“5 years as if in a coma.” Stefanovich – on the horrors of Mogilev prison, the cynicism of the investigation, and his unexpected release

Valiantsin Stefanovich, deputy chairman of the Human Rights Center "Viasna", was detained on July 14, 2021, along with Ales Bialiatski and Uladzimir Labkovich. On March 3, 2023, Valiantsin was sentenced to 9 years of imprisonment. He served his sentence first in Mogilev correctional colony No. 15, and for the last year and a half, in Mogilev closed prison No. 4. He was released and taken out of Belarus on March 19, 2026.

“I got my fair share”

— Valiantsin, why didn't the leaders of "Viasna" leave in the summer of 2021, when there were already "raids" and pogroms against public organizations, media, and so on? Did the human rights activists not feel the danger?

— Of course, we understood the situation; there was the sad experience of 2011 when Ales Bialiatski was convicted. And I was in an unclear situation back then: I traveled to Vilnius for some time, then to Paris. But I didn't leave for long, because it was necessary to do everything possible to free Ales: I traveled to international structures in Brussels, Strasbourg, Geneva, and then returned home to Belarus.

In 2021, we took preventive measures, and most employees of the central and regional offices left. But Ales Bialiatski, Uladz Labkovich, and I remained — that was our decision.

Павялічыць

Valiantsin Stefanovich before imprisonment. Archival photo

I was ashamed to hide when children were literally being jailed for protests in the country. There are two sides to the coin. One side is professional — I acted correctly as a human rights activist, fulfilled my duty to the last, and stayed with our people until the end.

The other side of the coin is my family: my wife and three children. I feel great guilt towards my family for such a selfish act.

But I "got my fair share" because of the decision to stay in Belarus — almost 5 years behind bars.

“Under the microscope of the tax inspectorate”

— At first, you were "charged" with financial crimes. You are a lawyer and human rights activist — how do you evaluate the investigation from a professional point of view?

— We were charged under Article 243, Part 2 — for which Bialiatski was convicted in 2011. The Department of Financial Investigations (DFR) detained us.

There were attempts at "non-procedural contacts": they just wanted to talk to me. But I immediately said: I am a lawyer; let's define my procedural status. If I am not detained, I will now stand up and leave. If I am detained — please show me the order, then we will go to the Investigative Committee with a lawyer. They understood that the attempt at non-procedural contacts was fruitless.

This, by the way, is often used even in non-political cases: "let's talk without a protocol," while they record it on a dictaphone and formalize it as "operational-investigative measures." You spoke against yourself, testified against yourself, and it's very difficult to dismiss all this in court.

I thought: how will you prove this? Everything was fine with my taxes; I worked officially, had an agreement with a Lithuanian organization, money was transferred to an account in Minsk, I filed a declaration annually, and diligently paid taxes. All the time I was under the scrutiny of various bodies and the tax inspectorate, undergoing countless checks.

A check for the last 12 years was conducted when I was already in the pre-trial detention center (SIZO). All my expenses matched my income; no hidden profits were found — I have no "factories or steamships."

Therefore, I was calm and watched what they could charge me with.

Павялічыць

Court trial in the case of "Viasna" leaders Ales Bialiatski, Valiantsin Stefanovich, and Uladz Labkovich

Officially, it sounded like this: when paying for certain works and services, we did not pay taxes for the people we paid. But everyone worked under identical agreements, where it was stated that the obligation to pay taxes rested with the individual.

I always paid taxes in Belarus, although I could have paid them in Lithuania. I am not responsible for third parties — whether they paid taxes or not. So it was laughable to me. But all this dragged on; we were under investigation for almost 2 years.

I refused to give testimony; it's my procedural right — I didn't want to communicate, and they practically didn't summon me for investigative actions.

“They laid out flags, money, and a toy pistol on the table”

— And how were you detained? Were there "mask shows" (SWAT-style raids), apartment invasions, threats?

— The DFR detained us; polite officers — not GUBaziK (Main Directorate for Combating Organized Crime and Corruption). The funniest thing was when, during the detention, they found my son's toy pistol at home — stylized like an old "Colt" with an iron cylinder, but it was obviously a child's toy, shooting caps… They were so happy, conducted an expert examination, and it turned out — it was stated that it was not a firearm. I asked: "Did you at least not take money from me for this examination?" — "No," they replied.

