"GUBASIK had a grudge against me for the performance." A long interview with DJ Papa Bo about the beating, evacuation from Belarus, 40 days in Russian backwater and the fate of "Korpus"
In September, well-known DJ Aliaksandr Bahdanau and set designer Maksim Kruk were detained at their workplace in the cultural center "Korpus". They were reminded of their vibrant musical performances during two Sunday marches in 2020, when the guys organized a mobile rave directly in the crowd. After that, there was a beating, GUBASIK (Main Directorate for Combating Organized Crime and Corruption), Akrestsina, Valadarka, and a trial. The guys were given three years of restricted freedom under the "people's" Article 342.
Aliaksandr Bahdanau, also known as Papa Bo, has already managed to return to his beloved work and organized a charity concert in support of Ukraine — unfortunately, not in Belarus, from where he and his colleague evacuated immediately after the verdict.
We talked with him about his imprisonment, a new international project, and the future of Belarusian music both within the country and in emigration.
Aliaksandr Bahdanau
"They beat me with kicks and batons, broke three ribs"
Nashaniva: When you went online after your imprisonment, you wrote on social media: "The author's Belarusian 'post-Valadarka' dish is aiming for a Michelin star this season. But I don't recommend you taste it. Freedom is priceless, and its taste is incomparable." Have you and Max moved on from this "dish," how do you feel?
Aliaksandr Bahdanau: In fact, I'm in good spirits, and I always have been. Everything that happened to me doesn't seem to have traumatized me much. My friend Max is in a slightly worse situation; he's seeing a psychologist. It's harder for him to move on; he's a bit social-phobic and can't accept that his whole former life and social capital are in the past, and he has to start anew.
My psychologist told me during the third session, "Let's stop, you're cheerful." My life has always been divided into periods where serious upheavals cut everything short, and I had to start from scratch, so I still perceive all of this as just another stage. Well, and I'm quite adventurous, restless – for me, all of this is like a movie adventure, a thrilling film.
NN: Were there any premonitions before the arrest?
AB: Actually, many. We were taken exactly one year after our musical performances at the marches. All this time, I personally was wavering. On the one hand, it seemed like something was protecting me: we had become very prominent, and if they hadn't paid attention to us before, perhaps they wouldn't now. But then they jail the drummers and paranoia sets in: "We need to leave." And then I give rather resonant interviews to "Dozhd" and RBC, and still no one is interested in us, even though we are in plain sight, continuing our activities. And then they arrest the pipers, the band Irdorath — I immediately receive many calls: "Sasha, urgently pack your suitcase and leave."
Three days before the arrest, I guess with some extreme intuition, I decided to hold my big benefit performance at "Korpus," playing for 3.5 hours. At the beginning of the event, in a not-yet-crowded hall — at its very end — I saw two black figures looking at me.
At the time, I didn't pay much attention to it, but later, reconstructing the chain of events, I realized that I had been under surveillance for a week. They knew I had stayed overnight at "Korpus," they knew who picked me up after the party and everything else.
Why didn't I leave, even though I was so wavering? I was held back by the burden of "Korpus," its property, and obligations. We planned to leave at some point in the future, but in a more calm manner, to gradually wind down activities, sell accumulated property, gather ourselves, and leave with a specific cultural project that could be implemented outside Belarus. We were moving towards leaving, but we didn't make it. We ran out of a couple of months.
NN: You were beaten, as far as I know, before Akrestsina?
AB: Yes, and that was the only moment when severe physical force was used. GUBASIK arrested Max, another employee named Liza, and me at "Korpus" itself. Liza wasn't touched, but Max was severely beaten there. They started on me already at GUBASIK.
They "processed" us very seriously in different offices. Max was hung in a "swallow" position. All of this was to make us give up our phone passwords. Plus, specifically in my case, I didn't want to record a repentance video.
As soon as I was brought there, a prepared piece of paper with text was already waiting, and they pushed the narrative that all DJs are drug addicts, and so am I – meaning, read out that I participated in protests and constantly used drugs. I understood that I could admit to participating in protests, but if I gave a candid confession on camera about drugs, it could lead to a different article of the law.
With Maksim Kruk
They beat me with kicks and batons, broke three ribs, and damaged my spleen. When they asked, "We've been given condoms for half a year already, do you know what for?" — and took a condom, starting to pull it onto a baton, I agreed to record the video. I was not ready for that kind of violence.
