Tale of Darkness

By Ilkin Rustemzadeh

Azerbaijan--this is a little country known for energy resources and human rights violations in the border of Europe and Asia. But it is in a very important geopolitical position. For this reason, in most cases, the democratic world remains silent on human rights abuses. Well, what are the realities of this country? Second North Korea or last secular Muslim country with beautiful buildings and great lights? A witness of what happens here, political prisoner, which is serving a sentence in the country's most severe prisons, writes the number one best-seller book in the recent years in his own country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885052290

Book preview

Prologue

May 18, 2013

We were woken up at 8:30 a.m. in the Narimanov District Police of the Department of the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ jail. In my cell, there is a drug dealer from Salyan. After hearing his story, I realized he wasn’t a drug dealer but rather a victim of the narco mafia because he was arrested on his first attempt. They brought us a bowl of soup. We hadn’t finished our meal yet when the guard knocked on the door. Get ready! The vehicle is outside!

We put on our clothes. Taking my waist belt and shoelaces at the Major Crimes Investigation of the Department of the General Prosecutor’s detention is uncomfortable, but it isn’t my main concern. I have greater problems; they will soon transport me to Azerbaijan’s largest prison, which houses criminals, terrorists, murderers, and drug dealers. I was feeling lost in a dark forest.

They arrested me the day before yesterday. I’m not sure why, but I’m sure it’s not the same. They will make certain that I would stay for a longer period this time.

The doors open at 9 a.m., and they conduct shakedowns once more. They take us to the Fiat brand vehicle after the shakedown. In two hours, the vehicle stops three times. On the way, they pick up or drop off someone. I look out at the small barred window to see what’s going on outside. The car’s air-conditioning system is broken, and there isn’t enough fresh air. I unexpectedly knock on the door and inform the guards that I am in pain.

They hurl plastic bags inside and yell, Vomit!

I realize they won’t open the door until we will arrive at the destination. After two hours, we arrive at Kurdakhani prison. We know we’re inside because the dogs are barking. They open the doors and tell us to get out of the car. They handcuff our hands behind our backs and perform another shakedown. I’m the last in line for the shakedown.

The brunette officer nearly pounces on me and declares: Are you the one who recorded that stupid video?¹

For a brief moment, I forgot who I was. They didn’t ask any of the other people who came with me any questions.

The officer grabbed my T-shirt and shook it while yelling at me, I swear to God, I’m going to kick your ass. I’m going to screw you over! Keep your wits about you around here!

One of the officers approaches him and whispers something into his ear, prompting him to exclaim, Get the fuck out of his eyesight!

They accompany me to the box. They perform another shakedown, take my fingerprints, and then place me in one of the cells.

I count the inmates inside; there are eight of them. They lock us up for four hours. Everyone rushes to talk to each other about the reason for their imprisonment, a criminal act, and some other routine questions. Some former inmates provide advice on the prison lifestyle. Newcomers are all ears, and they occasionally ask questions.

I didn’t participate in the discussion. Through the small window, I examine the jail’s structures. It’s as if I’m dreaming. I’m not sure why I’m here. What did I do wrong, and so on. My mind is racing with questions, and this is making me nervous.

Four hours later, they open the doors and say they’re taking us to the jail’s quarantine room. When they are constructing the prison, they forgot to include a quarantine room. As a result, some of the solitary confinement rooms are used as quarantine rooms. In the quarantine room, they perform a more stringent shakedown. They ask us to strip naked and then separated us into different rooms.

There are eight bunk beds in the cell I am in. Two of them are positioned in the corners. The others are standing in the center of the room. There is a table between the first and second bunk beds, as well as the third and fourth bunk beds.

We’re required to sleep in a row. Only eight beds are suitable for sleeping. After greetings and May Allah open your doors,² the people who are there before us offer us their beds to sleep in. They recommend one of the beds in the corners because I am overweight.

