The tragic case of Ukraine's Oksana Makar draws to a close

Pressure is on the Mykolaiv court to reach a verdict that will show progress.

Legal debate has commenced in the tragic March case of Oksana Makar, which saw the 18-year-old from Mykolaiv, southern Ukraine, raped, torched and ultimately killed. The incident shocked the world and cast a dark cloud over a Ukraine which was at that time looking towards Euro 2012 with anticipation. Now, more than six months later, the trial of her accused murderers is set to conclude, with the final stages now in process at The Central District Court of Mykolaiv.

A Difficult Life

Oksana Makar’s life was troubled right from childhood, spending a significant part of her early years in an orphanage after both her father and stepfather were imprisoned for drug dealing, and her mother, Tetyana Surovitska, a prominent figure in the media since her daughter’s death, was also serving a sentence on a robbery conviction. Oksana completed only six years of formal schooling, and by the age of 11 had run away from the orphanage, surviving at various locations in and around her hometown through petty theft and, reportedly, prostitution.

On 8 March , Makar is said to have met two of her attackers, friends Yevhen Krasnoschek, 23, and Artem Pohocyana, 22, in the Rybka, a Mykolaiv pub. After some drinks there, the young men suggested going back to the nearby apartment of their friend, Maksym Prisyazhnyuk, 24. The naked Makar was discovered the next morning at a nearby construction site by a passing motorist. She had been wrapped in a blanket, which at the time of her discovery had been on fire for hours, causing irreparable lung damage, beaten, strangled with cable, and dumped. Makar’s body sustained 55 percent burns, and a medical examination confirmed the girl’s claims that she had been repeatedly, and forcefully, raped.

Reports as to what happened in the apartment to cause such extreme, unfathomable brutality, have ranged from a planned, co-ordinated execution, to a rape, which saw Makar threaten to call the police and the gang attempting to subdue her through force, which escalated to the extent they believed she was dead when they left the apartment with her.

The Trial

The trial of the three accused, going on since 24 May, partly public and partly in closed sessions, has been eventful, insightful, and frequently disturbing, as new details have emerged of the International Women’s Day attack. The three accused have changed their stories several times, at one time in proceedings even going so far as to petition an insanity plea, rejected by the panel of judges, led by Judge Elena Selivanov.

The three defendants, Yevhen Krasnoschek, Artem Pohocyana, and Maksym Prisyazhnyuk, were all apprehended on March 11, after a still conscious Makar gave police information on her attackers. In a police operation which was to be the subject of fierce criticism, Pohocyana and Prisyazhnyuk were quickly released, and then swiftly re-arrested after a storm of protest broke out, and President Yanukovych intervened, while Krasnoschek has remained remanded in custody since March 11.

Each has reported stated that they were in a state of extreme alcoholic intoxication on the night of the incident, which led to the immediate amputation of Makar’s right arm and both her feet, to prevent gangrene. On March 29, Makar died in a Donetsk burn centre, even the expert intervention of a Swiss surgeon, paid for by Ukrainian billionaire and member of Verkhovna Rada, Rinat Akhmetov, insufficient to save her. Along with Akhmetov’s funding, the Mykolaiv community also raised over 1 million hryvnia for the treatment of Makar, with hundreds additionally donating blood.

Throughout the trial, defence lawyers have submitted a number of petitions aimed at mitigating or offsetting responsibility. The majority of these, including a call for a complete re-examination of proceedings (already examined by no less than 30 different experts) have been rejected.

In a labyrinth to-and-fro, which saw the defence counsel described by the prosecutor as ‘tricky’, defence lawyers even went so far as to ask for a re-examination of the deceased girl’s body, to confirm she had been raped. This request to exhume Makar, who was buried in a wedding dress in accordance with local tradition, was rejected on the grounds of irrefutable evidence already in existence, attesting to forceful sexual assault.

Relations between the accused have also fractured, as the three have broken ranks, offering attempts at expiation and blame shifting. At the end of August Yevhen Krasnoschek (who is married with a young daughter), through his lawyer Larisa Zavadskaya, refuted his earlier, recorded, testimonials and gave the explanation that he had intentionally choked Makar not quite to death so the other two would think she was dead, thus leaving her (for dead) and giving the brutalised 18-year-old girl a chance to find help. His contention was that he was then offered money to implicate himself in her murder, and lessen the charges levelled against Pohocyana and Prisyazhnyuk.

