Valiantsin Stefanovich: Prison is like death, only you are alive

Before the conversation, Valiantsin asked to deviate from the standard chronology of prison trials. He wanted to talk not so much about dry facts or daily life behind bars, but rather about a deeper dimension of captivity — about "man and prison".

— As a human rights defender, you have always fought for human rights, for the right to choose. But your release happened virtually without your involvement: a political deal, special transport, and forced deportation to Lithuania. How do you feel in a situation where your own subjectivity and fate were decided behind closed doors?

— I am, of course, outraged that I was deprived of my homeland. Violently, I would say. That is, I had no choice. I was simply brought to the border by plainclothes individuals, representatives of special services, handed over to the other side, and given no documents, no passport, nothing. They didn't even explain, in principle, what my legal status is at the moment. No one told us: "You are released" or "You have been pardoned by the president".

Therefore, to this day, I don't even know what my status is. Am I really pardoned, or released from serving my sentence with the conviction removed, or without it? Or perhaps, am I formally still considered a convicted person? And upon returning to my homeland, they would immediately put me in prison: they would say that no one had pardoned me.

We do not have such legal procedures to simply take a citizen and expel them from the country. This is illegal, unconstitutional. This violates the right to freedom of movement.

On the other hand, if we look at the history of the USSR, expulsion from the country with deprivation of citizenship was a fairly common phenomenon in the 60s-80s (Bukovsky, Solzhenitsyn). But I in no way want to compare myself with them.

In our case, this is a mass phenomenon. There it was dozens of people, but here it will soon reach a thousand. You don't need to be Bukovsky or a party leader for them to simply take you and throw you out of your country.

Of course, I perfectly understand that this was part of a political agreement, without which we would not have been released. I am satisfied that I am free, that I met with my family, but the responsibility lies entirely with the Belarusian side.

— How did the release process technically happen? Did you know in advance that an agreement was being prepared?

— It was both expected and unexpected. I knew that such processes were happening because I read between the lines of "Sovetskaya Belorussiya" (Soviet Belarus newspaper) and listened to the radio, where it was reported that so many people had been pardoned. Last summer I also heard about Tikhanovsky's release.

In January 2026, I and other political prisoners from my cell (there were three of us out of eight people) were unexpectedly led into the corridor. There were some officers who said: "Tomorrow you will be released, but you need to leave the country's territory. Do you agree?". I said that if there were no other options, then I agreed.

We experienced real shock because we thought we would be released tomorrow or the day after. But we were not released tomorrow, nor a month later. It wasn't a mockery, but rather an order — perhaps, after Statkevich's case, they formally questioned prisoners: whether they agreed to leave the country's territory.

The release itself happened on March 18. In the morning, we were waiting for the scheduled inspection by the prison head. And then the door opened, OMON (riot police) officers entered and called out names — mine and another political prisoner's. They said: "You have three minutes to pack". We started asking: where, what? But they didn't answer anything.

I already had my belongings separated — those I planned to take with me and those to give to my cellmates, so I quickly gathered only personal documents (verdict, court ruling) and photographs. But after the search, the documents were taken away; only the photos were left.

— How were you transported?

— I was led into a minibus. Plainclothes individuals put a hat on my head so I couldn't see anything, and handcuffs. They said literally: "Convicted citizens, you are being transported to participate in investigative actions". That is, no one said we were being released. The situation could have been anything.

They brought me, opened my eyes, and I saw that I was in a new, large prison. I realized it was Pre-trial Detention Center (SIZO) No. 1 in Kaliadzičy. They led me to an operative who started asking: who I was, for what I was convicted, whether I admitted guilt. I said that I had not admitted guilt and would not admit it. I had not written any petitions for pardon. In fact, no one even offered me one, but if they had, I still wouldn't have written it. This is my principled decision.

They put us in one cell, I recognized Eduard Palchys. We discussed the situation and realized that we would be taken out. The next morning, they ordered us to change into civilian clothes. They took away our prison boots, gave us new sneakers, and told us to shave. They led us to a minibus. There were already polite and restrained plainclothes officers (presumably KGB). They drove us without handcuffs or bags on our heads.

