"For five years, a document transferring custody of my son lay on my desk." Volha Seviarynets – on years of fear, antidepressants, and hope

Volha Sevyarynets. Photo: Nasha Niva

Volha appears calm, but her gestures and voice betray her agitation. Although she says she has already been through everything. In a candid conversation with "Nasha Niva," she talks about the long years of waiting for Pavel, the "greeting" from KGB officers, and roses from behind bars. She describes how she explained to her son that his dad wasn't a criminal, and how now all three of them—Volha, Pavel, and little Frantsishak—are getting to know each other anew.

"Hello, my darling"

— How did you find out Pavel was released?

— The first call came from a close friend with congratulations, but I didn't believe it because it wasn't in the news anywhere. On such days, you're afraid it will all turn out to be untrue. And until you're one hundred percent sure, you try not to take it to heart, because it hurts. Afterwards, they sent a screenshot from "Nasha Niva." But I realized it had truly happened when the Ukrainians posted their list of released people.

Pavel himself called only the next day, sometime after lunch, because for security reasons they didn't have phones, and there was a long line. We only had a few minutes to talk. The first thing he said in his beautiful, beloved voice was: "Hello, my darling." But we spoke quite restrainedly, as it felt like people were around him. About business, about what needed to be done. And I ran outside with the phone, because Frantsishak was playing at that moment. I don't know what Pasha said to him, but there were emotions then.

— Did you immediately decide to leave Belarus? Was it a difficult decision?

— In the whirl of thoughts at that moment, the only thing we understood was that the family had to be together. And it was clear that if Pavel couldn't come to us, then we had to go to him.

When Tsikhanouski was released and taken to Vilnius, I started to consider that it could happen to us too. Later, when the next group was taken out in September, I started to prepare more actively. I simply wrote down a "plan B" on paper: how to act if it suddenly happened. I sent essentials for Pavel and money to Vilnius. Then we sent something else to Warsaw. We couldn't imagine Ukraine, we didn't think of such a development.

I wrote a letter to Pavel, asking him to look around a bit, not to make any loud statements until we decided what to do next. To remember that we were in Belarus. The letter waited in Vilnius, so Pavel didn't receive it. But he thought everything through well himself and refused the press conference. When Pavel was released, he was very worried about us. In general, he told us to leave a few days earlier, because he was afraid they wouldn't let us out, that they would do something nasty.

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"During those two weeks, I lost four kilograms from worry"

— You left Belarus two weeks later. What was happening during that time, while you were still home and Pavel was in exile?

— As for emotions, you're pushed back and forth. That first joy that appears—it's so big, but so short. Because immediately a whirlwind of thoughts about what to do next overwhelms you. Then this joy begins to live simultaneously with pain, because you realize that you are leaving everything most dear to you in Belarus. You leave your usual life, you leave the country you love very much. And this joy also lives with anxiety: how will you close all your affairs here? How will life turn out there? How will your son perceive the changes?

All this is interspersed with thoughts of whether they will let you leave or not. Because no matter how much they reassure you that everything should be normal, you still think about it.

And there were many things to do, sleeping only a few hours. I lost four kilograms in those two weeks from worrying all the time.

In parallel, I was packing suitcases and sending them. I don't even know what state I was in when I packed the first suitcases—there was a strange set of things, pillows, something like that. At the time, it seemed to me that these were the most important things to pack. I couldn't even explain to myself afterwards why I took exactly those items.

But the most important thing during those days was that they were filled with meetings with friends who came to say goodbye. They brought sweet gifts, said kind words, helped in any way they could. It's nice, you realize how much good there is in your life, but it's also very painful.

We even managed to visit relatives for Christmas, to be with everyone. It was like a holiday, but everyone understood: it's unknown when we'll all be together again.

— Did you take anything with you as a memento of your life in Belarus?

— Yes, there's one thing, very touching for us. It's a painting, called "Thy Will Be Done." It depicts Jesus's prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane before the Way of the Cross. Our family's history is connected with this image.

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It all started in a room in Kuplin, where Pavel lived during his "chemistry" (a type of penal servitude). A priest brought him a poster with this motif. And this image hung somewhere near his bed. It was there and at the same time covered holes from which a draft blew. Later, when we got married and rented an apartment, we found the exact same painting there. It was neglected, glued to chipboard. But it was with us for almost all of these 12 years of our marriage. It faded a lot, so I had a dream—to paint the same picture before Pasha's release.

