The Chilling Effect   

In the former Soviet stronghold of Kyrgyzstan, hard- hitting journalism can lead to jail time and shuttered newspapers.

As if by habit, the journalists gathered after deadline in the dimly lit, joyless newsroom of Res Publica, a feisty, weekly newspaper in Bishkek in the former Soviet stronghold of Kyrgyzstan, arguably one of the world's least-known countries.

A sudden downpour cast a gray pall over the May afternoon, matching the mood of reporters whose job descriptions included threat of imprisonment, heavy fines, court orders that banned them from working or traveling abroad, and surveillance by thugs who thrive on official secrecy.

There was no inkling that within days an international spotlight out of Washington, D.C., would find its way over the glacier-capped mountains to a small rented space where the Fourth Estate was battling for survival in this country of 4.5 million.

For many in the newsroom that afternoon, newspaper careers dated to the legendary Iron Curtain era when information was rigidly controlled by the Kremlin. The 1991 collapse of the Soviet Empire brought independence and a constitutional guarantee of press freedom that, at least on paper, sounded vaguely like the First Amendment. But within three years, the government would begin reverting to the old ways, cracking down on journalists who displeased it.

The journalists at Res Publica answered questions patiently, trying to explain to an American colleague their self-proclaimed status as "prisoners of conscience" in a town where an imposing statue of Lenin still dominates a main square and the criminal code still has a Soviet twist.

Then, through a translator, one of the reporters slipped in a question of her own: "Do journalists in the United States ever go to prison for writing stories that insult the president or other high-ranking public officials?"

Two veterans in the room, Editor in Chief Zamira Sydykova, 40, and investigative reporter Ryspek Omurzakov, 42, already had served jail time for producing the kinds of stories that, in the U.S., would merit a slot in the Investigative Reporters & Editors archives. Others had been fined, followed and threatened.

Certainly, the Kyrgyzstani journalists were familiar with the frenzied American media coverage of the Clinton/Lewinsky saga, which they shrugged off as a juicy sex scandal, a far cry from top politicos stealing money to build mansions in a country where the elderly exist on pensions of $10 a month.

To them, sex in the Oval Office paled in comparison to a president imprisoning a leading political opponent, as happened in Kyrgyzstan early this year.

Translated into stark American terms, if Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein had been conducting the Watergate investigation in the same political environment that Sydykova and her staff find themselves, they would have been tried and served jail time for proving that Richard Nixon and his cronies committed crimes. Instead of winning a Pulitzer Prize, it is likely a judge would have banned them from working as journalists and ordered the Washington Post closed.

The chill that media professionals in Kyrgyzstan are experiencing appears to be part of a perilous trend in Eastern Europe and other former Soviet territories. Media researcher Roseanne Gerin of Poland recently compiled a troubling report documenting the so-called "legal means" that governments in former communist countries use to strangle press freedom.

Among them: charges of defamation and libel and the use of "insult laws" accompanied by stiff fines, jail sentences or suspended publication of newspapers. As in Kyrgyzstan, governments strictly control access to records as a way of deterring investigations.

For the journalists in Bishkek, there is an even harsher prospect: Kyrgyzstan is one of the few countries in the world where libel remains a criminal rather than a civil offense, punishable by fines and prison terms.

Truth is not a defense, and innocence is not presumed. Instead, the court rules on whether plaintiffs, almost always high-ranking public officials, have had their "honor and dignity" impugned. Proving that information is accurate makes no legal difference and is no deterrent to a stint in a labor camp or a government-ordered shutdown.

In a landmark case tried in 1997, Res Publica's Omurzakov pushed the envelope with investigative reporting worthy of a case study in any journalism textbook.

When the veteran reporter heard of inhumane living conditions at a workers' dormitory operated by a factory in Bishkek, he decided to see for himself.

During a tour of the facilities arranged by sources, he found bugs, rats, archaic plumbing and parents with up to five children packed into cold-water flats of one or two rooms.

Omurzakov interviewed residents and obtained a petition signed by 108 employees of the plant complaining about the substandard housing. After the story appeared, the factory's manager filed a criminal libel suit.

The reporter was held in prison for nearly three months while awaiting trial. Two workers, willing to testify that his information was accurate, were charged with "disseminating deliberately false information" and named as co-defendants.