The curtains in the bus were slightly open. We drove onto the ring road. I'm a driver myself, I know Minsk well. We passed the turn to Kizhavatava, where I grew up on Syarova, my parents live very close by. I so wanted to at least glimpse it... I wondered, where would they take us? To Ukraine, to the Brest highway? But we turned onto the Hrodna highway, and then right, to Valozhyn — I understood that we were going to Lithuania.

In the forest near Kamienny Loh, we stood for several hours. Then we joined the tail of an American escort. John Cole entered the bus and said something in English like: «You are finally free! This shit is finished» (You are finally free. This shit is over).

In another bus, where we transferred, I saw Nasta Loika and Marfa Rabkova. I was very delighted! I had seen Marfa before at Valadarka Pre-trial Detention Center (SIZO): when she went for a walk, I would climb into the "food slot" and show her the "victory" sign.

Release is a very strong stress, but with a positive sign. It's similar to the state when you are detained, only in reverse. You can just be overwhelmed by euphoria: in the morning you are still in captivity, and in the evening you are already free in Vilnius.

Павялічыць

— Prison is a space where time stops or stretches. How did you measure and "tame" your time during these five years? What was your schedule like in different institutions?

— Time flows differently in different places. During these almost five years, I traveled a lot (among prisons). First was the temporary detention facility (ICHU), but I stayed there only a few days. Then Pre-trial Detention Center (SIZO) No. 1 in Valadarka, where I spent almost two years in the same cell number 53 in the basement. It must be said that of all the places, Valadarka left the warmest impression. We had a lively cell, everything was humane. But in the second year, I started to go a bit crazy: spending two years in one room is quite difficult.

In the colony (prison), time runs faster because you are constantly busy with daily life and schedule: morning formation, work in the aluminum cleaning workshop, lunch, work again, then you need to manage to wash. There was no shower in the workshop, and only cold water in the unit. To wash in winter, my friend and I made a "machine" (a homemade heater from iron discs) and heated water in a large bucket, hiding from everyone.

And this daily routine makes time fly.

But in the SHIZO (punishment isolator), you are without a watch. There you can lose track of the days. People orient themselves by when food is brought, or by making marks. I listened to the radio playing in the corridor to hear the news and understand what time it was.

— When the body is enclosed in four walls, the mind begins to travel intensely. You spent eight months in solitary confinement (PKT). Where did your thoughts go to find rest?

— In the PKT, I was everywhere! I was placed in solitary confinement from February to October 2024, obviously to make things even worse for me. But then I felt a real high. I had become so unaccustomed to being alone with myself... Because in the colony, there are always hundreds of people around you (social overload). And in the PKT, I thought a lot about my life, about personal relationships, dissected myself, did psychoanalysis.

I missed Minsk very much. In my thoughts, I got behind the wheel of a car and drove along the avenue, accurately recreating every turn, driving onto Zalataya Horka... I traveled to other countries where I had once been. I learned to abstract myself so much that I flew off somewhere into the universe. My body was in prison, but I myself was flying in the past or the future. I later read a book by a Frenchman who escaped from prison in Guiana ('Butterfly' / 'Papillon'), and he described exactly the same experience of abstraction in solitary confinement.

To not forget English, I gave myself interviews. I imagined I was standing before foreign TV channels and spoke in English. By the way, I didn't forget the language!

— But it's also cold. Many ex-political prisoners told human rights defenders about torture by cold in the SHIZO.

— Yes. Virtually all political prisoners ended up in the colony (prison) through the SHIZO. I was given 20 days immediately after quarantine).

The head of the colony explicitly told me: "You will have a very, very bad time here because you are from 'Viasna'". And I went to the SHIZO for at least 10 days every month.

