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Global Free Speech

“I have been expelled from my country. Stripped of my home, my ability to return, to see loved ones, to visit my mother’s grave. I have nothing but what I carry” – Shchyrakova on her release in 2025 “I am staying in Belarus. I will not run. I am ready to spend time in prison for the chance to live in my homeland.” That was the firm—though now I’m no longer sure it was the right—decision I made after the 2020 presidential election in Belarus, as the machinery of repression began accelerating against journalists, civil society, and, more broadly, anyone unwilling to accept dictatorship, violence, and systemic human rights abuses. For the next two years, I lived in a constant, suffocating anticipation of arrest. Fear became a permanent companion: that at any moment, they would come for me. I listened to every sound outside, watched every movement, wondering if this was it. At home, I kept a “go bag” packed with essentials for prison. Paradoxically, this anticipation sharpened my sense of life. Every day of freedom felt like a gift. Conversations with my son, meetings with friends, walks with my dog—all carried the weight of possible finality. It was a kind of anxious happiness. At the beginning of 2022, for safety reasons, I left journalism and began pursuing long-postponed ambitions: studying psychology and working on ethnographic photography projects. These gave meaning to my days and dulled the fear—but never fully. So when they finally came, on a grey, freezing December morning, I felt something unexpected: relief. The waiting was over. I was charged with “discrediting the Republic of Belarus”—for expressing critical views about Alyaksandr Lukashenka, the government, and security forces during an interview. Later, another equally absurd criminal charge was added. During the investigation, I was held in a pre-trial detention center in my hometown of Homel. Cells held six to eight women—cramped spaces with barred windows offering only a sliver of sky. We were allowed outside for one hour a day, into a small concrete yard enclosed by bars overhead. Books became a lifeline. From the prison library and bookshop, I managed to access literature that helped me endure. One book in particular—Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning—became essential. A survivor of Nazi concentration camps, Frankl argued that survival depends on finding meaning even in suffering. I found mine in self-education: psychology, foreign languages, the prison system, and the social realities revealed in conversations with fellow inmates. Seven months later, my trial began. But calling it a trial is misleading—it was a performance of justice, not justice itself. The outcome was predetermined. There was no point in proving innocence or invoking constitutional rights to free expression. The sentence: three and a half years in prison. I chose not to appeal. I had no faith in the system and no desire to prolong my imprisonment. Life in the penal colony Penal colony no. 4 in Homel where Larysya was detained The first week in the colony felt almost euphoric. I could walk without escort, hands at my sides, see the open sky without bars, notice trees, flowers, grass. Then reality set in. Daily life became monotonous and harsh: strict regime, discrimination against political prisoners, constant uncertainty, forced labour six days a week in a sewing factory for negligible pay, and toxic interpersonal dynamics. One of the hardest aspects was the lack of personal space—living among 90 other women under constant psychological strain. There were mandatory screenings of propaganda films, including graphic World War II footage—violence, suffering, mass death—that was mentally overwhelming. The rules were often arbitrary and absurd. I resisted where I could. Sharing food or belongings with others was forbidden—I did it anyway, risking punishment. Studying foreign languages or psychology was effectively banned—the relevant books removed from the library—but I found ways to continue learning. Communication between political prisoners from different units was prohibited—I maintained contact, exchanged information, even smuggled notes hidden in clothing. I never stopped being a journalist. I spoke with inmates and staff—essentially conducting interviews—gathering and analysing stories, discussing them with others. The only thing I lacked was the ability to publish. Behind each prisoner’s story were broader social issues: addiction, domestic violence, lack of parental care, poor communication skills, low stress resilience. I observed firsthand how the penitentiary system functioned—archaic, punitive, and ineffective in rehabilitation. One of the few opportunities for expression came through cultural events, especially group discussions of films. War films became an opportunity to indirectly criticise Russia’s war against Ukraine. I spoke openly: war is not heroic—it is violence, suffering, death. These were, unmistakably, pacifist statements about the present. During a discussion about Alexander Pushkin, I recited poetry about freedom, dignity, and resistance to tyranny—words that resonated deeply with fellow political prisoners. Not all such moments went unnoticed. During a discussion titled “healthy family,” I spoke out against discrimination toward LGBTQ+ people, arguing for equality and the right to marriage. I was stopped mid-speech—but the consequences followed: a month of cleaning toilets and corridors, and transfer to another unit. Political prisoners were forced to work six days a week in a sewing factory for negligible pay Pardon and exile My release through a presidential pardon was not entirely unexpected. Even before my arrest, I believed I would not serve the full term. The regime has a history of using political prisoners as bargaining chips. In summer 2025 there were negotiations involving US envoy John Coale and Alyaksandr Lukashenka. As a result, in exchange for sanctions relief 14 people were pardoned. On 10 September 2025, I was summoned and asked to write a pardon request. That evening, I was told to pack my belongings. The next morning, masked KGB officers transported us (four women from the colony) in a minibus. No explanations, no consent. Like cargo. Five hours later, we reached the Lithuanian border. John Coale welcomed us (52 political prisoners from different colonies), expressing sympathy and acknowledging our suffering. For the first time in nearly three years, we were treated with dignity. In Vilnius, a crowd gathered—activists, journalists, strangers who cared. I stood there in prison clothes, exhausted, disoriented, thinking: “I have been expelled from my country. Stripped of my home, my ability to return, to see loved ones, to visit my mother’s grave. I have nothing but what I carry.” And yet— I will return. I will return to a free Belarus. Until then, I live in Poland. I plan to return to journalism and continue my work in ethnographic photography. Life goes on. And the suffering—mine and that of many others—was not in vain. Freedom never comes without a price. READ MORE

