“Do you know who’s watching you here? The KGB.” How a Ukrainian woman from Chernihiv became a political prisoner in Belarus
Source: Grati
Author: Yanka Ren
At least 16 Ukrainian citizens have been persecuted in Belarus for political reasons. This information, as of August 22 of this year, was provided by the Ukrainian Ministry of Foreign Affairs in response to a request from “Grati” and “Euro Radio.” Ukrainian citizens in Belarus are often accused of acting as agents, spying, and attempting acts of sabotage, and are also persecuted for participating in the 2020–2021 protests.
According to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, although the Belarusian side usually grants Ukrainian consuls access to these individuals, it does not itself notify Ukraine of the detention of its citizens. Thus, the exact number of detainees remains unknown.
The Belarusian human rights organization “Viasna,” however, has information on at least 15 such cases. According to human rights activists, seven people were convicted, in particular, under Article “agent activity” 358-1 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus , one—under Articles “espionage” 358 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus and “organizing and preparing actions that grossly violate public order, or active participation in them” under Article 5-342 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus, two people—under “mass riots” under Article 293 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus, two more—under “public insult of the president” (Article 368 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus), one person—for “violence against a police officer” under Article 364 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus, and one more person—under articles concerning “an act of terrorism” under Article 289 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus in conjunction with “insulting the president” under Article 368 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus.
There is also information about at least one Ukrainian citizen who was convicted of “facilitating extremist activity” under Article 361-4 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus. People are being prosecuted under this article for actions such as sending information via Telegram channels about the movement of Russian military equipment within Belarus. Some of the detainees have already been released.
Natalia Yaroshenko, a private entrepreneur from Chernihiv who worked in retail, spent nearly five months in a temporary detention center in Gomel without trial and was later deported to Ukraine. Natalia was detained along with her sister, Lyudmila Goncharenko, who was later sentenced to three years for “espionage” under Article 358-1 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus. She was released as part of a prisoner exchange in June 2024. The Belarusian human rights center “Viasna” recognized both women as political prisoners.
“Grati” and “Euro Radio” are publishing Natalia Yaroshenko’s account of the 147 days she spent in detention in Belarus.
“They said they would let me go home soon, but they never did—why am I here?”
I used to visit Belarus often: we have many relatives there, and our business was connected to Belarus. My sister’s first husband is a Belarusian from Gomel, and we also have a relative living there.
When hostilities began in Ukraine, we traveled through Poland. And on one of those trips, on July 19, 2023, I, my sister Lyudmila, and our sons—ages 13 and 14—were detained.
We had rented an apartment in Brest to spend the night and rest. In the evening, KGB officers knocked on our door and, without explanation, told us to pack our things.
Later, the children told us that when they went to the store, they saw those KGB officers changing the license plate numbers on their car.
They took us to Gomel.
They didn’t explain anything. I didn’t know why I had been detained. No matter how many times I asked afterward—both the head of the temporary detention center (IT) and the officers on duty—they said I’d be released home soon, but no one told me why I was there. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It wasn’t until my first interrogation that they asked me if we had been filming Russian military camps. I said, “No, I didn’t film them.” They showed me a screenshot from a phone. But I didn’t do that.
We didn’t know what had happened to the children for a long time. For two or three months, I asked about them during interrogations, and they lied, saying the children were supposedly staying with your friend, that they were going for walks with her in the park here, “taking a break from the war.”
In reality, acquaintances had taken the children to Ukraine seven days earlier. Meanwhile, they told me that my son would be sent to an orphanage “while we sort things out here.” But I begged them to send him home—after all, he had just finished 9th grade and needed to enroll in school.
Ludyn’s 13-year-old son was also taken in for questioning without an adult present. They came to a friend’s house and took him, saying, “Let’s go, we’ll have some tea, and we’ll treat you to some candy.” They later told me that if the boy had been older, they would have arrested him too, because those photos were on his phone.
“They’re bastards—they’re going to kill our people.”
They showed me a screenshot of a map of our route through the Minsk region, claiming there was a military base in the village we were passing through.
Later, at the temporary detention center (ITC), they showed me a video, and I remembered that moment. My sister and I were driving through the Minsk region after New Year’s, on January 4, when a large convoy of Russians with “Z” letters came toward us. I sat there counting— about 11 or 12 cars had already passed, and I said, “Those bastards are coming to kill our people.”
I told [the investigator] that it was my voice, but neither I nor my sister realized at the time that my nephew was filming.
