Dangerous Protests

After Alexei Navalny returned to Russia in January 2021, protests erupted nationwide. In Tula, covering these protests meant working under pressure and facing the constant threat of detention.

Tula, January 2021

On January 17, 2021, Alexei Navalny — Russia’s most prominent political opponent of President Vladimir Putin — returned to Russia. He had been recovering in Germany for several months after being poisoned with a military-grade nerve agent. He was detained at passport control immediately upon arrival at the airport.

The next day, January 18, Navalny posted a video message urging his supporters to protest on January 23 and demand his release. Demonstrations occurred that day in 198 cities across Russia and in 95 cities abroad. A second wave of protests happened on January 31. Rallies were also held in my hometown of Tula.

The regional government in Tula started warning residents and journalists in advance, discouraging them from participating. City officials refused to approve the rally. According to Russian law, citizens must notify authorities ahead of time about the location, time, theme, and organizers of any public gathering. Officially, this rule exists so public events don’t disrupt city infrastructure. In reality, it allows officials to push protests away from the city center or ban them altogether.

The authorities also enforced COVID restrictions. However, the fear of Navalny was so intense that after his call for protests, the governor of the Tula region, Alexei Dyumin, issued a separate decree. In January 2021, residents of Tula were effectively prohibited from any kind of street activity.

The rally in support of Navalny was therefore likely to be labeled “unauthorized.” Participation involved both everyday and legal risks. By everyday risks, I mean losing a job, being evicted from a student dormitory, or even being expelled from university. The legal risks included administrative fines for taking part in an unauthorized public gathering.

About 150 people attended the protest in Tula on January 23, and roughly the same number of police officers arrived to detain them.

Behind the police line—helmeted, wearing body armor, and carrying batons—a group of FSB officers peeked out from around the corner of a building on Fyodor Smirnov Street. I call them the gebnya—the old slang for the security services. From their hiding spot, they watched what was happening in the Square of Memory for the Victims of Political Repression like generals observing a battlefield. The protesters had chosen the square on purpose. Most opposition gatherings in Tula had taken place there.

People arrived without banners, slogans, or chants. They simply stood in silence, facing the police.

The police stared back.

A snowplow kept circling between the two groups, gradually pushing the protesters apart. It kept going even when the blade started scraping against pavement that had already been cleared. In no winter had the square ever been cleaned so thoroughly.

I was afraid to go to the protest—even as a journalist. But ignoring an event like this in Tula was impossible.

I prepared the essentials that Russian journalists now need before protests: a large badge reading “PRESS,” my official ID, and my passport. I knew none of these might protect me from detention. Still, I hoped many local officials would recognize me by sight. Maybe that would help me avoid arrest—or at least rough treatment.

That was exactly why I decided not to send any of the young women from my newsroom to the rally. Only Yulka came with me. Voluntarily. She had worked with me for just over a year, loved adrenaline, and was sleeping with a married FSB officer. Theoretically, nothing threatened her.

My well-prepared documents proved useful the moment I entered the square, which was already cordoned off by police. The first lieutenant I met immediately found my credentials suspicious.

My courteous smile clearly irritated him as I handed over my documents. He examined my editorial ID in his hands, looked at my press badge, and decided they looked too new to be authentic. To “clarify the situation,” he suggested I come with him.

I immediately understood his task: to prevent me from filming what was happening. There was no reason to detain me, but while we were “sorting things out,” the rally would end. I would see nothing and write nothing.

A traditional Russian police tactic.

Most reporters in Tula had stayed home that day. So the search for the few members of the press who had shown up was very intentional.

I was rescued from this “clarification” by Sergey Yartsev, head of the Tula regional police’s press service. He knew me well from work and asked the lieutenant to leave me alone.

I had met Sergey Yartsev about three years earlier. The reason was a small news item in the accident reports—a crash at the intersection of Lenin Avenue and Zhavoronkova Street, directly across from the Tula police headquarters. It was not the first accident there that month, so the author of the article, my talented journalist Svetlana Khairutdinova, titled it: “Another Accident at the Cursed Intersection in Tula.”

The newsroom phone rang.

“This is Sergey Yartsev calling from the cursed intersection,” I heard on the receiver. 
“Why are you calling us like that?”

Since then, we have worked together.

Once the police lost interest in me, I started working.

Under the constant hum of the snowplow circling the center of the square, a loudspeaker kept repeating its warnings:

“Dear citizens! In accordance with the governor of the Tula region’s decree, public, entertainment, and leisure events are banned in the region until January 28. According to Federal Law No. 54, a public event cannot occur in places where there is a safety risk to participants. A citizen facing administrative proceedings may be detained for up to 48 hours.”

People remained.