And just as the artist finished it, just as it appeared in our destiny, a new stage of our life began. So it was one of the first things to go to Vilnius. Of course, people laughed at me, saying, "You're even bringing paintings now." But I said I wouldn't go without it. It's like a part of what's always with you. It helps a little to get through everything new.

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"I couldn't grasp that I could just walk up to him and hug him"

— How do you feel now in emigration?

— The first month was euphoria. On the one hand, this joy continues. But other, "Belarusian" feelings start to catch up: you realize what you left behind there. Memories bring up certain things—and tears just come out of nowhere. I understand that I need to give myself time to grieve, not to rush, that it's normal. But that's how it is.

— Did you and Pavel need time to re-acclimate to each other after the separation?

— It's interesting because, on the one hand, you feel like those five years didn't even happen, as if we only parted for five minutes. And on the other hand, you're getting to know the person anew in some ways. So for the first few weeks, we were kind of adjusting to each other. We watched how we reacted in different situations. There was probably even some awkwardness, because you still get used to being without someone.

But a long separation teaches you to cherish every minute very much. So all those moments fade into the background. You're just happy to be able to be together. For a while, you can't even grasp that you can just walk up to him and hug him.

— How did the years of imprisonment affect Pavel? Do you notice any changes?

— I expected them, but I didn't notice any. I even prepared for it. When the first political prisoners were released, I consulted with a psychologist friend, talked to acquaintances who had gone through such an experience. They explained to me how they cope with it. I expected something similar in Pavel, but he is just as he was.

The only thing was—he woke up at six in the morning for the first half-month. Probably by their prison alarm. And when he falls asleep, he jolts very strongly in his sleep. Very strongly. That's the only new thing. On the other hand, he's very tender, even softer now.

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"I'm the bad cop for my son, and dad is the good one"

— How are the father-son relations developing now? How do they spend time, what do they do?

— They are also getting to know each other. Frantsishak is testing the boundaries of what's allowed in some ways. I see that he's a little jealous. But I thought it would be worse. Frantsishak is interested in being with Pasha; he wants to go everywhere with him—to meetings, to church, to events. And I'm no longer needed in these matters, for which I am very happy.

Pasha and I agreed that for the first while—as long as needed—he wouldn't turn on the "parenting" function, but would try to simply be friends with Frantsishak. Well, and we're sticking to that for now. I'm the bad cop when my son misbehaves, and dad is soft and good.

By the way, in the first few days, it was very strange to hear Frantsishak call Pasha "tata" (dad). Even with a slight inflection—"tata" or "tatachka" (daddy). This is generally something incredible for me, although it seems like ordinary things.

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The Sevyarynets family. Photo by Violeta Saučica, "Radio Svaboda"

— How did you manage to maintain the father-son bond during imprisonment?

— Frantsishak and I did a lot of things together: parcels, trips for visits, letters—they were all connected with his life too. When I wrote a letter, I would ask: "What should I write to dad?" or "What should we tell him?" So Pasha was always a part of his life.

We tried very hard so that the word "tata" would not be an empty sound for Frantsishak. So that he understood that he has a dad in his life, and even if he is far away now, it's not forever. I tried very hard to cultivate the moment when we would meet and be together. What would we do? Pasha wrote a whole series of letters about it.

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Pavel's drawings he sent to his family

All this time, he wrote to Frantsishak personally and even more often than to me. Sometimes it seemed to him that it wasn't that important, but there was a story when I received a pile of letters, and he received nothing. And Frantsishak cried so sincerely. I wrote to Pasha about it, and he then became even more responsible about correspondence. He wrote him so many things over these years. As Frantsishak grew, as his interests changed, Pasha also tried to adapt to these interests. So their relationship was perhaps even better than it sometimes is when a dad is nearby but not so deeply involved in the child's life.

— And do you remember the first letter Frantsishak wrote to Pavel?

— Yes, it was a very short but cool letter. He typed it on the computer: "Hello, Dad. My holidays are over. Time flew by in a flash. Your son." Pasha always signed letters "Your Dad," so Frantsishak signed—"Your son."

— How is your son adapting in Vilnius now?

— For him, it's still an adventure. He really wanted to go quickly, he boasted to everyone that he would live in Vilnius.

He really likes the new school. In Belarus, every morning started with the words: "I don't want to go anywhere today." And here, a couple of times he even surprised himself: "Mom, it's strange, but I want to go to school."

A big part of this is thanks to the teacher. But everything in the school is also calmer, the children are more relaxed. We came from a Belarusian school with certain patterns in our heads: we looked for turnstiles, asked if we could enter, or if we needed any passes. Here, there's none of that. And I like that he's doing well here. When I say I want to go home, Frantsishak replies: "Mom, we are home here, what are you talking about?"

