“I received the court summons in the maternity hospital.” Nasta Dashkevich on giving birth during the investigation, going to trial with a month-old baby, and long-distance love

Ahead lay “home confinement,” nighttime inspections, years of waiting for her beloved, and letters that helped them hold onto each other. In an extensive interview with “Zerkalo” [Lyusterka], Nasta spoke in such detail for the first time about raising four children alone under restriction of liberty, what helped her endure the separation from her husband, and what their long-awaited reunion was like—almost like in a romantic movie.

“I’m sitting and thinking about what to do. Get in the car, take the kids, and flee, or stay and accept everything as it is?”

— How were you detained?

— It’s worth starting with the fact that Zmitser had been warned that the security forces were seriously interested in him… These were not people from the law enforcement agencies themselves, but they crossed paths with them somehow. And I remember that wonderful day when he got into the car and told me what he had been told. And we’re sitting there, and I say: “Zmitser, maybe we should leave?” He replies: “I can’t. I’ve spoken so much about responsibility; so many people look up to me. And what, am I going to run? No, I can’t.”

We had also been called in for interrogations shortly before that. I was pregnant then, in my fifth or sixth month, walking to those interrogations. I remember Zmitser was very, very worried. But my stance is always the same: I simply refuse to testify, no matter how much pressure they put on me. Because I did time in the “Amerikanka” [KGB pre-trial detention facility] back in the day, I know what it means to talk to security officers. And so I walk out, and someone barked at me: “We’ll see each other again! Do you really think you’ll get away with this?” I remember getting into the car, and we’re driving, and of course I realize that the storm clouds are gathering over us. Over both of us, in fact. I asked Zmitser several times: “Maybe we should go?” And he replied: “No, we’re not leaving.” “Well, if we’re not leaving, then we’re not leaving,” I thought, since I wasn’t entirely certain about that decision myself.

And then came March 23, 2022. I remember that day in slow motion. An ordinary morning, we were getting the children ready for kindergarten. Zmitser opens the door, the kids go out first and get into the car, then Zmitser, and then I hear some noises, look up—and there are already about five men in my apartment, and just as many in the hallway. Well, that was it; nobody needed to explain anything to me, I knew what it meant.

I looked into Zmitser’s eyes: he was in shock too. Naturally, he was more afraid for me: six months pregnant. And he immediately started shouting: “Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance!” I answered: “An ambulance? I’m fine!” Meanwhile, my blood pressure was skyrocketing. Anxious, I paced around the apartment, wanting to go get the kids, but they were already in the car (at the time, the couple’s children were six, four, and almost two years old. — Ed.). The officers told me: “Sit here, we’ll bring the children in now.” They sat Zmitser and me on the sofa and demanded our phone: “Unlock it.” Well, Zmitser being Zmitser: “I won’t.” They hit him across the face right away. I’m sitting next to him, screaming: “What are you doing?!” And they turned to me: “Now hand over your phone.”

Then they handcuffed Zmitser, while he kept repeating about the ambulance: “Call it, call it!” Then they brought the children in. Of course, all of this was excruciatingly painful, because the children saw him being led out of the house in handcuffs with his hands raised behind his back. Then I said: “I need my phone, I want to turn on cartoons for the kids.” They gave it to me—and the children sat watching cartoons in the bedroom. And they stationed a huge goon in there with them to make sure I didn’t turn on something else at the same time.

The search continues, and I’m shaking—I can’t stand still. I remember that just before that, I had washed all the winter clothes, and they were lying around, drying everywhere. I walk around, folding these clothes and hanging them up. They ask: “Can you calm down?” I went and took some pills—vitamins, Phenibut. They asked: “What are you drinking?”

— Was that GUBOPiK?

— Yes. But what struck me about the whole atmosphere was that it was the first time I saw people who were not just doing a job because “it has to be done” and “everyone understands.” These were people who genuinely hated us: “Look at you, you’re rocking the boat, you can’t just live normally, and you drag your children into it too…” They found letters that the children had written, I think, to Maryia Kalesnikava, with little hearts drawn on them. And one officer shouted: “What is this? Why are you teaching your children this!”

