‘Democracy is not a gift but a prize that has to be won over and over again, and it is worth fighting for’: Askold Melnyczuk In Dialogue with Kateryna Babkina

In order to comprehend the events of recent days, PEN Ukraine has launched a series of conversations entitled #DialoguesOnWar. On October 4, Ukrainian author Kateryna Babkina held a conversation with the American writer of Ukrainian origin Askold Melnyczuk. This is a transcription of key moments from their conversation.

This conversation is supported by the U.S. Embassy in Ukraine.

By PEN Ukraine with Kateryna Babkina and Askold Melnyczuk

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Photo: Valentyn Chernetskyi/Unsplash

Askold Melnyczuk: Kateryna, what a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much about you. As a person who is speaking about what is happening in Ukraine, I am wondering if you can give us all a bit of an update on the situation.

Kateryna Babkina: Hello, everybody. It is a pleasure to be here. Thank you, Askold. There are two levels of life in Ukraine now. On the first one, people are trying to keep life going. If you briefly look at their Instagram profiles, you might forget for a moment that the war is still going on, even though these people are receiving awful news every day. On the other level, every day Ukrainians are dying, and every day Russian atrocities on the liberated territories are being discovered. It heavily influences both people who are in Ukraine, and Ukrainians who are abroad, like me. 

I have a small child. In March I fled to Poland, and then temporarily moved to London. I did it because I cannot guarantee my daughter’s safety. Given what has happened in Bucha and Irpin, moving to the west of Ukraine or abroad was probably the best solution for Ukrainian mothers.

What is happening in Ukraine right now is so unacceptable, so impossible. When I talk to people from abroad, not only do I experience Ukraine fatigue from their side, but I also see that it is difficult for them to accept the fact that the atrocities really are happening. We have to keep talking about that. Nobody likes a messenger who brings bad news, but these events are important to understand.

Askold Melnyczuk: It is essential indeed. I have a friend, an American literary critic, who speaks about the myth of the blue sky. I am just outside Boston, although today is a cloudy day, very often it is beautiful and sunny here, and things are so peaceful on the streets. The immediate reality around us is so unlike what people in Ukraine are experiencing that it becomes a kind of cognitive dissonance to try and accept it.

Seven months in, I still wake up and find it hard to believe that the war really is happening. It is the irrationality of the situation that makes it so very difficult to accept it. Therefore, it is essential to create platforms enabling people who are now aware of Ukraine to understand the radical difference in daily experience between here and there.

I think that people are naturally empathetic. If they are able to hear what is happening, they will respond. And I think that a great number of them are responding in the United States. I do not know what it is that you are hearing in London. I spoke to various Ukrainian writers who have said that the conversation is different in Europe and the United States. 

Kateryna Babkina: It depends on the people to whom you are talking. Generally, I meet people who are empathetic, very supportive, and very pro-Ukrainian. But it is only true of those who are rather educated in history and politics, and aware of what Russia has done to Georgia, Chechnya, and other countries.

However, I am starting to hear more and more often the narrative shared on Twitter recently by Elon Musk. “We just have to find a way to end the war. Ukraine should remain neutral, Russia should keep the occupied Crimea.” Are we expected to give away the homes of those born in Crimea and the east of Ukraine just so that people in Europe do not pay expensive energy bills?

This will not stop Russia. Moscow has been committing these crimes for years in many different countries. It will carry on if it is not stopped.

Askold Melnyczuk: I think of a line by Bertolt Brecht who wrote: “He who fights, can lose. He who does not fight has already lost.”

It is a fact that Ukrainians have stood up for themselves. They knew enough to stand up to a bully because they have experienced bullying before. Ukrainians prioritised freedom over slavery, and liberty over serfdom. They have stood up for democracy worldwide and have become emblems and champions of what it means.

Ukraine has become an inspiration for many of us. I work with a political group here in the US called Writers for Democratic Action. We have some 3000 members nationwide and many across Europe as well, and it is our goal to preserve democracy here in the US, which itself is under siege. One of the interesting elements of the conversation I discovered here in the US is that a very specific segment of – I hate to generalise but I just have to say it – the Republican Party has been quietly supporting Putin. Perhaps, not even quietly anymore, but rather increasingly loudly and proudly encouraging Ukraine to give up. 

We have come to take for granted the idea that you can criticise the government and institutions here in the US. This is a privilege not enjoyed in Russia but experienced in Ukraine. It is precisely for that freedom and that right that people are fighting. Democracy is not a gift but a prize that has to be won over and over again, and it is worth fighting for.

Kateryna Babkina: What Ukraine is fighting for now is not only those high values and ideas.

Every day here in London I take my 2-year-old to the playground. She has a friend named Evie. Evie is a surrogate daughter who has two dads, who can live their lives freely and be a happy couple. This is impossible in Russia. Russians will never be able to enjoy just being themselves.

Ukraine is a buffer separating the West from this world of violence where people are leading shitty lives and are ready to sacrifice themselves and suffer for abstract high ideals. Ideas of democracy and any kind of freedom are irrelevant to them.

Askold Melnyczuk: The Russian state has become not only an ideology but a religious faith.

We have talked about how Ukraine is being reconsidered by the world. Twenty years ago I gave a speech at the Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. At that point, Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated had just come out. There had also been quite a wonderful novel by Claire Messud that had Ukraine as a character.

Back then, Ukraine was culturally considered a terra incognita. I know it from my own experience. In grad school, I was often translating poems from Ukrainian. Some students said to me that for them Ukrainian language sounded just like Russian. Then, however, I remember talking to Joseph Brodsky in Ukrainian. He was speaking Russian, and neither of us could understand each other. He said: “Askold, this is America, let’s just speak English.” But he certainly knew that there were distinctions.

I wonder what you think about how Ukraine is beginning to emerge culturally.

Kateryna Babkina: I have to confess that my own perception of Ukraine has changed rapidly since the beginning of the full-scale invasion. Mistakenly, I used to think that we had a weak army, that we were rather poor as a country, and that people have become rather passive as a result of the Soviet past where nothing depended on the ordinary people. This perception has certainly changed.

People are ready to support the state with their own hands and money if it needs help. That is probably the first example in history when people are funding the army with their private funds. Each of us is our state. All of us are Ukraine. 

The amount of money we are raising and donating makes me realise that we are not really poor as a country. We are earning money not only to maintain our living but also to support our army.

Everyone is contributing to our victory in their own way.

Now that more and more people are discovering Ukrainians in person, they realise that many of us are highly qualified and educated. They are finding out more cool things about our country every day, and it does not surprise them anymore. The world is discovering high-quality Ukrainian cultural products: cinema, art, music, and literature.

However, the price we pay for this recognition is too high. I would much rather prefer to stay less published and [less] recognised.

Askold Melnyczuk: I know exactly what you mean. I have friends, political scientists, who are saying: “Look at all the publicity Ukraine is getting, look at all the press!” I am thinking to myself, I would sooner have anonymity rather than all these deaths and slaughter.

We have to accept the fact that this is what has happened. We have to come to terms with this reality quickly and respond appropriately.

I entirely agree with you that it was an improved education system in Ukraine that created your generation. It was the first generation to be politically free and financially capable of going outside the borders and working all around the world, travelling, learning other languages, and experiencing other cultures directly.

Kateryna Babkina: We also used to be the first fearless generation who was growing up in a rather safe environment. That was before they started shooting at protesters on Maidan in 2014.

Now I hope that my daughter’s generation is going to be entirely fearless. She is two years old now, so she does not really understand what is happening. She enjoyed the nights in the bomb shelters so much because people were bringing their dogs there. She loves dogs, and she has never seen so many dogs, cats, and other pets gathered in one place before. My daughter was the happiest child ever. She did not understand why we left the house, but she was happy to have new friends, a new playground and toys. 

If we succeed to end this war completely, our children are going to be the first generation of completely free and fearless Ukrainians.

Askold Melnyczuk: One reason for that is the example that your generation is setting by fighting for freedom. It had the chance to look at the past and to confront the history that had not been examined before, like the history of the Holocaust and Holodomor in Ukraine. When you begin to look squarely at the past, you can begin to understand the present much more clearly. 

I do worry about one thing though, and for me, there is a personal aspect to it. The part that horrified me was seeing my parents’ lives all over again.

My parents grew up during WWII, my grandfather fought in the army in WWI, first for the Austro-Hungarian army, and later for the Sichovi Striltsi. Then my family had to flee Peremyshl, where they had been living, and they came to the US. The process of becoming a refugee is complicated. The consequences of war and violence are passed on for generations.

In my parents’ generation, post-traumatic stress was never dealt with. And we are much more aware of it now. The post-war period has to come with an awareness of how to start talking about the traumatic experience and healing from it. I hope this process starts now, even before the war ends, and will continue afterwards. All of you experienced trauma, whether you were on the frontline or had to leave your homes. It is about being conscious of the reality that has happened and facing it as soon as possible rather than denying it.

I want to ask you about your plans moving forward. You are in London, and you have a book that is coming out this week. I wonder how you are looking ahead to the future?

Kateryna Babkina: I do not build long-term plans anymore. Of course, I am looking forward to coming back home, like everyone is, but I am not sure when it is going to be possible. I want to give my daughter safety.

I plan to start talking about the war more. I have just finished a book which is going to be published relatively soon in Ukrainian and Polish. It is a story written for young adults about what has happened since February 24.

In the Soviet Union and shortly after its collapse, we had a very flat and modified version of history tailored to the needs of the party. We did not have the opportunity to talk about the huge trauma experienced by the people. Only in the 80s did Ukrainians start writing about Holodomor and the Holocaust, WWII, and Chornobyl, as well as being part of the Soviet Union which was by itself a traumatic experience. Only now have we gained the voice powerful enough.

We still have not dealt with our past, and we have a lot to talk about. This is our job as writers, intellectuals, and artists.

Photo: Vladislav Chubar/Unsplash

Monitoring Violations Of Cultural Rights And Human Rights Of Cultural Figures. Belarus, January-June 2022

Since October 2019, the Belarusian PEN Center has been carrying out a systematic collecting of information on violations of cultural and human rights which impact culture workers. This document includes statistics and an analysis of violations from the first half of 2022. Material has been prepared on the basis of generally available information collected from open sources and direct communications with cultural figures.

By PEN Belarus

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Photo: Vadim Velichko/Unsplash

I. MAIN RESULTS

From January to June 2022, experts recorded 699 violations of cultural and human rights that impacted culture workers. Among them are:

• 529 violations impacting 332 culture workers and others whose general cultural rights were violated;

• 111 violations impacting 96 organizations and institutions;

• 41 violations related to objects of cultural or historical heritage and the Belarusian language [on a national level];

• *In this document we have also included 18 instances which meet the criteria of our monitoring and are also recognized by the Republic of Belarus as extremist.

The general types of rights violations are as follows:

Illustration: PEN Belarus

The following are also notable:

• 19 cultural figures were identified as “extremists,” 5 creative initiatives and media with content that is cultural in nature were recognized as “extremist organizations”, and 10 cultural figures were recognized as terrorists.

• 37 violations of the right of correspondence in penitentiary institutions were recorded.

• 33 frisk searches on cultural figures and legal persons in the cultural sphere were conducted.

II. POLITICAL PRISONERS — CULTURE WORKERS

According to the human rights organization Viasna, in Belarus there are 1236 political prisoners as of June 30, 2022.

98 cultural figures are among those recognized as political prisoners.

