Tsikhan Charnyakevich: Reality has become so absurd that I want to record it before it disappears

Tsikhan Charnyakevich was born on January 22, 1986, in Pinsk. He graduated from the Faculty of Belarusian Philology and Culture at BSPU with a specialization in "Belarusian Language and Literature. Journalism" (2008), and completed his master's and postgraduate studies there. In 2003-2005, he studied at the Belarusian Collegium, specializing in "Philosophy. Literature."

He worked for the weekly "Literature and Art," the magazine "Maladosts" (Youth), Radio Svaboda (Radio Liberty), and was the press secretary for the Union of Belarusian Writers.

Since 2023, he has been living and working in Lithuania. He works as the editor-in-chief of bellit.info and as the press secretary for the International Union of Belarusian Writers.

"Almost the entire creative class has left — not just literature"

— Tsikhan, you recently returned from the "Straltsouski Fest" (the "Vershy na asfaltsye" festival in memory of Mikhas Straltsou), which took place in Warsaw. According to participants, the festival turned out to be one of the best. What made it special?

— Firstly, the festival was notable for its geography: for four years we held it in Lithuania, and this year we decided to move to Warsaw for the first time. It turned out well: many readers live in Poland, and there are many more writers there, making it easier to invite them to the festival. People said that readers from Switzerland and Holland came to the festival. I don't know why it's problematic for them to come to Lithuania, but in terms of audience, we definitely gained. And the program was very compact. As the coordinator of "Vershy na asfaltsye," I received a lot of positive feedback.

— It seems that along with the emigration of writers, all major literary events have also ended up in exile (publishers, festivals, awards). What remains of Belarusian literature in Belarus itself?

— Everything is rather sad, actually: almost no publishing houses are left, and organizing festivals and meetings is very difficult, almost impossible. Sometimes someone manages to arrange a lecture or a meeting, but these are one-off events. Of course, there are writers in Belarus, including excellent ones, but it's not easy for them to publish and perform.

— So, Belarusian literature has truly found itself in emigration?

— Not just literature — almost the entire creative class has left. I don't know if anyone can measure the emigrants in percentages, but, in my opinion, a good two-thirds of the culture has ended up abroad: artists, musicians, writers, directors, actors…

Павялічыць

— Meanwhile, the Ministry of Information reported that in 2025, more than 18 million copies of books were printed in Belarus. Out of 7,000 titles, 982 were published in Belarusian, with a total circulation of over 18 million copies. Is this a lot or a little?

— For objective reasons, it's hard for me to judge: I haven't seen a detailed breakdown. I suspect that most of the printed literature consists of orders from Russian publishers, executed by Belarusian printers. This is how they fill the remaining book market. It's no secret that most books in Belarusian bookstores are in Russian. It's good if Belarusian books make up one in ten of this mass. And among what is published in Belarusian, a large share of titles consists of school textbooks and various methodological brochures, which are printed in huge circulations because there are many schools.

When it comes to fiction (novels, poetry collections), the picture is completely different. I follow the state-owned publishing houses that remain ("Mastatskaya Litaratura" (Artistic Literature), "Belaruska Navuka" (Belarusian Science)), but they print a meager number of new literary works. If the state published at least 10 new poetry collections and 10 new novels in Belarusian annually, everyone would immediately notice it. Have you heard of them? I haven't.

"No need to divide literature into emigrant and non-emigrant"

— What does Belarusian literature abroad look like? I came across a figure: about two dozen Belarusian publishing houses operate abroad…

— I wouldn't divide literature into emigrant and non-emigrant. All Belarusian literature has simply found itself in new conditions. It's still the same as it was 5-10 years ago, with the same authors; a few new young writers have been added. The publishing houses are also the same as they were ten years ago, and in the last couple of years, entirely new publishing houses have emerged: Gutenberg Publisher, "Myane nyama" (I'm not here), "Khochrat Minsk," "Skaryna." And "Komunikat" has stopped being just a library and actively publishes books; the list could go on.