And there was a moment when my David came up and asked: “Mom, is Dad coming back soon?” And I looked at him and said: “David, I don’t think so. I don’t think it will be soon.”

They confiscated my phone. And as they left, they said: “We have no instructions regarding you at the moment, so stay home.”

Павялічыць

— How did you feel at that moment?

— I’m sitting and thinking about what to do. Get in the car, take the kids, and flee, or stay and accept everything as it is?

I was summoned as a witness to the trial. The charge against him was that we hadn’t opened the door, that we had obstructed the officers—standard formalities. But my thoughts were completely elsewhere; I was trembling uncontrollably.

Павялічыць

They asked Zmitser: “Do you have any questions for your wife?” And he said: “Nasta, I love you very much. Everything will be fine.” It hit me like a wave; I could barely hold back my tears. Later Zmitser told me that he also could barely speak without bursting into tears right there.

Afterward, Zmitser’s lawyer conveyed that I had to report for investigative proceedings, saying they wouldn’t arrest me.

— So it was already clear that a criminal case had been opened against you as well?

— Yes. Mentally, I was already prepared. And as soon as I made the decision to stay, everything became calm.

— Why did you make that particular choice?

— I am a believer, and I prayed a lot. For us as believers, there is an understanding that you can talk to God and receive answers. At that time, I was reading the Bible, and there was a passage where Jesus is being arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane, and He says: “Let these men go.” Reading that word gave me such a profound peace that everything would be okay with me. It was as if I had received a 100% promise from God. And I tried to hold onto that promise during the hard times. With that confidence, with that divine promise that I would be fine, I kept going forward.

“Pressure came from friends and strangers alike, everyone was writing and saying: ‘You’re so selfish! Think of the children!’”

Павялічыць

— You gave birth to your youngest child while practically under criminal investigation. What was that like?

— I gave birth a month and a half early due to stress. Nothing like that had happened during my previous pregnancies, and after all, this was my fourth child. On top of that, I couldn’t give birth naturally: labor wouldn’t progress. Up until then, I had always given birth naturally. They pumped oxytocin into me—nothing. I joked, saying: “You know, I have so much adrenaline in me right now that it probably overpowers it.” The medical staff stayed by my side all night. Getting ready before that was quite an adventure too: I had to arrange care for all the kids, send them to their aunt, sort everything out.

— And you were already in labor at that point?

— Yes, labor had already started. And I’m packing my hospital bag, realizing I still need to buy a few things, pack a snack. Of course, I wouldn’t wish such an experience on anyone. I can look back on it with humor now, but looking from the outside, it was very distressing.

So, I was admitted to the hospital around noon or 1:00 PM, and until six in the morning the doctors were looking at me in disbelief: “Are you actually going to give birth? Your water broke, everything is happening…” But labor contractions weren’t progressing. I remember the doctor coming up to me at six in the morning and saying: “Listen, if someone had told me that a fourth delivery wouldn’t respond to buckets of oxytocin, I’d never have believed it in my life!”

So they took me in for a C-section. It really shows how deeply all this takes a toll on your body. You don’t even realize it; you put up a thousand mental barriers, steel yourself… But certain things pull you back to reality and knock from within, reminding you: everything you are going through right now is not normal. By the way, I even received my court summons while I was in the maternity hospital.

— How was your discharge from the maternity hospital? Usually, it’s a festive occasion.

— Yes, usually friends come, the husband is there, they hand the baby to the husband… But when I was discharged, the nurses didn’t know who to hand the newborn to. Pointing to my friend, I said: “Give him to Masha.” They said: “Masha, take him!”

Friends were waiting for me at home. But it’s quite a strange feeling, honestly: you get into the car and drive home with your baby… And then with that same infant carrier, I went to court to sign that I had received the summons, that I was aware of it, and that I had to appear.

