Russia’s Threat to Pull Out of Ukraine Grain Deal Raises Fears About Global Food Security 

A harvester is seen in the field during harvest near the town of Shabla, Bulgaria, 10 July 2023. (EPA)
A harvester is seen in the field during harvest near the town of Shabla, Bulgaria, 10 July 2023. (EPA)
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Russia’s Threat to Pull Out of Ukraine Grain Deal Raises Fears About Global Food Security 

A harvester is seen in the field during harvest near the town of Shabla, Bulgaria, 10 July 2023. (EPA)
A harvester is seen in the field during harvest near the town of Shabla, Bulgaria, 10 July 2023. (EPA)

Concerns are growing that Russia will not extend a United Nations-brokered deal that allows grain to flow from Ukraine to parts of the world struggling with hunger, with ships no longer heading to the war-torn country's Black Sea ports and food exports dwindling.

Türkiye and the UN negotiated the breakthrough accord last summer to ease a global food crisis, along with a separate agreement with Russia to facilitate shipments of its food and fertilizer. Moscow insists it's still facing hurdles, though data shows it has been exporting record amounts of wheat.

Russian officials repeatedly say there are no grounds for extending the Black Sea Grain Initiative, which is up for its fourth renewal Monday. It's something they have threatened before — then have twice gone on to extend the deal for two months instead of the four months outlined in the agreement.

The UN and others are striving to keep the fragile deal intact, with Ukraine and Russia both major suppliers of wheat, barley, vegetable oil and other food products that countries in Africa, the Middle East and parts of Asia rely on. It has allowed Ukraine to ship 32.8 million metric tons (36.2 million tons) of grain, more than half of it to developing nations.

The deal has helped lower global prices of food commodities like wheat after they surged to record highs following the invasion last year, but that relief has not reached kitchen tables.

Russia's exit would cut off a source for World Food Program aid for countries at risk of famine, including Somalia, Ethiopia and Afghanistan, and compound food security problems in vulnerable places struggling with conflict, economic crisis and drought.

"Russia gets a lot of good public will for continuing this agreement," said Joseph Glauber, senior research fellow at the International Food Policy Research Institute. "There would be a cost to pay in terms of public perception and global goodwill, I think, as far as Russia is concerned" if the deal isn't extended.

The amount of grain leaving Ukraine already has dropped, with Russia accused of slowing joint inspections of ships by Russian, Ukrainian, UN and Turkish officials and refusing to allow more vessels to join the initiative.

Average daily inspections — meant to ensure vessels carry only food and not weapons that could aid either side — have fallen from a peak of 11 in October to just over two in June.

That has led to a decline in grain exports, from a high of 4.2 million metric tons in October to 1.3 million in May, a low for the year-old initiative. They rose to 2 million in June as shipment sizes grew.

If the deal isn't extended, "the countries that had relied on Ukraine for their imports are going to have to look at other sources for imports, very likely Russia, which is something that I imagine Russia was intending," said Caitlin Welsh, director of the Global Food and Water Security Program at the Center for Strategic and International Studies.

The UN has been negotiating with Russia to stick with the initiative, with spokesman Stephane Dujarric saying Monday that top officials are "doing whatever we can to ensure the continuation of all of the agreements."

Ukraine's Infrastructure Ministry said Tuesday on Facebook that the final two ships are loading grain — heading for Egypt — while 29 vessels are waiting in the waters off Türkiye because Russia has refused to allow their inspection.

"Ukrainian agricultural products play a significant role in global food security," Infrastructure Minister Oleksandr Kubrakov said. But "for the past few months, the grain corridor has been practically closed."

Russia insists the agreement hasn't worked for its own exports, blaming Western sanctions for hindering financing and insurance.

While sanctions don't affect food and fertilizer, Moscow is seeking carveouts from restrictions on the Russian Agricultural Bank, as well as movement on its ammonia, a key ingredient in fertilizer, to a Ukrainian Black Sea port. But the ammonia pipeline has been damaged in the war, the UN said.

