"And for the first time it was heard: fascists-Lukashenkists". Chernobyl Way — 1996 in the memories of witnesses who became husband and wife decades after that day

Chernobyl Way-1996. Photo: vytoki.net

April 26, 1996. Chernobyl Way. Participants' Memories

Ales Kot

My son Ales and I were in a hurry. From work, I first had to go home, and then together, across the entire Partizanski Avenue — to the railway station and further by metro to "Kastrychnitskaya" station. When we emerged onto the square, my heart swelled at the sight of numerous white-red-white flags fluttering in the air, slogans, and banners. Say what you will, but ours is the most beautiful in the world.

— Dad, why do I want to cry so much?

I looked at the boy — and my own eyes welled up… How simple it is to make a day festive.

The main column was forming somewhere near the Academy of Sciences. People from the West, Southwest gathered at Kastrychnitskaya Square near the Palace of the Belarusian Council of Trade Unions, to later reunite on Skaryna Avenue.

There were rumors that Pazniak wasn't in Minsk and that the event would probably take place without him. A pity. People went to rallies to hear his live speech. I knew no more passionate and inspiring speaker.

We approached the palace to look from above at what was happening on the avenue towards Yanka Kupala Street. You could see as far as the circus building and even Victory Square.

Oh, my dear motherland… The entire main thoroughfare from the monument to Yanka Kupala Street was filled with tens of thousands of people with flags and banners. A sea of people. And… it crashed against the rock of OMON. Immediately after Yanka Kupala Street, the avenue was blocked by buses. Further on — an empty space of about thirty meters. And even further — a gray-green wall of internal troops in several ranks. It was clear: they had not gathered for a formality. They would not let anyone pass.

After a brief standoff, the column turned onto Yanka Kupala Street and moved towards Maksim Bahdanovich Street. As thousands of people from Kastrychnitskaya Square began to join the column, a cry suddenly rang out:

— Guys, Pazniak!.. Zianon Pazniak is with us!

The crowd was as if electrified.

— Where? Where is Pazniak?

He appeared literally a few meters from us. Young guys, holding hands, formed a living circle around him. I pulled out my "Kodak" and, holding the camera in my raised hands, began to shoot. Several people lifted him above the crowd. His lean figure, calm face, high forehead…

Павялічыць

Zianon Pazniak with protesters on the Chernobyl Way. Photo: vytoki.net

“An apostle. An apostle of the nation…” And I shuddered myself at the unexpectedly recalled words of Vasil Bykaŭ.

Along the sidewalks — cars with soldiers. I tried to lift the tarp from the back of one of the vans. A wall of metal shields. They had barricaded themselves.

From the column, they called out: "Guys, come out and join us…" The motionless, silent metal of the shields…

The demonstration poured left onto Maksim Bahdanovich Street. Under the bridge near the House of Models, there was again a barrier of metal shields. We had to turn right towards the Palace of Sports.

And then there was a clanging sound against metal. Some guys started throwing stones at the policemen who stood like a metal wall under the bridge over Niamiha.

Khadyka, leading a sparse chain of BPF volunteers, tried to stop the young people, not to provoke OMON into a counterattack. In vain. Stones continued to fly towards the people in helmets with shields.

The column nevertheless began to slowly turn onto Parkavaya Magistral, obeying the organizers of the march. And suddenly, multi-voiced shouts from somewhere in the middle of the column attracted our attention. We looked back…

The scene was striking. Several hundred people, separating from the main mass of demonstrators, suddenly rushed up the green hill to the right of the Holy Spirit Cathedral towards the Upper City. Numerous red-and-black flags fluttered overhead. UNA-UNSO again! A spectacle of recent history…

I had already seen these Ukrainian guys in Minsk. Once we were going to a rally-meeting with parliamentary candidate Budinas, which was supposed to take place near the BWA headquarters building. On the way, we caught up with a group of 7-10 young people with red-and-black flags.

One of them, with a slightly hoarse voice, repeatedly shouted: "Glory to Ukraine!", and the rest answered in chorus each time: "Perish, Moscow!"

This time, the Ukrainians and those they led were already expected. Thick chains of OMON officers with shields and batons, who unexpectedly appeared from Lenin Street, launched a counterattack.