They confiscated my personal money — about a thousand euros. I said: "This is the last money the family has, our family budget, I have three children." They took both the money and the white-red-white flags. Moreover, all this was beautifully laid out on the table and filmed: flags, money, and a pistol. I said: "Excellent picture — they found a revolver with a human rights activist too!"

I asked: "Let me say goodbye to my family." "Oh, come on, you'll be home soon, we'll just have a formal chat."

I said goodbye, hugged my wife and children — and that was it, for almost 5 years.

The investigation dragged on; I was summoned before the case closed in the autumn of 2022. I thought it would be a purely formal moment, that the case was closed. My lawyer and I were shown a document on the cessation of criminal prosecution under Article 243. And another document — reclassification to Article 228, Part 4 — smuggling as part of an organized group, qualifying feature — organized group.

They considered "Viasna" a "criminal group." And while under Article 243 the maximum term was either "chemistry" (forced labor with limited freedom) up to 5 years, or imprisonment from 3 to 7 years, under Article 228, Part 4 — it was only imprisonment from 7 to 12 years.

Well, and the "people's" Article 342, Part 2 — that worried me the least: it was up to 2 years, which I had practically already served in the pre-trial detention center (SIZO). But Article 228…

Павялічыць

Valiantsin Stefanovich and Ales Bialiatski at one of the "political" trials shortly before the events of 2020. Archival photo

I endured, didn't show that I was confused or upset, though my vision blurred… The investigator joyfully said: "You didn't expect this?" I replied that "with the current broad view of law — it's not a capital offense, and thank God." We laughed, I went to the cell, and there it hit me a little — because I wasn't expecting 12 years!

— Did you cross paths with your "accomplice" colleagues Ales Bialiatski and Uladz Labkovich during the investigation?

— I crossed paths with colleagues in the corridors of the Valadarka pre-trial detention center, though rarely — I had refused to give testimony. By the way, I met Ales in the SIZO on the day he was announced as a Nobel laureate. My lawyer was the first to inform me that he had been awarded the prize.

They led me into the corridor, and Ales was standing there — facing the wall, hands behind his head. He said: "Valik, did you hear the news about the Nobel?" I replied: "Of course!" — "And what will happen to us now?" — I joked: "They'll shoot us immediately."

The awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize to Ales Bialiatski is a highlighting of the problem that human rights activists in Belarus are behind bars. Everyone in the world knew that there were political prisoners in Belarus, and here a Nobel laureate sits in prison.

“Perhaps it would be better if the convoy chief conducted the trial?”

— How did the trial proceed? It was supposedly open, but not many people dared to come.

— The trial began immediately after the start of the new year, 2023.

We were treated with demonstrative humiliation. We rode in handcuffs, like everyone on preventative registration, although formally we were not yet on it. We were in handcuffs both in the cage and in the "glass" (isolated booth) between sessions. Handcuffs were removed only when hot food was brought to us, as the process was very long, and they didn't take us back to the SIZO. Handcuffs were switched from behind our backs to the front. I tried to argue to them that this fundamentally contradicts the principle of presumption of innocence; it is cruel, degrading treatment.

Павялічыць

Ales Bialiatski, Uladz Labkovich, and Valiantsin Stefanovich at the trial of the "Viasna" case

The judge said, when I objected: "We do not interfere with the work of the convoy." I emphasized that I was talking not about the convoy's instructions, but about constitutional guarantees. As if, "perhaps it would be better if the convoy chief also conducted the trial? Let him lead the process instead of you." The judge started shouting: "Stefanovich, I will remove you from the courtroom!" I said: "Then remove me, because this is not a court, but some kind of farce and circus."

The prosecutor demanded the maximum punishment for us: Ales Bialiatski 12 years, me 11, Uladz Labkovich 9.

All this was accompanied by active work of state media: all sorts of Azaronaks (referring to pro-regime propagandists) rushed in and then showed it with relish on TV channels… I thought they would give us that much. I half-jokingly told my lawyer: "11 is too much." But they cut 2 years off for all of us.

“I rejoice, I am happy: they gave me not 11 years, but only 9!”

— How did you perceive such an insane sentence — 9 years of imprisonment? Did it not seem "draconian" to you then?

— Here a strange psychological effect occurred: I rejoice, I am happy — they gave me not 11 years, but "only" 9! Then you realize: "Why am I rejoicing?" I calculated how old I would be, how old my children would be. The realization comes later, but at first, there was such a strange joy.