46 of them are serving time in prison colonies:

architect Arciom Takarčuk (serving 3.5 years); artist Uladzislaŭ Makaviecki (2 years); bard and programmer Anatol Chinievič (sentenced to 3.5 years); concert agency director Ivan Kaniavieha (3 years); artist Alaksandr Nurdzinaŭ (4 years of extra labor); documentary filmmaker and blogger Paviel Spiryn (4.5 years); writer and journalist Kaciaryna Andrejeva (Bachvalava) (2 years); artist and animator Ivan Viarbicki (8 years and one month of extra labor); UX/UI designer Dźmitryj Kubaraŭ (7 years of extra labor); artist, former academy of art student Anastasija Mironcava (2 years); drummer Alaksiej Sančuk (6 years of extra labor); culture manager Mia Mitkievič (3 years); writer and social-political Paviel Sieviaryniec (7 years of extra labor); dancers Ihar Jarmolaŭ and Mikalaj Sasieŭ (each 5 years of extra labor); Patron of the arts Viktar Babaryka (14 years of extra labor); actor Siarhiej Volkaŭ (4 years of hard labor); light artist Danila Hančaroŭ (2 years); musician Paviel Larčyk (3 years); poet and publicist Ksienija Syramalot (2.5 years); former students of the aesthetics department at Belarusian State Pedagogical University Jana Orobiejko and Kasia Buďko (each 2.5 years); former student of the Academy of Arts Maryja Kalenik (2.5 years); former student at the architectural department at Belarusian National Technical University Viktoryja Hrankoŭskaja (2.5 years); designer and architect Raścislaŭ Stefanovič (8 years of extra labor); musician, DJ Artur Amiraŭ (3.5 years extra labor); history teacher and social scientist Andrej Piatroŭski (1.5 years); poet, bard and attorney Maksim Znak (10 years of extra labor); musician and cultural project manager Maryja Kaleśnikava (11 years); musician Jaŭhien Piatroŭ (1 year); promoter of history and human rights advocate Taćciana Lasica (2.5 years); author of prison literature and anarcho-activist Mikalaj Dziadok (5 years); musicians Uladzimir Kalač and Nadzieja Kalač (2 years each); promoter of history and blogger Eduard Palčys (13 years of extra labor); author of prison literature and anarcho-activist Ihar Alinievič (20 years of extra labor); musicians Piotr Marčanka, Julija Marčanka (Junickaja) and Anton Šnip (1.5 years each); artist Alieś Puškin (5 years of enhanced regime); litterateur, musician and author of the journal Наша гісторыя (Our history) Andrej Skurko (2.5 years); author of musical projects and typography director Arciom Fiedasienka (4 years); history reconstructor and activist Kim Samusienka  (6.5 years); non-fiction author and journalist Alieh Hruździlovič (1.5 years); author of texts in journals «Наша гісторыя» and «Arche» Andrej Akuška (2.5 years); philology and former Russian and Belarusian literature and language professor Mikalaj Isajenka (1.5 years); musician and activist Siarhiej Sparyš (6 years of enhanced regime); non-fiction internet author and blogger Paviel Vinahradaŭ (5 years).

5 cultural figures are serving time by means of «chemistry»:

Poet and director Ihnat Sidorčyk (sentenced to 3 years); designer Maksim Taćcianok (3 years); researcher at the Center for Belarusian Language and Literature Studies at the Academy of Sciences Alaksandr Halkoŭski (1.5 years); director of a web-design studio Hlieb Kojpiš (2 years); cellist Iĺlia Hančaryk (4 years).

46 cultural figures are in pre-trial detention centers run by the MIA and KGB, awaiting either trial or transfer to places of punishment:

Culture manager and blogger Siarhiej Cichanoŭski (since 29.05.2020); culture manager Eduard Babaryka(since 18.06.2020); documentary filmmaker and journalist Ksienija Luckina  (since 22.12.2020); poet, journalist, and media manager Andrej Alaksandraŭ (since 12.01.2021); poet and member of the Union of Polish People Andrej Pačobut (since 25.03.2021); literary figure and translator Aliaksandr Fiaduta (since 12.04.2021); author, editor, and political scientist Valeryja Kaściuhova (since 30.06.2021); literary theorist, history researcher and human rights activist Aleś Bialacki (since 14.07.2021); street artist and IT-specialist Dźmitryj Padrez (since 15.07.2021); philosopher, methodologist, and publicist Uladzimir Mackievič (since 04.08.2021); former teacher of Belarusian language and literature Ema Stsepulionak (since 29.09.2021); musician Siarhiej Daliviela (since 29.09.2021); librarian Julija Čamlaj (since 30.09.2021); bass guitarist Viktar Katoŭski (since 30.09.2021); musician and violin teacher Aksana Kaśpiarovič (since 30.09.2021); photographer and journalist Hienadź Mažejka  (since 01.10.2021); librarian Julija Laptanovič(since 13.10.2021); artist and interior designer Kanstancin Prusaŭ (since 28.10.2021); author and Wikipedia editor Paviel Piernikaŭ (since 03.11.2021); founder of Symbal.by and culture project manager Paviel Bielavus (since 15.11.2021); poet, translator, and journalist Andrej Kuźniečyk (since 25.11.2021); fantasy writer and journalist Siarhiej Sacuk (since 08.12.2021); sound operator Vadzim Dzienisienka (since 28.12.2021); literary figure and activist Aliena Hnaŭk (since 11.01.2022); theater actress Viera Ćvikievič (since 27.01.2022); jeweler and history reenactor Michail Labań (since 17.02.2022); ceramicist Anastasija Malašuk (since 25.02.2022); expelled MSU student in the Germanic-Romance language philology department Danuta Pieradnia(since 28.02.2022); sightseer and traveler Ihar Haluška (since 01.03.2022); musician Kryścina Čarankova (since 22.03.2022); director Dźmitryj Pancialiejka (since 28.03.2022); digital artist Viktar Kulinka (since 30.03.2022); admin of cultural-historical Telegram chanel Rezystans Mikita Śliepianok (since 06.04.2022); creative director of an architecture bureau Kanstancin Vysočyn (since 07.04.2022); musician Aliaksandr Kazakievič (since 09.04.2022); publicist, activist and author of prison literature Źmicier Daškievič (since 23.04.2022); craftsperson and administrator of the space «Alpha-business hub» Aliesia Kurejčyk  (since 24.05.2022); commercial director of the theater group Silver screen Aliaksandr Dziemidovič (since 25.05.2022); musician Paviel Bialianaŭ (since 02.06.2022); former producer of event agency KRONA Siarhiej Huń (since 03.06.2022); musician Juryj Hryhier (since 03.06.2022); designer and photographer Dzianis Šaramiećjeŭ (since 14.06.2022); photographer Aliaksandr Kudlovič (since 16.06.2022).

Additionally, due to the repetition of several procedural actions literary person and journalist Kaciaryna Andrejeva (Bachvalava), poet and founder of the literary “Honey Prize” Mikola Papieka, ethnographer and activist Uladzimir Hundar has been transferred to the detention center from their places of imprisonment.

Anžalika Borys, a chairperson of the Union of Polish People in Belarus, was transferred from pre-trial detention to house arrest on March 25, 2022.  

Illustration: PEN Belarus.

The sentences of the first half of the year 2022 and all criminal prisoners from cultural figures.

In the first half of 2022 there were 38 court decisions concerning cultural figures:

• January 11: sound director Kiryl Saliejeŭ was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• January 14: author of musical projects and typography director Arciom Fiedasienka was sentenced to 4 years in a colony;

• January 28: history re-enactor and activist Kim Samusienka was sentenced to 4.5 years in a colony;

• February 4: cultural project manager, businessman, and author included in a fairytale collection Aliaksandr Vasilievič was sentenced to 3 years in a colony; scene designer Andrej Ščyhieĺ was sentenced to 2.5 years of ‘chemistry’;

• February 7: cellist Iĺlia Hančaryk was sentenced to 4 years of ‘chemistry’; comedian and KVN participant Vasiĺ Kraŭčuk was sentenced to 2 years of ‘home chemistry’;

• February 9: artist and interior desiger Kanstancin Prusaŭ was sentenced to 3.5 years in a colony;

• March 2: history teacher Artur Ešbajeŭ was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• March 3: non-fiction writer and journalist Alieh Hruździlovič was sentenced to 1.5 years in a colony;

• March 15: literary figure, musician and author in the journal «Наша гісторыя» Andrej Skurko was sentenced to 2.5 years in a colony;

• March 15: street artist and IT specialist Dźmitryj Padrez was sentenced to 7 years of enhanced regime colony;

• March 16: non-fiction author and blogger Paviel Vinahradaŭ was sentenced to 5 years in a colony;

• March 23: sound operator Vadzim Dzienisienka was sentenced to 2.5 years in a colony;

• March 25: Lyubitelskiy theater actor Kanstancin Šuĺha was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• March 28: director Dźmitryj Pancialiejka was sentenced to 1 year in a colony;

• March 30: artist Alieś Puškin was sentenced to 5 years of enhanced regime colony; poet, blogger and producer Uladzislaŭ Savin was sentenced to 8 years of enhanced regime colony;

• April 7: author and Wikipedia-editor Paviel Piernikaŭ was sentenced to 2 years in a colony;

• April 14: bass guitarist Viktar Katoŭski was sentenced to 3 years in a colony;

• April 18: former museum director Juryj Zialievič was sentenced to 1.5 years of ‘home chemistry’;

• April 22: musician Vasiĺ Jarmolienka was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• May 5: graphic designer Halina Siemiečka was sentenced to 3 years of ‘home chemistry’;

• May 6: theatre actress Viera Ćvikievič was sentenced to 1 year in a colony; former Russian language and literature teacher Anastasija Kucharava was sentenced to 3 years of ‘home chemistry’;

• May 20: jeweler and history reenactor Michail Labań was sentenced to 4 years in a colony;

• June 1: musical college student Taćciana Barysovič was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• June 7: cultural project manager and sociologist Taćciana Vadalažskaja was sentenced to 2.5 years of ‘chemistry’;

• June 8: poet, translator and journalist Andrej Kuźniečyk was sentenced to 6 years in an enhanced regime colony;

• June 10: former French teacher Iryna Jaŭmienienka was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• June 15: head editor of newspaper «Novy Čas» Aksana Kolb was sentenced to 2.5 years of ‘chemistry’;

• June 17: literary figure and activist Aliena Hnaŭk was sentenced to 3.5 years in a colony; librarian and excursion leader Iryna Kovaĺ was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• June 21: comedian and art director Aliaksandr Talmačoŭ was sentenced to 3 years of ‘home chemistry’;

• June 23: philosopher, publicist and methodologist Uladzimir Mackievič was sentenced to 5 years in an enhanced regime colony;

• June 24: author, Wikipedia-editor and IT-specialist Mark Biernštejn was sentenced to 3 years of ‘chemistry’;

• June 27: Literary figure Aliaksandr Novikaŭ was sentenced to 2 years in a colony;

• June 29: musician and violin teacher Aksana Kaśpiarovič was sentenced to 1 year, 2 months in a colony.

Illustration: PEN Belarus.

III. CONDITIONS OF DETENTION

In January-June 2022, there were 66 cases of violations of the conditions of detention of cultural figures in closed institutions of the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the KGB. Since the first arrests in mid-2020, “special” detention rules have been in effect for cultural figures detained or convicted under political articles, and this negative “practice” has continued. Solitary confinement cells, pressures from the administration, unhygienic conditions, overcrowded cells, poor-quality medical care or refusal to provide it, deprivation of visits, telephone calls, and a complete or partial ban on correspondence are just some of the ways in which political prisoners are subjected to pressure.

As of June 1, “due to the stabilization of the epidemiological situation”, Minsk Detention center No. 1, Mahilioŭ Prison No. 4, as well as penal colonies stopped collecting “vitamin packages” for prisoners – an extra package each prisoner could receive with a certain set of fruits and vegetables weighing up to 10 kg. It could previously be received once every 30 days. Inmates in the colony can purchase their own necessities in the prison store for a month for two basic units, which is currently 64 rubles (about 23 euros). As for working conditions in places of detention, human rights activists describe them as “slave-like”: the unequipped workplaces, high production standards, inability to choose the preferred type of work, the lack of an employment contract, and “penny” wages leave a lot to be desired. Thereby, the monthly salary of Maksim Znak in the penal colony in February “Vitsba” amounted to 56 kopeks (0.2 euro).

IV. “EXTREMISTS” AND “TERRORISTS” AMONG CULTURAL FIGURES. EXTREMIST FORMATIONS AND MATERIALS

One relatively new and actively developing practice of suppressing dissent is the application of anti-extremist legislation against opponents of the regime. Human rights organizations (Viasna, Human constanta, BAJ, Sova) have noted a trend of extremely broad interpretations of anti-extremism legislation in Belarus since the start of the protests in August 2020. Currently, law enforcement practice is purposefully shaped in such a way that “extremism” in Belarus means participation in peaceful protests, condemnation of violence by making comments on a social network, making emotional remarks about a representative of the authorities, etc.

