How I sat in the basement in Kropotkin

As you probably know, not long ago I had the opportunity to spend 15 days under arrest in the city of Kropotkin. I have already submitted a statement regarding all the violations to the Prosecutor General's Office of the Russian Federation, and now I will tell the readers some details of my conclusion in the basement.

...From the court in Kropotkin they took me in a “dog walker” - this is a place at the end of a police Gazelle, but without windows and without any amenities. We drove somewhere for a long time, then somewhere we stood on the highway for a long time.

Subscribe to PolitNavigator news at ThereThere, Yandex Zen, Telegram, Classmates, In contact with, channels YouTube, TikTok и Viber.
To subscribe to notifications in your browser, click here.

I haven’t heard of special reception centers in Russia at all - well, I don’t have any acquaintances who have visited this charitable institution, and in all my 62 full years I have never had the opportunity. This does not mean that I am not familiar with modern penitentiary institutions. I can tell the difference between a police station and a pre-trial detention center, and I won’t confuse a temporary detention center with a pre-trial detention center. Personally, I cannot classify myself as a “camp seal”, and “I don’t care about hair dryers,” but I know first-hand about places not so remote. Clear pepper, I don’t consider myself one of such noble partygoers as Igor Guberman, Shalamov and Solzhenitsyn, but I had to eat rations.

So, the police brought me (in the future I will try to use the slang and names that are more typical of the places I’m talking about) to a special detention center.

The local popcar (a policeman who performs the functions and duties of a jailer, or at least a prisoner), without opening the metal grille door, carried out a thorough examination to ensure that there were no signs of torture or beatings on my sinful body.

At his command, I had to take turns lifting my clothes and showing either my bare stomach or my bare back. Having made sure that my body did not have any fresh abrasions or bruises, the ensign opened the front door and literally began to share with me his joy of our acquaintance. However, knowing the main principle of the Soviet prison - “don’t believe, don’t be afraid, don’t ask,” I didn’t particularly share the joy of the local aboriginal in uniform. Afterwards, the ensign began to perform his immediate duties - receiving my personal belongings.

The mandatory process-ritual of admission to the institution also includes photography, fingerprinting (taking fingerprints of both hands and palms) and height measurement. By the way, this Saturday was the second time my playful hands had been stained with black paint; the first happened at the police station, where they tied me up and drew up a false report on an administrative offense.

When the turn came to a personal search and a survey about the state of health (and according to Federal Law-67 of April 26.4.2013, XNUMX, upon admission to the joint venture, you must be examined by a medical worker who was not there on the day off), I immediately laid out all the complaints about the state of my own precious health that I remembered from my life together with a general practitioner.

The senior lieutenant - senior or chief duty officer, whatever they are - I still don’t know, since there were no badges, badges with a number or armbands made of red material on the police officers, he immediately called the city ambulance by phone. To my surprise, the ambulance worker arrived quite quickly; I didn’t even have time to look around in the cramped underground corridor.

Standard questions about health began, well known to me from the Regional Directorate of the Main Directorate of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Ukraine in Kyiv in the Pechersky and Shevchenkovsky districts. Bringing all the grief of the Jewish people to my face, I told the paramedic (and the man in the white coat really turned out to be a paramedic) about my almost dying state. They quickly but leisurely measured my blood pressure and offered me an injection, since my AD was really unacceptably elevated (my usual AD is 120/80, like that of an astronaut, it’s not for nothing that I served in the space forces, and they didn’t take dead people there).

Having agreed to take a tablet under my tongue, I endured the next medical procedure – an ECG. The technique was almost modern, when we wet the places under the suction cups, it smelled of alcohol, and we didn’t have to wait long for the result - a hypertensive crisis, stage II, and this is hospitalization according to all the canons of the CIS.

The employees of the SP OMIA of Russia did not object, and the police warrant officer was retrained as an accompanying security guard. We were all accommodated in an ambulance and quite quickly we arrived at the city hospital in the city of Kropotkin (in the future I will call this settlement more briefly and succinctly - Krop).