After finishing my tea, I climb into bed. I light a cigarette and look up at the ceiling, cursing the cops who arrested me. After many thoughts, I fall asleep. And six years in prison is soon going to be my worst nightmare in this shithole.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The Road That Takes to the Prison

It was the evening of January 8 or 9, 2013, and I was at the office in the Caspian Plaza building. I was surfing Facebook on the office computer while eating the dön ə r I had ordered downstairs. The workday had come to an end. Although I was a new employee at the office, I had a good relationship with the company owner because he was a regular customer at my previous company. As a result, he had entrusted me with the office’s extra keys. I would come to the office to prepare materials for the work on weekends and days when there were no classes (my duty was to prepare materials for the company website, and at the same time, I was a sales and marketing manager). Another reason was to use the high-speed internet and the latest-generation Acer laptop to play my favorite video games that I couldn’t play at home. That day, I also lingered a little bit right after work.

After some time on Facebook, I came across a story about a soldier named Jeyhun Gubadov who was beaten to death by military officers in the Azadlıq newspaper, which was trending on the internet. On Facebook, everyone was sharing and condemning the incident. The soldier’s mother was crying out loud in the video. This had a profound effect on me and led me to post about it. Following several discussions with friends, I decided to organize a protest against it. Although I had no idea how to organize a protest, I created an event³ for 3:00 p.m. on January 12 in the city center, Favvaralar Square, and began inviting some of my social media friends.

So far, I had never attended any serious social or political event. My entire activist career prior to the event had been spent attending various demonstrations and coordinating the student boycott⁴ at the University of Economics in Baku. It was my entire experience! To be honest, given the country’s reality, I was a little afraid of the consequences of participating in public political events. However, it was a coincidence that I applied for membership in Azad Gənclik Təşkilatı at the beginning of January that changed the course of my life.

After creating the event End Soldiers’ Deaths, I went to the office kitchen to make coffee, drank the coffee, and smoked a cigarette on the office balcony. This entire procedure took about thirty minutes. I was stunned when I returned to my laptop.

The event was attended by tens of thousands of people. This was not something I expected.

Following the events, I received a word that some police officers had appeared in front of my house. I immediately closed the office and walked to the city center, then to one of my friends’ houses where he offered me a hideout. My house was already surrounded by cops, and returning home would result in my immediate imprisonment. My friend and his family lived on the same street but in different apartments. There was no internet access in the house. I managed and controlled the event using an old Nokia 6233. My personal phone had been damaged and could no longer be used for anything other than calls. I didn’t have the money to buy a new phone, so I was shackled to this broken one.

When I logged into my Facebook profile around 11:00 or 12:00 p.m., I was once again astounded: seventy thousand invitations and two thousand participants in the event. The number of invitations passed one hundred thousand in the hour that I spent on the internet.

That day, activist and writer Ali Akbar’s article, which was critical of the country’s political parties, was also discussed. The trend was reversed in a matter of minutes. All of the opposing political parties, which were at odds with one another, had announced their support for the protest. The majority of them also stated that they would participate in groups in the name of their respective parties.⁵

There were soon organizing groups on Facebook, and debates began. The protest logo was designed by a political immigrant in Germany, Habib Muntazir, who was initially thought to be a fake profile or fictional character, but later he also suggested that we name the protest No to Soldiers’ Deaths. I’m not sure why, but I trusted him despite the fact that I’d never seen his face before. We began collaborating on the project. For a time, Habib served as an administrator for the event, but he later left because someone from another country would not be welcome in public to manage the protest. We enlisted the help of several administrators to oversee this massive event. Because Facebook was still on the rise in the country at the time, the government had a sizable troll army on the platform. As a result, we had no choice but to delete their comments, which were full of swearing.

Over two hundred thousand invitations were sent out to the event, and over twelve thousand people had clicked on the participating button for two days. To put it simply, Azercell, a well-respected mobile phone company in the country, had a prize campaign with 100,000 manats (approximately 125,000 dollars) that did not even reach one hundred thousand invitations.

