‘Calm him down’: the culture of obstruction facing political prisoners like me in Azerbaijan
Detained Azerbaijani journalist Ulviyya Ali writes from prison about her experiences with the ‘culture of obstruction’ and lack of rights faced.
The following article was written from prison by Azerbaijani journalist Ulviyya Ali (Guliyeva). Ali was originally detained in May 2025 as a suspect in the ongoing case against independent Azerbaijani media outlet Meydan TV, which she denies working with. Earlier in January, she was named a finalist for the 2025 Free Press Awards by Free Press Unlimited.
On 23 October, one of my lawyers came to visit me. I had heard in advance that detainees were now being searched even in the investigation room where meetings with lawyers take place. Before going to meet my lawyer, I prepared a letter and put it in my pocket, then went to the investigation room. While checking my pockets, a female guard ‘found’ my letter, put it in her own pocket, and left the room. I then left the search room, called my lawyer, and demanded that the seizure of the letter be officially recorded.
The head of the investigation room, a man named Ruslan, stepped outside and called someone. A few seconds later, he summoned me and handed me the phone. On the line was Ahad Abdiyev, Deputy Head of the Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre. He asked whom the letter was addressed to. I replied, ‘Mr. Ruslan can read it to you’, handed the phone back to him, took the letter from his hand, and opened it. The letter said: ‘Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre, stop your illegal actions!’. I handed the letter to the head of the investigation room and proceeded to meet my lawyer.
During the last week of October, my lawyers did not come. Had they come, I would have continued my protest. Still, I hoped that perhaps the Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre would understand the message I had sent and would stop its unlawful practices.
Finally, on 3 November, my lawyer came again. When I arrived at the investigation room, I saw that the head of the room had been replaced. He told me that I would be searched and only then allowed to meet my lawyer. I objected, telling him that meetings with a lawyer are confidential and that they were violating the law. There is a phrase that officials — whose interaction with me in prison usually consists of no more than greetings — like to use: ‘Don’t spoil relations, don’t create problems’. Even though they know we are political prisoners, they behave as if our objections to illegal actions are motivated by personal hostility.
Gulnara Mehdiyeva
Another important point is that the new head of the investigation room, Shahriyar Abbasov, is also the head of the meeting room. To be fair, I have never personally witnessed him committing any illegal acts there. In any case, my problem is not with individuals, but with the illegal system that has been established. It is inappropriate for the same person to be responsible for both the investigation and meeting rooms. As Abbasov himself said, when there is a ‘problem’, it can affect the other side as well.
When I told Abbasov that I objected to the search, he reported it to someone and then said that if I did not consent to the search, I would not be allowed to meet my lawyer. I do not know who made the decision on the other end of the phone, but as a result, I was unlawfully denied a meeting with my lawyer and returned to my cell. I should note that this unlawful search was not applied only to me — it is imposed on everyone who meets with a lawyer in the detention centre. While I was objecting to the illegality of the search, detainees who were unaware of their rights were being sent into the search room like chicks into an incubator. I knew then that my protest was not only about myself, but also about defending the rights of hundreds of detainees held in the detention centre. Even if I appeared like a ‘white crow’ among people unaware of their rights, I remained persistent in opposing illegality.
About an hour later, an operative named Elmeddin came and said that the head of the Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre, Elnur Ismayilov, had sent him to take an explanation from me regarding my inability to meet with my lawyer. The head wanted the matter investigated. I wrote a detailed explanation, legally substantiating why the search was unlawful.
Elmeddin took my explanation and left. Near the end of the workday, he returned and cited Article 36.2 of the Cabinet of Ministers’ Decision ‘On the Approval of the Internal Regulations of Detention Facilities’, claiming that the search was lawful. The rules state that searches of detainees, searches of buildings within the detention centre, inspections of cells, residential areas, and production facilities may be conducted both routinely and unexpectedly. However, Elmeddin ignored Article 36.1 of the same decision, which specifies that searches are conducted to confiscate prohibited items, detect hidden compartments and escape preparations, and locate hidden detainees, and that technical means are to be used during searches.