The Ministry of Internal Affairs of Belarus maintains 3 lists: “List of citizens of the Republic of Belarus, foreign persons or stateless persons involved in an extremist activity,” “List of organizations, legal entities, individual entrepreneurs involved in an extremist activity” (recognized as such without a court decision) and “Republican List of Extremist Materials” (recognized as such by a court decision). Since 2021 all of them are being filled with new names of individuals and organizations with the intention of creating the atmosphere of fear and silence.

Thus, as of July 1, 2022, the list of persons “involved in extremist activity” consists of 426 names, including at least 19 cultural figures: Maksim Znak, Maryja Kalieśnikava, Paviel Sieviaryniec, Artur Amiraŭ, Mikalaj Dziadok, Eduard Paĺčys, Julija Laptanovič, Alieś Puškin, Arciom Fiedasienka (twice on the list), Andrej Ščyhieĺ, Vasiĺ Kraŭčuk, Maksim Šaŭlinski (pardoned back on September 16, 2021), Siarhiej Sparyš, Źmicier Padrez, Mia Mitkievič, Paviel Śpiryn, Ihar Alinievič, Uladzislaŭ Makaviecki and Paviel Piernikaŭ.

71 subjects compile The “List of organizations, formations, individual entrepreneurs involved in extremist activities.” In the first half of 2022, the list includes the Belarusian Council of Culture, an organization that supports Belarusian culture; the Nasha Niva publication (website and social networks, messengers), which has a “Culture” section on its website; the Homel publication Flagshtok (website and Telegram), which covers culture and preservation of historical heritage, etc.; Telegram channels about Belarusian history and culture Historyja and R E Z Y S T A N S.

The Republican list of “extremist materials” contains more than a thousand items. It includes symbols, articles, videos, Telegram and Viber groups, chat rooms and channels, etc. Of those listed for the first half of 2022 alone, we can distinguish 18 items that are related to the sphere of culture or cultural figures (although there would be many more upon closer inspection). In particular, these are media outlets with cultural content: Radio Racyja, Regiyanalnaia Gazeta, Viciebsk Kurier news, media-polesye.by, nadniemnemgrodno.pl, MOST; the YouTube channels Zhizn-malina and Ms. Anne Nittelnacht (a project for Jewish culture research) 4 books by Belarusian authors: Viktar Liachar, The Military History of Belarus. Heroes. Symbols. Colors,” “Belarus at the Crossroads. Collection of articles”, Aĺhierd Bacharevič “The Dogs of Europe” Źmicier Lukašuk, Maksim Harunoŭ “Belarusian National Idea”, and other materials.

“List of Organizations and Individuals Involved in Terrorist Activities” is maintained the Committee for State Security (KGB). Since the fall of 2020, the list has been actively updated with the names of Belarusian citizens and public figures, including cultural figures. Consequently, in the first half of 2022, the list includes Siarhiej Sparyš, Maksim Znak, Maryja Kalieśnikava, Danuta Pieradnia, Aksana Kaśpiarovič, Aliaksiej Parecki, Ivan Viarbicki, Julija Čamlaj, Paviel Vinahradaŭand Siarhiej Cichanoŭski. Ihar Alinievič, Uladzimir Hundar, Paviel Latuška, Anton Matoĺka and Vadzim Hilievič were included until 2022. This adds up to at least 15 people related to the cultural sphere.

V. PERSECUTION FOR AN ANTI-WAR STANCE

On February 24, 2022, the Russian Federation invaded Ukraine. Belarusian authorities supported the actions of the Russian Federation by providing its territory for the deployment of military equipment and contingent. Citizens of Belarus, in turn, have opposed the war and displayed an anti-war stance since the first days of the invasion of Ukraine. Persecution for anti-war statements was most acute in the first months after the outbreak of the war, but detentions are still occurring today. According to the Human Rights Center “Viasna”, on February 27-28, the main day of the referendum on constitutional amendments in Belarus, and the following day, over 1,000 people were detained for saying “no to war” in various cities of the country.  Among them were people from the cultural sphere. During the first half of 2022, Belarusian cultural figures who spoke out against the Russian armed invasion were tried for participation in anti-war actions, use of official Ukrainian symbols (having anything with yellow and blue colors), inscriptions in support of Ukraine, materials about the war, anti-war letters sent to state authorities, publications and statements in social networks, etc. One of the most high-profile cases was the 6.5-year imprisonment of Danuta Pieradnia, a student of Romance and Germanic Philology at Kuleshov Moscow State University [expelled], who reposted an anti-war text critical of the actions of Putin and Lukašenka and called to speak out against the war in Ukraine. Danuta Pieradnia is one of the cultural people who were put on the list of “persons involved in terrorist activities.”

VI. PERSECUTION OF THOSE WHO HAVE GONE ABROAD

The tendency to persecute cultural figures disloyal to the authorities, who were forced to leave Belarus but continue to publicly express their opinion about the situation in the country, is gaining momentum. Criminal cases are initiated against them, and their relatives are put under pressure. On May 12, 2022, actions were taken to introduce amendments to the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus, which would make it possible to prosecute citizens who are outside the Republic of Belarus.

To this day, at least 7 criminal cases have already been initiated against the former director of the Kupala Theater, Paviel Latuška. The last one was initiated in February of this year, and it concerns Latuška’s financial activities as Minister of Culture of Belarus in 2012. The pressure was also exerted on him through his daughter, who, according to employees of the Department of Financial Investigations, was also the subject of a criminal investigation and his apartment has been seized as well. In February the Ministry of Internal Affairs put the creators of the satirical duet “Red Green” – songwriter and blogger Andrej Pavuk, and opera singer Marharyta Liaŭčuk on the wanted list, against whom a criminal case had opened earlier for “desecration of the state flag” – based on one of the duet’s videos. The KGB wanted comedian Slava Kamisarenka, who had been living in Russia for a long time, for the “Defamation against the President of the Republic of Belarus”. Representatives of law enforcement agencies were looking for him in Moscow, calling and texting him, earlier they had shown interest in the parents of the artist who were in Belarus. Ihar Kaźmierčak, journalist and owner of the store of national symbols Cudoŭnaja krama at one point has found out that he “had been hiding from the investigation” and was put on the wanted list as well. An unknown person texted Kanstancin Šytaĺ on Telegram and invited him to return to Belarus and come to the regional KGB. It is known for a fact that law enforcement officers searched the domicile, former place of residence or investigated of parents of Andrej Pavuk, Marharyta Liaŭčuk, the owner of the store of national symbols “Admetnasc”, historian Voĺha Vieramiejenka, and documentary filmmaker Maryja Bulavinskaja; furthermore, they ransacked the apartment of mother of civil activist and photographer Anton Motolko. Not only that, Marharyta Liaŭčuk’s parents were detained and tried “for disobedience to the police”, fined 2,240 rubles (about 830 euro) each, and urged to record a video message to their daughter so that she would “stop engaging in politics.”

VII. LIQUIDATION OF NON-COMMERCIAL ORGANIZATIONS IN THE CULTURAL SPHERE

In the monitoring of the liquidation of Belarusian non-profit organizations [NPOs] conducted by Lawtrend together with the OEEC, as of early July 2022, the list contains more than 500 organizations subjected to forced liquidation since 2021. Of these, since the beginning of 2022, more than 170 NPOs in Belarus have been liquidated, most of which are Minsk-based organizations. At least 32 organizations from this list were directly related to the activities in the sphere of culture. The oldest NPOs [founded in the mid-1990s], such as Polish Cultural Society in Lidčyna, Club of Polish Folk Traditions, and Public Association of Former Young Prisoners of Nazi Concentration Camps in Hrodna region; Jewish Cultural Center of Polack and Viciebsk Musical Society in Viciebsk region; Belarusian Association of Architectural Students, Jewish Educational Initiative, and Polish Scientific Society in Minsk region.

As a result of the unfavorable socio-political situation in the country or pressure from the authorities, the list of NPOs that have decided to spontaneously dissolve is expanding. As of early July, Lawtrend monitored 336 organizations. 99 of them filed petitions for self-dissolution during the first half of 2022. 40% of the self-dissolved NPOs (40 organizations) were from the Brest region. Most of the organizations were focused on sports and at least 20 – on culture. For instance, the self-liquidation list includes the charity foundation Fortification of Brest, which dealt with the topic of preservation of historical and cultural heritage of the city; Brest cultural and historical public association named after Tadevush Kastsiushka, as well as the Ukrainian Scientific-Pedagogical Union Bereginya, whose leader Viktar Misijuk was detained on March 8 by law enforcement for laying flowers to the monument to Taras Shevchenko on the birthsday of the poet, and in April was a subject to searches.

Furthermore, on January 22, 2022, a new law came into force, according to which there is a responsibility for organizing a public activity or participation in the activity under a patronage of a public association that had been forcefully liquidated. Now anyone involved in such events can be fined, arrested for up to three months, or even imprisoned for up to two years.

VIII. CULTURAL LIFE IN BELARUS: WASHING OUT THE SPHERE AND THE „PURIFYING CULTURAL VISITS”

LITERATURE

As early as the first quarter of 2021 a tendency of pressurization and reprisals against the independent book sector of Belarus began to form: Publishers and their founders, book distributors, and authors. Such forms of pressure as seizure of books during customs clearance, suspension of bank accounts, searches and property confiscation, interrogations, publication of discrediting and defamatory stories and articles in the state media, removal of books of certain authors and publishers from the shelves of libraries and state bookstores, etc. were exerted on them. Repressions against “the Belarusian book” continue for the second year and intensify in the current timeframe.

At the end of March, “due to an urgent need,” the landlord demanded that the publishing house Januškievič vacate the office within three days – and immediately began looking for a new tenant: the owner published an announcement on a rental website that the office space is available.

The Ministry of Information suspended for three months the activity of four independent publishing houses that had been printing books written in Belarusian and by Belarusian authors: Medisont and Goliaths (since April 15), Limarius and Knigosbor (since May 16) for trumped-up reasons.

From April 18 to May 17, 2022, four books by Belarusian authors were recognized as extremist material (see Section IV). Distribution of these books is now criminally punishable.

On May 16, at the opening of a new bookstore named Knihaŭka (owner – publishing house Januškievič) representatives of the state media came and “have criticized” the range of available books, their content, authors, publishers and employees of the bookstore. The same day the store was searched, 200 books were confiscated, 15 of which were sent for ‘an examination’ to determine whether they had signs of extremism, whereas Andrej Januškievič, the founder of the publishing house, and the literature reviewer Nasta Karnackaja, an employee of the store, were arrested and spent 28 and 23 days in jail respectively, on trumped-up administrative charges. [Symbolically, a month later, on June 15, a pro-governmental store called Book Club of Writers was ceremoniously opened.]

The practice of discrediting writers disloyal to the authorities (as well as historians, artists, filmmakers, public organizations, etc.) has “proven itself” at the state level and is a full-scale “campaign” in the state media. Over time, state propagandists “went into the field” (as in the case of the Knihaŭka store, for example, or the Art-Minsk painting exhibition): in the course of their “purifying cultural visits” they completely distort the truth and slander certain [disloyal to the regime] authors and their works, which is then followed by administrative penalties and a ban on the distribution of the literature. At some point the propagandists were joined by pro-government bloggers-activists who would roam around the city and visit numerous exhibitions and bookstores in search of ideologically “harmful” materials.

For example, after an appeal by an activist, the OZ Books stores located in Trinity and Nioman shopping centers had to move “Summer in a Pioneer Tie” and other books touching on the LGBT topics to the storage rooms and the managements of the bookstore and the Trinity shopping center were invited for a “preventive conversation of a proactive nature”. Later, in Hrodna the Green store had to take off sale the following books: “Myths about Belarus” by Vadzim Dzieružynski and “Welcome to Belarus” by Alieś Hutoŭskahi. They were released by the same publishing house as the books written by Viktar Liachar of which one is considered extremist.

