"Well, Karney, ready?" On the anniversary of his unexpected release, Radio Svaboda journalist recalled his last day behind bars

Ihar Karney, photo from his Facebook

"Anniversary of the "expulsion" special operation. June debut

As endlessly long as everything drags on behind bars, so swiftly does time fly on this side. A whole year has passed without the disgraceful "professional registration" No. 10, faceless uniforms, insane solitary cells, mocking transfers, snarling dogs, humiliating handcuffs, and sacks. 365 days above the extremist stigma, which by state sanction automatically elevates you to the top of the "criminal pyramid" — there's no one more dangerous than political prisoners in the entire penitentiary system.

A year away from the homeland, with my lonely mother left behind. Without clear legalization at the ends of the earth — Portuguese bureaucracy is too lazy to decide between "yes" or "no." With an annulled passport and stolen originals of prosecutorial charges, puppet sentences, unsatisfied appeals.

Yet, under the care of my beloved wife Inna and our youngest Eva. With a radical change in professional priorities — an unexpected transformation from a journalist to a builder, even for myself. Finally, with a manuscript chronicle, though still without a book cover. It also tells how my "colonial" odyssey abruptly ended mid-term. In the best traditions of the spy genre — with forced expulsion from the ancestral home.

…Friday, June 20, in Mozyr Penal Colony No. 20, a maximum-security prison, promised nothing extraordinary — I was preparing for the night shift at the "medallion mine" (the pointless extraction of copper from wire). But right after the morning check, the duty officer looked into the "cubicle" — saying, the head of the detachment (one of the most adequate officers I met in an inherently inadequate place) was calling. "Well, Karney, ready?… Where? There!" There it is: two months without a punishment cell (ShKIZA) for an extremist is already a gift.

However, usually they drag you to the checkpoint without your belongings, but here the order was to take everything with me. As there was nothing to complain about, they searched my bag for discrepancies with the inventory — counting socks, cigarettes, even matches in a box.

Following an hour-and-a-half search with full undressing (for the surveillance camera) and a friendly conversation (about the absurdity of criminal charges for a profession), the major apologized that, by order of the operative, he had to confiscate my personal notes. In my case — a notebook, tattered over two years, with daily records of what I experienced, a list of books read, numbers of letters to relatives, and addresses of new acquaintances. He promised to return it (he'd owe me). Anyway, a second significant loss of notes from life. The first diary was brazenly confiscated during my stay in the punishment cell (PKT) in Shklov, with a preventive threat to add a red tag to the yellow one — supposedly for "a tendency to escape by writing down relevant thoughts." Madness, I don't even want to discuss it.

Павялічыць

With his wife Inna the day after his release. Photo from Ihar Karney's Facebook

From there — into a gloomy holding cell, right opposite the office where the commission, headed by the colony chief, decides how many days to assign to whom (other sanctions are almost never practiced in "Mozyr prison"). For the next five hours, no one bothered me, though from behind the "armor" I could hear the "strict ones" confirming one by one: fifteen. For some reason, it is believed that additional imprisonment (even if you're already serving a sentence) is extremely beneficial for general rehabilitation.

In the afternoon, when all the oxygen in the suffocating cell was exhaled, they dragged me out to be searched again. Another careerist controller, showing no signs of empathy, indifferently remarked: "you really messed up somewhere." Meaning, either I said something stupid (there's no shortage of eager informers for headquarters) or there was a specific order from above. However, this time too, they returned me to the same holding cell. Only when the working day of the executioners ended did the door finally open. They led me not by the usual route, where prisoners are flattened against the wall waiting for a verdict, but to an inner courtyard, accessible only to staff.

There were already the deputy head for regime work and a special department employee with a package of documents — out of the corner of my eye, I caught my surname on the title. A bearded young man in civilian clothes stood nearby. By how the "deputy head for security," feared by prisoners, fawned over him, it was clear he was a KGB agent.

The lieutenant colonel also inquired if I was "that very" journalist, expressing surprise: "how did it happen that a newspaper was called Radio Svaboda?" Immediately evident — hardened by the police newspaper "Na Strazhe" (in Soviet times, with the clarification, on guard of what — "October").

Two men in balaclavas joined the bearded one: one took my bag, the other wordlessly snapped on handcuffs and put a sack over my head. They loaded me onto the back seat of a car, wishing me to "get comfortable." When asked if the journey was long, someone, in the style of old-school teachers, lazily quipped: "To the forest, where else?" However, for this, there's no need to dispatch such a large team, as there was also a driver. Around the zone, Polessie stretched in all its beauty, with dense thickets and swamps. No traces. True, after a pause, the "good cop" unexpectedly added: "Professional joke." And indeed, such humor makes you laugh.

We turned into another driveway to collect belongings from the warehouse, and the next four hours passed in silence — my "guardians" were engrossed in their phones. Only occasionally did I feel them "talking with their hands" so I wouldn't overhear. Deprived of the ability to see anything, I ran through a myriad of scenarios in my mind, wondering what it all meant. Six months prior, I had traveled a similar route from Mahiliou, so I understood: either they would begin to blackmail me with a new term, pushing for "screen tests," or they would organize a meeting with new negotiators. Unlike the unannounced January visit of State Department employees, this time propagandists had announced the visit of a representative of the Trump administration, John Cole. However, there was no reason to expect more than "deep concern." At least, the first time they quickly returned me to where I had been unexpectedly snatched from.

