"If the train is hit, who will be the leader of the democratic forces?" Two days with Tsikhanouskaya's delegation in Kyiv — what remained behind the scenes
"Nasha Niva"'s report from Tsikhanouskaya's visit to Ukraine.
Maidan Nezalezhnosti in Kyiv. May 26, 2026. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
In the evening, there were almost no people on the third platform of the station in Przemyśl, Poland. No crowd, no noise, no feeling of a big international event, just a few journalists, Ukrainian railway workers, and a special train to Kyiv, which wasn't even on the schedule. It stood a little aside, as if not wanting to draw attention to itself.
This is how Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya's visit to Ukraine began – without official pomp.
Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya walks towards her train compartment in Przemyśl. To her right are her advisors – Anatol Liabedzka with a huge white-red-white flag in his hands and Dzianis Kuchynski.
Ukrainian Railways provided a separate carriage for the Belarusian delegation. On the doors of each compartment were printed names of the passengers. In the window, a white-red-white flag with the "Pahonia" emblem.
— Oh, "Pahonia"! We must take a picture here, — Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya immediately brightened up, noticing the flag in the train window.
Over these two days, it was interesting to observe how quickly Tsikhanouskaya switched between her two roles.
In everyday life, she often appears very spontaneous. She might laugh at a joke, be delighted by the "Pahonia" in the train window, or tell journalists: "You're embarrassing me." But as soon as the conversation turns to work, an instant switch occurs.
White-red-white flag with "Pahonia" in the train window. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
Ukrainian conductor Marian, a short man about 45, asked to take a photo with Tsikhanouskaya.
— Do you know her?
Marian was even a little surprised:
— Of course, we know her. Everyone in Ukraine knows her.
Later, Marian would keep looking into the compartment the whole way, like a caring relative:
— Do you need anything? Tea, perhaps? Water? Coffee?
Ukrainian conductor Marian got his photo with Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya. Photo: Nasha Niva
Before the train departed, someone joked:
— Well, if the train is hit, who will be the leader of the democratic forces then?
They laughed. But the laugh was too quick.
A few days prior, Russia launched one of its most massive attacks on Kyiv in recent months. The dates of the visit were kept secret until the last moment. Even many within the delegation did not fully understand how the route, security, and what would happen next would be organized.
At night, the train travels through the darkness towards the Ukrainian border. The carriage resembles a Belarusian one. The same narrow corridors, the same dim light, heavy compartment doors that need to be pushed aside with a little effort.
On the small tables were glasses of tea in cup holders, someone had already laid out chargers and laptops, someone else was trying to sleep. Tsikhanouskaya was one of the last to lie down.
And in the morning, when the carriage was just waking up, she was already fully prepared — makeup, hair, a blue suit with a yellow blouse — in the colors of the Ukrainian flag.
Kyiv greets with sun, warmth, and chestnuts that have almost finished blooming. The streets are full of people, some rushing to work, couriers speeding by on bicycles. And at the same time, you see war everywhere. Damaged military equipment in the square, a huge memorial on Maidan Nezalezhnosti, the "Air Raid Alert" app on every phone.
Destruction in Kyiv after Russia's latest massive attack. Photo: Nasha Niva
Destruction in Kyiv after Russia's latest massive attack. Photo: Nasha Niva
Ukrainians, it seems, have learned to live as if war is just another layer of urban reality, like weather or traffic jams.
From the station, the delegation almost immediately went to the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. And as soon as the cars left Kyiv, an air raid siren began.
From time to time, "dragon's teeth" and coils of barbed wire appear along the road – anti-tank barriers installed here after the Russian invasion in 2022. Photo: Nasha Niva
On the way to Chernobyl, we caught up with a funeral cortege. They were carrying a fallen Ukrainian soldier. Flowers were scattered along the road. Three elderly women stood on the roadside, one holding a small Ukrainian flag. They were silent, watching the cars pass.
Our cortege did not overtake the funeral one. Everyone drove at the same speed. There's an unspoken ethics of war in this: even if you're in a great hurry, you must slow down before death. Then our paths diverged.
The closer to the exclusion zone, the more the landscapes resembled post-apocalyptic cinema. Abandoned houses, trees growing right through roofs. Overgrown hospitals and administrative buildings, almost swallowed by the forest. All of it looks as if people simply vanished from these places, and nature quickly began to reclaim its territory.
And suddenly — a sign "Gamma Travel". This company organized tours to the Chernobyl Zone before the full-scale war. Excursions here, by the way, are now gradually returning, although the zone itself remains dangerous due to the war.
At the station itself, they showed the sarcophagus over the fourth reactor, led them around the territory, and talked about the work of the people who still continue to monitor the zone.
At the station, the delegation was met by the Director General of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, Serhiy Tarakanov. He spoke about the plant's operation after the Russian occupation in 2022 and how the war added new risks to a place that already became a symbol of one of the largest man-made disasters in European history. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
The strongest impression at the ChNPP was viewing what is hidden beneath the colossal metal arch of the New Safe Confinement. Beneath the multi-billion European structure still stand the remains of the old Soviet "sarcophagus," built in a frantic rush after the 1986 explosion. Photo: Nasha Niva
Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya's advisor Dzianis Kuchynski and writer Sasha Filipenka. Photo: Nasha Niva
In Pripyat, local resident Natallia gives Sviatlana a tour, showing her photos from her youth.