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"Political squabbles from Belarus are perceived as secondary and annoying"

— Pavel is now actively involved in public activities, holding meetings. How do you feel about this, and what do you see as your role?

— I'm still a bit disoriented, Pasha got back on track faster. The only thing I understand I must do now is to support my husband and raise Frantsishak. So, where I can help him with something, lend a shoulder, support him—that's what I do.

As religious people, we are now trying very hard to pray to understand where to move next. Pavel has a vision that in the near future we must do what we must here: publish books, support Belarusians, create cultural initiatives. What we can do and what will remain.

— Belarusians raised seven thousand euros overnight for Pavel's continued public activities. Are there any further plans related to this?

— Pavel wrote several books in prison, and to publish them, of course, we need money, which we don't have. Also, while still in prison, he planned to run a YouTube channel. We reasoned: if Belarusians support us, it means it's necessary. If they don't, we'll think of something else. But you see how they supported us. We are very grateful to these people; we honestly didn't expect it to be like this. So we will move in this direction. One of Pavel's books is already ready; it will feature the drawings he sent to Frantsishak, as well as sayings and poems. Pavel wrote about twenty poems while imprisoned.

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— At public events, you are next to Pavel. How do you feel after the Belarusian experience, when you're even afraid to talk to an acquaintance?

— Pasha is actually continuing to do what he did in Belarus before 2020, and for all these past 30 years, probably, of his life. He embarked on this path, he follows it—and I knew who I was marrying. If Pavel needs us to be with Frantsishak, then we, of course, support him. I have no fear here. But, for example,

for the first time after moving, I was afraid to like posts on social media. That only passed after about a month. And I'm still surprised that I don't need to clear my browser or Telegram.

— You were in Belarus not so long ago, but have now lived in Lithuania for two months. In your opinion, is there truly a so-called division between Belarusians in the country and those abroad?

— It's somewhat noticeable, but I wouldn't say it's that big. I see a difference in security issues. Those who have been here longer simply don't notice some things anymore. For example, in phone conversations with Belarus or in publishing information.

Second, in my opinion, are all these political squabbles. Perhaps they are very important here, but there, in Belarus, they are perceived as something secondary. People are simply surviving; they are on the verge of prison, personal safety. For them, all this is unimportant, and sometimes even annoying. Very annoying. I, for example, at some point stopped watching the news because you just don't want to waste energy on it.

People who simply do their job are well-received in Belarus. Maybe it even seems ineffective, but if they do it consistently, dedicate their energy, then that is valued in Belarus, it seems to me.

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"The doctor brought antidepressants. I put them aside for a worse moment"

— Let's return to the events in Belarus. For almost six years, you and Pavel were not together due to his imprisonment. What was the hardest part?

— Probably not knowing what was happening to Pavel. Communication with him gradually faded. After the trial, we had rare visits, and then only letters. They became fewer and fewer, and more and more censored, because Pavel didn't write about himself at all. You understand that in this way he wants to protect us somehow, and in some ways he cannot tell certain things. But you don't know his condition.

In the first days, when there was no contact with him at Akrestsina, and rumors were very scary, I couldn't eat or sleep at all. There were even moments when I understood that I needed to say goodbye to him. Especially after major incidents, such as the deaths of political prisoners in colonies. No matter how much you try to distance yourself, you imagine that experience for yourself. And to preserve yourself, to pull myself back from the brink, I had to realize that there might be a moment when he simply wouldn't return. That was the most difficult part.

— How did you cope? What helped?

— My doctor brought me antidepressants, but I kept putting them aside for some worse moment. So I never used them for several years. Probably, on difficult days, when you realize that nothing depends on you, you simply trust God. And you surrender: I can do nothing, so I put everything in Your hands, let everything be as it will be. And this, if you are truly a believer, brings relief.

And then you just start doing what you must, step by step. You have a psychological conversation with yourself. When you're scared, you think about what you can do to be less scared.

For the scenario that I would also be detained, I had prepared at least small, but some, measures. There was an instruction for my parents: what to do, how to act, how to treat Frantsishak, contacts for doctors, teachers. On my desk for almost all these five years lay a paper transferring custody rights to my parents. For the last two or three years, I carried an emergency bag with medicines, glasses, and hygiene products.

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— So you lived with the feeling that you could also be taken away?

— That feeling appeared somewhere around 2022. I started to realize it as the circle tightened more and more. You see time passing, and people around you are being detained again and again. And friends are constantly getting caught, and some relatives—so you transpose that possibility onto yourself.

