‘I have good news and bad news’ Journalist Alsu Kurmasheva speaks to Meduza about life as a political prisoner in Russia and why she’ll never be a cynic

On Thursday, November 21, the Committee to Protect Journalists will honor four women who have courageously risked their lives to report the truth amid extraordinary danger. CPJ’s 2024 honorees are Shrouq Al Aila from the Gaza Strip, Quimy de León from Guatemala, Samira Sabou from Niger, and Alsu Kurmasheva, the dual U.S.-Russian citizen and Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL) journalist who went free in August 2024 as part of a historic prisoner exchange. 

In May 2023, Kurmasheva traveled to Russia to help her ailing mother. A month later, just before she would have boarded her return flight from Kazan, the authorities confiscated her passports and stopped her from leaving Russia. Four months later, it seemed Kurmasheva’s case would end with a fine for failing to register her U.S. citizenship, but the police suddenly arrested her for not filing with the Justice Ministry as a “foreign agent.” Then, in July 2024, Kurmasheva was sentenced to 6.5 years in prison for a third and more serious offense: spreading supposedly “false information” about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine by editing a book that features the stories of 40 antiwar Russians. A month later, Russia suddenly freed Kurmasheva and 14 others in the most extensive prisoner exchange since the end of the Cold War.

— When the police, the investigators, and the prison guards are shuttling you from place to place, reclassifying your case, and deciding your fate, how much are you told at the moment? What did you know as it all happened?

— They stopped me from boarding my plane on June 2. There was an interrogation immediately that day. They took away my passports, saying I would be able to travel the next week, which was a lie. They never let me travel later. 

Yes, it’s true that I didn’t register my American citizenship, which I got 10 years ago, in 2014. The laws Russia implemented are written in such unclear, bizarre ways that even we journalists don’t always understand them. I thought I didn’t need to register [my U.S. passport] if I wasn’t traveling to Russia as an American. That’s how I understood the law. But, okay, it was my mistake. I was prepared to pay the fine. It's just a fine. 

But when the investigation dragged on — not for a month, not two, not three, but for five — I realized they might be plotting something against me.

— Did you ever consider trying to sneak out of the country?

No, and I’d stress to the investigators that I wouldn’t do that because it's illegal. I've never done anything illegal in any country. I really want the truth to come out. I was ready to pay my fine and go free. That’s what I kept saying. I didn’t want to endanger my family in any way. I didn’t want to do anything illegal.

— So, they take your documents, and now you can't leave the country. At what point are you presented with the next set of charges? 

— I waited and waited. Eventually, I was called to the investigator’s office in late October. I was supposed to come and pick up my passport and go. He confirmed that to me at our previous meeting. And then, a few days before the appointment, they stormed my mom's home — six or seven people in black masks. They grabbed me and brought me to the police, to the Investigative Committee. 

While taking me to the detention center, they filed the next charges against me, saying I didn’t register as a “foreign agent.” It was another very bizarre accusation because nobody in Russia registers voluntarily as a “foreign agent.” In Russia, it’s the Justice Ministry that registers you.

And we [at RFE/RL] sent requests to Russia’s Justice Ministry, asking if I should be registered. And the ministry’s response was that they didn’t see any reason I should register.

— Are you now designated as a “foreign agent” in Russia?

— No, the charge of being an unregistered foreign agent was dropped right before my trial in July [2024].

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‘At some point, I stopped joking’

— It seems like they were just tormenting you with these charges. And then they drop this second one before coming to a final charge of spreading “false information” about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, which, of course, just means saying anything the Defense Ministry hasn’t endorsed. How did they notify you, the second time they changed the charges? Were you handed documents? Is it just news from your lawyer?

— Oh my gosh, that question gives me a wonderful flashback. I was called into the office of the interrogator, a handsome young man, very professional. He looks at me, smiling, and says, “I have good news and bad news.”

I tell him, “Okay, bring it on.” Where do you start? I asked for the good news first, and he said that the [undeclared foreign agency] charges were being dropped. It was a smaller charge than the one I ended up with. Then I asked for the bad news, and, yeah, I was now facing quite a long prison term.

— Wow.

— Yeah, but he brought the news with a smile, so the atmosphere was very relaxed.

— Did that signal to you that he viewed the whole process as a joke? Or did it seem like that’s just how he engages all “criminals”?

— No, I could clearly sense that his attitude was different than with others. I mean, they're all people, right? I don’t like talking about them now, but those first months were brutal. And the investigation was brutal. The manner of questioning and the manner of communication were all very rude. 

They clearly didn't know how to talk to me, but I am who I am. I would never be rude to anyone, even to my captors. I was trying to understand why they were doing that. I thought we were communicating. We definitely understood things differently. We were moving in opposite directions, I guess.

Sometimes, I managed to reach my investigators. We clearly were on different levels of understanding of the “truth” and the concept of journalism, but there were moments when I felt they could hear me. I used those moments to remind them that they will be held accountable for their actions — keeping a journalist, a woman, and a mother of two children in prison. They never reacted to that, but at least I know they heard it. 

At some point, I stopped joking, which was very hard for me. [I had to] because every joke could potentially end in a new felony charge against me at the next investigator’s interrogation.

They were trained to do this. They were doing their jobs and clearly didn’t enjoy some parts. As a journalist, I would ask them questions. They would leave without answering, but I could see on their faces that they would think about it at least.

— Do you walk away from this experience with a forever changed view of Russian officials, or was it just a particularly harrowing experience?

