Acts of political revenge

First I was arrested in absentia, then, in May 2023, I was put on Russia’s wanted list, and finally, in February 2024, on an international wanted list. I didn’t go into hiding. In fact, I told the authorities where I was and how they could get in touch.

The criminal charge itself turned out to be related to something I posted online on 3 April 2022. “Bucha has made nuclear war more likely. There is no way around a war crimes tribunal now.” In Russian, that was 10 words, 62 letters.

I posted something else too, also very short. It turns out I was sentenced to 155 days for each word — or 25 days for each letter — in those two posts. Truly, we are a literary nation! Where else do words hold such value? I am reminded of Soviet bard Osip Mandelstam, who, shortly before his arrest, said nowhere was poetry as respected as in the Soviet Union, as only there did poets get shot.

I can’t understand why investigators were so sloppy, though, and chose such innocuous posts. I wrote every day back then, very critically, and didn’t watch my words. In early March that year, I staged a one-man protest, carrying a placard saying: “No to war. Putin must resign!” There’s still a photograph on my Facebook and Twitter accounts. The fact that I was going to be prosecuted was decided in advance, as were the charges and the sentence. But not by the courts, you understand. No, by those who give orders to the court. The Prosecutor’s Office just chose two posts at random. They could have taken any number of others.

If I was in Russia, I would be getting out of prison just in time for New Year 2033, at the grand old age of 82 and a half. But I wouldn’t get out. Not that I’m complaining about my health, you understand. But at my age, you wouldn’t last that long in prison. It’s a life sentence. I mean, it was a serious crime. I was convicted for “saying … the special military operation had led to a large number of civilian casualties in Ukraine”. Which is slander, there’s no denying it! I’m lucky I didn’t get a longer sentence.

And maybe I still will. The odd thing for enemies of the system is that no verdict or decision is ever final. Let’s say you’ve been given a fine. You pay the fine, so now you’re quits. Or you’ve served your time and you’re released. So now you’re free, right? Wrong. They can find anything you’ve written — statutes of limitations don’t apply, since everything published online, even by them, in your name, is deemed an ongoing crime — and start the entire process all over again.

OK, so you can say: “Screw you! You won’t catch me. Europe won’t hand me over. You can shove your sentences.” But there are two caveats with that.

First, I still have friends and other people I’m close to in Russia. It is too late for most of them to emigrate and start a new life. I wouldn’t have either, given the choice. So, there they are in Russia, and I don’t know if it’s safe for me to call them. How can I be sure that in a couple of months’ time, someone I spoke to on the phone won’t be charged with espionage or treason? How many times have I chosen not to call or write to people I used to be in touch with all the time?

Second, and I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to come to terms with this new reality, to finally accept this whole nightmare. I understand it all rationally, but I can’t accept it at the emotional level. I can’t accept the war, the daily bombing of Ukraine — what’s Ukraine ever done to you? — the blatant tyranny.

The state, in whose name these sentences are handed down, is simply laughing in our face. “We’ll do whatever we want!” And it does.

But Russia belongs to its people! It is the country of Sakharov, Pushkin, Gagarin. The country that defeated Hitler. So we have no choice but to keep on doing what we’re doing, to keep on doing what they’re prosecuting us for.

The following is Leonid Gozman’s closing statement to the court, which was read out in his absence by his lawyer.