They were met by a hail of stones — so dense that their movement slowed down. But the Ukrainians with flags charged forward like madmen, fearing no one. And suddenly, out of nowhere, people in mottled uniforms with German shepherds on long leashes appeared. Not expecting such a turn, the young people first stopped, and then just as quickly fled. Something unreal, phantasmagorical was happening before our eyes. Ancient Rome: legionaries with shields two-thirds the height of a man, helmets, the baiting of Christians with wild beasts…

A rally near the Palace of Sports. Zianon Pazniak's clear, accessible, inspiring speech. He said everything that needed to be said and what people wanted to hear.

The silence of the multi-thousand strong crowd, into which his confident, measured words descended, was striking.

We dispersed from the rally, feeling no danger. We moved along Parkavaya Magistral towards GUM.

We passed the House of Models. On both sides — policemen with shields. The cordon consisted of very young boys. Behind them, officers nervously walked, swearing and giving orders:

— Don't raise your heads! Don't talk!

I approached one of those in the cordon. His face was visible through the holes in the shield.

— Boy, how old are you? Why are you here?

He raised his head in surprise. My God — still just a child. I snapped my "Kodak" as I held it. The flash caught the officer's attention — he swore and moved towards us. We ran off.

So far, no one was touched. We climbed the steps along the building of the design institute. I looked up — and was speechless: the same wall of shields awaited us at the top. The trap had closed. We were truly frightened for the first time. People around us also stopped, looking at each other in confusion. It was clear: something was about to happen.

Suddenly, at someone's command, the wall at the top parted. People instinctively rushed forward — towards the avenue. It seemed safer there.

Before dark, those carrying flags, banners, black cloths with the names of affected regions were seized. As it got dark, a general round-up began. For a word, for a glance. An elderly man was roughly dragged down the steps into an underpass. Buses stood opposite GUM — people were shoved, pulled, simply thrown into them. It was hard to believe that their own people, Belarusians, could treat their compatriots like this. Passersby stopped, shamed them. In response — they were also seized.

I addressed one captain:

— Why are you seizing them?

— Go home.

— I am home. You'd better go to the barracks.

— Do you want to get into the bus too?

And immediately he ordered us, my son and me, to be seized. We rushed to run towards "Lakamka", then to the Central Bookstore. It seemed we had shaken them off. We didn't know that we were already being "tracked" by radio.

We moved towards the post office, to get to Leningradskaya Street via Valadarskaha Street and catch trolleybus №3. At the corner — crowds of people, "UAZs" parked "herringbone-style", into which detainees were being pushed. We stopped at a traffic light. A stout bald man in civilian clothes with a radio, accompanied by policemen, crossed to our side. His gaze swept over the people like a spotlight.

— These ones… these ones… and these ones…

From the radio came:

— Two. Together. One in a blue jacket.

I was dumbfounded. That was about us. And then our gazes met. The bald man looked at my son, at the blue jacket — and sharply:

— Take these ones too. Both.

Another moment — and we were grabbed by the arms and dragged towards the "UAZs". Near the cars, there was a commotion. We clung to each other so we wouldn't be separated. I tried to negotiate for my son to be released. I said he was small, had school tomorrow. After a few requests, a captain looked at us mistrustfully and ordered him released.

We stood pressed from all sides, and in that commotion, I managed to discreetly hand him a plastic bag — it contained the "Kodak" with an almost fully exposed film and a diary. I was pushed into the rear compartment of the "UAZ" and the door was locked.

A few minutes later, several young men were shoved into the first compartment. One — a mere boy, about 14-15 years old — began to plead to be released. The door slammed again. Another man, about fifty years old, was added. He calmly stated that he offered no resistance and would enter himself. The doors closed.

We got acquainted. The man gave his business card: Dziuba Uladzimir Barysavich, chief editor of the "Radio-2" radio channel of the national state television and radio company.

Thoughts of my son wouldn't leave me. Would he get home? Would they hassle him again? In the city — OMON "bone-breakers". Finally — movement. We drove off. The Central District Department of Internal Affairs was nearby. We were quickly unloaded from the "UAZ" and led inside. The room resembled a school classroom. There were, as I later counted, eighteen detainees.

Policemen filled out papers, sometimes writing directly on the walls.

A short, stout major badgered a student:

— Was it me who took your crowbar? Your face is familiar.