The "American" greeted me with a familiar "soft" room.

Dermantine-foam walls protect against suicidal impulses and muffle the moans of the particularly uncooperative. I could hear them searching my bag for the third time that day, mercilessly discarding food and, as it later turned out, confiscating all papers, including court verdicts, appeal rejections, etc. Next, a basement cubicle with high steps: an order to take off the state-issued robe and, after a shower, change into clothes from a wardrobe assembled by the guards from my own items. In keeping with the "joking mood," they chose a sweatshirt with a bright yellow Batman emblem for me. My mother hadn't particularly scrutinized the "emoji" and had sent it for warmth to the Mahiliou prison. There, and later in Mozyr, it lay in the warehouse as "unsuitable," but now its star moment unexpectedly arrived. Superheroes — time to exit!

I was the last one brought into the ten-person cell. My new cellmates half-jokingly complained that they were hungry in the absence of a quorum. I knew a few people from previous transfers.

Primarily, the scientist Siarhei Sheleh, with whom I shared a cell in Valadarka, and the anarchist Akihira Haieuski-Hanada, also a "graduate" of Shklov Penal Colony No. 17 (where I spent almost all my six-month "term" in solitary cells/PKT). Among Belarusians, there was also a young guy, Kiryl Balakhonau; the rest had foreign citizenship. Dinner was brought. Recalling stories from veterans, the ration hasn't changed for decades — herring with potatoes in their "jackets" (the side dish perfectly suited the place). Lights out was approaching, they didn't let us fantasize much — silence in the house! But everyone understood: tomorrow would not be a dull day.

On the morning of the 21st, right after breakfast, KGB officers once again checked our appearance and one by one began calling us to the "arena" (the reception room in the "American" prison is round, like a circus). I pointed to my bag and received the usual bonuses — a sack over my head and handcuffs on my hands. Supported by my armpits, I was led outside to a vehicle, by all indications — a minibus. The first surprise happened when another arrested person ignored the silence rule: "Hey, where are my documents? Where is Tsikhanouski's passport? Or did you just decide to throw it out?" What a surprise: there were definitely more than a cell-sized dozen on board! However, the "first and last warning" was issued, and it's best not to irritate those who are above the law.

Павялічыць

With Radio Svaboda director Steven Kapus on the day of his release, photo from Ihar Karney's Facebook

When the transport stopped ignoring traffic lights, the version of a round table with the participation of a special envoy in Minsk fell away by itself. It began to sink in that we were being taken to the border — but which one: Lithuania, Latvia, Poland? There were a total of five representatives of the latter two countries in the cell. About an hour and a half later, we turned off the highway.

We stopped at a interchange platform; the command was for transfer. Still handcuffed and bagged, we were moved into a more compact minivan, as it was no longer possible to stand at full height. For the first time, a roll call was conducted. When my turn came, someone to the right elbowed me: "Are you that Svaboda journalist? My son is Karney! Guys, how happy I am!" My neighbor turned out to be Siarhei Tsikhanouski. Besides him, a Japanese citizen and two women — Natallia Dulina and Halina Krasnianskaya — had joined us. We were still not allowed to talk; a shouting KGB officer in a balaclava threatened "sanctions" until the very end.

And then it was like in a movie about dissident exchanges during the Cold War. From somewhere in the fields emerged a group of diplomats led by Chris Smith. They reassured us that our suffering was in the past and that from now on all 14 passengers were under the care of American authorities. Cookies, candies, water appeared in the bus cabin — simple signs of civilian life, without barbed wire and idiotic rules.

With an impressive escort, we sped through the open barrier on the Belarusian side, not even slowing down for speed bumps — in case the Lukashenka regime suddenly changed its mind about releasing "enemies of the regime." We only exhaled before the Lithuanian cordon, where temporary visas were issued literally on the spot. Finita la drama, it definitely didn't smell like a comedy. And how many more such trips need to be made to return all the hostages of the despotic leader from captivity…

A couple of days before that, in a letter to Inna, I enclosed a greeting card for my younger brother Dzima — he was turning 50 on June 22. Something like, "though it's a shame, you'll celebrate your anniversary without me, we'll make up for it sometime…" My brother's group of friends was carelessly lounging on a rented yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, completely disconnected from the news. And suddenly, there he was on the line — a bald, skinny alien, no exaggeration, from the other side. The spontaneous teleconference had a bombastic effect, you should have seen the tear-stained faces. And a little over a month later, his round date was celebrated after all, we met. Unfortunately, the family is now only in portions; getting together is problematic, everyone is somewhere else. So, may everything finally get better. For everyone who has suffered or remains temporarily in captivity…

***

Radio Svaboda journalist Ihar Karney was arrested on July 17, 2023, and sentenced in December 2023 to three years and 10 months.

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