Judges who cried, judges who reveled, and judges who groveled before the police

The book “Lawyer Stories. A Chronicle of Legal Default in Belarus” — consists of 39 stories about courts, investigations, lawyers, and the people they tried to defend. Its compiler Alena Shynkarevich speaks openly and smiles a lot. Sometimes even when the story is not at all funny. Perhaps this is the professional humor that lawyers resorted to when the law ceased to protect their clients.

Until 2020, Alena mainly worked with businesses. After the elections, about 90% of her practice already consisted of political administrative cases. In March 2021, the lawyer was deprived of her license, allegedly due to “insufficient qualifications.” Another year and a half later, she was forced to leave Belarus.

We talked about a contract with a lawyer that turned into proof of guilt, about a police officer-witness who was replaced by another person between two sessions, allegedly “as it was,” and about judges who cried in August 2020 and later punished protesters in the name of the state. And also — about small victories and why a person needs a defender when the court is no longer a court.

“I went to one process — and suddenly became an expert”

Nasha Niva: Alena, until 2020, you mainly worked with businesses in the Vileika district and did not deal with political cases. How did election commissions, observers, and detained protesters appear in your practice?

Alena Shynkarevich: I was always interested in politics; during my student years, I participated in some protests. At home, too, there was quite an oppositional atmosphere. In May 2020, it was already felt that the situation was ripe.

In a sense, I was inspired by lawyer Siarhei Zikratski. He wrote that he was ready to help people free of charge who were nominated to precinct election commissions. We weren't personally acquainted then, so I wrote in the general group of the Minsk Regional Bar Association: if Siarhei is here, add me too, I'm also ready to help.

I felt awkward: there were many people, who was I? But it turned out that I was the first to publicly offer to join this cause in the group. The leadership immediately asked: “Why are you doing this so demonstratively?” I replied: if I wanted to demonstrate, I would have written on social networks or gone to journalists. But this is a professional legal group.

At first, we appealed decisions on the formation of election commissions. These cases were essentially hopeless, but I met many interesting and proactive people. I remember how the Frunzensky District Court didn't want to accept a complaint: it was signed by one of the nominees, but the court demanded signatures from everyone. It was almost impossible to collect them. The judge invited me to his office, listened to the arguments, and agreed to accept the documents. I was incredibly surprised and thought I had won. A month later, the complaint was returned anyway.

That's often how the entire next year was: it seemed you had smashed a glass wall, but you were pushed back again.

Even before August 9, an observer I was defending was detained. Then he was detained during the protests, and eventually his entire family became my clients. A special bond formed with the clients from that time — I still keep in touch with many of them.

The first political administrative case was a shock to me. And then mass detentions began, and other lawyers were already calling me for advice. I went to one such process — and suddenly became an expert. In fact, the police didn't show much creativity: violations, protocols, and behavior were roughly the same everywhere.

From August onwards, about 90% of my cases were political administrative processes. At first, I kept away from criminal cases because I didn't have such experience. But after the New Year, finding a lawyer for a criminal case became increasingly difficult. I was already thinking of taking one along with a more experienced colleague. And then I received a notice about an extraordinary attestation. It became clear that I was being thrown out of the profession.

NN: You previously said that even before the elections, lawyers discussed: “We are risking our licenses. Are we ready or not?” Was the bar ready for what happened?

ASH: It's interesting that even before the elections, a sense of self-worth began to emerge within the profession. Earlier, conferences and elections in the bar's bodies looked more like a formality. But in early 2020, lawyers were already going to the microphone, criticizing the leadership, proposing changes, and expressing outrage that state bodies ignored lawyers' inquiries.

During COVID, [Chairman of the Belarusian Republican Bar Association] Viktar Chaichyts proposed building a “Palace of Advocacy”: saying that such a building would add respect to the profession. And then the lawyers quite amicably replied: perhaps, before building a palace, we should ensure that we have normal rights and can perform our work? A palace and respect are, after all, different things.

This was similar to what was happening throughout Belarusian society: people were beginning to feel themselves not as cogs, but as a community capable of demanding something.