Article 36.5 states that a personal search of detainees must be carried out in the following cases:
- 36.5.1 upon entering or leaving the detention centre;
- 36.5.2 when being transferred to or released from a punishment cell or single-occupancy cell;
- 36.5.3 before and after visits;
- 36.5.4 when violating the regime or committing a crime.
None of these provisions mention searches during meetings with lawyers. I noted that I had been searched in all of the listed situations and had never objected. I told Elmeddin that they were violating the Criminal Procedure Code, the Criminal Code, and the constitution. He replied, ‘I didn’t come to prove you wrong’, and left.
On 4 November, I asked for a phone to call my lawyer, but I was not allowed to do so, once again violating my right to defence. It should also be noted that when political prisoners request phone calls outside their legally designated call days, special permission is required, whereas ordinary detainees do not face this restriction.
On 5 November, the head of the Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre, Elnur Ismayilov, came to the Medical-Sanitary Unit where we are being held. I was taken from my cell to meet him and explained the problem. He said that the search was not unlawful. He even stated that he had two degrees in law. I replied that if he had legal training, he should know better than anyone that the search was unlawful.
Previously, Ismayilov had repeatedly summoned a close relative of mine, who was also detained at the same centre, and reprimanded them about me. That relative had been arrested earlier on non-political grounds and had nothing to do with my case. Whenever my writings or interviews with other political prisoners were published, he complained to that relative in an attempt to influence me. After learning this, I told my mother during a phone call that if anyone said even a word to me about my writings, I would delete them. The final straw was when, after I publicised the fact that I was unable to meet my family on my birthday, Ismayilov again used that relative to demand that the news be removed. After that, I cut off all contact with that relative. Eventually, in late October, that relative was transferred to a penal colony. Ismayilov denied that any of this had happened and even cursed whoever had done it. Hearing curses from a detention centre head and official authorities was one of the strangest things I have encountered since being detained.
Following my conversation with Ismayilov, I became even more convinced that the search was unlawful and that the authorities knew it. Ismayilov said that these actions were carried out in accordance with instructions, and that he did not make those instructions. I replied, ‘If those instructions told you to break a detainee’s finger, would you do it?’. He answered, ‘No’. I said, ‘Because that would be illegal — just like this search. Therefore, such an instruction should not exist’. He then manipulatively suggested that if I was ‘fixating on words’, I could be searched in his office before being taken to my lawyer. I replied that if I was taken from my cell to my lawyer, the cause and effect did not change, and moreover, I have never been searched when brought to his office.
Ismayilov said that the search was conducted for security reasons and that although my person was searched, the writings I prepared for my defence were not examined. When I stated that I would challenge this issue legally, I saw that he became irritated, hurriedly said goodbye, and left the reception room.
Five minutes later, Ismayilov entered our cell and said, ‘You don’t write about those who arrested you; you’re fixated on me’. I replied that I write about violations from the highest to the lowest levels, and that he probably just reads the parts about himself. Again, he reproached me by saying, ‘There is no gratitude in people’. I replied, ‘Kindness is done without expecting anything in return; if you expect something, it’s not kindness’. He then left the cell. What I could not understand was why complaining about violations of my rights was being perceived as wrongdoing against someone.
On 7 November, my lawyer was supposed to come again. That day, a guard handed me the prison phone and said my lawyer was calling. My lawyer told me he had arrived and that we needed to meet that day. I realised they were trying to put me and my lawyer in a difficult position. I cannot blame my lawyer, as we know what pressures lawyers handling political cases face in Azerbaijan.
Aytan Farhadova
I was then taken from my cell to meet my lawyer. In the investigation room, I was once again subjected to a search. This time, it was more intrusive: they lifted my trouser legs to check my socks, examined under my arms, and checked the elastic bands of my underwear. I objected to the inspection of my document folder and left the search room to go to the meeting room with my lawyer. No sooner had I sat down then Shahriyar Abbasov, the head of the Investigation and Meeting Rooms, entered and continued the unlawful action in front of my lawyer, flipping through my documents. Then he suddenly said, ‘Let me call the girls to check them’. A guard named Aysu Mutallimova came, examined my documents one by one, checked between the pages of my notebooks, and left. Two days earlier, Abbasov had said the documents would not be checked; his words turned out to be false.
