Partisans. Journalists in Łukašenka’s line of fire - ebook

Preface

Freedom Thieves

Jarosław Włodarczyk

Thieves hope never to be caught. When thievery becomes a familiar pursuit which goes unpunished, the thief begins to lose any feelings of guilt or remorse for the evil they cast, that is, if they even had any moral conscience to begin with. As their omnipotence grows, they have the audacity to justify their pitiful actions. So imagine their outrage when a competent court acts contrary to them, and deems them a criminal.

Common thieves pilfer bicycles or cars, while the elite variety rob museums or banks. Any sort of stealing is unacceptable, however, the most frightening form threatening our globe is the theft of freedom. Freedom, as understood intuitively, and freedoms and rights enshrined in conventions and codes – freedom of movement, freedom of choice, freedom from torture, freedom from unfair trial and detention, freedom of speech, and, freedom from lying and propaganda. When a spotlight is shone on a freedom thief, the reaction is fierce. This aggression results from the awareness that the punishment for their crimes can be severe.

Stamping out independent reporters who dare to impartially expose the truth, becomes their modus operandi.

Freedom thieves exist in every nook and cranny of our world but recently their strength and power has gained momentum in Europe, even if Europeans’ love of freedom should automatically reject such looting.

Alaksandr Łukašenka has been systematically mugging Belarusians of their rights and freedoms for almost 30 years. Independent journalists and the media have once again found themselves in Łukašenka’s line of fire, as a result of the protests which erupted following the rigged elections in August 2020. Freedom of speech in Belarus has been stolen. While journalists are not politicians or police officers and therefore, cannot technically apprehend this grandiose ‘thief’, they can use their communication powers to continue to gnaw at his boots and potentially empower others to halt him in his tracks.

Is it possible for the rest of Europe to join forces to catch this crook? Is the world concerned enough to put an end to this dastardly dictator’s reign? By allowing the audacious theft of freedom, are we emboldening copy cats in other nations?

Each and every one of us has a duty to defend freedom of speech and journalistic independence, if we are to prevent another tyrant from slipping through the net within our own countries. We must urgently assist independent journalists in Belarus and its ordinary citizens, to bring Alaksandr Łukašenka to justice and restore their natural liberties.Prelude

How Łukašenka lost social obedience

Michał Potocki

“The fate of all dictators is unenviable. Whoever was not overthrown while alive, the descendants take revenge after his death. And this rule knows no exceptions. “ – Valer Karbalevič, a recognized Belarusian political scientist, has finished his book: Politiczeskij ‘Alaksandr Łukašenka. Political portrait’ with these words.

These words aren’t from August 2020, when Belarus collectively protested against the rigging of the presidential elections, the brutality of Militsiya (police service of Belarus) and tortures at Militsiya stations. Karbalewicz wrote them in a book published in 2010, before anyone could anticipate such scenes. The period of the Belarusian economic miracle built on the Russian drip from cheap oil and gas, thanks to which Łukašenka, like Edward Gierek gave his countrymen some stabilization, ended with the financial crisis of 2008. Still, the president was sure that he was heading for a fourth term.

When Karbalevič was publishing his book, relations with the West were thawing. The election campaign was unexpectedly liberal, and the authorities registered anyone who wanted to run for candidacy. Therefore, the even greater shock was the election evening, when a demonstration of several thousand people was dispersed by the police. More than six hundred were arrested, including seven presidential candidates, and 42 people were charged with criminal charges. One of the candidates, Uładzimir Niaklajeŭ, was brutally beaten. The thaw ended with the first strike of the Militsiya club.

A few days after the election, a human rights activist escorted me to the train station. While chain smoking, she said he felt like she’d been transported back to1937. For people born in the former Soviet Union, it is a symbolic date, similar for Poles 1939 or 1989.

You throw four digits and nothing else needs to be added. The year 1937 is the pinnacle of Stalinist repression. There was plenty of exaggeration in that, which is even clearer today, from the perspective of a decade. The detainees were beaten, there were cases of torture, many served their sentences – the elections were in December, so they were called Decembrists – some others emigrated.

But after the 2020 elections, the number of detainees was 50 times higher than 10 years earlier. This is a paradox, because the beginning of the year didn’t announce anything like that. It was rather expected that the opposition would be pacified by the wave of repression in 2010–2011 and the society intimidated by the Russian-Ukrainian war (“You want Maidan? You will get Donbas!”) won’t be able to prevent Alaksandr Łukašenka, ruling since 1994, from another “elegant victory”. One could only wonder if he would be given 79 or 81 percent of the votes. The late 2019 protests against integration with Russia were the exception rather than the rule.

