Viktoryia Kulsha, tried again and again five times: If hell exists on earth, it is in the colony in Zarechcha

Viktoryia Kulsha at liberty in Switzerland. Photo by Volha Klaskouskaya

There was a time when I thought: "If not Lukashenka, then who?"

Vika and I met in the Volodarsky pre-trial detention center in 2020. Over time, we became not just cellmates, but friends. In 2021, fate scattered us to different places of detention, and we met again only this year in Switzerland.

Very thin, tired, but just as strong, Vika asks for coffee and at the same time teases my cups — saying she doesn't drink from such small ones. "Give me a normal, prisoner's mug," my friend says with a smile.

— In 2020, at Volodarka, you told me that for several years you were a member of election commissions and personally falsified elections. Can we touch on this topic a bit, or are you not ready?

— Yes, we can, I don't hide it. Starting from 2007 — at that time I worked as a labor safety engineer in a large company — I was repeatedly a member of commissions for the elections of the so-called president, to local councils of deputies, and for holding a referendum.

I believe that behind bars, they pressured me, among other things, for alleged treason against the regime. For many years I was on the other side of the barricades, and in 2020 I joined the protests. Of course, the authorities had a particular grudge against me.

Viktoryia says that the algorithm for falsifying elections was always the same: it mainly involved stuffing the required number of ballots:

— It was a working scheme that never failed. They either took us out of the building, or if there were no voters at the polling station located in a school, we would put checkmarks or crosses in the necessary fields and throw it all into the ballot box. In large stacks. We always had a large supply of ballots.

By and large, it didn't really matter whose name the checkmark was next to, because the vote count was carried out exclusively by commission members, without independent observers being allowed near the table with the stacks. Even if the paper had a mark next to another name, we simply moved the ballot to the pile for Lukashenka, and then the total vote count took place. Proving falsification in this case was impossible, because only we knew about it.

— Did any of the members resist the falsifications?

— No, never. No one even thought about it, let alone challenged it. We didn't perceive it as a violation. Personally, at that moment, I simply didn't see any other candidates worthy of the presidential post apart from Lukashenka. The system processed us quite seriously in terms of propaganda, but there was no coercion. We did it voluntarily. And not for any large sums of money, because the payment for participation was nominal, but for the idea. We sincerely believed that "if not Lukashenka, then who?"

On the eve of the elections to local councils of deputies, an order came from above stating which candidates should not win. That is, the elections happened even before the campaign began. We were also told how many votes should be recorded in the protocols for this or that candidate.

— What happened to you in 2020? Why did you radically change your political views and challenge the regime?

— I realized that life in Belarus was not only not improving, but rolling backward, experiencing complete regression. Using myself as an example, as a mother raising a child alone, I realized that neither laws nor any social guarantees work in the country, and that things would only get worse. I became scared. Any state, our children and grandchildren, must have a future.

I saw how the economic situation of the country was deteriorating, and I began to understand that the propaganda narratives about "flourishing Belarus" were lies, and all our "prosperity" was merely ensuring the well-being of one family.

The thought gnawed at me: "Something needs to change." I understood that in 2020 there would be falsifications again, that nothing would change, and this encouraged a kind of internal protest.

— In 2020, you were one of the administrators of the Telegram channel "Drivers-97". Can you tell us a bit more about that?

— It was an association of people with common interests and ideas; the target audience was drivers. I got there as a participant in a car rally. I met the guys, then, probably, distinguished myself a bit with leadership qualities. I was invited to the administrators' group.

We wanted to show the authorities that we are peaceful people who want change, but not through violence.

We organized flash mobs, car rallies, initially without white-red-white flags. I, by the way, was exclusively involved in car rallies.

When we later encountered the brutality of the State Automobile Inspectorate (GAI) and GUBOPiK, we also began to radicalize.

But again. These were not plans to throw Molotov cocktails at the security forces; these were still car rallies, but now with symbols. We understood that this greatly irritated them, that we were attracting attention, but we acted absolutely consciously.

The administrators in "Drivers-97" were divided into categories, says the interlocutor. There were subgroups and sub-chats, as well as a chat for admins. The latter literally had two or three people. "It arose when arrests began, the suppression of actions, when cars started to be seized," explains the former political prisoner.

— In the autumn of 2020, one of the administrators was detained, who then cooperated with GUBOPiK, and through her, we were identified. For some time, we didn't suspect this, as she pretended that nothing had happened and continued to work with the team.

However, I think information about me was collected much earlier: I participated in rallies in my own car, and identifying the owner was not difficult at all. And, as a rule, I always either led the convoy or closed it. It's clear that the first or last vehicle is the leader, and most likely, this is an administrative activist. Since our actions lasted quite a long time, it was not difficult to identify me as a cell leader.

At that moment, I probably didn't have any internal fear, because I couldn't imagine then what terrible events awaited us.