VISUAL ARTS

Pro-government activists Aliena Sidarovič in Minsk and Voĺha Bondarava in Hrodna control both the cultural landscape of the book market and art exhibitions. The letters they send to the departments of culture of the Minsk and Hrodna City Executive Committees result in taking down works of both recognized and young authors.

After the claim about the alleged distribution of pornography at the exhibition “Troubling Suitcase” (“Тревожный чемоданчик”) held from 10.12.2021 to 10.02.2022 in the gallery of the Union of Designers, the culturological examination of the art-object “Till death do us part” (“Пока смерть не разлучит нас”) by the artist Hanna Silivončyk was appointed. As a result, proceedings began not only against the exhibition itself, but also against the public association as a whole.

In March the personal exhibitions of Hryhoriy Ivanau “The Time of Screens” (“Час экранаў”) and Siarhei Hrynevich “Demography” (“Дэмаграфія”) in Palace of Arts in Minsk were closed before the schedule.

On April 29, the sculpture exhibition “SCULPTURE” was held for 4 hours in the gallery “400 squares” in Hrodna. The Hrodnian ideologists proposed to remove some works as a condition for the further functioning of the exhibition, to which the project curator Ivan Arcimovič and gallery owners did not agree, considering it wrong to exclude the works of individual authors “for absolutely far-fetched reasons”. The Belarusian Union of Artists, the members of which are the participants of the group exhibition, tried to defend the project and was ready to create an expert commission of famous art historians and sculptors, which was not supported by the administration of Hrodna. Thus, the exhibition with the works of 17 sculptors was closed immediately after the opening.

On May 12, the annual “Art-Minsk” exhibition opened at the Palace of Arts, announcing an exhibition of 550 works by 240 contemporary Belarusian authors. However, dozens of artists (according to unconfirmed information, this amounts to “over 40”) could not take part in it, and some had to withdraw their original works: a so-called “black list” was issued “from above,” while the content and quality of the works on display did not play any role at all. The PEN monitoring contains information about 19 authors who were censored in one way or another because of their “unreliability”.

On June 28, Irina Malukalova was one of the three participants involved in the art project that had taken place in Factory space in Minsk which she later described as “the fastest exhibition of my life.” The exhibit about criticism of creative work “This is a diagnosis” (“Это диагноз”) had lasted for several hours and then was promptly taken down. The reasons for such a rapid removal remain unknown.

ART-SQUARES AND FESTIVALS

After the events of 2020, the cultural sphere is largely paralyzed: many musicians, theater artists, promoters, DJs and other people of creative professions have left the country (unfortunately, there are no real statistics on the number of people who have emigrated). Many of interdisciplinary cultural venues have closed. During the first half of 2022 the decision about discontinuation of work has been announced by the cultural center Korpus (June) and Lo-Fi Social Club (March).

It is known that in the first six months of 2022 Minsk cultural center Korpus (June) and Lo-Fi Social Club (March) ceased their work and event space Miesca was forced to close (April). Since mid-May activities of Minsk music club Bruges have been suspended, the doors of which were sealed after one of the complex inspections of the building’s owner. The playbill of the theater The Territory of Musical, which at the beginning of the year twice failed to show the performance “Figaro” for reasons beyond the control of the theater, is not updated. In May, after the notorious incident with the closure of the exhibition of modern sculpture, the shopping center Trinity did not prolong the lease agreement.

This year there are significantly fewer traditional summer festivals and cultural events announced, which had been organized by private initiatives. Inter alia, Ukrainian and foreign artists refuse to tour in Belarus because of the war in Ukraine. Also, many Belarusian musicians have left their country or have no chance of getting a touring certificate for a concert. “Those things that worked like clockwork in 2019 (permits were issued, concerts were held, everything was moving), after 2020 by the confluence of all circumstances it turned out to be completely different. Now there are no criteria and notions of what can and what cannot be done.”

IX. GOVERNMENT AND POLITICS IN THE CULTURE SPHERE: DEBELARUSIZATION AND RUSSIFICATION

The problem of the consistent displacement of everything that is nationally oriented in culture, education, everyday life, and other spheres of Belarus is perennial and complex. It would not be possible to cover the topic in this research, however, it is of paramount importance to identify and note what is happening in the domestic policy of Belarus as a practice of debelarusization and russification – using examples of the first half of 2022.

DEBELARUSIZATION

In detention facilities, Belarusian-speaking detainees and prisoners are ordered to “speak in a normal language” – Russian. According to historian and publicist Alieś Biely, “people with ‘non-Russian’ cultural affinities are being systematically forced out of all educational and cultural institutions”. An increasing number of inscriptions with names of streets and places of interest in Belarusian cities are being changed from Belarusian to Russian. Belarusian authors disloyal to the authorities are discredited by pro-government propagandists and activists.

After some time, it became apparent that in November 2021 the publishing house “Belarusian Encyclopedia of Piatruś Broŭka”, founded in January 1967, ceased to exist. The formal reason is incorporation into the publishing house “Belarus”. In fact, it is liquidation of a specialized publishing house. The company website notes that this publishing house “specialized in the production of universal, regional and subject encyclopedias, all sorts of reference books and dictionaries, educational, children, and popular scientific literature. Furthermore, elite publications, unique photobooks, and anniversary editions were also issued there. Journalist and literary critic Siarhiej Dubaviec described the incident as an act of “denationalization” and the publishing house BelEN as “the intellectual center of the Belarusian identity” and “a powerful state institute”, which had been dying for a long time, and now it finally has happened.

Uladzimir Savickai, ex-managing director of the Belarusian Theatre for Young Audience had been dismissed in January of this year and replaced by actress Viera Paliakova, who is also wife of the minister of foreign affairs of Belarus. Paliakova announced that the theater would give up staging exclusively in Belarusian – which used to distinguish the playhouse as one of the few professional theaters with only Belarusian-language performances [only 6 theaters in Belarus out of a total of 29]. In June, the premiere of the play based on Vasiĺ Bykaŭ’s story “The Alpine Ballad”, originally written in Belarusian, took place. Thus, there is one less Belarusian-language theater in the country.

On June 27, by Lukašenka’s order, the former chairman of the pro-governmental Union of Writers of Belarus (2005-2022) Mikalaj Čarhiniec was awarded the title of People’s Writer of Belarus. After 27 years [the last time it was awarded was in 1995] and for the first time in its history, the award was given to a writer who had not written a single work in the Belarusian language, an author of detective stories and militarized literature; a person under whom the so-called “black lists” of writers appeared.

There are only four schools in Belarus teaching in the language of national minorities. The transfer of two Polish (Hrodna and Vaŭkavysk) and two Lithuanian (Pieliask and Rymdziunsk) schools to Russian language starting next school year is further pressure on Polish and Lithuanian minorities and continuation of the russification. Such decision of the Belarusian authorities is exclusively discriminatory against the rights of national minorities. 

THE PROMOTION OF A “RUSSIAN WORLD” IDEOLOGY

On February 19, a gala concert dedicated to “national unity” was held in Minsk. On Sunday, June 11, there was another concert in Minsk, but this time in celebration of Russia Day [a state holiday celebrated in Russia on June 12 since 1992], which was sponsored by Russian state corporations. Events dedicated to this date were also held in other cities. At the Night of Museums in the National History Museum the program included the performance of Cossack songs and at the meetings with a Russian actor Minister of Culture Anatoĺ Markievič discusses the idea of cooperation between “two brotherly nations” in the sphere of culture. Russian flags are increasingly seen on the streets of Belarusian cities, at official institutions of the country and during public holidays. For instance, they were hoisted in flagpoles along a part of Victors Avenue in Minsk just before the Day of Unity of the nations of Belarus and Russia (in previous years they were not put up there), raised on the station building in Orša, were marked in Homiel and a number of other places. In Hrodna, the monument to Chapayev [a Russian historical character], dismantled in April 2019, “returned”; now it will be next to a military unit

The “Russian House” representative office of “Rossotrudnichestvo” actively operates in the territory of Belarus. The organization supports programs for kindergartens, schools and universities, actively collaborates (as can be seen from announcements of events in social networks) with schoolchildren, applicants and students, often acts as a partner of educational, cultural and entertainment events, holds exhibitions, cinema clubs, master classes, tournaments and conferences.

For example, the “Russian House” participated in the opening of an art exhibition marking the 75th anniversary of the Hliebaŭ Art College in Minsk. On June 2, the Center for Russian Language, History and Culture has opened in Polack with assistance of the “Russian House”. The goal of the center is to popularize Russian language, culture and traditions. On the page of the representation office it is mentioned that such centers already operate at the Belarusian State Univeristy (Minsk), the Belarusian-Russian Univeristy (Mahilioŭ) and other Belarusian higher educational establishments. One of the implemented programs – “Hello, Russia! – “cultural and educational trips for young compatriots to historical places of the Russian Federation,” according to the website.

On June 23, a joint Russian-Belarusian group was created to investigate criminal cases of genocide – the Prosecutor-General of Belarus Andrej Švied and Chairman of the Russian Investigative Committee Aliaksandr Bastrykin signed a resolution to collectively investigate “the circumstances surrounding the atrocities of the fascists.” At an Independence Day event in Belarus, Lukašenka officially expressed support for Russia in the context of military action against Ukraine, and Slavianski Bazar, the main state music festival to be held in July, invited artists who either spoke out in favor of the war or who did not speak out publicly against it.

X. GOVERNMENTAL AND POLITICAL TRENDS IN THE CULTURAL SPHERE

• Suppression of all forms of dissent.

• The severely expanded interpretation of extremism as a method of suppressing the freedoms of speech, assembly, and association. The purposeful formation of law enforcement practices with unclear criteria and the criminalization of public and civic engagement.. The practice is formed “behind closed doors” – in closed court hearings, which does not give the public any clear understanding of what actions and under what circumstances are considered crimes. This creates grounds for investigators, prosecutions, and courts to expand the interpretation of the law in the future.

• Monopolization of cultural activities by the government. Thus, according to the decree of June 22, 2022, a register of the organizers of cultural and entertainment events is being formed in Belarus. The Ministry of Culture or a legal entity authorized by it will consider the documents for inclusion in the database and maintain the register. Organizers, eligible for inclusion, but not included in this list, will not be able to carry out cultural and entertainment events. In practice, this means that only state or regime-loyal organizers will be allowed to hold events. The decree came into force on August 1, 2022.

• Debelarusization of Belarus through the means of Russification and promotion of the concept of the “Russian world”.

• The Sovietization and militarization of routine.

• The reduction of “cultural diversity” to the “cooperation of two fraternal nations” [Belarusians and Russians] and the suppression of the culture of Polish and Lithuanian national minorities.

• The systematic implementation of the program within the framework of the Year of Historical Memory (2022), the purpose of which is to “develop the objective perception of the historical past of the Belarusian society…” One of the egregious events that took place last month – the destruction of the graves of The Home Army soldiers in Hrodna region – is a continuation of the erasure of historical memory about the underground military organization from The Second World War that opposed the German occupation. The question of historical memory and what is happening in this area requires additional attention and investigation.

• Making foreign policy decisions that contribute to the cancel culture phenomenon – cases of boycotts of Belarusian cultural products and their authors.

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For My Daughter And Another & For One Song And A Hundred Songs

“To sing a song/The guard with an electric baton in his hand/Ordered me to sing 100 songs.” Liao Yiwu, a prominent poet, reportage writer and folk musician, was arrested for publishing his long poem Massacre and other works to commemorate the Beijing Massacre of 1989, and later sentenced to four years imprisonment on counter-revolutionary propaganda and incitement.