Павялічыць

— At the time of the trial, your youngest baby had just turned one month old. Did you bring him to court as well?

— No, I left him at home, pumped milk, and went to the hearings alone. I decided it wasn’t worth it. And it felt like a cheap farce—me standing there with a baby while they put me on trial. Sure, maybe something would have stirred in the judges’ hearts, but emotionally I wasn’t ready for that. I thought, I will endure this myself, and let the children live their best lives.

— You were tried together with Zmitser. How difficult was that emotionally?

— He was in the cage, I was in the courtroom. We still harbored illusions that everything might turn out fine, that we would both receive “khathimiya” [restriction of liberty without imprisonment]… It was already 2022, and that was the trend. And then the prosecutor demanded a year and a half in a penal colony for each of us. And I completely froze… It was terribly hard for Zmitser. I remember he immediately told his lawyer: “Tell her to leave! Tell her to leave! No, under no circumstances will we take this risk.” Many people contacted me, urging: “Come on, let’s go, that’s it.” But at that moment, the youngest child didn’t even have documents yet. And I thought: where am I supposed to go with the children through forests and fields? No, I’m not going anywhere. Though, of course, it was a very difficult decision; I hesitated until the very last moment.

On top of that, pressure came from both sides, friends and strangers alike, everyone writing and saying: “You’re so selfish! Think of the children!” Meaning, if they lock you up, what will happen to the kids? Think of them. There were attacks from all sides. And I had to survive three days before the verdict was handed down. I am immensely grateful to the friends who stayed by my side, held my hand, and stayed overnight at my home. I wasn’t alone during that time. But it was terrifying; making the decision was agonizing. I’d lay the baby down next to me and feel myself physically shaking. I remember packing a bag just in case they sent me straight to a colony. Most people pack sausages, lard. But I had a breast pump and pills to stop lactation.

— Did you have a plan for who would take care of the children if you were sent to a colony?

— Yes, I had arrangements in place. What’s more, I had written down the PIN codes for all my bank cards, and put money in the accounts. And you know, the closer the time came, the calmer I grew. Back then I wasn’t sure whether my father would be granted guardianship, but later I found out it would have worked out. In fact, some mothers with large families even wrote to me: “We’re ready to take your kids if anything happens…”

Павялічыць

— Did you breathe a sigh of relief when the judge announced a year and a half of “home confinement”?

— Yes, of course. I remember my friends dragged me out to celebrate. My husband had just been sent to prison for a year and a half, yet there was joy as if we had hit the jackpot. I stayed with them for a bit, then prepared a small parcel for my husband at Valadarskaha [remand prison]: things he liked, in small packages, to support him during that time. I knew that he, too, felt relieved, that at that moment he felt okay.

“The first rule of home confinement: brush your teeth—clean your phone”

Павялічыць

— I’ve heard people say that “home confinement” is practically like freedom. What is it really like?

— “Home confinement” is tough. There are so many restrictions. And you are constantly in a vulnerable position: they can show up at any moment, check what you’re doing, inspect your phone (the first rule of home confinement: brush your teeth—clean your phone). My primary sensation from all of this was constant anxiety. Especially before going to sleep.

We lived on the ground floor of a two-story building; the front door opened without an intercom. I had turned off the doorbell so they wouldn’t wake the children in the middle of the night. Because of that, you’re always worried you’ll fall into a deep sleep and they’ll come to check on you. By the way, that’s why I stopped taking Phenibut. I had been taking it to normalize my sleep. Once, my daughter woke me up and said: “Mom, someone’s knocking.” My daughter saved me from 15 days in detention that time. And generally, in 90% of cases, they inspected me at night.

— Why? They knew you had an infant.

— Of course, things could be done humanely. I have acquaintances who served “home confinement” in other districts—it was different there. It seems to me they were competing with one another to see who was tougher, who was better. That’s why local officials threw their weight around.