PKT and SHIZO — that's special regime cells, special regime cells, as they say in jargon. But the trick was that I had the same cell. When I was under PKT regime — they would give me a mattress, a blanket, and a tracksuit for the night. And then my SHIZO days would begin: they would take all of that away, change me into a "shklyashka" (a special uniform made of thin synthetic material) and leave me in the same cell on bare wooden boards. The radiator there was barely warm; there was no point even leaning against it. It was metallic, not cast iron — hot, but gave no warmth at all. To warm up, you lean against it — and you can get a burn, but 20 centimeters away from it, you're already freezing.

In the SHIZO, you can't sleep due to the cold. You start to "do sports" — squatting, push-ups. Adrenaline rises, your heart pounds, you definitely won't fall asleep. And you fall into such a borderline state between wakefulness and sleep. Almost hallucinations begin — you watch a vivid movie! Episode after episode: you see relatives, acquaintances, or completely random people.

— Wasn't it scary to go insane?

— I managed somehow. But the characters you meet there are varied. When I was first thrown into the SHIZO, I heard a cellmate at night talking in two different voices and hitting himself. He had a split personality! At first I thought two people were fighting there, but it turned out he was playing roles by himself.

And once, a young Romani boy, about 19 years old, was with me. He seriously asked me: "Do talking fish exist? Like in a fairy tale?". I spoke with him as if he were a five-year-old child. I said: "Yanush, well, there are no such fish. But when you get out, take your wife to the Minsk Zoo, there are many interesting animals there. An anaconda lives there, it doesn't talk, but it's very interesting".

— What color, sound, or smell from free life did you miss the most?

— Nature in general. I hadn't seen summer for two years. When I was taken from the PKT for a fluorography in summer and stepped outside, the greenery hit me so hard that my head spun. Ordinary grass and apple trees near the headquarters. And in the covered prison, you only see the sky through a net. I saw trees exclusively from the office window, where they took us to make calls. Behind the fence there was a Mahilioŭ park. And I observed the change of seasons by these trees. Just a few minutes to look at the trees — that's what I really missed.

Hearing becomes very acute. You constantly listen to the prison. You listen to the clanging of doors (they are called "tormazy" - stops).

At Valadarka, when we watched TV in the evening (and a normal guard allowed us), we determined whether a shift change inspection was happening by the sound of the doors. Doors clanged far down the corridor — hop, we'd switch off the TV so as not to set someone up. In the covered prison, you know everything by sound: they've thrown back the bunks, they've taken someone to the shower. You hear everything and prepare for everything.

— Leaving aside the physical trials and daily life of prison, what is the main psychological horror of captivity?

— Captivity is a very difficult ordeal. I would say that the worst things in life are death and captivity. Probably, nothing is worse than these things. Life on the outside continues without you. As if you died: loved ones grieve, but they live their lives, go to work, children grow up. But you live in a different, isolated world. And when you return, it's as if you've resurrected from a coma. Everything has changed. My youngest daughter was four years old, and now she's nine. That's already an adult person! I missed this time. And now I'm living anew. A difficult but interesting experience.

But it helped me a lot that people fought for us on the outside.

I knew that "Viasna" was working. The prison head himself told me: "Something new has been written on your website". And I understood what "Viasna" working meant. I believed in my friends.

But we all understand: we were released solely for economic reasons (sanctions), and not because the authorities decided to start a public dialogue.

— Continuing the theme of the inner world and how the mind escapes in four walls. You mentioned that behind bars many things are perceived differently; romance disappears and harsh realism emerges. And did your perception of literature or historical events change in prison? Perhaps some books revealed themselves from a completely unexpected angle?

— Very much. I read countless classics. I particularly liked Tolstoy: "War and Peace", "Resurrection", "Anna Karenina", "Hadji Murad". From Belarusian literature — Bykaŭ and Karatkevich. It was they who, in the 70s-80s, literally saved our literature from tractors and Stalin. I read Shamiakin, but I didn't like him — very conformist and opportunistic.

