Mykhailo Kononovych, head of the Association of Political Prisoners — on Ukrainian penal colonies, the system of terror, and 50,000 behind bars
Mykhailo Kononovych – Head of the Association for the Protection of Political Prisoners and Human Rights
Liberal: How many political prisoners are there in the country?
MK: The question is who we include in the category of ‘political,’ and how we define the term ‘prisoner.’ Different approaches yield different figures. The number of criminal cases under political statutes (excluding categories such as SZCh, for instance) exceeds 100,000. However, not all defendants have had a restraint measure applied in general, or pre-trial detention in particular. If we count only those held in custody, the figure is 50,000. Under the article ‘Threat to National Security,’ approximately 44,000 arrests have been made — some involving pre-trial detention, some without.
Summing up, I would propose the following figures:
Over 100,000 procedural arrests (pre-trial detention, signed undertakings, electronic bracelets) under political statutes (excluding SZCh)
Currently imprisoned — 50,000 (including SZCh — over 100,000)
Under the specific article ‘Threat to National Security’ — 44,000 procedural arrests.
Liberal: Who are these people, for the most part? Journalists, activists, bloggers, retired security officers, military personnel?
MK: No. About half are collaborators — people from all walks of life who, for various reasons, interacted with Russians during the occupation: medical staff, teachers, janitors… Take my former cellmate Tolyk Miruta from the village of Synyak in Bucha district. His crime was delivering water to fellow villagers and going out to collect corpses. In other words, he received water from the Russians, and also got permission from them to cross their checkpoints to retrieve the bodies. That’s it. The SBU considered that sufficient grounds.
Liberal: We have previously covered the situation at Lukyanivka Pre-Trial Detention Centre, but much has changed since then. For instance, the once all-powerful former head of the detention regime and deputy director of the facility, Tymur Yevseenkov, has himself become the subject of an investigation. This could not but affect the overall situation. Tymur spent 18 years in leadership — he was that particular deputy: not the first, but not the second either…
So what happened, and what were the consequences?
MK: The consequences are hard to overstate. Literally everything changed. But what is striking is that not a single publication about this remains online, even though back in January, when events were fresh, anyone who didn’t write about it simply hadn’t gotten around to it. A Google search yields only references to texts mentioning ‘a group of senior officers’ who worked at the detention centre — but no names. The lists were presumably classified and scrubbed at the request of Ukrainian security services, on the grounds that they contain secrets of a state at war.
What I do know is that Yevseenkov was the first on whom the scheme was tested — he was taken to a penal colony and vanished. Many others involved in the case also disappeared or died. His right-hand man, for example — a junior inspector called Misha — was placed in solitary confinement at Lukyanivka itself, where he was poisoned, reportedly by cheese.
At the same time, Yevseenkov was used to work out the legal mechanics of the scheme later applied to MP Oleksandr Dubinsky — namely, transferring a pre-trial detainee to a penal colony and housing him alongside convicted criminals. Which makes sense: any legal absurdity is best road-tested on your own cops first. And so Yevseenkov was taken to Vinnytsia — to Penal Colony No. 86. That facility is now assigned to political prisoners, and I can state with confidence that no one there has seen Tymur. Dubinsky, for his part, was sent to a police colony — which is likely explained by his status as a member of parliament. Yet no amount of parliamentary immunity can answer the question of why a person whose guilt has not been proven in court is being held alongside convicted criminals. The official explanation — to prevent him from conducting public activities — doesn’t hold. Dubinsky continues his activities from the colony in exactly the same way he did from the detention centre. His lawyers are there on round-the-clock duty, just as before. Absolutely nothing has changed.
Liberal: How did the whole Tymur Yevseenkov affair unfold? What was the story?
MK: It all began with the murder of a criminal authority in the ‘cell warden’s’ block. The media reported that the incident took place in the exercise yard, but everyone in the prison knows that’s a lie. The disinformation was an attempt to conceal the fact that people with status and means can pay to move between cells — which, at Lukyanivka, is perfectly normal.
Liberal: Is the cause of the conflict known?
MK: Yes! And anyone with any connection to ‘the life’ knows it. Police lawlessness and the involvement of the ‘cell warden’ and his inner circle in it had angered the criminal elite. A ‘wanderer’ — a messenger of the thieves’ world — arrived at the detention centre. His task was to make contact with the ‘cell warden’ and deliver what amounted to a ‘black mark’ from the criminal hierarchy. He was murdered in the process. The killing caused a major stir. Inspections uncovered numerous violations at the facility — extortion, torture, punishment cells, and so on.