For instance, an inspection could happen twice a day. Sometimes they would show up at exactly 7:00 PM (under Article 48-1 of the Criminal Executive Code of Belarus, individuals sentenced to home confinement must remain at home from 7:00 PM to 6:00 AM. — Ed.). Once I even told the precinct officer: “You know, it’s indecent to arrive at 7:00 PM on the dot. Yes, I have to be home by that time, but dammit, I have four children…”

There were many situations where the children were in the afternoon school shift, and I would be racing across the city, stuck in traffic jams, hair turning gray, hands sweating—all just to make it home by that damn 7:00 PM deadline. Or I’d be rushing back from the clinic, from the doctor, jumping out of the car and sprinting from the parking lot to the house. And they would already be right behind me.

Sometimes you’d be cooking on the weekend and missing an ingredient; the kids, even though they were only first-graders, learned to go to the store and buy what was needed (on weekends and holidays, individuals sentenced to home confinement are prohibited from leaving the immediate vicinity of their home without an authorized reason). In first grade, David already knew how to commute on his own to all his extracurricular activities. I taught him where to transfer, how and where to go…

— What about parent-teacher meetings?

— No parent-teacher meetings. That’s a plus, of course. But no school performances either—that’s a minus. The children try hard, prepare, and I can’t see them, except on video if I ask their grandfather or friends to attend. Of course, all these little things accumulate, moments when you feel guilty toward your child who asks: “Mom, let’s go out for a walk.” And you just can’t go.

— Were you restricted to the city limits of Minsk?

— Not just within Minsk; you are also barred from visiting any entertainment venues. You can’t go to a trampoline park or anywhere else. Interestingly, when I first started my sentence, they even allowed me two hours on weekends to play with the kids in the courtyard. That is completely unheard of nowadays. Back then, we were caught in the earlier wave. But after the incident with the plane in Machulishchy, the situation worsened. They summoned all pensioners and people on parental leave and said: “You don’t work? You don’t work. Kids? You get two hours to leave the house.”

Павялічыць

— How did that work?

— I was only allowed to leave the house between 9:00 and 11:00 AM. Go to the store, buy groceries, go to the clinic if necessary, but otherwise you sit at home.

— And what about the kids?

— Nobody cared. An order came down. I remember sitting in front of the head of the district police department and saying: “Listen, I have four children and I’m on my own, how do you picture this?” Deep down, they understood the absurdity of the situation… but they just shrugged: there’s nothing we can do. Right around that time, self-employment registration became available. I downloaded the app, registered as self-employed, came to the police chief during the 9 to 11 window, and said: “That’s it. I’m no longer on parental leave, I’m working.” And he went: “Okay. Home by 7:00 PM.” But I know that wasn’t allowed everywhere. In some places, they strictly required employment under an official contract.

— How did the children cope with your house arrest and their father’s absence?

— At first, of course, it was very hard. It was difficult to explain to the children why you couldn’t go outside to play with them. We spent every weekend at home, and you couldn’t do anything about it. You couldn’t even let them outside into the yard alone. Naturally, it was painful for them. My friends were a tremendous help here. They would come over, take the kids out for walks, take them to their places, sometimes for sleepovers. I don’t think I could have managed this situation on my own.

— You wrote movingly on Facebook about how, when Zmitser’s sentence was ending, you waited for him, set the table, but he wasn’t released. How did you survive that day?

— There was an exact date when we expected Dad home. And of course, I gently reminded the kids that everything is in God’s hands and we don’t know for sure how things will turn out. But there was a date, and we had hope.

The children were waiting; my friends went to wait outside the penal colony (Zmitser Dashkevich was serving his sentence in Penal Colony No. 14 in the village of Navasady, Barysaw District. — Ed.).

