Ihar Karnei: If there's an order, they'll do everything to hold people hostage for five years or more, even with a one-year sentence

"My term of imprisonment was supposed to end on October 13. At least, that's what was indicated on the yellow tag, corrected by the second criminal case: the initial 'extremist formation' was diluted with 'disobedience to the administration' during the on-site court hearing at Shklov correctional colony PK-17."

That is, at first, I had slightly better prospects — early February 2026. However, for political prisoners, all that numerical acrobatics is a mere formality: even with the lightest sentence, one can become a lifer.

How many times I imagined 'getting out' of the strict regime in Mazyr. In tracksuits and sneakers, with a backpack over my shoulder, I'd walk through the forest to the tram — which takes workers from the city to the oil refinery and back.

A whole 20 kilometers of road bliss without convoy or 'handcuffs'. I'd reach the station, maybe even have a beer in the buffet, breaking the alcohol-free pause). And from there, somehow, home to Minsk.

However, as it has been aptly improvised throughout time, if you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans). The long-awaited command "with your belongings, out" on Tuesday the 13th never came, because I've been relatively free for almost a year and a half now (when decisions are made for you, not by you, it's not quite the self-determination you imagine). Not only that, but with some construction skills — unlike the senseless industrial medal-making). And that's not all: I managed to write a book about the forced adventures of recent years.

On the other hand, I didn't have to bother with trams or minibuses; I was driven away for free with four "bodyguards"—KGB officers. The only thing is, they didn't let me admire the Polesie landscapes; I rode the whole way with a sack over my head and my hands cuffed.

To be fair, I understood myself that I would hardly be released according to the schedule. Once they clung to the infamous Article 411, they would squeeze the maximum out of a "recidivist."

In the disciplinary cell of Mazyr, I sat in neighboring cells with **Sasha Frantskevich**, communicating through a pipe under the sink. The police already have a class allergy to anarchists, so he didn't even bother unpacking his suitcases. At best, a week in quarantine, then the usual route: SHIZO, a stack of violations, PKT, a new criminal case, an additional year. At that point, they had already added, I think, three years, and in PK-20, they were going to add more. To the existing 17.

Similarly, we met **Andrei Budai**, a defendant in the "Busly Lyatsyats" (Storks are Flying) initiative case, while waiting in line for "prolongation" of days. A similar story. After the 411th, a transit from Babruysk for another spin. Plus 3.5 to the previous 15.

Blogger **Dzima Kazlou** and I finished our terms in Mazyr, and before that, we waited together for appeals to be heard in Mogilev prison No. 4. In his case, they mocked him, as they say, at the finish line. He was literally packing his suitcase after being sentenced to 5 years, but a couple of weeks before "demobilization," he was re-arrested for "disobedience" and a rigged court stole another year from his life.

Therefore, there isn't much difference what prejudiced verdict was announced: if there's an order, they'll do everything to hold people hostage for five years or more, even with a one-year sentence. So I was lucky to get off with minor harm. Without a guarantee that there wouldn't have been a continuation, had a commodity not been needed for a sanctions exchange.

Below is an excerpt from the book "Torture by Solitude." It's precisely about the backstage of such inhumane processes.

...After the administration of the Shklov colony's lawsuit against "extremist Karnei" (already once convicted, but, as it turned out, not enough) had lain in the prosecutor's office for two weeks, the papers went to court. The order, which was brought for signature, indicated whose participation was necessary: the accused, the convoy, the witnesses. But where was the lawyer?

I had to overcome considerable resistance to secure the right to defense. The argument was devastating: are you seriously going to achieve anything? A de facto admission that no one had escaped punishment from the 411th without it. Only when I wrote a complaint addressed to the head, which had to be registered somehow, did Major Sazonov push the application back into my hands. If you don't mind the money, you'll have your senseless lawyer.

The court was scheduled for December 11, 2024. Three weeks of anxious waiting lay ahead: on the one hand, not the happiest news from home, on the other, exemplary punishment for recalcitrance. Perhaps for the first time, even books didn't save me: whatever fell into my hands — death, suffering, trials. Before my eyes were scenes of civilizational collapse, immersion into a hellish maelstrom. Usually, you wait for lights out to dive into a personal shell of detachment. Now it doesn't help. I don't care. As in that saying, complete indifference to life. A purely technical process, because no matter how you "pack yourself," they will start picking on you.

For almost four months, I don't undress, I lie down in full gear, only taking off my rubber slippers. The guards have already changed into winter coats, but we are still in summer "pajamas." I cover myself completely, leaving only a small opening for my nose. My saving shelters: wigwam, igloo, tipi, dugout. Each time new ones. The mattress is only a name; you can't lie in one position for long; the bruises acquired in solitary confinement ache. And yet it's better than on cold boards.