This figure alarmed the government, and they began to throw stones in the path of the protesters with all their might. I changed my accommodation one day before the event. This time, I stayed with friends from NIDA. Throughout the night, my friend from NIDA, who was also the event’s administrator, and I ensured that everything was in order by managing the event in shifts at night.

We began to prepare in the morning. I put on some thick clothes to ease the pain of police hits with a baton in the protest since I was in their center of attention. The entrances to the Favvaralar Square were closed. We joined other friends in the streets surrounding the square. We noticed fewer police officers at one of the square’s entrances and marched to that side, chanting slogans.

One of the most popular protest slogans was We do not want our soldiers to be murdered! We don’t want the military to become a morgue! Despite the fact that we had many slogans chosen, this was the most popular and used slogan in the protest.

We gathered a large crowd after joining the other group in the square. However, after some chanting, police were able to re-separate the groups. While one group marched toward the Xaqani Ticarat Markazi, another marched toward the Natavan statue. I was in the second group. The police were chasing us, and in the meantime, we entered the national park chanting out loud in the boulevard. Someone suddenly grabbed my arm, and I thought this unknown hand belongs to the police. However, it was Ravan Seyfull that we knew from social media who was studying in the US. He was trying to take me out of the sight.

Ilkin, the protest has taken place! This is the most vocal protest in years! Don’t go to prison for naught! Ravan said as he drew me toward the puppet theater.

He insisted so much that I had no choice but to follow him. He took me through different streets to the Araz café, where we waited for the protest to end. After a while, the protest ended, and the people who had been detained during the protest were released. I was getting ready to go home when I received word that the house was once again surrounded by police. This time, I made a public statement threatening Internal Affairs officials with suicide if they touched my family members in order to imprison me. I made a somewhat childish statement. Later on, I was embarrassed by this statement. The statement resulted from nervousness and simplicity. However, it worked, and they took a step back. I went home after the cops had left.

Ten days later, the city mayor’s son in Ismayilli enraged the populace with insults that erupted into violent protests. The protest reached a climax when the city population set fire to the mayor’s properties. The next day, the government dispatched Special Forces to the city to quell the protest with violence. There were rumors that the arrested ones in the protest are being tortured.

This event would not be hidden from public and political figures, activists, and journalists in the region. As a result, they hurried to Ismayilli.

Meanwhile, Baku’s small business owners were protesting the price increase at the Bina shopping center. The shopping center’s owner, who was under the wings of oligarchs, responded to the uprising with armed gangsters in civil uniform wielding, Kalashnikovs. Following the release of the videos on the internet, the Internal Affairs Department not only threatened people but also used violence.

I made another spontaneous decision to express my position on both incidents in the country by another protest. However, this time, the cops were better prepared than we were. We couldn’t organize a better protest this time because the topic was so sensitive. Favvaralar Square was once again the planned location for the protest.

We were successful in carrying out the protest, despite the fact that the police blocked everything at the square and that the entrance to the square was packed with cops from start to finish. During the protest, some people were arrested.

This time I was detained as well, and I was taken to Khatai regional police station 37. They chose several people, including myself, to be taken to the Sabail regional police department and then to the same region’s courthouse. Officials from the courthouse unexpectedly put me in a car, dropped me near the Azneft Circle, and told me to leave. In the courtroom, the others were either sentenced to one day in jail or fined. I took a taxi and returned there. After all court issues were resolved, Emin Huseynov, the chair of RATI,⁶ drove us to Nasimi Regional Courthouse in his car. They had a larger number of protesters here. The event’s two organizers were released and not fined. Turgut Gambar, one of our friends, was instead fined 2,500 manats.

After leaving the courtroom, Turgut remarked sarcastically, I feel like a football player who just got a red card, which caused everyone in the courtyard to burst out laughing. Then he asked the event organizers (me and Kanan), How much did you get fined?

