"Lukashenka called us deserters." The story of a Belarusian woman who fled a Belarusian collective farm to the Lithuanian SSR in the 1970s

She moved from a Belarusian village to the Lithuanian SSR back in 1972 with her entire family. In a conversation with "Belsat", the Belarusian woman told what was the reason for leaving, how life went in the new place, what the pension in Lithuania is, and what real Belarusian village dish she still cooks, writes "Belsat".

"The bride and groom were carried on shoulders because there was no road, just mud"

The town where Katsiaryna lives borders Latvia, and just 120 kilometers from here begins the Verkhnyadzvinsk district of Belarus. Already in Soviet years, the settlement of Turmantas was important thanks to its railway station — many trains passed through it. In 1995, Turmantas was even granted city status, but four years later it lost it, as its population began to decline rapidly.

There are many Belarusians in the settlement who moved here back in Soviet times. For many of them, Lithuania became home. Katsiaryna moved here with her family from a village eight kilometers from Vidzy, in the Braslav region. The woman says that the reason for the move was hard work on a Belarusian collective farm:

"The village was such that you had to walk eight kilometers to the central farmstead. My husband worked as a driver, transporting flax to Druja. And this was without roads, there weren't any then, through the mud, my husband would come home 'without hands'. And I wasn't working then, I was with a child…

I remember how wages were posted on the board — 1 ruble 83 kopecks. And sometimes it was 60, or 90 kopecks. This was after those 'sticks' (workdays. — ed.). Why there was such a difference — I don't know. We didn't think about the authorities then: they said — you did it. Now you can say that the authorities are to blame, but then… who knows. We lived as we lived."

According to the Belarusian woman's memories, people after the war were happy just that it was over. But life didn't become easy. In the 1960s, Katsiaryna says, there wasn't enough bread in the villages, people cursed Nikita Khrushchev, stood in queues, and shops were crowded.

Павялічыць

A street in the town of Turmantas. Photo: Vilensija / Wikimedia

Katsiaryna recalls how, shortly before they moved, a wedding was held in the village. To bring people, a tracked tractor was used, but it also got stuck in the mud, so the bride and groom were carried on shoulders so they wouldn't get dirty in the mud — she describes the situation with roads in villages in those days.

"So, we had a relative living here in Lithuania, and she suggested: 'Why are you walking knee-deep in mud here, come to Lithuania.' She said a house was for sale here, so we, as young people, just rushed. My grandmother was almost a hundred years old then, my mother was bedridden, disabled, my father was already retired — we took everyone with us."

"Digging a cellar — talaka, making a roof — talaka, firewood — talaka, mowing hay — talaka"

In the new place, Katsiaryna's husband was immediately hired as a driver. By profession, the Belarusian woman was a painter; at that time, the local collective farm was building an office, and when the building was erected, Katsiaryna took up its decoration. Before that, she worked in crop farming. The family lived on a farmstead seven kilometers from Turmantas.

In Belarus, according to her interlocutor, there were almost no opportunities for running one's own farm: only 25 acres of land were allowed, and that was it — development was impossible. After moving to Lithuania, the situation changed: young and full of energy, they immediately set to work and began to run a farm. They kept cows, sheep, and engaged in pig breeding. They worked hard and used every opportunity to earn money — even transporting apples for sale to Leningrad.

"We had such a Belarusian corner here," Katsiaryna says. "Seven families from Belarus came to Bahdanishki. We were friendly, we built things together. In Belarusian, this was called 'talaka': digging a cellar — talaka, making a roof — talaka, firewood — talaka, mowing hay — talaka. Belarusians are very friendly people. We remained that way."

Back to Belarus, according to her, almost no one returned. Only the son of one neighbor married a Belarusian woman and stayed to live there. The rest remained in Lithuania, because, as Katsiaryna says, it was easier here.

Later, when land reclamation began and farmsteads started to be relocated to settlements, the family moved to Turmantas. There they built their own house.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Katsiaryna's husband suggested returning to Belarus. But in 1989, their daughter died, and the Belarusian woman did not want to leave the grave:

"And it's good that we didn't go, because here we are 'occupiers', and there — 'deserters'. [Lukashenka] The lord said: 'Deserters ran away — it was bad, everyone rushed to Europe, and now you're running back.' Well, I didn't want to be a deserter. Although they called us 'occupiers' here. But now everything is normal, no one calls us that anymore. We settled in, we live, and everything is fine, thank God. It's possible to live. Only age is letting us down."

