BY BRITTNEY GRINER
EXCERPT
PRISON IS MORE THAN A PLACE. IT’S ALSO A MINDSET. When I entered Corrective Colony No. 2—or IK-2, in Mordovia, a region more than 300 miles east of Moscow—I flipped a switch in my head. I’m an inmate now, I told myself. I’ll be here at least nine years. I even rehearsed my release date: Oct. 20, 2031. I knew that might change. Still, focusing on a goal would get me through the nightmare. As deeply as I cared for my wife Relle and my family, I had to seal off that love to some extent. I felt softness would compromise my toughness.
Even before the COVID-19 pandemic, new inmates at prisons in Russia were initially isolated and tested for various infectious diseases, from TB to hepatitis B. That sequestering became more important with COVID-19, with overcrowding, unsanitary conditions, and communal living ensuring rapid spread. I recall spending only one week in quarantine, with five other women. A pin on our uniforms displayed our names and one or more colors, from white and yellow to green and burgundy. The colors gave the guards your story at a glance: aggressive toward staff, suicidal, arsonist, swindler, runaway, on and on. Mine was white, signaling drug-related charges. Around campus I’d spot the rainbow, including black for the most heinous crimes: Murder. Terrorism. Torture.
I got the lay of the land from Ann and Kate, the two inmates in IK-2 with the best English. Kate assisted the deputy warden, whom the inmates called Mother of Dragon—tall, blue camo, 60s, and she breathed fire while waving her baton. Ann brought us cake that night, a perk of being the head cook. Kate gave me the lowdown, starting with rule one. “If a guard stops you,” Ann said, “you have to tell them your crime and release date.” She taught me every word of it in Russian. I practiced but never mastered it.
They also described the grounds and other rules. All prisoners were housed in multilevel buildings called detachments, like a quad. Each was overseen by the most senior inmate in the group. “No handcuffs here,” Ann said. The guards were watching but didn’t escort prisoners through the colony, which revolved around the Yard. On one side was the cafeteria, where three daily meals were served: edible but still distasteful, aside from the honey cake I craved. Behind it was a church, a visitation room, an infirmary, and the market. All could be visited at certain times on weekends. There was also an orphanage for the children of inmates who’d given birth while incarcerated. They