Coming at the advanced stage of the trial it did, commentators were quick to note that his statements, contradictory and confusing as they were, seemed to be playing to the idea that Prisyazhnyuk, son of the former head of the Yelanets District Administration in Mykolayiv Oblast, was the ringleader in the crime. Many had thought that Prisyazhnyuk, who worked as a lawyer and with his background of wealth and power, was best placed of the three accused, yet with all aware of the global interest in the case, the Ukrainian judicial system can ill afford any exoneration based on privilege. As the trial has progressed, Prisyazhnyuk, described by sources as having a forceful character, has increasingly found his wealth and connections used to paint a picture of an individual who thought he could do as he wished. Pohocyana was originally said to have senior connections, with his father having worked as a high-ranking official in the district prosecutor’s office in Mykolaiv. However, police subsequently claimed his father was a manual labourer, who died in January 2012, and his mother a librarian. While Krasnoschek and Prisyazhnyuk are reported to have remained largely dispassionate during legal testimonials and evidence giving, Pohocyana has visibly buckled under the gravity of the situation, and earlier in October attempted to take his own life in his cell. All three are accused of committing crimes under paragraphs 4, 10, 12, Part 2 of Article 115, and paragraph 4 of Article 152 of the Criminal Code of Ukraine. Krasnoschek further finds himself charged with Part 3 of Article 153 (satisfying sexual desire in perverted forms).

Krasnoschek originally reported that Makar was wrapped in a blanket, and dropped in the pit, with the blanket catching fire when a pillow case was lit and tossed down. Afterwards, he reported, they went home and changed into new clothes, before buying vodka and eating at a local kiosk. "We sat down, had a smoke and then went our own ways." Whether the three will ever be able to go their own ways again will be determined soon, with a life sentence the maximum penalty for each of the men. However, it’s not just the Ukrainian legal system about to be placed again at the fore of the international media. Ukraine’s alarming record of domestic violence, and patchy record in past prosecutions, are about to be thrust into the global eye.

An endemic problem

Pressure is on the Mykolaiv court to reach a verdict which will show progress from 2011’s Roman Landik case, a so-called "bigwig crime". In July of 2011, Landik, the 37-year-old son of a national parliamentary figure, and himself a prominent personage, was caught on CCTV repeatedly punching a girl, Maria Korshunov, grabbing her by the throat and dragging her across the floor of a restaurant by her hair. The argument began when the (recently married) Landik tried to flirt with Korshunov, who refused his advances and the drink he attempted to force on her. Landik’s response was to rain down blows in a sustained assault lasting several minutes. 

One of the most disturbing factors of the incident was the passivity of the other diners, in what was a busy establishment - while Maria’s friend called police, restaurant patrons looked on with a mixture of indifference and some irritation at having their dinner disturbed. The waitress, meanwhile, deposited the bill on Korshunov’s table in the midst of the beating, and walked off. The battered Korshunov spent several days in the neurological department of the local Luhansk hospital, suffering from concussion, bruises and a nervous breakdown.

Landik had probably thought that was the end of that, and it may ordinarily have been. However, the upload of the video onto YouTube provoked a wave of protest and a warrant was issued for his arrest. He initially fled to Russia, and before being sent back gave a series of statements indicating that he was the real victim, and that Korshunov and he would be friends in future. Landik returned to Ukraine to pay Korshunov an undisclosed sum, which was taken into account when the court handed down a three-year suspended sentence. Independent lawyer Natalya Petrova went so far as to claim this represented standard legal practice, “Speaking as a lawyer, it is clear there is a beating, there is a crime. But she (the victim) agreed to a sum of compensation... If she had not taken money, the decision would have been different.”

In developed legal systems, any such compensation would have been paid after a successful conviction, not as appears in this case, instead. Critics of the Ukrainian legal system viewed this as simply another example of a ‘bigwig crime’, whereby the rich can largely do as they please.   