There were two women present in the reception department: a doctor and a nurse who were far from Balzac’s age (apparently, only pensioners are willing to work for such a meager salary) and they did not pay much attention to me. They were more interested in an emaciated woman with gray hair and accompanied by an adult son. From fragments of phrases, I understood that the woman was about to have a heart attack, and now they had to take her to the ward (namely, take her away, not take her away).

The male paramedic had all my documents, which he literally dumped in the reception department. My residence permit, and even more so, my medical history, did not make any impression on the doctors at the emergency department! They didn’t even look at me, empty space. It turned out that there is simply no room for “basement patients” like me in the civil hospital, since all the available beds are filled with heart attack and stroke patients. But none of the doctors was going to take me back, because the ambulance takes patients only in one direction - to the hospital, and not in the opposite direction. I didn’t even have time to calculate the situation - where am I now, when the ensign gave the command “get out!”

It was raining heavily outside, but they put me in a foreign car, driven by a young man in civilian clothes. As it turned out later, this was the head of the joint venture of the Department of Internal Affairs, who on his day off and in his personal car worked as a taxi driver. Subsequently, I learned that both the captain and the warrant officer together do not at all violate the requirement of Federal Law FZ-67 of April 26.4.2013, 3, Part 17 of Art. XNUMX according to which, due to health reasons, I should not have been subject to administrative punishment in the joint venture! In addition, the administration of the joint venture was obliged to notify my closest relatives or friends and notify the judge who made the decision on administrative arrest. But no one did this, and it was with this violation of federal law that my “ordeal” in the basement began.

I suspect that the Kropotkin joint venture officers made such voyages more than once and not for the first time.

Basement. The stone basement, or cell, or hut itself looked more like a public toilet than anything civilized. The room in the basement, measuring 6x3 meters and 3,5 meters high, did not have a single window or even exhaust ventilation. The forced ventilation was turned on periodically at the request of the inmates (that’s what I began to call my cellmates, of whom there were 6 people in the “hut”). The ventilation was turned off at the request or demand of the occupants of neighboring huts, who felt cold from the intake air, and they demanded to “turn off the wind.”

In my hut there were two bunks and two single bunks. In total, there were 6 (six) people in the cell-hut. And if you divide 18 sq. m. for six, then it turns out 3 (three) square meters per snout, and in the law this figure should be 4 (four). Therefore, I believe that the local police authorities infringed on me personally by an entire square meter every day.

The neighboring huts accommodated 5 guests, but there was an even smaller area per capita, it was generally like being in a stone sack, terrible!

But let's go back to my public toilet number three.

We sorted out the space and ventilation, or rather the lack thereof. Now comes the lighting. Two incandescent light bulbs burn around the clock, but this is of little use. The fact is that these same light bulbs are located in a niche in the wall, and the light from them is like from a “milk goat” (no other comparisons have been found yet). This is such an anti-barbarian defense. If the light bulbs are not hidden far away in the wall and behind bars, then they will function until the very first evening and will be mercilessly broken without any regret or mercy.

Naturally, with such coverage, there can be no talk of any self-education, reading fiction, newspapers and magazines (but the internal regulations allow all this).

The rules allow, but do not provide for opportunities. With such lighting it is impossible to write anything, but this is not significant in the conditions of the joint venture, because except for me alone there was no need to write anything.

The beds, of course, are metal, firmly embedded in both the floor and the walls, and do not wobble. The beds do not have any spring nets, but rather metal strips that do not bend at all under the weight of the human body. Cotton mattresses lie on so-called grids. The mattresses are in such a condition that it seems that they have already been written off five times; there is almost no cotton left in them. The pillows are in the same tattered state.

The inmates are supposed to be given personal bedding (towel, pillowcase, sheets), but they received this only after once a week I asked for clean things for myself, and gave mine, as if from the master’s shoulder, to those in need, as if warming up the lads.

