Prisoners in exile speak of brutality behind bars in Belarus

Larysa would be more than happy to stay in prison for the last four months of her sentence, if she could go home at the end of it.

Instead he collapsed at the border from Belarus to Lithuania with 51 other political prisoners. They were released in September as part of the relaxation of sanctions imposed between the Authoritarian Leader of Belarus Lukashenko and US President Donald Trump.

During the three years she spent in bars for “extremism” and “discovery of” Belarus, Larysa SHHyrakova missed her mother’s funeral. Now he cannot visit his grave.

He left his son, his house, his dog and all his possessions. Like most released inmates, he is undocumented, and risks arrest if he returns.

“You lose everything at night. It’s traumatic to think that at 52, there is no home,” he told the BBC.

He really had no choice.

Veteran opposition politician Mikola Statkevich caught Larysa’s bus and refused to cross the border. He has not been heard from since, and it is believed that he was sent straight to prison.

MIKalai Dziadok, a 37-year-old activist, spent five years behind bars and was marked with a special yellow tag, which means stronger treatment and more severe treatment.

Yellow rather than white tags initially highlighted the risk of suicide or escape, so the guards could see them.

But for Mipalai and others it is used for political prisoners who are considered “prone to extremism”. Thousands were sent to prison in the weeks and months after Lukashenko brutally suppressed the 2020 protests.

Dziadok remembers how for months he was put in solitary confinement in cells on both sides shouting “insults and threats of rape, and distivember” and distivember “and distivember” and disparaging him.

“They beat their bowls against the wall for hours, day and night. They wouldn’t let me sleep; it was impossible to read, to write,” he also told the BBC.

Dziadok was sure that the prisoners were acting on orders from the guards.

“(The authorities) understand that most of us will either come sooner or later be released,” he said. “And if they have to release the person, they should traumatize him as much as possible so that he cannot participate in political activity in the future.”

Solitary confinement is used in Belarus as a punishment against political prisoners for minor “infractions”, such as not raising the guards too fast. This is a method set up by the authorities to psychologically pressure detainees, say human rights groups.

Another political prisoner released in September, Dzmitry Kuchuk, said that when he was in solitary confinement, the guards would torture his mother who died.

The BBC approached Belarya’s interior ministry for comment on these allegations but did not receive a response.

The solitary cells are small and freezing, said Yevgeny Merkis, a colleague who was arrested before Larysa ShHyrakova and released with her in September.

“The floor is plastered, the walls are cold, and in winter, when the temperature is above -5C, they open the window during the day,” Merkis told the BBC.

“You have a special uniform, and you can’t wear anything under it, no sweater, everything is taken off. At night, just a wooden blade.”

Mikalai Dziadok says he knows how to exercise at night, half asleep, to keep warm. “My personal best is 300 push-ups and the same number of sit-ups a night,” he says.

Larysa ShHLyrakova was not placed in solitary confinement and could still walk the grounds of the prison.

Her former co-worker Yevgeny heard her singing from his cell and managed to smuggle a message to her unknown, scraped under her bowl.

“I was sitting there, eating my porridge, and then I saw the word trimaysya” he said.

It means “hold” in Belarusian.

He saw screrbblings from former prisoners – on books in the library or a bench in the exercise yard. But it was in Belarusian, and he immediately felt that it was written by a political prisoner, as they made a point not to use Russian.

After he finished eating, he realized that his name had also been written on the bowl: “ShHHyrkovava, hold.”

It was clearly from someone he knew, although he didn’t know it was his friend Yevgeny Merkis who screwed up the message the moment he saw it.

“I was inspired by it. There was something almost mystical about it,” he said.

Two years later they were among 52 political prisoners released in September, amid pardons following negotiations between longtime Belarusian leader Alexander and Donald Trump.

In June, opposition to the politician Serganvansky – Husband of the Head of the President Svetlana Tikhanovskaya – was released. In July, the other 16 were released.

Trump later referred to Lukashenko as “a respected president” – a diplomatic leader, a leader of Tikhanovskaya was rejected by the US, the EU, the UK and CANADA.

In exchange for the release of the prison in September, Washington lifted the sanctions on the Belarusian Airline Belavia, so the banks can use the financial assets.

But there is no step towards a wider “thaw” of Belarus.

“In Belarus, everything goes in circles,” said Mikalai Dziadok. “After each wave of protest, round up a lot of political prisoners, and then, little by little, sell it for a thorn in the relationship with the west.”

According to the Human Rights Center Viasna, about 1,220 political prisoners remain behind bars.

Charges may range from insulting the President or joining an extremist organization, calling for actions that threaten the national security of Belarus.

Larysa ShHLyrakova is now adjusting to her new life in Lithuania and everything she has, be it food or clothes, is financed by Belarusian expats.

But at least now, more than a month after his release, he is finally reunited with his 19-year-old son.