"I was freer in the colony." Former political prisoner Tamaz Pipia spoke about 6 years behind bars and the new paranoid Belarusian reality

A month after his release, Tamaz Pipia gave a major interview to the Viasna Human Rights Center. In the conversation, the former political prisoner spoke in detail about his journey from his arrest in September 2020 to his emigration in May 2026. He shared information about the methods of work of special services in pre-trial detention centers, the role of administration-controlled informants in colonies, and the difficulties of adapting to life in safety, but far from his homeland.

"The feeling of loneliness arises anyway when you are abroad," says Tamaz. "I want to walk my familiar streets, see my native places, which I miss so much now. I know that this feeling of longing will only intensify over time. We must do something to change the situation and be able to return home."

Tamaz's imprisonment story began in September 2020, when he, a fan of the MTZ-RIPA football club, was detained in Grodno. He was accused of organizing mass riots after the secret inauguration of Alexander Lukashenka. Along with him, his brother Timur, also recognized as a political prisoner (who has since been released), fell under the roller of repression. Tamaz went through trials and sentences, which ultimately amounted to more than six years of deprivation of liberty.

Special Services, Propaganda, and Voskresensky

Tamaz spent the first stages of his imprisonment in pre-trial detention centers, where he faced close attention from the special services. He recalls how he was transferred from Minsk to Zhodino and back, creating an atmosphere of constant tension. In Zhodino, employees of GUBOPiK and the KGB came to him daily, seemingly competing with each other for results.

"It's funny that they were interested in what another agency needed," Tamaz smiles. "As a result, I was returned to 'Volodarka' (Pre-trial detention center No. 1 in Minsk), because Zhodino was too costly for their logistics. I spent a total of about 13 months there until the transfer to the colony itself. This time was filled with uncertainty and constant interrogations."

"The feeling of guilt is only towards the people in the hall." Those accused of mass riots delivered their final statement in court.

At the beginning of 2021, many prisoners still harbored a faint hope for a political compromise or amnesty. Tamaz closely followed the news and saw how economic sanctions were beginning to pressure the regime.

"Deep down, I hoped for a breakthrough, thinking that Lukashenka would compromise due to sanctions," Tamaz recalls. "But after the plane incident with Protasevich, it became clear that things would only get worse. At that moment, I finally realized that I would have to serve the entire term. In parallel, letters from Voskresensky began arriving with pardon proposals."

Propaganda then actively used the names of political prisoners, claiming their readiness to cooperate with the authorities. Tamaz recalls:

"On the radio, I heard my surname and a message, as if I had agreed to Voskresensky's terms. We saw these reports on BT (Belarusian Television) where they published lies, as if we were massively writing pardon letters. The vast majority of us gave no response to these calls."

Internal Fronts of the Colony

The transfer to Correctional Colony No. 1 in Novopolotsk marked the beginning of a new, harsher stage. There, Tamaz encountered Warden Palchyk. The detention regime was strict; any violation of rules led to penalties and solitary confinement (SHIZA).

"At first, the pressure was very harsh; the warden seemed like an unprincipled supporter of the regime," Tamaz recalls. "But later, it was possible to compromise with him; he even rescheduled my visits due to my mother's illness (Tamaz's mother died of oncology during his imprisonment. — NN). If you crossed certain boundaries, you were punished with isolation, and that was a norm of life. But we still tried to circumvent these rules — for example, we continued to help other prisoners."

According to Tamaz's recollections, one of the most dangerous categories of people in the colony turned out to be the so-called "activists." These were prisoners who openly cooperated with the administration, recording every step of their cellmates.

"They kept records, documenting who you spoke to and what you said, literally every step you took," says Tamaz. "The police reacted to some things, but this pleiad of citizens was in every detachment. We knew all of them by face; it was impossible to hide the fact of such cooperation within the system."

By 2024, the level of violence in the colony from the administration and activists significantly increased. Political prisoners began to respond to pressure when it went too far.

"Sometimes the police even asked not to touch certain people, which provoked even greater aggression towards them," Tamaz recalls. "Ultimately, this led to a small rebellion because the administration itself disregarded the rules it imposed on us."