After months of legal maneuvering, and amid loud protests from media watchdog groups such as the Committee to Protect Journalists, Omurzakov was released. Amnesty International issued a statement at the time noting, "They clearly are using criminal legislation in a bogus manner to punish and silence a prominent government critic."

A report by the International Helsinki Federation for Human Rights has described government action against journalists in Kyrgyzstan as "Bolshevik-style tactics" reminiscent of Soviet rule.

"They wanted to make an example of me to intimidate others," says Omurzakov, who described his treatment behind bars as "OK." But, immediately after his release, he began writing stories about the abuse and torture of other prisoners he came to know while inside.

In March, the government took what appeared to be the final step in bringing Res Publica to its knees. The weekly, with a circulation of about 10,000, was ordered closed until it paid the equivalent of a $7,000 fine for publishing a letter from employees of the National Radio and Television Corp. demanding the director's dismissal.

The penalty might as well have been $70,000 in a country where journalists earn as little as $30 a month and often work without salaries. "They were certain we could never pay it," Editor in Chief Sydykova says. "It was a move to silence us forever."

Since its beginning in 1991, Res Publica has accumulated a lengthy rap sheet with charges ranging from publishing stories that "destabilize society" to libeling and insulting President Askar Akayev. Always, the journalists refused to cower.

After the March shutdown, reporters and editors kept showing up for work, filing news stories and columns under pseudonyms that were picked up by other defiant publications.

Indeed, for journalists in Kyrgyzstan, the past nine years have been a dizzying roller-coaster ride. A honeymoon period followed independence in 1991. Reporters were viewed as champions of democracy-building, providing information the public needed to know during the transition from communism. After the split from Russia, a country profile compiled by the U.S. Agency for International Development listed Kyrgyzstan as one of the most open, progressive and democratic of the former Soviet Central Asian Republics.

By 1994, the tide had turned. The government, slowly inching away from its liberal Western-style economic and social reforms, began cracking down, using the legal system as a battering ram against journalists who dared to criticize.

Five years later, the Commission for Security and Cooperation in Europe warned that the country, once described as "an oasis of democracy in an authoritarian desert," was backsliding.

That was not news to Zamira Sydykova, believed to be one of the longest-standing female editors in a region historically steeped in male chauvinism. For years, she has been among a small cadre of local journalists targeted by official ire.

During an interview, the editor, a single mother of two, talked about how she coped with imprisonment back in 1997.

Dressed in her trademark black, except for a single strand of pearls, Sydykova leaned over a desk cluttered with newspapers and related in stark detail the tremors of dread she felt as the guilty verdict was issued and the cold steel of handcuffs bound her wrists.

The sentence: 18 months in a labor camp. Her crime: publishing stories accusing the director of a state-owned gold mine of corruption. The authorities, she believes, were "trying to destroy me mentally."

Women from human rights groups announced a hunger strike and began protests in Sydykova's behalf, waving signs that read, "Free Zamira." Amnesty International, CPJ and others weighed in with petitions to top brass in Kyrgyzstan, Europe and the United States.

After two-and-a-half months in prison, during which time she had no contact with her sons, who were 7 and 14, the editor was granted amnesty, but not without a final slap. A legal order banned her from practicing journalism for 18 months.

"I wouldn't be surprised if I am put in jail again," she said during the interview. "We are under constant psychological pressure."

Indeed, the "media police" already had assessed Res Publica's meager equipment. It would be sold at an auction to help pay the $7,000 fine. It was, says Sydykova, the final move to wipe out the paper.

Then, the miracle. A telephone call from the United States, around 6 p.m. Bishkek time on May 28, offered the tiny weekly a new lifeline--at least for the time being.

A voice, speaking in Russian, informed Sydykova that she was one of three journalists around the globe selected for a "Courage Award" given by the International Women's Media Foundation in Washington, D.C. "Could you come to the United States in October for the presentation?" the voice asked.

Sydykova instantly saw the larger picture: "I realized that now the world will find out how we are fighting for a free press [in Kyrgyzstan]," she says, her dark eyes flashing. "Journalists are among those in my country who are giving their heart and their soul to democracy."

Within weeks of the announcement, the Bishkek City Court dropped the latest fine against Res Publica, hinting that a spotlight from half a world away does make a difference.