— No, not from me…

— Show me your pockets! I would have made you disabled…

Swearing. Our turn came. They asked for our surname, given name, patronymic. A phone check. Everything matched. The same for Dziuba.

Afterwards, our names were written on the same sheets of paper that they had been writing on the walls. There was no answer to the question of what these documents were. Only one person retorted:

— You'll find out soon.

Then Dziuba and I were called into a separate room. A young man in civilian clothes entered.

He informed us that complaints had been received from the Central District Internal Affairs Department: we had allegedly violated public order.

I was dealt with first. The accusation: foul language, grabbing uniforms, ignoring warnings. I asked about witnesses. He showed a paper — testimonies from two officers. And I immediately understood how it worked: pre-prepared templates where names were simply filled in. Shameless conveyor-belt fabrication.

— Did this happen? — they asked.

— It did. But everything was the other way around. It was the police officers who grabbed my clothes, pulled me, and swore.

— Will you sign?

— I will sign, but with a note.

I wrote my version at the bottom of the paper and signed it. Dziuba was also accused of allegedly beating Ministry of Internal Affairs employees. After this, they released us, warning that the case would go to court.

From a payphone, I immediately called home. My wife said our son wasn't there. How could he not be?! And inside, everything dropped. I just sat on the asphalt.

Several hours later, late in the evening, I returned home. My son had already arrived.

He lay silently on the bed and hardly answered any questions. His condition was serious — both psychologically and physically. His back hurt. He said that a policeman had beaten him with a rubber baton and that he wouldn't be able to go to school the next day. We didn't question him further that evening.

The next day, he himself recounted what happened after he was released at the corner of Valadarskaha and Skaryna Avenue, near the "Minsk" hotel. He crossed the avenue, went down to Leningradskaya Street, where he wanted to take trolleybus №3. But on that side, he was recognized again.

Policemen, who were already looking for the boy in the blue jacket, rushed after him. He ran away, constantly looking back. He stumbled and fell. A policeman ran up and started beating him with a baton while he was lying down.

People around first watched silently. Then one of the women intervened — she said that the boy was small, that he hadn't done anything. For a moment, this seemingly stopped the attacker, distracting his attention. My son seized the moment, got up, and fled.

They started chasing him again. He managed to slip into the crowd at the stop and board a trolleybus.

There he was in a state of intense fear. He was afraid of everyone in uniform. He took off his blue jacket, hid it. Then he hid under a seat and didn't come out for a long time. When the trolleybus entered the depot, the driver found him and helped him get back — told him which trolleybus to take to get home.

He couldn't go to school the next day. His back hurt, especially in the lumbar region. Sitting was difficult — he ate standing, could only stand or lie down without bending. He said that the fear seemed to radiate into his legs.

Some time later, in May, I received a summons to court. June 11 — the hearing.

Judge Pavel Ivanavich Korshunov, the secretary, and I were present. They read out the police statement: violation of public order. I was asked if I pleaded guilty.

I replied that it was untrue, that none of it happened, that I had not violated public order. The judge, without raising his eyes, said:

— For the first time, you are warned.

I asked again:

— Warned for what?

The judge, lowering his head, remained silent.

On June 24, 1996, I was summoned to the Zavadski District Prosecutor's Office. Investigator Pasko Siarhei Miroslavavich informed me that lists of those detained on April 26, 1996, had been forwarded to the prosecutor's office, and that a criminal case had been opened regarding the organization of rallies. I was summoned as a witness. They asked if I had any complaints against the Ministry of Internal Affairs employees. I replied that I had no complaints.

Later, I was summoned again and informed that an investigation into the actions of the Ministry of Internal Affairs employees was underway and that additional testimonies might be required.

I understood that this could be an internal game between structures and that they wanted to use me as a witness against one of the sides.

I refused to testify. I said I had nothing to add.

***

On July 31, 1996, around noon, I was driving my car along Partizanski Avenue.

Near the "Belarus" department store, a "Mitsubishi" jeep with license plate 2668 KE overtook me and, sharply cutting me off from the left, began to brake in front of me.

I tried to bypass it, but it repeated its maneuvers, slowing down to a minimum. Eventually, I stopped.

A tall man got out of the car and aggressively approached me with threats:

— What, do I need to teach you how to drive?