Liberal: And what happened to the ‘cell warden’? Who was he? What became of him?
MK: He is the former ‘cell warden’ now. They change often. A detention centre is a remand prison. Remaining there too long after sentencing is, from a criminal’s perspective, already compromising. A case can of course drag on for years, but not beyond half the sentence, under the Savchenko Law.
When I was at the detention centre, the ‘cell warden’ was Kyrylo. He was not a crowned thief, but he stood for the thieves’ code. And the code was upheld under him, despite the intense pressure the administration placed on the criminal element, and the SBU on the administration. The more political prisoners in a jail, the larger the slice of influence the security services demand. And then simply paying up the chain isn’t enough — you have to cooperate and take responsibility for their games. Punishment cells existed, of course — most political prisoners passed through them — but even there, certain limits on pressure were maintained. Afterwards, my brother and I even received a ‘care package’ from the ‘cell warden’ — as compensation for the prison’s inability to hold back the ‘rats.’
The next ‘cell warden’ was Rostyk. He didn’t last long, serving as a transitional figure. He didn’t take sins upon himself, but when he was released, he left the ‘warden’s post’ to Slavyk. And Slavyk became a loyal aide to regime officer Tymur. It was Slavyk to whom the thieves sent their warning. Slavyk orchestrated the murder of the ‘wanderer.’ After the arrest of ‘Tymur and his crew,’ Slavyk was hastily transferred to a penal colony, where he signed up as a volunteer and went to serve in the GUR — military intelligence. He likely served that organisation as a ‘cell warden’ too. Years of service were accumulating, ranks, awards.
There is something else that almost no one outside knows, but that everyone inside does. The security services periodically send prison guards to the front — as officers, naturally, in units formed from former inmates. These are the suicide units. Relations within them differ little from those in a penal colony, and neither does the hierarchy. And the police officer Ivan Prykhodko from Pereiaslav — who, while drunk and firing at cans for amusement, killed a six-year-old boy playing in the neighbouring yard — most likely ended up in one of those units too, probably with the same status as Slavyk.
Rostyk, meanwhile, left for Europe — which suggests he had state-level backing that provided a ‘man of conscription age’ with the documents needed to leave the country. There is a new ‘cell warden’ at the detention centre now — Seryozha. Slavyk’s circle no longer carries any weight.
Liberal: Let’s turn to the political camps. What is a political camp? In the USSR, for instance, political prisoners were threatened with transfer to criminal units. Those were very ‘red’ zones with strict regimentation — but that regimentation was offset by an educated environment and the absence of criminal hierarchy pressure. What is it like in today’s Ukraine?
MK: In today’s Ukraine, political camps are, in the purest sense, a concentration camp system. Not only are human rights non-existent here, along with rules of detention and basic human morality — what morality?! Even logic and common sense do not apply. There are very bad zones for political prisoners, and there are simply horrific ones.
Liberal: Our publication touched only superficially on the topic of Penal Colony No. 101 in Zaporizhzhia Oblast. At the time, it was unique.
MK: Colony No. 101 was disbanded due to the advancing front line. Meanwhile, an entire system of camps for political prisoners is taking shape:
No. 122 – Pyatykhatky
No. 80 – Kryvyi Rih
No. 89 – Dnipro
No. 86 – Vinnytsia
Colony No. 86 is a branch of hell on earth. Even before the war it was notorious for brutality. Search it on Google — you’ll get a compelling set of documented facts (takes out phone) — 2019: an inmate beaten to death. Here, for example — prison officers led a 59-year-old convict into a separate room, where they dealt him no fewer than 85 blows. He died from his injuries. Call centres were also found operating on the premises. These things always happen with the direct involvement of the administration, of course. And incidentally, according to official documents, this is precisely where Tymur Yevseenkov disappeared.
Liberal: Let’s stay with this facility. How recently did political prisoners arrive there?
MK: Not long ago. Political prisoners arrived in January 2026. Previously it was a criminal facility with a terrible reputation. The very fact that it was chosen for political prisoners speaks for itself. The criminal inmates were transferred out in January, but until mid-January, ‘activists’ — so-called ‘goats’ (prison collaborators) — remained. The last of them crossed paths with the first political prisoners.
