“So an hour passes with this rig hanging around your neck — it weighs roughly a clean eight kilograms — so yes, it’s pretty heavy.” Part I

Music, arrest, emigration, and music once again — we continue our series on prisons and everything connected to them. Our next stop is Belarus. In this new long-read, released in two parts, Nottoday and Papa Bo (Belarus Outside Sound System) talk about imprisonment in Belarus, what helps while behind bars, and how to escape and outsmart the Belarusian and Russian police — read about all this in the first part. The second part covers music — specifically Belarus Outside Sound System, their history and social stance, as well as the contemporary Belarusian music scene in exile and the part of it that remains in Belarus.

Papa Bo, Belarus Outside Sound System

— Hi! Tell your story for those who aren’t familiar with it yet. How were you detained? Did the law enforcement representatives say anything “interesting” or “new,” besides the usual police verbal abuse?

— I was detained for 2020, for participating in the marches — the first ones after the 2020 presidential elections, where I performed with a mobile sound system. We recorded it all on video and posted it. The video became quite popular, a local meme. And exactly a year later, they came for us and charged us with organizing mass riots, blocking roads, and participating in mass protests. Standard procedure.

A lot of time has passed since then, 4 years already. So, specific memories haven’t stayed sharp. And the cops didn’t say anything new, or anything they hadn’t said to others. The standard cop behavior: intimidation, threats, insults. The basics, the “cop basics.”

— What were your first thoughts when you were detained? What did you remember instantly, and what did you forget?

— I remembered where all the devices were and where the hiding spots were. They initially wanted to prosecute us under a drug-related article so there wouldn’t be any human rights support. Since we were detained at “Korpus” (a cultural center in Minsk where Papa Bo worked as art director), and “Korpus” was seen by the cops as a stronghold of the underground and drug addiction, they searched for drugs at “Korpus,” at home, and in personal belongings. They tried to pin that theme on us.

So my only thoughts were: I hope nothing was left behind, I hope they didn’t plant anything, I hope they didn’t find a gram of weed scraps on the rug. Those were my only thoughts. They were aggressively pushing this narrative, even bringing in a dog — a winner of a national canine competition. We waited two hours for this old German Shepherd, but it still didn’t find anything.

— A technical question. Was it hard to carry the mobile sound system on yourself? Can it be bought? Or did you build it yourself?

— Look, there were only two actions. And those things, the mobile sound systems, there were also two of them, and they were different. The first was made in one day; it was built from improvised materials by one of the technicians at “Korpus,” who later became my co-defendant.

He put it together using several belts and a box from a Bosch cordless drill. It was quite hard to carry because there were no tests. It was done spontaneously, very fast. We tried it on — everything held together, everything hung right.

In fact, when you walk in a crowd, several volunteers lead you so you don’t trip. An hour passes with this thing hanging around your neck — it’s roughly 8 kilograms of dead weight. So yes, it’s quite heavy.

The second time, he came up with a more stable system that distributed the weight to the shoulders with straps. He figured out how to attach it to a plastic motorcycle back protector. Everything musical was attached to that. It was distributed across the shoulders and back instead of just the neck. It was much easier then.

It’s worth adding: neither the first nor the second one survived. They are pieces of evidence that got lost or broken. I think the second one wasn’t found; our friends quickly took it apart and destroyed it. Now there is a similar device that allows for performing as a “pedestrian DJ.” But it’s built on professional harnesses — the kind used by marching drummers. They have metal straps and a stomach rest where the drum sits. This construction is built on that kind of harness; you can find it online.

— There is a famous phrase: “Don’t believe, don’t fear, don’t ask.” It helped Igor Olinevich (a Belarusian anarchist sentenced to 20 years) get through the difficulties of his first arrest. What would you advise those who find themselves detained? What should they remember, and what actions are worth taking or avoiding?

— Well yes, “Don’t believe, don’t fear, don’t ask,” of course. It’s a working system. As pretentious as it might sound, prison has its own laws, and this proven phrase isn’t just noise; it’s a real survival scheme.

Knowing this actually helped me because this wasn’t my first time in prison, but my second. I already knew the deal. So the understanding of how to be a “straight-up guy” in a group — which is quite diverse, aggressive, and in such a stressful environment — was already there. And yes, that knowledge helped me a lot. It’s the right approach.

Also, the realization that you are remembered and waited for helps immensely. I mean correspondence and other signals that there are people on the outside caring for you. Packages, parcels, postcards — it all helps.

All communication with the outside world gives you strength, gives you tasks, gives you some meaning. If you get at least one or two letters a day, your day is occupied not by mindless TV watching or idle chat with cellmates, but by writing replies or formatting letters.