My suspicions were confirmed: the search conducted under the pretext of security was being abused to directly obstruct my journalistic activities. Yet, under Article 8.1.14 of the Cabinet of Ministers’ Decision on the Internal Regulations of Detention Facilities, I have the right to keep documents related to exercising my rights and lawful interests, as well as writings that are the result of my intellectual activity, including copies of proposals, applications, complaints, and responses to them. As a result, I am now certain that if you want to complain about an illegal action by the Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre, they will commit another illegal act to prevent it.
Not long ago, when Abzas Media staff wrote about Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre, and when Ali Zeynal, detained in the Toplum TV case, complained about conditions there, their family visits, phone calls, and meetings with lawyers were obstructed. In other words, when the centre’s leadership commits an illegal act, they do not hesitate to commit another one to prevent it from becoming public.
Aytan Farhadova
Given the current situation, I told my lawyer that in order not to endanger them or cause problems at the Bar Association, I would write the complaints about the violations committed against me myself. It is clear to all of us that a complaint to the Bar Association can result in the removal of a lawyer. Indeed, the situation in Azerbaijan has reached the point where a client is forced to protect their lawyer. This behaviour instills fear, because there are already very few lawyers defending political prisoners, and no one wants trouble, so they avoid associating with such individuals, automatically leaving the person defenceless.
During the six months I have been held in Baku’s Pre-Trial Detention Centre, I have not paid much attention to the veiled threats and warnings directed at me, as I somehow managed to handle things on my own. In general, I am opposed to publicising every minor issue and dominating the public agenda. Before writing this text, I intended to quietly file a complaint with the court, whose outcome I already knew in advance. But I thought that everyone should know that not only my rights, but also the rights of other detainees are being violated.
Under the guise of security, detainees’ right to confidential meetings with their defence counsel is being violated.
This action, first and foremost, undermines the right to qualified legal assistance guaranteed by Article 61 of the constitution. Without ensuring confidentiality, it is impossible to speak of the quality of legal assistance. The inspection of documents violates Article 15.2 of the Law ‘On Lawyers and Legal Practice’, which guarantees the right to meet and speak privately with the person being defended or represented, without interference. When the head of the investigation room enters the room and flips through documents while a defence strategy is being discussed, this clearly falls within the scope of the ‘interference’ prohibited by the law. The same principle is reflected in Article 81.9 of the Code of Execution of Punishments, which states that meetings with a lawyer must be private if the parties so wish. The detention centre determines the confidentiality of lawyer-client meetings on its own, without asking the lawyer or the client. Such meetings must be conducted in confidential conditions — where guards can see but not hear. Examining the contents of documents effectively removes this ‘not hearing’ (not obtaining information) barrier.
In the international legal context, flipping through documents constitutes a direct interference with the right to respect private life and correspondence protected by Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights. According to the case law (Campbell v. the United Kingdom), correspondence and documentation between a detainee and a lawyer are considered ‘privileged’, and reading their contents is impermissible. Searches conducted for security purposes must be limited to technical inspections aimed at detecting prohibited items (such as sharp objects) and must not allow for the reading of text. Because the court in that case considered the confidentiality of lawyer-client correspondence to be a fundamental element of the right to a fair trial, the issue also extends into the scope of Article 6.
The philosophy of the Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre’s leadership is simple: if you object to illegality, you are a ‘problematic detainee’. This philosophy is almost akin to that of criminal subcultures — if you violate their unwritten rules, they see you as an enemy, identify your actions as wrongdoing against them, seek revenge, and display passive aggression. Yet all you want is for the law not to be violated and for fair treatment.
For example, a person named Rovshan who listens to phone calls decides what time you can make a call. If you have not behaved ‘wisely’ or have said something he did not like on the phone, he shows passive aggression. Even if you ask a guard to let you make a call around 11:00, Rovshan says, ‘Call at 12:00, don’t be so demanding’. When 12:00 arrives and you try again, he delays the call even further. Or, if you previously obtained permission for something, but have not behaved ‘wisely’, it suddenly becomes ‘impossible’. Every privilege granted in prison creates something you can lose, and sometimes one must free oneself from such things so they cannot be used against you.
