Ilya Shakursky, a defendant in the Network case, shared in his letter how Paul Whelan found out about the exchange while in prison and how the other inmates said their goodbyes. Source: VETER publication.
On August 1, an unprecedented prisoner exchange took place, involving seven countries and resulting in the release of 26 individuals. Evidence of Russia’s preparation for an imminent exchange with the West began to emerge in mid-July. The deal had been in the works for over six months, involving the White House, the U.S. State Department, and the CIA, and was conducted under strict secrecy.
Yet signs of the forthcoming exchange still surfaced. First, Wall Street Journal reporter Evan Gershkovich, who had spent nearly a year and a half in Lefortovo detention center awaiting trial, was sentenced to 16 years in just three court sessions. Shortly thereafter, journalist Alsu Kurmasheva received a 6.5-year sentence for “spreading fake news” about the Russian army, and in Belarus, German citizen Rico Krieger was sentenced to death on terrorism charges. All three names had been mentioned in connection with potential prisoner exchanges between Russia and the West.
Then, several well-known Russian opposition figures suddenly disappeared from detention centers and prisons. Around the same time, Paul Whelan disappeared from the Mordovian penal colony IK-17. As Ilya Shakursky, sentenced to 16 years in the Network case, wrote in his letter, he was among the first to hear from Whelan himself that preparations for his exchange were underway. On the day Whelan was transferred to Moscow, the colony’s phone lines were disconnected for a few days to prevent any news of Whelan’s sudden absence from spreading outside.
When the exchange of political prisoners occurred and news broke about those who had been freed, one inmate remarked after watching the TV news:
“Could it be that the times of dissidents have returned?”
Shakursky kept a diary documenting those key days, including how the prisoners bid farewell to the American and how they reacted to the news of the exchange.
July 21, 2024
Morning. I sit by the window of the production workshop, looking at the tops of the trees that partially cover the roof of the local school beyond the fence. From the upper floors of the classrooms, the students can see our camp. Do they ever look in our direction, wonder what life here is like, and who lives behind these walls?
I gaze at the school and imagine its hallways and classrooms. I see kids running around, girls rehearsing dances. I can almost smell the scent of freshly baked goods from the cafeteria and hear the sound of chalk on the blackboard.
My grandmother used to tell me that one day I’d cherish these kinds of memories and long to return to such moments with all my heart. She was, as always, right. I reminisce, filled with nostalgia. I want to go back.
But for now, I sip strong instant coffee and hum a song by Shevchuk:
I sit by the window,
Oh, I look at the road,
Oh, I quietly pray to God,
But when will she arrive?
And to see from there,
My long-awaited you,
Only this miracle,
Will save me, I believe.
The new workday begins in the industrial zone. Today’s task is to cut fabric for Orion work uniforms. Paul Whelan walks past me in his black robe with stripes. We exchange greetings. I offer him some coffee and a “Yashkino Potato” candy.
Paul is in no mood to head to his worksite. The work bores him and makes him restless. We share our frustrations and discontent with each other. Sometimes, a mutual understanding, the chance to vent, curse, and laugh together lifts the spirit better than the strongest coffee.
Well, it’s time to get to work.
Paul Whelan at a hearing on extending his detention at the Lefortovo District Court in Moscow, February 22, 2019. Photo: Sergei Ilnitsky / EPA-EFE
July 23, 2024
We’re getting ready to head to the cafeteria for lunch.
— “Hey, Sanya, what’s on the menu?”
— “Pasta with sausage and beet soup.”
— “The usual pasta?”
— “Nah, today’s passable, but the sausages aren’t great.”
We shuffle toward the queue stretching from the serving area to the cafeteria porch.
— “Why do we even ask what’s for lunch if we’re going anyway?”
— “Maybe it’s just our way of convincing ourselves we still have a choice?”
Paul steps out of the office with a beaming smile and quickly calls me and Marian over. A bit nervous and carefully picking his Russian words, he tells us, among the first, that colony staff had summoned him and urgently demanded he write a clemency request.
— “It’s an exchange!” I exclaimed, knowing clemency is the initial step in such a process.
— “Yes,” Paul nodded, crossing his fingers.