NN: If you had known how it would all end, would you still have sent that message to Zikratski?

ASH: Yes. I usually have a good understanding of the consequences of my decisions. Back in July 2020, my brother, his wife, and I were sitting in the courtyard. The first authorized rallies in support of Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya were taking place then. I told them: “You understand: either we win, or they flatten us into asphalt and we'll have to leave.”

Not that I wanted to leave. It's just that there are situations when a person with certain values has no choice left. Perhaps in May, I still had one, but after the August violence — no longer. If law and justice constitute the meaning of your profession, you cannot close your eyes and pretend that nothing is happening.

NN: How did the moods among lawyers change after August?

ASH: At first, the violence shocked almost everyone. Many bravely took on cases, helped free of charge, and discussed together how to react.

On August 12, a small group of us went to Chaichyts. Before the elections, he called on lawyers to help the police, and at that moment, doctors, psychologists, and volunteers were already offering help to victims of police violence. We said: the bar must be the first to stand on the side of the people.

We demanded a public statement and warned: if there wasn't one, we would try to convene a conference of lawyers. At that time, the authorities themselves didn't yet understand how firmly they stood on their feet, so they listened to us. Chaichyts published an appeal and even stated that he was personally ready to deal with cases of sexual violence. True, before that, he tried to convince us that there were no victims and it was all rumors. It's hard to imagine that a person who supported the authorities through all channels would truly inspire trust in victims of law enforcement. But back then, the leadership could still be pushed against the wall a bit.

At that time, everyone was scared, including representatives of the authorities. For some time, we could still influence them. But closer to 2021, the system realized that nothing threatened it anymore — and the cleansing of the bar went into full swing.

It later turned out that there was a person in our group who relayed information to the Bar Association's administration — Valeryan Danilau. He told us a story about the head of a bar organization in another country: he chained himself with handcuffs to the isolation ward doors, demanding that lawyers be admitted to the beaten people. When we cited this example to Chaichyts, Danilau immediately began to disavow his own words: saying that it didn't mean we should do the same.

Gradually, fear grew stronger. Lawyers understood: if you had practiced criminal law for thirty years, you might not find other work. Some became more cautious. But in the end, even those who kept silent and tried not to stick out were purged.

A contract with a lawyer as proof of intent to protest

NN: In the book, you tell the story of Pavel Mankou. He had already concluded a contract with you in case of detention, and the court considered this as proof that he intended to participate in the protest. Why did you choose this particular story?

ASH: This story received widespread publicity and very accurately demonstrated the absurdity of the system. Not only did the judge make such a conclusion, but she also had the sense to record it in the ruling.

Pavel himself published the ruling. But then we were blamed, as if the lawyers had quarreled with the judges. Six months later, Viktar Chaichyts said at a meeting: you disgraced the judges so much that they subsequently wouldn't let you familiarize yourselves with cases, you yourselves pitted yourselves against the court.

This story painfully hit the entire bar. Even the republican bar association sided with us then, because it was clear: if a contract with a lawyer is proof of guilt, then it's impossible to talk about any bar anymore.

NN: What else was absurd in this case?

ASH: It was returned for revision several times. There were inconsistencies in time. When during another hearing I asked the police officer how he knew to change his testimony, he honestly replied: “From the case materials.” The witness admitted that he had reviewed the case and then adjusted his testimony. This didn't faze the judge at all — the ruling remained in force.

But we did sometimes win. I managed to save several people from arrest. If out of a hypothetical hundred cases, ten people didn't receive prison sentences — that was already a joy.

But it's very painful when you prepare, study the materials, find a thousand violations, because that's your profession, and in the end, nothing matters. Whatever you do, the decision is already predetermined.

NN: The book contains stories about questionable evidence and judges who ignored obvious contradictions. What did you see yourself?

ASH: In one district case, the person clearly did not participate in the protest. He was picking up a phone from repair, had a receipt, and then went to his brother, who lived in the center. He was detained there.

A police officer came to the first session and gave testimony that clearly did not correspond to the materials. The appeal overturned the decision and returned the case.