After I returned home—while Lyuda was still there—my child began to suffer even greater trauma. I didn’t dare ask him about it. He was worried, thinking they’d let his mom go too. Well, how do you tell a child that it’s because of him? For us, that’s a taboo subject.
Our mom’s health took a turn for the worse, too. She stayed behind with Lyuda’s other child, a three-month-old. And for a long time, she didn’t know what had happened to us.
During the interrogations, they told me that the authorities had wanted to arrest us for a long time. They knew we were crossing the border. But at the time, she was pregnant. And a KGB officer told me, “We gave her the opportunity to give birth in Ukraine.”
“If things had been bad for you, you wouldn’t have gone home.”
KGB officers interrogated me frequently at first, then less often. About 6 or 7 times. They told me I’d be taking a polygraph test, and if the results were good, they’d let me go.
Then they kept me on edge all day: from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. The interrogation took place at the KGB, then at the police station—for the polygraph test—and then back at the KGB. But they didn’t tell me the results. It wasn’t until they were taking me home that I asked. I said, “Why didn’t you tell me the results?” “If things had gone badly for you, you wouldn’t have gone home.”
At first, during the interrogations, they told me, “Nothing will happen to you; you’ll be on your way soon—just hang in there, and that’s it.” Then, when they opened a criminal case against Lyuda, they brought me to the investigator. He threatened me so badly—it was just horrible. He said I’d be an accomplice and get 10 years, that this was just a warm-up, that they’d take me in again, and that I should think about how I’d answer for it.
We also talked a little about the war: that the president is such-and-such, that he’s to blame. “Don’t get the wrong idea—we work fairly here, unlike in Ukraine with all its corruption.” And of course, “the Americans are funding the war—you’ll understand everything in time.”
“I’ve lost 18 kilograms during this time.”
The conditions? You’re better off not asking.
When the KGB agents told me I’d have to live in conditions “not as comfortable as I’m used to,” I thought, “Well, okay, I’ll manage.”
But when they brought me there and took off my bra—saying, “This is how you’ll walk around here”—I started to freak out.
At first, they put me with an alcoholic woman—she was from Gomel herself. I stayed with her from Friday through Sunday. She was released, and I was sent to solitary confinement—a windowless cell. There was no nightstand, nothing—just a painted bed made of planks, resting on tall metal tubes, and bars.
I stayed there for six days. They wouldn’t let me read any books. I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Then I started feeling very sick, and I began banging on the door. When the nurse came and saw how I was, she said to take me to the infirmary.
They took me downstairs and checked my blood pressure: 180 over 120. They said my blood pressure was high because of cigarettes, but I don’t smoke.
They gave me some kind of sedative, and I passed out and fell asleep. After that, they woke me up and transferred me [to a regular cell] to share with another girl for a few weeks. It was a small cell; I had to walk sideways to use the bathroom.
Later, when Lyuda was transferred to the pretrial detention center, I was placed with another girl who had been with her. She was also from Ukraine (awaiting deportation because she’d lost her passport), and we spent practically all that time here—four months—living in isolation with her.
There were a lot of bedbugs. The health department, of course, tried to exterminate them, but it didn’t help. We were bitten a lot. At the same time, they would only bring us one loratadine tablet—a medication to relieve allergy symptoms—but what good is just one tablet?
We weren’t allowed to go for walks, and we were only allowed to shower once every 10 days—though sometimes we weren’t allowed to shower for two weeks straight. I lost 18 kilograms during that time. While leading a sedentary lifestyle.
Another time, I took literally three steps and felt a vein the size of a fist swell up. Before that, a guard had accidentally bumped into me during a search. I thought I had a blood clot. I started crying and screaming.
Can you believe it? They only gave me one aspirin that evening. And a day later, KDB agents came to interrogate me. I showed them my leg and said, “Please, help me.”
They took me to the hospital a month later, only after the Human Rights Court hearing. They said I didn’t need emergency surgery—that I’d survive.
I received absolutely no medical care whatsoever. It’s a good thing I had my own money with me when I was detained. Sometimes a nurse would buy basic medications at my request. My sleep was severely disrupted; I practically didn’t sleep at all until I reached—you know—a very depressed state, at which point they finally bought me sleeping pills.
When I got home to Chernihiv, I went to see a psychiatrist, and he asked, “Who could have prescribed such psychotropic drugs to you? This is a very strong medication.”