"There is still time to implement the part of the agreements that pertains to our country. So far, this part has not been fulfilled," Kremlin spokesperson Dmitry Peskov told reporters last week. "And so, at the moment, unfortunately, we don’t see any particular grounds for extending this deal."

Russia, however, has increased its wheat exports to all-time highs following a large harvest. Shipments went from 33 million metric tons in 2021 to 44 million metric tons last year to expectations of 46 million this year, according to S&P Global Commodity Insights.

Meanwhile, Ukraine's shipments have fallen by around 60%, from 19 million tons in 2021 to predictions of about 7 or 8 million tons this year — a big hit to its agriculture-dependent economy.

With less from Ukraine and more from Russia, the world's available wheat stocks are the same as in 2021 — and there is enough of it to go around, said Peter Meyer, head of grain analytics at S&P Global Commodity Insights.

Europe and Argentina are expected to boost wheat shipments, while Brazil saw a banner year for corn, of which Ukraine is also a major supplier. Meyer wouldn’t expect more than a temporary bump to grain prices on world markets if the Black Sea deal isn’t renewed.

"Markets just adapt extremely quickly," he said. "The fact of the matter is that the global grain markets, they balance each other out."

Ukraine can send its food by land or river through Europe, so it wouldn’t be completely cut off from selling grain, but those routes have a lower capacity than sea shipments and have stirred disunity in the European Union.

"We are a cat running out of lives in this situation," said Simon Evenett, professor of international trade and economic development at the University of St. Gallen in Switzerland. "It only takes one thing to go wrong before we’re into trouble."

While the UN Food and Agriculture Organization’s food price index has fallen below the record highs it hit when Russian troops entered Ukraine, food costs were already high because of COVID-19, conflict and drought.

Then Russia's war helped push up the costs to produce food — including energy, fertilizer and transportation.

In developing nations increasingly relying on imported food, from Kenya to Syria, weakening currencies are keeping local prices high because they are paying in US dollars.

"With approximately 80% of East Africa’s grain being exported from Russia and Ukraine, over 50 million people across East Africa are facing hunger, and food prices have shot up by nearly 40% this year," said Shashwat Saraf, the International Rescue Committee's regional emergency director for East Africa.

"It is vital for the international community to not only forge a long-term deal but also build durable solutions to tackle food insecurity," he said.



The Syrian Prison: Bureaucracy of Death, Marketplace of Extortion

Munir Al-Faqir, co-founder of the Association of Sednaya Prison Detainees and Missing Persons (Asharq Al-Awsat)
Munir Al-Faqir, co-founder of the Association of Sednaya Prison Detainees and Missing Persons (Asharq Al-Awsat)
TT

The Syrian Prison: Bureaucracy of Death, Marketplace of Extortion

Munir Al-Faqir, co-founder of the Association of Sednaya Prison Detainees and Missing Persons (Asharq Al-Awsat)
Munir Al-Faqir, co-founder of the Association of Sednaya Prison Detainees and Missing Persons (Asharq Al-Awsat)

From the Raid Department that falls under the Military Security’s Branch 215—commonly referred to as the “Branch of Death”—Asharq Al-Awsat began its tour of the prisons of the ousted Syrian president, Bashar al-Assad.

We were accompanied in this journey by a former detainee who had been transferred between this branch, Military Hospital 601—dubbed “The Slaughterhouse”—where the infamous “Caesar” photographs were taken, and finally the larger slaughterhouse, Sednaya Prison.

The former detainee is Munir Al-Faqir, an engineer from Damascus and a co-founder of the Association of Sednaya Prison Detainees and Missing Persons. He shed light on the inner workings of Syria’s prison system, revealing how detainees—both alive and dead—are meticulously archived, while their families are extorted for immense sums of money estimated at nearly $1 billion, according to the association.

