Activism
As a bonus to our series on world prisons, we invite you to journey through Belarusian prisons. The Grodno “Krytka,” Volodarka, and Amerikanka are not tourist routes—they are attractions for those who seek excursions through places where “freedom” is a word for dictionaries, not reality. In these marvelous “monuments” to history and repression, the guides certainly won’t tell you how much fear and pain these walls hide. Instead, they will show you vintage cells like something out of a retro film: here, not only poets rested, but also political prisoners; here, they dreamed of escape—and some even succeeded. A classic, in general, with Belarusian flavor and absolutely no romance. This material was prepared using text from “Right to Rebellion”; we thank our comrades for their work.
Grodno “Krytka”: Tourist Hell and Punitive Disneyland
The heart of old Grodno beats not in the cathedral, but behind the blank walls of Prison No. 1—this decrepit imperial maw, open for business since 1820. It was built, as usual, by Jesuits—originally intended for prayer, but something went wrong. By the 19th century, it was no longer about absolving sins, but collecting fates, broken in the best traditions of an imperial plot.
After the Polish Uprising of 1830, the “Krytka” (covered prison) quickly settled into its new role—it became a symbol of the Tsarist gendarmerie and its obsession with other people’s biographies. In 1833, the rebel Michal Wolowicz was strangled here, opening the club for “unwanted guests”: artist and composer Napoleon Orda, physicist Zygmunt Wroblewski, socialist Pyotr Shumov, and the author of the first Belarusian grammar, Branislau Tarashkevich. For those with special tastes, there was a VIP sector: “Black Banner” anarchists, communists, and even Felix Dzerzhinsky himself—though back then, he lacked his famous signature squint. Future Belarusian writers Maksim Pestrak and Pilip Tavlay also sat here; their verses still ring out like a sentence on the era.
1907 was the zenith of prison romanticism. An escape of 18 people—no movie was made, no memes were drawn, but city gossip still recalls how “unsanctioned” it all was. During the years of World War I and the Polish-Soviet War, the prison acted as a washing machine for biographies: an idealist goes in, a memory comes out.
During the interwar period, when Grodno found itself under Europe, the Prison became a “resting place” for Belarusian and Polish activists. In 1939, when the city was repainted in the Soviet style, a new round of repression began—after all, a change of power without a prison is like tea without water. Nazi Germany added to the tragedy: underground fighters, young people, and soldiers of the Home Army were brought here and executed. In 1945, the cells were at full capacity: deserters, “enemies of the people,” and others who were simply unlucky to live in that epoch.
Soviet power turned Grodno prison into a “Red Zone,” where “thieves in law” were stripped of their status quickly, and romantics were dealt with through fire. A failed escape in 1982 ended the Soviet way: one escaped, the rest were liquidated. With the collapse of the Union, nothing changed, only the memorial plaques on the doors were updated: through these bunks passed journalists Pavel Sheremet, Dmitry Dashkevich, Andrzej Poczobut, Denis Ivashin, as well as activists Olga Mayorova, anarchist Nikolai Dedok, and partisan Mikalai Autukhovich.
In 2015, they decided to turn the prison into a “Museum of Prison Life.” No joke. No political prisoners, no torture—only mugs, bunks, and rations. Cozy, almost like grandma’s house, if grandma were an investigator for the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Tours are strictly by appointment: hand over your passport— and head into the attraction of state hypocrisy.
Recommended reading:
V. M. Lisitsyn, “Behind the Prison Wall. History of the Grodno Tower (XIX century — 1939).” Grodno, 2003.
Volodarka: Hello, Castle of Pain!
SIZO-1 in Minsk—also known as the Pishchalovsky Castle, also known as “Volodarka”—is a place where human hope is forced to find accelerated survival methods under the indifferent supervision of the state machine. The walls of this “Belarusian Bastille” have soaked up more human suffering than any dramatic theater could portray in a century. The name comes from Volodarsky Street—named after Moisei Goldstein, better known by his party alias Volodarsky: a Bolshevik whose biography was inextricably linked to the revolutionary era and the cult of repressive resolve.
