Turkmenistan’s correctional institutions do not correct prisoners.On the contrary, inmates in its colonies deteriorate — both morally and physically.The very things many are imprisoned for — corruption, fraud, and violence — thrive inside.
Money decides everything: who gets private quarters and who lives on watery gruel, working exhausting hours for one dollar a month.Even among penitentiary staff, this job is seen as the lowest rung of a career ladder — those who manage to stay humane rarely last more than a few months.
A transfer to the police’s fire department is celebrated like a release.This is the final part of a story based on the recollections of a former inmate who went through every stage of Turkmenistan’s prison system.Social StratificationA popular prison joke: An inmate calls his mother and says, “Mom, send me some money — I want to buy prohod! (a passage)” “Parohod? (a steamboat) Is there a sea in there?”What “passages” are — and what kinds of luxury items or basic necessities are sold in the colony — was explained in the previous story.
That’s also where the topic of inmate stratification came up.But it’s not just about money: the article of the Criminal Code under which a person was convicted plays a huge role.Political prisoners — officially labeled syýasy durnuksyz (“politically unreliable”) — hold an ambiguous status in the LB-E/12 general-regime facility in Seydi, Lebap province.
The administration and other inmates generally treat them decently and do not go out of their way to make life harder for them.But from Ashgabat come direct orders: no phone calls, no letters, no visits.
Local staff strictly follow these instructions.Moreover, each attempt to call home — usually through phones secretly held by other inmates — lands a political prisoner in solitary confinement, another order from the center.In recent years, more and more men have been convicted for same-sex relations.
Informal prison hierarchies make their situation far worse: such inmates are automatically labeled “outcasts.” They are housed in a separate section called “the Harem” and assigned the dirtiest, hardest labor.
Their mortality rate is higher — one or two die each year from HIV-related complications without ever receiving antiretroviral therapy; several more succumb annually to liver cirrhosis or heart failure.Those convicted on religious charges — referred to by the administration as “Wahhabis” — are kept under a strict prison regime.
They spend nearly all their time in their cells, eating there as well, and are allowed only rare walks in a separate yard.Their only contact with the general inmate population might occur in the infirmary — for instance, religious prisoners were brought there for COVID vaccinations during the pandemic.
Ordinary inmates don’t even know how many of them there are.VIP status, on the other hand, does not necessarily depend on the article of conviction — or even on money.
For example, two men from Baharden, Toyly Ishan and his uncle Azim Ishan, were given their own keldym (private room) by the administration, set up in what used to be a warehouse.
It was equipped with a kitchen, a bathroom, and a spacious living room — one of the first to have an air conditioner.Their patrons intervened on their behalf because the men were “hereditary healers.” They continued their metaphysical practice even in prison, receiving clients in a visiting room granted to their exclusive use.The Ishans were convicted under Article 293 (now Article 328) — possession or handling of psychoactive substances without intent to distribute.
In October 2023, both were granted early release on parole.Parole does not exist in Turkmenistan, but it was arranged specifically for them.Before leaving, Toyly sold his keldym for 80,000 manats (about $4,000).There are also members of the nomenklatura behind bars — officials of various ranks are caught for corruption and imprisoned several times a year.
One of them, former Sports Minister Dayanch Gulgeldiyev, ended up in LB-E/12.He may have angered Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedov, but not enough to face any particularly harsh treatment in prison.
On the contrary, inspections, commissions, and riot police raids never touched him.The former minister’s keldym was located directly above the warden’s office.Gulgeldiyev was released in May 2025, and his keldym was purchased by Pena Nepesov — an associate of convicted Turkmen businessman Chary Kulov (pictured).Until his release in May 2025, former mayor of Ashgabat’s Berkararlyk district, Bagtyyar Byashekov, lived a similar lifestyle.
He had been punished over a pothole discovered by the then-president during an inspection accompanied by former city mayor Shamuhammet Durdylyev.Byashekov had his own keldym with a kitchen and a private bathroom.
In private conversations, he complained that Durdylyev forced him and other subordinates to work from 4 a.m.to 11 p.m., sometimes calling meetings at 11 p.m.
or even midnight.But to function under such a schedule, Byashekov said, one had to use narcotics — as Durdylyev himself did.From 2020 to 2023, the same colony also held Rasul Babayev, former director of the Sport TV channel, who was arrested along with Gulgeldiyev.
