“People are still stuck in this cage”

In 2017, Russia’s Federal Security Service (FSB) opened a criminal case against a group of young left-wing and anti-fascist activists, which later became known as the ‘Network’ case. The activists, all from Penza and St. Petersburg, were accused of forming an extremist organization to carry out terrorist attacks, destabilize the country, and overthrow the constitutional order. The evidence was based on the defendants’ testimony, which the authorities obtained through torture. Despite a mass campaign of solidarity, letters of support from cultural figures and scholars, and appeals from human rights activists, the seven defendants received prison sentences ranging from six to eighteen years. This case was the first large-scale trial in which the security services effectively fabricated an “extremist group” based on circumstantial evidence and torture. This practice has become widespread in modern military Russia.

In 2017, Viktor Filinkov, a young and successful software developer from St. Petersburg, was abducted by Federal Security Service (FSB) officers at the airport after returning from a vacation in Kyiv. A few days later, he retracted his confession and reported that he had been tortured. Filinkov was sentenced to seven years in prison and spent much of his sentence in solitary confinement. He was also involved in a lengthy legal battle with the prison administration over fabricated penalties. In January 2025, Filinkov was released and promptly deported from Russia to Kazakhstan, where he is a citizen.

In an interview after his release, Viktor Filinkov recounted how he was labeled an “extremist” and “terrorist,” his reaction to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, and why some of his fellow prisoners chose to go to the war.

— First, tell our readers how you came to be labeled a terrorist and an extremist.

— That’s a good question. For me, it was both unexpected and quite predictable. After graduating from school, I moved from Kazakhstan to Russia. I was born and raised in Kazakhstan. I graduated from high school there, but I decided to attend university in Russia. There, I immediately became involved with the anti-fascist, left-wing, anarchist movement. I was actually an anarchist throughout my youth but did not identify as part of a subculture. My association with the counterculture was rather indirect; while it certainly had an impact on me, I was more involved with the political aspect of the anti-fascist movement. 

In Russia, being associated with anarchist and anti-fascist circles, at least in the region where I lived, often resulted in confrontation with the authorities, especially with employees of the Center for Combating Extremism. I knew comrades who had already been sentenced for various reasons and suffered torture at the hands of the authorities. Clearly, these people were suffering illegally and unfairly. They were not criminals in the traditional sense, nor did they pose a threat to society.

Therefore, the idea that any of us could be next was ever-present in the movement and in my circle in particular.

However, I wouldn’t say any of us were preparing for it. There was a sense of anxiety, but it didn’t prompt us to take additional measures to ensure our safety.

I never committed any crimes because I am generally careful and cautious; I have always been clean in that sense. When I moved to St. Petersburg, I found a good job, got married, and made plans for my future. However, I did not plan to stay in Russia because I had become completely disillusioned with the protest movement by spring 2017. All of my youthful ideas about the possibility of bringing about social and political change in Russia were gone. I realized that there was little that could be done. The realization that my efforts and those of my fellow activists were insufficient to exert any significant influence on the situation in Russia relegated activism to a peripheral role.

While living in St. Petersburg, I never thought I would be accused of something like this. I evaluated my actions based on legal realities and practices, and I could not fathom how or why I could be prosecuted. The idea that the FSB might be interested in me was also foreign to me. However, the FSB had a different opinion. News of the Penza case reached St. Petersburg, and the FSB kidnapped me, adding me to their list of terrorists and extremists. 

— So, did it come as a real shock when you were kidnapped and detained?

— Both yes and no. When the case began to unfold in Penza, we naturally received information that something bizarre was happening there and that people were disappearing. However, we assumed it would be confined to the Penza region. As I was returning to Russia from vacation in Kyiv, I felt a sense of inner calm, knowing that nothing could happen to me. I knew there was no reason to prosecute me because I hadn’t broken any laws. Therefore, I knew nothing could threaten me.

Of course, this was nonsense. I should have understood that it doesn’t work that way in Russia and that I could still be prosecuted even if I hadn’t broken any laws.

Given my life experience, I should have known better than to return to Russia, knowing that the FSB could come after me. At the slightest suspicion or news of young people disappearing in Penza, I should have left the country. Fortunately, my acquaintances who remained in Russia began to leave upon hearing that I had disappeared. They all did the right thing, but I did not.

— While your case was ongoing and you were in prison, how much support and solidarity did you receive from those who remained free? How important is that, anyway?

— It was very helpful. Not in the sense that I would have received a longer sentence without it. I think that, at that moment, if I had negotiated with the FSB, they would have kept most of their promises. They offered me a deal where I would serve three to three and a half years and then be released. I think that at that time it was realistic. Compared to the seven years I received, the difference is significant. Initially, they asked for nine years out of a possible ten, which was absurd because the case was legally untenable and involved a first-time offender with no aggravating circumstances. 

Support and solidarity helped me a great deal, both psychologically and financially.