Pripyat resident Natallia with Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya. Photo: Nasha Niva
Here was the school. Here they danced. Now, only empty windows, trees, and wind.
In Pripyat. NATO weapon casings are scattered on the ground. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
At one point, writer Sasha Filipenka, who was also in the delegation, brought and showed a spent cartridge.
— Look what I found. I'll make it into a talisman.
Sasha Filipenka shows the found shell casing. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
Tsikhanouskaya's bodyguard Aliaksandr, a large man with very calm eyes, immediately explained:
— These are standard casings for Western NATO weapons. Ukrainians used them to drive out the Russians from here.
In 2022, Russian troops occupied the ChNPP, and Ukrainian forces subsequently drove them out of this territory. Therefore, in Pripyat, underfoot, there are now traces of the new war.
Casings in Pripyat. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
In Kyiv, war constantly permeates everyday life. On Mykhailivska Square — a wall of memory with photos of those killed in the war. Hundreds of portraits. Names. Unit flags. People approach, lay flowers, stand in silence.
Broken Russian military equipment stands there — warped tanks, burnt APCs, metal that was supposed to take Kyiv "in three days" not long ago.
At this spot, Sviatlana and her delegation were met by the Minister of Foreign Affairs of Ukraine, Andriy Sybiha.
— This is like the ruined myth of the omnipotence of the Russian army, — said Sybiha, giving Tsikhanouskaya an impromptu tour.
Minister of Foreign Affairs of Ukraine Andriy Sybiha with Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya on Mykhailivska Square in Kyiv, May 25, 2026. Photo: Nasha Niva
Wall of Memory. Photo: Nasha Niva
After laying flowers at the wall of memory, we went into the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, where there was an exhibition of Ukrainian drones.
In the hall stood drones of various sizes: from almost small FPVs to large strike vehicles.
Nearby — Ukrainian soldier's boots under glass and an inscription: "Democracy stands because Ukrainian infantry stands."
This, perhaps, is the most accurate formulation of what Ukraine lives by today.
During a closed meeting at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, news arrived: Russia threatened to make shelling of Kyiv systematic and advised foreigners to leave the city.
This time, no one was joking anymore. Afterwards, journalists reassured themselves: they said, everything was already fired yesterday, a new massive attack is unlikely today.
A crowd of Ukrainian journalists came to the press conference with Tsikhanouskaya. There were thirteen TV cameras alone — a dense forest of tripods, microphones, and logos of Ukrainian channels. And this in itself was indicative. A few years ago, it was hard to imagine such attention to the Belarusian topic in Ukraine.
Tsikhanouskaya's prominence was well felt at the meeting with students. About 150 people gathered in a large hall. Students really knew what was happening in Belarus. The questions were very specific and mature: Is there a chance for the Belarusian language — or is Belarus doomed to remain part of the "Russian world"? Has the fire of the 2020 protests died down? Will new protests be possible and will they remain peaceful? How real is the threat of a new offensive from the territory of Belarus?
And when you listen to these questions, you realize: the war has made young Ukrainians much more attentive to what is happening around them.
Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya answered in Belarusian and English. And when she spoke about 2020, for the first time all day, something very lively and emotional appeared in her voice.
— The fire has not died out, — she said. — You just need to seize the moment.
The first day's events ended very late. Kyiv, before the curfew that starts at 23:00, looked unexpectedly cozy. Young people sat on terraces, people rushed to the subway, transport drove along the warm streets. And because of this, the city looked even more alive — almost stubbornly alive.
Around midnight, a message suddenly flashed on the phone for the entire delegation from Franak Viachorka:
"If there's an alarm today (there might be Shaheds and ballistic missiles between 2-4 AM) — everyone to SHELTER!!! Install the 'Povitryana Tryvoha' (Air Raid Alert) app."
And this contrast between the quiet warm city and the constant possibility of death is, perhaps, the main feeling of modern Kyiv.
Shaheds did not reach Kyiv that night.
From early morning on the second day, the delegation traveled to places associated with Belarusians who died for Ukraine. Memorials, monuments — the entire route looked like an attempt to gather the Belarusian presence in this country and this war onto a single map.
The delegation also visited the monument to Uladzimir Karatkevich. Near it, Pavel Latushka remarked in a half-joking manner:
— Madam President, maybe you'll make me Ambassador to Ukraine when our time comes?
In the bus with the journalists, jokes were constantly made. It was a kind of separate way of coping.
An ambulance followed the delegation's motorcade.
— That's because there's someone over sixty in the delegation, — Anatol Liabedzka said seriously. — So you're lucky to have me.
Dzianis Kuchynski, Tsikhanouskaya's advisor, at one point delivered what seemed to be the main joke of the entire trip:
— Do you know the difference between protocol and the Taliban? You can negotiate with the Taliban.
— Dzianis is the protocol. And I'm the Taliban, — Liabedzka caught the joke.
