Health remains a ‘second tier’ priority in Russia and the quality of healthcare in society as a whole leaves much to be desired, so you can imagine how much worse it is in the camps. Personally, I was lucky on the two occasions when I needed healthcare. The first time I went under the knife, I had a military surgeon with a steady hand. The second time, when I needed to be sewn up after I was stabbed, by good luck the man who was listed as a dentist turned out to be a facial surgeon and now, thanks to him, the scar on my face is not noticeable. But my experience is the exception. More typical is the experience of a prisoner I knew who was viciously beaten. He was taken to a medical unit, which was just the other side of the fence from our hut, so in the evening I shouted through the barbed wire to ask how he was. Someone shouted back that he was not doing well and would probably die. The paramedics had applied first aid, but no one did anything else for him and now he was lying on his back, unconscious. I told the administration that if the man died, I wouldn’t keep silent about it. An hour later, a doctor came from town. The telephone in the medical unit was not working, so the whole camp watched as the doctor had to run first to the control room and then wait for an ambulance to move him. We held our breath. He had a ruptured spleen and by the time he was put on the operating table he had lost more than two litres of blood from internal bleeding, but the prisoner was saved.
Today’s gulag is survivable, although a person’s place in the world of the camps depends on the individual. You mustn’t allow yourself to be afraid. The result of doing that is a terrible life, and I am not exaggerating when I say that it can seem a fate worse than death. As for death, people do die inside, although not in alarming numbers.
The camps have their advantages over prison. You get to see the sun and you receive visits. You can have a family visit four times a year, each time for three days, and you spend it in a room that feels a bit like a provincial hotel. In prison, the only visits are by intercom, through glass and bars. In the camps, you get to see your mother, your wife or your daughter, and you can touch them, kiss them, hug them. Such bliss. The time flies by in an instant.
On the other hand, prison can destroy families. Only one in 20 prisoners get regular visits. Wives leave their husbands; children forget their parents. Within five years, most people have lost their support network. Outside the gates is a desert awaiting them, which is why returns are so common. Whoever created and perpetuated this system – their reasons are beyond me. Perhaps it’s not done out of malice, simply through inertia, but the consequences are awful. A whole host of discarded people. Millions of families and lives destroyed. There needs to be a humane alternative that keeps hope alive. Everyone knows this, yet nothing changes.
For those inside the camps, there is the problem of the opposite sex. It is hardest for young prisoners aged between 18 and 35, especially those who have come from a camp for minors and have no real experience of a regular sex life. Those who are older don’t suffer quite as much from its absence, possibly because of the stressful situation they are in. Inside, you can talk about these things quite calmly. Family is another matter. Family issues are a minefield that you tread on at your peril; talking about them can unleash the cruellest thoughts, depression, even suicide.
By and large, I didn’t suffer from obsessive thoughts and memories or the sort of depression that afflicted many other prisoners. I can remember a few nights, though, when I couldn’t sleep. This was especially true in the first year of my imprisonment when radio and TV channels were talking every day about my company being wrecked. All the lies and propaganda weighed on me. I had techniques to keep my mind under control. For example, I would start mentally writing a letter or building a house. I took pleasure in slowly ‘furnishing’ the room with imaginary furniture and appliances. I discovered that the best way to release the tension was by putting my thoughts on paper. I started writing theoretical speeches and letters and complaints. None of it was for public consumption. When you’re getting things off your chest, it isn’t for other people to read. And when you reread it much later, the writing may not be very good or coherent, but I have got into the habit of putting my thoughts on paper and I’ve become quite proficient at it. As a schoolkid who didn’t like writing and usually asked my favourite girl friends to write my essays for me, this is an achievement.