Yousef Bardouka
On 10 November, around noon, I was woken up and told I had to go to a reception. When I asked whose reception it was, I saw an operative and the head’s duty assistant. I asked what I had done. They said, ‘You know very well’. I washed up and was taken from my cell. The operative stated that I had called on people to start a hunger strike and that I had to write an explanation. I should add that six women detained in the Meydan TV case and three of the six religious women detained in August 2025 are held in separate cells in the Medical-Sanitary Unit. Since 9 November, those religious women have been on a hunger strike protesting the two-month extension of their detention.
In response to the operative’s claims, I emphasised that I had said nothing of the sort. He replied, ‘We received a signal; they said you made noise through the ventilation and told them not to stop the hunger strike’. I responded that Deputy Head Ahad Abdiyev had threatened the women with solitary confinement if they did not stop the hunger strike, and that I had merely told them that such pressure is commonly used against political prisoners on hunger strike. When asked whether I had called others to join the hunger strike, I said that those detained in the Meydan TV case had nothing to do with the religious women and that such a call would be illogical. Moreover, if a person’s capacity for a hunger strike is three days, what significance would it have if I told them to strike for 40 days? After writing the explanation, the operative and the duty assistant left.
What I understood from this was that after my objections regarding the lawyer issue, the prison administration was testing how I would act and trying to portray me as a problematic detainee. The point is that even if I had said what they alleged, it would not have been unlawful, but their assumptions did not withstand logic.
Since being imprisoned, I have written countless explanations. You are never informed of the results; they are simply added to your personal file.
Instead of correcting its mistakes, the prison administration acted chaotically, committing illegality upon illegality:
- unlawful searches when going to meet a lawyer;
- denying me access to my lawyer;
- threatening my lawyer;
- attempting to prevent my complaints;
- trying to leave me without a lawyer and violating my right to defence;
- indirectly discouraging me from seeking defence from other lawyers;
- portraying me as a problematic detainee.
Had they refrained from the very first illegal action, none of this would have continued.
Aytan Farhadova
Another phrase I often hear in prison is: ‘Calm him down’. When a detainee objects to something, staff are instructed to calm them down, trying to defuse the situation through conversation. The matter is simple: if a detainee’s legitimate demand is met, they will calm down. Instead, staff engage in empty talk, and the problem remains unresolved.
On 14 November, my lawyer came again. This time, I was taken to the meeting room for the search. The detention centre’s leadership did this to dress up illegality as legality: since searches before meetings with lawyers are unlawful, they resorted to the searches provided for administrative buildings under internal rules.
This time, guard Aysu Mutallimova scanned me with a special device, then asked me to turn out my pocket linings and flip through my documents myself. Up to that point, everything was normal — until she attempted to conduct a manual search. I objected again: ‘If we are searched by hand, why are devices needed? And if devices are used, why is a manual search needed?’. After my objection, she reported to someone and said that Deputy Head Javid Gulaliyev had stated that if I was not searched, I would not be allowed to meet my lawyer.
For the second time, in order not to have my lawyer leave without seeing me and out of respect for them, I was forced to agree.
The Baku Pre-Trial Detention Centre repeatedly violated my right to defence, and its head Ismayilov threatened one of my lawyers with a complaint to the Bar Association if a complaint about these violations were filed. To protect my lawyer, I asked them to withdraw from my defence, because I did not want them to be harmed because of me.
After this text, I expect that the prison administration may restrict my family visits, phone calls, and render my lawyers ‘harmless’. We experience double isolation in pre-trial detention: we are not alone only because another detainee is kept with us, but we ourselves are held in the Medical-Sanitary Unit. We are completely unaware of what happens in the women’s block; we have learned about it only from our colleagues, journalists from Abzas Media. Our only connection to freedom is through our families and lawyers — and now we are being deprived of them as well. Perhaps for some, treating political prisoners this way looks like career advancement and ‘honour’ in the eyes of the authorities. The country is already in the hands of those who commit such illegal acts. You trust courts that issue unlawful decisions and are confident that your violations will go unpunished, moving from one position to another. Even if we are your captives and appear like ‘white crows’, we will still tell you: ‘Stop’.
Note: About a month later, on 30 November, my solitary protest finally yielded results: I and all other detainees are now searched using technical devices, and our defence documents are no longer opened or read.
