HUMAN RIGHTS ACTIVIST PROVIDES A VIEW OF TASHKENT TRIALS
Marie Struthers: 7/10/01

Uzbek courts in June condemned 73 ethnic Tajiks from the southern Surkhandarya region to prison terms ranging from three to 18 years on charges of supporting the activities of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU). The trials were held in four different courts and began without advanced notice, catching virtually everyone interested in the case off guard. The secret nature of the Surkhandarya trials contrasted sharply with other high-profile national security cases -- including the February 1999 Tashkent bombing trials, and the November 2000 proceeding against opposition politicians and IMU militants – which were both well publicized and heavily attended by human rights monitors. Fortunately, I was able to overcome numerous obstacles to witness the trial. This is an account of my struggle to attend the proceedings.

On an Monday afternoon in late May, a call comes from a local human rights activist in Tashkent. "The Sukhandarya trial has started," the woman says urgently. "Quick, go -- but you need written permission from the Supreme Court to get in."

I immediately jump into a taxi and rush to the Supreme Court. There, I am kept waiting for four hours as I attempt to secure the required permission. During this time I am repeatedly told that someone will soon be free to see me. I greet court personnel as they enter and exit the hallways inaccessible to me, and chat with two judges, who, with broad smiles, tell me that access is entirely unrestricted – "Should you have any problem, just give a call." Their smiles dampen slightly as I carefully enter their coordinates into my notebook. Ultimately, however, I am informed the Supreme Court never issues written permission for observers to attend trials, and, as this trial is open, there is no need for it anyway.

The next morning at the Akhmal Ikromov courthouse – one of four courthouses in the city in which the trial is being held – security is tight. Parked trucks restrict access to the courthouse, and ropes seal off the street, blocking motor and pedestrian traffic. Close to 30 policemen guard the premises, and an excited police dog is restrained on its leash. A fire engine and first aid vehicle are on hand. Armed soldiers stand guard inside a two-meter high iron fence surrounding the building, and inside the entrance to the courthouse.

When I arrive half an hour early, the judge is already inside the building. I present my credentials to the police officers and guards, but am told that only those with written permission from the Supreme Court are allowed entry. "You must speak to the judge," they add. "But the Supreme Court does not deliver written permission to monitors, and the judge is inside," I point out, "please let me in and I will ask for his permission once inside." They refuse. I then pull out my mobile phone and punch in the Supreme Court numbers obtained the day before. Luckily, I reach one of the judges, pass the phone to the police officer in command, he receives the go-ahead, and I am let in the building.

Every morning thereafter, I must obtain permission from the judge as though for the first time. The police officers know me by now, but they, without exception, insist that I wait for the judge. Each day, the same ritual: he approaches in his chauffered Volga, gets out, shakes hands with the crowd of police officers, turns his back on the street and passes through the impregnable iron fence. I run up from behind, calling out my request for entry. "I will send someone to admit you when I am ready," he says, his face clouding over in annoyance. But it is only because I beseech every court official who passes through the gates to remind him of his promise that I am admitted each day.

On the first day, the judge demands that I produce a letter of entry from the Supreme Court. "I have been to the Supreme Court," I explain patiently, "and they gave me oral permission, stating that they never issue written permission for observers." He is unimpressed with this answer, and asks to whom I spoke there; fortunately the name of one of my judge acquaintances makes an effect. "Do you have a tape recorder," he asks, and when I answer no, he gestures to me to sit down. I pull out my notebook. Five minutes later, he explodes. "I never said you could take notes! and I asked if you had a tape recorder," he screams. "Please leave now and come back only if you have written permission from the Supreme Court." There is a silence. I apologize, and, under his dark glare, hastily put away the notebook.

The security presence inside is also impressive. Close to fifteen police officers and soldiers take up half the space in the courtroom, and two armed soldiers stand at attention facing the cage off to one side, where the twenty defendants are seated. Other armed soldiers are at the entrance, and stationed at the head of the staircases leading to the courtroom. There are five state lawyers, the judge, three court officials, the procurator, the registrar, and one woman who manually transcribes the proceedings, even though it is impossible for her to keep up with the pace of the different speakers. Other than myself and my interpreter, there are no other members of the public in the room.