But I understood that hope still dies last. Both in the colony ("zone") and in the "krytka" (in a closed prison. — RS) you always hope for something. One shouldn't hope too much, shouldn't wear rose-colored glasses, like, tomorrow they will release you… I thought it could drag on for 9 years, or even more — in the context of Article 411.

But I had a particularly bad, pessimistic mood a little earlier, when the war in Ukraine began. Naturally, we didn't know all the circumstances. But there was such an "internal mailing list," political prisoners sent "malyava" (notes) to each other, information sharing was established. I read that Russian troops entered Ukraine from our territory, launched an attack. This really hit me hard. Because before that, I had a nightmare: it seemed to me, what if Putin, without informing Lukashenka, or even having informed him but disregarding him, just marches through Belarus and attacks Ukraine? This scenario happened and came true.

I realized that there was no point in expecting release now. Releases always happened against a backdrop of thawing relations, a desire to improve relations with the West, and lift sanctions. But here there is harsh confrontation, harsh military rhetoric from both sides. Militarization is beginning on the borders with Belarus — neighbors fear that troops, having come for exercises, might go somewhere again. So, what release? I tell political prisoners: that's it, grit your teeth and endure.

2022 and 2023 were difficult years — there was no hope. And without hope, without a vision of your future, it's hard to live. When you lose that — your hands drop.

“In the colony, on the third day, there was a provocation and 20 days in solitary confinement (SHIZO)”

— And the correctional colony itself — does it correct anyone? You ended up not in the best place: Mogilev Correctional Colony No. 15 is famous for both cold and hunger…

— I assumed it wouldn't be easy. And I saw a systematic approach to pressuring political prisoners: everything is thought out, optimized.

In Valadarka, I was not placed on preventative registration, as I had an economic article. But here, immediately, a yellow tag: preventative registration No. 10 — "prone to extremist and other destructive activities."

You immediately lose all bonuses that might exist in the zone (colony). It is forbidden to go to the sports ground, to the cinema, to participate in cultural events, concerts, intellectual games, theater competitions. It is forbidden to study at a vocational school to get a new profession (for example, a welder). In short, nothing is allowed. Except for going to the library and work.

Having preventative registration No. 10, you don't work in the large "promka" (industrial zone, production. — RS), where you could earn at least some money, and 30-50 rubles for the "atavarka" (shop allowance) in the zone — that's a lot).

We only worked in low-skilled jobs — aluminum cleaning, partly woodworking: compared to "aluminum," this was intellectual work, and there was even a shower there! In "aluminum," there was none, you walked around dirty, like a pig.

Павялічыць

Valiantsin Stefanovich

But that's half the trouble. The saddest and worst thing is constant penalties with preventative registration No. 10. Your belongings lie in the warehouse (in slang — in the "kesharka"), they must be itemized. No matter how accurately you describe them — they will find something not listed.

When I "entered" the colony, on the third day there was a provocation (as it turned out, quite typical for political prisoners). A senior lieutenant called me to him, asking: "What are you wearing?" I replied: "The prescribed uniform." I felt something was being prepared; they started picking on me. The orderly called: "Stefanovich, what's wrong with your bed?" I went in — the blanket was pulled up, even though I had made it properly.

When you enter the sleeping quarters, you must change into rubber slippers. I put them on. The orderly says: "They're calling you, come for a minute." I approach the door — the quarantine chief is there. I say: "I'm not in uniform, no boots." — "Come in for a couple of minutes." I enter. "Why aren't you in uniform? Violation." I received a penalty.

The chief starts a terrible roar of obscenities, using the worst words — there are many officers there and they all roar. You get lost. He roars: "You are 'Viasna', it won't be sweet for you here, I will take revenge on you."

They take me to the SHIZO, for the maximum term of 10 days (later made 15). It was May 3, my wife's birthday.

The heating season was over, but everyone wore quilted jackets; it was cold. They change my clothes, take away my underwear, I remain in my briefs, they give me a uniform with the inscription "SHIZO," and put me in a large cell. I couldn't sleep at all; the cold was so intense! I shivered, did some squats, push-ups.

In 2023, I spent 10 days in the SHIZO almost every month — about two months in total. I also met the New Year 2024 in the SHIZO.