Amid the systematic abuse of documents, the chaos of legal frameworks, and over 100,000 forcibly disappeared persons, local and international organizations, as well as Syria’s current administration, face a colossal challenge in establishing truth commissions, ensuring accountability, and laying the foundation for comprehensive transitional justice.

More Than Just Sednaya

The Syrian prison experience over the past fifty years cannot be summed up by Sednaya Prison alone, despite its unique horrors. Sednaya represents only the tip of the iceberg, beneath which lies a network of security branches, detention centers, and prisons no less terrifying in their brutality.

If anyone could be considered the “ultimate survivor” of this hell, it would be Al-Faqir. Over two years, he was transferred between multiple detention centers, starting with Branch 215, the “Raid Department” of Military Security, followed by Military Hospital 601 and finally Sednaya.

When asked how he managed to survive, Al-Faqir says: “It’s a miracle I made it out alive from the first two branches. When I reached Sednaya, and my family learned of my whereabouts, the extortion business had already begun. My family, like many others, tried to secure my release with money. I was lucky enough that it worked for me.”

Remarkably, the head of the military court, Major General Mohamed Kanjo Hassan, who sentenced Al-Faqir to Sednaya in a trial lasting barely two minutes, was the same official who approved his release after receiving a substantial bribe through an extortion network.

Al-Faqir, to this day, remains unaware of the charges against him. He explains:

“I still don’t know my alleged crime or the length of my sentence. Throughout my detention, I was never informed of anything and was prohibited from asking. I could only guess based on the questions directed at me, but I never learned the truth.”

A Marketplace of Extortion

Al-Faqir outlines three types of release cases. Those include presidential pardons, which are extremely rare and granted only in exceptional circumstances to specific individuals; Prisoner exchanges, which are equally rare, involving swaps between detainees held by the regime and those held by opposing factions; and financial extortion - by far the most common.

He explains: “General Kanjo Hassan, who amassed immense wealth and properties, worked with brokers to identify high-value detainees. These brokers would contact the families—primarily mothers, followed by wives and sisters—to negotiate ransoms.”

According to Al-Faqir, his organization has documented this phenomenon and published a report to raise awareness among families about the extortion networks. They estimate that between 2011 and 2020, these networks extracted roughly $1 billion. While other human rights organizations estimate even higher figures, the association’s calculations are based on a statistical sample, not a comprehensive survey.

The extortion process thrives on the families’ hopes of finding their missing loved ones and their fears of losing another son.

Al-Faqir explains: “The marketplace begins with small payments for vague information about the missing person. As the family’s resources dwindle, they are either promised the detainee’s release or told that the person has died or cannot be located.”

For some families, the ordeal ends with a death certificate or the delivery of a body for burial—often after signing documents stating the death was due to natural causes like heart failure or kidney failure. However, most families are neither notified of the death nor given a body to bury.

A Descent into Horror

Leaving the well-organized bureaucratic section of the detention system, the journey takes a grim turn into the lower floors of Branch 215. Here lie the dormitories, solitary cells, and a former shooting range repurposed into mass detention and torture chambers. During peak periods, it also served as an execution site, earning Branch 215 its “Death Branch” reputation.

The stench of death still lingers in these spaces, with dark walls bearing the marks of unspeakable past atrocities. Al-Faqir recalls moments of overwhelming rage, punching his cell door until his hands bled, only to compose himself and continue his story.

In these overcrowded cells, blankets stamped with the UNHCR logo serve every purpose—spreading diseases, lice, and bacteria. Open wounds fester, and gangrene often sets in.

Al-Faqir says: “Many times, a detainee would die, and their body would remain in the cell for hours or days before being removed. The corpse would lie on these same blankets, which were later reused.”

In the same detention center, solitary cells resemble upright graves—narrow spaces that leave no room to move. Yet for many detainees, these cells offer a reprieve from the horrors of communal living and the unsanitary conditions of the shared blankets.