Many reprints are being released, including classical literature — around 40 titles. The website bellit.info, which I edit, compiles a ranking of the hundred best books every year. And last Christmas, we made a TOP-150 because there was genuinely a lot to talk about beyond the "hundred."

There are serious problems in children's literature and book graphics because they are very expensive to publish — such books require color printing, and the costs are several times higher. But in the main genres: poetry, prose, children's literature, translation, 30-40 books are published annually — there's enough literature, it's impossible to read it all in a year. Overall, it's not bad, a normal process, although by Lithuanian or Polish standards, the numbers are sad: dozens of times more texts are published there. But writers there "wake up in the morning in their own country."

— Have the themes and quality of Belarusian literature changed after emigration?

— It's more of a philosophical question: who assessed the themes of 2019 compared to 2026? If we consider general trends, more essayistic works, autobiographies, and autofiction are being published now—about the experiences people have had recently. For example, three-quarters of the Giedroyc Prize winners wrote essays or autofiction compared to fictional literature. Evidently, the narrative story as a genre is losing some ground. But I wouldn't call this a problem; rather, it's a new trend in our literature: reality has become so absurd that one wants to record it before it disappears.

— It's said that Belarusians in emigration have started reading more Belarusian literature…

— For analysis, one needs precise figures, and nobody will provide them — these are serious, expensive studies that no one conducts. Sociology is quite complex and almost impossible for the Belarusian diaspora under current conditions. The fact that there's more Belarusian language is obvious: more people write in Belarusian, speak their native language, and accordingly, even if they don't buy books, they know about their existence and authors from the news. I think compared to the early 90s, the situation today is completely different. As Siarhei Dubavets wrote, back then you could read everything published in Belarusian, but now it's simply impossible. The same goes for people: if you attended a book presentation, you knew everyone present by face. Now it's unrealistic: new people have appeared, whose reaction to a particular work is difficult to predict.

Of course, everything has changed. But I can't say that everything is "dying out." It's clear that Belarusian culture is still important for people, for identifying themselves with the Belarusian language, history, and culture — to this day, Belarusian books play a vital role in human identity.

— Which 10 Belarusian books would you recommend every Belarusian to read? Do you have a personal ranking?

— Honestly, such questions put me in a bind. Every Belarusian has their own unique reading background. I actually read more in Lithuanian and Polish now because I've immersed myself in historical science, and I try not to join literary prize juries, where I previously spent a lot of time reading Belarusian books. That's why my expertise has "sagged" a bit. We have a very strong translation school: everything translated and published by independent publishers can be confidently bought, even without looking at the authors' names.

For prose and poetry, everything is subjective: it's impossible to guess what someone will like. I would advise starting with 10-30 absolutely random Belarusian books that you haven't read yet, and from there, your own reading preferences for themes, genres, and styles will form, and your sympathies and antipathies will emerge.

— You know and translate from four languages: Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Polish, and English. Did you acquire this knowledge from the Maxim Tank Pedagogical University?

— No, I learned everything myself. I learned Lithuanian already in Lithuania. But a philological background allows one to approach reading in foreign languages with relative ease. With Polish and Ukrainian, it seems, half of Belarusians have no problems at all. With Lithuanian, of course, it's different, as it's a completely different language group, weakly correlating with Belarusian. But it's also an interesting experience: Lithuanian culture was entirely closed off, and now it has opened up to thousands of Belarusians.

Now I translate literature exclusively from Lithuanian, and from Polish and English, perhaps only archival documents for scientific work. Just about a year ago, an anthology of contemporary Lithuanian poetry, "City on a Hill," was published; I translated a significant portion of this book, about 40 percent. Andrei Khadanovich and several other translators worked on the remaining texts.

"Received hundreds of applications for the youth poetry contest from Pinsk alone"

— You graduated from the Faculty of Belarusian Philology and Culture at Maxim Tank Belarusian State Pedagogical University, specializing in "Belarusian Language and Literature. Journalism." Should we assume you decided to pursue journalism while still in school?