"Miss Titanic" swims against the current

— When did they come for you?

— November 4, 2020. That day, I decided to go to work a little later. The security forces decided to arrest me in my apartment.

Then there was an attempt to film a repentance video, but I categorically refused. As well as signing the protocol. I just tore it up. Afterwards, they took me to the General Prosecutor's Office, where it turned out that a criminal case against me had been opened by Prosecutor General Shved.

After that, there was the Maskouski District Department of Internal Affairs with a personal search, and the temporary detention facility (IZhU) in Akrestsina. In the latter, I was held in solitary confinement for several days — without a mattress or bedding. About nine days later, I was thrown into Volodarka.

— Where you and I met. I remember you showing me your papers — I was horrified then by the incredible number of articles they charged you with. How many were there — nine, ten?

— I don't remember anymore either. But when you and I added it up, it came to 75 years of imprisonment. More than enough to serve, yeah.

It felt like some not-very-sober person was flipping through the criminal code and randomly, comma by comma, listing absolutely every article in my case. There was the drug-related Article 328, illegal arms trafficking, explosives, national security threats. If you remember, there was even theft of small vessels. After that, you started calling me "Miss Titanic".

In February 2021, the articles, as prisoners say, were condensed into one: Article 342, parts one and two. This is "organization and active participation in group actions that grossly violate public order." I was sentenced to two and a half years under it.

Before the appeal, I was taken to the Zhodzina pre-trial detention center. There, I immediately came under pressure. Cold punishment cells began, with insects and spiders that I was forced to clean up with my bare hands. I refused, for which I received new reports and sentences.

I didn't want to call the officers "citizen boss," because why were they my bosses? I was also punished for this.

After twenty days in the punishment cell, I fell ill and was transferred to the medical unit, temporarily left in peace.

Volodarka, by the way, seemed like a kindergarten back then. Although I ended up in the punishment cell there, I can't say that any atrocities were committed in the Minsk pre-trial detention center. My main complaint was that they didn't hand over letters. Well, and of course, I can't forgive their behavior when my father died.

He passed away on February 16, 2021. Relatives called the then head of Volodarka, Tsedryk, and asked for me to be released under escort to say goodbye. The next day, a telegram was sent — but again, silence...

And only on February 26, on my birthday, I was called into the office and informed: "We have unpleasant news for you. Your father has died."

Brave officers and women's underwear

— I was transferred to the Homiel colony in August 2021. There, they immediately made it clear to me that "everything is bad." The head of the operational department told me to change my life priorities and revise my life position. He added that how I would serve my sentence here depended solely on my actions, thoughts, statements, and so on.

In quarantine, they offered me to admit guilt and write a petition for pardon. At that moment, I simply ridiculed this offer and called it insulting.

I spent very little time in the "living zone," as I soon ended up in the SHIZA (punishment isolation cell), from where, unfortunately, I never returned to the unit. For a long time, I couldn't understand why I was there and what their complaints against me were. I couldn't grasp why Polina Sharenda-Panasyuk, and then I, became targets for mockery by the prison guards.

I more or less coped with the cold in SHIZA, because compared to the Zhodzina punishment cell, it was still tolerable. But I was not allowed to get up at night and do exercises; they ordered me to "lie on the sleeping place".

Then came three months in PKT (cell-type premises). And so I come out and see: my boxes with personal belongings are there, many of them. The prison guards say, "Carry them one by one to the checkpoint." And when I finally carried them all in, they told me that I was again going to the punishment commission. Allegedly, new materials about violations had been compiled against me. They just took me from the checkpoint and gave me six months in PKT.

There was nothing to do, I had to drag the boxes back. Sweat was pouring down because they were big and heavy, and the regime officer was watching this and enjoying it. How low and disgusting.

— I remember that. Great specialists in women's underwear. During searches, they were very diligent when it came to panties. Disgusting to recall.

— The level of officers. They are all interested in women's underwear there. It's some kind of fetish for them. I can't understand it. By the way, in Penal Colony No. 24 in Zarechcha, the prison guards are exactly the same in this regard. And if female controllers do not show any curiosity about panties during a search, the operatives will definitely twist them in their hands, examine them against the light, and so on.

Soon, a criminal case was initiated against the political prisoner under Article 411 — "malicious disobedience to the administration." Vika says that at first she didn't realize it meant another year in prison: "I thought they would just take me to a 'covered prison,' I was prepared for that, I wasn't worried about Article 411."

— This case was handled by investigator Kristina Rukhlo. Young, arrogant. She behaved contemptuously, used abusive language, and was rude. She made it clear that you were "dirt under her fingernails."

Criminal cases were initiated against me more than once. But none of the investigators — whose names I also remember well — allowed themselves to so openly demonstrate personal animosity.