Generalized Terror Beyond the Prison Walls

One of the most insidious aspects of Syria’s decades-long systemic cruelty and widespread terror lies in the deliberate placement of detention centers within residential neighborhoods in Damascus. These locations, often tucked between branching streets, seem designed to normalize the violence within them, embedding it into the everyday lives of ordinary people. While Sednaya Prison is distant from public view and imagination, these security branches are situated in the heart of the capital, standing alongside “normal” life outside their walls.

To reach Branch 215, located within the security district between Kafr Sousa and Mezzeh—a site that marked the beginning of Munir’s grim detention journey—we traveled along the famous “Mezzeh Highway,” made a slight turn, and entered through an open gate on a public street. It felt as if we were heading into any other government office in an open, public space. Upon leaving the darkness of the detention corridors and stepping back into daylight, administrative buildings appeared on the rear side, their windows overlooking the compound’s yards. Office workers would likely sneak glances at the scene below during coffee and cigarette breaks before returning to their meticulously organized bureaucratic tasks.

On another side, residential buildings with shaded balconies—crowded with hanging laundry—also overlooked the branch. The sight of the laundry evoked both a strange sense of normalcy and a pervasive fear.

Many stories circulate about families who sold their homes and moved to escape the oppressive proximity to these centers. For some, it was the inability to endure the sounds of torture seeping into their living rooms and bedrooms that pushed them away.

“Trauma Section” and the Caesar Photos

A leaked directive from mid-2018, dated December 18, 2012, issued by the Military Intelligence Branch, instructs all affiliated security branches to report the death of any prisoner on the same day. The directive mandated direct communication with the branch chief via Telegram, including details such as the reason for arrest, investigation results, and cause of death.

This document, now used by human rights groups in international prosecutions, serves as explicit evidence of the systematic nature of detainee deaths. It also confirms that these deaths, in their overwhelming numbers, occur with the knowledge and direct approval of the highest levels of leadership.

Branch 215 played a central role in this “production line” of death, followed by the “Trauma Section” at the Mezzeh Military Hospital (formerly known as Yusuf Al-Azma), also referred to as Hospital 601.

According to Al-Faqir: “This is where deaths were processed medically, or patients were deliberately finished off under the guise of medical care.”

The Trauma Section was established after the 2011 revolution within the hospital’s old building, which dates back to the French Mandate era. Its purpose was to “treat” detainees as the systematic torture and killings in the security branches escalated, and as the number of victims increased. The section became essential for “disposing” of corpses and easing overcrowding. Simultaneously, it became an additional site for “medical torture” and a place where bodies were stored, archived, and numbered—many of which later appeared in the Caesar photos taken in the hospital’s courtyard.

Al-Faqir explained the role of medical staff in the Trauma Section.

“The supervisors were primarily security officers and military doctors. The section was managed by two security agencies: Military Intelligence and Air Force Intelligence. Each had its own ‘Angel of Death,’ as we used to call them because of their penchant for killing and their creativity in doing so.”

According to Munir—corroborated by other sources—a significant number of doctors, nurses, and even female nurses collaborated extensively with the military. These medical professionals would guide officers on how to inflict fatal injuries without leaving visible traces of torture, such as inducing internal bleeding, kidney failure, or asphyxiation. This allowed deaths to be officially recorded as “natural causes” in medical records, completing the meticulous administrative and bureaucratic cycle of murder.

While we waited for about two hours at the hospital’s main gate, many cars arrived with various requests: some came to hand over individual weapons, others sought non-existent medical services, and one former employee tried to retrieve personal belongings from her old office in exchange for handing over her office keys. Like others, she left disappointed. Only those turning in weapons received any attention or welcome from the armed guards.

Before returning to the celebrations at Umayyad Square, Al-Faqir paused for a long time at a sign posted on the hospital’s main entrance. It read:

“The hospital administration wishes patients a speedy recovery.”