For the new hearing, a different person came as the same witness. I said: “Your Honor, I was at the first session and now. We have a different person before us. How can this be explained?” They replied: “And how can you prove that this is a different person?”

There was another case. I was reviewing the materials and noticed that there was no protocol of the court session. This is an unconditional ground for overturning the decision. I specifically wrote on the cover: materials reviewed, so many pages in the case, protocol absent.

I came to the appeal, and Judge Charapanava, in her blinding high heels, said: “But here is the protocol!” I reminded her that it wasn't there during the review, and that's why I made a note. And she replied: “You specifically wrote that. You cannot prove otherwise.” She looked me in the eyes and knew she was lying.

At that time, a ban on photographing documents was introduced. But I photographed it. We then came up with various methods and filmed cases on video. But admitting it would mean reporting that I violated the judge's ban on photographing. This could already become grounds for deprivation of license.

NN: What violations most clearly indicated a legal default?

ASH: First and foremost — identical protocols. In one day, I could defend two or three people and saw: the text was copied, only the surname was changed, sometimes even the time of detention remained the same. And the judge had ten such cases a day. He couldn't help but notice that it was an assembly line and that they were lying in front of him.

Second — how judges humiliated themselves before the police. Sometimes lawyers managed to get into police departments and hear officers talk about the court: “Whatever we say, they'll do.” And they really did. When for the fifth or tenth time a response came from the police department that the CCTV cameras were not working precisely at the right moment, the judge pretended that nothing strange was happening.

And, of course, the trials at Akrestsina. Judges saw beaten, maimed people before them — and still handed them prison sentences. For me, it was not only cruel but also humiliating for the profession itself.

But the legal default didn't start in 2020. This happened before 2020, especially if you sued the state. But after 2020, they felt more and more at ease.

NN: How did the judges behave?

ASH: It very much depended on the person. There were those who did it because it was “necessary.”

But there were judges who clearly took pleasure and demonstrated: you are nobody. I remember secretaries running around the court, wiping sweat and shouting: “How annoying these BCHB supporters are!” Some judges genuinely hated the detainees and didn't hide it much.

Others felt awkward but still followed orders. This is the result of long conditioning: judges, like the police, were taught for years to make the decisions expected of them.

On August 13, 2020, I was at the Economic Court of Minsk when women in white took to the streets. I saw female judges crying. They weren't yet so tainted: they hadn't gone to Akrestsina to punish detainees. I used to work as a court session secretary and knew many of them as good people. I understood whose side they were on in their hearts. But afterward, they continued to work within this system.

At first, some judges still refused to accept anonymous witnesses. I remember a process where the materials were initially returned precisely for this reason.

At the next session, that same judge already said that an anonymous witness was normal. I couldn't bear it and in my final statement addressed him: “Your Honor, you allow them to hide their names, but you will sign the ruling with your own surname.” It was clear he was uncomfortable. As a result, he gave the person exactly as many days in jail as they had already served. Therefore, in my collection, he remained rather among the “good” judges.

For some time, judges in the regions gave fewer prison sentences than in Minsk. If a person was taken to be tried in a region, we even rejoiced: there was a chance for a milder punishment there.

Later, a letter appeared in leaked documents, in which the leadership of the Minsk Regional Court was effectively reprimanded for district judges punishing insufficiently strictly. After that, this difference almost disappeared.

NN: How were lawyers themselves treated in this system?

ASH: Often, they simply showed you that you were nobody. One of my clients was taken to the DFR (Department of Financial Investigations). I didn't want to let him go into the office alone and literally clung to him, but he himself asked not to escalate. As a result, I sat outside the door for five hours: calling, writing, drafting complaints, until the person was released. Legally, you are a defender, but in fact — a person in the corridor who can be ignored.

There was also a very eloquent trifle in the Economic Court of Minsk, where I once worked as a secretary. The guards remembered me as a court employee. In August, I went in and saw helmets, which the security forces used to disperse people, in a prominent place. I told the familiar guards: “Don't disgrace yourselves, at least hide them.” When I returned, the helmets were gone. A month later, they were back on top — positioned so I would definitely see them. The guards looked at me almost defiantly: now we are no longer ashamed and not afraid.