It turned out that the entire GUBASIK was very offended by our performance. As they explained, they simply hadn't gotten around to us for a long time. But in the end, they intentionally brought me to show me to their boss, because he personally "had a grudge" against me. There are two videos of the marches with us. On the less popular one, we walked directly up to the GUBASIK cordon. They had blocked Revaliutsyjnaja Street, stood there with jeeps, some pump-action shotguns, in bandit-like sports suits. We approached them closely, and I turned the camera to play against their background. They became very tense, started moving towards us, but we managed to leave.
The moment in the video that provoked GUBASIK
"When I got to Valadarka, I thought I was saved, because it seemed I would die at Akrestsina"
NN: Did you receive any medical assistance after the beating?
AB: No, and I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't cough, couldn't sleep due to broken ribs and a damaged spleen. And every day, our entire cell, both at the isolation ward (ICU) and the temporary detention center (TIP), we asked for a doctor, but all the medical staff on all shifts — every single one of them — touched my ribs with their fingers and said: "Nothing hurts you, if I touched a broken rib, you'd be writhing in pain." At the TIP, there were 18-20 of us in a four-person cell, and everyone had COVID.
It's unclear why, but after two weeks, they pulled me out of the cell, the only one with a fever and cough. I was escorted to Barauliany, because I am registered in the Minsk district. There, I was diagnosed with COVID and broken ribs, tissue damage – my thighs, buttocks, and back were purple.
I spent two weeks alone in the red zone (not counting three guards). They cleared a ward for me, although there was clearly a shortage of beds at the time: people were lying in the corridors. The guards, in full "cosmonaut" (riot police) gear, with protective glasses, masks, and gloves, wearing body armor and carrying automatic rifles on top, changed every 12 hours.
Immediately after the hospital, they wanted to transfer me to Valadarka, but decided I should complete quarantine and placed me in solitary confinement at the Akrestsina isolation ward, where I quarantined alone for a week.
NN: Did the guards at the hospital try to strike up a conversation with you?
AB: It was terrible because they were 20-22 years old. And these were guys who came from villages to get an apartment in Minsk, who spoke in a kolkhoz *trasianka* (a mix of Belarusian and Russian, often with rural connotations) and had no interests beyond: "Tonight, fry some potatoes with my girl and drink beer."
They weren't dialogues, but monologues, because each of the guards on duty considered it their duty to conduct compulsory political indoctrination for me in the spirit of: "Well, what about you, fighter, you even went out for free — without a 'sucker' life is bad" (a crude Russian expression), "What, did your 'cutlet girl' dump you?" — all that stuff. And when you're lying chained to the bed with three cops over you, you can't really argue or answer back.
The rest of the time, they sat and watched TikToks on their phones. I even noticed that for some reason none of them had headphones — resulting in such a cacophony from three phones simultaneously.
NN: What can you say about the conditions at Akrestsina and Valadarka in comparison?
AB: Well, at Akrestsina, there are no basic amenities whatsoever. And due to the hospital situation, I was essentially in the same clothes for five weeks, with unbrushed teeth, unshaven, unwashed — it was very difficult, of course.
My family tried to pass me a parcel, even to Barauliany. They tried to get something through the nurses at least — a toothbrush or toothpaste — but no one passed anything. Because there, apparently, I was held under the same rules as at Akrestsina. The guards supposedly accepted parcels, but they just rotted in the corridor.
Doctors were also forbidden to help me in any additional way, other than the medication they injected me with. For example, the doctor constantly insisted that I needed to sit up and walk around with my injuries, but according to the guards' rules, I always had to lie down, handcuffed to the bed.
One of the handcuffs would only be unfastened when they brought me food — and you'd eat with one hand, holding a spoon. Both hands were unfastened exclusively in the toilet. And you go there, but the guards must maintain constant visual contact with you — and they stand there watching you.
The attitude of Akrestsina staff and guards differs greatly from the people working at Valadarka. After all that horror, when you sleep on the floor and can't wash, or eat normal food, at Valadarka, in comparison, the attitude is tolerable, daily life is organized, and parcel schedules are set. The joy of a blanket, mattress, and pillow is simply incredible, and when it's warm, not freezing cold in the cell. When I got to Valadarka, to be honest, I thought I was saved, because it seemed I would die at Akrestsina.