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“I have been expelled from my country. Stripped of my home, my ability to return, to see loved ones, to visit my mother’s grave. I have nothing but what I carry” – Shchyrakova on her release in 2025 “I am staying in Belarus. I will not run. I am ready to spend time in prison for the chance to live in my homeland.” That was the firm—though now I’m no longer sure it was the right—decision I made after the 2020 presidential election in Belarus, as the machinery of repression began accelerating against journalists, civil society, and, more broadly, anyone unwilling to accept dictatorship, violence, and systemic human rights abuses. For the next two years, I lived in a constant, suffocating anticipation of arrest. Fear became a permanent companion: that at any moment, they would come for me. I listened to every sound outside, watched every movement, wondering if this was it. At home, I kept a “go bag” packed with essentials for prison. Paradoxically, this anticipation sharpened my sense of life. Every day of freedom felt like a gift. Conversations with my son, meetings with friends, walks with my dog—all carried the weight of possible finality. It was a kind of anxious happiness. At the beginning of 2022, for safety reasons, I left journalism and began pursuing long-postponed ambitions: studying psychology and working on ethnographic photography projects. These gave meaning to my days and dulled the fear—but never fully. So when they finally came, on a grey, freezing December morning, I felt something unexpected: relief. The waiting was over. I was charged with “discrediting the Republic of Belarus”—for expressing critical views about Alyaksandr Lukashenka, the government, and security forces during an interview. Later, another equally absurd criminal charge was added. During the investigation, I was held in a pre-trial detention center in my hometown of Homel. Cells held six to eight women—cramped spaces with barred windows offering only a sliver of sky. We were allowed outside for one hour a day, into a small concrete yard enclosed by bars overhead. Books became a lifeline. From the prison library and bookshop, I managed to access literature that helped me endure. One book in particular—Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning—became essential. A survivor of Nazi concentration camps, Frankl argued that survival depends on finding meaning even in suffering. I found mine in self-education: psychology, foreign languages, the prison system, and the social realities revealed in conversations with fellow inmates. Seven months later, my trial began. But calling it a trial is misleading—it was a performance of justice, not justice itself. The outcome was predetermined. There was no point in proving innocence or invoking constitutional rights to free expression. The sentence: three and a half years in prison. I chose not to appeal. I had no faith in the system and no desire to prolong my imprisonment. Life in the penal colony Penal colony no. 4 in Homel where Larysya was detained The first week in the colony felt almost euphoric. I could walk without escort, hands at my sides, see the open sky without bars, notice trees, flowers, grass. Then reality set in. Daily life became monotonous and harsh: strict regime, discrimination against political prisoners, constant uncertainty, forced labour six days a week in a sewing factory for negligible pay, and toxic interpersonal dynamics. One of the hardest aspects was the lack of personal space—living among 90 other women under constant psychological strain. There were mandatory screenings of propaganda films, including graphic World War II footage—violence, suffering, mass death—that was mentally overwhelming. The rules were often arbitrary and absurd. I resisted where I could. Sharing food or belongings with others was forbidden—I did it anyway, risking punishment. Studying foreign languages or psychology was effectively banned—the relevant books removed from the library—but I found ways to continue learning. Communication between political prisoners from different units was prohibited—I maintained contact, exchanged information, even smuggled notes hidden in clothing. I never stopped being a journalist. I spoke with inmates and staff—essentially conducting interviews—gathering and analysing stories, discussing them with others. The only thing I lacked was the ability to publish. Behind each prisoner’s story were broader social issues: addiction, domestic violence, lack of parental care, poor communication skills, low stress resilience. I observed firsthand how the penitentiary system functioned—archaic, punitive, and ineffective in rehabilitation. One of the few opportunities for expression came through cultural events, especially group discussions of films. War films became an opportunity to indirectly criticise Russia’s war against Ukraine. I spoke openly: war is not heroic—it is violence, suffering, death. These were, unmistakably, pacifist statements about the present. During a discussion about Alexander Pushkin, I recited poetry about freedom, dignity, and resistance to tyranny—words that resonated deeply with fellow political prisoners. Not all such moments went unnoticed. During a discussion titled “healthy family,” I spoke out against discrimination toward LGBTQ+ people, arguing for equality and the right to marriage. I was stopped mid-speech—but the consequences followed: a month of cleaning toilets and corridors, and transfer to another unit. Political prisoners were forced to work six days a week in a sewing factory for negligible pay Pardon and exile My release through a presidential pardon was not entirely unexpected. Even before my arrest, I believed I would not serve the full term. The regime has a history of using political prisoners as bargaining chips. In summer 2025 there were negotiations involving US envoy John Coale and Alyaksandr Lukashenka. As a result, in exchange for sanctions relief 14 people were pardoned. On 10 September 2025, I was summoned and asked to write a pardon request. That evening, I was told to pack my belongings. The next morning, masked KGB officers transported us (four women from the colony) in a minibus. No explanations, no consent. Like cargo. Five hours later, we reached the Lithuanian border. John Coale welcomed us (52 political prisoners from different colonies), expressing sympathy and acknowledging our suffering. For the first time in nearly three years, we were treated with dignity. In Vilnius, a crowd gathered—activists, journalists, strangers who cared. I stood there in prison clothes, exhausted, disoriented, thinking: “I have been expelled from my country. Stripped of my home, my ability to return, to see loved ones, to visit my mother’s grave. I have nothing but what I carry.” And yet— I will return. I will return to a free Belarus. Until then, I live in Poland. I plan to return to journalism and continue my work in ethnographic photography. Life goes on. And the suffering—mine and that of many others—was not in vain. Freedom never comes without a price. READ MORE

