"When a person in prison learns that others are speaking out publicly in their defense, it provides significant support": the story of Crimean Tatar journalist Nariman Dzhelyal
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The third volume of the English-language series in the Living the War documentary project, focusing on the Russian occupation of Ukraine, was printed in January 2025.
The volume features interviews with people exploring different aspects of the Russian occupation’s impact, along with photos from the liberated areas and personal accounts from those who have endured this ordeal. Among them is Crimean Tatar journalist and human rights activist Nariman Dzhelyal who was sentenced to 17 years in prison by Russian authorities for his advocacy in occupied Crimea. Ukrainska Pravda shares Nariman’s story, which is featured in the book.
You can order the third volume of Living the War. Under Occupation by following the link.
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Crimea. Prison
Nariman, a Crimean Tatar politician and activist, has remained committed to Crimea as a part of Ukraine. Despite the risks, he championed human rights, called on locals to boycott the elections, and engaged in Ukraine's reintegration programs. His relentless efforts and defiance led to a severe consequence: a 17-year prison sentence in a Russian prison.
My father, who was born in Crimea, was deported to Uzbekistan with his family in 1944 when he was just six years old. My mother was born in exile. In 1989, we returned to our homeland. My entire adult life has been intertwined with Ukraine.
When the Euromaidan began in Kyiv, many Crimean Tatars supported the idea of Ukraine's democratic development and its European orientation. For us, this was fundamental; we believe that only in a democratic European country, where the rule of law prevails, can we truly realize our interests. At that time, the pro-Russian leadership of the Crimean Armed Forces sought to assemble a delegation to appeal to the Russian president, calling for his "protection."
That is why, when the occupation began, we at the Mejlis of the Crimean Tatar people didn't hesitate long. We decided to gather at the Supreme Council of the Autonomous Republic of Crimea to prevent the decisions being made there. We succeeded, although not without clashes. The following day, I arrived at the Mejlis office, where my colleagues and I were already watching footage of the flag replacements on the two main buildings in Crimea—the Government and the Parliament. I believe the Russian special forces were responsible for this. In the first days, there was hope that Ukraine would respond in some way. But as time passed without any response, anxiety grew. People were uncertain about what to do; they demanded clarity and asked whether to leave, stay, accept the situation, or resist. One woman called and asked, "Please don't resist; we want to protect lives." At the same time, others were calling, saying, "Let's do something." Young people approached us, asking for weapons, but we insisted that this was not an option. We began patrolling the streets in areas where the Crimean Tatars lived in close quarters.
We understood that a Russian operation was underway. The first soldiers to appear on the roads and streets of Crimea were those already stationed at Russian military bases in the region. Russian propaganda referred to them as "polite people" because, at first, they didn't harm anyone; they merely demonstrated their presence.
The hybrid occupation has been happening ever since Ukraine's independence. But for us, the Kharkiv Agreements of 2010 marked a critical red line. It was frightening to see APCs, Russian equipment, and military forces appearing across Crimea. Then, in 2014, despite our repeated warnings that this could happen, an open and armed occupation began.
Almost every day, the Mejlis gathered in its entirety. We discussed our situation and sought solutions. We couldn't leave—this is our homeland and our people. While my friends still hoped that everything would be resolved by the end of the month or the year, I realized that the occupation would last a long time.
At the beginning of the occupation, the so-called self-defense units emerged on the official initiative of Sergey Aksyonov. Russian Cossacks arrived, and Crimean Cossack organizations joined them. The first abductions of activists began in March, and there were initial casualties among Ukrainian military personnel. The body of Reshat Ametov was discovered with signs of torture. Other kidnappings followed as the repressive machinery began to operate. Soon after, the arrests of civilians started.
My colleague Akhtem Chiygoz and I traveled around Crimea, engaging with people and sharing information. We assured them that we must not bow our heads. By September, the occupation authorities prepared to hold the first local elections. Our main goal was to ensure that the Crimean Tatars—and ideally, all citizens of Ukraine in Crimea—did not participate. In early 2015, Akhtem was arrested, leaving me as the only active representative of the Mejlis leadership. Later, we elected Ilmi Umerov as deputy chairman, and I became the first deputy. Following this, the first searches were conducted at Ilmi's home and mine.