“I was ashamed of them, not of myself”

NN: In 2021, you were sent for an extraordinary attestation and recognized as “insufficiently qualified.” How did that look?

ASH: I understood that the outcome was already determined, so I didn't even prepare. At the attestation, commission members sat with printed laws and wanted you to repeat verbatim what they were reading.

The procedure was unpleasant and humiliating in itself. But I didn't feel humiliated. It seems to me that they were even more angered that they couldn't break me. I understood what and why I was doing. I was ashamed of them, not of myself.

The formal reason for the attestation were trifles in the documents: somewhere in the warrant, not all dates of the sessions were indicated, somewhere my copy of the contract lacked a signature. But they didn't only ask me about the law. The commission was interested in whether I consciously signed the appeal against violence. This was the real exam, not on knowledge of the law, but on loyalty.

NN: After being deprived of your license, you remained in Belarus for more than a year and a half.

ASH: I was not eager to leave.

I obtained a license for legal services, tried to work. But the last year and a half in Minsk, every day was torture for me. Red-green flags on every house, slogans like “They don’t give up the beloved,” “Together we are strength,” one of those involved in the murder of Raman Bandarenka on a billboard with a sports team — all of this was suffocating.

I was home, but I felt I was in hostile territory, a stranger among my own.

My brother's detention was decisive. At first, I thought they were coming for me because of him. Later, it turned out that, it seemed, not, but the whole family was in shock: everyone first expected that they would come for me. It became clear that we could no longer wait. At the end of 2022, we left.

For the first two or three years, I hardly missed Belarus. Only now, as the feelings of recent years are fading and the past is remembered, does nostalgia appear. But it's enough for me to open the current Constitution to understand: I don't want to return to such a country. Even if I were guaranteed that I wouldn't be imprisoned, I wouldn't go if the current regime remained. I cannot live by rules that completely contradict my principles, conscience, and morality.

Павялічыць

“It didn't turn out to be a light book”

NN: When you started collecting “Lawyer Stories,” you were looking for funny and absurd cases, among others. Why?

ASH: Already in 2020, I observed how at meetings, lawyers would start to open up and, interrupting each other, tell: “And I had this happen!” Even the most painful things they tried to present with humor.

When we started the book in 2025, people were already so tired of pain and suffering that we wanted to show another side. Lawyers are often imagined as boring legal scholars. I didn't want to whine about how poor we are and how difficult it is for us. I wanted to tell it interestingly — like in popular books such as “A Gynecologist’s Notes” or “A Plumber’s Notes.” But, as we see from the cover, it didn't turn out to be a light book. Although humor still remained in many stories.

NN: What story struck you the most?

ASH: It's hard to choose just one. The most high-profile cases were already known: for example, about how conversations between lawyer Natalia Matskevich and Siarhei Tsikhanouski were eavesdropped on. Many painful stories about the detentions of lawyers themselves, about how they were not considered people and were not allowed to participate in the process.

But the first one that comes to mind is Iryna Kozikava's story about a pastor. It's more on the funny side. Perhaps for us lawyers, it's just particularly painful to look for other work, so the thought that there's an alternative — becoming a pastor — touched me so much.

Each story has its own pain. At the same time, the most difficult ones often didn't make it into the book: lawyers cannot talk about cases without clients' consent, and sometimes a person can be recognized even without a name. There are thousands of such stories. The more time passes after 2020, the more I realize: the story of every Belarusian who lived through this time is worthy of a separate book.

NN: Why gather these stories now?

ASH: I heard dozens, if not hundreds, of such stories and wanted to preserve them. Some colleagues recorded everything back in 2020 and brought practically finished texts. Others said: “It happened, but now I don't remember well enough to tell it properly.”

39 stories — negligibly few compared to how many could have been recorded. I also wanted to show the lawyers.

People say both good and bad things about us, often — that we are useless. It's offensive when you've sacrificed everything, and they call you useless. But as soon as someone is detained, they still write to me: “Lena, please find a lawyer!” So, maybe we're not entirely useless after all?

The client saw our powerlessness from their perspective. I wanted to show what was happening with the lawyer at that moment and what they were trying to do to break through that wall.