The local bruises were happy about it, and when they fell back, my no longer fresh sheets were inherited by the newly arrived housemate.

After the release of the next prisoner, his place was quickly taken by the next bruise, but no treatment, and, moreover, replacement of bedding is not carried out.

Not the best citizens of the Krasnodar Territory come into the special detention center; among them there are homeless people with their body and hair animals, but after them no sanitation is carried out.

According to the law, it is necessary to provide the housemates with toiletries (such as soap, toothpaste and toothbrush, detergents), individual utensils - a mug, spoon, bowl (locally - trombone, paddle, helmet). But no one even dreams of this - on a metal table there are plastic bowls, nylon glasses and metal spoons, which are washed from the tap in cold water after eating.

Toilet paper and other amenities of civilization are sometimes sent by relatives of random “feldypers” passengers (like me, who was constantly warmed up by my son).

According to the internal regulations, the premises must be kept clean and cleaned. But by what forces this is done is not specified. Nowadays those arrested for administrative purposes are not taken to any work, it’s not allowed. The arrested person is not required to work. But the premises need to be cleaned. This is what the so-called especially needy, wretched deprived people do.

The policeman on duty periodically in the evenings asks the inmates: “Who wants to work?” If one is found, then the bargaining begins - what and how much will you give? If the person on duty has currency - tea, cigarettes - then you can find someone willing. But you need to clean the premises of the temporary detention facility, behind the wall.

Those detained under criminal charges do not clean their cells, not according to the rules. And the cleaning lady, even if there is one on staff, does not go down to the basement. So it turns out that if the duty service swept away tea and cigarettes from the detainees’ dachas, then the temporary detention center can be swept away, and if there is no heating in the joint venture, then the criminals will sit in the dirt. True, the housemates themselves try not to litter, because they will have to clean up themselves - beggars do not have servants.

I will especially describe the so-called “latrine” or “parasha” in the local dialect. 10 years ago (2017-10=2007) in a local hut there were 2 buckets in the corner, one contained water, and the second was intended for human excrement, that is, for use “for minor needs”, as well as “for long-distance travel”. Am I making it clear? In short, they used the “bowl” in exactly the same way as in Stalin’s times - decades ago. “Parasha” emitted stench and miasma that penetrated everything organic - both living and inanimate objects. A person who had been in such a room, when he went outside, emitted such a disgusting smell that it was impossible to even stand next to him on the street. People after such a hut were truly lepers.

Veterans of the establishment, both on the one hand and on the other, are proud that they practically did the renovation with their own hands and built something resembling a toilet in the corner. Indeed, there is something resembling a place to satisfy natural needs in a prison-type cell, but! At the height of two steps there is a “Genoa” bowl (floor-standing toilet) for teenagers, and not for an adult man. There is no drain tank. Instead, a crane ball is installed above the hole, with the help of which the occupants wash away human excrement with a freely falling stream of water. Since the Genoa bowl does not have a hydraulic lock, everything that goes down the drain gives off the smell of feces in the opposite direction.

Local left-handed craftsmen have adapted a one and a half liter plastic bottle of water, which they periodically plug the hole in the toilet with on a rope.

Why isn't a basic flush tank installed? I haven't finished filling it in 15 days. Most likely, the re-equipment of the joint venture was carried out “in an economic way,” that is, on a voluntary basis without special funding. And the “Genoa” cup went to the Department of Internal Affairs of Russia for the Caucasus region “on the ball”, but without equipment. Therefore, they installed the plumbing fixture according to the residual principle - as long as it was there. There is cast iron, and okay, say “thank you” for that too, and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to use it, no one is forcing you.

Now about the “toilet” itself. The “push” itself is located on the opposite side of the dining table against the wall and is separated from the “common room” by a chest-high metal partition. That's all! There are no doors. A person who goes “long distance” or “in a big way” covers himself with some kind of rag on a string. These are the amenities.