Searches occur in different ways. In my case and Ilmi Umerov's, they were more "civilized." However, there are instances when armed special forces and FSB agents break into homes early in the morning, often around six a.m. They force open doors and windows, regardless of the presence of sick individuals, older people, or children. Lawyers are not allowed in.
Throughout the years of occupation, I spoke publicly and openly about what was happening in Crimea. In April 2014, I applied for and received a passport as a Russian Federation citizen. By then, I had already decided to work in Crimea, and to do so without becoming an exile, I needed legal grounds to remain, according to the occupation authorities. Under Russian law, they could prevent me from leaving the country as a citizen, but they had no right to deny my re-entry. I needed to ensure I could return. This was a forced decision. I frequently traveled to Kyiv and attended international events—such as the OSCE summit in Warsaw and meetings in Prague, Turkey, Brussels, and Washington—where I spoke with foreign and Ukrainian journalists. As a member of the Mejlis, I worked closely with my own people and citizens of Ukraine in Crimea, protecting their rights and representing their interests.
In 2019, regular elections were held in Russia, including in Crimea. Afterward, the Crimean Public Council, led by local collaborators, convened a meeting with experts, during which it was officially acknowledged that Crimean Tatars had largely ignored the elections, with less than one percent participating in the pseudo-referendum. I consider this our victory.
My trip to the Crimean Platform marked the final point of my activities in Crimea, which I had begun in 2014. Throughout these years, I was under constant surveillance. I regularly interacted with the FSB, the Center for Countering Extremism of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the prosecutor's office, and the investigative committee, engaging in official and unofficial conversations.
On the eve of the Crimean Platform, representatives of the Russian authorities warned that all participants would face consequences from the Russian Federation. Despite this, I was firmly convinced that attending was worth it. The activities of the Mejlis had been banned and suppressed in Crimea, and our opportunities and resources had been severely restricted. Russian media portrayed my colleagues and me as a threat, making us "toxic"—meaning that any contact with us would trigger immediate surveillance by the FSB. We communicated with entrepreneurs, teachers, and public and cultural figures interested in collaborating on joint projects. However, few dared to proceed due to fear of repression. I felt angry about this and decided to take action. Though I wasn't a formal Platform member, I participated as an expert on specific issues.
When I returned, I sensed that something was wrong this time. Just before my arrest, Aziz Akhtemov's father approached me and mentioned that searches had been conducted at his son's place and that Aziz had been taken away. That was the first time I heard about an explosion on a gas pipeline. I had been in Kyiv at the time of the explosion; I sat at my laptop, searching online for information about it. The next morning, they came for me.
The arrest was psychologically challenging. Even though you mentally prepare and understand certain realities, when it actually happens, it becomes a profound personal test. As you enter prison, memories of movies and TV shows flood your mind, and stereotypical images start to take hold. My cellmate in the pre-trial detention center welcomed me warmly and helped calm my nerves, saying not to worry—that everything would be fine. The other prisoners also greeted me, inviting me to their table, making tea, and engaging in conversation. They wanted to know who I was. Then they suggested I take some time to rest, understanding the toll of the experience. Yes, they were criminals, but they showed compassion toward others in a similar situation. The support of friends, along with the unexpected kindness from my cellmates, was truly helpful.
I was immediately placed in a special unit, with a separate corridor and six cells designated for serious offenders. When I arrived, several political prisoners were there as well. In my cell was Sergey Lyulin, a Jehovah's Witness who is now heavily persecuted in Russia and Crimea. Also in the unit was Konstantin Shiring, who, unfortunately, died in prison. He was accused of espionage. The others in neighboring cells were influential figures from the criminal world.
I can honestly say that my situation and time in prison were relatively manageable. Three key factors contributed to this: first, external public support, and second, my personal approach to communication. I immediately decided that my struggle was on the outside and that I didn't need to engage in conflicts with anyone here. Thirdly, unlike many other political prisoners, I was not subjected to severe beating.
