Life behind seven locks

Winter is beginning in the city, and the election campaign keeps things lively. With each passing day, something new appears here: billboards, tents, flags... A common sight is people encountered on the street in 'political' colours, offering 'press' for free... In short, it is a hustle and bustle.
Leaving the city, away from this 'stuffiness', one feels a little better. We, a group of journalists accompanied by the head of the 'Teenager' charitable foundation, Vladimir Goncharov, did not go to escape the urban turmoil. We set off for a place of confinement, to the Women’s Correctional Colony No. 68 in Chervonopartizansk, located on the territory of the Sverdlovsk City Council.
This is a routine working visit. For Goncharov, it is a common occurrence; he is a frequent visitor here. The 'Teenager' foundation is over 10 years old, and over these years, Vladimir Leonidovich has become 'one of their own' in places of confinement, children’s homes, and boarding schools. As a rule, his arrival means that gifts will be presented and humanitarian aid delivered, but most importantly, there will be an opportunity to discuss problems. The latter is, precisely, very important for those whom Goncharov visits. The prisoners speak with him, for example, about how, upon leaving the colony, to adapt to 'civilian life', how to feel like a full-fledged person not only internally, but also to acquire the material attributes of that fullness: finding housing, work. Goncharov can simply offer advice 'purely as a human being', but more often, they expect professional help from him: with the preparation of documents, registering for various types of status, and legal consultations...
This visit is timed for the New Year holidays. It is early, but that is the whole point. Vladimir Goncharov is bringing cards and envelopes, so that the women can write home.
'It seems like a trivial thing to us, here, in the free world—sending a New Year's card to relatives. We have the internet and cheap mobile communications. But for prisoners, this act is filled with an almost sacred meaning, because it is news from home, attention in the only form they can currently convey to their children and loved ones,' says Vladimir Goncharov.
The Chervonopartizansk Correctional Colony No. 68 is located right on the border with Russia. Its territory is situated practically in the steppe, surrounded by a fence. However, the scene is very typical for such places: a fence, barbed wire, a multitude of tightly closed gates and doors.
We were expected here. We hand over our documents and mobile phones, and enter the territory of the zone. The doors open for us automatically: there are seven of them, located a metre or two apart. Finally, we find ourselves in the colony courtyard. Nothing unusual: an asphalt area, and several different buildings along the perimeter. As it turns out later, the prisoners work in one building, live in another, the dining hall is in a third, and so on; almost nothing can be photographed—neither individual buildings nor the faces of the prisoners walking by.
The first thing that surprised us was that the women serving their sentences were dressed in civilian clothing, not prisoner uniforms. One could even say they were dressed 'city-style': individual styles of hats, jackets, and boots were no different from those worn by women in the regional centre. The second thing—the convicts freely use cosmetics.
'There is nothing surprising about that,' explains Irina Semashko, head of the social-educational and psychological work department, a senior lieutenant of the internal service, to us. 'As for the clothing, first of all, the funding does not allow us to clothe prisoners in identical uniforms; there are no funds for that. Secondly—and this does not contradict the law—different organisations bring us humanitarian aid in the form of clothing. Thirdly, it is actually better this way. It is more comfortable for the women themselves, as each can choose what she likes or what suits her best. As for cosmetics—well, every woman always remains a woman. You think that because we are a colony here, they don't feel or want anything? On the contrary, feelings are heightened here. This includes the maternal instinct—if children have remained in the free world. Rare calls home—these are scenes that even we, the colony staff, find difficult to watch. There are so many tender words and tears there. We even ask them: 'Don't cry on the phone while talking to your loved ones; you will walk away upset yourself, and you will upset your relatives.''
Admittedly, according to Irina Semashko, not all women are sentimental. The constituency is very diverse. Women of all ages are incarcerated here, young ones and even elderly ones (there was one 81-year-old prisoner, she was imprisoned for murder). Some are there, for example, for fraud, while others are there for grave crimes: murder on domestic grounds, or even premeditated murder. There are women with two university degrees (they are more often associated with the corresponding charges—fraud, for example), and there are those with a complete lack of intellect and a 'pickled' appearance. There are those who repent, and those who are absolutely indifferent. But the former are far more numerous.
A well-known Luhansk poet and TV journalist, Tatiana Deynegina, came to the colony with us for a creative meeting with the convicts. She did not start 'head-on', not with poems. She began to speak with the women... about her own life. About problems, the difficult time she experienced herself. And how she struggled through. Surprisingly, the mood of the prisoners changed before our eyes: indifference gradually receded, eyes came alive and peered more and more intently at the poet’s face. And, listening to the poems, the women, among whom were also young girls, wiped away tears.
This was, perhaps, the most touching moment of the whole trip: the union of the performer with the audience. And even the wardens listened attentively, as if becoming imbued with sympathy for their 'charges', if one can call them that... For a time, it seemed that everyone was equal. Everyone equally wanted to be loved and to love, to have happiness and a good family. And as if there were no such word as 'crime'.
Afterwards, after the poems, we left. Goncharov handed out envelopes and spoke with several of the prisoner ladies who were currently in difficult life circumstances. They needed a consultation: one woman had two children left at home, the father had disappeared 'working abroad', the eldest son was of legal age, but the youngest was being taken to an orphanage, despite the fact that his brother was supposed to become his guardian. A story, one of many like it: the fate of children whose mothers are serving sentences is complicated by such problems. The second mother’s children were adopted by foreigners altogether—and now she wants to find that family, according to her, 'simply to be sure that they are happy there...'.
Goncharov helps however he can: sometimes by consulting, sometimes by engaging the relevant social service to provide assistance.
'Adapting to our society after release is very difficult for former convicts. They are much more comfortable here, in the zone, than they will be later, when they get out. Here they are fed, they have a place to live, they work. But what will happen out there... They often encounter troubles, rejection by society, and rarely does a person adapt completely and return to a normal life,' says Vladimir Leonidovich.
This topic is too broad to cover in one attempt. It is broad and multifaceted. However, a short visit to the women’s colony was enough to understand how valuable human life is. When you do not value it, sooner or later it shows you its other side. You cross the line of what is permitted—after all, you do not value it, after all, you already do not care—and you find yourself in a pit. And when you fall, you realise that, as it turns out, things were not that bad... before.

It was with this 'philosophy' that we were leaving back to the bustling and politicised Luhansk. Honestly speaking, upon arriving, one breathed... deeper.