZO twice and then re-offends will be returned to the prison
camp.
Those who refuse to work altogether are liable to be tortured in the
SIZO, and in the worst case sent back to the camps. In the period I
spent there (March until June), only two men were sent back - but
before that happened they were tortured and then paraded before other
inmates as a warning.
Most prisoners are further deterred by the knowledge that on
returning to a high-security prison unit such as the Tavaksay camp
they will face "lomka" - "breaking", a systematic and severe beating.
I myself witnessed this while still at Tavaksay: I saw warders use
truncheons and iron bars to beat three men to a bloody pulp.
The governor's aide Azimov, who was also present, told me this was a
standing order from the MVD's penal affairs department in all cases
where prisoners were being re-admitted after being sent back from a
low-security jail.
The instructions were to inflict lasting damage so that the
convict "fully understands", he said.
But in most cases, the jail authorities let convicts stay on even
when they have re-offended again and again. It's more than likely
this happens because each working inmate carries a monetary value.
Rinat and Bakhtior had eight and six spells in the SIZO behind them,
but were happy to stay in the prison because being used as "slaves"
was better than conditions in high-security facilities.
"Look, they even close their eyes to the offences we commit," said
Rinat.
"The main thing is that we work and bring in money for them."
Few "outcasts" make it to the low-security jails. There were only
three or four in the one I was held in, just enough to do the menial
cleaning work.
The treatment they get here is similar to that in other detention
centres.
CONCLUSION
When deputy minister Qodirov told me I was being transferred to house
arrest in March, he made me sign an agreement not to publicise what I
saw, but to send any complaints direct to him - and he would then act
on any cases of abuse. If I disobeyed, he threatened to make sure I
was returned to the Tavaksay camp and never released.
Qodirov reminded me of the case of famous Uzbek writer Mamadali
Mahmudov, imprisoned since 1999 with no sign that he will ever be
freed.
I no longer consider myself bound by that document, signed under
duress.
I was finally granted conditional release on June 23 this year. The
court attached a lot of strings, insisting that I live 600 kilometres
away in Bukhara and do community work to complete a further two years
of my sentence on parole.
Those were the official hindrances: in secret, I was being told by
security service members that I should get out of Uzbekistan if I did
not want to end up back in jail, or dead. Qodirov himself told me
that once in Bukhara, I would be beyond his reach - and his
protection.
I left Uzbekistan shortly afterwards.