I was only allowed to shop at the store inside the detention center two or three times. They brought me a slip of paper where I wrote down what I wanted to buy, and whatever was allowed—they bought that for me and passed it through the “feeding slot,” a small window in the cell door through which inmates are given food. Once, they offered me the chance to buy them $100 worth of teapots instead. I agreed—after all, I needed something to eat.
“Yaroshenko, you don’t look like a human being anymore.”
But there were also people in the detention center who helped: they’d give me hints, bring me books, or come by to talk.
In contrast to the interrogations, of course, this was surprising. One of the guards constantly cheered me up, saying, “Yaroshenko, what do you want to eat? I’ll bring it to you from home, because you don’t look like a human being anymore.” He felt so sorry for me—though, to be honest, he only “brought” things in words. But you know, it was so nice to hear that.
Sometimes he’d let me take a shower before the 10-day mark, or change my sheets. He even brought me a razor once! Of course, all of this was within the limits of what was allowed, but when you’re in a situation like that, you know, it’s very valuable and very important.
Once, when the management wasn’t around, the guard on duty took us out into the courtyard for half an hour.
Even though they took the others out.
I gather it was because of me. As they told me at the ITT: “Do you know who you’re under here? Under the KGB. There you have the answers to all your questions.” Even when I begged to be taken to the hospital for my leg, they told me they didn’t have the authority to do so until they received “orders from above.” But they took others.
Even when the Red Cross first arrived and brought humanitarian aid (shampoo, toothpaste, and other items) to foreign citizens, I wasn’t on the lists. And a man simply told me: “I feel sorry for you, I’ll let you have it, but you’re not on the list here.”
“I looked at her, and she was just whispering something with her lips.”
I was brought to Lyudmila’s trial as a witness. I found out in secret from the officer on duty that I needed to prepare for the trial on December 7 [2023].
I waited for that day as if it were a godsend. They picked me up in the morning and took me to court. Before that, they warned me that the hearing would be closed.
In the courtroom, I saw Lyuda behind the glass. She had lost a lot of weight, and it was clear she had high blood pressure. Later, when we were both back home, she told me that she had fainted and an ambulance had been called for her. That’s why she was so red—her blood pressure must have spiked.
You know, I remember her face so clearly. I was looking at her, and she was just whispering something with her lips. I didn’t understand what she was trying to say.
Before that, I’d seen her once, when they had us in a line-up in mid-October or November. I was crying, and I guess I got on their nerves with all those tears. They told me, “If you stop crying, Lyuda will be here soon, and you’ll be able to talk about your family matters.” It turned out that she was allowed to send letters from the detention center, but I didn’t receive any of them until after my release. Luda then told me, in the presence of the guard and the investigator, that the children had left a long time ago, and other things.
The judge asked me who she was to me. I said she was my biological sister. They told me I had the right to refuse to testify. And the woman [possibly a lawyer] who was standing next to Lyuda whispered, just moving her lips: “Refuse.” And I refused.
I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing or the wrong thing. After all, they wanted me to speak.
The judge looked right through me and said the witness could leave.
I wasn’t called back again.
“First there will be Lyuda’s sentencing, and then, they say, we’ll decide”
I was released on December 15 [2023], and the 17th was my birthday.
That very same day, they [the detention center staff] demanded a substantial sum from me for my stay—about $400—since the daily cost of detention at the center is 21 Belarusian rubles (about 260–275 hryvnias). I had practically nothing left by that point. In the end, my friend paid for me.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, they sent me to her place and said that on the 19th [of December] I would receive my sentence, and then, they said, we’d decide what to do.
That’s exactly what happened: the next morning, they came to my friend’s place and took me away. Then they stopped at a gas station, took my phones, checked who I’d been in contact with over those four days, covered the license plate numbers on the car again, put on medical masks, and drove me to the border.
When we arrived, they took my phones again, led me into some kind of van, took my photo, and took my fingerprints. I don’t know what they did with those phones of mine there again. In the end, they reset everything to factory settings. Then the KGB agents left; I went through passport control, and they imposed a five-year entry ban on me for both Belarus and Russia.
I crossed into Ukraine to be with our guys. There, the SBU checked me. And it wasn’t until late in the evening that my husband arrived with the children.
Six months later, Lyudmila was exchanged.
“We thought they’d taken her to Russia”
From the penal colony, Lyudmila asked me through this friend to send her the children’s birth certificates. And when the friend sent these documents to the penal colony, they were returned to her. The letter said that Lyudmila wasn’t there.