Then he took out an ID in a plastic sleeve. Through the film, I read: "Republic of Belarus. Committee for State Security." As he put it back, I saw a pistol in a holster under his jacket. After that, he tried to punch me in the face. The blow landed obliquely on my jaw because I managed to pull back slightly. At this time, the car's driver stood nearby, keeping his right hand in his pocket, and remained silent. They said something else, threatened me, and returned to their car.

It was clear that this scene was not accidental.

Iryna Martusevich, in 1996 a student of the Humanities and Economic Non-State Institute

It was impossible to sit through classes that day. The lecturers' words blurred, losing their meaning, as if they were talking not about law, but about something completely detached from reality. We all knew what was happening in the city — we had discussed it at home, over dinner, just yesterday. Our parents were discussing the upcoming march, the "Chernobyl Way," speaking quietly but with that particular tension that couldn't be mistaken for anything else.

And here we were, sitting in a lecture on constitutional law. Constitutional! In a country where that right was already turned inside out. Listening to it felt almost like hypocrisy — as if we were pretending everything was normal.

We exchanged glances. The decision was obvious. Skip classes.

Our institute was located in the Foreign Languages Institute building on Victory Square, and we tried to quietly, unnoticeably slip out of the building. But right at the exit, we literally bumped into the deputy dean — Uladzimir Nikitich.

He looked at us and immediately understood everything:

— Where are you going?

There were five of us. Plus three more waiting in the institute's courtyard. Clearly, not to the restroom.

— Uladzimir Nikitich… Well, you understand. History is happening there right now…

He paused, looked at us — no longer strictly, but almost conspiratorially.

— All right. I didn't see you.

And with that, he didn't just let us go — he opened the way for us to where everything was truly happening. We ran out onto the street, went down into the metro, traveled to the Academy of Sciences, and got out to wait for the column. We wanted to join at the beginning — walking at the tail seemed pointless.

From afar, from Chalyuskintsau Park, people were already streaming. White-red-white flags swayed above the crowd. There was a roar — multi-voiced, lively. Shouts rolled in waves. We awaited our moment. The day was sunny, warm. Everything around seemed light, almost festive. We stood among strangers and felt them as our own. We were inspired. Even the heels I wore didn't bother me.

When the column approached, we joined almost at the very beginning and walked with everyone — a dense, living river. From the Academy of Sciences to Yakub Kolas Square, we covered this stretch with hardly any fatigue.

And there, for the first time, we saw the police. A barrier — a chain of people in uniform, with shields and batons. And against them — a crowd. Thousands of people. This pressure was impossible to stop. The police officers began to be pushed back, literally pressed against the walls of buildings. They retreated, not knowing what to do — it was visible on their faces: they didn't expect such determination from ordinary people.

As we passed "Lyanka", someone shouted:

— Fascists!

The crowd picked it up. And then another voice, with irony:

— What fascists… Lukashenkists!

And suddenly — laughter, which rolled through the entire column. And the word stuck. Lukashenkists.

Policemen in helmets, with shields, stood along the houses, pressed by the crowd, and looked bewildered. We moved on — with a feeling of strange, almost effortless victory. As we approached Victory Square, we decided to bypass the stele on the right. And suddenly I felt someone touch my shoulder. I looked back.

It was my uncle from the Academy of Sciences. Just yesterday, Mom said he would most likely go to the rally. She was worried. And it was that conversation that prompted me — to go.

He looked at me a little guiltily:

— You didn't see me. And I didn't see you.

Smiling, we nodded at each other. From the very first public phone, I called home:

— Mom, I'm at the rally! And I met my uncle!

Mom calmly replied:

— Yes, he just called. Said he met you.

We, two "conspirators", gave each other away instantly…

As we approached the circus, everything changed. At first, we didn't understand what was happening, and then we saw a new cordon.

And these were not the same policemen as before. These stood rigidly, composed. Movement slowed, people were lost, didn't know what to do. It became clear: this time, they couldn't be taken simply by a crowd.

We stood almost right by the chain of policemen, looking for someone who would tell us what to do next. But at that moment, we were barely thinking. If someone had shouted "to the barricades" — we would have gone. Although all our "weaponry" was a thin book on constitutional law in my bag.

And suddenly I noticed people standing in a circle, holding hands. Inside stood a man. A second circle was already forming around him.

— Pazniak… Guys, it's Pazniak!

I grabbed my friends:

— Let's go! We'll be the third circle!