As Makar lay in the burns centre in Donetsk, dying from her wounds, she was filmed by her mother, and the video posted on YouTube. Makar is clearly suffering, as her mother coaxes the girl to wave the stump that was her right arm to the camera, and persists in getting her to repeat, “I’ll live while I’m alive.” At around the same time, a video was posted of an 18th birthday party in Ukraine, in which a fight breaks out. In the fracas, the young men start indiscriminately and brutally beating up the young ladies. They do so in both a callous and casual manner, causing many commenting on the video to observe what seasoned hands they seemed at it. And on exactly the same day as the Makar attack, another teenage girl from the area, Aleksandra Popova, was also hospitalized after being beaten by a male perpetrator. Popova remained unconscious for weeks, before recovering. Male on female violence in Ukraine is far from an isolated incident, as statistics substantiate, with one in four murders in Ukraine a result of domestic violence, meaning over 1000 women in a given year die at the hands of their boyfriend or spouse. Statistics further record that a third of Ukrainian women have been faced with domestic violence in their adult lives.

I interviewed Liza Rai, of La Strada, a group in operation since 1997 working against human trafficking, domestic violence, gender inequality and children’s rights violations. 

What are your thoughts on the Makar case?

It’s been a terrible and shocking incident, firstly for the girl and her family, but also for Ukrainian society. Some of the attitudes exposed by the case have been frightening, in terms of some thinking that in some way she was responsible for what happened to her, because of her lifestyle or behaviour.

And of that contention?

Any woman can, and should be able to dress as she likes without fear of reprisals. Any woman should be able to behave freely without threat of brutality. In this case, Oksana Makar was, and had been since her early life, a victim. She was in need of society’s care and support to help her achieve some kind of normal adult life.

What punishment should be given to the accused?

The maximum sentence for the crime they are accused of is life imprisonment. If they are indeed convicted, then, given the extreme brutality of the crime, life imprisonment should certainly be passed down.

What are the causes behind the problem of violence against women?

The causes are deep-rooted and manifold. Firstly, if a child is either the victim of domestic violence or witness to it, there is a strong chance they will one day perpetrate themselves. There is also the issue that in Ukrainian society, we sometimes simply don’t care enough about each other. We have a proverb here, “my house is at the end of the city, and I don’t want to know anything about my neighbours”, which gives you an idea of the mentality. When people see a woman being beaten, their first reaction is often not to intervene, but ignore.

On top of this, you have the hard economic realities of Ukraine. That of low salaries, and of salaries not being paid on time. Tensions over money can swiftly escalate into violence – especially when alcohol is involved. Now, in addition to this, women are becoming stronger and more independent in society, something some men see as a threat for which violence should be used to suppress.

And the laws dealing with the issue?

There is a law, the 2001 law "On the Prevention of Violence in the Family" (The Advocates for Human Rights 17 July 2009; OSI 2007, 21), which was amended in 2008. Before the 2008 amendment, police had been allowed to shift blame from perpetrator to victim. The 2008 act also gave additional powers in terms of detention of accused, and the rights of non-married victims. It furthermore eliminated what had been a common mitigating plea, that of “provocative behaviour” of the defendant, and increased punishments. So, we have the law in place – its application, though, is another story. Many times, even now, the woman is simply told to ‘sort it out within her own family’. Judges similarly don’t really want to get involved, and tend to rush these cases through with a fine. The tragic irony is that the man who beats his wife pays the fine, but of course that money comes out of the family budget. So, the woman who has been beaten now has less money to feed her family. Now, Ukraine has signed, and is soon to ratify, EU Convention #210 on the elimination of all forms of violence against women.  

What can be done to solve the problem?

Firstly, it comes down to education. It must be instilled in children from an early age that violence against women is morally abhorrent. Secondly, there needs to be acknowledgement in Ukrainian society of both the scale of the situation and how unacceptable it is, in any sphere or setting, against any victim. Men need to know that they will be punished for what they do, and before they do anything, they need to stop for a moment, and think that the person they are about to hurt is a human being, weaker than them. Alcohol doesn’t excuse anything.

La Strada has, since 2004, operated a National Toll-Free Hotline for victims of domestic violence, male or female.

La Strada hotline number:

0800-500-335 or 386
(for toll-free calls from mobile phones)

International callers:
38-044-205-3695

www.la-strada.org.ua 

This article originally appeared in Pravda. Much of the article was originally written by this author for What's On magazine of Kyiv.

Oksana Makar in hospital in March. Photograph: Getty Images

Graham Phillips is an English journalist, based in Kiev, Ukraine. Find him on Twitter as @GWP_MG. His book Kiev or Kyiv -  Notes from a Year in Ukraine, is out soon.

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Snakebites and body parts

The city at the edge of an apocalypse: a love letter to Los Angeles.

I was emailing with Kenneth Anger, the film-maker, when the coyotes across the street in Griffith Park started howling.