For a whole week, we didn’t know where she was. Her friend went around to the temporary detention centers, visited the prison, and contacted the KGB. But no one told her anything. And to be honest, we thought they’d taken my sister to Russia.
Then, that evening, an acquaintance called me and said, “Have you seen the latest news? Lyuda’s already back in Ukraine.” He forwarded me a post from Zelenskyy saying that [she] had been exchanged.
About an hour later, she called me from a different number so I could tell Mom.
In the penal colony, Lyudmila had a “yellow tag” (that’s how they mark prisoners convicted under “political” charges). She was always with the “political” prisoners: they were sent off separately to work, given completely different food, and subject to different rules.
I’m always afraid to even imagine it—it’s terrifying every time to think about how prisoners are treated in Belarus. Our cell was right across from the guard post where the officer on duty sat in the hallway, and we could hear them beating a man. They dragged him out into the hallway and kicked him—it was horrific.
For ordinary prisoners, care packages were left in the cell, but for the “political prisoners,” they were taken away immediately. They were constantly led around in handcuffs.
“A lot of people travel like that”
It’s coming to Chernihiv. Right at the very beginning of the war—meaning the large-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022—a significant part of the Chernihiv region was under Russian occupation for some time, and Chernihiv was surrounded—our house was completely destroyed, down to the foundation; we barely escaped. Our neighborhood, Bobrovytsia, was completely devastated; over 300 houses were [damaged]. And recently, the shelling was heavy again.
At first, I had my doubts about traveling to Belarus. But Lyuda went once, then a second time. And then she invited me along. So we went about four times in total.
Everyone from Chernihiv used to travel to Belarus, just like people from Brest used to go to Poland. And now many Ukrainians travel this way—through Poland and Belarus—to Crimea and the occupied territories. Or they just meet up in Belarus itself. Because there are a lot of relatives there. And we went—once, twice. Some girls from Chernihiv also made trips there. They took things to sell.
We always went through border control. Sometimes KGB agents would call us in for a chat, just like they did with other Ukrainians. They checked our phones, wrote down who we were visiting, and even called the people on the receiving end. But I never could have imagined that something like this [happening to me and my sister] would happen in Belarus. I thought it was such a decent country.
Author: Yanka Ren
At least 16 Ukrainian citizens have been persecuted in Belarus for political reasons. This information, as of August 22 of this year, was provided by the Ukrainian Ministry of Foreign Affairs in response to a request from “Grati” and “Euro Radio.” Ukrainian citizens in Belarus are often accused of acting as agents, spying, and attempting acts of sabotage, and are also persecuted for participating in the 2020–2021 protests.
According to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, although the Belarusian side usually grants Ukrainian consuls access to these individuals, it does not itself notify Ukraine of the detention of its citizens. Thus, the exact number of detainees remains unknown.
The Belarusian human rights organization “Viasna,” however, has information on at least 15 such cases. According to human rights activists, seven people were convicted, in particular, under Article “agent activity” 358-1 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus , one—under Articles “espionage” 358 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus and “organizing and preparing actions that grossly violate public order, or active participation in them” under Article 5-342 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus, two people—under “mass riots” under Article 293 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus, two more—under “public insult of the president” (Article 368 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus), one person—for “violence against a police officer” under Article 364 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus, and one more person—under articles concerning “an act of terrorism” under Article 289 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus in conjunction with “insulting the president” under Article 368 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus.
There is also information about at least one Ukrainian citizen who was convicted of “facilitating extremist activity” under Article 361-4 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus. People are being prosecuted under this article for actions such as sending information via Telegram channels about the movement of Russian military equipment within Belarus. Some of the detainees have already been released.
Natalia Yaroshenko, a private entrepreneur from Chernihiv who worked in retail, spent nearly five months in a temporary detention center in Gomel without trial and was later deported to Ukraine. Natalia was detained along with her sister, Lyudmila Goncharenko, who was later sentenced to three years for “espionage” under Article 358-1 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus. She was released as part of a prisoner exchange in June 2024. The Belarusian human rights center “Viasna” recognized both women as political prisoners.
“Grati” and “Euro Radio” are publishing Natalia Yaroshenko’s account of the 147 days she spent in detention in Belarus.
“They said they would let me go home soon, but they never did—why am I here?”