We ran that way. But we were too late.

A voice was heard:

— To the Palace of Sports! Turn onto Yanka Kupala!

And the crowd turned, flowing from the avenue to the right. And it was at this very moment, as we turned onto Yanka Kupala Street, that people who had been waiting near the Palace of Trade Unions began to join the stream. They came towards us through the passage between the war museum and the palace. Their numbers grew, and the density increased. Someone nearby kept clicking a camera, holding it high above their outstretched hands. They filmed, almost without lowering the camera, as if they also felt — this was history, and it needed to be recorded. We tried to stay closer, but the current was stronger. We turned left onto Maksim Bahdanovich Street.

We reached Niamiha without incident. To the right onto Parkavaya Magistral. A rally was already gathering on the steps of the Palace of Sports. In this commotion, we began to get lost. There were eight of us — then fewer.

But it no longer mattered.

We pushed closer to the speakers. This was our first rally. History — not in a textbook, but before our eyes. It seemed to me that there might not be another chance like this. I caught every word, every gesture.

The sun was setting, illuminating the stage, faces, flags. A blue sky, white-red-white banners, voices, cheers. It was powerful.

When the rally ended, the crowd began to disperse. Most went to the Niamiha metro station. By that time, only two of us were left. Volodzka and I stood and watched this river of people. It was clear — there would be a crush in the underpass. We didn't want to go there. He looked at me:

— Will you walk?

— Of course.

And we walked. Far. Along Maksim Bahdanovich Street, to Bangalore, to the "Riga" supermarket, further. We walked for a long time. And we talked. About everything. About lecturers, about Pazniak, about what kind of day it was. What energy. What a vibe. We had already decided then — we would go again. We got home after midnight. Mom opened the door. Volodzka reported:

— Handing over.

And he left. Mom silently pointed to the phone:

— Answer the calls yourself.

And it was ringing incessantly. The guys were trying to reach me. To find out if I was okay.

While we were walking home, we missed the harshest part. How people were being arrested. In Niamiha. Near GUM. Everywhere. A roundup. We just walked past. But others — were detained. Some had already decided that I was also taken. And, knowing my character, they were sure — I was one of the first there. A few days later, they said that about 250 people were detained on the 26th.

Павялічыць

Photo: vytoki.net

Until one in the morning, I was answering calls, telling everyone how it had been. And how… cool it was!

The next day, the news reported: "A group of drunk students and a handful of pensioners caused unrest." We listened and laughed. Because we had seen everything. And we knew what was really happening in Minsk.

Afterword

The text about the events of April 26, 1996, was written by me literally within the first two weeks after the Chernobyl Way. Later, notes about other events were included: the court, the prosecutor's office, the incident involving the KGB on Partizanski Avenue. All this was added gradually, and only closer to August 1996 did the text finally acquire the form in which it exists today.

On the eve of the 30th anniversary of that Chernobyl Way, already in Canada, this text was shown to one person. After reading it, she said she had to leave and locked herself in the office. An hour later, she offered me to read a text on her phone that she had just sent to me.

When I read what was written, we looked into each other's eyes again and both understood: what had been experienced did not vanish or dissolve in time. Moreover, history had dealt with us in a strange way. The text was about April 26, 1996, through the eyes of my interlocutor.

That day, from different ends of Minsk, we moved to one place: I from Angarskaya Street, she — from the Academy of Sciences.

We weren't acquainted and didn't even know anything about each other. Just two Minsk residents. We met in the Chernobyl Way column. We almost met near Zianon Pazniak: I was eight meters from him, she was three, standing in the circle of young people who were guarding the BPF chairman.

Our life paths diverged for decades after 1996. In 1998, both of us with our families emigrated to Canada.

We went through trials, losses, and blows of fate and met again: in London at the Francis Skaryna Belarusian Library. And that meeting became decisive for both of us.

30 years later, two participants of the Chernobyl Way '96, who witnessed Zianon Pazniak's last public appearance in Belarus on April 26, 1996, specially traveled from Toronto to New York to listen to his speech on Freedom Day — 2026 at the Belarusian Autocephalous Orthodox Church Cathedral.

Today, these two individuals of different origins and different life paths are together again. Back then, on the Chernobyl Way in 1996, she was nineteen, and I was forty-two.

Iryna Martusevich — my wife since 2025.

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