The colony administration used "low social status" as a tool to pressure political prisoners. Tamaz recalls instances when prisoners were attempted to be transferred to this category through threats and manipulations from other convicts. The staff themselves did not officially go for such measures, fearing publicity, but actively used the "tools" among the controlled inmates. This was a method of moral destruction of a person, forcing them to sign any papers.

Despite the overall tightening of conditions, Tamaz notes that the administration treated some political prisoners with caution. Physical force was not used against him personally, although moral pressure was constant. The authorities feared excessive resonance in cases involving media personalities or those who behaved with emphasized dignity.

"They could beat someone from the 'low social status' for ugly behavior, but they tried not to touch political prisoners physically," says Tamaz. "Most of us were released not as malicious violators; we were even allowed to buy goods at the store. This was a strange combination of strict rules and selective caution on the part of the administration. Moral pressure was exerted through delaying letters and limiting contact with relatives. A person would arrive for a visit, and they would simply be denied, literally at the door. We were forbidden to visit the sports ground or learn foreign languages, though others were allowed to. I couldn't even subscribe to fashion magazines, but an ordinary prisoner could."

"Exemplary" Behavior in the Colony

The attitude towards work in the colony became another front line for political prisoners. Tamaz fundamentally refused to work for the regime, considering it an abnormal phenomenon under conditions of unjust imprisonment. He found ways to evade labor duties without entering into open conflicts, but also without showing "dedication." According to Tamaz, the problem of overfulfilling norms was acute. As a result, the administration raised the norms for the entire detachment, which angered other prisoners and created conflicts. Tamaz bitterly notes that such behavior cast a shadow over the entire protest movement inside the prison:

"There were guys who did four times the norm because they were terribly afraid of SHIZA. Because of them, the administration raised the bar for everyone, and this harmed not only political prisoners but also ordinary convicts. It turned out that one person was over-fulfilling the plan, while I was doing half, and I was questioned. This created an unnecessary struggle between those who simply complied with the demands and those who tried to maneuver."

Cases of direct betrayal also occurred: some prisoners wrote denunciations without hiding it. Tamaz recalls an "unprecedented case" when one political prisoner sent four people to SHIZA.

"This person is now in Poland," says the political prisoner. "But then, he wrote a note to Warden Palchyk, saying that we were setting a bad example for others. Due to his denunciation, four political prisoners immediately went to SHIZA for long terms. He believed he was doing the right thing, while I was convinced that we had to show an example of steadfastness. Such people harmed us, depriving us of visits and communication with relatives through their papers. But we wanted the system to see that many of us have a clear position, not just random passersby."

The information vacuum in the colony was attempted to be filled with books; the library was surprisingly rich. Tamaz read philosophy, history, and fiction, finding in this a way to preserve his mind. Particularly important was the availability of books in Belarusian and works by national classics. This helped to feel a connection with the homeland, which they tried to deprive him of behind bars. Tamaz sadly notes that time with books was the only benefit he was able to derive from his imprisonment.

Voices from Outside and a Heroine Sister

Tamaz recalls that the regime tried with all its might to convince prisoners that they had been forgotten, that they were "outcasts." But every postcard or few words of support from strangers gave a colossal surge of spiritual strength.

"Letters are the most important thing for a prisoner; they destroy the illusion that everyone doesn't care about you," he says. "The regime's task is to create a feeling within us as if we are alone and nobody needs us. When you see a letter, you get a huge charge of strength, you remember friends, and you understand that the struggle continues. In Zhodino, letters from strangers came often, and that was very important for maintaining morale."

A special role in Tamaz's fate was played by his sister Luiza, who became his main defender at liberty. When the persecution began, she was only 18 years old, but she showed incredible courage, not being afraid to speak publicly. She gave interviews, wrote appeals, and fought for her brother, despite constant warnings from the special services. For Tamaz, she became a true heroine whose contribution to his release cannot be overestimated.

"I wouldn't have survived there without her support," he smiles. "Luiza had to grow up very quickly this year, gaining life experience under such difficult conditions. She wasn't afraid to speak, even when she was directly threatened and warned in Belarus to keep silent. As soon as she was warned, she started speaking even louder, defending me with all her might. They could call me in and simply confront me with the fact: 'Here, your sister gave another interview.' They used this as a pressure tactic, showing that they knew about her every step. But despite this, they never did anything to me for her words, although the circumstances were very tense. Among the security forces, there were also different people, some of whom understood what she was fighting for."

Павялічыць

Tamaz emphasizes that aid to relatives of political prisoners must be organized and cautious. He warns against using dangerous communication channels that could lead to new arrests. Material support is very important, because without it, survival in the colony becomes dozens of times more difficult. But this must be done wisely, using international mechanisms to avoid jeopardizing those who remain inside the country.

"Many prisoners simply do not have the means to survive in those realities; some don't even have relatives willing to help," says Tamaz. "If you are not materially supported in the colony, everything becomes tenfold more complicated. A person who wants to help should do so without excessive pathos and publicity, so as not to cause harm."

Even under strict regime conditions, Tamaz did not hide his support for Ukraine after the start of the full-scale war. Despite an unspoken ban, he openly expressed his dissatisfaction with the military actions.

"In 2023, I learned that a rocket hit my friend's house in Ukraine, and I couldn't remain silent about it," Tamaz recalls. "I was called in a couple of times, but I could reasonably explain my position and dissatisfaction with what was happening. I objectively protested against the war in a country close to me, where I myself had spent a lot of time. In Mozyr, the top administration was more or less adequate and turned a blind eye to it."

A Different Belarus and the Way Forward

Released in May 2026, Tamaz spent only three days in Belarus before leaving the country. These few days were enough to feel how much society had changed during his absence.

"The difference between the Belarus I went to prison in and the current one was immediately striking — the level of propaganda is off the charts," says Tamaz. "Red-green flags hang everywhere; there are unnaturally many of them, literally at every step. A huge number of cameras appeared that weren't there before; the city became transparent to the special services. The mood in society, it seems, has rolled back to the period of 2012 or 2015, when the echo of past protests had already died down."

Павялічыць

The level of intimidation among the population struck the former political prisoner most of all. This state of paranoia contrasted with what Tamaz felt even in the colony, where he could speak more openly.

"People are afraid of songs in their cars if they could be perceived as protest songs," says Tamaz. "I realized that in the colony, I was freer in terms of expressions and actions, because I had nothing left to lose. In freedom, people immediately delete correspondences as soon as you contact them; it looks very scary. Paranoia didn't leave me either, even when I had already crossed the border."

Tamaz notes that Russian influence has become significantly more tangible in the daily lives of Belarusians. Shops are filled with low-quality Russian products, and the information space is dominated by their agenda.

"Economic sanctions affect society, forcing people to buy cheap Russian products," Tamaz is convinced. "Stores are filled with Russian goods; people are forced to live in this reality. The regime does whatever it wants, despite hundreds of sanctions packages, and dealers are still present in the market. Society has fallen into a vacuum, and I don't see a quick way out of this situation."

Now, Tamaz doesn't want to simply "distance himself" from the Belarusian agenda and live his own life. He feels responsible towards those who still remain in prisons and wants to help people leave the country.

"I want to help those who want to migrate, especially young people who don't have the opportunity to leave on their own," he says. "We need to show the eight million who remain in Belarus that we care. It's important to help people break free from those realities, give them education and jobs here, abroad. Not everyone even has the financial means to leave, and we must become a support for them."

Tamaz notes: it is important not to allow KGB agents and colony activists to benefit from the advantages of a democratic society:

"Society must understand the nuances: who served time and how, and who influenced the situation inside the colonies. You cannot give shelter and donations to those who cooperated with the KGB yesterday and today claim to have realized their mistakes. We must not forget what these people did, just as we do not forget the crimes of the regime itself."

At the end of the conversation with human rights activists, Tamaz again returns to the topic of home, which he will not stop missing. Life in Lithuania or Poland for him is only a temporary exile, not a new homeland. He believes that the situation will change, and he will be able to walk the streets of Minsk without fear of being recognized by "tikhary" (plainclothes police).

"I am grateful for the help from Lithuania and Poland, but we are strangers here; we have our own wonderful country," Tamaz is convinced. "I will always want to return home and miss Belarus; that feeling will never disappear. We must continue to do something, using all levers, to help those who are still behind bars. Only then can we achieve justice and someday truly return home."

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