I wanted the investigation to end as soon as possible, so I asked her: "How much longer will this drag on, when will I finally go to a 'covered prison'?" To which she replied: "And what makes you think you're going there? You will serve your sentence in Penal Colony No. 24 in Zarechcha."

And that's when I realized that everything was very serious. Ahead lay complete uncertainty and the realization that my story was far from happy. And the prospects of being released were becoming more and more distant.

In the pre-trial detention center, you're no longer in a cell with first-time offenders or political prisoners, but with ordinary household criminals, most of whose communication consisted of obscenities. These are difficult people, with whom there are no common topics or interests; most of them are addicted to alcohol and drugs. I hadn't yet had experience interacting with such people. They actually come to the colony to live, and they go out "to visit" freedom.

At the same time, they didn't bother me. There were moments when we even joked, dissolving into laughter. I'm not a conflict-prone person by nature and always compromised with them. Plus, I constantly had parcels and shared with them. Recidivists, for the most part, sit with nothing. I shared not to buy their kind attitude towards me — it's just that I didn't mind some candy or a cigarette; I had plenty of all that in the pre-trial detention center. For repeatedly convicted people, those with the maximum supply of food and tobacco are respected.

That period, when I got the first Article 411, all these investigative actions, the clown show instead of a trial, the pre-trial detention center where the appeal took place, I'll be honest with you, I perceived it quite painfully," says the former political prisoner.

Павялічыць

Viktoryia Kulsha at liberty in Switzerland. Photo by Volha Klaskouskaya

"If hell exists on earth, it is in the colony in Zarechcha"

Viktoryia's most difficult memories are associated with Correctional Colony No. 24 in Zarechcha. I feel awkward, touching a raw nerve with my friend. Nevertheless, Vika continues:

— In quarantine, the head of the operational department came and asked questions about nothing. I didn't feel any negativity or aggression towards myself. I ended up in a relatively normal unit with a decent head of economy. At some point, I started thinking that I had found myself in better conditions than the Homiel colony.

Problems began after a month and a half or two months, when the prison guards wanted me to confess guilt and write a petition for pardon.

First there were just conversations, Vika recalls, then — a proposal in an ultimatum form, and then manipulations and intimidation:

— And then the pressure started. And I couldn't even imagine that they would slap me with another Article 411.

Polina Sharenda-Panasyuk and I couldn't communicate for a long time. Although we were in the Rechytsa colony at the same time, we were in different units. And at that moment, Polina was already in PKT.

They told me: "Kulsha, unfortunately, history teaches you nothing. We will continue." And I went to SHIZA. And if, Volha, hell exists on earth, it is in the colony in Zarechcha...

During her stay in SHIZA and PKT, other prisoners were usually put in her cell.

— These are very difficult people, with clear signs of mental disorder, degraded, from marginalized strata, very dirty. A horrible picture, and a stench in the cell. Sometimes I didn't know how much longer I could endure it. I tried not to think about it. Walking around the cell saved me. From morning till lights out. From corner to corner... I tried to set myself up for some positivity.

One day, an operative came and asked: "Is everything satisfactory?" I said: "No, but I have no alternative." He said: "There's always an alternative." "And what if I say 'no'?" "Then I'll throw such fools in with you that your head will spin." And he didn't lie. Though it seemed, how could it get any worse?" — recalls my friend.

She adds that there was almost no medical treatment. Parcels with medicines from relatives were refused, saying, "We have our own resources."

— Everything was done to cause you the most harm. They broke me psychologically, then physical violence was added. I was beaten by the same officer — Dzianis Valeryevich Nikanenka. A complete brute, a sadist, characterized by particular cruelty. Moreover, not only towards political prisoners, but also towards women convicted of domestic articles.

I repeatedly appealed to the leadership of the Department of Penal Enforcement for the Homiel region regarding this officer, but they did not react in any way. It seems to me that they either genuinely didn't believe he was capable of such atrocities or simply kept him in his position due to staff shortages.

But the head of the colony was definitely aware and covered for Nikanenka.

I believe this person should under no circumstances work with people whose safety directly depends on him.

He found pleasure in causing pain. And this character wore officer's epaulets, was physically strong, trained… You understand, at some point, especially just before my release, there was a period when I realized they were killing me. And that they would kill me sooner or later. Every day, things only got worse. These people, if they can even be called people, behaved with me as if they were sure I wouldn't leave there.

My only dream was for at least one of us — Polina Sharenda-Panasyuk or me — to escape from there.

Soon, I was transferred back to the pre-trial detention center to be tried once again under Article 411. In total, I was tried under it four times.

There I understood that Polina had been released, was safe, and had started speaking out. I very much hoped that her public testimonies about the violence in Zarechcha would tie the executioners' hands. And that they would no longer allow themselves such cruelty towards me as before.