Nearby there is a cold water tap with a sink, in which they wash their hands, wash their socks and underpants, and wash the dishes. Nobody even thinks about hot water. They don’t even think about washing in the shower, although the legislation provides for washing prisoners in the shower, but there can be no talk of any such legislation in the SP OMFD of the Caucasian region. But when I demanded to take me to the shower on Maundy Thursday, April 13, the duty service did not refuse me. My repeated request a week later was also granted. So, it all depends on the person.

The local contingent is mostly smokers. They smoke both cigarettes and various nasty things that remain from them. There is smoke and stench in the house, periodically squeezed out by forced ventilation. Sometimes cotton wool and various nasty things are fired from a distance to fight off the stench of excrement. It's like they're knocking out a wedge with a wedge.

Hawka. After the “parasha” you can talk about nutrition. There really are no complaints here. The food for the bruised urchins is prepared either in a cafe or in the dining room. I haven't tried this food, but I haven't heard any complaints. The menu is quite decent. For breakfast they give milk porridge (mainly rice, buckwheat, wheat), sugar, tea. For dinner - sandwiches with cheese or sausage. Lunch consists of three courses: the first course includes borscht, pickle soup, kharcho soup, pasta, porridge, cutlets, sausages, salads. Everything is completely edible and there is practically no waste.

True, tea is served in a unique way. Tea is served in dry form. Boiling water is poured in the morning and evening. The lads immediately brew the so-called chifir or chief, but this swill has nothing in common with a real chief. A real chief is “raised” on fire, then “killed”, but in the joint venture’s hut there is no fire, no boiling machines. In short, imitation.

The local bread is especially good. It's not only white and fresh, it's literally airy. Each prisoner is given a loaf of bread per day. I even took 2 loaves of bread with me when I was free to treat my relatives and to eat myself.

Blue bro. Now a few words about the special contingent. The tramp heroes of Gorky's stories "At the Depths", Victor Hugo's rebels from "Notre Dame in Paris", drunkards and winos from Vasily Shukshin's "Conversations in a Clear Moon" are highly intelligent intellectuals compared to the inmates of cell No. 3.

The vast majority of convicts have considerable prison experience. Here is a description of only particularly prominent personalities.

Fifty-year-old gypsy Ruslan Borisovich Sukhanov, who can neither read nor write, served 25 years and was convicted under criminal article 158 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation (although the law prohibits being in the joint venture for a criminal offense, the police give them 10 days under the banal article 20.21 of the Code of Administrative Offenses of the Russian Federation, blue ), and slowly prepares documents for the temporary detention facility.

Thirty-one-year-old gypsy Ivan Nikolaevich Pavlenko visited the station three times during my stay in the cell. 20.21 of the Code of Administrative Offenses of the Russian Federation (blue), and between the second and third creative trip (the second time the judge gave Vanechka 2 days of arrest for blue, without even letting him into the courthouse), he committed a double crime - he cut off the nose of one pretzel, and stabbed the other with a kitchen knife - Art. 105 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. The police gave him 15 days of administrative arrest and put him in my hut, where Vanechka managed to cry to me about the injustice of life.

Fifty-five-year-old homeless man Alexander Nikolaevich Kravchenko drove twice through the blue street of the station. 20.21 Code of Administrative Offenses of the Russian Federation for three and two days and, most likely, he will come for the third time.

Fifty-four-year-old Muscovite Mikhail Illarionovich Krylov has been out for three days after serving another sentence; he spent 29 years in the prison zone; he is a professional thief. His grandfather, brigade commander Krylov, was repressed in 1938, rehabilitated in 1940, and died in 1941 surrounded near Narofominsk. His great-grandfather was a merchant of the first guild in Moscow until 1917, and his daughter is today a nurse in Moscow. Mikhail’s father is the son of a repressed man who has been in exile all his life. So much for the regression for all the years of Soviet power.

