Illusion of peace

What life in Belarus feels like and a new poem.

Photo by Henry C.

This week, a famous German actor praised Belarus after visiting it to shoot a promotional video. He said that Belarus was clean and safe. He liked the food and the warm welcome he received. He even went as far as saying that he felt as if he was born there. After he was criticized for supporting the dictatorship regime by the Belarusian opposition leader, he retaliated by saying that he didn’t have any political stance and, therefore, could not be accused of supporting anything. 

Unlike this actor, I was actually born in Belarus and have a very clear stance on spineless grifters like him. After the trip, he returned to his home, but I cannot go back to my home in Belarus. He praised the friendliness of the people who represent the dictatorship, but thousands of Belarusians who had the courage to stand up against the regime receive very different treatment in prison. What’s worse is that the labor of political prisoners has been actively used by a European businessman at the onion farm that he established right next to a prison in Western Belarus. It became known that the workers were forbidden to eat anything besides onions and were kept in the dark, cold basements. That businessman is from Germany as well, and it’s hard to ignore the parallels between his farm and the concentration labor camps that were run in Belarus not so long ago.

I know that these people are not the first and definitely not the last who choose to sell their conscience and legitimize the dictatorship regime by doing business in Belarus or visiting it as tourists. However, these stories stung me very deeply. Maybe because my family became refugees due to the fear of prosecution for their political views, while a rich, privileged guy says he doesn't have any. Maybe because my 85 y.o. Grandma, who lives in Belarus, whispers during our phone conversations, afraid of being eavesdropped. Maybe because this Christmas, I’ll be celebrating with my family in a tiny rental apartment in a foreign country far away from our home. My heart is split between Belarus, Ukraine, and the U.S., and these days, the combined pain feels unbearable.

A poem I wrote this week:

***

People visit Belarus 
and praise how it’s quiet, clean, and neat,
but they don’t understand 
that quiet means silence 
and clean means no life 
is allowed to mess around.

The same silence that fills a house 
when an abuser shouts 
and the family tiptoes,
afraid of being seen
or to make a sound.

The same neatness
when a wife cleans and cooks 
from dawn to dusk
afraid of being beaten to death
for a late dinner
or a speck of dust.

People visit Belarus as guests 
who come to the abuser’s house 
and compliment on how everyone is nice and well-behaved,
and tell the abuser what a good father he is
when the kids are covered in bruises and look scared.

Admiring life in a dictatorship
is like coming to the cemetery
and praising peace,
ignoring, 
that everyone is dead.

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A few days ago, I shared an apple cake recipe from my mom. She used to bake it all the time while we lived in Belarus. I baked it recently because I was missing home. Often, it’s the little things that we hold on to. This week, it was an apple cake.

Warmly,

Darya

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Email: daryazorka@substack.com

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