Built in 1825 as a prison castle in the style of strict Classicism, this architectural monument was doomed from the start to become a stage where fates drift into history. Its list of prisoners is a pantheon of intellectuals, revolutionaries, and poets: Wincenty Dunin-Marcinkiewicz, Józef Piłsudski, Yakub Kolas, Maksim Harun, and Felix Dzerzhinsky (notably, sitting on both sides of the bars). During the fever of revolution, the Political Red Cross operated here—an organization that tried to partially mitigate the inevitability of state arbitrariness.
1906 was marked by the public execution of the Socialist Revolutionary Ivan Pulikhov for the attempted assassination of Governor Kurlov—an act of intimidation that now seems to Minsk like a civilized theater devoid of memory: the street named after him remains, but the motive for his death has become the property of historians, not passers-by.
The culmination of horror was the night of October 29–30, 1937, which went down in history as the “Black Night” of the Belarusian intelligentsia. Dozens of leading figures of culture and science were shot in the castle’s basements: Anatoly Vlasov, Tsishka Hartny, Mikhas Charot, Platon Halavach, Uladzimir Duditski, Maksim Tank, Pavel Haretski—and this is only part of the list. Their “guilt” lay in thinking differently than the era demanded. Kastus Kalinouski’s last words echoed within these walls; here, history repeatedly crossed out biographies with a single stroke of a pen.
Paradoxically, it sometimes doubles as a film set: in 1998, part of the movie “Lima: Breaking the Silence,” dedicated to Peruvian radicals, was filmed right here. In this sense, Volodarka is the perfect backdrop for reflections on freedom, power, and the inevitability of deprivation.
In 2008, one of the towers of the castle collapsed—symbolic of how history itself gets tired of carrying this burden. In 2019, anarchists Mikita Yemelyanau and Ivan Komar threw a Molotov cocktail at the prison and found themselves behind bars for it—a gesture of despair, alas, unable to shake the foundations, but etched into the chronicles of protest.
Today, the historical castle formally no longer exists as a prison, but new blocks tower nearby, housing modern political prisoners: anarchists, journalists, and activists. In 2020–2021, names like Siarhei Tsikhanouski, Maria Kalesnikava, Viktar Babaryka, Maksim Znak, Pavel Seviarynets, Stsiapan Latypau, and Alyaksandr Kabanau resonated here; previously—Valery Sharko, Dmitry Dashkevich, Pavel Sheremet, and Andrzej Poczobut. Volodarka, Akrestsina, Amerikanka—the triad of architectural and ideological markers, reminding us that in Belarus, the very idea of freedom is still perceived as a challenge.
History of one prison: Volodarka (reportage)
Lock on the Castle. Special report
History of one castle
12 facts that need to be rewritten — Dmitry Drozd on Volodarka
Amerikanka: The Prison Where the State Looks at Itself
The “Amerikanka” building is not just a prison; it is an ironic monument where Soviet absurdity and geopolitical legends merge into a closed architectural quote. Here is the irony: the prison block is hidden in the courtyard of the KGB in the very center of Minsk—a state secret that everyone knows. Historical anecdotes about the building’s origin vary like a classic game of “broken telephone.” Some suggest the project was inspired by leaders of prison standards (perhaps Illinois—it sounds prestigious), others believe the circular view form is a copy of Western penitentiary fashion, and a third theory whispers about “spy” stories of the Cold War, when agents of “American scale” languished within these walls.
The building itself is a rare example of acoustic minimalism with elements of paranoia: only 18 cells, but with a capacity for up to 34 people. The layout resembles a roulette wheel: cells are arranged in sectors radiating from the center, where the “state” acts as the dealer. The cells are narrow, almost like honeycomb cells—1.2 meters at the entrance, up to 2 meters at the window, and about 5 meters long, so that boredom stretches long and painfully. The windows are decorative embrasures, constant reminders: the outside world exists, but not for you. The carpets on the floor are not for comfort, but a sound barrier: transferring information between cells is forbidden, and in general—silence here is mandatory. For any violation, “Alpha” special forces can burst in without warning. Personal items are hidden in boxes, newspapers are rationed, and the TVs in the lower cells serve more as reminders of a media vacuum than of freedom of choice.
Prisoners of the “Amerikanka”
Speaking of “Amerikanka,” one cannot help but remember that this is no place for cultural heroes—only for those caught in the gears of the system. In the 1930s, the anti-fascist Fritz Schmenkel was interrogated and tortured here. Later, figures for whom the prison became an arena of personal resistance entered these walls. Sviatlana Baikova—an investigator and award winner, a symbol of the ruthless investigative machine—whose fame hardly needs additional commentary.