Money is very important in criminal cases in Russia. It affects detention conditions, parcel delivery, and access to information through a lawyer.

All of these things are very expensive. Money also helps expose the criminal case itself by funding expert examinations and motivating the lawyer. In short, hype attracts money, and money helps tremendously.

Even without public support, I don’t think I would have given up and agreed to the authorities’ terms. In hindsight, I realize that support didn’t dictate my actions. I made those decisions long before anyone expressed interest in our case.

— You were in prison when Russia invaded Ukraine. How did you react? For all of us, it was shocking. Even though we had seen the news and preparations, it was hard to believe that it would actually happen. 

— It was a shock to me, too — so much so that I couldn’t believe it for a long time. On February 24, I was taken out of solitary confinement for a court hearing regarding one of my cases. The head of the unit, Shanashylich, escorted me. He is an odd fellow; it’s never clear whether he’s joking or serious. Shortly before the full-scale invasion, I spent one day outside the detention center. While I was there, I overheard someone on TV say, “The US warns that Russia will attack Ukraine! They’ve completely lost their minds!” I then thought that if the U.S. was really warning about this, then they must have lost their minds and it must be a propaganda ploy.

At 9 a.m., Shanashylich came for me in the punishment isolation cell and started telling me, “It’s all over. Missiles on Kyiv. That’s it.”

I listened to him, but thought: “Shanasylch must have lost his mind. What is he talking about?” He continued: “I’m serious. Fifteen kilometers. They’re already near Kyiv. We're going to overtake everything now.” I thought, “What kind of nonsense is this? What is he talking about? Why is he trying to deceive me?”

I thought he must have thought I was an idiot. When my court hearing began, my lawyer asked for five minutes to talk to me. He also told me, in a different register, that there were rockets in Kyiv that day. I knew my lawyer wasn’t lying to me. However, I still didn’t understand what was going on, but the trial continued, and it took me another two weeks to realize what was happening. It was so out of sync with my worldview at the time. 

Then, I realized what was going on. The cops started provoking me with remarks about “discrediting” and how you can’t call the war by its name. They asked me dangerous questions in front of the video recorder, trying to get me to say something incriminating. But after spending four years in prison, I was ready for that.

Had I been more impulsive, I would have faced additional criminal charges for discrediting the war. 

— How did those around you react when the war began? What about the guards and other prisoners?

— It varied. Overall, the prisoners reacted rather passively. But, honestly, I had very little contact with them. For most of my sentence, I was held under strict conditions in solitary confinement, often alone or with one other person. Therefore, I can’t say anything about the mood of the general prisoner population. 

However, I can tell you about the guards. Some of the guards, such as Shanashylich, reacted euphorically to the initial news. Those who were sadomasochistic had orgasms until they were exhausted. Had they had the strength, they would have continued until this day. In particular, on the day he told me all this, Shanashylich confidently announced that it would all be over in three days. I took his words seriously at the time. He was my most prolific source of information, if not my only one. But three days passed, then a week, and I had another court hearing. Shanasylich was escorting me again. I asked, “Well, what’s going on? Three days have already passed.” He replied, “We’ll finish everything in two weeks.” I believed him again. Two weeks passed, then three. When I met with him again, I said, “Shanaashylich, what’s going on? It’s been two weeks already.” “Two more months, and we’ll be done,” he replied. After those two months passed, he became despondent and we stopped talking about it. 

For many, the joy faded quickly. One security guard’s brother was serving in the military near the Ukrainian border at that time, and artillery shells were being fired in the area.

The guard spoke about it in a rather detached way, saying that he had called his brother, who was there without socks, and that his mother had sent him 200 pairs of socks, and that they were sleeping on oilcloth in the mud, and that another shell had landed, and that he still had two months left to serve. 

There were also guards who reacted to the start of the war much like I did, first with disbelief, followed by shock at what was happening. Of course, they kept quiet. They remained in a state of quiet shock and refrained from discussing it with anyone. 

— The war did not end after two or six months. At some point, the Russian army started recruiting prisoners. Did they come to your prison and try to recruit your fellow prisoners? Did you see this happen? How did the other prisoners react? How willing were they to go to war?

— When private military companies started recruiting prisoners, I was sitting in the basement. At the time, there was a rule that terrorists, rapists, and members of the most marginalized prison groups were not to be brought to the recruitment meeting. So, I didn’t participate at that time.

Then, people from the Ministry of Defense arrived, and I wasn’t invited at first either. It was only later, after I was granted a more lenient regime, that I began attending the general assemblies. There, fat men in green uniforms talked about rosy prospects: “You’ll get a million. Everything will be fine. In six months, you’ll be free.”

The prisoners reacted differently. Some people changed their views over time. Those who initially didn’t want to go would later leave quietly, while those who initially wanted to go would change their minds later on. Some changed their minds too late, after signing the contract. Of course, it was too late to help them. Although there is always a way out of any situation, these people did not want to take any serious steps. 