By Liao Yiwu with Independent Chinese PEN Center

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Photo: Katherine GuUnsplash

For My Daughter and Another

Let me sit into a corner

In a prayer room in my fantasy

And with hands cuffed behind my back

Make the sign of the cross for you

Miaomiao, my daughter

A little thing constantly poking your head out

I eat you from the dust every day

The cement dormer splits the moon piece by piece

I have seen you

From the misty mountains or saddle

Falling

The rider falling down like a sharp axe

Hacks more, instant pain into me

The broken arms

My two boats bleeding like fountains

Where are they drifting tonight

Where are boats there is water

Water! Ah, water

Water cannot be held

Nor locked with shackles

Water cannot be beaten with the fists, boots, ropes

And sticks to get on the ground

Water

A substance of crafty nature

A statement unable to break through repeated attacks

A criminal unable to sentence

Ah, water

A semi-translucent dance

A freely relaxed body overflowing

A king’s knife

As a woman flooding over a man

Makes human rust

Coming to naught

Naught

Simmers my daughter’s amniotic fluid

Flowing from the internal organ of the universe

And from the bell of origin in swinging sheets

The humming iron gate is brimming with tears congealing on it

Rusty

Like the face of the grandfather buried long ago

When the cage is to submerge into the riverbed

Will a string of children

Carry the glistening grass on their heads and get up, or not?

My daughter

In the river mud you are chewing

Is there any scream from your father?

(1 July 1991)

For One Song and a Hundred Songs

To sing a song

I want to wear out my ears

To sing a song

The guard with an electric baton in his hand

Ordered me to sing 100 songs

Get out of the cell

The shadow

An unreliable lover

Leaped like a rabbit onto a large wall

My shaved head is the tumour growing at the foot of the wall

The rain is tears from the whole kingdom of Heaven

Drained from my eyes to blind me

My tongue was shaking a white flag

Tinnitus

I heard the screams of the spittle

Like a fish or bird put into a pan with boiling oil

The sun is sowing the garlic to the dark blue

Erupting in air the choking breath

Still want to sing

Still want to sing

Forgive me

Forgive me

Let me be your earwax

To be taken out by you

Spread on your palm for your interest

I swore to make you comfortable

The pleasure of shivering

Was second only to ejaculation

In the golden blizzard

The earwax brayed

─ I would like to take off my pants to show you

I would like to be naked

To show Van Gogh huddled in the soul

The red-haired ghost guarding Hell’s door

Was bleeding from his ear cavity

I would like to become a carious tooth

To fuck your nerves to be swollen from within

I would sit and stare at your left cheek

To slowly bulge as the pregnant woman's belly

The dentist would use the midwife’s forceps

To pull me

From your noble mouth

At that time I would sing for you

And never stop singing for you

─ This world is

A wonderful spittoon

This world is

A bottomless spittoon

(1 December 1990)

Photo: Max Zhang/Unsplash

Grief And Other Poems

“To stay alive, is a true miracle .” Shi Tao, a journalist, writer and poet, was sentenced to imprisonment for 10 years in 2005 for releasing a document of the Communist Party to an overseas Chinese democracy site after Yahoo! China provided his personal details to the Chinese government.

By Shi Tao with Independent Chinese PEN Center

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Photo: Vijendra Singh/Unsplash

Grief

I forget all languages

to start with a simplest word

memory is like a lamp in a slave’s hands

I am kneeing down before it to beg it everlasting

the dark night is approaching inch by inch

I have to make a living before daybreak

no message about ships anchored at piers

only a type of sea breeze blowing to my face

its taste is called

grief

Poetry

I, with my senile hand,

write down the sufferings:

gun in ears

salt in spit

and

gold upon hair

Afternoon, My Afternoon

afternoon, my afternoon

my own afternoon alone

I was smoking, and drinking tea

hands were dancing

the whole face was

an empty

stage

with blood colour

Song of the World

the fat head

of a strawberry is filled with

dreams of colourful clouds

(men stuffed in

a dreaming scene of Salvador Dali)

a book about Egyptian deceased souls

characters in the book

still have warmth on their skins

(I stretched out one withered finger

to touch my iced face)

oh, this world

it is full of enemies of the dead

and Song of the World chanted by enemies

Bad News

wheels torn to shreds

were parking

at the silent night

bad news

like cold spell, carelessly

kept away from body warmth

from cancer wards to

my ears

so many eyes

were making the same hint

what’s been spoken, is merely

”speaking”, a shell in mirror

To stay alive, is a true miracle

Evening’s Coming

eyes are the guests of evening.

food left dining table

to participate in a walking game

thoughts of snow-geese

lost in a spacious stomach somewhere else

dark night was reproducing dark lives

Reading

whose sights

cast farther

than bats in dark night?

whose life

is more broad and straight

than a ladybug covered with stains?

whose sufferings

are more hopeless

than a lonely pine tree at hill top?

crows at the altar are driven out of cemetery of the night

Freedom

that voice is right in my mouth

in my stomach

among the food undigested last night

between the fingers

putting into throat to cause vomits

in the sink

disgusting with mouth cleaning

in the abyss of a pipe stretching to

far away, in a pond by accident

leaked out

in the cruel palms of hungry

wild geese, in the whirls flying up the sky

but encounter cold current

in hard stone-crevices colliding with cliffs

in a warm nest somewhere else

with moisture of saliva, once again

slide into smooth stomach

in a clot of bird droppings flying over fields and villages

flying over cross-country cars on freeway

in the square, air-dried, bringing protestors in

along with rolling traffic

within the speech, plugged with power, shocked and

amplified---

its name is freedom

---from “Letters to the Dead Souls”

April 8-11, 2004, Taiyuan

Original texts in Chinese can be found here.

(Translated by CHEN Biao)

Photo: Pierre Bamin/Unsplash

Ninety Kilometres in Distance

“When the night's chill hit me through the iron window, I seemed to see a row of iron bars between us – the father and son, weeping toward each other; I seemed to see my boy who had lost his father’s guidance turning evil under gangsters’ control and fooling around on the streets all days... ” Du Daobin, a government official, writer, and freelancer, was arrested in 2003 for Internet writings and sentenced to imprisonment for “inciting subversion of state power”.

By Du Daobin with Independent Chinese PEN Center

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Photo: Aden Lao/Unsplash

Between my child and me, there is just ninety kilometres. These mere ninety kilometres, however, appear to us to be insurmountable, like a natural moat.

1

The most uncomfortable part about jail was loneliness. To get rid of it, the inmates in the same cell often chatted. We talked about everything. Once talking about my behaviour when I was a newcomer, they said, “It was all right on the first two days, when you fell down snoring. After the third night, you slept much less. You went to bed late, turned over and over constantly, but also woke up early.”

What they told had been true! On the first two days, I had felt no weakness in myself, and my mind had been very strong. On the third day, remembering my child, I had suddenly realized a huge loophole in my presumption. What I had thought about before did not take him into account. The trial had proceeded to a sentence around ten years in prison: for inciting subversion of the State power, it would be five years; for a ringleader, over five years; for conspiracy with those abroad, more severe; for stealing the state secrets for a foreign institution, organization or element, an additional five years. All of these crimes, of course, are non-existent. However, I am aware that our Party has been well known as being capable to create any miracle. To make injustice, therefore, is a piece of cake. Since 1949, too many miscarriages of justice have been created, as small as the misfortune of my whole family during the Cultural Revolution, and as great as the aggrieved death of “President of the State”. When the night's chill hit me through the iron window, I seemed to see a row of iron bars between us – the father and son, weeping toward each other; I seemed to see my boy who had lost his father’s guidance turning evil under gangsters’ control and fooling around on the streets all days...

About the sixth day of my detention, when the interrogation was to end, my opponent asked: “Any thought in your mind?” “Missing my kid!” Before my detention, I had studied the interrogation psychology and thought that I could easily face the persecution. But at that time I could no longer suppress my yearning for my boy, so that the three words jumped out of my mouth before the secret policemen.

In my memory, there had never been so long a separation between my boy and me as a week. Every day when the wheeling sound of the food cart was heard from the corridor outside my cell, it was at the time in the past when I had waited for my boy to return home safely. The food had been ready on the table waiting for him. The sound of every step from the staircase, even on the first floor, would have automatically been identified for a while. “Thump, thump, thump!” – the sound of his rushing 2-3 stairs at a time. If there had been no such sound over half an hour, I would have put on my shoes, and gone to the courtyard gate to look around eagerly. If he had not appeared as expected, I would have to look for him along his way home. The return journey from his primary school is one kilometre through four streets in a way of ”W”, three of which were main trunk roads with heavy traffic.

The boy became my weak spot, my frailty. When I found my frailty, my opponent certainly realized it. The fellow suspects in my call were changed and replaced with juvenile offenders, aged 14 or 15, just similar to my kid, after my old inmates were sent away. It was said that I could look after them to avoid them getting injured in other cells. Getting along with these juvenile offenders day and night enhanced my worry for my own boy. One day, a guard took me out and in a friendly way handed me a rectangular paper packet.

“Knowing about your longing to see the kid,” he said, “I specially let your wife bring two photos. This is violating the regulation! So take good care of them, we don’t want to be found out.”

When I opened the packet, there were two photographs of my boy. In a flash, the tear glands did not follow my command but let tears break through the line of defence.

The photographs became a spring of tears. Each time they were uncovered, the tears would pour out. Eventually I realized that everything must have been arranged on purpose. Otherwise, nobody would have broken the regulation to give me the photos. After waking up, I tried hard not to look at them. The photos were inserted into a book placed on the floor in the corner, about a step away after getting down from our big common bed. When missing my boy, I tried not to get down from the bed but to cast a glance at that pile of books. Without my looking at a photograph, the boy could still emerge lively before my eyes. When he was born, the boy had looked very ugly, a clot of red flesh with a wrinkled face. Because an extractor had been used for his birth, his head had been particularly long. In the beginning, he had been almost a rubbish producer, into which the soups of carp or chicken had been fed at one end and soon the faeces or urine had come out at another. During the day, he had been all right as there had been someone to help with the care. The night had been hard on me. While sleeping well, I had suddenly got a kick on my waist. “Hurry up, hurry up, get him pissing!” After this, just closing my eyes, “wah…wah…wah…” His crying had again awakened me.

I do not know when that clot of flesh that knew nothing suddenly got my fondness. For something or nothing, we were going around together. First, he was held to my chest, and then riding on my shoulders, afterwards holding big hands with small hands, and finally walking shoulder to shoulder. First when wilfully crossing the street, he had been stopped by me. Then sometimes I would like to make a short cut but was pulled back, “Walk across the zebra lines! A good kid is always across the zebra lines!” I had become a no-good kid.

After June 4th, 1989, I could not see this world clearly and so simply concentrated my energies on my boy. The investment may naturally give its return. Unlike the relationship between my father and me who hardly spoke, my boy and I had a lot to talk about. The boy got good grades, and was pleasant looking. In his fourth grade, one early morning on our way to his school, we walked side by side, talking as usual.

“There is a girl classmate,” said the child to me. ”She asked me through another, ‘whether or not are you fond of someone or so?’ Dad, tell me how can I answer her? “

“Do you like her?”

“Yes, I do. She looks very pretty, and her grades are also good.”

“Is it not enough? Simply tell her that you like her!”

“It is ... rather embarrassing.”

“Liking her, and telling her about it, and she will surely be pleased. Something to make someone pleased, why not do it? Only if you do not like her, then do not tell her because she will be displeased. Something to make someone displeased, one should not do.”

The boy nodded and agreed with me. A few days later he told me, “I told her as you had said.”

"Good boy! You are brave! You both are the classmates, but just classmates. Between the classmates, whether boys or girls, mutual fondness is a good thing. This is capability to learn how to get along with people. At your age, a boy student feels for the girls, or a girl student for the boys, this mutual curiosity is normal. It shows that your psychological and physiological developments are sound. Generating no curiosity would not be normal. Your father has been your age, and experienced it. However, your major focus now is to study. Do you understand?” “Yes!”

The more the boy chatted to me, the more pleased I was. My boy was influenced by my spiritual power, and so was automatically drawn away from people and things that might mislead him.

