Halina Dzerbysh told the prosecutor: "When I die, I will come to all of you at night." And life has already caught up with her judge and witnesses. The story of a pensioner who was given 20 years in a penal colony

Halina Dzerbysh. Photo: Nasha Niva

After prison, former political prisoner Halina Dzerbysh found herself in Bialystok — with one suitcase, fear of people, and distrust of everyone around her. Now she is starting life anew: sewing pet beds, cooking food for the homeless, and cautiously learning to breathe freely again.

In an interview with "Nasha Niva," Halina Dzerbysh talks about freedom after prison, betrayal by her own, and dreams in the KGB pre-trial detention center.

Pensioner Halina Dzerbysh was accused by Belarusian authorities of attempting to seize power and sentenced to 20 years in prison in the "Autukhovich case." On September 11, 2025, Dzerbysh was released from the penal colony as a result of negotiations between Belarusian authorities and the USA. She, along with a group of other political prisoners, was forcibly removed from Belarus to Lithuania.

"When I encountered people after my release, I realized: I'm more comfortable with cats and dogs."

We met Halina Dzerbysh in frosty, snow-covered Bialystok. She arrived here recently.

Halina walks home on the crunching snow. In her hands — bags.

— I buy clothes, blankets, and foam rubber at local second-hand shops. From all this, I'll sew some beds for cats, then take them to volunteers. In Grodno, I helped a lot of people who rescued stray animals, — she says.

— In your hometown of Obukhava, you were called "Mother Teresa" for rescuing animals. Do you continue your volunteer work here?

— I can't do otherwise. When I encountered people after my release, I realized: I'm more comfortable with cats and dogs.

But I was lucky: an acquaintance introduced me to the Polish "Dialogue" Foundation. The foundation's president, Michał Hawel, took me under his wing. There are few people like him; he has a big heart. He advised me not to shut myself off at home, but I can't "go out" yet — I'm afraid of people. So they offered me to cook food for the homeless at the foundation. There aren't many people there, so I can slowly get used to it. And I also sew beds for animals. Soon I should get a cat from the shelter — I've already prepared a place for him in the house; we'll live together.

— You had 16 cats in Grodno at the time of your arrest.

— Yes. You take a cat for temporary care, treat it, feed it — and then it's a pity to give it away. Simba, Chuvak… I remember them all. Now my husband looks after them, and my daughter helps.

There was such an incident. When I was on trial, propagandist Ksenia Lebedzeva came to our house. My husband was mowing grass in the yard, and she climbed over the fence, approached him, and tried to talk. My husband threatened her with the scythe and drove her away.

Then she was dragged through the courts for trespassing on private property. My husband didn't believe any of the nasty things they said about me after my arrest. He said he only lived for me.

He is 71 now. I don't know if we'll see each other again — maybe if everything changes and I return to Belarus.

— How are you doing here, far from your relatives?

— I still can't get used to freedom; at first, I even felt like I had landed in another colony. I have another daughter here; she lives in Bialystok, visits, and helps however she can. There are also acquaintances from Grodno — from my "previous life." But it's still hard. You're used to living in your own house, digging in your own garden, planting flowers — I had my own garden, many roses. And now you catch yourself thinking: what if you die — where will you be buried? Sometimes it gets scary to have to start everything from scratch at such an age.

"Trust in my life turned into a tragedy."

Павялічыць

We enter a one-room apartment: a room connected to a small kitchen, white walls, potted plants on the windowsill. A sofa, a table with two chairs, a wardrobe — everything simple and practical. On the floor near the radiator — a pet bed: a place for a future pet.

Павялічыць

— The "Dialogue" Foundation helped me get this apartment. I've lived here for two months, now I'll only pay utilities. And soon I'll move to another apartment, which the Bialystok authorities gave me thanks to the efforts of Pavel Latushka, Michał Hawel, and "Spólnota Polska." It's currently being renovated by the foundation. I am very grateful to everyone for such help, — Halina explains.

Before her detention, Halina lived in Obukhava, working in finance for 25 years: as an accountant-auditor and chief accountant. She headed the control and audit service of the Union of Poles.

— All my life I worked honestly and never broke the law. And in my old age, they made me an "enemy of the people." They gathered pensioners from all over Belarus and made an "organized criminal group" out of them. When I was in the colony, I received greetings from my hometown, saying that all of Obukhava stood by me. That means I'm not a bad person.

— For many years you helped acquaintances and neighbors: complaints, appeals, rights protection. You observed elections since 2010. Why did you always feel "more needed than anyone else"?

— I don't know. Perhaps it's my character. My mother also helped people — it seems it passed on to me. When I started working as an accountant, my mother said: "Daughter, you have such a job, but don't forget: if you hit, don't finish; if you chase, don't catch up." That's how I lived.

The children joked: "Mom, when will our open house day end?" And I answered: "When I'm gone — then it will end." To write an application for someone, to tell someone where to turn — I helped everyone.

Павялічыць

— You also actively rode a motorcycle.