— You say the prisoners could change their minds and make certain decisions. But how much did they actually understand what they were agreeing to?

— Everyone perceived what the recruiters said as lies. In my presence, a Ministry of Defense recruiter said the following about the casualties: “Out of the 600 who left for the war, only one died, and that was because he was a fool.” Everyone I discussed this with thought it was a lie. This is particularly suspect because, during the last eight months of my sentence when I was permitted to be in the common areas, there were already many “runaways” among the prisoners. They were deserters who had been charged with disobeying orders or leaving the combat zone. They either failed to return from leave or paid guides in the combat zone to help them escape. 

In other words, those who fled were directly involved in military actions. They knew everything perfectly well and could tell us about it. They were conscripts and contract soldiers, including those who enlisted before the large-scale invasion.

They participated in the war for many months, causing a great deal of trouble. Yet at some point, they decided to leave. They discussed everything that was happening there.

However, they didn’t talk about how their actions had caused damage. Instead, they talked about how they had suffered. They described how difficult the conditions were and how people were killed. One of them described a situation in which only five out of ninety people survived. Afterwards, a shell hit, killing three of the remaining five people immediately. One of them ended up in the hospital, while another ran away and ended up in prison. 

These stories did not stop the prisoners from recruiting or the deserters returning to the war. After a while, news came that some of them had become Cargo 200 [editor’s note: a military code word in Russia referring to the transportation of military fatalities], but no such news came about the others. Still, such news was quite common.

— Did the guards ever sign a contract and join the military? After all, it’s a lot of money.

— There was one guard, but he didn’t join the assault troops. Since he had connections, he managed to become a recruiter instead. In any case, most of the security guards were either more sensible or more cowardly, so they didn’t go. In fact, they were very happy to be exempt from mobilization. One guard said, “I wanted to quit my job, as I no longer wanted this pension, for which I had to work four more years. But then all of this started, and I decided I’ll work a little longer.” They heard that a guard they knew quit and was immediately handed a draft notice. 

— Why did some prisoners go to war, while others did not? Was their primary objective to achieve freedom, or were they driven by boredom, a desire for an active life, or ideological beliefs?

— As for those who did not participate in the war before becoming prisoners, I would not say that they were influenced by propaganda. Some believed the propaganda and were angry, but they were people who most likely would not have gone there on their own, so they did not go. Basically, those who went had no particular feelings toward Ukraine or Ukrainians. They went for their own personal reasons. Some really wanted movement, action, and meaning in their lives. Prisoners are, of course, deeply dissatisfied with their lives and may have wanted change or to be regarded as heroes.

Some people just want to avoid discomfort. It’s absurd to think that going straight from prison to war is an escape from that discomfort.

However, this is not a matter of rational calculation. These people simply want to escape their current situation, no matter the cost. They don’t think about what will happen next because they are uncomfortable now and want a change. 

Those who flee war do so to escape their own discomfort. At least, that is what I have heard from them. I didn’t see any of them regret their actions in the war. 

Of course, I also met people who didn’t view the situation purely from a self-interest perspective. Some took a clear moral stance on the war itself, while others took a clear political stance on what was happening in the country as a whole. The fact that such people exist makes me happy and helps me to maintain my faith in humanity. 

— ​​You spent seven years in prison, beginning your sentence during a relatively peaceful time in Russia. Although you were deported, you continued reading the news and communicating with others. How has Russia changed in the meantime?

— Yes, those were relatively peaceful times. To be honest, the changes that have taken place in Russia over the years have completely demoralized me. This is particularly because of my own interests. I realized that, with each passing year, my status as a political prisoner was fading. Once, I refused to do something that was “expected” of me. They took me to the duty unit, where they threatened me, saying that times had changed and that I could face dire consequences, even death. I told them there was no point in their ranting and that they should just get on with it. At that point, I accepted “death” as a likely and acceptable outcome.

I understood that the issue of political prisoners was no longer significant to the public because there were much bigger problems.

There were now many more political prisoners, and their issues seemed minor compared to the larger problems at hand. 

— In other words, in just a few years, you’ve gone from feeling that you’re not doing anything illegal and that nothing can happen to you to feeling that you’re not doing anything illegal but could still be killed.

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— Yes, you could probably call it growing up. There are many places in the world where you can do nothing and still get killed. Russia is becoming one of them.

— Is there anything else you would like to add for our readers?

— I approached my sentence as a research project, studying people and myself for seven years. I started to think differently about many things related to people. In a sense, I feel sorry for them.

The longer I was there, the sorrier I felt. Not only in connection with the events in Ukraine, but in general.

From the first weeks and months in prison, I felt increasingly sorry for people. I felt sorry for what was happening to them and how trapped they seemed. From the outside, it seems as if they always have a way out. This trap seems abstract, like a figment of the imagination. It seems as if there is no cage. Yet, people still bang against invisible walls, wanting to break free. In reality, they are still in the cage, which carries them somewhere. 

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