I used to visit Belarus often: we have many relatives there, and our business was connected to Belarus. My sister’s first husband is a Belarusian from Gomel, and we also have a relative living there.
When hostilities began in Ukraine, we traveled through Poland. And on one of those trips, on July 19, 2023, I, my sister Lyudmila, and our sons—ages 13 and 14—were detained.
We had rented an apartment in Brest to spend the night and rest. In the evening, KGB officers knocked on our door and, without explanation, told us to pack our things.
Later, the children told us that when they went to the store, they saw those KGB officers changing the license plate numbers on their car.
They took us to Gomel.
They didn’t explain anything. I didn’t know why I had been detained. No matter how many times I asked afterward—both the head of the temporary detention center (IT) and the officers on duty—they said I’d be released home soon, but no one told me why I was there. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It wasn’t until my first interrogation that they asked me if we had been filming Russian military camps. I said, “No, I didn’t film them.” They showed me a screenshot from a phone. But I didn’t do that.
We didn’t know what had happened to the children for a long time. For two or three months, I asked about them during interrogations, and they lied, saying the children were supposedly staying with your friend, that they were going for walks with her in the park here, “taking a break from the war.”
In reality, acquaintances had taken the children to Ukraine seven days earlier. Meanwhile, they told me that my son would be sent to an orphanage “while we sort things out here.” But I begged them to send him home—after all, he had just finished 9th grade and needed to enroll in school.
Ludyn’s 13-year-old son was also taken in for questioning without an adult present. They came to a friend’s house and took him, saying, “Let’s go, we’ll have some tea, and we’ll treat you to some candy.” They later told me that if the boy had been older, they would have arrested him too, because those photos were on his phone.
“They’re bastards—they’re going to kill our people.”
They showed me a screenshot of a map of our route through the Minsk region, claiming there was a military base in the village we were passing through.
Later, at the temporary detention center (ITC), they showed me a video, and I remembered that moment. My sister and I were driving through the Minsk region after New Year’s, on January 4, when a large convoy of Russians with “Z” letters came toward us. I sat there counting— about 11 or 12 cars had already passed, and I said, “Those bastards are coming to kill our people.”
I told [the investigator] that it was my voice, but neither I nor my sister realized at the time that my nephew was filming.
After I returned home—while Lyuda was still there—my child began to suffer even greater trauma. I didn’t dare ask him about it. He was worried, thinking they’d let his mom go too. Well, how do you tell a child that it’s because of him? For us, that’s a taboo subject.
Our mom’s health took a turn for the worse, too. She stayed behind with Lyuda’s other child, a three-month-old. And for a long time, she didn’t know what had happened to us.
During the interrogations, they told me that the authorities had wanted to arrest us for a long time. They knew we were crossing the border. But at the time, she was pregnant. And a KGB officer told me, “We gave her the opportunity to give birth in Ukraine.”
“If things had been bad for you, you wouldn’t have gone home.”
KGB officers interrogated me frequently at first, then less often. About 6 or 7 times. They told me I’d be taking a polygraph test, and if the results were good, they’d let me go.
Then they kept me on edge all day: from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. The interrogation took place at the KGB, then at the police station—for the polygraph test—and then back at the KGB. But they didn’t tell me the results. It wasn’t until they were taking me home that I asked. I said, “Why didn’t you tell me the results?” “If things had gone badly for you, you wouldn’t have gone home.”
At first, during the interrogations, they told me, “Nothing will happen to you; you’ll be on your way soon—just hang in there, and that’s it.” Then, when they opened a criminal case against Lyuda, they brought me to the investigator. He threatened me so badly—it was just horrible. He said I’d be an accomplice and get 10 years, that this was just a warm-up, that they’d take me in again, and that I should think about how I’d answer for it.
We also talked a little about the war: that the president is such-and-such, that he’s to blame. “Don’t get the wrong idea—we work fairly here, unlike in Ukraine with all its corruption.” And of course, “the Americans are funding the war—you’ll understand everything in time.”
“I’ve lost 18 kilograms during this time.”
The conditions? You’re better off not asking.
When the KGB agents told me I’d have to live in conditions “not as comfortable as I’m used to,” I thought, “Well, okay, I’ll manage.”
But when they brought me there and took off my bra—saying, “This is how you’ll walk around here”—I started to freak out.
At first, they put me with an alcoholic woman—she was from Gomel herself. I stayed with her from Friday through Sunday. She was released, and I was sent to solitary confinement—a windowless cell. There was no nightstand, nothing—just a painted bed made of planks, resting on tall metal tubes, and bars.
