Journalist and former political prisoner reflects on his Facebook page about a painful problem for new Belarusian emigrants: the impossibility of meeting with elderly parents. Children cannot return, and parents, due to their age, cannot go abroad.
«It is impossible to forgive the bloodthirsty system for separating the closest people without any pangs of conscience. Through groundless imprisonments, through cynical expulsions, through forced emigration. Especially when it comes to those for whom, due to age, every day lived is a gift of fate.
The birthday of our mother, mother-in-law, grandma Lusia, is a significant event for our family. The best occasion to gather everyone together in Zalessie — sons, daughters-in-law, five grandchildren. However, with the caveat that this is how it used to be in better times. My tongue won't allow me to call the current period "better."
On September 5th, Mom celebrates her 85th birthday in complete solitude. Her husband, our father, has not been in this world for 40 years; two sons with their wives are abroad, as are the beloved grandchildren. And there's no possibility to change anything.
The previous milestone birthday was still celebrated amidst anxious expectations in 2021. Now – only via video call, thanks to technological progress for even this small grace.
For this occasion, younger brother Zmitser flies to us on the [Azores] islands; we'll at least congratulate her this way. Because taking Mom even somewhere nearby (from Smarhon to the Lithuanian border – 50 km) is almost a hopeless task. As with most elderly villagers, every trip is comparable to stress. And, unfortunately, sad signs of fading make themselves known – memory lapses, thankfully temporary. Otherwise, she takes care of herself independently, which is a great relief for everyone.
Mom worked as an agronomist her entire life – she started near Kreva, then there were many moves during the collective farm consolidation, eventually settling in Zalessie (yes, the same Mihail Kleafas Ahinski's estate).
Always a leading worker, a two-time order recipient, she was active in the initiative group of candidate Zianon Pazniak during the first presidential campaign in 1994.
And in her youth – an enviable beauty). Father's choice is completely understandable, though he often faced her fiery temper due to her sometimes excessive principledness. When Dad passed away after a painful battle with oncology, Mom had to take on everything – from work duties to a substantial household. Not to mention guiding her sons in the right direction – I had just finished school, and my brother was just starting.
Although she was only a little over 40, we never even heard talk of anyone else moving into our house. So she remained devoted to one man, never betraying her husband and sacrificing everything for her children. She educated us, married us off, and instilled confidence with her own life example. And now, such a sad outcome – not being able to embrace a loved one.
By a cruel irony, a year ago I was sped right past my home when I was thrown into Lithuania with a sack over my head. And before that, in the autumn of 2024, they tormented me by not allowing me to send congratulations from the Shklov torture chamber.
Not only was it in Belarusian, but also in verse — clearly encrypted signals from behind barbed wire. I dare to show a small fragment, as it turned out to be an entire poem — they also decided to include it in the book as an example of prison self-expression). The introduction is from there too…
…Remembering the prominent Belarusian classics who endured tsarist dungeons for their dissent, I was inspired by their example and rhymed a congratulation to the main person in shaping my worldview. I ambiguously named her as her fellow villagers still call her — "Rasti-slawna" (Growing-glorious). Naturally, I had no thought of vying for the laurels of Vincent Dunin-Martinkevich, Yakub Kolas, Karus Kahanets, or Ales Harun. And paradoxically, I would hardly have matured to such an experiment in freedom. But in prison, you can invent anything. Yes, there's a lot of personal stuff in the text, but it's about everyone who is forced to wait for their children from captivity.
However, the birthday had long passed, with no hint of the greeting being received. A couple of weeks later, another attempt, this time with an accompanying note to the censor: do not deprive me of the only opportunity to thank my mother, if you still have any feelings for your own! Surprisingly, something mournfully clicked deep within the hardened bureaucratic springs – and a month after the occasion, the poem finally reached her.
MOM. RASTSI-SLAUNA
I'm long past fifty, an aged uncle,
Responsible as a husband and an experienced father.
But as from distant Palestine flies
On air persistently: «How are you, my son?» —
And it's as if you're not almost sixty, but ten:
«Are you fed? A man should eat a lot!
Don't ignore gloves and a scarf.
Don't get into trouble, spare yourself.»
Well, in those places where traffic led,
They don't walk without hats, and porridge is on schedule.
But only news in anxious letters
Is permeated with sorrow: «Why is everything like this?»
To stack up a mother's grief,
She must have turned gray from youth…
A child of war, with splinters in houses,
Father fell in Prussia in forty-five.
In the devastated town, the mob groaned —
Vorkuta took men to the stage.
Categorical in its power of tonality
Drew a question mark to the word "loyalty"
Later her mother, my grandma Zina,
In her second marriage found routine.
Lusia's stepfather tragically died,
A small son was left an orphan.
And too little was allotted to my dear brother:
At thirty, desperate Lyonka was no more.
Husband Petya ascended to heaven prematurely,
For forty years now, he's been in a portrait for us…
There are other snapshots: Mom and Dad —
Against the backdrop of a student dormitory.
Beautiful, fashionable in style and class,
The breath of thaw ceaseless in time.
An agronomist's diploma was no sinecure.
Responsibility for everything – with one's own skin.
"Unregulated" – that's the schedule in the village
And the result of the work – order recipients!
A nimble goat with Pyotr and Lyudmila
Swallowed impassable roads for dozens of miles.
To where they plow, harvest, or sow,
They had to get there. And they'd make it everywhere!
Seeing the sincere zeal of the young,
Mentorship disappeared even for the old.
And, as a sign that all is well,
A cry from afar: «Good day, Rastislavna!»
Finally, it came to cries from the soul:
«Liuska, clever girl, help!»
She drags the wounded, as from a battlefield:
Some from mistresses, some from a drinking spree…
The terrible eighty-fifth year reset everything:
Illness took our Dad.
I was only seventeen, Dmitry – ten.
A black hole in the family universe.
…My brother and I, between us – over a hundred years old,
But Mom's love is still the same.
Feelings from the heart have no age.
How I long to feel them in an embrace again!
Loving son Ihar, September 5, 2024. Shklov, PKT (Prison-Type Cell)
Former Radio Svaboda journalist Ihar Karney was detained in the summer of 2023 and sentenced to three years in prison. On June 21, 2025, he was released among 14 political prisoners and taken to Vilnius. He now lives with his wife and daughter on the Azores islands in Portugal.
A couple of weeks ago, his book "Incommunicado. Torture by Solitude" was released. You can buy the book here.
Belarusian warehouseman with a swastika on his shoulder was treated for alcoholism in Siberia and went to fight for Russia, but was left without payments or work 2121
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