In his keldym, he set up a phone business — charging inmates for calls.The evening news program Watan constantly infuriated Babayev: he would say he had worked for the good of the country, developed the channel, and signed a contract with sports broadcaster Setanta Sports — only to be discarded by the leadership.Serving an eight-year sentence is Danatar Kulov, elder brother and associate of Chary Kulov.
At first, Kulov was held under very strict conditions — denied both phone calls and visits.But after a year, the regime was eased and he was allowed a keldym: he enjoys protection from the Prosecutor General’s Office, and the supervisory prosecutor personally checks in on him during every visit.Improvement or Deterioration?Inmates live in a constant state of waiting — for visits, for care packages, but most of all, for a pardon.
Before every presidential clemency decree, rumors and predictions sweep through the colony: someone claims to have heard over the phone that certain articles will be included; a staff member whispers how many will be released; someone’s friend’s neighbor works at Demirýollary (the national railway) and knows how many train wagons have been requested to transport freed prisoners — and so on.A pardon is an enormous emotional strain.
Everyone wants to be released, hoping luck will turn their way.But it’s usually the “routine” convicts who go free — those jailed for theft, fraud, or fighting.
Watching others leave while you remain behind is painful; many turn to sedatives or valerian drops.It takes three days or so to recover.Life goes on — and the countdown to the next pardon begins.
Many had hoped that the revised Criminal Code would bring an amnesty — a mass release or sentence reductions — but that never happened.Holidays also bring brief excitement.During Eid al-Adha and New Year, football tournaments are held, with each barracks fielding a team.
The colony’s warden or a wealthy inmate puts up a sheep as a prize.The winning barracks cooks meaty soup from it for everyone.During Eid al-Fitr, the mosque inside the colony hosts daily iftar meals, funded by inmates who take turns by region — today Mary, tomorrow Lebap, and so on.
The same system runs through Ramadan, though wealthy prisoners sometimes supply food from the outside and host iftar in their own name.Those fasting can also get a daily meal from the canteen — lists of participants are collected in advance.Most of the time, however, prisoners do not strengthen their bodies, wills, or spirits — quite the opposite.
Idleness is one of the biggest problems in the colony.Every day feels the same, and there’s almost nothing worthwhile to do.As described in the previous part, some inmates work — mostly the poorest or most marginalized.
Many are forced into heavy labor, which is closer to slavery than “work therapy.” At the industrial zone, where prisoners are taken to toil at a brick factory, they face not only backbreaking work for one dollar (!) a month but also beatings from an officer named Rashid.
Complaints have been filed against him repeatedly — all without result.Those with more free time suffer from informational isolation.Cable TV is available only in keldym inmates.Subscriptions to newspapers and magazines, though technically allowed, are impossible.
The library is in decay, starved of new books, especially in Russian — only worn-out Soviet editions remain.Most inmates spend their time in front of televisions, watching movies, series, or recordings from Turkmen TikTok.With nothing to occupy themselves, prisoners turn on each other.
Conflicts flare up over any pretext.The Unwritten CodesWhile most inmates dream of returning to normal life, there is a group that lives by the thieves’ code and imposes it on others.
They are the ones most often provoking fights and unrest.These are the so-called maloletki — prisoners convicted of murder or rape committed as minors.They typically serve 1015 years, beginning in the juvenile colony MR-E/18 in Bayramaly and, upon reaching adulthood, transferred to regular colonies.
They are, in essence, children — offenders whose minds and personalities were not yet fully formed.They could, in theory, be rehabilitated.Instead, prison only hardens and marginalizes them.
The state offers no rehabilitation, leaving them to fall under the influence of those who indoctrinate them with the thieves’ code — the only “future” they can imagine.Ex-minors hold key positions: section overseer, barracks overseer, common-fund accountant, quarantine and isolation supervisor, and kolkhoz (colony overseer).
Until 2023, the kolkhoz was strictly banned, but deputy warden Shohrat Byashimov reintroduced it.Normally, such thief structures oppose the administration, but in Turkmenistan the kolkhoz operates under unofficial administrative control — making the colony easier to manage, which explains Byashimov’s decision.Still, the authorities do not allow them to gain too much power.
Those who live strictly by the thieves’ code and refuse to obey the administration — as well as chronic violators — are sent to high-security barracks.It functions like solitary confinement or quarantine.