— Yes, in my youth. I studied at DOSAAF and remained on the motorcycle racing team. But at 22, I crashed on a motorcycle, miraculously survived: I was riding home, got caught in the rain, and couldn't make the turn. They even gave me a first-group disability — they thought I would die. But Associate Professor Tretyakov saved me, and my right arm too, because they wanted to cut it off.

A few years after the accident, they found oncology in me, sarcoma cells. But thanks to the doctors, I also passed this test and lived.

— Several months have passed since your release. What is your status in Poland? How are you living now?

— I don't have Belarusian documents. Instead of a passport, they gave me an A4 sheet with a photograph, which was only valid until a certain date. That's all my state gave me.

Today I am in Bialystok as a Polish citizen, because I have dual citizenship and a Polish passport. And I deeply sympathize with Belarusians who found themselves in exile without documents and status: it's a terrible hassle. It's simpler for me in this regard.

In the penal colony, you're always half-hungry, living on parcels from your daughter. I thought I would eat all the most delicious things when I was free, but now I don't even want to eat. Now I'm seeing doctors, I need to restore my health after the colony, sort out my teeth.

Poland gave me social security — 1200 zlotys monthly (about 340 dollars. — NN). In Belarus, they took everything from me. They gave a fine of 800 base units, which is over 12 thousand dollars. All my pension was taken for its repayment. But even that wasn't enough; my daughter had to pay extra.

— You said that here, in emigration, you don't trust anyone. Why?

— Because trust in my life has already turned into a tragedy. I let Mikalai Autukhovich spend the night in my house — and for that, I was punished with 20 years in prison.

After deportation, I'm still like in a spacesuit. I just can't get out of this state. I sat for Belarus. And when I found myself free, I didn't find sympathy and warmth among Belarusians. Those who haven't been in prison don't understand many things. People can be kind, they help, but then dirt emerges: reproaches, gossip, calculations — who "owes" whom what. At some point, I couldn't take it anymore and said: "Enough. I don't need help that later turns into a reproach."

I was in prison for five years. I couldn't help those who are reproaching me now. But no one went to prison for me. And that's also true.

I felt true support from Poles. They called me, helped with money, things, housing.

Павялічыць

"In the penal colony, I had two or three months left to live, no more."

— In court, you said you only knew Mikalai Autukhovich from Facebook. Why did you decide to let a barely known person spend the night in your house?

— Afghans — that's a special breed of people. This is my generation. I had many acquaintances who served in Afghanistan, including classmates. There was also an Afghan acquaintance, a colonel, who knew Autukhovich and told stories about him.

I believed that these were people who don't betray and don't hurt. Next to them, you feel as if behind a stone wall. But in my story, everything turned against me. Knowing how this would end, today I wouldn't have let him spend the night.

— 20 years of imprisonment is a number difficult to comprehend even for a young person. What did you feel at the moment the verdict was announced?

— When Judge Maksim Filataў announced the verdict, we already understood everything. We were tried in the Grodno prison; the guards called us "condemned." Everything was leading precisely to this. The prosecutor asked for 20 years — and everyone was given exactly as much as he asked for. We were in shock, but already without illusions. There was a feeling of complete hopelessness.

When I was given the last word, I said everything I thought. The judge sat, wide-eyed, and I laid out all the arguments for my innocence point by point: where the fabrication was, where the lies were, all the evidence. The lawyers effectively dismantled the case — they sat with their heads down.

Prosecutor Rabaў hid behind a laptop. I told him: "Don't hide behind a laptop. This isn't 1937 for you. You, of all people, will get drunk and lie in a ditch, vomited… And when I die, I will come to all of you at night, and I won't let you live." I mentioned 1937 several times, saying that everyone would answer for what they did.

When the verdict was announced, there was a dead silence in the courtroom. No one cried, no one screamed, no one tore at their hair. We just sat there. Stunned. When Filataў stood up and left, we started clapping for him. Someone even said "bravo."

And then another trial began — not a formal one. A divine one. The fairest trial. Those who testified against us are not living normal lives now. I know that someone is sick now, someone is fired, someone is not trusted even for a guard job in a collective farm. People turn away, spit behind their backs. This is not life.

The same goes for the judge. Some time after our trial began, he was hit by a car. There was a break in the trial — he didn't appear. God has already punished him. And, I believe, will punish him again.

Павялічыць

— Did you allow for the possibility that you might not live to the end of your sentence?

— I knew I wouldn't survive. If I had stayed there — I wouldn't have come out alive.

My health problems started even in the Grodno prison. I have a history of oncology, I shouldn't be in the sun — but they took me out for walks at the peak of the heat. They threatened me with solitary confinement for refusing. Once I fainted, fell — my dental bridge broke and started to rot. In the penal colony, I received no medical assistance for five years.

Then another dental bridge came uncemented — I asked for help. They replied: no materials. I said my daughter could send some. They replied: "No. You are political." My teeth were crumbling, sinusitis began, a purulent sac appeared. The entire left side of my head ached constantly. I understood: this was the end.

When I was taken to Warsaw, the doctors were shocked. I was 70% dehydrated; the infection from the purulent sac was already approaching my brain. According to the conclusion of Polish doctors, I had two or three months left to live, no more.