Personally, I had an endless stream of them. I knew for sure that a huge number of people I didn’t even know, as well as my friends and comrades, were constantly thinking of me because 3–8 letters arrived every day. So I was constantly active: discussing business with some, coming up with projects with others, recommending how to organize a tour to someone else. In short, I was mentally active because of this and didn’t degenerate, lying on the bunk and wasting time. I was at my limit.

— You mentioned this was your second imprisonment in a Belarusian prison. What was the first one for?

— The first one was a long time ago, in 2008 or 2009, when I was just starting to put on concerts — doing apartment shows, illegal gigs, underground events. And we decided to… Oh, and by the time of my first imprisonment, I had already been picked up and fined several times for illegal flyposting around the city — they caught me at night when bill posting on poles was still active in Minsk.

So we decided to do a Halloween event. We decided to do it in an unfinished building in the center of Minsk. It was a long-term construction site right behind the Circus, which later became the Chamber of Commerce. We were building an attic there, made a hole in the fence, and got inside. We sold about 50 tickets for cash. We led people in at night, powered everything from a street pole, and held a session with a fire show. All of this on the top floor of the building.

At some point, cops just appeared among the people. They had caught two underage girls who were late and looking for the entrance. They said:
— Yes, they sold us tickets for this.
— And how old are you? — the cops asked.
— 15 — the girls replied.
— And we probably need to go through this hole in the fence.

And I got three months. I served in Zhodino. First in Valadarka, and then in Zhodino. For illegal entry. There were three minor charges. Three months is a short sentence, but you know, at 20 or 19 years old… ending up in Zhodino isn’t great.

— Do letters reach the recipients? Because in many cases, for example, the anarchist ones where activists are serving massive terms, no letters reach them except from relatives. But you say that in your case, letters helped. Does this mean some letters to political prisoners actually get through?

— Letters reached me, but not all of them. I know for sure that maybe 30 percent got through. There was some selection of senders whose mail was allowed. A few friends, mom, girlfriend, Masha Znachenok, partner at “Korpus.” Roughly 12–15 addresses from which mail passed, and that was it. And some random letters from strangers with words of support slipped through.

But I know for a fact, while sitting in prison, I understood: a much larger flow of letters was coming my way. Firstly, the lawyer would say:
— So-and-so and so-and-so sent you mail. Did you get it?
— I didn’t get it — I’d reply.

I knew what I received and what I didn’t. Secondly, people wrote in their letters: “So-and-so sent you a letter.”

When we were imprisoned, we were supposed to go to Trans Europe Hall. It’s a huge conference for the European community of cultural centers located in post-industrial spaces. We were members of this organization through “Korpus.”

Every cultural center in Europe sent me a postcard from that conference. Around 50 postcards were sent to me from all the European cultural centers — and not a single one arrived. I know for sure they existed; they were sent purposefully. They had an action where everyone wrote me a letter.

And, by the way, after my release, nothing was returned to me. What was seized or what didn’t reach me simply never arrived.

However, I had people in my cell whose mail was totally blocked. There was Akihiro (Akihiro Gaeuski-Hanada, a Belarusian anarchist sentenced to 15 years and 9 months), he was in the same case. They blocked about 80 percent of his letters. He also had a massive flow, and even after the percentage they took from him, he still got more letters than I did. He had the biggest flow of letters in the cell. At least five letters were brought to him every single day. Akihiro had serious support.

— Cool. I didn’t know the support was that strong. Because for those cases where all letters go into the major’s “desk drawer,” there’s only one way left — Dissidentby and Pismo Bell. They have an archive of letters written through their site to political prisoners. And when prisoners get out, they can see the number of letters sent to them…

— Listen, they handed me such letters from Pismo Bell and Dissidentby when I got out. Но там немного через них было писем…

— As far as I know, you were beaten during your arrest. This is generally common practice in Belarus and Russia. Often the beating continues until you agree with the charges. Is that true? And can a beating be prevented by giving the “pigs” what they want?

— No, it can’t. I think you should agree immediately to preserve yourself. I think I should have agreed immediately back then too.

Recording a “confession” video is a basic thing that doesn’t affect anything and doesn’t tarnish you in front of anyone whose opinion you value. But at the same time, this consent preserves you.

They beat me. Not severely, but enough. They broke a couple of ribs and ruptured my spleen. Just a few kicks — nothing compared to what usually happens.

But I quickly agreed to record that video. I decided that what had happened to me was enough.

You can’t avoid a beating. You can only avoid them by agreeing. If they are beating you to get a confession and a signed statement, that’s one thing. And that’s debatable depending on the charges. If they are beating you to sign a 15-year sentence, that’s one thing. If it’s for a “khimiya” sentence, that’s another. It depends on the perspective. And if they beat you just to say on camera for the “Zholtye Slivy” propagandists: “I’m a protester and a junkie,” you should agree, I think.

— Since the release of the first political prisoners, much has been written in the media about Belarusian detention facilities, so we won’t spend much time on this. Tell us what you think is necessary to know about the Belarusian CIP and prison, since you’ve been in both?

