Fiaduta: They told us we weren't welcome

Aliaksandr Fiaduta; Photo: Belsat

Today, the doorbell of the apartment where I currently live, in Warsaw, unexpectedly rang.

— Słucham. (Hello/I'm listening.)

— Pan Alaksandr? To listonosz. (Mr. Aliaksandr? It's the postman.)

I opened the door. A slender young man — perhaps a student working part-time — asked me to sign on some gadget (forgive me, I've forgotten all the words for these wireless devices in five years), handed me an envelope, and moved on.

They brought me a plastic card.

No, this is not a residence permit and not the so-called Geneva passport. This is a document valid for the next four months, on the basis of which I can register with a library, visit an archive, and even buy a train ticket within Poland. That's already something.

Many of those who were taken with me last December, with bags over their heads and hands tightly bound with tape, have already received such a card. Mine was delayed by two weeks. But I don't blame Polish bureaucracy. There are many refugees and emigrants, while the staffing levels in state institutions remain the same.

When we learned in the "fifteener" (cell for 15 people) that the first group of released prisoners had been taken to Lithuania, a discussion arose among political prisoners about what was better: to be roughly, boorishly pushed out of a country where you have exactly the same constitutional rights as those who are pushing you out, or to stay in the country and live under conditions where a step to the right or left becomes a reason for initiating another case, after which you will exist in a penal colony under an already very strict regime... No one doubted that we would be released sooner or later. The question was, sooner or later. And – where to.

Later, these discussions and reflections became part of our daily agenda with Maryna during a long-term visit. Long-term meant a night and about three-quarters of a day. Almost a full day. That's a lot. They could have denied it altogether – that used to happen.

I asked Maryna: if, by chance, someone from my past life, in her relative freedom, were to call her and the conversation turned to me, she should say:

— Sasha sends his regards. He asked: if you have the opportunity, let him be given three months after his release to sort out his affairs. And then, if they insist, well… He will leave.

— No one will ask me anything. And no one will call me, — my "Decembrist" smiled bitterly.

Maryna turned out to be a "double Decembrist": in December 2010 I was arrested for the first time, in December 2025 (two hundred years after the uprising on Senate Square) I was exiled.

Do you remember, in Fyodor Mikhailovich's "The Idiot" (there was another Belarusian convict, yes…), Prince Myshkin recounts the memories of an acquaintance about how much one can think about in the minute before execution? A lot, it turns out. One even has to plan that minute to have enough time for everything. And I planned those three months, which no one gave me.

I planned a trip to the cemetery to see my mother, who turned exactly one hundred years old on December 31st. I planned a trip to my hometown, a farewell to friends, streets, bridges, memories. I would have selected the books I'd take with me. Yes, of course! — I would have tried to get my teeth prostheticized, which had crumbled on my path to freedom…

All plans remained plans. Even my bag was packed for me and without me, fearing I would have a heart attack if they took away my manuscripts.

And we arrived first in Ukraine, then in Poland, where complete strangers, previously unknown to me, became my new friends and my new family. And they cared for me as if I were a small child from a Grodno courtyard on Mira Street…

But at that moment, I was indeed a child learning to walk on new streets, re-adjusting to earthly gravity! And without their care, I wouldn't have lasted these four months! And those who exiled me deeply wanted me — wanted us! — not to last! So that they would have a reason to tell those who hadn't yet been released or exiled:

— Look, no one was waiting for them there! And no one is waiting for any of you! No one — do you hear! You are not needed not only by your own country! You are needed by no one!

But for some reason, we turned out to be needed.

Just yesterday, strangers were collecting money and things for us.

Just yesterday, strangers cared to ensure that we had a roof over our heads and normal, non-prison food until we grew up and understood where and how we would live.

They led me, a sixty-year-old grandfather, by the hand through offices and medical rooms, along streets, through shops. They offered me participation in various rehabilitation programs — not legal, but psychological. We were their children and their parents at the same time, and their kindness was essential to us.

And this kindness was not wasted, no. It stayed with us. We just can't express it or share it yet.

A young man (well, for me almost a boy, by age he could have been my son), with whom we "sweated it out" together in the pre-trial detention center in Valadarka and who was released earlier after serving his term and came to Warsaw voluntarily, albeit under duress, took me to a cafe. We remembered Valadarka, cell No. 17. How I compiled lists of books for them to read. How we fought against endless horror films on the second Belarusian TV channel. How he carried me to the toilet and to the bathhouse when I was completely debilitated… Now, years after that Valadarka, it seemed almost funny…

As a farewell, he handed me an envelope. I looked at it with horror.

He said:

— Iosifovich, you yourself told us: ask for nothing, but refuse nothing, so as not to offend people. I'm already working. Why are you offending me?

I wanted to cry.

…I'm not working yet. I go to doctors, daily thanking those who paid for this expensive service. I am not alone in this. And we understand that we haven't earned this money yet. It's an advance — for the future. That when we are able, we too will be able to help others. Simply — by pressing a phone button and transferring a percentage of the money we've earned.

And not because this money is superfluous.

Simply because someone, unknown to me, with whom we haven't been acquainted yet and sometimes are unlikely to ever meet, on the day it became known that we were being thrown out, expelled from the country, pressed the same button so that we could be without need for the first while. Because when you feel that someone has thought of you… Sometimes one feeling is enough to make you confident about tomorrow.

We will repay our debts, people! We will repay those who will need our kindness, our help, our support! Because that is what conscience is called.

On April 15, if you are in Warsaw, come to a lecture by Aliaksandr Fiaduta on the topic "Empire Against Youth. The History of the Vilnius Philomaths."

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