— I haven't changed my opinion. I always knew the system was like that. I knew who I was dealing with. It was a combination of my knowledge from books, reading about repressions during Stalin's times, the Gulag, political prisoners, and my journalistic experience — all the detentions and arrests that have been happening in Russia. My colleagues at RFE/RL have been harassed many times. As someone who worked for many years in that area, with that country, I knew who I was dealing with.

— Did it change the way you view yourself in identity terms? Did it make you feel more American than ever? More Russian than ever? More Tatar than ever?

— I definitely feel more who I am. 

— You wouldn't put yourself in one of these boxes.

— No, I wouldn't. I'm absolutely proud of every part of my heritage and identity. I'm so proud to be a citizen of this free world. What definitely has changed in me is that I'm now able to understand more things, more people, more concepts, more thoughts.

— Thanks to the other inmates?

— Yes, I think so. The interaction with different people, the experience I went through. And I also realized something about myself: that I don’t want to tolerate certain things. I can understand it, but I don’t have to tolerate it when it’s right in front of me. 

I’m able to say no if I see that something is wrong or someone is saying or doing something wrong. It’s easiest to turn my back, but the more responsible thing is to try to change it. It’s something I feel in smaller things now, but I'm sure it will appear in bigger things, too.

It comes with my perception of freedom. I feel more free after prison — free to do things I think are right. Free to guide people if they feel like being guided or trained by me. 

— What should people know about Saying No to War: 40 Stories of Russians Who Oppose the Russian Invasion of Ukraine, which was the prosecutor’s basis for the “false information” charge? You’re one of the book’s editors.

— I was asked by the investigator why a group of journalists chose to publish a book “about criminals.” After all, these 40 people, they're all criminals to the Russian authorities, right? 

I told him that our work — journalists’ work — is to document and witness history. The book describes what happened. It’s not my “opinions.” This is what happened in your country, in Russia, I told him. This is what historians do, and it’s what journalists do. We just document. 

That book is history already because many books on the topic have been published since, but it’s still unique. It remains unique because it’s one of the rare books from inside Russia, from provincial Russia, where the authorities insist that everyone supports the war. Most of these [40] people lost their jobs. Nearly half had to leave the country. Those who stayed had to leave their jobs.

These stories will be read years from now by anyone interested in what was happening during this period of history in Russia and around Russia. I think the RFE/RL journalists who came up with the idea did a great job.

— How do you respond to cynics who laugh at the very idea of journalism in Russia? 

— Well, they don’t know what journalism is. I wouldn’t say they don’t believe in it. They just don’t know. [In Russia,] the generation raised and educated under Putin just doesn’t know it. They consider journalists to be servants of the system or foreign intelligence agencies. Even local journalists are seen as working for these authorities. 

It’s a popular view, and I don’t want to demonize people for it. They simply don’t know any other life. They don't know that journalism can be independent.

The [independent] journalists who covered Russia are all abroad now. These are dangerous times for journalists, but they’re very interesting, too. Journalists who cover Russia can rely on citizen journalism a lot, which is great. People are still active on social media, and there are free-thinking people. Young people are very hopeful. They have access to all kinds of information — not openly, but there are ways.

With local journalists who impose a lot of self-censorship, I just wish they were more curious. I wish they would ask questions. I wish they were not afraid to talk to each other. 

The journalism community, like Russian society generally, is driven by fear. Besides state censorship, there’s self-censorship. People fear for themselves and their families. Human rights organizations say there are more than 20 journalists jailed in Russia now. That’s a lot.

A lifeline to the outside world but also life on a string

— Since you were freed, you've advocated for these captive journalists, including four colleagues at RFE/RL.

— Yes, we're very worried about them. There are two in Belarus. Ihar Losik has been incommunicado for four years, and we don't even know if he's alive. There is also no contact with this family. Andrey Kuznechyk has been in Belarus for three years. Volodya Yesypenko is in Russian-controlled Crimea. He hasn't seen his family for three years. And Farid Mehralizada was arrested six months ago in Baku, Azerbaijan. He's a well-known economist and RFE/RL’s Azerbaijan service journalist. 

Except for the Belarusian cases, it’s the families who advocate for them. Farid’s wife and Vlad’s wife are knocking on government officials’ doors. And we’re following their cases. I myself have sent dozens of letters to them and to Russian prisoners. It takes a month and a half to get there, but I know most letters reached the prisons, and people were happy. I will keep doing that because that contact was the most important to me. 

Though, those letters were also tools of manipulation and influence over me.

— Because the guards controlled what you received?

— Absolutely, yes. I started Mondays with questions about when I’d get my next letters. They knew I’d ask, and I later realized that sometimes my letters were just piling up on their desks. They’d keep them there for days — just because they could.

— What’s it been like to return to the West? There were a lot of changes here while you were imprisoned. Americans just elected a president who called the very deal that freed you a “very, very bad precedent,” and many in the U.S. have criticized this and other prisoner swaps with Russia. There’s a lot of hostility. Did that surprise or disappoint you? Or is America beautiful even when it’s ugly?

— I don’t think it’s ugly. It’s beautiful, and it will be beautiful. But I really share all those concerns. I have come back to the world, which has changed a lot. Lots of changes in Europe and lots of changes in America. 

I’m not qualified to make predictions or analyze here. I really think that a professional journalist shouldn’t do that. We at RFE/RL are very strict with our own editorial control, and we really think that journalists should report, give facts, and investigate, and it’s up to the experts to analyze the facts. And it’s up to the audience. That’s the most important thing: It’s up to the audience to draw conclusions. I really hope professional journalism stays that way. 

As long as we are sane, as long as we stay healthy, and as long as our loved ones are healthy and happy, we can live through this.

This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.