I saw my wife, who received permission to act as my public defender during a court hearing. There were three of us in this case, and all our wives were granted the right to visit the pre-trial detention center every working day, along with our lawyers. Their presence was incredibly supportive.
My wife took on a tremendous responsibility—communicating with lawyers, friends, colleagues, and the press. She researched things at my request and spread important information. I owe her a great deal; as a like-minded partner, she showed remarkable courage in these circumstances. She endured a lot, both as a woman and as a defender of my rights and interests.
From the very beginning, I had no desire to defend my interests—an occupational court is not a true decision-making body; it simply follows orders. What was there to prove? However, after discussions with my lawyers, we decided to pursue the case—not for our own sake but to expose the entire picture of falsification, persecution, and lawlessness.
The conditions in the Simferopol pre-trial detention center were terrible. Access to medical services was severely lacking; it was difficult even to see a physician, let alone a dentist—doing so was considered a major achievement.
In May 2023, I was transferred to another pre-trial detention center with better living conditions and food. However, the treatment from the staff was much worse. We were warned not to expect anything positive. As soon as we arrived in the patrol wagon and the doors opened, we were met with yelling. Rushing inside, we heard shouts, "Do not raise your head!" They would hit us on the head and back if they were displeased by anything. The abuse was degrading and humiliating.
Then, we were taken to the building and ordered to squat with our hands forced above our heads. I sometimes tell people that if they want to understand the discomfort, they should try holding their hands in that position for just five minutes. I had to sit like that for several hours. From time to time, the staff would approach and hit me. After the search, many of my belongings were taken away. I received a bag containing only toilet paper, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. They told me that was all I needed before being taken to the cell.
We walked bent over with our hands raised to our shoulder blades. We were not allowed to lift our heads or look at the guards. When we were brought to the cell, they said, "This is Russia's national anthem—learn it; we will ask you to sing it." We weren't permitted to sit on the bed. Cameras were everywhere, and if you tried to sit anywhere other than the wooden bench and hide from view, a guard would immediately come over and demand you appear on camera. This was the FSB pre-trial detention center, primarily housing political prisoners. On a separate, restricted floor, prisoners of war were held under the supervision of a different military unit.
When the sentence is finalized, the pre-trial detention center cannot hold a person for more than ten days. By the decision of the Federal Penitentiary Service, the individual should be transferred to a facility where they will serve their sentence. According to the law, a convict has the right to serve their sentence as close to their place of residence as possible, allowing for visits from relatives. However, cases involving terrorist charges, sabotage, extremist activities, and participation in armed groups are not covered by this provision. While there is a right to request a transfer, the Federal Penitentiary Service (FSIN) is not obligated to consider it.
I spent most of the time in the Krasnodar Territory at a transit point. From there, I was quickly transferred through Saratov, Chelyabinsk, Orenburg, and Krasnoyarsk before arriving at Minusinsk prison.
I was in Siberia from November 20th, 2023, until my release—a total of eight months. It was cold even when dressed warmly. I only went for walks a few times and didn't enjoy it. The courtyards were small, and the sky looked narrow through the bars. I could walk around the cell and open the window to let in some air.
In prison, you're allowed two parcels per year, each weighing up to 20 kg (44.092 lb—Ed.), from relatives. These can include items like fruits and vegetables. Some products are available at a local store, but the selection is limited and very expensive. While sitting there, I often thought of my four children and my wife back home, managing on her own with no one to help feed them. Prisoners face tough choices, usually deciding between asking for something for themselves or letting their families use the money for their needs. Without parcels from relatives, they lack the opportunity to eat properly. Over time, this leads to health problems—issues with teeth, stomach ailments, and more.
Access to books was very limited in the second Simferopol pre-trial detention center. By law, every prisoner has the right to possess ten books or magazines, but we were allowed only one each. When I was given a Quran and my cellmate received a Bible, our total was already at four books. One day, a stupid staff member came in to conduct one of the frequent searches. He looked at us and asked, "Why are there two of you and so many books?!" What could we even say in response?
