Friends of international journalists came to my rescue when I was targeted by the Russian authorities. My only ”crime” was practicing journalism and having connections with journalists globally. Despite my being unjustly labeled a threat, their support shielded me.
Over the years, I’ve survived threats and intimidation. These threats took various forms: starting from locally distributed printing to house-made fliers labeling me as an ”enemy of the state and people” to newspaper articles advocating for my relocation.
The article was disseminated in the area where I lived, calling for ”sending Russian friends of Chechens to remote areas where white bears live”.
I was also subjected to a unique threat from the Russian Federation as a state, protesting my modest participation in events held by the OSCE, the Organization for Cooperation and Security in Europe. It was absurd but it happened: the entire delegation walked out if I got my three minutes to speak. It did not happen just once. It happened three times, year after year.
Even my decision to quit my university career and journalism with a focus on architectural heritage in 2003 was the result of a threat. This choice was prompted by a harrowing incident with an encounter with an armed man who refused to pay a fee on the tram in Nizhny Novgorod.
It was not even the surreal scuffle that ensued which scared me, but what followed the passengers’ success in disarming the man. I found myself holding his gun, which I managed to snatch when he dropped it. In front of me stood another man who had not tried to help. With a smile, he requested, ”Please submit the gun to me,” assuring me of his colleague’s legal permit to carry a firearm. He showed me a document confirming his ties with Russia’s law enforcement agencies.
The next morning, I woke up voiceless, experiencing vocal cord paralysis induced by stress. When I got my voice back, I went to work with the Russian-Chechen Information Agency, where I was employed until its ban in 2007 as an “extremist” organization.
Furthermore, the threats and intimidation persisted. My life took a sudden turn in March 2008, while I was in Finland. As I prepared to board a train back to Russia, I received a phone call from a journalist in Nizhny Novgorod, who said:
“If you manage to postpone coming back, it would be for your safety and the benefit of your colleagues at the Russian-Chechen Information Agency. But if you decide to return, it would be you who was doomed to be targeted first.”
I asked him in full bewilderment, why would it be me?
“Because the authorities understand that all the international connections are going via you. If you are silenced, they will target others one after another. In silence.”
Immediately, I had to make a tough decision to “postpone” my return to Russia, thanks to the solidarity of my colleagues in Nizhny Novgorod city.
After that decision, I received support from my Finnish colleagues and was even rescued by them. Solidarity remains a powerful way to assist those of our colleagues who are deprived of liberties, freedoms, and chances to express their views.
Back in 2011, it was the Finnish authorities that arranged my safe return to Finland although I happened to be a paperless person due to a petty crime committed by some enigmatic thief with a profound interest in the books in Russian. I was on the way to the International Festival of Journalism in Perugia when my passport with its Finnish residence permit was stolen from a zipped section of my bag together with a book in Russian. The purse and the money were left intact. This indicates to me that it was not a thief.
When you are an exiled journalist, the challenges are enormous: psychological, family separation, and the effort to adapt to a new country while continuing a career. The situation is even worse if you have children. When I had to stay in Finland, my daughter got her Finnish visa, which permitted us to meet, at least, once a year. But then COVID and war became a wall severing us from each other.
Once again, it was the journalist’s solidarity that helped us meet in late autumn 2022. I was invited to Italy to take part in a high-level journalist event. Suddenly, the organizers asked me a question which could be taken as a polite gesture.
The question was simple, “How is your family?” My answer was simple, “I can not see them. First, it was due to COVID restrictions. Now it is due to a new level of the war in Ukraine.” Then an email came.
“Would you like us to bring your daughter to Italy so that you can meet?” One of the happiest days. My Italian colleagues brought my daughter to Italy, where I finally met her again.
I remember everyone who has been by my side during these years. Both those who reacted to my challenges or decided to act on the reports they got from me on the problems of my colleagues in Belarus, Russia, Ukraine, Latvia, Kazakhstan, or Kyrgyzstan.
Kirsti Era, a Finnish friend, calls herself “a peace movement veteran”. She is a dedicated translator of those whose voices would otherwise not be heard so broadly. For a long time, she translated some of my articles from Russian to Finnish. Her support played a crucial role in establishing my presence in the Finnish media, for which I am grateful. Now she translates the letters from prison sent by Ilya Yashin.
It was thanks to this wide network that I managed to stay in contact with my colleagues who had been supporting me. In 2015 the city of Naples granted me their Eleonora Pimentel Fonseca award. Since then we have kept in regular contact and I know that there will be a prompt reaction to any message about a journalist in trouble.
The same refers to the journalists who presented me with the most valuable award I have ever received – a meeting with my daughter – who have since then kept communicating with all the journalists who were brought to Bari, Italy, from Ukraine, Russia, Palestine, Syria, and several countries in Africa.
Journalisti is publishing articles by international students from Haaga-Helia to mark the 100th anniversary of Journalisti.