They saved me here. There — they simply left me to die.

"You must remain a woman in any situation, even in a penal colony."

— In the penal colony, you daily painted your eyebrows with a pencil "not to give up," and you were very worried when you couldn't comb your hair after being transferred. Why were these trifles so important to you?

— I never wore dark eyebrows, but I got used to it in the colony. Once an operative came and asked: "Halina Ivanawna, why are your eyebrows always so black?" I said: "So you can see me from afar." Every morning at seven o'clock you stand for inspection — and I always have drawn lips and black eyebrows. No matter how bad things were, I had to take care of myself.

Being a 60-year-old woman in a penal colony is very difficult. If I had killed someone — I would understand: I did a bad deed and must answer for it. But I was given 20 years for letting Autukhovich spend the night.

You end up in a penal colony where people are serving time for murders, drugs, alimony. Women who did horrible things were with me. For example, three friends who cut off the head of a fourth and played football with it. Or a woman who stabbed, dismembered, and burned her two children because her lover ordered her to. And the administration always treated them better than the "yellows," the political prisoners.

But you are a woman. You must remain a woman in any situation, even in a penal colony. For me, it was important: by my appearance, I showed that I was not giving up.

Павялічыць

— What was the most terrifying thing for you in the penal colony?

— The most terrifying thing in imprisonment is not what the system does to you, but what your own people, the political ones, do to you. Two people wrote denunciations against me.

In the penal colony, I fed the "whites" — women with white tags, who were serving time for criminal offenses. I did it so they wouldn't bother us, the "yellows," wouldn't turn us in. There were murderers, drug addicts — but I knew how to live peacefully with them. And the paradox is that it wasn't strangers who turned us in, but our own.

I myself never turned anyone in at the camp. When new "yellows" were brought in and they lacked basic necessities — I shared: a glass, things, food. The girls called me "Mama Dzerbysh."

— You spent 14 months in solitary confinement in Grodno Prison. What happens when you see only the same walls for over a year?

— It's hard. But, surprisingly, it saved my health: there were no informers there. After solitary confinement, they put me in a cell with a murderer, a drug addict, and an alimony defaulter — each smoked a pack of cigarettes daily. And I have asthma, so it was very difficult for me.

In solitary confinement, I read a lot, analyzed my case, read Kolas and Kupala. They helped me survive and not break down.

Павялічыць

Halina Dzerbysh points to a photo of the prison in Grodno, where she spent 14 months in solitary confinement. Photo: Nasha Niva

Павялічыць

Halina Dzerbysh points to a photo of the prison in Grodno, where she spent 14 months in solitary confinement. Photo: Nasha Niva

— How did the guards treat you in the penal colony?

— Differently. There were normal people there. There were those who treated me with respect. And not just the guards — even the inmates.

Once I ended up in a section with "whites": a swindler and a murderer. Controllers came to investigate a case, and at that moment I was taking something out of a drawer. And that swindler told them: "Ask Halina Ivanawna. She doesn't lie." I only said what I saw. They knew: I wouldn't lie.

In the penal colony, everyone knows how everyone behaves. There are those who immediately report, who are ready for anything to get out. Not me. I never crawled on my knees before anyone. There's a simple rule: denunciations are loved, but informers are not.

"I hate the Belarusian state. But I love the country."

— Do you still feel resentment — towards fate, the state, specific people?

— Probably, there is resentment towards specific people: towards the investigators, towards those who handled my case, towards the KGB. Because the KGB should ensure security, but I saw something else: violations of the law, arbitrary actions, lack of control. In my case — they do whatever they want, and everything goes unpunished.

I don't understand why Lukashenka doesn't control this. He likes to be everywhere himself. But here — he seems to have let things slide. If he's called "father," then look at what your structures are doing.

It's reminiscent of 1937. Only now people aren't being exiled to Siberia. Instead, in the penal colonies — free slave labor, people work practically for food.

— When you close your eyes and think of home — where do you go?

— I always go to my mother's house. Not my own. And it's strange: the cottage where we lived for a long time almost never appeared in my dreams during this time. I dream of the village, my mother, my parents' house. I dream of the garden, the orchard. I had cherry trees, apricots, and peaches growing there.

Павялічыць

Павялічыць

— Did you have dreams in the KGB pre-trial detention center?

— Yes. In the first few days, I had a dream: I was in a cell, the door opened — and my mother stood on the threshold. In a karakul coat, in a hat with a veil — like in her old photograph. I said: "Oh, Mom, you found me here too! What are you doing here?" She said nothing, just walked to my bunk. I woke up — and understood: she was warning me. If I dream of my mother — it means something bad will happen, I need to be careful.

I miss my homeland very much now: my little river, the forest, the storks. We had a nest on the barn — as long as I can remember, storks always came, hatched their chicks. All my life I drew strength from the earth, from the garden, from plants. Maybe if I had a house with land here instead of an apartment, I would dig in the garden and forget about all the bad things, if only for a minute.

I understand: country and state are different things. I hate the Belarusian state. But I love the country.

• 42
• 2
• 0
• 0
• 0
• 34
• 1
• 22