Павялічыць

About small victories

NN: In the book, Tatiana Lishankova tells how she managed to ensure that a Belarusian-speaking defendant was interrogated in Belarusian. What small victories did you have?

ASH: I also had a Belarusian-speaking client. He spoke Belarusian in court, and at least he wasn't forced to switch to Russian.

And another story still warms my soul. Pavel Mankou, who became “guilty” in the eyes of the court because of a contract with me, was summoned to the prosecutor's office for a preventive talk. The ruling had not yet entered into legal force, so there was no formal reason. We went together.

It was already cold. Many people summoned at the same time stood near the prosecutor's office. They were not allowed inside and were told to run to a gas station for masks, although the summons said nothing about masks.

A female employee came out to take Pavel for the talk. I asked: “Maybe we won't waste time? On what grounds did you summon him, if the ruling has not entered into legal force?” She immediately began to apologize. I said: “Now bring the complaint book.”

The problem was no longer just about Pavel. The prosecutor's office building was built with these people's taxes. You yourselves summoned them at the same time and are keeping them in the cold. If a mask requirement was suddenly introduced — provide people with them, don't make them run around to gas stations.

They never brought me the complaint book. Instead, the deputy prosecutor, as I understood it, came out. He apologized many times, everyone was allowed into the building, and masks were handed out. Six months later, such a thing would have been hard to imagine.

This was a small but very pleasant victory. I managed to defend both a specific client and the dignity of all the people standing there. To remind officials for whom and why they work. Because for a long time, it was drilled into our heads that salaries for security forces and pensions are paid personally by one well-known person. It's worth reminding that this is not the case.

“I have a special score to settle with judges”

NN: I remember people often wondering in conversations how judges who hand down unfair verdicts could sleep peacefully. In Maksim Znak's story, the judge, after a decision in favor of the state, actually admits that he understands its injustice. Another judge told an innocent woman: “You only have a fine. You don't know what my situation is, it's even harder for me.” How do you feel about lustration? And can anything justify a judge who deliberately punishes an innocent person?

ASH: For me, judges are among the main culprits in what happened. It is the court that should restrain the lawlessness of other bodies. Judges have legal education; they are a peculiar elite of the profession. And this elite allowed itself to be treated this way.

I understand that evil begins with small steps. Judges were selected long ago, reeled in, and there could have been compromising material on each of them in the KGB. At some point, a person fell into a trap from which it was difficult for them to escape. But they entered it themselves and remained there themselves.

There were judges who refused to consider such cases and were even forced to leave. This means that a choice still existed.

Unfortunately, under a dictatorship, to remain an honest person, you have to be a hero. It's abnormal when heroism is demanded of everyone.

But I have a special score to settle with judges. A lawyer who was afraid to take a political case or did not conduct the defense very well, I can forgive. A judge — no. The court was the branch of power that could and should have stopped the lawlessness.

NN: In the book, there is a story about an Akrestsina employee who showed humanity. Was it important for you to show that normal people remain within the system?

ASH: We didn't select stories based on the principle that we necessarily wanted to show good law enforcement officers. Each lawyer told what they wanted. But we must admit: there were and still are decent people among law enforcement officers. Detainees themselves say this. For example, an investigator could “draw up” much more for a person but limited himself to little.

Sometimes our loud words in emigration help less than the quiet actions of a person who remained within the system. From the outside, it might look like serving the regime, but on the ground, he helps a specific person.

NN: After 2020, more than 140 Belarusian lawyers lost the ability to work, dozens suffered persecution. Does the bar as an institution exist in Belarus today?

ASH: It's impossible to talk about independence and freedom of expression there. At the legislative level, everything is strictly subordinated to the Ministry of Justice. Every lawyer understands that they can be thrown out of the profession at any moment. The bar is under special control, including the KGB. People understand that they are being listened to.

The leadership constantly tries to prove to the authorities: we are with you, we are good. Hence the cooperation with GUBOPiK, which in normal reality is simply impossible to imagine.

But lawyers have a peculiar "hardwiring": we must defend people. I am confident that most colleagues in Belarus are doing everything they still can.