I stayed there for six days. They wouldn’t let me read any books. I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Then I started feeling very sick, and I began banging on the door. When the nurse came and saw how I was, she said to take me to the infirmary.
They took me downstairs and checked my blood pressure: 180 over 120. They said my blood pressure was high because of cigarettes, but I don’t smoke.
They gave me some kind of sedative, and I passed out and fell asleep. After that, they woke me up and transferred me [to a regular cell] to share with another girl for a few weeks. It was a small cell; I had to walk sideways to use the bathroom.
Later, when Lyuda was transferred to the pretrial detention center, I was placed with another girl who had been with her. She was also from Ukraine (awaiting deportation because she’d lost her passport), and we spent practically all that time here—four months—living in isolation with her.
There were a lot of bedbugs. The health department, of course, tried to exterminate them, but it didn’t help. We were bitten a lot. At the same time, they would only bring us one loratadine tablet—a medication to relieve allergy symptoms—but what good is just one tablet?
We weren’t allowed to go for walks, and we were only allowed to shower once every 10 days—though sometimes we weren’t allowed to shower for two weeks straight. I lost 18 kilograms during that time. While leading a sedentary lifestyle.
Another time, I took literally three steps and felt a vein the size of a fist swell up. Before that, a guard had accidentally bumped into me during a search. I thought I had a blood clot. I started crying and screaming.
Can you believe it? They only gave me one aspirin that evening. And a day later, KDB agents came to interrogate me. I showed them my leg and said, “Please, help me.”
They took me to the hospital a month later, only after the Human Rights Court hearing. They said I didn’t need emergency surgery—that I’d survive.
I received absolutely no medical care whatsoever. It’s a good thing I had my own money with me when I was detained. Sometimes a nurse would buy basic medications at my request. My sleep was severely disrupted; I practically didn’t sleep at all until I reached—you know—a very depressed state, at which point they finally bought me sleeping pills.
When I got home to Chernihiv, I went to see a psychiatrist, and he asked, “Who could have prescribed such psychotropic drugs to you? This is a very strong medication.”
I was only allowed to shop at the store inside the detention center two or three times. They brought me a slip of paper where I wrote down what I wanted to buy, and whatever was allowed—they bought that for me and passed it through the “feeding slot,” a small window in the cell door through which inmates are given food. Once, they offered me the chance to buy them $100 worth of teapots instead. I agreed—after all, I needed something to eat.
“Yaroshenko, you don’t look like a human being anymore.”
But there were also people in the detention center who helped: they’d give me hints, bring me books, or come by to talk.
In contrast to the interrogations, of course, this was surprising. One of the guards constantly cheered me up, saying, “Yaroshenko, what do you want to eat? I’ll bring it to you from home, because you don’t look like a human being anymore.” He felt so sorry for me—though, to be honest, he only “brought” things in words. But you know, it was so nice to hear that.
Sometimes he’d let me take a shower before the 10-day mark, or change my sheets. He even brought me a razor once! Of course, all of this was within the limits of what was allowed, but when you’re in a situation like that, you know, it’s very valuable and very important.
Once, when the management wasn’t around, the guard on duty took us out into the courtyard for half an hour.
Even though they took the others out.
I gather it was because of me. As they told me at the ITT: “Do you know who you’re under here? Under the KGB. There you have the answers to all your questions.” Even when I begged to be taken to the hospital for my leg, they told me they didn’t have the authority to do so until they received “orders from above.” But they took others.
Even when the Red Cross first arrived and brought humanitarian aid (shampoo, toothpaste, and other items) to foreign citizens, I wasn’t on the lists. And a man simply told me: “I feel sorry for you, I’ll let you have it, but you’re not on the list here.”
“I looked at her, and she was just whispering something with her lips.”
I was brought to Lyudmila’s trial as a witness. I found out in secret from the officer on duty that I needed to prepare for the trial on December 7 [2023].
I waited for that day as if it were a godsend. They picked me up in the morning and took me to court. Before that, they warned me that the hearing would be closed.
In the courtroom, I saw Lyuda behind the glass. She had lost a lot of weight, and it was clear she had high blood pressure. Later, when we were both back home, she told me that she had fainted and an ambulance had been called for her. That’s why she was so red—her blood pressure must have spiked.
You know, I remember her face so clearly. I was looking at her, and she was just whispering something with her lips. I didn’t understand what she was trying to say.