NN: Which political prisoners did you cross paths with in the pre-trial detention center?
AB: I was with Ales Minau, a Belarusian language and literature teacher. And another well-known political prisoner — Akihiro Hayaeuski-Hanada, who is involved in the "anarchists' case."
There was also a quite well-known person with me — he was featured for a whole week on the "ChP" program (Emergency Incident) — a Turk with a Dutch passport, who, as part of an organized group, transported 550 kilograms of heroin from Afghanistan through Belarus to Amsterdam, and this was the largest batch in the history of Belarus. He was given 20 years, and he doesn't even speak Russian.
There were always 15 people in the cell at Valadarka; it had three-tier bunks. It was quite cramped — so much so that two people couldn't pass each other in an empty space, and you couldn't squat simultaneously.
NN: Since autumn, many have experienced problems with correspondence. How did this affect you?
AB: Specifically, I received two to five letters a day, but I know that this is about 10 percent of what was sent to me. I know many people who wrote weekly, daily, but nothing reached me. In October, we were supposed to go to a large TEH (Trans Europe Halles) conference — an international organization that unites cultural spaces in industrial buildings. We didn't go for obvious reasons, and all members from there — about 150 — signed postcards, but none of them reached me. Evidently, there was some kind of selection — whose mail to let through and whose not.
But if all the letters had reached me, I would have died, because I was already almost non-stop answering them at Valadarka, reading very little. I set myself a challenge: I would answer as many letters as people sent me in volume. And if someone sent three album-sized sheets written spaciously on both sides, then with my small handwriting, it could take a whole day to reply.
"I played about 10 backyard raves across Minsk"
NN: Recall how the musical actions #musicweapon and #ProtestDances, for which you were arrested, came about. What was your personal goal with them?
AB: It started with a group of us attending the first big march on Sunday, August 16th. There was a huge crowd, we met many acquaintances, and everyone, specifically, for some reason, asked me: "Sasha, where's the music? Why is there no stage or speakers, no organized dancing in the field? We really miss inspiring music!" So, by the next weekend, we had already figured out that we needed to go out somehow, but to be mobile, to move with the crowd. I had long followed the English DJ SUAT; he makes interesting video sets — he takes a large table, attaches it to his shoulders, and walks around some English cities with a microphone, or loads equipment into a kayak and floats down a river, simultaneously commenting on things and talking to people. And, of course, blasting music.
We thought it was a good idea, especially since my DJ controller allowed for mobility. Max, my partner, companion, and now "conspirator" in the case, has a very serious engineering and creative mind (he's involved in designing decorations for films, theaters, commercials, and creating installations for events). Max figured out how to make all this work and suspend it on me so that it would stay in place, not turn off, and not get wet in the rain.
Aliaksandr at one of the marches
NN: Was it all for fun, or did you also believe in the protest, supporting it this way?
AB: I very much believed and still believe in the Belarusian protest.
I believe that music plays an important role in such historical moments: to encourage and inspire people — that is the task of cultural figures. Protest art is created to mentally fuel the protest. That is precisely why we went out.
We only did two actions. This was associated with great risk — firstly, we attracted a lot of attention. Secondly, overall, more severe arrests began at the new marches.
Also, when we went out for the first march with music, everyone had a feeling of celebration, of unity. But even if you look at the second video and the people walking around us, you can notice that everyone is already very tense — faces on edge, and no one is really dancing anymore, they're looking around.
During an arrest, I definitely wouldn't have been able to escape with my "thing" (equipment); I would have just fallen on my back like a beetle, and they would have pushed me along the ground together with all the electrical equipment. On top of everything, the bad weather factor played a role — after all, electricity outdoors.
But afterwards, I started being actively invited to backyard gatherings of absolutely different formats. I played about ten backyard raves across Minsk.
NN: Did faith in the protest only emerge in 2020?
AB: Apparently, like for many. Although I participated in protests before too, I stood in the cordon of Ploshcha-2006 (Square-2006) on Kastrychnitskaya, but there was no end in sight. Here, however, light began to be seen at the end of the tunnel.
"Most of the people with whom and for whom we did this are physically no longer in the country"
NN: What is happening with "Korpus" now and what fate awaits it?
AB: The project has been put on hold, and the team is reformatting its activities into a cultural institution. As a venue, "Korpus" has suspended its work. For now, that's all I can say.