"I listen to Svaboda, 'Nastoyashchee Vremya,' but I also have Belarusian state channels here"

Katsiaryna's pension in Lithuania is 470 euros (about 1570 rubles). She says that this is enough if you live in the countryside — you have your own house, a garden. Katsiaryna has no children left now; this year, the Belarusian woman's son also passed away.

"Therefore, I am now moving to Latvia, Daugavpils. My sister is there, all my relatives. I'm going there because I'm alone here. I don't know how I'll settle in there. It's hard for me in the city. I go — and I get tired. But here in the village, you go out — breathe, go wherever you want. Sticks in hand — and you go for a walk. The city is not for me. I'm a rural resident. Planting a garden — that's a pleasure. You go, dig in the earth, gain energy. And the first tomato or strawberry — that's happiness," she says.

In Belarus, she no longer has close relatives. Perhaps somewhere there are distant nieces or nephews or cousins, but there is no contact with them.

Katsiaryna was last in Belarus in 1988. She didn't go for groceries or petrol, as some residents of border villages did later:

"We had enough of everything here. And when my husband died, there was no car anymore."

Today she follows Belarusian news, but admits: she doesn't always understand whom to trust.

"I listen to Svaboda, 'Nastoyashchee Vremya,' but I also have Belarusian state channels here, there's something completely different there, I compare. But whom to believe — I don't know. I stick to my own opinion. I know there are political prisoners. Many were jailed after 2020. I think some have already been released. Lukashenka protects himself — keeps his enemies away.

But of course, I know what repression is. My mother's brother served in the Polish Home Army, so he couldn't come to Belarus until 1965. He even changed his surname. That's how it was," she reflects.

"Polyŭka and hulbishniki, the latter I still make"

When the conversation turns to a possible war, Katsiaryna replies that she doesn't believe it will start:

"People are not so foolish as to start a war. The memory remains: war is death and blood. My opinion — there will be no war. I think as long as Lukashenka is there — he will get out of it. He is cunning, both for yours and ours. As long as he is there — it won't happen. And later, who knows."

Павялічыць

Railway station in the town of Turmantas. Photo: Vilensija / Wikimedia

When asked under which government she lived better, she answers after a pause:

"Under Brezhnev. Because I was young. We worked, we had everything. There was a lot of money, but nothing to buy. And now… I've lived through so many governments. In Lithuania, they change like a haze: they came — and that's it, you didn't even remember their face."

Despite more than half a century of life in Lithuania, Katsiaryna still considers herself Belarusian. She understands the Belarusian language, reads fluently, and even switches from Russian, which we spoke with her, to Belarusian.

"I feel Belarusian. I've lived here since 1972 — it's crazy, how many years. But still, my heart is there, my Belarusianness has remained in me," she says.

From Belarusian culture, Katsiaryna most vividly remembers village dishes. She recalls gulbishniki and polyŭka:

"Belarusian polyŭka — my father loved that. Coarsely chopped potatoes, water, onion, bread soaked in water, and all of it in there. During Lent, that's what we ate. And gulbishniki, I still make them. These are not draniki (potato pancakes). These are boiled potatoes, mashed, then made into flat cakes, stuffed with carrots, cabbage, or something else, and fried in a dry pan."

Павялічыць

Old Believer church in the town. Photo: Vilensija / Wikimedia

In Turmantas, where the Belarusian woman lives, there are two churches — Catholic and Old Believer. Katsiaryna belongs to the latter. Faith, she says, was helped to be preserved by family and home: her parents were believers, her grandmother too, icons always stood in the house. But the Soviet era left a painful episode in her memory.

"When I was admitted to the Pioneers, I had a cross around my neck. And they forced me to take it off. It was such a tragedy for a child! And most importantly — they didn't give me the cross back. They took it off — and that was it, tied a tie. It was some kind of horror," she recalls.

Later, as a teenager, she doubted: is there a God or not. But with time, Katsiaryna says, she returned to faith again.

Reflecting on the trials that befall Belarusians, she does not give loud answers. She simply says:

"Whoever pulls the cart — they put more on him; if a horse pulls — they'll put even more on it. So, probably, God puts it on Belarusians," she shares her wisdom.

• 8
• 0
• 0
• 1
• 0
• 2
• 0
• 2