In the 21st century, “Amerikanka” became a sort of airtight theater for political elites: after the 2010 presidential elections, presidential candidates appeared here—Uladzimir Niakliayeu, Yaroslav Romanchuk, Vital Rymasheuski, Andrei Sannikau, and Mikalai Statkevich. Their story is a chronicle of unyielding spirit under total control. Dmitry Konovalov and Vladislav Kovalyov, accused of the Minsk metro bombing and subsequently executed, also awaited their sentence here.
But “Amerikanka” did not bypass the economic elite: Vladislav Baumgertner, a Russian top manager and head of Uralkali, ended up on this list, as did Belarusian entrepreneurs—Vladimir Yapryntsev (co-owner of Triple), Yuri Chizh (CEO), and Alexander Knyrovich (director of SarmatTermo-Engineering). In recent history, defendants in the “coup d’état” case were seen here—politician Ryhor Kastusiou and scholar Alyaksandr Fiaduta; notably, the anarchist Ihar Alinevich also spent some time in one of these cells.
“Amerikanka” is a space where individual fate is dissolved in a collective memory of fear, silence, and resistance. Here, every centimeter is a reminder that freedom and dignity in Belarusian history are categories that are not only political but deeply existential.
Akrestsina: The System Breaks People, but in a Minimalist Style!
Akrestsina is not just an address on the map of Minsk; it is a “topos” of modern Belarusian totalitarianism, where invisibility and psychological repression are elevated to the rank of daily routine. Officially, it is the Center for the Confinement of Delinquents (TsIP) and the Temporary Detention Center (IVS), but in public terms, it has long been a realized metaphor denying the very idea of human dignity. Behind the facade of dry bureaucratic language hides a space where human rights aren’t just lost—they are declared residual from the start.
The architecture of the complex on Akrestsina Street is meager, functional, and uncompromising—an illustration for a minimalist treatise on power. Inside are IVS No. 36A, TsIP No. 36, and a detention center for minors; outside is an ordinary Minsk landscape between the “Hrushauka” and “Mikhalova” metro stations, created to be deliberately indifferent to the drama unfolding behind the concrete walls. The place name itself is borrowed from pilot Boris Okrestin, a war hero, but in the 2020s, this name has become a symbol of something completely different—torture, humiliation, and institutionalized cruelty.
After the 2020 presidential elections, Akrestsina gained the status of a national memorial of fear, where everyone from financial activists and journalists to random passers-by caught in the gears of the repressive mechanism ended up behind bars. Eyewitness accounts are a chronicle of torture, physical abuse, moral pressure, and conditions in which even animals would hardly want to live. Overcrowded cells, lights on 24/7, no walks, no mattresses, and a total lack of basic hygiene—this isn’t just everyday chaos, but a conscious strategy of dehumanization.
In the 1990s, Akrestsina functioned as a kind of social garbage dump—homeless people, dissidents, and those simply inconvenient to the regime appeared here. Rats, no beds, and a general atmosphere of decay were the norm. In the 2000s, despite cosmetic repairs and the construction of a new block, the essence remained the same: the system demanded the impossible from those locked up, depriving them not only of comfort but of basic rights—from speaking with lawyers to access to letters.
A special page in the history of the complex was opened by volunteer camps that appeared near Akrestsina: psychologists, doctors, and lawyers tried to create islands of solidarity and support. But after August 2020, this humanistic project was liquidated by order of the security forces—as an unnecessary reminder that the authorities do not tolerate alternative forms of social self-organization.
Today, Akrestsina is not so much a prison as a symbol of a systemic army where they break not only the body but the identity. It is a locus memoriae, where trauma turns into civic consciousness, and humiliation into an experience of resistance. We remember and do not forget. For those who want to see reality without embellishment, just look at the eyewitness accounts—they say more than any official report.
Video: Torture and the Truth about Akrestsina
As we said, the source of the text is our comrades from “Right to Rebellion.” “Right to Rebellion” is a Telegram channel covering the case of Belarusian anarcho-partisans. For several years now, they have been writing about the fates of Ihar Alinevich, Dmitry Dubrovsky, Sergey Romanov, and Dmitry Rezanovich. You can support them by visiting their channel.