The meeting with Volodymyr Zelenskyy was closed. Almost nothing was reported about it beforehand, and even within the delegation, there was tension until the last moment regarding security and logistics. In Kyiv, such visits are generally taken very seriously: routes change, details are not disclosed, everything happens quickly and almost without pauses.
Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya and Volodymyr Zelenskyy. The President of Ukraine warmly welcomed the leader of the democratic forces of Belarus. After the meeting, Zelenskyy's advisor held a folder with documents on Belarusian issues. Photo: Tsikhanouskaya's Office press service
But this meeting in itself already looked like a symbolic boundary. A few years ago, it was hard to imagine footage of the President of Ukraine hosting a Belarusian delegation in Kyiv.
On the steps leading to the site where the summit took place, on the sidelines of which Tsikhanouskaya and Zelenskyy met, prosthetics manufactured for Ukrainian servicemen were displayed. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
During the visit, the parties traditionally exchanged diplomatic gifts. Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya presented Volodymyr Zelenskyy and his wife Olena gifts related to Belarusian and Ukrainian tradition. The Ukrainian side, in turn, prepared two special gifts for the Belarusian delegation.
The first was ceremonial, but very symbolic. Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya received a brooch in the shape of a bird. A bird is one of the most recognizable and touching symbols of Ukrainian culture. It is often associated with freedom, home, return, and life despite war.
Along with the brooch, the Ukrainian side handed Tsikhanouskaya copies of unique archival documents related to the Belarusian People's Republic, which are stored in Ukrainian archives.
For the Belarusian democratic community, this is truly a valuable gift. A significant part of the BNR archives was lost, scattered across different countries, or simply inaccessible in Belarus itself. Therefore, any new documents related to the history of Belarusian statehood have particular importance.
A separate part of the second day was a meeting and awarding of Belarusian volunteers.
Many of them hid their faces under balaclavas and glasses. Some posed only sideways. Some asked not to reveal their call sign. Even during group photos, this constant tension of a person living between two threats — war with Russia and the Belarusian regime, which could reach their relatives at home — was palpable.
The day ended with the opening of the democratic forces' mission in Kyiv.
The day before, one of the Ukrainian TV channels showed a red-green flag on air as an illustration of Belarus. Tsikhanouskaya, who was barely standing from exhaustion, suddenly livened up and asked journalists not to use Lukashenka's symbols.
— Please, do not use this flag. People are dying under white-red-white flags, — she said.
At one point, a volunteer approached Tsikhanouskaya and asked her to come outside.
— The guys out there want to take a photo. They're not public figures, but they would really like a photo with you.
Sviatlana immediately followed him.
Outside, we met Nastassia "Sever" Mahamet. Among other things, she told a story:
Nastassia "Sever" Mahamet. Kyiv, May 26, 2026. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
— Someone once asked me if I wasn't scared. And I replied: look at my boots. What do you think they're stained with?
Then she paused.
— With the blood of Volat (a fallen Belarusian volunteer. — NN). So it's hard to scare me with anything.
And in those very boots, she stands in Kyiv. The blood hasn't completely washed off. Photo: "Nasha Niva"
The delegation arrived at the station late in the evening. A very warm farewell with the Ukrainian part of the team and security took place on the platform. Someone hugged. Someone joked. Part of the security continued with the delegation, part remained in Kyiv.
— Come again, — they said goodbye, smiling warmly.
In Kyiv, you quickly get used to the idea that security is not something abstract. It has concrete faces. In our case — the faces of the security people. Tall, strong men who were always somewhere nearby. They knew where the nearest shelter was, what was happening in the air, what risks were on the route. And that's why, when an air raid alarm began in the city, there was no panic. There were people nearby who looked as if they had already thought several steps ahead. It's interesting that in between meetings, these same people easily transitioned to jokes. Sasha Filipenka even talked with one of them about life, war, and love, and as he later said, he gathered material for two books during the trip.
At night, the train traveled back to Poland. Most of the delegation gathered in one carriage — discussing the trip, recalling certain moments, joking.
Everyone, except Tsikhanouskaya.
She remained in her compartment. She changed clothes, pinned up her hair, and finally seemed to allow herself to disappear from her public role.
And around five in the morning, already at the Ukrainian-Polish border, the head of Ukrainian security knocked on each compartment to personally say goodbye to everyone with a smile.
Even three years ago, such a visit would have been almost impossible. In 2022, Ukrainians looked at Belarus through the smoke of Russian tanks that were advancing on Kyiv from the north. In the first months of the full-scale invasion, many in Ukraine did not want and could not separate Belarusians from Lukashenka. They can be understood. For the people in Bucha or Irpin, there were no subtle political nuances — there was a territory from which death came.
Now the situation is different. Over these years, Ukraine has seen Belarusian volunteers who died for Bakhmut and Lysychansk. They have seen Belarusian volunteers, medics. They have seen people who are imprisoned in Belarus for donating to Ukraine, for anti-war posts, for yellow and blue ribbons. And most importantly — war has become a terrible daily reality. Against this background, there is more room for complex nuances and understanding that there is a big difference between Lukashenka and Belarus.