25 April 2026
by Aleksandr Podrabinek
Source: Radio Svoboda
From the verdict:
He began to espouse the radical ideas of the extra-parliamentary opposition, completely rejecting the legitimacy of the current government in the Russian Federation… A criminal intent arose, aimed at making public calls for terrorist activities using the Internet.
Ilya Vladimirovich Florinsky was born on 7 December 1988. Until his arrest, he lived in Orel.
Convicted on 19 April 2023 by the 2nd Western District Military Court of Orel under Article 205.2, Part 2 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation (‘Public calls to carry out terrorist activities, public justification of terrorism or propaganda of terrorism using the internet’). Sentenced to six years’ imprisonment, the sentence began on 14 August 2023 and is to end on 8 August 2028.
But what does ‘the sentence ends’ mean in the Russian prison system? It is merely a formality, written on a scrap of paper called a sentence. After two years in prison, Ilya Florinsky was again charged with a crime. This time under Article 321, Part 2 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation – ‘Disruption of the activities of institutions ensuring isolation from society.’ The punishment for this offence is up to five years’ imprisonment.
From Ilya Florinsky’s prison record:
He does not attend rehabilitation activities or sessions on social and legal issues; his attitude towards these classes is extremely negative, even hostile, and he actively discourages other prisoners from taking part. He does not join in sporting or cultural events and has no desire to do so. He does not participate in the activities of clubs … He ignores opportunities to study. He has a higher education… He does not visit the library… He treats rehabilitation measures with contempt. He has had 542 disciplinary offences. He behaves in a tactless manner towards the prison administration. His attitude towards work is dismissive. He has not admitted his guilt for the offence committed. CONCLUSION: the assessment of the behaviour and character of the convict Ilya Vladimirovich Florinsky is negative.
This is the kind of villainous portrait of a political prisoner the camp authorities paint. Particularly striking is the remark that, despite having a university education, the prisoner does not take up opportunities to study. He does not raise his educational level any further, thereby undermining the colony’s cultural and educational performance indicators. He does not take part in club activities – can you believe it! And yes, however bitter it may be for fans of Melpomene and Thalia to hear, theatrical performances on the camp stage count in the prisoner’s favour, whilst a refusal to take part in cultural events is regarded by the authorities as a refusal to enter on the path of rehabilitation and results in a negative assessment of the prisoner.
But all this is merely the necessary backdrop for a new criminal prosecution. So what exactly was the disruption? How did Ilya Florinsky disrupt the work of Penal Colony No. 5 in the Sukhinichsky district of Kaluga region?
As a ‘repeat offender’, Florinsky is being held in an EPKT – a single cell-type room. Put simply, it is a solitary confinement cell, usually measuring two by three metres. The bunk is bolted to the wall during the day and sleeping is strictly forbidden even sitting at the table or on the floor. Daily exercise consists of an hour and a half in the exercise yard. Showers are allowed twice a week. Morning wake-up is at 5 am, lights out is at 9 pm.
Five minutes after getting up, a prisoner must hand in their mattress, pillow and blanket to the guard. They will get them back in the evening before bedtime. On 20 December last year, Florinsky left his cell in the morning, but instead of a mattress, he held a sheet of paper. He asked the officer on duty to switch on the video recorder so he could read out his statement. The officer switched it on. Next to the duty officer stood the prison governor, Major Aleksandr Nikolaevich Arkhipov. They listened to Florinsky for a while, but could not bear his independent behaviour. And even more so (I know from my own experience) they took exception to his demands to abide by the law. Such demands simply drive them wild. Meanwhile, Ilya Florinsky, citing the law, asked to be allowed a phone call with his mother, who has cancer. Major Arkhipov interrupted Florinsky and demanded he put his hands behind his back – that is what prisoners are supposed to do outside their cells. Florinsky put one hand behind his back but could not put the other one there since he was holding the paper his statement was written on, and he continued to read. ‘Disobedience’ was brewing. Arkhipov interrupted Florinsky and an argument ensued. The prison governor addressed the prisoner informally [using ‘ty’ in Russian], and Florinsky responded in kind. Finally, Arkhipov ordered Florinsky to turn to face the wall, raise his hands, and stand with his feet a shoulder-width apart. Florinsky obeyed. A personal search was about to take place. However, Arkhipov ordered Florinsky to move to another spot, grabbed him by the sleeve, gripped his shoulder and dragged him aside. Fearing he would lose his balance, Florinsky pushed the warden’s hand off his shoulder. That, in essence, is where the incident ended. The prison governor personally (!) searched the prisoner and, naturally, found nothing prohibited. As a result, there could be no complaints against the political prisoner, and no report of a breach of prison rules was filed. It could all have ended there and then, but Ilya Florinsky was outraged by the rough treatment he received and wrote a complaint to the public prosecutor’s office demanding that the prison governor be held to account.
This is where the ‘disruption’ began. The law allows one month for consideration of complaints, or two in exceptional cases. Meeting the deadline, the Kaluga Region Prosecutor’s Office informed Florinsky everything was in order, the prison governor was not at fault, no breaches of current legislation had been established, and there were no grounds for the prosecutor to take action. Standard wording.
But that proved not to be enough. According to the prosecution, the ‘normal’ running of a penal colony is when an inmate kneels, obediently carries out any orders from the authorities, and doesn’t complain if a guard or officer fancies having a bit of fun – punching an inmate in the face, twisting their arm, or beating them with a rubber truncheon. But when a prisoner demands respect and compliance with the law, this is seen as clear disruption and cannot be tolerated. Consequently, the prosecution service forwarded the investigation files to the Investigative Committee, which on 9 February 2026 opened a criminal case against Ilya Florinsky on charges of disrupting the working of the penal colony.
For more than a month and a half, no one knew anything about this ‘crime’. No one filed a report on what had happened. The prison governor (who was later given the legal status of ‘victim’ in the proceedings) did not file a complaint against Florinsky. And it is ridiculous for a grown man to be the victim of a prisoner who simply brushed his hand off his shoulder. The case had no merit whatsoever, but, as it turned out, higher powers intervened. A political prisoner who, as a matter of principle, refuses to cooperate with the administration, let alone put up with rudeness – this is a challenge not only to the prison system, but to the entire authoritarian regime; it is an attack on historical foundations and centuries-old traditions. Such political prisoners are the system’s chief enemies.
On 24 April, the trial of Ilya Florinsky began in Sukhinichi. The start of the trial did not bode well. The defence submitted a substantial and well-argued motion to have the case returned for further investigation, as the defendant’s rights had been violated during the preliminary investigation – he had not been given the opportunity to invite his own lawyer, his motions and statements had been ignored, and he had not even been able to familiarise himself fully with the case file. Judge Anastasia Vinyukova refused to grant the motion. She found an argument devastating in its simplicity and lack of sophistication: anything that had not been properly done during the preliminary investigation could now be completed in court. In confirmation of this, the very first day of the trial the defendant Florinsky was finally allowed to familiarise himself with his criminal case.
But there was one small snag. The town of Sukhinichi has everything a Russian district centre ought to have: a town park, an 18th-century Orthodox church, a Square of Military Valour, a Museum of Military and Labour Glory, a silver-painted monument to Lenin in the town centre and, of course, the police, the public prosecutor’s office and the court. The snag is that the court has only two courtrooms, and both were occupied – there was nowhere to put Florinsky to familiarise himself with the volumes of his criminal case. A solution was found: he was put in the prison van in the courthouse yard, the same van in which the escort had brought him to court. There he sat and familiarised himself with his case. Highly symbolic, I think: the defendant has not yet been sentenced, but is already in the prison van.
Translated by Rights in Russia