That’s partially true.

I was emailing him to ask if he’d direct a music video for me. Maybe Lucifer Rising 2.0. Or anything.

Just him in the kitchen making tea, as recorded on his iPhone.

Kenneth Anger is alive and well in Santa Monica, so why not ask him to direct a video for me? Hopefully, he’ll respond. We’ve never met, so I sent an email to him, not with him. That’s the partial truth.

But the coyotes did start howling.

It’s the single best sound in Los Angeles, or any city. Is there another city where you can email an 89-year-old devotee of Aleister Crowley while listening to a few dozen coyotes screaming and howling and ripping the night into little pieces?

No. Just here. This oddness by the sea and an inch from a billion acres of Arrakis.

I never thought I’d end up living in Los Angeles, but I’ve ended up living in Los Angeles. This dirtiest, strangest paradise.

Yesterday I went hiking in a two-million-acre state park that’s 30 minutes from my house. A state park bigger than all of New York City. And it’s 30 minutes away. With no people. Just bears and pumas and coyotes and snakes.

And other things. Abandoned bridges. An observatory where Albert Einstein used to go to watch space.

What a strange city.

A perfect city. Perfect for humans at the edge of this strangely unfolding apocalypse. A gentle apocalypse with trade winds and Santa Ana winds and the biannual vicious storm that rips eucalyptus trees up by their roots.

What a strange city. And it’s my home.

Today I hiked to the back of the Hollywood sign. This was before Kenneth Anger and the coyotes.

The tourists were dropping like flies on the long, hot mountain trail, not aware that this isn’t a city with the safe European ­infrastructure that keeps them happy
and/or alive.

Every now and then, a tourist dies in the hills, bitten by a snake or lost at night. The emergency rooms are full of tourists with snakebites and heatstroke.

Where are the European safeguards?

Fuck us if we need safeguards. Go live in a place like this gentle wasteland where you’re not at the top of the food chain. If you’re not in danger of being eaten at some point in the day, you’re probably not breathing right.

I hope Kenneth Anger writes back.

 

22 May

I drove some friends around my neighbourhood. They want to live here. Why wouldn’t they? Pee-wee Herman and Thom Yorke live up the street.

David Fincher lives a block away. It’s blocks and blocks of jasmine-scented name-
dropping.

It’s warm in the winter and it’s weird all year round.

And there’s a Frank Lloyd Wright that looks like a lunatic Mayan spaceship.

And there go the coyotes again, howling like adorable delegates of death.

They’re so smart, I wish they would make me their king.

You hate Los Angeles? Who cares? You made a mistake, you judged it like you’d judge a city. Where’s the centre?

There’s no centre. You want a centre? The centre cannot hold. Slouching towards Bethlehem. Things fall apart.

Amazing how many titles can come from one poem. What’s a gyre?

Yeats and Kenneth Anger and Aleister Crowley. All these patterns.

Then we had brunch in my art deco pine-tree-themed restaurant, which used to sell cars and now sells organic white tea and things.

The centre cannot hold. I still have no idea what a gyre is.

Maybe something Irish or Celtic.

It’s nice that they asked me to write this journal.

Things fall apart.

So you hate Los Angeles? Ha. It still loves you, like the sandy golden retriever it is. Tell me again how you hate the city loved by David Lynch and where David Bowie made his best album? Listen to LA Woman by the Doors and watch Lynch’s Lost Highway and read some Joan Didion – and maybe for fun watch Nightcrawler – and tell me again how you hate LA.

I fucking love this sprawling inchoate pile of everything.

Even at its worst, it’s hiding something baffling or remarkable.

Ironic that the city of the notoriously ­vapid is the city of deceiving appearance.

After brunch, we went hiking.

Am I a cliché? Yes. I hike. I do yoga. I’m a vegan. I even meditate. As far as clichés go, I prefer this to the hungover, cynical, ruined, sad, grey cliché I was a decade ago.

“You’re not going to live for ever.”

Of course not.

But why not have a few bouncy decades that otherwise would’ve been spent in a hospital or trailing an oxygen tank through a damp supermarket?

 

24 May

A friend said: “The last time I had sex, it was warm and sunny.”

Well, that’s helpful.

October? June? February?

No kidding, the coyotes are howling again. I still love them. Have you ever heard a pack of howling coyotes?

Imagine a gaggle of drunk college girls who also happened to be canine demons. Screaming with blood on their teeth.