“You can keep soap in the nightstand, but not a soap dish”

— And what pretexts do they invent to punish, to put in SHIZO? Do they at least show some imagination?

— The nitpicking and pretexts vary: sometimes they found dust, sometimes I said something wrong during a report. It reached the absurd: I had a soap dish with soap in my nightstand, but the list above the nightstand only mentioned soap. Meaning you can keep soap, but not a soap dish. I said: toothpaste is also in a tube — should I squeeze it out? They answered: "Stefanovich, you understand everything!"

Then the unit chief (he was an honest man) would simply come and say: "Stefanovich, I need to punish you with SHIZO." "Understood, citizen chief!" — "And what shall we write?" I said: "Inventory, as usual, or a jargon word — whatever you want."

At first, I wanted to act as a lawyer — to write explanations. But I realized that writing or not writing, it had no effect whatsoever. And when you write an explanation, you admit, as if you violated something. So I stopped writing, testifying against myself.

They deprived me of everything: visits, parcels; I became a "malicious offender." My "atavarka" (shop allowance) was for 2 basic units, not 5. Neither amnesty nor replacement of punishment with a milder one — nothing was forthcoming.

In 2023, I had no parcels at all. I ate only at the expense of my "atavarka." There was one short-term visit with my parents through glass and a telephone. There were no long-term visits. The year 2024 began with me leaving this "kicha" (slang for punishment cell) once again, and a month later, a whole special operation was devised: they took me for a fluorography, and from there again for punishment, I don't even remember what for. And then at the commission meeting, they say: "6 months in PKT" (isolation in a "cell-type premises." — RS). I was stunned.

Павялічыць

Valiantsin Stefanovich and Paval Seviarynets in Vilnius. March 19, 2026

In PKT, they give a mattress, you can "atavarka" for 1 basic unit, books are brought from the library, you are sometimes in a cell with one or two people. But I was alone. And not 6 months, but 8 — they added SHIZO to me. By the way, I liked it, because much depends on who you're with. In SHIZO, I crossed paths with such characters that it's better to be alone. By the way, I read a lot. I immediately said that I would not read Soviet authors, only pre-revolutionary classics or emigrants like Bunin, Nabokov. I re-read Solzhenitsyn's "The Gulag Archipelago." From Belarusian writers — Karatkevich and Bykov.

I thought that after 8 months they would take me to prison, change the regime to a harsher one. But they released me to the zone. I thought, that's it, they left me alone. Turns out, no. I was in the "promka." Unexpectedly, they distributed safety glasses to us — for labor protection. A policeman comes and says: "Why aren't you using your glasses?" I feel that another round of nitpicking is starting — and again SHIZO, for 10 days.

Then an officer says: "I have bad news for you — a trial." The judge comes to the zone.

They read out a characteristic report — I couldn't imagine a worse one! I am such and such, stubbornly unwilling to embark on the path of correction, I have a bad attitude towards work… I was indignant: didn't I meet the norm, what nonsense is this? I was without glasses once — and that means I have a bad attitude towards work? The judge pretended that she would investigate. The prosecutor asked a stupid question: why didn't you appeal the penalties? My regime was changed to strict — they assigned 3 years in prison.

I was transferred from correctional colony No. 15 to prison No. 4. For the last year and a half, I was on a strict regime.

A cell in the basement, no daylight, a 40-minute walk per day, 1 basic unit for "atavarka." They moved me between different cells; I went to SHIZO several times. Everything was like in the colony, except that it was warmer in prison. Bare bunks. No TVs, radio only outside.

“Bialiatski and Labkovich testified against you, but you don't want to testify against them!”

— Did you hear, in prison conditions where there wasn't even a TV, about the releases of other political prisoners? Both ordinary and prominent ones?

— I heard about releases. I knew that Tsikhanouski had been released. An officer from the Mogilev GUBaziK came to me then. I thought: maybe he came to release me? That officer started to "bait" me: "We transferred Bialiatski to the hospital, Labkovich was released. You are the only one left, enter into a dialogue with us: tell us about 'Viasna', about Bialiatski, about the volunteers." I understood everything. I wasn't tempted by such things; I started to mock him, saying: "And how much time do I have left? Only 4 years! That's fine!" He says: "I see you're still holding up. Bialiatski and Labkovich testified against you, but you don't want to testify against them!" I replied that I know: no one testified against anyone, because I am confident in my colleagues. In short, we parted with nothing.