Inmates are held there for a month, and afterward, based on a court decision and the administration’s recommendation, they can be transferred to Ovadan-Depe prison for six months or a year.Alongside criminal hierarchies, nationalist divisions flourish as well, organized around regional blocs.
The LB-E/12 colony is located in Lebap province, and the administration unofficially backs the Lebap faction.With such support, Lebap inmates often clash with others.In October 2023, they fought with prisoners from Mary — the latter were sent to solitary confinement, while the Lebap group went unpunished.
The supervisory prosecutor, Begli Tyashliyev, himself from Mary, arrived to investigate.He criticized the administration for fostering nationalism and demanded the release of his fellow provincials.A few months later, an even larger incident occurred.
On December 9, the eve of the Neutrality Day pardon, another fight broke out — this time between inmates from Lebap and Ashgabat.It was nothing extraordinary, easily preventable, but local officers deliberately failed to intervene, wanting to undermine the then-warden, Akysh (likely short for Akmurat or Akmukhammet) Charyyev.
The scuffle escalated to fires and broken windows.Staff then called headquarters and reported a “riot.” Charyyev, respected by inmates, could have defused the situation, but he was notified too late, while Ashgabat was told an exaggerated version.Local OMON riot police arrived first, followed the next morning by a commission from Ashgabat accompanied by capital OMON forces.
The commission stayed in Lebap for nearly two weeks.During that time, keldyms were demolished, inmate markets shut down, and prisoners forced into uniforms.Comprehensive searches uncovered cash, phones, and drugs.
Prisoners were drilled by the book; everyone, without exception, attended roll call.Eventually, the commission realized there had been no riot — only a mass brawl started by Lebap’s ex-minors.
Five of them were convicted of forming a criminal group and sentenced to 1518 years; five Ashgabat inmates received hooliganism charges and fourfive years each.Among staff, only the deputy warden was punished — demoted and reassigned.
Over time, the colony returned to its usual order: keldyms rebuilt, markets reopened.The administration resumed using informal methods of control, including privileges for cooperating inmates.The administration sees and hears everything; it knows all that goes on.
As former operations chief Shohrat Garayev once put it: “If three people gather, one of them is mine.”Torturous ConditionsThe penitentiary system functions like a machine: formal and informal mechanisms grind down everyone who enters it, even without deliberate cruelty.
Yet the attitudes of staff and officials often make things worse.Many of the effectively torturous conditions in LB-E/12 colony stem from greed or indifference.There is, for instance, no real “lights out” in the colony.
Those who violate the regime usually have connections — prison officials can’t touch them.As a result, everyone around them is deprived of normal sleep.The atmosphere in the dining hall is anything but appetite-stimulating.
There are no air conditioners: in the summer heat, eating is difficult as it is, and when the food is hot, the meal feels more like a visit to a sauna — prisoners drip with sweat.
Sanitary standards are ignored; tables are never disinfected, dishes are washed carelessly, and no utensils are provided.Flies and cockroaches are everywhere.There’s no ventilation, and the air is filled with a constant stench.
As for the food itself — it’s repulsive and empty, aptly nicknamed balanda, prison gruel.Usually, only about a hundred out of more than a thousand inmates go to the dining hall.
It fills up only during sadaqa — a charity feast — when everyone wants to taste pilaf made from decent ingredients donated by wealthier prisoners, along with fresh salad, pastries, and soda drinks.Unsanitary conditions, malnutrition, and other “side effects” of prison life hit hardest those with chronic illnesses.
The infirmary suffers from a severe shortage of medicine and qualified staff; most of its wards have been converted into keldyms, and there’s no special diet table.All this steals extra years of life beyond inmates’ sentences — and takes its toll during accidents and disease outbreaks.
At least they do get vaccinated: every year against the flu, and during the pandemic, against COVID-19.Many in the colony caught the virus, but there were no deaths.Some prisoners try to get into the prison hospital MR-B/15 in Mary, where inmates are supposedly treated.
But they come back disappointed — no treatment is provided unless you pay.Beyond these “unintentional” torments, targeted, brutal torture continues in Turkmen prisons.Prisoners convicted under articles related to psychoactive substances describe being tortured during investigation with electric shocks and gas masks, their soles beaten with batons — all to extract the names of those they sold to, bought from, or used with.