We had two searches at home during this time. The first was in 2021, quite calm. The second was in 2024, when people started being taken in connection with the INeedHelp case for assisting political prisoners. A large raid happened on my birthday. These guys were waiting for me near the entrance; I returned home in the evening after work. They congratulated me on the holiday.

— Literally congratulated you?

— Yes, literally.

I approach them and already understand that they are waiting for me. One of the two says: "Well, happy birthday, Volha Frantsauna." — "Thank you." I quickly ran to my sister's apartment in the next building to drop off Frantsishak. And while I was taking him to her, I was saying goodbye to him. That was also one of the most difficult moments. I told my son that I loved him very much and that if anything happened, he would be taken care of. And a KGB officer ran after us—maybe he thought I was trying to escape.

Later, during the interrogation, they used their entire playbook on me, it seems: they tried to recruit me, to scare me. They said, "If you spent a couple of days in our basement, you would tell us what we need." I said: "What do you mean, I would tell you? Would I make something up?" — "Well, yes, or you would make it up." They threatened that there would be consequences if I didn't stop "doing all this"—and what "all this" meant, I didn't understand. But, thank God, they let me go afterwards.

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"At some point, I told my son the truth"

— How did you explain to your son why his dad was in prison?

— I tried to tell the truth, the only thing is—I adjusted it to his age. From the very beginning, Frantsishak didn't ask at all, and I waited every day for it all to end. No one thought it would be five years. Later, when it all dragged on, I had to explain the situation—even more, to explain my feelings: why you're crying, why you don't have the energy to play, or why you're disappointed.

At first, I told Frantsishak about it like a fairy tale about good and evil—about how dad, like a superhero or a knight, fights evil, fights the dragon. Later, as my son grew older, questions arose. I remember a painful one: "Thieves sit in prison, why is our dad in prison?" I explained that not only thieves, but also writers he knows—Kolas, Tank, Heniyush—were imprisoned. Frantsishak had a poster with heroes of Belarus—I told him that all these respected people also sat in prison: Kalinouski, Kastsiushka.

At some point, I just told him the truth: that such is the situation in the country. Because dad spoke about it, he ended up in prison. And I also explained: you see, many people support us, because they respect your dad, because your dad is a good person.

— And did this topic arise in kindergarten, in school? Did you have to somehow restrict conversations about dad in public?

— Unfortunately, yes. It all started when my son went to school.

In Belarus, children have to be taught not to talk, for example, about the flag. To keep silent if someone asks something about dad. For me, this was very difficult, and for Frantsishak—strange. He kept wondering: why? There was also a very touching moment when they were drawing their family, and Frantsishak drew grandma, grandpa, me, but didn't draw Pasha. I ask: "And why is that?" Well, it turned out that because I told him not to talk about dad, he decided he shouldn't draw him either.

"It felt like people were simply carrying us in their arms"

— Both you and Pavel spoke about the incredible wave of solidarity from Belarusians over these almost six years.

— Belarusian solidarity is a phenomenon in itself. Perhaps even part of the national idea. Because Belarusians are very compassionate people. We really love to help each other; it supports us greatly.

Павялічыць

And the solidarity with our family was very diverse and so all-encompassing. It was in words of support, and in offers to take care of Frantsishak. We were constantly given various things—clothes, toys. There were so many toys that Frantsishak could open his own store, it seems to me. There was financial assistance, advice in various circumstances. In short, everything possible, all questions that arose—they were all resolved.

Pasha and I recently recalled one such story—it's about the extent of people's attentiveness. Not just to the family, but even to how I felt on a specific day.

When it was our wedding anniversary, a courier delivered a magnificent bouquet of white-red-white roses with a note. It said: "I love you more and more with each passing year." And I thought: "Wow! He's in prison, letters sometimes don't get through, and he arranged something like this!" I was on cloud nine.

Later, in Vilnius, I tell Pasha, and he says: "I couldn't have done that, it's impossible to communicate there." That is, it was someone from the people, maybe one of my friends—but they haven't revealed themselves to this day. So thank you very much, of course, because it was simply phenomenal. Someone found out, thought I would probably be sad that day, and ordered these flowers!

And this is just one of many stories. You know, it felt like people were simply carrying us in their arms. We are very grateful to them. I pray that the Lord will repay them many times over for their kindness and for reaching out to us, for answering that desire of the heart to help. It is very important in such moments to realize that you are not alone. And it was important for my son, and for me. And for my family, for my parents. When they saw how we were supported, it was also easier for them to go through this. And I wouldn't have managed alone without these people.

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