— I think in school I was more interested in literature and language, but I also dabbled in journalism during the 2001 campaign wave. In addition, I volunteered for several non-governmental organizations. For example, we held annual Days of Belarusian and Swedish Poetry in Pinsk with photographer Maria Söderberg, poet and translator Dzmitry Plaks. Thanks to the Swedish embassy, we had contact with the city administration, and we could work legally (it was still allowed then). Later, the then-Swedish Ambassador Staffan Ericson joined the project. The Swedes invited their authors, and we, accordingly, invited Belarusian ones. It turned into a large-scale international literary festival in Pinsk; so many people came to us!

Also, during the Days, a youth poetry cup was held: the first prize was a trip to Sweden. Undoubtedly, many wanted to go, so hundreds of applications with poems came in, even from Pinsk alone.

And then I went to study in Minsk. There I continued to write poetry and do translations. Then I started writing criticism and worked for a long time specifically as a critic, meaning I dealt with the history of literature, literary studies, and wrote reviews of new books… For about 10 years, criticism was my main occupation. Everything else took a back seat.

— When did your reorientation from literature to journalism occur? Or, more precisely, the combination of journalism with literature — already during your master's and postgraduate studies, and then at the Belarusian Collegium?

— I made the first newspaper, "Z-pad Party" (From Under the Desk), in 2001, while still in school, when I learned to layout in PageMaker. Then, at university, I laid out various faculty newspapers for five years. But, of course, I wanted to stay in my profession: in philology, in literature. To achieve this goal, there were two possibilities — to go to a literary editorial office or to the Academy of Sciences. The Academy somewhat intimidated me with its academic nature, so after postgraduate studies, I completed my "workdays" of assignment at "Maladosts" (Youth), and then went freelance: first at PEN, and then at the independent Union of Belarusian Writers. I worked on the SBP website until its closure.

And since 2023, the International Union of Belarusian Writers was founded in Lithuania, where I was invited as press secretary, editor-in-chief of the bellit.info project, and coordinator of the Young Writer's School. It turned out that now I mostly administer and organize, rather than write. I'm glad to return to translations, identifying a bit more with literary texts themselves.

By the way, I have now also taken up studying the Belarusian presence in Vilnius.

— What cultural directions are you currently researching?

— The main direction is the interwar culture of Belarus. In postgraduate studies, I wrote a dissertation on BSU (Belarusian State University) in the 1920s, on literary trends, literary theorists, various discussions related to the literary problems of that time. After moving to Lithuania, I began to study Western Belarusian culture of 1921-1939: politicians, translators, journalists, poets, teachers.

Currently, I am mostly engaged in studying the history of the Vilnius Belarusian Gymnasium, compiling a biographical directory of its graduates, as well as a directory of archival documents and periodical publications. I spend a lot of time in archives. The Vilnius Belarusian Gymnasium was the epicenter of Belarusian identity during the interwar period. Through its prism, much can be understood about our emigration situation in 2026.

"In Minsk, I was out of work, but in Lithuania, I was able to realize my potential"

— How did you end up in emigration?

— I arrived in Lithuania in 2023.

In July 2021, the Union of Belarusian Writers was liquidated, as were hundreds of other public organizations and editorial offices. The website was blocked. For some time, I was out of work, and then I left because it was impossible to do anything meaningful. For me personally, this was a great challenge, as I really wanted to do something — something public. And in Minsk, it was practically impossible. And now it has only gotten worse.

— Was professional irrelevance the main reason for your departure?

— Absolutely. Everyone was liquidated, after all. I had seen enough of the state literary editorial offices during my assignment, and I had no illusions about the order of things there. Writing for a desk while working at "Euroopt" was also not something I wanted. I decided that in Lithuania, I would find a better application for my competencies. And that's what's happening.