I remember the moment my friends called; I asked what was happening, and they said: “Nothing is happening, a police van just drove onto the grounds.” And that was it: I understood Zmitser wouldn’t be coming out today. And soon after, the investigator actually called me: “Zmitser asked me to call you; he has been arrested under another case.” The children cried their hearts out. They were deeply devastated. Especially the older ones. After that, I never once told the children when their dad would be released. They didn’t know any release dates, they no longer knew about new trials—they knew nothing.

— And how did you take it yourself?

— It took me a long time to put myself back together piece by piece. I was practically numb for about a year, living like stone for a while. I had to invent a new survival strategy. That’s when the realization came—perhaps the hardest one—that these re-arrests would keep happening, that I no longer knew when I’d see him again. And when it happened a second time, and then a third, I took it calmly.

— Four children, supporting Zmitser—how did you manage financially?

— With God’s help, I can’t put it any other way. People stepped up and supported us. Complete strangers would come to the apartment, say they had read about us, put money in my hands, and say: “Here, all the best, stay strong.” There were many such people. Some brought large amounts, others small change. But what mattered to people was coming and showing support.

Older women would come and say: “Here, please forgive us, we can’t give more.” There were times when the doorbell would ring, I’d open it—and there was a bucket of strawberries with a balloon tied to it… Solidarity was truly palpable. I was stuck at home with the children virtually without work, yet there wasn’t a single day when I felt financial destitution.

There were friends who would ask: “How much do you need for the month? Here, take it.” And they provided money month after month. There was other help too. One friend lived with me about three or four days a week. That saved me in so many ways. Children take a huge amount of energy. She was someone with whom I could sit down in the evening and just talk about how her day went, what happened; she’d tell a story, I’d listen, write letters. That kept me afloat. Just the presence of another adult you could talk to and discuss things with—it was wonderful.

And during the holidays, my home was packed. I couldn’t go anywhere, so everyone came to me: Christmas, Easter—the house was full. Birthdays—someone was constantly coming by.

Though there were also informants. Some would pry: “How do you pay your lawyer?” I’d immediately think: “Great, another person cut out of my life, oh well.”

“Just as I pull up to the gas station, Zmitser comes running toward me. It felt straight out of a movie”

Павялічыць

— You maintained an active correspondence during that time. What did you write to each other, and how did you keep your love alive across the distance?

— When Zmitser was arrested the first time, and then the second, I read his letters and thought what a pity it was that only I got to read them. There was so much wisdom, humility, and his own perspective on what was happening to our family and to our nation as a whole—the trials we were undergoing.

There are many things in them that will resonate with people who have lived through or are living through difficult times. Another reason I was convinced that a book of these letters would be deep, cohesive, and compelling was that he could only write to me. All the concentrated pain, joy, hope, and despair of every single day he could write, he addressed to me. It is essentially Zmitser’s diary, written for his beloved wife. If he had been able to correspond with 70–100 people, I wouldn’t have had such a book.

Павялічыць

— What is in these letters that one wouldn’t hear in an interview after release?

— It’s prison without heroics. Because when you get out of prison and some time passes, you give interviews and can’t help polishing yourself a little. You want to shield yourself from what happened, you want to analyze it, you want to say you did well.

Here, the person is in the moment. When he’s hungry, he writes that he’s hungry, that he dreams of food, what he would cook, what he craves. When it’s cold, he describes how many exercises he does, how many times he stands up to warm himself, what he learned about which slippers to place where so his side wouldn’t freeze against the cell wall. And when you feel miserable, you write: “I feel terrible, I feel awful. I see no light at the end of the tunnel, no hope.” Zmitser had plenty of such periods too.

— Did you ever imagine he would be released thanks to the Americans? Were there any hints beforehand?

— I thought they would evacuate the protest leaders of 2020, and leave those who hadn’t actively participated in 2020 in Belarus. Why deport us? We quietly ran our business, I served my home confinement, we did our time. Now I feel a bit ashamed, but when Zmitser was being deported, I wept the entire time. Because I realized what would follow: I would have to abandon everything, leave everything behind, pack our lives into suitcases, and leave. It was very difficult, of course. For him, it was a hard choice too; he spent an agonizing night in the “Amerikanka” agonizing over what to do…

— Tear up his passport like Maryia Kalesnikava, or act like Mr. Mikalai Statkevich?