When we said nothing, his response elicited the second round of laughter. At the very least, get out of my sight.

Turgut’s fine had a really ridiculous ending. The courthouse seized his father’s television which was produced in 1976, an old carpet, and other items.

After two protests, I became one of the most popular people in the country’s public sector. I was getting attention as I’d never gotten before. Beautiful ladies were texting me, and the opposing media was inviting me to debates besides setting up interviews with me. To be honest, it was a wonderful sensation. But this euphoria had a short life.

Initially, I was fired because the protest was organized using the company’s IP address, which would later cause problems for the company. After several police visits to the internet clubs near my house, I was barred from using the computers by the owners. My laptop’s hard drive, the most expensive component, was damaged, and it was extremely expensive to repair. In order to use the internet, I was using my sister’s mobile phone, Nokia 6300.

Although the younger generation may not be aware of it, there was a version of Facebook known as zero. We could make use of it for free. Following the protest, mobile companies prohibited the use of that version.

A month and a half had passed with nothing but news of soldier deaths. People began discussing the second protest in one of the following deaths. This time, public-political organizations and civil society were invited to participate in the discussions. They agreed to hold a protest on March 10 in one of the discussions, which I was not present for. They decided that I would have to manage and organize the protest. Either no one wanted to take the risk of being responsible for the protest due to the consequences, or they thought that more people would respond to my call for the protest. Rashad Hasanov,⁷ a board member of the NIDA civic movement, informed me of the decision on February 27.

I was opposed to this decision for two reasons. First, it was a big risk, and after two recent protests and repressions of opposing party members, it was obvious that it would spark the government’s wrath. The second reason was that we gave the government enough time to prepare for another protest. Twelve days seemed like a long time. Previous protests were successful because they were organized quickly and spontaneously. Because the government was not expecting this, they were taken aback and were only able to make a few arrests. They were, however, prepared this time for serious arrests and repressions. We gave them plenty of time for this. I objected to the decision, and we got into an argument with Rashad.

Actually, there was a third reason as well—a personal one. To be honest, I didn’t want to take orders from people who hadn’t invited me to the protest discussions.

Rashad claimed at the end of the argument that I was scared and that they would organize everything themselves. Was I afraid? I was, indeed. However, the reason was different. I was worried that people would wonder why I wasn’t on the protest’s organizing committee. If I accepted, I would be a handbag to people who didn’t even invite me to the discussions. I would be pushed to do everything they ask. I didn’t want this. I texted Rashad, saying that I would only accept under one condition. I’ll be the one making the decisions, and no one will mind if I do. We both agreed. I organized the event and invited my friends to it.

Because of the planning, the protest was organized to a high standard this time. But there was no spirit like the one we had on January 12. There were 360,000 invitations and 18,000 participants. However, the numbers are incapable of expressing society’s rage. On January 12, I shook society with my last protest from their deep sleep, I believe. However, there was teamwork and half-hearty planning for the next protest. Also, there’s a twelve-day bonus for us to counterattack the government.

The counterattack arrived on time. The leadership of NIDA bore responsibility for this protest. Special government institutions that were monitoring our messages were aware of it. They didn’t want to mess with me for the time being because I was already a public figure. But it was obvious that I would fall into their trap sooner or later. By the way, there was a serious repression plan against NIDA and the National Democratic Institution of the United States for thirty-two people (I was also on the list) that we were not aware of at the time. The government took action to carry out its plan. Two young NIDA members, Bakhtiyar Guliyev and Mammad Azizov, as well as seventeen-year-old Shahin Novruzlu, who had no ties to NIDA and influence to the political situation in the country, were arrested on March 7 by MTN. Bakhtiyar and Mammad were the administrators of the Heydar Aliyev–themed Facebook satire page. They were after Bakhtiyar and Mammad for vengeance. Shahin had posted something about Molotov Cocktail with zeal after watching videos about Egypt’s Arab Spring and had texted something about it to NIDA members.