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“I am staying in Belarus. I will not run. I am ready to spend time in prison for the chance to live in my homeland.”

That was the firm—though now I’m no longer sure it was the right—decision I made after the 2020 presidential election in Belarus, as the machinery of repression began accelerating against journalists, civil society, and, more broadly, anyone unwilling to accept dictatorship, violence, and systemic human rights abuses.

For the next two years, I lived in a constant, suffocating anticipation of arrest. Fear became a permanent companion: that at any moment, they would come for me. I listened to every sound outside, watched every movement, wondering if this was it. At home, I kept a “go bag” packed with essentials for prison.

Paradoxically, this anticipation sharpened my sense of life. Every day of freedom felt like a gift. Conversations with my son, meetings with friends, walks with my dog—all carried the weight of possible finality. It was a kind of anxious happiness.

At the beginning of 2022, for safety reasons, I left journalism and began pursuing long-postponed ambitions: studying psychology and working on ethnographic photography projects. These gave meaning to my days and dulled the fear—but never fully. So when they finally came, on a grey, freezing December morning, I felt something unexpected: relief. The waiting was over.

I was charged with “discrediting the Republic of Belarus”—for expressing critical views about Alyaksandr Lukashenka, the government, and security forces during an interview. Later, another equally absurd criminal charge was added.