Before that, I’d seen her once, when they had us in a line-up in mid-October or November. I was crying, and I guess I got on their nerves with all those tears. They told me, “If you stop crying, Lyuda will be here soon, and you’ll be able to talk about your family matters.” It turned out that she was allowed to send letters from the detention center, but I didn’t receive any of them until after my release. Luda then told me, in the presence of the guard and the investigator, that the children had left a long time ago, and other things.
The judge asked me who she was to me. I said she was my biological sister. They told me I had the right to refuse to testify. And the woman [possibly a lawyer] who was standing next to Lyuda whispered, just moving her lips: “Refuse.” And I refused.
I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing or the wrong thing. After all, they wanted me to speak.
The judge looked right through me and said the witness could leave.
I wasn’t called back again.
“First there will be Lyuda’s sentencing, and then, they say, we’ll decide”
I was released on December 15 [2023], and the 17th was my birthday.
That very same day, they [the detention center staff] demanded a substantial sum from me for my stay—about $400—since the daily cost of detention at the center is 21 Belarusian rubles (about 260–275 hryvnias). I had practically nothing left by that point. In the end, my friend paid for me.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, they sent me to her place and said that on the 19th [of December] I would receive my sentence, and then, they said, we’d decide what to do.
That’s exactly what happened: the next morning, they came to my friend’s place and took me away. Then they stopped at a gas station, took my phones, checked who I’d been in contact with over those four days, covered the license plate numbers on the car again, put on medical masks, and drove me to the border.
When we arrived, they took my phones again, led me into some kind of van, took my photo, and took my fingerprints. I don’t know what they did with those phones of mine there again. In the end, they reset everything to factory settings. Then the KGB agents left; I went through passport control, and they imposed a five-year entry ban on me for both Belarus and Russia.
I crossed into Ukraine to be with our guys. There, the SBU checked me. And it wasn’t until late in the evening that my husband arrived with the children.
Six months later, Lyudmila was exchanged.
“We thought they’d taken her to Russia”
From the penal colony, Lyudmila asked me through this friend to send her the children’s birth certificates. And when the friend sent these documents to the penal colony, they were returned to her. The letter said that Lyudmila wasn’t there.
For a whole week, we didn’t know where she was. Her friend went around to the temporary detention centers, visited the prison, and contacted the KGB. But no one told her anything. And to be honest, we thought they’d taken my sister to Russia.
Then, that evening, an acquaintance called me and said, “Have you seen the latest news? Lyuda’s already back in Ukraine.” He forwarded me a post from Zelenskyy saying that [she] had been exchanged.
About an hour later, she called me from a different number so I could tell Mom.
In the penal colony, Lyudmila had a “yellow tag” (that’s how they mark prisoners convicted under “political” charges). She was always with the “political” prisoners: they were sent off separately to work, given completely different food, and subject to different rules.
I’m always afraid to even imagine it—it’s terrifying every time to think about how prisoners are treated in Belarus. Our cell was right across from the guard post where the officer on duty sat in the hallway, and we could hear them beating a man. They dragged him out into the hallway and kicked him—it was horrific.
For ordinary prisoners, care packages were left in the cell, but for the “political prisoners,” they were taken away immediately. They were constantly led around in handcuffs.
“A lot of people travel like that”
It’s coming to Chernihiv. Right at the very beginning of the war—meaning the large-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022—a significant part of the Chernihiv region was under Russian occupation for some time, and Chernihiv was surrounded—our house was completely destroyed, down to the foundation; we barely escaped. Our neighborhood, Bobrovytsia, was completely devastated; over 300 houses were [damaged]. And recently, the shelling was heavy again.
At first, I had my doubts about traveling to Belarus. But Lyuda went once, then a second time. And then she invited me along. So we went about four times in total.
Everyone from Chernihiv used to travel to Belarus, just like people from Brest used to go to Poland. And now many Ukrainians travel this way—through Poland and Belarus—to Crimea and the occupied territories. Or they just meet up in Belarus itself. Because there are a lot of relatives there. And we went—once, twice. Some girls from Chernihiv also made trips there. They took things to sell.
We always went through border control. Sometimes KGB agents would call us in for a chat, just like they did with other Ukrainians. They checked our phones, wrote down who we were visiting, and even called the people on the receiving end. But I never could have imagined that something like this [happening to me and my sister] would happen in Belarus. I thought it was such a decent country.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.