Yesterday I went to the police station. Again.
Many of you will know I have had ongoing run ins here with the local government officals. I think it must be my convict origins. I don't take kindly to being told what to do, especially when you decide to lock me in a room and yell at me for half an hour about how my organisation and I are "bad" because we have failed to respect the culture and values of Siberia.
That really ticked me off.
I am "bad" because I choose to follow the laws of Siberia. It might also be that I have an excellent lawyer who is feared and respected by all. This is because he is able to distinguish between that which is politics and that which is the law. In his words, "the law is our friend, we should use it."
I am seeing more and more that the law is my friend. It is the enemy of those who like to see themselves as being the law or above the law. In my situation, I am not sure who is going to win, but it has been an interesting experience, although not without some nervous moments. Being arrested is not something I want to make a habit of.
Because of my situation, I have spent quite a few hours at the police station talking with my lawyer. She is a quiet, considered lady in her mid forties or early fifties I would guess. She was educated here in Siberia and works as the second partner in probably the most respected law firm in the country. Most of her extended family have immigrated. Her husband works in London and they have two older children studying there. She is here alone with her youngest daughter. It cannot be an easy task juggling the demands of being a single parent and having to prevent people like myself from being arrested!
We often talk about mundane issues like the weather or my travels to Dubai. Most times we say nothing, fearing that our conversations can be overheard and used against us by the many people loitering around the station, whose job it is to collect information...
But sometimes we talk about what it's like to be a lawyer. Not only a lawyer but a female lawyer in a context where where the evidence of a woman is only worth half of that of a man.
Justice in this country is certainly not always pleasant or even just.
Yesterday we spent a good two hours, sitting on an old wooden bench, waiting for a judge to come and determine my fate. It was a matter of protocol as the arresting officer had already withdrawn the charge.
While we sat on the wooden bench, we watched together as groups of men and women were bought to the police.
First there was a group of South Siberians, who since the separation of the southern part of the country are now consider to be illegal immigrants. They are treated worse than animals. They are rounded up like dogs. They sat or crouched on the dusty ground under the intense heat of the midday sun. The fear in their eyes said it all. They have no hope if they go home and little hope if they stay here. They are arrested and then deported. But still they return and continue to return. Life here in this city offers more than their life back home. That they would be subject to such a life, with little to hope for, leaves me incredibly sad. Many have turned to alcohol to deal with the pain and that in turn leads them to more trouble. It is a vicious cycle.
Then a young Ethiopian man, wearing a Manchester United shirt, was hauled in by a rather portly looking policeman. The young man is cocky and still sports a smile as he is led, in handcuffs, before the judge. The lawyer tells me he has been charged with the possession of illicit drugs. Apparently the fine is 20,000 local currency ($4,000 USD) or several years in prision. I wonder if his family and friends are able to raise such funds? He is not so cocky when he is led away to a prison cell following the decision of the judge.
Then a group of 5-10 men and a similar number of women are bought into the station on a pick-up truck. Some of them have suitcases and other luggage. The men are wearing thick winter coats and sweatshirts which makes little sense to me in the intense 40 degree heat. The lawyer tells me they are Libyan. They have been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct. The penalty for their crime is 40 lashes. I cannot begin to fathom that kind of punishment, when the first of the men appear from the room that serves as a court.
I am expecting that he will be led away to a cell to await his punishment at a later date. Instead, I am shocked to see the man standing spreadeagled, with his back to me, against the wall of the building directly opposite me. A youthful and muscular policeman suddenly appears and begins to meter out the punishment with what looks to be a hollow plastic pipe.
Each of the men at follow receive 25 lashes each. The lawyer tells me that either they have some "friends" or the judge has gone easy on them. The police evenly distributes the lashes between the neck, the back, the buttocks and below the knees. I understand now why the men are wearing thick heavy jackets. One of the beatings is stopped half way, because the man being punished had cleverly put his wallet in his back pocket. Not so clever, because when the policeman discovers this he restarts his count at one and again dishes out the full punishment...
Two of the men are taken inside for their punishment. Again, the lawyer says that someone has intervened on their behalf. In a culture that avoids loss of face at all costs, being beaten in the public domain is the ultimate punishment.
The women are sent inside a room. I ask the lawyer if they will be spared the punishment. She says no. I do not see what happens to them, but we hear the dull thud of the plastic pipe echo through the mid day stillness, Even the women are not spared.
I ask the lawyer if the punishment will have any affect on the men and the women? She laughs."They will get drunk again tonight". I suspect she is right.
I am finally called before the judge. My appearance lasts less than 30 seconds.The policeman withdraws the charge. There are smiles and handshakes all round. The arresting officer is my new best friend.
Sitting on that wooden bench, I've had plenty of time to think about justice. I am thankful for a good lawyer who has done most of the legwork and the talking to get the charges against me dropped. I know how much we pay her/them and know it is well beyond what most Siberians could ever afford.
When I arrived in this country I was told by a contact to get myself a good lawyer, as they're all mother*******. Turns out he was probably right.
Justice in this country, and many others, is the privilege of the wealthy and the educated. It is not always whether you are innocent or guilty but whether you know the right people and whether you can afford a good lawyer. Being educated and knowing your rights also helps.
If my lawyer had been willing or able to intervene on behalf of the Ethiopian, the South Siberians or the Libyans, their punishment could have been reduced, or even prevented. Such is the world we live.
I am told I no longer need to return to the police station. As much as I will not miss spending countless hours waiting for police to come and go, watching them smoking cigarettes at their desks in between shuffling piles of paper and yelling at helpless South Siberians, it has been good to have a sobering reminder of how privileged and fortunate I am as a westerner living in this country compared to the experiences of most other people who are visitors (legally or otherwise).
I suspect that in my case, I have won the battle but may ultimately lose the war. Let's see just how good my lawyer is and whether she/they are able to deal with those that consider themselves to be the law or above the law. It's going to be an interesting story either way.