During the investigation, I was held in a pre-trial detention center in my hometown of Homel. Cells held six to eight women—cramped spaces with barred windows offering only a sliver of sky. We were allowed outside for one hour a day, into a small concrete yard enclosed by bars overhead.

Books became a lifeline. From the prison library and bookshop, I managed to access literature that helped me endure. One book in particular—Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning—became essential. A survivor of Nazi concentration camps, Frankl argued that survival depends on finding meaning even in suffering.

I found mine in self-education: psychology, foreign languages, the prison system, and the social realities revealed in conversations with fellow inmates.

Seven months later, my trial began. But calling it a trial is misleading—it was a performance of justice, not justice itself. The outcome was predetermined. There was no point in proving innocence or invoking constitutional rights to free expression.

The sentence: three and a half years in prison.

I chose not to appeal. I had no faith in the system and no desire to prolong my imprisonment.

Life in the penal colony

Penal colony no. 4 in Homel where Larysya was detained

The first week in the colony felt almost euphoric. I could walk without escort, hands at my sides, see the open sky without bars, notice trees, flowers, grass.

Then reality set in.

Daily life became monotonous and harsh: strict regime, discrimination against political prisoners, constant uncertainty, forced labour six days a week in a sewing factory for negligible pay, and toxic interpersonal dynamics.

One of the hardest aspects was the lack of personal space—living among 90 other women under constant psychological strain. There were mandatory screenings of propaganda films, including graphic World War II footage—violence, suffering, mass death—that was mentally overwhelming.

The rules were often arbitrary and absurd. I resisted where I could.

Sharing food or belongings with others was forbidden—I did it anyway, risking punishment. Studying foreign languages or psychology was effectively banned—the relevant books removed from the library—but I found ways to continue learning. Communication between political prisoners from different units was prohibited—I maintained contact, exchanged information, even smuggled notes hidden in clothing.

I never stopped being a journalist.

I spoke with inmates and staff—essentially conducting interviews—gathering and analysing stories, discussing them with others. The only thing I lacked was the ability to publish.

Behind each prisoner’s story were broader social issues: addiction, domestic violence, lack of parental care, poor communication skills, low stress resilience.

I observed firsthand how the penitentiary system functioned—archaic, punitive, and ineffective in rehabilitation.

One of the few opportunities for expression came through cultural events, especially group discussions of films.

War films became an opportunity to indirectly criticise Russia’s war against Ukraine. I spoke openly: war is not heroic—it is violence, suffering, death. These were, unmistakably, pacifist statements about the present.

During a discussion about Alexander Pushkin, I recited poetry about freedom, dignity, and resistance to tyranny—words that resonated deeply with fellow political prisoners.

Not all such moments went unnoticed.

During a discussion titled “healthy family,” I spoke out against discrimination toward LGBTQ+ people, arguing for equality and the right to marriage. I was stopped mid-speech—but the consequences followed: a month of cleaning toilets and corridors, and transfer to another unit.

Political prisoners were forced to work six days a week in a sewing factory for negligible pay

Pardon and exile

My release through a presidential pardon was not entirely unexpected. Even before my arrest, I believed I would not serve the full term. The regime has a history of using political prisoners as bargaining chips.

In summer 2025 there were negotiations involving US envoy John Coale and Alyaksandr Lukashenka. As a result, in exchange for sanctions relief 14 people were pardoned.

On 10 September 2025, I was summoned and asked to write a pardon request.

That evening, I was told to pack my belongings.

The next morning, masked KGB officers transported us (four women from the colony) in a minibus. No explanations, no consent. Like cargo.

Five hours later, we reached the Lithuanian border. John Coale welcomed us (52 political prisoners from different colonies), expressing sympathy and acknowledging our suffering. For the first time in nearly three years, we were treated with dignity.

In Vilnius, a crowd gathered—activists, journalists, strangers who cared.

I stood there in prison clothes, exhausted, disoriented, thinking: “I have been expelled from my country. Stripped of my home, my ability to return, to see loved ones, to visit my mother’s grave. I have nothing but what I carry.”

And yet—

I will return.

I will return to a free Belarus.

Until then, I live in Poland. I plan to return to journalism and continue my work in ethnographic photography.

Life goes on.

And the suffering—mine and that of many others—was not in vain.

Freedom never comes without a price.

Read the full article here

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