NN: What do you feel when you say that? As I understand it, this has been your life's work for the past years?
AB: Our entire team truly lived for this place for five years (and some actually lived in it). It's bitter, it's painful, but I've let it go because I understand that most of the people with whom we built this, the absolute majority of those for whom we built it, from partners and destroyed NGOs we collaborated with, to the audience, are physically no longer in the country.
One of the events at the cultural center "Korpus". Photo by 34travel
We created a place with a community, and it has dispersed. In the harsh conditions of a scorched earth, maintaining a huge, expensive venue for an unclear purpose, when large events cannot be held and there's no one to organize them — it makes no sense.
That's why we want to reformat our activities — for our own community. Expanding it in the countries and cities where our people have gone.
NN: On your YouTube channel, there's currently the first episode of your "good news in a bad year." It's called "It's Been Worse." Have you had it worse in life than right now — prison, emigration, starting everything from scratch professionally?
AB: I think so, a couple of times. For example, one of the stages was when we just started with "Korpus." Before that, the band "Serebryanaya Svadba" (Silver Wedding) broke up, where I had been the director for ten years and with whom we traveled the world and earned very well, were famous super-tourers. At the same time, I experienced personal upheavals — trouble never comes alone; several catastrophes immediately fall upon you.
NN: Are you currently working with any Belarusian bands?
AB: We maintain communication; I keep everyone in mind for my projects or for those where I'm invited as a consultant — primarily, I promote artists we once collaborated with.
"My main goal as a cultural figure is not to lose touch with modernity, not to become set in my ways"
NN: When you talked about how you got into music management, you said you started by organizing apartment concerts (kvartirniki) for "Djambibum" and "NagUal," and then things took off. But what helped you become a successful producer and manager for a large number of Belarusian bands ("Serebryanaya Svadba," "Kassiopeya," "Port Mone," Shuma, and others) — just practice, or did you have mentors?
AB: It all really started with hippie friends with whom we organized apartment concerts (kvartirniki) and drummer concerts under the bridge. All of this gradually grew like a snowball. First, it evolved into an acquaintance with the band "NagUal" — back then, 15 years ago, they were at their peak, and I started touring with them. There was fertile ground then, and young, untired minds. There are no genetic predispositions that would have helped: my mother is a teacher, and my father is a poet.
I also can't say that I had any specific teachers. It wasn't that I was studying, but I observed my friend Zhenya Kalmykov — the producer of "Lyapis." A bit — Maksim Zhbankov and Artemiy Troitsky. My main goal as a cultural figure is not to lose touch with modernity, not to become set in my ways, to feel the "new wave."
It seems to me that only through practice can one become a good manager. Throughout my career, I've attended various platforms, seminars, and intensives that taught how to plan events, budgets, how to communicate with partners — none of that helped.
Everything is not as it's written point by point with a black marker on a white sheet.
NN: Recently, on Instagram, you asked the Belarusian cultural community outside Belarus to respond — indeed, it's striking how many people are now abroad. What do you plan to do with those who responded?
AB: That's actually just the tip of the iceberg, because many people wrote to me privately so as "not to catch the major's eye" (a euphemism for the authorities).
As I said, we want to reformat the "Korpus" team into a cultural institution that will be a mobile, traveling association of artists and managers, touring cities with large Belarusian communities and modern open events. This, firstly, brings the Belarusian political agenda, which is undoubtedly fading now, back into focus. Secondly, we want to organize events in these countries and cities in such a way that this agenda does not remain exclusively within the Belarusian circle.
How do I see what's happening now? This is just our team's opinion, but most events supporting the Belarusian agenda are directed only at the Belarusian diaspora; they do not attract progressive local residents, opinion leaders, with whom an active dialogue could be maintained.
A rough example: with all due respect, a concert by Lavon Volski and Zmitser Vaitsiushkevich, whom I love very much, in a large hall in Warsaw, will most likely only gather Belarusians. But a rave with electronic musicians, inviting local artists, with cool visuals, will gather a local audience as well. And this is important — for the Belarusian agenda to go beyond our community.
We have gathered a large database of artists, managers, organizers, and planned a series of events called "Belarus outside sound system." We want to launch our project in July, starting with Tbilisi, Warsaw, Vilnius, Berlin — currently, four concerts are planned, which will transition into night raves.