Already in the colony in 2024, I heard about pardons. Prosecutors came, summoned certain people to write petitions — I was in PKT at that exact time. I heard on the radio that 40 people were released, there was a decree from Lukashenka. I thought: "What's happening there? Everyone was released, and they forgot about me?" With hope for the better, I existed for the last year and a half.

— And how did the release itself happen? Were there any signs beforehand?

— Yes, there were signs. From correspondence with my sister and from the newspaper "SB — Belarus Today," I learned that Koole had visited in December, a certain number of people were released, and they voluntarily left the territory of Belarus. I understood: something was happening. Plus, unexpectedly, I was granted a visit with my sister, because I had been deprived of the first visit when I first arrived at the prison. And after January 2, there could have been a second visit, so I carefully wrote to her to come. She understood my Aesopian language very well and unexpectedly arrived on January 6.

A policeman comes and asks: "Stefanovich, did you write an application for a visit?" I said no. "Then write one for your sister." I wrote it, he went to the chief, didn't return for a long time. I already thought they had denied the visit. But finally, they took me for a short-term visit via phone. I hadn't seen my sister for 3 years! We looked at each other. She gently said that I hadn't aged, even looked younger, looked good. I laughed: such a terrible convict, I look awful, my teeth just haven't fallen out yet!

She carefully told me a few things, and I learned that not only Bialiatski but also Labkovich had been released. He was in Prison No. 4 for some time, then he was taken to Zhodzina, to the KGB pre-trial detention center. I understood that some processes were underway.

Later in January, they call me for a "prodol" (corridor walk), to the corridor, and a regular sergeant-controller says: "Tomorrow you are being released. You must leave the territory of the country. Do you agree?" No alternative was offered.

— And did you know the story of Statkevich at that moment?

— No, I didn't know at that moment. There were 8 people in our cell, three of whom were political. They told me unequivocally that I was being released. They told the other guys: probably, possibly… We were so agitated… I didn't sleep all night — I'm being released! But nothing happened for a day, two, three, nothing happened for a month! They deceived us.

Three minutes to pack

— But before your release, you ended up in SHIZO again. Did hope remain?

— Yes, in February I went to SHIZO for 10 days. When I was there, I constantly thought: "God grant that this is the last SHIZO in my life." And so it happened. But this SHIZO was the strangest. They put me in the most beautiful cell; it was all tiled, there was a sink, a wooden window, but it was always closed, there was no air at all.

I returned to prison. Everything was both expected and unexpected. On Wednesday, March 18, at 11 o'clock, the chief was supposed to make a round of the entire prison. Suddenly, two OMON (riot police) officers in masks burst in, called out my surname and Kuliashou's: "You have three minutes to pack!" Everyone asked: "What's happening?" — "They're leaving!" We packed; I only grabbed my sports uniform and papers.

They frisked us, conducted a search. There was a premonition, anticipation, but nothing was clear. They put on handcuffs, a hat over my eyes. Two people led me by the arms, as I couldn't see where I was going. They put me in a bus. They said I was going for "investigative measures." We arrived at the SIZO in Kaliadychy (and at first I didn't understand what kind of large, completely new prison this was). A lot of authorities — colonel-lieutenant colonels-dogs.

Павялічыць

Marfa Rabkova, Nasta Loika, and Valiantsin Stefanovich after their release. Next to them is the Chargé d'affaires of Lithuania in Belarus, Asta Andrijauskienė

I recognized Eduard Palchys, but not immediately: they put him, Kuliashou, and me in one cell. In the morning, all the authorities started scurrying around; they ordered us to change quickly, took away our quilted jackets, didn't like my boots, and issued new sneakers. They told us to shave. They led us out, put us on a bus. Without handcuffs, without hats over our eyes, politely. They allowed us to talk. We passed the turn onto Kizhavatava Street — my parents live nearby, it squeezed my heart a little. We didn't know where they were taking us. I heard that the previous group was taken to Ukraine. They turned onto the Hrodna highway, near Valozhyn, another turn — we realized we were going to Lithuania.

— Where and when did you meet with the American special envoy John Koole?

— We drove into the forest near Kamenny Loh, stood for about an hour — as I understood, we were waiting for the American escort. Five cars with diplomatic plates passed, and we sped after them. Moreover, the Belarusian side did not inform us that we were pardoned. They didn't ask — do you want to leave Belarus or not? They just brought us to the border.