Even connections don’t guarantee protection.One man, for example, was tortured to death in the summer in Ashgabat’s Zhytnikov basement for possessing a few pills.According to blogger Talyp Abasov, the victim’s uncle was a former deputy prime minister, and the man himself worked as a driver for one of Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedov’s nephews.For some inmates, general conditions — pressure from the administration or from other prisoners — become so unbearable that they attempt suicide, or as they say, “open themselves up.” Usually, they cut their veins or stab themselves in the abdomen.
One LB-E/12 inmate did the latter after an officer repeatedly extorted money from him for living in “his” section.These attempts rarely end in death: the inmate is taken to a civilian hospital, where the wound is stitched up.
In such cases, the prosecutor always visits, and the prisoner can file a written complaint.The administration tries to avoid such confrontations with the prosecutor’s office — it means either holding responsibility or paying off the prosecutor.
So if an inmate’s problem is specific, it’s often resolved: he might finally receive the medication he’s entitled to or be left alone by extortionists.Conditions in the colony are so toxic that self-harm and suicide threats have become almost the only way for prisoners to defend their rights — but the administration treats them as blackmail.
Those who resort to such acts too often may even be punished: sent to solitary confinement, handcuffed, and have salt poured onto their open wounds.Everyone SuffersIt may come as a surprise, but the colony’s staff don’t have it easy either.
Even when it comes to theft and bribery, the biggest spoils go to the top — while the dirty work falls on those below.Constant calls from superiors, inspections, inmate fights, and other “headaches” quickly wear down rank-and-file officers, who dream of transferring elsewhere — to the fire service, city police departments, criminal investigation units, or the traffic police.
Some ended up in the penitentiary system through transfers — or rather demotions — from other units such as the Criminal Investigation Department; working here is considered the bottom of the Interior Ministry ladder.
Ward supervisors sometimes get drunk on duty, argue, or even fight each other — releasing pent-up emotions.Like in the military, many want to leave Turkmenistan altogether to support their families, and some are ready to be fired for cause, neglecting their duties outright.Even senior officers, such as regime chief Sunnet Rozykuliyev and operations head Begench Byashimov, celebrated when they were reassigned to the fire service.
Both had held their posts for about a year, but the endless stream of problems, overwork without time off, and constant inspections quickly led to burnout.Those who try to improve things burn out the fastest — such was the case with Meylis Gurbanmuhammedov (pictured).
Before coming to the colony, he led the Berkut special forces unit of the Punishment Implementation Department and had visited LB-E/12 on inspections.But what he saw when he started working there shocked him.
Gurbanmuhammedov set out to improve prisoners’ lives, restoring proper meals and a functioning infirmary.Under his leadership, inmates received toothpaste, soap, razors, toothbrushes, and toilet paper for the first time in years.
He also forbade administrative staff from “milking” the prisoners.Yet he couldn’t make these changes stick.Subordinates began obstructing him, partly citing orders from higher-ups, who resumed extorting money from inmates.
Distribution of hygiene items stopped again.While prisoners had developed respect for Gurbanmuhammedov, his clashes with everyone else left him frustrated, and he delegated operational duties to his deputy.
A year later, he was transferred, leaving with relief.He was replaced by another Ashgabat officer — former head of LB-D/9 pretrial detention center in Turkmenabat (the “Abdy Shukur” prison), Lieutenant Colonel Akysh Charyyev.
Inmates at LB-E/12 who had also been at Abdy Shukur said Charyyev had been highly praised there, so his arrival was met with optimism.Charyyev proved humane and earned respect and even warmth from the prisoners.
He tried to improve their daily lives and made an effort to understand each inmate’s situation.Twice a year, he personally organized sadaqa, cooked festive pilaf, and ensured everyone had a seat at the table and a serving of food.Even so, he couldn’t achieve major reforms on his own.
He said that during 20 years of prior service, he had never received a reprimand, yet in the colony he earned one within three months.Charyyev decided the post was not for him and requested a transfer — which was granted.Even for leaders like Gurbanmuhammedov and Charyyev, their status was insufficient to transform the colony.
Reforming Turkmenistan’s penitentiary system requires a comprehensive approach — addressing both its visible and hidden parts.Many high-ranking officials resist change, as they profit from the system’s current cruelty and inhumanity.
A detailed discussion of the reforms needed and how they could be implemented deserves a separate report.