I was allowed to make calls twice a month, each lasting fifteen minutes, and I only called my wife. While correspondence was supposed to be unlimited, many letters did not reach me.
In prison, access to information is crucial. I received letters from several Russians who corresponded with political prisoners because of shared beliefs. They sent me poignant poems by Bulat Okudzhava, quotes from Zhvanetsky, and even a poem about Navalny—I was surprised that one made it through. Some Russian activists sent letters to my cellmates, providing brief updates on the news. Even if there was a TV, it only broadcast propaganda. We could subscribe to the Interlocutor, the last moderately liberal newspaper, which provided some insight. There was almost no news about Ukraine, but I was able to learn what was happening in Russia. Information trickled in from friends and contacts from both Ukraine and Russia. The isolation of a political prisoner is intense, yet some distant insights manage to break through.
When a person in prison learns that others are speaking out publicly in their defense, it provides significant support. I felt inspired when I learned about rallies advocating for my release, as well as for other political prisoners. The posts and appeals from various cultural and political figures were incredibly uplifting. I never lost hope that I would be released. I saw others on the brink of losing hope and tried to support them, though I can't say if it made a difference. Some of them now send their greetings through their relatives.
In 2021, elections were held while I was in the Simferopol pre-trial detention center. Representatives of the leadership came to our cell, where I was with an imprisoned Jehovah's Witness, and demanded that we go to the polls. I stated that I would not participate due to my political beliefs. For some reason, they were softer with me, but they targeted my cellmate, who refused to participate on religious grounds. One of the officials began to threaten him. The turnout was fundamentally important for them, not the actual votes—we knew they would manipulate the results themselves. I turned to the officer and said, "Let me go, and don't touch him—let him stay in the cell." He agreed. However, when I returned, I found my cellmate in a near-comatose state. He told me that, after I'd left, the jerk deputy chief forcefully took him from the cell. He was beaten twice more and then forced to the polling station. He said he never touched the pen, but the ballot had been filled out for him.
From my experience communicating with people arrested in the newly occupied territories after 2022, it's clear that the situation there is much worse. I explain it this way: Crimea holds symbolic importance for the Russian Federation. Unlike these other regions of Ukraine, Crimea was integrated in a more "civilized" manner. Russia immediately recognized Crimea as part of its territory, which is why it tried to mask repression with a semblance of legality. In other regions, however, the situation is categorically different. While FSB-led torture has also occurred in Crimea, it primarily took place in FSB facilities rather than within prisons. When the full-scale invasion began, Ukrainian citizens from places like Kherson ended up in the Simferopol pre-trial detention center. I was held in a special unit and didn't witness it firsthand, but I heard from other prisoners about brutal beatings taking place in the offices of the operational staff at the detention center. It wasn't the center's employees who carried out these actions; others entered the facility—I'm not sure if they were from the intelligence service or another group. They tortured our men, and I know that women and girls were also affected.
My last cellmate was Yuriy Domanchuk, a resident of Skadovsk, whose case is quite well-known. He was held in Chongar, where there is an "unofficial" pre-trial detention center. The situation there is very frightening, with reports of beatings, torture, and imitations of executions. They took a person out of the cell, put them on their knees, and shot somewhere near the head. He knows more than one person who was beaten up very cruelly till they bled—people were just broken there.
I learned of my release on Tuesday, June 25th. Senior staff approached me and told me to gather my things. When I asked why, they said, "We don't know." I was then taken to the administrative building and brought to a major's office. He immediately said, "You will be taken away today for exchange." A thought crossed my mind that this might not be genuine; it could be a provocation or a ruse. FSB officers then took me to the Krasnoyarsk pre-trial detention center, where I spent two days alone in a cell. They brought me food and removed the dishes afterward; nothing else happened during my time there. It wasn’t until the morning of the 28th that the staff returned, took me to the airport, and we flew on a regular Krasnoyarsk-Moscow flight with other passengers. However, I was blindfolded and in chains.