Two lines of police officers in helmets and carrying batons moved further into the square. Protesters were taken one by one and escorted onto the buses. Each person being detained was accompanied by two officers.

The impersonal voice continued repeating its warnings.

I filmed everything.

Later, Kremlin propagandists claimed that Navalny’s campaign had mobilized schoolchildren for the protests via TikTok. In Tula, I didn’t see a single schoolchild.

Back in the newsroom, I reviewed the footage once more.

Here, the police are leading away a young man, about twenty-five years old. He tries to free one hand to adjust his glasses, but they won’t let him. Another follows—just over thirty, large and bearded. Three officers escort him, batons ready. Then, two more identical groups appear in a row: two officers and one detainee in each.

Everyone is calm.

As if they are practicing a part in a long-rehearsed ritual whose rules are clear to everyone.

Another shot. Near the bus for detainees, a woman in her fifties stands. She wears a colorful scarf and a knitted hat with a pom-pom. Her small figure almost vanishes among five tall police officers in body armor.

She refuses to get on the bus. She asks why she is being stopped. No one responds.

The same response to every question:

“Citizen, please move forward. Otherwise, we will have to use physical force.”

On January 31, it happened all over again.

“Excuse me, miss, you’re not allowed to take photographs here. Step away from the bus,” I heard an irritated male voice behind me.

I turned around. The man’s face was hidden behind a medical mask. The visor of a black leather cap covered the upper part of his face. Snowflakes rested on the fur collar of his jacket—just like on my knitted hat.

“Sorry, I’m working,” I said, showing my badge: “PRESS. MK in Tula.”

“You’re interfering with police work.”

“Not at all,” I replied. “Inside that bus are Vladimir Dorokhov, the head of the regional branch of the Yabloko party, and Mikhail Shestakov, who leads the Tula election-monitoring movement Golos. I’m covering an important political event. Besides you, me, and that lieutenant over there, no one else is here. I’m not interfering with anyone.”

The man did not introduce himself. But I knew perfectly well who he was.

Vasily Khudyk, the chief of police of the city of Tula.

He stood beside me for a moment while I photographed Dorokhov, who was smiling awkwardly from inside the bus.

“All right. Remove her,” Khudyk finally said and stepped aside.

The junior lieutenant received the order, looked at me, and hesitated.

I understood him. He had a terrible job.

He lifted his hat, rubbed his forehead, and hesitantly moved toward me. His uniform was obviously too large, hanging like it was on a coat rack. The Adam’s apple in his thin neck bobbed nervously as he moved.

I quickly snapped a few more photos.

Time to leave, I thought.

“Angelika! Angelika Vladimirovna! You’re here again!”

Anton Ageev was pushing through the crowd of police officers toward me, waving his arms. The lieutenant immediately stepped back and disappeared.

“Anton Valeryevich, of course I’m here!” I said, genuinely pleased.
“Working. As always. Just like you.”

Today’s battle with the police was canceled.

Anton is the minister of internal policy for the Tula region. Over the years, we shared more than a few cups of tea and ate kilograms of candy and cookies together. But that story comes later.

Right now, it was freezing. My hands were barely functioning. I kept warming them in my pockets one at a time. Normally, I rely on fingerless mittens—hands warm, fingers free. But this time, even they weren’t enough.

“Are you cold?” Anton asked. 
“Do you want to come to our bus? I’ve got tea in a thermos and sandwiches.”

“No, no,” I laughed.
“Today I’m trying to avoid getting into a bus.”

“Are you going to write about the protest?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.

He was dressed, as always, completely unprepared for the weather: a thin leather jacket over a suit, a tie, polished shoes, and a cap that barely covered the top of his head. His ears were red and miserable. Just looking at him made me feel cold.

“I will, Anton,” I sighed.

“Maybe you could show me the text before publication?” he asked cautiously.

“You’re starting again? We already agreed…”

“All right then,” he muttered. “Just don’t forget to mention that the rally was unauthorized, that not many people showed up, and that the police were polite and didn’t beat anyone.”

“Deal,” I said.

That was actually true. At least in Tula.

Dorokhov and Shestakov were taken away on what the police call a “charter” bus—a vehicle used specifically for detainees. I lost track of Shestakov later that evening. Dorokhov, however, was transported to the Privokzalny District Court in Tula. The politician faced charges of violating the rules for participating in a public rally.

“They charged me under Article 20.2, Part 5 of the Administrative Code. It’s the mildest article in the arsenal of the repressive machine,” Vladimir Dorokhov said afterward. “Even though the police report contains false information that my own video recording disproves, the judge refused to admit it as evidence. After that, I refused to participate in this cheap performance and left the hearing. I’ll find out the verdict later. The maximum punishment is a fine of up to 20,000 rubles or 40 hours of community service. My only hope is the European Court of Human Rights.”