— It was a tough choice. But he said he chose his family. Later, of course, I realized that if my husband could make such a sacrifice, then I had to as well. Naturally, everything vanished the moment I heard his voice, saw him even over Telegram, and we spoke. I think with dread: what if he had sat in prison for another year?

Павялічыць

— You wrote about a honeymoon in Lithuania. How did you reunite? What did you say to each other?

— Oh, it was wonderful. It was a honeymoon better than my first one. Back then we were young and silly, but now you understand the true value of this time, given everything we went through. It was a marvelous time to talk our hearts out, to just be together.

And our reunion went like this: first he called and sent me his address. I said: “Wait, wait. I’m driving to you, I haven’t seen you in three and a half years, and you just send me an address?!” Laughing, I added: “You should be standing at the border for twenty-four hours while I drive, freezing and waiting for me!” He laughed. I laughed. But I punched the address into the GPS and drove.

He had initially driven with friends to the first gas station past the border, but it took me a long time to cross. His friends had already left, so he was waiting alone. He had already shared all his stories with the staff there; I think everyone was waiting for this historic moment.

As I drove, I shared my live location in Telegram, and Zmitser did the same. It was so thrilling to watch the distance between us shrink meter by meter. And just as I pull up to the gas station, Zmitser comes running toward me. It felt straight out of a movie. We kissed, and right in that romantic moment I say: “Zmitser, I really need the restroom—can I step away in this romantic moment, after all, I am a mother of four!” (Laughs.) And when I walked into the gas station, the staff were standing there with tears in their eyes. I said: “Zmitser, looks like you spent a lot of time with these folks.” He replied: “Yes, I told them everything. Meet my wife.” We met the gas station workers, everyone congratulated us and took photos. And when we got home, the place was filled with flowers.

“Do whatever you think is right, as long as you are happy”

— How did you change during the time you were apart?

— I think Zmitser has softened and become more attentive. Letter writing, where you lay bare all your emotions and feelings, brings people very close. You understand the person’s inner world much deeper. He values me immensely; whenever I doubt myself, he always says: “You’ve been through so much, you managed this and that, you pulled that off—you can do this too!”

Павялічыць

Still, to say prison fundamentally transformed Zmitser would be inaccurate. He possesses a remarkable quality not typical of all prisoners. When he walks out of prison, he virtually forgets it all like a bad dream. For him, it’s as though… he feels as if prison never happened, as if you’ve always been free. His inner world and his psyche shield him from many traumatic experiences.

— There is a stereotype that religious people are quite patriarchal and strict regarding women. What is Zmitser like?

— He is a real man, the kind of man I hold up as an example to my son. He is noble, wise, knows how to apologize, and has a beautiful perception of a wife and of marriage in general. He used to say: “Do whatever you think is right, as long as you are happy.” We don’t have rigid divisions into “men’s” and “women’s” duties. Whoever can helps out—does the laundry, cooks the food. I can easily lounge on the sofa reading a book while Zmitser takes care of things.

— Do the children ever hold what they had to go through against you?

— Right now, in Vilnius, it’s tough for them, of course. They wish they were home with their friends. I explain to them a lot: no one is to blame for this situation. That’s how life unfolded. Back home there was a great deal of danger from which I shielded them while they were little. They didn’t see all the horrors they could have seen. They were surrounded by love from parents, friends, and family. What would have happened next, nobody knows. But right now we need to stay together as a family.

— Did you feel any resentment toward God for such a fate? Prison terms, repressions, forced emigration—these are severe trials…

— Resentment toward God? No, none. Faith in God doesn’t mean you will live without hardships and trouble. Faith in God means that amid all the trials that will inevitably accompany your life, He will be with you and will help you see them through.

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