You cannot judge political cases one way, and an ordinary murder — another. If a judge unlearns to demand evidence in a political process, he will not demand it in others either. If a police officer only knows how to obtain testimony through torture, he won't suddenly learn to work differently in a non-political case. This is how the entire system is destroyed.

With the bar, I think it will be simpler. When the situation changes, it is lawyers who will quickly learn to work in a normal system and will be glad to do so. A lawyer, by their role, always somewhat opposes the state. In a totalitarian regime, this is impossible, and freedom for a lawyer is a breath of fresh air. Lawyers who themselves deserve lustration can be counted on one's fingers.

“Revenge leads to new revenge”

NN: Returning to the topic of lustration. You participated in a study on how people who survived torture understand justice. What do they want most of all?

ASH: They want the guilty to be held accountable according to the law. Although one must understand: when intelligent uncles and aunts officially come and ask what you want, a person tries to appear decent and answers accordingly.

In private conversations, I also heard something from the category of “an eye for an eye.” People who have lost a lot might have more radical desires. But they themselves understand that revenge is the wrong path. Overall, victims want lawful punishment for criminals, not retribution.

For me, this is very important. Revenge leads to new revenge. If we want to defend our right to justice, we must do so through legal means — no matter how difficult it may be.

NN: You always said that it was easier for you to defend than to accuse. Could you, in the future, defend judges who find themselves in the dock?

ASH: I don't have the moral right to do so, as I consider myself an affected and interested party. But they, like any person accused of a crime, deserve a defender.

I also cannot be a judge in such processes, as I have suffered from this system. I still don't see myself in the role of a prosecutor. If I manage to return, perhaps I can apply my human rights expertise in the restoration of the judicial system.

Павялічыць

NN: Natalia Matskevich at the book presentation asked: “If we also stopped defending people, what would happen?” Why is a lawyer needed in a system where the court is not a court?

ASH: From the moment I was expelled from the bar, I understood that I could be detained at any time. Therefore, I always had an active contract with a lawyer. As soon as another one of my lawyers was deprived of a license, I quickly looked for the next one who still had it.

A lawyer is a person who has the legal authority to demand information: where you are and if you are alive. This demand is not always met, but the lawyer at least knows which doors to knock on.

When he gets to you, he is the only person who can talk to you and is on your side. Before that, there are only people around who definitely don't wish you well. A lawyer provides not only psychological support but also information from outside, explaining what is happening and what will happen next.

Even in the cell, you don't know if you can trust your cellmates, or if they are plants. A lawyer you trust remains your only friend until the trial. Therefore, in criminal cases, people find their last money and even sell apartments to have a defender. The value of a person standing on your side is colossal.

And yet, even now, lawyers sometimes manage to change something in a political case: not to free a person, but to achieve a different qualification and a less severe punishment.

NN: If you could ask one question to judges who understood what they were doing but handed down unfair verdicts, what would you ask?

ASH: There are judges I wouldn't ask anything: they are simply scoundrels. But I know others — those who understood what they were doing and who, perhaps, were ashamed.

I try to remain a person who is not ashamed to look at myself in the mirror. So I would ask: how do they look at themselves?

And also: when they find themselves on their deathbed, will they not regret it? Would they have done differently, understanding that they cannot take with them neither a subsidized apartment, nor a salary, nor a robe, nor power? I am not a religious person, but dying, everyone probably wants to understand that they have lived a worthy life. Will they not then be too ashamed of who they remained in the history of Belarus?

In 2020, I was already a little tired of advocacy and even thought of leaving. But when everything started, it seemed to me that I had found something more than work and the opportunity to earn money. The freedom of Belarus became a cause worth fighting for.

Later I watched the play “The Career of Doctor Raus.” At the beginning, dates from the 16th century appear there. You look and think: what, essentially, has changed? Why did you decide that changes would necessarily happen in your lifetime?

But to have a goal greater than feeding this piece of meat, seeing more countries, saving money, or raising children — there is something to that. Fighting for the freedom of your country can be such a goal. And I don't know how these people will formulate their great goal.

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