As I understand it, I was the first to be brought to the back of the plane, seated with two people beside me and an empty row in front of us. Soon after, I heard women and children boarding and caught the scent of perfume. After a five-hour flight, we arrived in Moscow, where I was handed over to different officials, and we then drove for a long time to an unknown location.
There was an interesting situation on the plane. After we landed, we waited for all the passengers to disembark. Then, a woman, whom I believe was a flight attendant, said, "Give him water." My escorts replied, "He doesn't want any." I remained silent. She said, "How can he not want water? He was on this plane for five hours, just like you. You all drank water—why shouldn't he?" I heard her turn and walk away, adding, "Whatever he's done, he's still a person!" I felt a warmth from her attitude. Then, after a few minutes, when we got up from our seats to leave, she came over to me with a glass of water and insisted, "Take a drink." I was grateful to her for that gesture.
My blindfold was only removed right before the exchange. Throughout the journey from the Krasnoyarsk pre-trail detention center to the Ukrainian border, I was shackled and blindfolded. I was placed on a bus with others who were also being exchanged. One of the men on board had waited seven years for his release. We traveled for a long time, spending the last three hours in a helicopter.
When we were taken off the bus, they replaced our usual shackles with tight plastic ties. Unlike chains, which allow a bit of movement, these ties were so tight they constricted my veins. I endured this discomfort for about half an hour as we traveled from the bus to the helicopter. Once seated, I turned to the most senior official nearby and said, "Look, you're hurting my hands; please loosen it a little." Shortly after, someone came over and loosened the ties.
When we arrived, they instructed us, "They will remove your blindfolds, but do not lift your heads and keep your hands behind your backs." We were at the Belarus-Ukraine border. They lined us up, and then the senior officer said, "Alright, you can lower your hands; just don't raise your heads."
A few minutes later, we heard our native language as our guys approached us, saying, "Please, relax, raise your heads, look around." We were identified, and we walked toward our homeland. Several ambulance crews were there to examine us, offering water and food afterward. They had set out a lot of treats, but we learned they'd been waiting for us since Monday, and by then, it was Friday. They apologized, saying, "We even had strawberries, but unfortunately, they didn't last and started to spoil."
We were told we were headed to Kyiv, where people had already been waiting for us. In three hours, we arrived at Zhuliany Airport by helicopter. Those were my two first helicopter rides—they were starkly different. Our guys, sturdy, armed, and bearded, were actually sweethearts. Despite the stuffy air inside, they found an orange, peeled it, and shared it with us. We carried our bags, but they insisted, "Don't worry, we'll handle it." They made sure we were seated and immediately showed their care. The emotional reunion at the airport was overwhelming—Mustafa Dzhemilev, Refat Chubarov, our mufti, my colleague Elvina Seitbullayeva, and many others were there to greet us. Someone recorded a video, and I was later told I looked elated—which I truly felt. At that moment, it finally hit me: I was free. My family quickly joined, and I was able to speak calmly with reporters afterward.
People in Crimea who hold freedom as a fundamental value are now in a state of deep despair. Since my release, I can see that the situation there has deteriorated significantly. Open discussions on crucial issues have nearly vanished, trust in others is extremely low, and the atmosphere is one of fear and persecution.
When I was released and spoke with representatives of the Crimean Platform, I said: "I understand that sometimes it may feel like your efforts are in vain—that despite your hard work, securing the release of political prisoners seems impossible. But here I stand as a testament to your dedication. You can be proud of what you've achieved; you helped save me and nine others."
Ukraine must not lose faith and hope. I was able to regain my freedom, and the return of Crimea is possible, too. Without hope, there's nothing to strive for. But with hope, we must work tirelessly toward our goals.
Nariman Dzhelyal, a Crimean Tatar politician and activist, has remained resolute in his commitment to Crimea as part of Ukraine
Living the War is an independent documentary project founded in Kyiv following the start of the full-scale Russian invasion. The third volume was created and printed in Ukraine with the support of the International Renaissance Foundation.
The project is supported by Nova Ukraine, the KSE Foundation and private donors.