2

My opponents have taken my weakness as my weak spot. On one hand, they have tried to persuade me: "Already so grown up. What is the point to keep worrying? The future will not be so bad if only the boy has been brought up." On the other hand, they have propagated to other people: "Only minding his wife and kid, what big deal can be made? If really a big fish, how come can be let out? "

When one has been fallen into the hands of a group of professional kidnappers and cheaters, one cannot get out unless you promise what they request. Particularly, those professional kidnappers have nothing to fear, and do not have to worry about any consequences. It is impossible to get away without paying a price. No matter what price it is, or how valuable the payment can be, one has to pay, by oneself. When the payment is very precious, there is naturally a great pain in one’s heart. Thinking about his healthy growth, I am clear that the boy is most important to me. To be a “Big Fish” is no part of my duty but a matter of fate, while taking the responsibility for the boy is a duty of mine as a father. For time being, what I have done are actually my duties, writing, criticizing the reality and “being the first to show concerns” are only what a citizen should do, but also are my duties. For our children will be no longer subjected to the hardship of our generation, and for the freedom, these things need to be done, while some others may have to be given up temporarily. “Refrain from doing something to be able for other things” – only if temporarily give up certain things, some of more essential things can be upheld. In a short, I came out.

I returned home after being away for seven and a half months. After a little cleaning up, it was nearly the time to be home from school. I hid behind the door and quietly waited for “thump, thump, thump…” the sound of rushing 2-3 stairs at a time from the first floor to the third. Time passed second by second, minute by minute. Finally, the sound came, straight to the third floor! At the door opened, he asked: "Has Daddy returned?" Father and son hugged tightly.

During childhood, one should not be left alone without a thoughtful guidance from a father. In the teenage years, a strongly spiritual support from one’s father is also indispensable. I told my boy: your father is different from your father's father; your father’s decision is solid like a piece of steel bar to reinforce your waist straight and keep your chin up and chest out to face anyone beyond our home. Soon after I got out from the detention centre, the boy entered a middle school. For three years, at noon and at the time to come home from school in the afternoon, I went to the courtyard gate to look around, just as when the boy had been at his primary school. Sometimes waiting is a kind of anxiety, but what I have experienced more has been happiness. In my view, the goodness between us, the father and son, is not my grace by raising him but his warmth and happiness offered to me!

The boy has not disappointed me. After middle school, he was admitted to one of the model high schools in Hubei Province. Although it was not so good as to get him into an ace class in his school, the result was enough to make me happy. A decade’s association between a father and his son appears to have not wasted. I am so pleased to have seen that some of what I have valued has taken the root in his internal world. Of course, whether the boy will grown up to become a successful man, it will be up to him to go forward on the path of life. I, as a father, was just his pathfinder in the beginning of his life. I have taken my responsibilities.

3

The provincial model high school is in Wuhan City, 90 km away from our home city of Yingcheng, and it has a system of full boarding. Since beginning of school term, I do not have to worry about his fussy taste, nor to look around at the courtyard gate, which has spared me a lot. For a few days, however, not seeing the movement of this fellow's figure at home has always made me feel empty. I would like to go and see him, but it is not up to me whether or not I am able to go to Wuhan. The “State” has taken a dissident like me as a potential enemy. The “State”, like the Monkey King in fiction, has drawn a circle around me so that the range of my movement has been strictly limited within an area of a little more than 1000 square kilometres, or a radii about 20 km. My friends outside cannot get in, and I cannot get out, even to see my own child.

Between my boy and me, there is just ninety kilometres. These mere ninety kilometres, however, appear to us to be insurmountable, like a natural moat.

Fortunately, there is the telephone. “Don’t worry about me. I am here, happy, joyful,” from another end of the line came the cheerful optimism, just the gene of our Du family! Du's Yes, I am optimistic. Although I am living in a miscarriage of justice, although my body is held under the control of power, although my freedom is limited within a tiny area drawn by the “State” with its Monkey King Bar, there is no fundamental damage to this optimism. We, the father and son, agreed that I would be responsible for giving him a happy childhood, and that he would have to return me as a responsible teenager and a capable youth. The boy has gone away to have an independent life. In the beginning, there was a bit worry. Would this kid who had done little housework leave a pile of dirty socks? Unexpectedly, a message was brought back that his white T-shirts, white socks and white shoes are washed even cleaner than at home. I relaxed a little bit.

Following the message that relaxed me, there comes also some news to make me worry. According to the class teacher, the boy’s spirit in the class has not been so good; sometimes he has even fallen asleep. It was also said that the boy got only a grade of 50+ out of 100 on his midterm examination for his English course. There must be something that has become an obstacle in the boy's study or his life. What is it? The problems of which a child has not become aware cannot be realized through telephone. Only the experiences of an adult to feel, to perceive and analyse can reach the crux. I should go and see him to learn more about what are the problems he has encountered. I would like to see him, my boy who has encountered the problems! The “State” does not let me go! Because it is said that if I would see my boy, the national security would be likely endangered.

(November 2007, in Yingcheng)

Original texts in Chinese can be found here.

(Translated by Yu Zhang)

Photo: Joey Huang/Unsplash

From Me In Rain & Other Poems

“Put out the lamp/ Let only the cigarette burn the night’s coldness/ Spill the wine out the window to the night/ Let the darkness get drunk/ To vomit out another dawn/ A daybreak when perhaps there will be news.” Dr. Liu Xiaobo and Liu Xia, husband and wife, writers and activists, were imprisoned, put under house arrest, and separated by the Chinese authorities as a consequence of their struggle for human rights. Deprived of social contact and community interaction, the couple had nothing left to do but imagine a life beyond confinement.

By Liu Xiaobo and Liu Xia with Independent Chinese PEN Center

---

Photo: Valentin Müller/Unsplash

Liu Xiaobo’s Poetry:

From Me in Rain

- To Xia

It rains

A drop passes through the sun

I was pushed to the edge of the world

I have to be in shock incessantly

And in obedience reluctantly

The raindrop is not cruel

But its gentleness is full of danger

Alone in nudity

I am the only one naked in the rain

The tints in rain are puzzling

All the umbrellas seem to weakly scream

Disappearing in the rain-soaked time

What I hope for

Is to collapse in rain

And that my thin body

Will leave before the rising sun

I am afraid of every kind of quiet change

And even less capable of bearing

Any feat as a hero

Trying to arouse God's attention

Is self-maltreatment through wishful thinking

I who have no wisdom to commit blasphemy

Can only light a cigarette

1991.7.30

Aloneness in Winter

- To Xia

Aloneness during a winter night

Like the blue background on the screen

Simple as everything at a glance but nothing at all

You may consider me as a cigarette, then,

To light and put out at any time

Smoking and smoking, but never ending

A pair of bare feet is stepping on the snow

Like a piece of ice falling into a wine bowl

Drunkenness and madness

Are the drooping wings of a crow

Beneath the endless shroud of earth

Black flame cries out involuntarily

The pen in my hand has suddenly snapped

Sharp wind is piercing the sky

Stars are fragmented into an adventure, my dream

The incantation drips blood into verse

The tenderness of skin still remains

A kind of brightness returns to you

Aloneness, clear

Is standing, weeping on a cold night

And touching the marrow of snow

While I

Am not a cigarette nor wine nor pen

But an old book

Similar to

"Wuthering Heights" where poisoned teeth grow

1995.1.1

Night and Dawn

- To Little Xia

When falling asleep alone the night

Is extremely cold

The lonely star before dawn looks even more ruthless

Despite the orange bedside light

The cold darkness still

Mercilessly

Swallows all of you

Facing the lamp, you are talking to yourself

And shedding tears while stroking shadows on the wall

At this moment, you should light a cigarette

Or pour yourself a glass of wine

To drunkenly pursue that

Missing person whose whereabouts are unknown

Or who may have been engulfed by deeper darkness

Put out the lamp

Let only the cigarette burn the night’s coldness

Spill the wine out the window to the night

Let the darkness get drunk

To vomit out another dawn

A daybreak when perhaps there will be news

1996.11.11

The Cliff

- To my wife

I was forced to mount a cliff somewhere

While a sharp rock embedded into my skin

An order commanding me to stand and shout

And issue an ultimatum to the world

I could stand but not shout

Or I could shout but not stand

My straight body could only be rigid

While my crazy shout could only be bent

The steepness and sharpness of the abyss

Did not allow straightness to challenge them

The limits of the body could only choose between two ways

But the absolute order demanded both

To choose is a hopeless struggle

Either to stand straight shouting and being crushed to pieces

Or to bend my knees to the abyss

While the huge sky has pressed down

1996.12.15

To My Wife

 As if the cold and indifferent moon

Is hanging high over my head

The flashing arrogance is looking down

To suffocate me

Its background is as deep and mysterious

As ghosts vomited from a grave

I am presenting holiness and purity

In exchange for being close to you in a dream

Not seeking for burning skin

But dyeing my eyes with a layer of cold ice

To see the sky-fire dying in its paleness

The sky’s grief is too vast and bare

For the eyes of my soul to see through

Give me a drop of rain

To polish the concrete floor

Give me a ray of light

To show the lightning’s question

One word from you

Can open this door

To let the night go home

1997.1.31

Liu Xia’s Poem

Untitled

- To Xiaobo

You speak you speak you speak the truth

You are talking day and night as long as you are awake

You talk and talk

You are in a closed room while your voice breaks out to spread

The death from twenty years ago has come back again

Come and gone as the time

You are short of many things but with you are the souls of the dead

You have lost daily life to join the outcry of the dead

There is no response and none

You speak you speak you speak the truth

You are talking day and night as long as you are awake

You talk and talk

You are in a closed room while your voice breaks out to spread

The wound from twenty years ago has been bleeding

Fresh and red as the life

You are fond of many things but more passionate accompanying the souls of the dead

You have made a promise to seek the truth with them

On the way there is no light and none

You speak you speak you speak the truth

You are talking day and night as long as you are awake

You talk and talk

You are in a closed room while your voice breaks out to spread

The gunfire of twenty years ago has decided your life

Always living in death

You are in love with your wife but more proud of the dark time with her you spent

You let her be but are more insistent that she continues to write you poems after her death

In the verses there is no sound and none

2009.9.4

(Translated by Yu ZHANG)

Photo: Jan-WillemUnsplash

Candies

“Several days after that, on the way to school or at home, Droma would quietly take out the half candy to lick it gently. Sometimes when there were no others around at school, she would quietly take it out and lick it a few times. Sometimes at home she would take it out to let her brother lick it a few times and put it back. The sheep dog often stared at Drolma's hands with its big and black eyes, sitting still with an expectant look.” Yang Tongyan (April 12, 1961 - November 5, 2017), a famous dissident writer and social activist better known as Yang Tianshui, was sentenced to 12 years’ imprisonment for “subverting state power” because of his critical essays on overseas websites, as well as his political activism.

By Yang Tianshui with Independent Chinese PEN Center

---

Photo: Alvan Nee/Unsplash

"These are a few pieces of candies, rock candy, milk candy, and fruit candy."

Pointing to the blackboard, a female teacher read aloud, followed by a burst of childish voices echoed among the hills – “These are a few pieces of candies,,,"

Magnificent but patient dawn slowly brightened the Songpan Grasslands; also brightened the southwestern mountains, a village primary school hut halfway up the mountain, the fine chalk handwriting on the blackboard, the nice mild round face of the teacher and a dozen untidy boys and girls.

The female teacher, eighteen or nineteen, was holding a wooden stick to lead the reading again:

"This is a piece of candy."

The sunlight traveled through the door and windows to caress her dark black double pigtails.

The school kids were fully concentrating and reading in slow but sweet childish voices:

"This is a piece of candy."

It was a little bit chilly in the mountains in the autumn; spells of chilly winds eddied around the cottage, and some kids were rubbing their small reddish hands while reading.

The teacher had a look at the southern row of children and said:

"Dear girls and boys, if Drolma has two candies and Sangzhi has one, how many pieces of candies do they have in total? Please hands up to answer," the teacher said.

Some small hands were raised high in the southern row. The teacher said:

"Drolma, please."

A girl in Tibetan robe stood up. Her black little eyes blinked and said:

"A total of three."

The teacher motioned Drolma to sit down while saying “Drolma is right.” She then added:

"Those in Year Two, please be attentive! If Drolma gets nine pieces of candy, but Basang takes four away, how many pieces will be left? “

Some of the children sitting in the mid-row of the classroom began to raise their hands, some turned their fingers to count, and some heads lowered as if they were afraid of being found. With a smile the teacher said to a boy:

"Gelang, do you know the answer?"