Throughout 2024, they had repeatedly hinted to Paul that efforts to bring him home were actively underway, although occasional unforeseen obstacles arose. Back in February, Paul already knew about plans for a major exchange involving more than two countries, one that would likely free not just foreign nationals. But even so, it felt too unreal to believe.
From June 23 onward, as we awaited this truly historic event in our small high-security camp in Mordovia, there was a sense of anticipation.
July 24, 2024
In the evening, Marian, Paul, and I shared green tea and a chocolate bar. We said our goodbyes, convinced that Paul could be summoned for transfer at any moment, leaving us no time to see him again. We speculated about possible scenarios: the route, the exchange lists, how long he’d be held in Moscow, who he might meet, and what he’d do once he got home. Paul seemed in a daze. Early release is always a joyous and nerve-wracking event, bringing euphoria at the thought of finally going home.
When the Tajik guys saw Paul in our barracks, they invited him to join them for dinner, offered him tea or coffee, asked how he was doing, and exchanged a few phrases in Tajik, laughing. They asked him again when he was heading home. With a sly smile, Paul gave his practiced response: “Soon.” None of them knew how close that “soon” really was.
July 26, 2024
The camp phones were shut off. Staff didn’t explain much, only vaguely citing “technical issues.” The men cursed and grumbled: “No one’s expecting Prigozhin anymore—why shut them off now?”
July 27, 2024
The morning roll call began. We lined up in rows of five, were counted off by our ID cards, and had our names called. A group of Mordovia penal colony officials walked into the administrative building. Everyone turned to whisper about the possible reasons for such an early visit.
At morning exercise, Paul mentioned he was supposed to be sent to Moscow in the coming days and would fly home afterward, though it seemed even he didn’t fully believe his own words. He was deeply worried that something might go wrong.
A staff officer stepped out onto the administrative building’s porch.
— “Whelan!” he yelled across the yard.
The entire camp froze in curiosity. Paul turned around.
— “Pack your things for transfer!”
Those words, delivered by a staff member, must have been the sweetest Paul had heard in his nearly seven years in Russian custody. Essentially, they were telling him he’d be freed.
Paul quickly headed to his barracks in Unit 1. Within minutes, he reappeared in a tank top instead of his ID-tagged shirt, signaling to everyone that internal rules no longer applied to him. He called over his friend—a young guy from Dagestan—to help pack his things and inherit his belongings: duffel bags and food boxes.
The roll call ended, and we all headed to the work zone. A few hours later, Paul Whelan was taken out of the colony. Two other U.S. citizens and several Russian political prisoners remained at the IK-17 camp.
July 28, 2024
I woke to the loud noise of something flying over the barracks. The windows were open, and even half-asleep, I could hear it approaching. It was around 5 a.m. Many others were already up and peering outside. It seemed everyone understood what was happening, but no one wanted to believe it.
The war had flown over the camp.
Two loud drones disappeared beyond the horizon that early morning, sparking intense debates and speculation during our morning exercise:
— “What’s the range? Why so low? Where were they coming from, and where were they headed? How are they destroyed?”
The topic drew genuine curiosity—this wasn’t just a distant event on TV anymore but something right over our heads, a thousand kilometers from the frontlines.
Later that evening, the news reported that two drones had been shot down in the Nizhny Novgorod region. Nobody doubted it was them.
Through the camp’s loudspeakers, a male voice encouraged inmates to “start anew, defend the motherland, and become heroes.” The new legislation offered pardons, hefty payments, and numerous benefits to prisoners willing to enlist.
“Victory will be ours,” the loudspeakers proclaimed triumphantly.
Above the administrative building, tricolor flags and red banners fluttered. Soviet military songs blared at full volume, as if from an old gramophone.
I stared at the crimson sunset disappearing behind the clouds, rays of sunlight piercing through the gaps in the distance. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and hearing. I couldn’t believe I was here.
July 29, 2024
By morning, the camp’s phone service had finally been restored. Everyone rushed to call their families, reassuring them: “Everything’s fine. No idea, they said it was a technical issue.” I called home, too.
Mom told me that political prisoners were being transferred to Moscow. She was especially worried. Names like Oleg Orlov, Lilia Chanysheva, Ksenia Fedina, and Sasha Skochilenko came up, along with Kevin Leak, whose camp had also lost phone service. Hearing those names made me smile. Could Paul have been right? Could Russian political prisoners really be joining the exchange?