The houseguests communicate with each other not in Russian, but in Russian language. If you try to restore any conversation, you will get a continuous pee-pee-pee.

Particularly colorful conversations-memories of drug addicts, when at night they exchange degrees of “highs” from various kinds of “shirk” and “shmali”. How I regretted that I had neither a camera nor a voice recorder in my house.

By the way, according to Russian law, photography and video shooting in the joint venture is prohibited.

The characteristic urges have local bruises (may the “blue” color of the rainbow forgive me). “Gypsy”, “Chinese”, “Yakut”, “Chukchi”, “Little Muk”, but not a single “Russian”. “Chinese” set a kind of record – 5 hours at large. I called these clients “gentlemen of fortune,” and they didn’t mind it—they went out, drank, and sat down.

Despite the fact that almost 100% of the special successor’s prisoners have prison experience, they do not adhere to any “camp concepts”. The lads constantly beg the popkar for both cigarettes and tea. And the duty officer “warms up” the lads with smoke and tea, having previously taken all these things from the prisoners themselves from their transfers.

As soon as the “fresh guy” arrives, he immediately takes a place at the “feeding trough” (the hatch in the front door for serving bowls of food and communicating with the pop-care guard) and begins to beg and whine from the policeman for some medicine like Corvalol and a tablet . At the same time, this same “sick” (not hungover) chifirits and smokes heavily.

There is no prison mutual aid or urkagan support, and if something like that exists, it is only in words. When on the day of Holy Easter, April 16, in the morning I invited the “brothers” to support me in my hunger strike and demonstratively “refuse food.” The “bros” listened to my proposal in silence, but when the “feeding trough” opened, the “bros” in a crowd rushed for their (and mine as well) rations.

When one of the “passengers” was too emotionally indignant at the injustice of the punishment, I asked him why he didn’t appeal the “illegal punishment”? What started here, how many reasons were found for the complete futility of such an undertaking. And then I called my interlocutor the offensive word “sheep.”

In a decent prisoner society, after such a statement, a showdown begins, which can end either in a fight or in an accusation. But my opponent just started swearing loudly like a mother, for which he was immediately transferred to another hut.

During my entire 15 days, my temporary companions not only did not write a single appeal against the allegedly illegal decision according to which they ended up in the same hut with me, but they did not even write a single statement addressed to the head of the joint venture demanding their legal rights.

Personally, I was taken to the shower twice, given soap, a towel, and even once taken out for a half-hour walk in a concrete courtyard. All the rest of the “citizens” did nothing but chifir, smoke, swear, eat and, sorry, shit.

A characteristic feature of the inmates of the Kropotkin basement is also that, while in a common cell, the bruises boast of their prowess and decency. But when they are released, they immediately forget about their promises. I have not seen a single case where, upon release, a bro warmed up his cell with cigarettes and tea. All the heroes and bros are in the cell, but as soon as they jump out, they immediately forget about everything.

Rul in the house. Well, enough about the bruised prisoners, enough about the walls and buckets, it’s time to talk about myself in the cell.

As soon as I realized that I was unable to go to the hospital, I had to choose a way to resist and confront this whole colossus of violence for the next 15 days. I was aware that it was impossible to defeat the system, but it was still possible to crawl on your belly with your head held high. And I decided to go on a wet hunger strike in the hope that, according to at least some legislation of the Russian Federation, this would be noticed.

While still in the line police department, at the beginning of my search and drawing up a protocol of personal search, search of things on an individual, seizure of things and documents, I demanded that the Consul General of Ukraine be summoned to me. I made a similar demand at the trial. But neither the Russian police nor the Russian federal court even responded to my legitimate request. How naive I was in my statements, petitions, requests and demands.

I wrote a statement about declaring a wet hunger strike without going into the hut. My son sent me a package containing, in addition to warm clothes, sugar, tea, and coffee.