A dark, timid boy stood up and said:

"Five."

The teacher smiled happily and said:

"Gelang is right. Sit down, please! Next, those in Year Three, please be attentive! If Drolma, Basang or Jielang was assigned five each, then what is the total number assigned to them? Please use the multiplication to make it out! "

Only one kid among the children sitting in the back of the classroom put up a hand. The teacher gave him a gesture, he stood up and said:

"Three fives is fifteen, the total is fifteen."

Very satisfied, the teacher went up to the back of the classroom and led the kids at back to read the multiplication table. She then went to a boy of fourteen or fifteen and asked:

"Moocuo, now we have fifteen candies, if they are divided equally among Zoma, Basan, Gelang and you, how many does each get then? How many will be left? What will you do with the remainder?"

Moocuo, in a Tibetan robe with dirty sleeves, stood up tamely, looking at the ceiling and said slowly:

"Each could get 3, and two will be left, and to whom should the remaining two be given?"

After thinking for a while, he resumed:

"The remaining two should be given to Drolma who is the youngest among us."

The teacher asked:

"Why do you want the rest candy going to the youngest?"

Moocuo said:

"The elder should take care of the younger. That is what teacher always teaches us"

The teacher said:

"Dear boys and girls, the elder kids should take care of the younger ones, understood?"

The children answered immediately in chorus: "Understood!"

Outside was a sheep dog, standing under a tree and casting his curious eyes into the classroom. On the hill-slope not far away cattle and sheep were moving leisurely: some were chewing grass, some looking at the sky. The teacher opened the green canvas bag on her desk, took out a paper bag, and said:

"Dear boys and girls, let me hand out the candy, okay?"

The girls and boys were excited and active. Some whispered, some twittered. Their tender voices sounded like many little birds singing. Some asked:

"What does candy look like?"

Some asked:

"Really very very sweet?"

Some asked:

"What is rock candy and what is fruit candy?"

The teacher waved to the children and said:

"Please be seated on your seats, I'll distribute the candies among you."

The students kept quiet at once, with joy and an expectant look on each face. The teacher started the distribution from the Year-One kids in the southern row, with each kid having two: one fruit candy and one milk candy. When the teacher walked to Moocuo of the Year Four, only one fruit candy left. "Moocuo, sorry, I will give you another one next time."

 "It’s all right, Teacher. I'm older than them. One is enough."

 Petting his head gently, the teacher said:

 "You are a virtuous good boy!"

Now all kids began eating the candies. Some were chewing noisily, and some were smacking their lips to enjoy the sweet taste. There were also several kids playing with the sweets in their hands. Drolma, who was in the first grade, put one piece of candy into her bag, and then opened the other one, licked it several times, covered it again and carefully put it into the inner pocket. As the teacher intended to resume her lesson, she asked Drolma after seeing what she did:

"Little Drolma, why didn’t you eat your candy?"

Drolma’s deskmate answered:

"Teacher, she ate nothing. That piece of milk candy ... was placed in her bag."

The teacher: "Why don’t you eat them? Are you going to enjoy them later slowly?"

Drolma: "No, teacher. The milk candy is for my brother. I will take it back to him after school."

Teacher: "Little Drolma, you can eat it. I will bring some for you when I return to the city next month."

Drolma: "No, teacher. I don’t like to eat it. I will leave it to my brother. He is very cute."

The teacher approached Drolma, patting her braids and said:

"How old is your brother? What a lovely boy!"

"Four," Little Droma inclined her head with a smile, exposing a mouth of white little teeth.

The teacher went back to the teaching platform, and said:

"Dear boys and girls, lots of plants, crops and fruits contain sugar; canes from the south are sweet; apple, orange, pear, jujube, hawthorns, rock melons and watermelons are all sweet." All the kids listened intently.

She continued:

"These sweet stuffs already existed hundreds and thousands of years ago. However, it was not until Tang Dynasty that people began to make sugar out of the sweet stuffs."

One student asked:

"Tang Dynasty?"

The teacher went on:

"Tang was a dynasty 1200 or 1300 years ago. At that time, Indian people introduced sugar refining methods to China, and our Chinese people started to have sugar to eat."

Then the teacher wrote on the blackboard: "During Tang dynasty, the Indians brought sugar refining skills to China."

She then led the students to read it over and over again. Outside were the clear blue sky and the quiet autumn mountains. The cattle and sheep were still lingering on the grass slope. Probably tired, the sheep dog sat down under the trees and curiously looked into the classroom.

When school was over, Drolma pulled the skirts of her teacher quietly, and asked:

"Teacher, what is rock candy like?"

Teacher answered:

"Rock candy? Just like small broken pieces of smashed ice."

"Sweet?"

"Of course. That’s why we call it candy!"

The sheep dog strode to Drolma, whining and spinning around her with its tail waving. Drolma bent over, pulled out the fruit sugar, bit it into two halves, and put it near the dog’s mouth. That dog reached out its tongue and licked the fruit sugar repeatedly. Later on, it appeared to be eager to swallow the sugar, waving its head and tail violently to show its coquetry. Droma touched its ears and put the half candy into its mouth.

The teacher said: "This dog is as dear to you as your brother."

Drolma said:

“So said my parents."

She added with a mysterious look: "Teacher, next time if you come with rock candies, please give me one more for my younger brother, okay?”

Teacher smiled: "Little Drolma, next time I will bring you some more. Well, hurry home for lunch now. Your mum and dad must be waiting for you."

Getting close to her home, little Droma saw mum and brother standing before their felt tent. She ran to them and took out the piece of candy in the bag, shouted:

"Mum, brother, milk candy."

The dog ran after her eagerly. Drolma went to her brother, bent over, peeled the paper off the milk candy and put it into his mouth, and said:

"Brother, candy."

Her mother asked: "Where did you get it?"

Drolma answered: "Our teacher brought it from the city. Everybody got two except that Moocuo got one."

Mom said: "Teacher Ah-chin is so good. As an 18 or 19-year-old city girl, she put aside all the benefits to come to this remote mountain village to teach you to read and write. What a Buddha!"

Drolma: "Teacher Ah-chin told me she would bring us rock candies when she goes home next time. She said that rock candies are just like broken pieces of smashed ice, bright and clear as crystals."

Mother: "She has only 20-30 yuan per month for her salary. It will cost all that to buy candies for you, won’t it?"

Drolma said: "We can send a goat to her in the future, okay?"

Mother added: "And a scarf as well."

Drolma dropped her bag, and went to help Mum to carry straw to feed the mare about to give birth. Busy for a while, she suddenly realized something. She took out the half candy which she had carried with her, carefully opened the paper, and lifted it to her mother's lips:

"Mum, taste it to see if it is sweet or not?"

Mum said with a smile: "Mum does not like to taste. Candy is always sweet, just like Buddhas always save people, while a wolf licks a lamb.”

Little Droma had to withdraw her hand. She licked it several times, wrapped the candy and then put it back in her inside pocket. 

Several days after that, on the way to school or at home, Droma would quietly take out the half candy to lick it gently. Sometimes when there were no others around at school, she would quietly take it out and lick it a few times. Sometimes at home she would take it out to let her brother lick it a few times and put it back. The sheep dog often stared at Drolma's hands with its big and black eyes, sitting still with an expectant look. Every time this happened, Drolma did not like to ignore the dog. She would take some cooked mutton from her pocket to feed it.

Over three months passed. The prairie and the mountain village had been covered with heavy snow. The village school seemed completely isolated except for some wild geese flying southbound in the blue sky occasionally. Only when the female teacher took all the children out of the classroom to bask in the sun, did there emerge some energy halfway up the mountain. At that moment, the sheep dog always stayed near Drolma. The dog was getting more friendly to the teacher. It often ran to kiss her feet and rub her trouser legs. One day near noon, the teacher found Drolma standing before a pile of forage grass. She walked and over talked to her:

"Little Drolma, I'm so sorry. I promised you to bring some rock candies. A few months passed, but I couldn’t get any. It was a palm-sized town, and not enough supplies for everything."

Drolma replied with a grin:

"Teacher, we still had candies."

She took out the half candy to smell and then gently licked it. The dog was beside, listening to their talk. It turned its head toward the teacher when the teacher was talking, and then turned to Drolma when she was talking.

School was over, and she walked home alone with her dog after a short shared journey with some of other students, as her house was far away. The wind rose from humming at first to roaring. The huge cold air was quickly spreading all over the whole grassland and mountains. It made Little Drolma shiver. She put her hands into her sleeves, pulled in her neck and ran to a cliff for shelter. When the dog heard the huge wind, it hesitated for a while at first, and then followed its little master to trot to the shelter under the cliff.

That cliff was dozens of meters high, like a tall black tower. The winding path, on which little Drolma often walked, was to the south of the cliff. Beyond the path was a dozens-of-meter deep valley. In spring or summer, the valley would be full of grass, flowers and trees; in autumn a clear stream would be running down there and many birds would be singing. But it was winter now, the whole valley was covered in silence. Luckily there were some rays of sunshine, shining and bright, opposing the gloomy sternness so as not to turn the chilly silence into dead silence. The cold cliff was too steep. Even the dog dared not go close. The dog shrank back as close as possible to the shelter cliff.

Little Drolma sat beside a huge rock, hugged the dog in her arms, pulled out some broken pieces of mutton to feed the dog. She kissed the dog. Lifting its bright and gentle eyes, it looked at Drolma, whined for a while and turned to the west-side of Drolma. Drolma suddenly felt a bit warmer. She did not want to go home until the wind became weaker. Taking out the text book, she read aloud:

Under the pines I questioned the boy.

“My master’s off gathering herbs.

All I know is he’s here on the mountain----

Clouds are so deep, I don’t know where…”

She read it several times, then she took out the half candy, opened the paper, and licked it a few times.

Suddenly there came a burst of tiger and leopard roars in the distance. The sheep dog made several barks. Little Drolma was so surprised that her candy dropped onto the ground from her hands. The candy rolled away a few feet and landed onto the slope of the cliff, which was just a few feet away.

Little Droma searched for the candy and finally found it lying in a stone nest on the slope. The dark red candy paper was very obvious in the noon-time sunlight. Drolma slowly moved to the cliff top, knelt down, stretched out one arm to reach the candy, but she failed several times. The dog also followed her closely. That dog cowered, lying there with anxious looks.

After a while, sweat came out on her head. With her second try, she finally got it in her hand. Smiles came back to her reddish face. She hastily straightened up to lift her knees to move toward the cliff. Probably with a leg numbed, she swayed and fell down into the valley. The sheep dog was totally shocked. It wanted to go down to the bottom of the valley, but it only pawed the ground anxiously with fear. It made up its mind several times to rush down, but it stopped at last. The dog wandered for a while on the windy path, and ran a dozen of metres in both directions to the east and west. Finding a place with a gentle slope, it went down the valley, trampling on the cracked pieces of ice. It finally sniffed in the right direction and quickly ran to little Drolma.

Drolma was lying on a pile of pebbles. Her dog shoved at her hand and her face worriedly. It waved its tail and barked affectionately at Drolma. Although it waited for a long time, the dog didn’t get any response from little Drolma. It began to head back to the winding path and hurried back to the village school.

In the school kitchen, the teacher had just finished her lunch and was putting the remaining noodles and pickled vegetables back into a very old dark cupboard. When the dog ran over, it kissed her feet and trouser legs, shoved its head into her knees, raised its begging eyes accompanied with its barks and whines, and looked up at the teacher. The teacher smiled:

"Little Droma came to school so early today. Why not going home for lunch? Come here, all the leftover noodles are for you."

Upon saying this, she served a bowl of noodles from the cupboard, and poured it into a pot in the corner. But the dog had no interest in it. It kept making low whines with an anxious and restless look on its face. When it tugged her outside by her pants, the teacher shouted outside:

"Drolma, little Drolma, does your sheep dog want me to teach it to read?"

Just then, a student came in: "Teacher, Drolma is not here, only her dog."