I shared the news that Paul had left, not disappeared, but gone for the swap. Mom understood, feeling both relieved and a little wistful, wishing I could have “disappeared” with him.
May 30, 2024
Mom kept me updated on the news. Many political prisoners were being transported to Moscow, including Ilya Yashin and Vladimir Kara-Murza. Even Belarusian president Alexander Lukashenko pardoned the German citizen Rico Krieger, previously sentenced to death.
Everyone was talking about the potential swap, though most remained skeptical.
I remembered April 2021. Returning to the solitary confinement cell after a video conference with the Supreme Court in Moscow. The hearing of our cassation appeals dragged on for hours.
Our lawyers gave impassioned, well-reasoned speeches, trying to unravel the absurdity of our case. The defendants, including me, spoke sparingly. The impassive judges upheld the sentences.
The last thread of hope we had clung to vanished. A dead end stretching 16 years.
August 2024
A typical Thursday morning. Exercise, roll call, work at the industrial zone, lunch…
Everything is scheduled. It was the same yesterday; it will be the same tomorrow. It has been this way for years. Machines operating in an endless repetitive cycle inevitably wear out. The same goes for people: subjected to daily monotony, they eventually lose motivation, grow tired, and break. <…>
We learned about the completed exchange from the news on Ren-TV. The footage showed the president welcoming GRU officers, hackers, agents, and their children stepping off the plane. The clips repeated over and over.
“Ten people, heroes and patriots, ‘returned home,'” the screen proclaimed. The event was framed as a political victory for the presidents of Belarus and Russia.
Viewers were left with many questions:
“Who exactly did Krasikov kill?”
“Why were all of them exchanged for just one Paul?”
Later, reports emerged on television about foreigners, agents, traitors, and defectors released from Russian prisons, but no one could quite grasp the scale of the exchange. Rumors and speculation spread. That evening, my mom read out to me, over the payphone, a list of 16 political prisoners and foreign citizens who had been freed.
No one in the camp could understand why Germany and the United States were handed Russian nationals, and in such large numbers. “Were they really political prisoners?”
At roll call, a man approached me with a genuinely puzzled question:
“Ilya, could it be that the times of dissidents have returned?”
For the first time, the concept of modern political prisoners began to take root in the minds of many Russians, including those in captivity. Previously, people likely saw us as impostors, criminals trying to stand out under a self-justifying veneer.
But this exchange became a symbolic event that openly confirmed the existence of people in this country imprisoned for their beliefs and political actions. And they weren’t just 16 individuals; they numbered in the thousands, scattered across the map of Russian camps.
History repeats itself. Hope does not die.
In the days that followed, everyone eagerly awaited seeing Paul—the very same foreigner who once lived in the neighboring barracks and was now flying across the ocean back home—on television. Almost the entire unit gathered in front of the screen.
The show 60 Minutes aired. Evan Gershkovich and Paul Whelan stepped off the plane. Paul shook hands with U.S. President Joseph Biden and embraced Kamala Harris. They were talking and laughing about something.
Someone in the room joked:
“So, does this mean we’re all just one handshake away from knowing the American president?”
Everyone burst out laughing.
Comments started flying:
“Oh, now Paul’s definitely going to tell them all about our ‘Seventeen’ here.”
“He’s for sure going to make a Hollywood movie about us—spies and criminals.”
On the screen, Paul embraced his wife. He had returned home. Many of us felt like we were part of something bigger, part of history.
Paul wrote a lot, observed everything, and studied the people here. Who knows, maybe someone’s story will really surface someday on Netflix.
The camp was buzzing with the excitement of being back in the global news. For a few days, heated discussions and arguments followed the event. A young Dagestani man treated us to leftover Halls candies Paul had left behind.
Then, everything returned to the same routine schedule, the same boredom. Some events are inevitably overshadowed by the anticipation of others.
Summer was drawing to a close. One of my friends met me at the window of the workshop, holding a mug of strong instant coffee, and asked:
“Don’t you feel like the ship has disappeared beyond the horizon?”
I replied, “I try to think that out there, beyond the horizon, they still remember that we’re here.”
This morning, the school beyond the camp walls is empty. The children are on vacation. For us, another day begins.
Morning. Roll call. Industrial zone. Lunch…
Prepared by Sasha Pankratov.