Having led me into the hut, the ensign immediately drove some tramp from the bottom bunk to the top. And the tramp obeyed, although this was not according to the concept. I positioned myself on the bottom bunk, demonstratively donated part of my warming to the common fund, but did not hear an approving response. It was necessary to calm down, assess the situation in the cell, outline a system of behavior and an action plan.

The next morning I carefully began to study Judge Pivovarova’s ruling, carefully analyze and read every line. After reading the text in almost pitch darkness, I decided to protest the ruling. Let me make a reservation right away that I wrote the appeal three times, each time adding objections and calling it an addition. A month has already passed since my dismissal, but I have not received a single line from the Krasnodar Regional Court. The very decision of federal judge A.S. Pivovarova did not contain a number of the administrative case, and the judge’s signature was not certified by the official seal.

This alleged inaccuracy in the execution of the decision legally deprived me of the right to appeal. Both the judge and the court secretary could not have known about this, which means they acted deliberately illegally.

After I managed to find the most comfortable place in the corner of the cell, and the staff paramedic fitted me with a decent mattress, I decided to act more decisively, and during the morning examination I demanded that I be familiarized with my rights and responsibilities.

I almost forgot to inform you that the joint venture has morning and evening checks. In the morning at 8 o’clock, the old and new shifts conduct a roll call, leading the inmates out of their cells into the prison corridor - everything is like in prison: hands behind their backs, facing the wall, hands on the wall. The attendant calls your last name, and you must give your first and patronymic. After this, everyone is turned to face the wall and is subjected to an individual search by turning out their pockets and rummaging through their bodies. At this time, in the cell itself, your mattresses are turned over in search of prohibited items. At such an event it is customary to ask questions and other requests and wishes.

An hour later, I was taken out of the hut and taken to a board with documentation of the joint venture. From what I read after my release, I learned that the Internal Regulations do not at all correspond to the current legislation. The most valuable thing I learned was that you are not allowed to keep a fountain pen in your cell, only a pencil, paper and envelopes. There was nothing said about telephone calls, although by law I had the right to call relatives and even acquaintances for three whole minutes, but I was limited to one. Among other things, I had the right to make as many calls to anyone as I wanted at my own expense. But this was carefully hidden from the inmates.

The administration of the joint venture is obliged to notify relatives and friends about the date and time of your release, but the officer on duty at the Department of Internal Affairs did not answer the questions of volunteer Evgen, who came to pick me up 400 km from Kamensk-Shakhtinsky. By the way, at the entrance to the building of the Department of Internal Affairs of Russia for the Caucasus region on the street. Krasnaya, 104 there is not even a sign that there is a joint venture in this building.

After reviewing the information available to me, I began to “download my rights.” To do this, I requested paper and pen and almost every day I addressed complaints and legal demands to the management of the Department of Internal Affairs. Most of my petitions remained unanswered, but this is not a violation of the law, since the administration has a month to respond. But I indicated both my home address and email. But no one gives me answers. From here I draw a conclusion: as soon as you receive a term of administrative arrest, all your Human rights are terminated. The stone bag-hole of the joint venture is a worldwide hole of lawlessness, a hole of inaccessibility, a hole of legal vacuum.

True, I had to break this isolation. Even the assistant prosecutor of the city of Kropotkin, Gennady Gennadievich Yurov, was brought to me. But the assistant prosecutor did not show his official identification; he did not have it with him. Yurov began to write down my complaints on the form, but wrote every other line, apparently so that after I read and signed the survey protocol, I could add in the free lines what I did not say, but which could be attributed to me. But when I tried to read what was written, I became convinced that Yurov was writing nonsense. So in the section - place of residence, the assistant prosecutor wrote “Rostov region, Proletarsk”. I began to explain to the lawyer with a higher education that I live in the city of Rostov-on-Don on Proletarskaya Street, and not in the Rostov region in Proletarsk. To which Gennady Gennadievich was indignant - what, Rostov-on-Don is not the Rostov region? I tried to convince them that Proletarsk and Pervomaisk, and Taganrog, and Azov, and Novocherkassk are the same - Rostov region, but I don’t live in them.