Mr. Koole entered our bus and said in English that it was all over, we were free, and we would now be transferred to another bus. We transferred; they unloaded us at the border, Lithuanian border guards began processing documents, representatives of the Lithuanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs arrived. Koole spoke to us several more times, saying: there were negotiations, the result of which was your release. And that today 250 people who remained in Belarus were released. And that the American side would continue to work on the release of all remaining political prisoners. Then he left.

We were not just joyful — we were stunned! When I got into the other bus, Marfa Rabkova and Nasta Loika were already sitting there. My joy knew no bounds; I had thought about them many times, and there had been no information. And here we are released together! We went through all the procedures — and drove to Vilnius.

“They simply expelled us from the country, that's all — without passports”

— Did they return your passport, other documents, papers?

— All prison-related items — uniforms, quilted jackets, yellow tags — were taken away. All notes, copies of protocols, the verdict, the referral to prison were not returned; they tore out pages with relatives' phone numbers from my notebook — I used that notebook to call my family. They did not return our passports; they only issued a certificate — a kind of identity confirmation. A photo with a stamp and it stated that this was Stefanovich. They said nothing: whether we could return, whether we couldn't — nothing! They simply expelled us from the country, that's all — without passports!

These are new forms that the authorities are using — deportation, forced expulsion of people without documents abroad, as I was pushed out now. They didn't ask — do you want to stay, is this your decision? The situation is critical. How will it develop? I am currently out of context.

— And how was the meeting with your family? You literally arrived in Warsaw from Vilnius the next day…

— My family lives in Poland; I wanted to reunite with them. Thanks to both the Polish and Lithuanian governments for such a warm welcome, for issuing temporary visas. The three of us — me, Nasta Loika, and Katsiaryna Andrejeva — were allowed to go to Poland. They drove us to Warsaw. I hadn't seen my family for almost 5 years. Correspondence was limited; from the colony, I wasn't allowed to call my wife and children at all because the family was abroad; only from prison did I manage to call a few times. Letters from my wife did not reach me in either the colony or the prison. Of course, it's impossible to express in words how the meeting with my family went. The children were really waiting for me; I'm amazed at how they've changed: my youngest daughter was 4 years old when I was detained; now she's 9.

Павялічыць

Valiantsin Stefanovich's family. Photo taken before his imprisonment

It's as if I was in a coma for 5 years, and now I've woken up. And in a foreign country, too. The sun and the sky… It's very symbolic — the release of the "Viasna" members in spring! Uladz Labkovich and I hugged; Ales called — we'll meet soon. The "Viasna" people are great — how they've expanded! I thought only a few people were left, but everything is working!

Their work was evidenced by the fact that when I was sent to SHIZO in the colony, under some fabricated formal pretext, the chief always said: "Stefanovich, do you know why you ended up in SHIZO? Your website wrote about Correctional Colony No. 15 again." I joked: "I'm here, but where is that 'Viasna' website?"

“What's happening now is simply a catastrophe. It's totalitarianism”

— I understand that you've only been free for a few days after almost 5 years in prison. Have you managed to read what's happening in Belarus, that repression continues? Have you heard about sanctions and the release of political prisoners in exchange for their removal?

— What's happening now is simply a catastrophe — you can't call it by any other name. Because all categories of civil and political rights and freedoms imaginable have simply been dismantled. Completely. If previously they were limited, but one could, relatively speaking, pay for cleaning the territory and hold some public action in a park, now nothing is allowed. That is, freedom of speech, thought, assembly, freedom of media — everything has been dismantled. There is not a single opposition political party, no human rights organizations. Democracy is carried out on the basis of the ideology of the Belarusian state. And who wrote it? By whom was it established, why is it mandatory for everyone? This is totalitarianism. This is a catastrophe.

Our colleagues from Western countries must insist on a moratorium on persecution. Otherwise, some are released, others are imprisoned — this will be an endless process.

As for sanctions, if they hadn't existed, there would be no grounds for bargaining now. Lukashenka released us not because he changed his mind, became good, decided to initiate a broad public dialogue, reconcile, restore civil peace in the country. No. First and foremost, it's the economy, the difficult economic situation, money — that's what drives them. But if they didn't exist — there would probably be no subject for bargaining and no instrument for pressure.

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