I read Ilf and Petrov's "The Twelve Chairs" and "The Golden Calf" in a completely new way. Before, it was a comedy, but now I read it and paid attention to the fate of the so-called "former people" — Kisa Vorobyaninov and others who remained in Soviet Russia and did not leave after the revolution. What they turned into... I felt very, very sorry for them.

I discovered Milan Kundera. His "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" about Czechoslovakia after the Prague Spring of 1968 incredibly resonates with us. Especially the moment when those who went into emigration return, and a wall of misunderstanding arises between them and those who remained. Some say: "You abandoned us," while others say: "And you became conformists here and hung red flags".

— Do you feel this division in our society now?

— I wouldn't want to divide people. Many have relatives remaining inside the country. It just happened that way — some left, some didn't.

The problem is elsewhere: current Belarus is an improved copy of the BSSR (Belarusian Soviet Socialist Republic). With all its attributes: cattle mortality, lack of elections, and political prisoners. In the USSR, they used to say that the Soviet Constitution resembled a menu in a Soviet restaurant: a lot was written, but nothing was available. We have the same situation. All civil rights are completely dismantled. Sit silently and work, and if you raise your head — we'll tear it off. It's sad that in the 21st century we are forced to fight for such a simple thing as democracy.

— Did humor and irony help to escape prison absurdity?

— Humor is there, but it's specific, harsh. Many jokes about "stragachi" (those prisoners who serve long sentences under a strict regime). For example: a "stragach" returns to the cell from freedom. They ask him: "Why did your wife kick you out?" He answers: "Well, she came into my house, and I had everything: both 'to smoke' and 'to brew'! But she turned around and left". And in prisoner slang, "to smoke and to brew" means cigarettes and chifir (strong tea). He had nothing else at home (not even food), but he honestly didn't understand why his wife was unhappy.

Or the story about a "tourist" (a short-term convict, for example, for non-payment of alimony). Prisoners in the cell discuss who had what favorite subject in school: one had physics, another had mathematics. They ask this tourist: "And what was your favorite subject?" And he, apparently, missed the beginning of the conversation, thought for a bit, and said: "Mackerel!" Everyone just roared with laughter at that.

There was also plenty of absurdity from the administration. I was thrown into the SHIZO for 10 days because a soap dish with soap was in the nightstand, but the inventory of belongings only listed the word "soap". I told them: "Wait, the inventory also just says 'toothpaste'. So, should I throw away the tube and squeeze the paste into the nightstand?". And they laughed: "Well, Valiantsin Kanstantsinavich, you understand everything".

In the SIZO, the guys and I agreed to live "humanely". There are harsh jokes played on those who just arrived. For example, they shout from the corridor: "So-and-so, with papers to exit!" (meaning to take documents to the investigator). And cellmates give the newcomer a roll of toilet paper. The person goes out into the corridor with toilet paper, and the whole cell roars with laughter. We decided not to do that. The person is already stressed, there's no need to push them deeper and mock their ignorance.

"Lyudskaya khata" (a human cell) — this is a concept from the criminal world. It's a cell that lives according to justice, where one prisoner helps another. They don't mock newcomers there. And the antonym is "kazlinny dzvizh" (goat's hustle), where everyone is for themselves, and people cooperate with the administration against their own.

Павялічыць

— But even criminals (even murderers) sometimes showed solidarity towards you, political prisoners?

— This was a very complex moral revelation for me. I was imprisoned with murderers who had sentences of 25 years. But it was from them that I saw human solidarity. In difficult moments, when I was in the SHIZO, they shouted very simple words of support through the ventilation, which were so necessary at that moment: "Hold on, come on, don't worry!" And you realize: yes, he is a murderer, but he is a human being. The state isolated him, but it has no right to torture him.

In the colony, the administration specifically created conflicts. Once, the head said that "politicals" (with yellow "profulik" tags) would only go to the prison shop after convicts with a so-called low social status. We regarded this as a humiliation of our dignity and simply refused to go to the shop. A scandal began; the administration looked for instigators of the "rebellion," putting our people in the SHIZO. I found myself in a difficult situation: I fundamentally did not go to the prison shop, there were no parcels. And then a Chechen, who was serving 10 years for drugs, helped me. He came up and said: "Valik, you won't buy it yourself; 150 eyes are watching you. Let me exchange your cigarettes for food".