After the criminals were removed, the ‘goats’ and guards deliberately broke and looted the property and the barracks themselves. They smashed windows. Some sections were simply burned. According to the ‘goats,’ this was done deliberately, to make conditions unbearable for the political prisoners. Even the ‘goats’ felt sympathy.
Liberal: Good God. So the prisoners have to rebuild everything themselves with no materials?
MK: Officially, Penal Colony No. 86 is licensed for two types of labour: pig farming and poultry farming. In practice, neither exists — but there is construction work, a sawmill, the production of barbed wire, and scrap metal processing. All of this is entirely illegal, without proper licences, working conditions, or safety standards. For this labour, people are paid 190–200 hryvnias per month. A ‘goat,’ meanwhile, earns 2,000. That cannot be legitimate. What is happening? The labour in the industrial zone and on construction sites is entirely off the books and constitutes personal income for the administration. The inmates’ wages are simply a percentage skimmed off the ‘goats» pay. If in Colony No. 101 people were coerced into signing away their wages to the administration, in Colony No. 86 production has been entirely pushed into the shadow economy and is simply not paid for at all.
The method of coercion is beating. Refusal to work is impossible under any circumstances, including serious illness. In such cases, instead of forced labour, ‘labour therapy’ is prescribed — which amounts to the same thing. One example: convict Andriy Anatoliyovych Hymhyn. He arrived at the camp in January and lived for one month. His diagnoses — diabetes and advanced-stage cancer. He was transferred in the company of a doctor. He was beaten in front of the doctor during the intake process. He lived for a month. He was beaten repeatedly when forced to work.
Liberal: A horrifying story.
MK: And far from the only one. Here is another: convict Samir Bedrashko, 4th unit, SPS. On 24 March 2026, at around 9 in the morning, Samir Bedrashko and another man who is afraid to give his name were summoned to the checkpoint, where they were savagely beaten by six colony employees. They were beaten in turn; the officers jumped on them. Sexual assault was threatened. The reason: the inmates had not put on their uniforms, which had been washed and simply hadn’t dried.
On 31 March, Samir’s condition became critical due to the beatings — concussion, a severe haematoma on his head, persistent vomiting. This was not considered grounds for relieving him of work duties. Colony staff scattered his personal belongings and dragged him to the checkpoint for a second beating. Samir broke free and ran to the kitchen, where in desperation he slashed his wrists. The colony administration called an ambulance and issued threats, demanding he say nothing about what had happened or why: ‘We’ll kill you, and no one will ever know.’ What has become of Bedrashko is unknown.
Savage beatings of inmates by drunk guards, along with constant threats of rape with a mop handle or other objects, have long since become routine here.
On 28 January 2026, inmates Dzyuba, Kotenko, Mykhailo Sozonov, Shapran, Mykola Pyatachenko, Batarev, Vitaliy Kyhilchenko, and Kelyukin from the 5th unit SPS were summoned to the headquarters block, where eight staff members beat them in turn. The pretext was arriving a few minutes late for morning exercise — because there are no clocks in the barracks and no warning signals are given. Furthermore, the outside temperature was minus 20 degrees Celsius, and the barracks had no heating, meaning inmates had to sleep in their clothes. Vitaliy Kyhilchenko was subjected to an attempted rape with a mop handle.
I should note that the 4th unit SPS includes many former soldiers of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. Many have wounds and disabilities sustained in combat. Yaroslav Vytlynets, for instance, after brutal beatings, is currently in an isolation cell (the ‘pit’) for openly speaking out against the beatings, torture and abuse of inmates by the prison administration. And this is far from a complete list of the cases known to us.
Liberal: In your view, how did we come to this? Is the Ukrainian state so adept at establishing dictatorship, or is it that we — as a society — were so ill-prepared? How could such a monster have grown up in the heart of Europe in just a few years?
MK: This task was set in advance by external management forces, and it is being overseen by them. The government is merely an executor, nothing more. It is important to understand that the people behind the organisation of the terror never saw Ukraine simply as a right-wing junta, but as a territory of total war. And where total war is waged, methods are far harsher. In the end, in a world where citizens die daily in bombing raids and people are snatched off the street like animals to be sent into assault units, human life and human dignity lose all value.
