Journalistic solidarity in Russia might be about to make a real difference

With every horrific fate that befalls journalists in Russia there is generally a reciprocally glib take about the inherent risks of doing journalism in Putinland. Those who point out the dangers are right, but usually for the wrong reasons.

Russia’s reputation is certainly well-deserved. Not only has Vladimir Putin overseen a steady erosion of rights and freedoms since taking over in 1999; the country remains a world leader in violence against journalists.

Things are better than they were in the 1990s, but up to a dozen journalists are still killed in unusual circumstances every year.

The classic example was Anna Politkovskaya, whose impassioned reporting from the north Caucasus led to her being gunned down at her home in Moscow in 2006.

But there are other largely forgotten tragedies: Politkovskaya’s colleague Yuri Shchekochikhin (he died from suspected poisoning), or Mikhail Beketov (first crippled, then dead from injuries sustained after reporting on a new highway being built through forests on the edge of Moscow).

What these journalists tend to have in common are two things: they are local, and they focus on corruption at the lower levels of the regime.

Clearly, foreign correspondents are in a different group. The risks we face are not insubstantial, but they are of a different and usually geopolitical nature. When Russia has problems with the US, American journalists take a figurative hit.

Generally speaking, our exposure to the Russian system is with people at the top of the pyramid and with international reputations to protect – even if in some cases their histories and behaviour make that something of a surprise.

What makes life risky for journalists like Politkovsky, Shchekochikhin, Beketov and now Ivan Golunov is that they go after the middle guys.

Golunov’s anti-heroes are the crooked bureaucrats buying flats for their families. The ones capitalising on grief and monopolies in the funeral business. They are omnipotent, with cover in high places, but they are also invisible.

Golunov knew who he had crossed when he appeared in court. He knew that once the chain of command had given the green light to his prosecution, there was no way back. He knew that it was almost inevitable he would be spending many years in jail for a crime he almost certainly did not commit.

“I didn’t think I would be present at my funeral,” he said, crying, before the judge unexpectedly released him ahead of his trial.

The unprecedented journalistic solidarity that has greeted Golunov’s treatment has made a difference. It has shone a light on the guts of a system that usually lives in darkness.

Three of Russia’s leading publications have led with identical front pages in support. Many have reprinted Golunov’s investigations. A consortium of liberal media is now working to complete the investigation that Golunov was working on when he was detained – and which his editors believe provoked the move. Some have already named men at a local FSB office as being in some way involved in his persecution.

It is too early to say if the outrage will lead to Golunov’s eventual freedom, though there are certainly signs the Kremlin is thinking about it. But its real legacy may be in shaking things up, limiting the number of hiding places for Russia’s corrupt “invisibles”, and making the profession ever so slightly safer in the long run.

Yours,

Oliver Carroll

Moscow correspondent