In February, I was thrown into the PKT, and he was released in spring, so we didn't meet. When I got out of solitary confinement in October, the guys brought me a huge bag with stewed meat and condensed milk. He left all of it for me and specifically asked to hand it to me personally so that I wouldn't think he had tricked me and taken my cigarettes. His Caucasian honor would not have allowed that! He is a true believer who helped his neighbor.

There was another Chechen who worked as a day-duty officer in the SHIZO. Whenever I was thrown in there, he would secretly bring me the largest uniform so I could wrap myself in it completely and keep warm, saying: "Everything as you like it, Valiantsin Kanstantsinavich".

— In normal life, you are Belarusian-speaking. Did you experience additional persecution in captivity for speaking Belarusian?

— I did not constantly use the Belarusian language for several reasons. In the colony, phone calls with relatives would be interrupted for it, and they could even send one to the SHIZO.

Although in the SIZO and in the covered prison, it was calmer regarding this. I wrote letters home in Belarusian, and the censor passed them.

Among political prisoners, we often spoke Belarusian. There was strong solidarity: when someone new from the political prisoners arrived, we immediately approached them, got acquainted, asked what they needed, and advised them on the rules so that no one would deceive them. In the "promka" (industrial zone of the prison), we helped each other meet the aluminum quota: if someone couldn't keep up, we would add our metal to theirs so that the person wouldn't be thrown into the punishment cell.

— What do you plan to do now that you are abroad? What can a human rights defender in exile do?

— I will, of course, return to my human rights activities because I have been engaged in this since 1998. In what form and what specifically I will do, I do not yet know. But in recent years, I have been more involved in international activities; in 2019, I was elected Vice-President of the International Federation for Human Rights (FIDH). Perhaps I will continue to move in this direction.

A very interesting topic is international justice. This is something we started working on at the turn of 2020-2021, including work with the International Criminal Court (ICC). I remember that at the time it seemed unlikely to us, but I am very pleased that this activity continues and has received such definite development.

I generally used to believe that engaging in human rights activities outside the country was virtually impossible. But now I see that documentation today is safer and more relevant precisely outside the country than inside it. First and foremost, this is safety for those being documented (victims) and for those who document.

Today, one must proceed from the fact that human rights activities within Belarus are a priori impossible in any form. But here, much can be done. Although, of course, this activity is limited in many ways. Of course, you are deprived of the opportunity to conduct campaigns within the country, educational work with people, with the professional community of lawyers, or to appear in court. But at the international level, much more can be done.

A separate, painful, and traditional topic that has always interested me and still does — is the death penalty. We did a lot on this topic. For example, on the specific cases of the Kastsieu brothers, and as a result of our efforts, they were pardoned, their lives saved — I am convinced that without what we did, this would not have happened.

Now in Belarus, the trends are very dangerous: articles have been expanded, punishing even for "attempt" or "preparation" for a crime, even if the actions were stopped and there are no fatalities. Belarus has effectively for the first time departed from the formula that the death penalty can only be applied when there are victims. This is a direct path to Soviet practices, when people were shot, for example, under economic articles. The authorities themselves politicize this topic in many ways, and we definitely need to return to it.

And, of course, the most important direction now is assistance in the rehabilitation and resocialization of former political prisoners. This is very much in demand, as there are not just many people, there are hundreds and thousands of them. This particularly concerns this new phenomenon — those who have been expelled, forcibly deported outside the country. These people are deprived of everything. They have nothing. Especially if you are alone, without family. They need to adapt and start life anew, from scratch. This is very difficult, and without help, it would be very hard for them.

I am glad that besides "Viasna", there are many other initiatives and coalitions, because alone we would not be able to cope with such a large number of people.

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