COVID-19 has impacted everything. For the first time the social support let Łukašenka down dramatically, the same which more than a quarter of a century ago led him to an impressive – and one fair – electoral victory. People were dying in underinvested hospitals, and the President’s words streaming over the TV were attempting to convince the audience that it was an artificially created hysteria by the West about the common flu, which could be treated by a glass of vodka in the evening, field work and hockey. A discrepancy between the truth of the time and the truth of the screen, additionally watered down by the lack of reliable infection statistics, was noticed by both ordinary people and the elite.

The first outbreak of the epidemic was in the Faculty of International Relations at Belarusian State University in Minsk, when Iranian students returned from holidays and infected their colleagues – children of officials, diplomats and directors of big enterprises. Maybe that’s why two candidates, banker-patron Viktar Babaryka and the former ambassador to the United States, Valery Capkała, both close to the nomenclature, revealed their presidential ambitions for the first time in history.There was also a third candidate – Siarhej Cichanoŭski, people’s tribune, youtuber, traveling around the country for months with a camera.

Babaryka and Cichanoŭski gathered crowds. Several hundred meter long queues were formed in front of the tents where signatures of support were collected. Such scenes have never been seen before in Belarus. Therefore, the authorities didn’t allow any of them to be candidates. Babaryka and Cichanoŭski ended up in jail and remain there until now, just like Pavieł Sieviaryniec and Mikoła Statkievič – the leaders of the traditional opposition.

Capkała escaped from the country. The decision to take part in elections was made by Cichanoŭski’s wife – Śviatłana – a well educated philologist who had spent several years at home taking care of her sick child. The authorities registered her purely for sexist reasons, believing that no one would vote for a woman, and, if someone did, they would easily break her.

But they didn’t manage to do so. Furthermore, Maryja Kaleśnikava from Babaryka’s campaign staff and Capkała’s wife – Vieranika, both joined her. The women’s trio became a symbol of Belarus for the world press. Crowds from Minsk to the smallest towns came to their election rallies. The triple gesture of victory’s sign, a clenched fist and a heart formed of fingers became a symbol of hope for change in August. And it happened, but not in the way voters had imagined. On August 9 2020, Łukašenka traditionally rigged the elections and hit the post-election protests with unprecedented brutality. Capkała emigrated just before that. The services blackmailed Cichanoŭskaja to leave for Lithuania, and Kaleśnikava was jailed soon after.

After dozens of hours, the first demonstrators arrested on election night were released. Their testimonies were shocking. Many spoke of harsh systematic tortures. It made the Belarusians’ hackles rise. Even more of them took to the streets and big companies were on the verge of a general strike. Surprised, Łukašenka was booed by workers at rallies. Authorities gave up for two weeks. Perhaps just to regroup. Or maybe to let people fool around. Anyway, instead of a surprise strike, like on that election Sunday, the tactic of “heating the frog” was used.

From then on, the repression was gradually administered. The streets were deserted already on the threshold of winter, and yet the persecution continued to increase.

The news that came as a shock in September 2020, in July 2021 became a common experience. The first long-term sentences appeared. Babaryka received 14 years in a labor camp, Sieviaryniec – seven, and there are already over 500 political prisoners. Among them, while writing these words, there are 29 people associated with the media. Independent press represents a free word and is the only effective way of exposing officials’ lies and propaganda, which is why it’s in the line of fire from the beginning of the protests.

Basically every independent editorial office was affected by repression in some way. The popular portal Tut.by was stripped of status of the mass media and accused of tax crimes, Euroradio – the largest independent radio station – lost its legal entity, and its journalists, like the reporters of Radio Svaboda, were deprived of accreditation allowing for legal work. Belsat’s associates have never had such accreditation, but this time they were particularly affected by penalties and confiscation of equipment. The websites of the above-mentioned media were blocked, ‘Narodnaya Volya’ ceased to be published, and in ‘Komsomolskaya Pravda’ in Belorussia, the Russian owner, who was close to the Kremlin, fired the leadership sympathetic to the protests. The editorial office of ‘Priessbol’’ sports magazine was smashed, and popular channels on the’ Telegram communicator, such as ‘Belarus Golovnogo Mozga’ or ‘Nexta’, were considered extremist and banned. The weekly ‘Nasha Niva’ was hit hard right before the publication of this book. Unfortunately, this counting can continue for a long time.

There is no longer a single trace after the enthusiasm of August 2020. The West imposes further sanctions on Łukašenka, and Moscow is waiting to force him to make additional concessions in return for their support and pushing Belarus even more into the arms of Russia. The protests have died down, but the Belarusians have figured out that no one loves Łukašenka anymore. Now they are divided into those who are preparing for years of terror and those who are convinced that the regime is about to take its last breath. Many have made up their minds and decided to sit out the agony of the system in exile.

We can only wonder if we’ll know anything about it, since the working conditions of the media are deteriorating each day. This book is a tribute to our colleagues who do their best to keep us abreast of what is happening in their country.

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