All three were tortured at the MTN and coerced into making a statement against the NIDA leaders. On March 9, the video recording was broadcast on television channels. We were in front of the Nasimi court at the time for Mammad’s appeal complaint. We watched the video recording as one of our friends turned on his laptop. Following the video, some people began to cry while others sat on the ground in grief, knowing that it was only a trailer for the main film.

After a few minutes, RATI chair Emin Huseynov called his blogger brother Mehman Huseynov, who handed the phone to me. Emin’s words were echoing in my head: You are the next. It could be today or tomorrow. Go to our office right away and don’t leave until the protest is over. Mehman will transport you there.

On the phone, Emin explained some details to Mehman. Then we separated from the court’s vicinity. Mehman, on the other hand, had a date that night. I didn’t want to be a bother for his romantic evening. To be honest, he didn’t want me to be either. As a result, we agreed that I would return home. It was logical; the cops would assume I wasn’t at home but rather somewhere else hiding. But MTN was not on the same page with us.

When I got home, I was surrounded by nine people. They sat me in the car and began driving toward Gara Garayev. The cop in the front seat received a call halfway through and later said something to the driver. He then drove back to the Khatai regional police department’s police station 34. Following a brief discussion with the captain and a Soviet tradition of inviting my father to the department and immediately following his departure, a prosecutor entered the room. He began to jot something down when he received a phone call. He took all of his papers and left the room after the phone call.

Later on, they cleared out one of the operator’s rooms. I was going to spend the night at the police station in the operator’s room rather than the cell room. This time, one of the operators entered the room and presented a restaurant menu. He informed me that I could order whatever I wanted. After ordering the food, I wanted to pay, but he did not let me and said, You are the captain’s guest.

After bringing me cigarettes and food, they turned on the air conditioner and TV, handed me the remote controls, and then exited the room.

The protest was scheduled for the following day. I couldn’t sleep because I was too excited. The captain—he really annoyed me a day before and even offered me a job at the police department—summoned me to his room in the morning and informed me that the protest had been successfully dispersed. Then he showed me a picture of TOMA, a vehicle full of water cannons used in the protest, and said, How can you resist this? Pff! He then directed the operators to return me to my room.

They drove me to the court of Khatai the next day. All this time, they didn’t accept any written explanation from me. At that time, I knew very little about the law. I was under the impression that I was being investigated for a crime.

The trial began. When the judge was reading the accusation act, his words stunned me. When an officer asked him to follow public order, he insulted the police officer on duty.

I asked, What? What insult are you talking about?

The judge paused in reading the act and turned to face the field officer, saying, This officer claims that you have insulted his family.

When I heard it, my eyes welled up with tears of joy because it meant that I would be subjected to administrative detention. In response to the question, Have you ever insulted him? because I was happy, I responded hesitantly. I did, indeed. I can swear him again if you want! I also gave him a sidelong glance.

The court issued me with six days of administrative detention. I was taken to the Binagadi prison, where they were holding other administrative detainees. Six days were spent laughing with friends. The only thing that ruined our mood in prison was MTN’s announcement of Rashad Hasanov’s sentence.

I was released after six days. It was the period of the Novruz holiday. Even though it appeared that the government had stopped the repressions, it was only a time-out. They continued repressions against opponents after the holiday. The National Democratic Institution’s officials were summoned to the interrogation.

Later that day, two NIDA leaders, Uzeyir Mammadli and Rashadat Akhundov, were arrested. They arrested Zaur Gurbanli the next day. It was my turn now. Later, I discovered that on the same day that they arrested Zaur, they also opened a criminal investigation against me.

They called me twice for an interrogation, questioned me for hours, and finally said: Go and mind your manners!

I had the impression that my arrest was imminent. I spent a month fielding mocking questions from friends and foes alike, such as Why don’t they arrest Ilkin? For a