"Belarus is practically a scorched earth"
NN: What should Belarusian artists who remain in Belarus do?
AB: I would like to bring a number of Belarusian artists who are currently in Belarus and not yet planning to leave. But we apply to funds for event support, so we don't want to create danger for Belarusians upon their return home.
I think that Belarus is practically a scorched earth — most musicians and other cultural figures who remained will gradually either leave or start engaging not in culture, but in something else.
I know for sure that all curators who organize contemporary art exhibitions are outside the country, most promoters and concert organizers are too. Most of the main venues where exhibitions and concerts took place, from "OK16" to Lo-Fi Social Club, "Karma" — everything is closed. If you check the website of the "Graffiti" club — they used to have a local artist concert every day, but today it's one a week, and even those are projects with unknown names. Unfortunately, everything is bad and will get even worse.
NN: In old interviews, you very much criticized the Belarusian scene, calling it "faceless and boring, without development." Has everything changed?
AB: It has changed and would have changed for the better if not for what happened in the last two years — from the coronavirus to the fierce elections, protests, and now the war in Ukraine. Everything in Belarusian culture would have been good, because many young and creative people emerged, many opportunities to travel and exchange experiences. At Russian and Ukrainian festivals, there was a demand for quality Belarusian bands, for our contemporary art. Everything was going very well, albeit with a delay.
NN: Well, there is an opinion that if there had been no protests, everything would have continued "on the path of gradual liberalization"...
AB: I actually don't look at the 2020 protests from that perspective. I view them as the only option for the nation's unity and awakening, for our self-awareness as Belarusians — from a positive point of view, despite the fact that they led to such a "mess" and such sacrifices. And they still do today... But I think that in the history of Belarus's development, this is a positive point, unfortunately, only painful and bloody.
"We found ourselves in a provincial, chthonic Russian city, such a deep, gloomy Russia, and spent 40 days there"
NN: Your evacuation after the verdict was not without adventures and difficulties, tell us about them.
AB: BYSOL helped us with the evacuation, for which we are very grateful. On December 29, Max and I crossed the Belarusian-Russian border through snow-covered fields. We had a plan to settle in Russia for a short time, and then we would be escorted across the Russian-Ukrainian border.
On the 30th, we found ourselves in a provincial, chthonic Russian city, such a deep, gloomy Russia. January 1st is my birthday, and we, like naive guys, expected to celebrate New Year's Eve properly with friends. But then we were told — rent an apartment for a week, and then extend the lease, because Russian troops are standing at the borders, precisely in the place we needed.
We waited for a signal, extending the lease for another week, and another. In the end, we spent forty days in this dreadful black city. We had to change apartments and SIM cards, but we couldn't communicate with relatives or friends. We couldn't go for walks or go out in the evening, so as not to be stopped by the police.
A dreadful impression of that place — such darkness and hopelessness, as Varlamov shows in his videos about "shit-cities" (cities of shame), where snow is never cleared, people endlessly fall into it. Everyone in black. Pubs in every yard and nothing else. Murals and attractions exclusively associated with WWII and St. George ribbons. A caricatured, gloomy Russia.
We were anxious, ate, procrastinated, and watched "Netflix" — luckily, we rented an apartment where it was paid for. When we saw news of troops gathering at the border, we had a feeling we'd be there for a long time. Communication was only with our curator, who kept repeating: "Oh, such an unfortunate time." We had already been told to dig in and rent an apartment for a month, not daily, when a slightly different way to evacuate us was found, without Ukraine. I cannot say what it was, for obvious reasons.
NN: Did you generally expect "restricted freedom"?
AB: I hoped so, but there was a possibility that we would be sent to a penal colony. Therefore, when three years with referral (restricted freedom) were announced, it was a relief for us. We were sure that this was the only chance to escape, and that this operation was being prepared for us while we were at large.
NN: What do you plan to live on abroad?
AB: After the pre-trial detention center, BYSOL immediately offered us to open a fundraiser, but we decided to wait, and with the war, it became inappropriate. Now we plan to make our international music project entirely charitable — all proceeds from entry will be directed to funds, so they distribute half to support Ukraine, and half to Belarusian political prisoners.
But we ourselves need something to live on, so we ask not all solidarity activists, but people who like and have liked what we do, to support us so that we can continue to generate social and cultural projects. We are giving them this opportunity: there is now a targeted fundraiser on BYSOL.
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