— Listen, I was in Zhodino almost 20 years ago, so I don’t remember it at all. I can’t tell you anything about that. But last time, I spent about 3 weeks in the CIP. And the CIP is hell. There’s nothing to add to what’s constantly published in the media about Akrestsina. It’s a brutal slaughterhouse. Everything for us was exactly as others describe. A homeless person with lice, 15 people in a 4-person cell, COVID-19, no hygiene at all, waking up at night. Everything was standard.

There’s no point talking about SIZO No. 1 since it no longer exists and those conditions are gone. Но по сравнению с Akrestsina, as everyone says, Valadarka was a resort. After spending a month in Akrestsina… it was okay.

— Was it easy to leave? When you got out, did you immediately realize you had to flee? How much time did you have to think about leaving?

I knew I would leave Belarus from the first day I was detained. I knew that as soon as I was released — whether in 3 days or 15 days — I would be evacuated. I was sure of it.

In fact, at the time of my arrest, I was already ready to leave. We had “wake-up calls” at Korpus all year, people were telling us, and we realized ourselves that we had to get out. But “Korpus” was a kind of anchor. We started selling off property in advance to prepare for the closure and make it smooth. Then we planned to relocate the whole team. I was ready.

When we were released from the courtroom, I knew we would be taken out within a couple of days. I think we had a week to pack. Additionally, the cops lost my passport. They gave my co-defendant’s back at the exit, but told me I didn’t have a document. But it was there. Whether they lost it on purpose or by accident, who knows.

Investigators, cops, Akrestsina, Valadarka all started looking. No passport, and I couldn’t leave.

Before the New Year, I quickly got a clean new passport via the expedited process in 5 days. I was sorry to lose such a cool passport. Full of stickers. I had a US visa, an Indian visa. Beautiful old visas. A collection. But actually, yes, it was lucky, considering it would be impossible to change a passport now.

— How did you leave Belarus? As far as I know, there’s a complicated story involving a FlixBus. Tell us if you can.

— Yes, the story is complicated. We had a basic plan for BYSOL at that time. They were taking people to Russia, and from there, further. There was no war in Russia then. When we got out, troops were stationed somewhere in Voronezh — those “exercises” happening two months before the war. Back then, you could still evacuate people through there without much trouble.

Our scheme was to take a special minibus across the border. Settle in a Russian city. Smolensk, initially. For a few days. Then we were supposed to go to the Ukrainian border. And via some schemes, some people were supposed to take us across. A few kilometers through fields and swamps — into Ukraine. There we were supposed to apply for asylum and, without waiting for it, fly to Georgia, where the second part of the Korpus team was waiting for us.

But everything got delayed significantly. The situation on the Russia-Ukraine border was already unstable. That crossing from Russia to Ukraine was postponed for various reasons. Sometimes it snowed and the path wasn’t cleared. Sometimes more troops arrived. Then our contact on the Ukrainian side, a border guard, was caught and removed from his post. The crossing was constantly delayed. My co-defendant and I spent 40 days in Orel. Imagine where? In Orel? In Orel in daily rental apartments, without any connection. We couldn’t turn on geolocation, contact relatives, or anyone, browse the internet, or show up on social media.

In short, don’t get caught. Use a stack of cash so cards don’t leave a trace. We got a deep taste of the Russian “khthon” (gloom). And just when we were told: guys, rent an apartment for a month, looks like you’ll have to lay low in Russia because there are no options now. The situation is tense. It was early February, and a couple of weeks later, the war started. That was it. We were devastated, depressed. F***. We have to live in Orel for who knows how long. Money was running out. And that’s when another scheme was devised.

I’m not sure I can speak about it in detail. And it’s probably not working anymore. It involved a flight maneuver that worked in our case. Simply put, if you need to flee urgently, BYSOL will find a scheme for you.

— Four years have passed since you emigrated. Do you miss Belarus?

— Personally, I miss the Minsk before 2020, which no longer exists and won’t exist again. Something else will happen — worse, better, time will tell. Но я не рвусь вообще в Minsk and the Belarus that exists now. Firstly, nothing connects me to it. I have practically no friends, acquaintances, or associates left there. A couple of people I keep in touch with once a month, plus my mom, who has a visa and can visit here normally.

— Next and final question for this part of the conversation, also about Belarusian emigrants. News has been appearing in the media that many Belarusians for some reason snap and just return to Belarus, even though they have strong reasons not to — such as imprisonment for a Telegram subscription or an old donation — yet they go anyway, and as a rule, it ends badly. What do you think, is this recklessness or will your birthplace always haunt and beckon you?

— As for the people who snap and go back, I don’t understand it. I condemn it. I condemn it, though I haven’t discussed their motives with them. But I think it’s stupidity.