I was wrong. Psychological pressure began immediately upon my return to PC-24. The uniformed people wanted me to smear Polina. To which I said I would never do that, because we had walked the same path and drunk the same bitter cup.

Later, one of the officers called me and said that "if you are lucky this year and can get out..." and then outlined the conditions for making it happen.

Among them were mandatory cooperation, full admission of guilt. Moreover, I had to sign cooperation documents at the level of the operational departments of the penal enforcement department for the Homiel region, the same package of documents with GUBOPiK, the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and the KGB.

They offered me to inform on political prisoners Mayorava and Hnauk. I took a piece of paper and wrote: "Since communication between units within the colony is a violation of localization, which is prosecuted administratively and is a disciplinary offense, I cannot provide anything objective or informative about these convicts."

I handed this note to one of the heads of the Department of Penal Enforcement. He didn't like it and suggested: "Then write about someone else." To which I replied that I could write about his operational department employees.

Soon I was back in SHIZA. You know, it hits your psyche quite hard when you realize you're powerless... Especially since I spent a total of over a year in punitive solitary cells. I didn't even count the terms in PKT anymore.

You can scream, no one will hear you; they can do whatever they want to you, and no one will ever know. And you're truly just afraid for your life.

At the same time, it is unclear why the executioners do not realize that there is a separate category of people who cannot be broken physically or psychologically. Such people would rather commit suicide than kneel before a criminal regime.

On December 5 last year, a new criminal case was initiated against me — under Article 410, which is "actions that disorganize the work of a correctional institution." The punishment provides for up to ten years of imprisonment. After this, I simply gave up. I understood that I would never leave this concentration camp," says Viktoryia Kulsha.

"I thought they were taking me to be killed, and suddenly — Ukraine"

— I was released from Homiel PC-4: I ended up there from Zarechcha in the hospital. The next day, I was taken out of the ward, out of the cell, whatever it was correctly called there. I had no idea where. Although the day before, one of the Department's employees had hinted that a release might happen in the near future.

When I saw an officer who brought a bag with money and said, "Funds have been withdrawn from your account, please sign the statement," I understood that something was happening. They didn't offer me to sign for my passport. As it later turned out, they had simply deprived me of it.

Павялічыць

Viktoryia Kulsha's certificate of release from the colony

They changed me into civilian clothes, took my uniform, and led me to the checkpoint (KP), from where releases happen. My boxes were already there; they had been brought from Zarechcha in advance.

The gate opens, I see a bus and people in balaclavas. I became scared: I had the feeling that they would take me into the forest and just... you know... a shot to the back of the head and that would be it.

I was even more shaken when I saw a person lying in the front seat with a grocery bag over his head. His hands were handcuffed in front, and he lay motionless. I was sure it was a dead man in front of me.

The people in balaclavas started pushing me in the back, saying, "Get in the bus." But I couldn't, I was in a panic, I refused. They pushed me in there and said, "Lie down like him." But my neck was in a cast, I said, "I physically can't." Then they allowed me to sit, but they put handcuffs on me and a similar bag over my head. And so you just sit there and realize they're taking you to be killed.

But then I felt people from other vehicles being transferred into one bus. And I realized that we were indeed being released. But my brain refused to believe it. I even thought that everyone else would be released, and I would be taken back to the colony. I heard that there were many people around, they were men, although I didn't see them.

For some reason, they threw me into a bus with only men. At that point, I didn't care where they were taking me — to the moon or to hell and back. The most important thing was that they were taking me out of that hellhole, that hell was over.

I couldn't imagine it would be Ukraine; none of us could, of course.

And here we are at the closed Ukrainian border. There was so much joy, I can't express it! I am extremely grateful to the Ukrainian authorities, President Zelenskyy, volunteers, and all those who welcomed and cared for us. My deepest respect to them.

And although we were warned that the Chernihiv region was constantly under shelling, and we were always going down to the bomb shelter, there was no panic or fear. I finally felt free! After what happened to me in PC-24, the possibility of being killed in Ukraine didn't scare me at all.

Павялічыць

Viktoryia Kulsha at liberty in Switzerland. Photo by Volha Klaskouskaya

Some things need treatment, but generally, I feel quite well physically. Psychologically, of course, it's not easy. I'm like an empty vessel that needs to be filled with something, but for now, it's not working, as the contents leak through the cracks. In my head, there's a puzzle that has shattered into many pieces, and I can't put it together.

Sooner or later, I will probably need to see a psychologist, but for now, I want silence and peace.

Regarding Lukashenka, who said after our release, "Why should I, they say, give passports to my enemies," I believe that one can only speak with him from a position of strength. I support sanctions, but I don't impose my opinion on anyone.

I hope that sooner or later these executioners will answer for their dark deeds. I do not want and cannot turn the page.

I really want to return to Belarus. I live for this dream, this moment.

• 4
• 0
• 0
• 0
• 2
• 19
• 2
• 3