It’s such a beautiful sound but it also kind of makes you want to hide in a closet.

No Kenneth Anger.

Maybe I’m spam.

Vegan spam.

Come on, Kenneth, just make a video for me, OK?

I’ll take anything.

Even three minutes of a plant on a radiator.

I just received the hardcover copy of my autobiography, Porcelain. And, like anyone, I skimmed the pictures. I’m so classy, eating an old sandwich in my underpants.

A friend’s dad had got an advance copy and was reading it. I had to issue the cautious caveat: “Well, I hope he’s not too freaked out by me dancing in my own semen while surrounded by a roomful of cross-dressing Stevie Nicks-es.”

If I ever have kids, I might have one simple rule. Or a few simple rules.

Dear future children of mine:

1) Don’t vote Republican.

2) Don’t get facial tattoos.

3) Don’t read my memoir.

I don’t need my currently unmade children to be reading about their dear dad during his brief foray into the world of professional dominatrixing, even if it was brief.

The first poem I loved was by Yeats: “When You Are Old”. I sent it to my high-school non-girlfriend. The girl I longed for, unrequitedly. I’m guessing I’m not the first person to have sent “When You Are Old” to an unrequited love.

Today the sky was so strangely clear. I mean, the sky is almost always clear. We live in a desert. But today it felt strangely clear, like something was missing. The sun felt magnified.

And then, at dusk, I noticed the gold light slanting through some oak trees and hitting the green sides of the mountains (they were green as we actually had rain over the winter). The wild flowers catch the slanting gold light and you wonder, this is a city? What the fuck is this baffling place?

I add the “fuck” for street cred. Or trail cred, as I’m probably hiking. As I’m a cliché.

You hike, or I hike, in the middle of a city of almost 20 million people and you’re alone. Just the crows and the spiralling hawks and the slanting gold light touching the oak trees and the soon-to-go-away
wild flowers.

The end of the world just feels closer here, but it’s nice, somehow. Maybe the actual end of the world won’t be so nice but the temporal proximity can be OK. In the slanting gold light. You have to see it, the canyons in shadow and the tops of the hills in one last soft glow.

What a strange non-city.

 

25 May

They asked for only four journal entries, so here’s the last one.

And why is # a “hashtag”?

Hash? Like weird meat or weird marijuana? Tag, like the game?

At least “blog” has an etymology, even if, as a word, it sounds like a fat clog in a drain.

A friend who works in an emergency room had a patient delivered to her who had a croquet ball in his lower intestine. I guess there’s a lesson there: always have friends who work in emergency rooms, as they have the best stories.

No coyotes tonight. But there’s a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn. Where?

Where in LA would there be a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn?

It’s such a faraway sound. Lonesome hoboes watching the desert from an empty train car. Going where?

I met a woman recently who found human body parts in some bags while she
was hiking.

Technically, her dogs found them.

Then she found the dogs.

And then the sky was full of helicopters, as even in LA it’s unusual to have human hands and things left in bags near a hiking trail a few hundred yards from Brad Pitt’s house.

What is this place?

When I used to visit LA, I marvelled at the simple things, like gas stations and guest bedrooms.

I was a New Yorker.

And the gas stations took credit cards. At. The. Pumps.

What was this magic?

And people had Donald Judd beds in their living rooms, just slightly too small for actual sleeping – but, still, there’s your Donald Judd bed. In your living room at the top of the hill somewhere, with an ocean a dozen miles away but so clear you can see Catalina.

They drained the reservoir and now don’t know what to do with it.

Good old LA, confused by things like empty reservoirs in the middle of the city.

Maybe that’s where the lonesome train lives. And it only comes out at night, to make the sound of a lonesome train whistle, echoing from the empty concrete reservoir that’s left the city nonplussed.

“We’ve never had an empty reservoir in the city before.”

So . . . Do something great with it. I know, it’s a burden being given a huge gift of ­empty real estate in the middle of the city.

Tomorrow I’m meeting some more friends who’ve moved here from New York.

“We have a guest bedroom!” they crow.

A century ago, the Griffith Park planners planted redwoods across the street. And now the moon is waning but shining, far away but soft, through the redwoods.

No coyotes, but a waning moon through some towering redwoods is still really OK. As it’s a city that isn’t a city, and it’s my home.

Goodnight.

Moby’s memoir, “Porcelain”, is published by Faber & Faber

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad