Book publisher Zmitser Kolas told how he received French orders for literature and how fate brought him together with Dubavets

Belsat spoke with translator and publisher Zmitser Kolas, who was taken out of the pre-trial detention center abroad on September 16 as part of a group of 25 political prisoners.

Zmitser was detained this February during mass arrests of independent book publishers and distributors, charged under Article 361-4 of the Criminal Code ("Facilitating extremist activity"). This is the publisher's second detention: in March 2023, during repressions after the sabotage at the Machulishchy airfield, he spent 10 days in the KGB pre-trial detention center, then was released, like many other detainees, without charges being brought. But a month later, Kolas's publishing house was liquidated by court. The formal reason was the collection of documents he published, "Liberated" and enslaved. Polish-Belarusian borderland 1939-1941," which was recognized by the authorities as extremist materials.

Zmitser Kolas was born on December 29, 1956, into the family of the renowned Belarusian cultural historian, literary and theater critic Heorhiy Kolas and the outstanding documentary film director Alena Kolas. Zmitser's elder brother is Uladzimir Kolas, a film director and educator.

— You were among those whom the security forces recently took out of Belarus as part of a peculiar pardon. On the one hand, they released you from the cage, on the other hand, they forbade you to return home. Such twists of fate are probably perceived differently when you are 20 or 70.

— Of course, I never thought such a thing could happen to me. Minsk is my hometown; I was born there. Initially, we lived on Branievy Lane — my parents, brother, two grandmothers, and two grandfathers. Later, my parents were given an apartment on Naturalistaŭ Street, where I attended and finished school No. 63. Afterwards — the Institute of Foreign Languages: translation faculty, French department.

— Why such a choice?

— Languages fascinated me since childhood. My grandfather taught me two alphabets at once — Latin and Cyrillic. I started reading at three years old. One day, my mother saw me reading in my crib. She screamed so loudly that I got scared and then didn't read for a long time, thinking I was doing something wrong. Then there was a period when I read science fiction — everything I could get my hands on. My father used to scold me for it, saying, 'What nonsense are you reading?' But I believe that Jules Verne and the Strugatsky brothers are true literature. My father had bookshelves in his study, and he would say that one should read these if one wants to consider oneself an intelligent person. My father was a literary scholar, theater critic, and screenwriter... He was, as they say, a living encyclopedia. I still haven't read as much as he did, though I eventually read his entire library.

— The Institute of Foreign Languages was then, as they say, a fashionable institute. Perhaps because there was an opportunity to leave Soviet reality and see the world with your own eyes. Did it work out in the end?

— I graduated from the institute, and by assignment, I was sent to Syria. At the institute, I met my future wife, Natasha Datsevich; she studied at the English faculty. We got married that very year. And I declared that I wouldn't fly anywhere without my wife. They told me that wasn't allowed because I had signed an 11-month contract myself. And then there was a rule: if the contract was less than a year, you flew without your spouse. But I insisted, saying, 'I know they usually extend contracts later.' They asked, 'How can you not fly?' I said, 'I just won't get on the plane — that's all.'

My contract was with the Ministry of Transport Construction; it concerned the construction of bridges on the Euphrates. Eventually, they promised me that my wife could also come. You understand? After all, people kept their word back then. I traveled the entire Euphrates — from the Turkish border to the Iraqi one.

The strangest thing was that no one spoke French there. Syria has many languages, most often, of course, Arabic, but French was not among them. I translated documentation from Russian to French; it had to be handed over to the chief. And he, having studied in France, knew the language. It was easier for him to read in French because he had learned the terminology specifically in French. In everyday life, I had to learn Arabic. And I learned it; I could even tell jokes and engage in philosophical discussions over time. Now, without practice, I've forgotten almost everything.

Павялічыць

— The contract ended — then what?

— I flew to Minsk and started looking for work.

— But the USSR still existed. What about parasitism?

— Who cared about that? But I went to the Institute of Foreign Languages, spoke with the dean, with the vice-rector. The vice-rector was a serious comrade, spoke about the crisis, but promised to help. Soon, I received a call from the Red Cross. I had to fill out a bunch of forms; everything was like with an overseas work contract. Perhaps because foreign trips were also envisaged there. While my applications were being checked, I looked for work elsewhere. I was told there was a position as a lab assistant for working with foreign students at the Faculty of Journalism. So I took that job.

Vital Taras was studying there at the time. I also met Siarhiej Dubavets and Ihar Hiarmianchuk. In general, I fell in with a good crowd. This was the period of the Belarusian Maistroŭnia. But I always worked hourly — sometimes at one university, sometimes at another. Every summer I had to find a job somewhere. The child was still small, so I had to make ends meet. In 1986, I signed a new foreign contract, and our whole family flew to Algeria. I worked there for three years.

— Few people know that you have two French orders for merits in literature and art. How did they come about?

— Many translations: Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, Eugène Ionesco, something by Maupassant, and much more. This was published by "Mastatskaya Litaratura" (Artistic Literature). They even suggested I compile a list for ten years ahead. My cherished dream was to teach at the institute of foreign languages and engage in translations. And so I was already working at the institute, could even receive a scientific degree based on the totality of my publications, but... the Soviet Union collapsed.

A tragic story is connected with the first order I received. It was 2011. That summer, new customs duties on car imports were introduced. I arranged with my friend in Belgium to find a car for me. He found one, but I didn't go immediately because it suddenly turned out that my mother had fallen ill. She had cancer, and it was in the last stage. I dropped everything, moved in with my mother, and took care of her. The car arrived in May and was sitting in the parking lot, but the deadline was approaching when I would have to pay for each day. It was Tuesday, May 31st. I asked my brother to come and stay with mom while I went to clear the car through customs. And so, they were already handing me the documents, only one signature remained — and then my brother called: "Mom died." I walked to the car, completely distraught. I drove onto the highway, and then a call came from the embassy: "Congratulations! A decision has been made to award you an order." Those were the circumstances.

And the second order was awarded to me in 2024. There was a reception at the embassy in a festive atmosphere. I invited my relatives and friends who remained in Minsk.

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