The "bed" itself is a bulky structure, chained to the wall with thick chains. The metal parts begin to groan, it seems, even from breathing. In my inflamed consciousness, allusions arise to the cry of a bird trying to fly with broken wings. From these sounds, a story is born: each creak is someone's voice, called to diversify my solitude. But suddenly you return from oblivion: the bunk has fallen silent! As if it no longer wants to bear witness to my life. So, can silence be stronger than death, capable of making you nobody even before your heart stops?

Broken sleep at night under round-the-clock lights, the impossibility of even a little nap during the day or even leaning against the wall leads to hallucinations: colored balls before my eyes, a hum in my head. Or a sharp lapse in consciousness, a lack of understanding after "returning" why you are here. I already wanted a quicker self-judgment, so that at least some certainty would emerge. However absurd, any verdict was the only chance to prematurely break free from this endless longing. Therefore, on the morning of D-day, I felt emotionally charged, like a person awaiting unambiguous changes. Not necessarily heroic.

During the "split-legged" search, the convoy senior pulled papers with complaints from my outstretched hands. He skimmed the arguments for the last word and ordered me to leave them in the cell. Saying, you'll do without crib sheets, it won't help anyway.

What I managed to bargain for was the top part of a thermal underwear set — a long-sleeved shirt. Ostensibly on the condition of improving my appearance. Indeed, from under the SHIZO gown, the stretched neckline of a moldy T-shirt truly protruded beggarly, and this in no way created an atmosphere of "festivity."

The staff assembly hall was designated for the impromptu court. But first — the holding cell. Before me, a random killer was quickly being transferred to prison regime, using the same trick to escape the Shklov paradise.

We exchanged a few words through the bars. He said he would gladly return to the Mogilev "krytka" to "his grandfather" — that's how much moral authority philosopher and political prisoner Uladzimir Matskevich had gained even among criminals. And now it was my turn.

In the corridor, "witnesses" milled about in a crowd. For my sake, they were ready to paralyze the colony's work, pulling so many people off shift! Oh, finally even the perpetually loud guards silently stepped aside, giving me a green corridor. The convoy stopped me right at the entrance. To my right, I saw my lawyer; in the distance, the honorary "trio": prosecutor, judge, secretary. I identified myself, they allowed me to sit. Guards on both sides (later they comically jumped in sync whenever I needed to stand to answer).

A tedious procedure of identity verification, the prosecutor stating the essence of the administration's claims from PK No. 17, listening to justifications. Our petitions: a receipt for a fine payment as an additional penalty, a medical certificate about my wife's oncological disease, testimony about my youngest daughter's minority. No more arguments in my favor were found.

However, the "aggrieved" came forward on a broad front: out of 22 declared witnesses, only Chief Karnienka and my direct supervisor Drozdov dodged, allegedly falling ill. The remaining twenty literally spared no effort for several hours straight, having to sacrifice lunch... After such denigrations, you yourself no longer understand how you received diplomas and commendations your whole life, and in your deep 50s+ lost adequacy and went wild.

There was no doubt whose arguments would win; with such a mood, we parted until the final session on Friday the 13th. The minimal intrigue was how much they would add in the end. Such unfortunates during roll calls on walks encouraged each other that it would be "a couple of months." Even relatively sympathetic guards held the same prediction — it couldn't possibly be more.

On the day of the verdict, the prosecutor, without preliminaries, proceeded to systematize collective testimonies and, based on indisputable evidence, demanded "adequate punishment" — 1 year of imprisonment under Part 1 of Article 411 of the Criminal Code.

The maximum that could be extracted from a cheap setup about supposedly uncleaned garbage. A new reality loomed on the horizon — four years instead of the previous three. And without any guarantee that the number was final: countless cases where undesirable individuals were repeatedly subjected to repeat charges.

My last word was simply a time-stall before returning to the hateful torture chamber. Perhaps the "trio" was internally amused to hear the Belarusian language in the zone. Paradoxically, from the point of view of the current political and prison regime, which is essentially one and the same, it belongs here. Speakers of Belarusian have long been associated with dangerous criminals.

Either Judge Tarakanov showed uncharacteristic humanism, or he played it safe for the future, but the final verdict surprised with its leniency: 10 months in a strict regime colony (naturally, the unserved term of the first sentence also remains). This is despite the fact that usually, the prosecutor's request in political trials is not adjusted. Perhaps Christmas discounts.

Or perhaps the delicate topic of family ties surfaced. It is stipulated in all regulations: placing a prisoner in an isolation unit is accompanied by a full medical examination. However, in my case, there was none, although medical certificates mysteriously appeared in the file. And the person responsible for them was none other than Tarakanov's wife, an employee of the medical unit of PK No. 17. Which means one thing: people in white coats have themselves become part of the punitive system. And the judge, familiar with the inner workings of the correctional facility, simply turns a blind eye.

Whatever the case, taking into account the new circumstances, the release schedule was also adjusted — October 13, 2026. A significant postponement, considering the particular vulnerability of political prisoners...

You can buy Ihar Karnei's book here.

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