— Have you settled in a bit in the new country?

— Like everyone else, probably. I have a certain legalization. However, I don't know how long this will continue for Belarusians. So, like everyone else, I'm living on precarious terms.

— So, you started learning Lithuanian after arriving in Lithuania?

— Yes. I studied a little in Minsk while preparing to leave. Apparently, at the end of 2022, I bought a textbook from a second-hand bookstore, started reading, memorizing words. In general, it's probably impossible to fully learn Lithuanian; you can only continue to learn it: translate words, memorize, listen to radio, music, read news — gradually you get used to any foreign language. Then it's worth moving on to fiction, which is, of course, written in a much more complex language. It's absolutely essential to be interested in the news of the country you live in. And to speak its language. This breaks down many barriers, including psychological ones.

— Are Belarusian writers in emigration not united under one roof today?

— It's not necessary to unite everyone under one roof. Let there be many roofs, houses, and streets. There are organizations working to develop the literary movement: this includes the International Union of Belarusian Writers, Belarusian PEN, the "Pradmova" Festival, the Association of Publishers, and other initiatives that organize workshops, seminars, and meetings. Much is done through the individual efforts of specific people. I wouldn't want there to be only one organization for writers — that would be very strange.

"I hold only Pinsk in high regard — and no other city in the world"

— When did you last visit Pinsk?

— A couple of days before my departure, in June 2023. I sat with my parents, said goodbye, and walked along the embankment. Pinsk is a city that constantly draws one back. Now I'm collecting old photographs, looking for documents, books about Pinsk. I know some Pinsk scholars and collectors with whom I maintain good relations. I started to communicate more closely with classmates and old friends from pre-university times after moving. We meet, recall Pinsk — for us, it's city #1. For every resident of Pinsk, it will always be #1.

— What makes Pinsk attractive? What is special about it?

— It's the city where we were born and grew up; all memories from the first fifteen to twenty years we lived there are connected to it. Of course, it's a city with a rich history, but for locals, it's about school, friends, streets, loves, the river, walks around the city, camping trips, journeys through Polesia. My father worked as a gas fitter, so he often took me to the district; we traveled through villages, sometimes fishing or picking mushrooms.

All my grandparents lived in the city, so I was completely attached to Pinsk and didn't leave for a long time. In Pinsk, I remember every street and can easily recall any turn, I remember where everything is located.

When I moved to Minsk in 2003, I often grieved when something was demolished in the city. I visited regularly, and the city was changing: old buildings were torn down, street layouts were altered, something was "restored" beyond recognition. Perhaps not for everyone, but for me, the demolition of the old supports of the pre-war bridge was a great tragedy. Recently, I read about the removal of a stork's nest in the square and the cutting down of old trees near the church. It's impossible to perceive this without pain, but it's good that one can at least read about it from a distance.

By the way, since the early 2000s, we were friends with Vasil Matskevich, a correspondent for "Media-Polesye," who died from coronavirus. Vasil was a kind, sincere, and profound person. This was one of the first blows of 2020 that I took very hard.

Many close people remained in the city, and Pinsk itself is very dear to me. Although someone might say: a small old town and Soviet micro-districts — nothing special. But if you were born there, you would never say such a thing: every building reminds you of something.

Павялічыць

Photo by Nastassia Pankratava from the hero's personal Facebook page

— Do you miss it greatly?

— Absolutely. It's home. If it were safe, I would go tomorrow. In current culture, there are many Minsk residents, so there's a lot of high regard for Minsk, but for me, despite all respect and gratitude, it's a foreign city. I only have such a strong feeling for Pinsk — and no other city in the world.

I also love Vilnius and am grateful for it, but it's still not the same.

I would like to visit Pinsk — as often as possible, as much as possible, to visit my parents, who are already quite old. To come and walk through the places of my childhood. But I doubt I could live there permanently: there's no work. In my specialty, there wasn't much work there even before. But perhaps something will change in the future?

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