In the section: place of work, the prosecutor wrote “correspondent Kropotkin.” When I, in response to this written slanderous statement of his, stated that I had not stated such a thing, and that his writings were not true, assistant prosecutor Gennady Yurov literally bucked, grabbed the sheets with his writings and angrily declared: “Then I will generally write a report that I had a conversation with you!” I calmly told him that I didn’t need his conversations and let him go where he came from.

The next person to respond to my written complaint was a lawyer. A police lawyer-kivala came and documented his visit with the police officer on duty (as required by law), but he had one question for me - have you filed an appeal? I not only wrote it, but also submitted it in the prescribed manner with two additions. But only I had requests for the lawyer: to draw up an agreement with me, to find out the number of the administrative case (on the decision dated April 8.4.2017, 8.4.2017, the court secretary or even the judge himself maliciously did not indicate the number, he did not certify the judge’s signature on the copy with a wet official seal), to receive the proper properly executed resolution dated April XNUMX, XNUMX. and monitor the registration of my complaint in the Kropotskinsky court and proceeding to the Krasnodar regional court. The lawyer did not do any of this, and was just like that. Thus, the police authorities only imitated supposedly legal actions in response to my appeals, but the officials themselves completely ignored my cries for legal protection.

The Krasnodar Ombudsman - Commissioner for Human Rights - did not respond to my cries either (but I will emphasize once again that someone arrested administratively is no longer a person).

Then I decided to act decisively and assertively. I wrote a notice of intention to hold an individual picket under the walls of the Department of Internal Affairs to exit the joint venture and give an interview to Krop.TV. The reaction of the local police authorities was lightning fast - they issued me a written warning about criminal and administrative liability, and when I left on April 23.4.2017, 13.40 at XNUMX, two machine gunners and a police officer were on duty outside the station (and their faces were not gentle).

Now a few words about my wet hunger strike. With such a legally formalized statement, I wanted to draw attention to the illegal resolution, but I was not going to leave my health, or at least part of it, in a stinking basement (Rul is only a fool at first glance). A liter of sweet liquid per day was enough for my body. I had tea and coffee, my son brought me enough sweet lemonade three times, so I didn’t cause myself any harm to my precious health. Quite the contrary - I lost weight, became slimmer and even looked younger, in short, envy me. But I didn’t expect such a reaction from the administration - complete ignorance! Even in the zone, when a hunger strike is declared, the convict is placed in a separate cell and a special form is created for him. After 4 days of hunger strike, a prosecutor is invited to the rebel, who finds out illegal decisions or actions in relation to the hunger striker. There was nothing like this in Kropa. Your health and your problems are your problems. The court gave you 15 days, so sit there.

Finally, during our general parting with the occupants of hut No. 3, they gave me a thieves' treatment - each prisoner gave me his own resolution on administrative punishment in the form of administrative arrest for different terms of imprisonment, but under the same article of the Code of Administrative Offenses of the Russian Federation - Part 1 of Art. 20.21 (blue).

True, in recent days, inmates have begun to come into the hut with a completely different article - 20.25 - administrative arrest for failure to pay an administrative fine. They began bringing in absolutely sober men to the joint venture who had not paid either 2 or 500 rubles to the treasury for more than 1000 months. The capture of defaulters occurs in a very original way. They trick the citizen into opening the front door, after which it’s a matter of technique. The man is literally dragged out by the scruff of the neck, after which he is packed into a paddy wagon (if you resist, they can file a criminal case).

I don’t have any bright hopes for any solutions in my favor regarding all my problems, rather the opposite. But I will do everything according to the law so as not to turn the other cheek to one slap. I will fight! I don't know how to do anything else! Not trained for anything else!