The accused are pallid as white chalk, thin, their skin starved for sun after six long months in prison. Their faces bear an expression midway between anguish and inscrutability, as though resigned to their pre-determined fates. The air conditioning is not working, there are no windows to open, but thanks to a skylight in the ceiling, sunlight streams straight in. The temperature approaches 40 degrees Celsius in the room. The heat is oppressive, and throughout much of the trial court officials and the policemen silently sleep, the lawyers and procurator alternately sag down in their seats, forcing themselves to blink their eyes and sit up straight at intervals, the standing guards sway from side to side. But the defendants never nod off. Their gaze remains trained on whomever is speaking, and, when relatives are present, all of their eyes speak floods and volumes from behind the bars; they have not seen their loved ones for six months. The judge too, whether due to an exceptional constitution or habit, remains fresh and alert.

Outside on the street, relatives, most in traditional dress, crouch on the sidewalk under the shade of trees. Many have traveled over 10 hours by car from the south, from relocation centers to which over 3,000 mountain villagers have been permanently removed to following the fighting. The first couple of days, they, like me, approach the guards at the gates and repeatedly request entry, but have since given up. They have good reason not to make themselves too prominent, as authorities have employed every means possible to contain protest and information about the trial. Relatives have been forbidden by authorities in the south to travel to Tashkent to attend the proceedings, many have been stopped at checkpoints and returned home once having stated they were travelling to the courthouse. Officials from Sherobod have made trips to Tashkent to forcibly return groups of relatives on specially-arranged buses. Other relatives have been ejected from private residences in the city. Police patrol the sidewalk, asking relatives for their personal coordinates and their reason for having traveled to Tashkent.

The trial itself is completed in five days, astonishingly fast given the 14-15 charges with which each of the defendants has been charged, as well as the large number of defendants. The indictment holds that the accused provided the IMU militants with food and shelter, showed them mountain pathways, and conducted foreign currency transactions with the militants. The prosecution fails to produce any material evidence substantiating these activities, and only half a day is dedicated to their defense. One by one the defendants relate that they were either located up to 100 kilometers (62 miles) away from the actual site of the military activities, that they never witnessed the latter, were tortured in detention, and forced to memorize and recite prepared confessions. Some weep, other lift their shirts or drop their pants to display red burn marks or wounds inflicted by the alleged torture.

Almost a full day is devoted to the viewing of videotaped sessions of the defendants’ questioning periods while under investigation. Investigators bark out questions one after the other as though at an oral examination. One defendant, a schoolteacher, is visibly amused by the theatricality of the process, and, having missed a cue, laughs out loud on camera when he is prompted by the investigator. He grins again sheepishly when the investigator guides his hand to trace on a map on the wall, the area where the fighting took place. Another defendant during the whole of his confession keeps his head bent downwards. His mother turns to me, "Look! He is reading from his lap!" There is almost a full day of these droning videotapes, and, due to their repetitiveness and the heat, the courtroom becomes restless and inattentive. When the judge rises to leave the room, defendants, lawyers, relatives and court officials burst into indiscrete chatter, drowning out the evidence which is to provide the basis for a guilty verdict.

There are only two witnesses for the defense, and two for the prosecution. The lawyers, half of whom straggle in late each day, sit passively, like the defendants eerily resigned; they on occasion ask a question when prompted by the judge. Their questions are of such an accusatory tone that on the first day, my interpreter asks me whether they are lawyers for the prosecution or the defense. "It is as though the lawyers have already decided that they are guilty!" she exclaims. The defense’s arguments take all of 40 minutes.

Chaotic confusion surrounds the verdict delivery date. On the day that it is set to be read, a Tuesday, nobody has been informed that it is postponed. The ambulance arrives, the policemen, a lawyer or two, even the procurator, and they learn the news along with me. The same the following day. No one at either of the four court houses is able to confirm when the verdict will be read. Finally, without announcement, the verdict is delivered simultaneously in all four court houses. All of the defendants are found guilty. Had not relatives chosen to stay on at physical and financial risk, no one would have been aware.

Editor's Note: Marie Struthers is a freelance journalist and a consultant with Human Rights Watch.

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Posted July 10, 2001 © Eurasianet
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