The teacher felt something wrong. They walked out of the door with the dog. The dog ran in front of her and looked back from time to time to check if the teacher was following or not. They hurried to the cliff. The dog looked back at the teacher, and ran along the gentle slope into the valley bottom. The teacher followed. Seeing Drolma lying on a pile of pebbles, she called out: “Little Drolma”. The dog got there one step earlier than the teacher. It shoved up her with its mouth, and looked up at the teacher. The teacher kneeled down, only to find that the blood running from her nose had been frozen into ice. Her small face was purple with freezing. Her eyes were closed. Tightly clutched in her left hand was the half fruit candy.

Photo: Gregory Hayes/Unsplash

There Is A Wall Outside the Window - Essays from Prison

“The spring arrived and the earth became light green. At the foot of the high wall, there emerged a patch of tiny grass in light green. Without sunshine, the grass grew thin and yellow. Every day, I concentrated on this patch of light green.” Kang Yuchun, a doctor and writer, was sentenced to 17 years in prison for political issues in 1992.

By Kang Yuchun with Independent Chinese PEN Center

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Photo: Michael C/Unsplash

1. A Sunflower in the Shade

Outside the glass window of my cell, less than two meters away, there stands a high wall, blocking the wind, blocking the rain, but also blocking my endless longing for the complex noisy world beyond it.

The spring arrived and the earth became light green. At the foot of the high wall, there emerged a patch of tiny grass in light green. Without sunshine, the grass grew thin and yellow. Every day, I concentrated on this patch of light green. One day, I discovered suddenly that, in this patch of tiny grass, one blade of grass grew especially fast and especially tall, with a thin stalk and large leaves. Oh! That was not an ordinary grass but a sunflower in the shady place under the wall. Although tender and tiny, she staunchly and rigidly grew up. She had been blown down by the storm time after time, but stubbornly raised her head again and again, upward...

I looked at her every day, expected for her every day, and also worried about her every day. I did not dare to hope that she would blossom and bear fruit. One day, however, a tender yellow sunflower blossomed on her fragile head. What was strange is that she was not facing toward the sun, but flashing a smile at me, toward the glass window to express her gorgeous charms. Please, do you know why?

(August 22, 2002)

2. Little Birds Unfearful of Electricity 

Not far away outside the window, there stands a wall. On top of the wall, there is an electric fence. The electric wires are exposed and appear to be stainless due to their electrification. I often stand at the window, looking at the big wall and electric fence to dream a daydream. Having lost freedom, I am very familiar with this wall and its fence outside the window. On one brick in the 38th row above the ground, there is a knot, resulting from the brick-baking, which displays its extremely unusual colour under the reflection of the window glass...

Several times, we placed some of food scraps on the windowsill outside the window. By chance there came several little birds. They were unattractive and belonged to a kind of house sparrow, most commonly seen in the north. The people at my hometown called them “old house-thief” to describe their quick reactions. It is very difficult to catch them. Whenever a little bird came, some of us at the window tried to make a surprise attack to catch it. Those fellows were really very crafty. Whatever means we used, whenever we stretched a hand or another tool out of the window to catch it, it would be rapidly flying up, passing between the iron bars outside the window and swaggering away. However, it seemed to care nothing about us. Soon it flew back and squatted on the electric fence not far away. It appeared to be very spirited, twittering to provoke us, as if saying “Chase, chase!” It made us so angry inside the window. Once a prisoner asked suddenly, “How is this bird unfearful of the electricity? There is electricity in the electric fence, isn’t there?”

This question made me feel awkward and think deeply. Yes, the electric fence is so powerful as to electrocute people who are intelligent and wise, but also so reluctant to injure a little house sparrow. Although little and weak, a house sparrow may fly through the iron bars and take up the station on the electric fence. The stronger may be violently powerful over the world, but it still has weaknesses. The weaker is powerless, but also has its opportunity to survive. This is a heavenly principle, but also the highest truth in man’s world.

(November 30, 2002)

(Translated by Yu ZHANG)

Original texts in Chinese can be found here

Photo: Monica Dahiya/Unsplash

A Beauty Condemned To Death

“Living in the dormitory without any privacy will inevitably create contradiction and hostility, which constrain human nature and twist human character. Anyone who has ever lived in a dormitory has an intimate knowledge about this. Half a dozen people living together in a room less than 10 square meters over the years is incredible to those who live in a free world. However, in China, you have to bear this for a long time.” Zhang Lin, a dissident writer and social activist, was arrested in 1994 and then sentenced to three years of Reeducation-Through-Labor after contacting foreign journalists about human rights violations near his home village.

By Zhang Lin with Independent Chinese PEN Center

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Photo: Stephen Tafra/Unsplash

Wang Guocui was a beauty who attracted people at first sight. People often talked about her in Bengbu Detention Centre. She was detained in our neighbouring cell. Those who met her once often talked about her with sparkles in their eyes. Every time the neighbouring iron door clicked, following the tinkling of the leg-irons, prisoners would madly rush to the door. The luckiest guy might catch a glance of her through the peephole. Guocui always brushed her hair with fingers when looking around with a coquettish smile, and then followed the guard toward the interrogation room. Many of those who had seen her highly praised her beauty, especially for her slender figure and tender eyes.

Unfortunately, I’ve never seen her. However, I’ve heard her singing beyond the partition wall during exercise time every day. There were wire fence above the dividing wall, but we could toss crumpled paper over it. We asked her to sing songs for us, and her singing had never been interrupted. Her voice sounded a bit like Cheng Lin, a famous singer, and Guocui especially liked to sing Lin’s songs like Any Empty Wine Bottles to Sell and Travelling through Wind and Rain.

Sometimes, she would dance while singing, using leg-irons as her accompaniment. The tinkles were supposed to be made by a pair of leg-irons weighing 3 kilograms. They sounded pleasant. Sometimes when the jail guard on duty got drunk, he would sigh pitifully for such a beautiful beauty. Every night, the armed policemen on guard leaned over the skylight watching Guocui, talking and flirting with her.

Guocui had been a student of Foodstuff Workers Training School at Bengbu. She was only 19 at that time. She was good at singing and dancing, and was regarded as a campus star. She was chased by many boy students. Finally, her heart was taken by one of them. One day, they hugged together wildly when alone in the dormitory where 10 girls usually lived.

All beauties seem to have unfortunate destiny. A pair of cold eyes belonging to one of Guocui’s roommates had watched them sneaking into the domitory. A long time living together in such an over-crowded place had inevitably brought lots of resentments among the girls. Now it was the roommate’s chance to get revenge.

While Guocui and her boyfriend were carried away in love, the door was kicked open roughly. No knocking or the sound of unlocking was heard when more than a dozen people rushed into the room. They were the principal, vice-principal, chief and vice-chief of the security section, a bunch of security workers, and, last, the informer. These people were staring at Guocui’s body wolfishly. They had finally caught the couple red-handed. The general office immediately decided to expel them from school.

Guocui’s parents were both farmers who had suffered hunger and cold during their several decades of hard working in the fields. Their only wish was that their pretty and smart daughter would not live such a life as theirs, but get rid of the rural household registration and live in the city. Guocui did not let them down. She was admitted into the Foodstuff Workers Training School, and would be regarded as a government official after graduation. When that happened, she would get her own salary every month.

However, after being expelled, the only path for her was to return to the rural area and lead the same life as her parents. She would struggle her whole life under the brutal rule of the rural party members and cadres in her exceptionally poor village, with face down to the earth and back up to the sky, and nobody would ever answer her appeal. The moment she heard the bad news of expulsion, she burst out crying and fell in a fit. After waking up, she became a totally different person with totally dull eyes. She had no appetite for food or drink, and kept talking to herself.

She fell to her knees in front of the principal’s office, crying and begging them not to expel her. She also lay on the floor of the security section, swearing to God that they had no sexual relationship but had only been hugging each other without clothes on, and begged them to check of her body. Still, everybody ignored her. The school only sent a telegram to her parents, urging them to take her away immediately.

It appeared as if Guocui had understood that her fate had been settled with no hope. Her parents would come the next day without knowing what exactly happened. This would be the last day in this school, and the last night sleeping in this dormitory.

Her tears ran dry. Guocui was too ashamed to face her wretched parents who would be heartbroken after knowing the whole story. She gazed at the informer who had fallen asleep soundly. Brandishing a small axe that she had stolen from the carpentry yard, she cried within her heart, “Why did you set me up like this? How did I offend you that made you ruin my whole life like this?”

“Since we are already enemies, let us go to hell together!” Guocui lift the axe and chopped down hysterically. With one hack after another, she altogether chopped 19 times.

Guocui was sentenced to death not long after. On the morning of the execution, Shi Dalai woke me up quietly. He thought there would be 6 people being executed on that day. All the jail guards had a kind of special capability: they were able to open the iron-lock without a sound and pull the door suddenly. Two armed policemen would jump into the cell and pull the prisoner backwards by catching his or her arms. At the same time, two armed policemen with guns would suddenly show up above the skylight, with their guns pointing down. The yard would be filled with armed policemen as well.

After the prisoner was dragged out, the armed policemen would smash the leg-irons after stepping on the prisoner’s body, and then bind their hands and feet until the prisoner could barely breathe or shout. Two buns, put beside the prisoner’s mouth, are the so-called the last dinner.

While being dragged outside the door, Guocui reproached the policemen with a smile, “My high heels, my high heels fell off when you dragged me.” We all knew that her last request to her family and the whole world was to buy her a pair of high heels that she had been wanting for years, at the cheapest price.

She had been worrying being looked down on as a countrywoman, so she hoped that she could go to another world with high heels. She wore the pair of shoes for the whole night before execution. The armed policemen knew about this. They put her down violently, and went back for her shoes.

It was said that she died peacefully, but not like the other condemned prisoners with pale faces and shaking bodies. Several days before her death, she tossed us a piece of crumpled paper, saying:

“I would rather die than live my whole life as my parents, suffering as a peasant, living in hunger and cold. I never had my stomach full until the age of 10. It is extremely horrible living in the countryside. I don't think the hell would be that miserable and awful. I’m leaving. Hope you lucky city residents obtain your freedom very soon, and lead a happy life ever after. Wang Guocui.”

We felt sorry for her for a long time. She was forced to death. The informer was responsible for this, so were those seemingly respectable school leaders, so were the education ministry officials who set so many people in such a tiny dormitory, and so were the Party and government leaders who converted peasants into serfs and brought them poverty and hardship.

Living in the dormitory without any privacy will inevitably create contradiction and hostility, which constrain human nature and twist human character. Anyone who has ever lived in a dormitory has an intimate knowledge about this. Half a dozen people living together in a room less than 10 square meters over the years is incredible to those who live in a free world. However, in China, you have to bear this for a long time.

In Mao Zedong’s time, the cadres in the government and the Party had the power to order the females working for them, because their power was unbounded. They could even control their time of going to the toilet. Every detail of life, including eating, sleeping, seeing a doctor or having a rest, had to be arranged by the leaders. That cannot be counted as violation. However, dating had to be approved by the leaders, or it would be considered as having “bourgeois ideas” and liable for punishment.

After reform and opening up, the cadres in the government and the Party gradually have plenty of money to burn. Ninety per cent of the guests going to the exclusive clubs, restaurants, bathing centres, luxury estates, and hotel penthouses are cadres from the government, the Party and the army. General civilians have been hard-up with no spare money for such entertainments. Even the businessmen who always have strict budgets would not spend money like this, unless they have to socialize with the cadres.

The cadres have been eating the Chinese young women’s youth, but not allowing the young couples to date, otherwise the couple’s whole life of happiness will be ruined, like Wang Guocui. This is the same as the way magistrates are allowed to burn down houses while the common people are forbidden even to light lamps.

It reminds me of the related policy in past dynasties: singles, soldiers and businessmen who were away from home were allowed to seek fun from prostitutes. However, it was strictly forbidden for the officials, because the imperial understood that this would be a bottomless pit as there were so many beauties in the world. Indulging in the beauties would inevitably rapidly lead to corruption.

Even if in the United States, ordinary people’s sex life earns respect. Earvin Johnson (Magic Johnson) admits in his autobiography that he has had sexual relationship with more than 3000 women, but American people still like him even though he suffered with AIDS from it. However, this didn’t work for President Clinton.

The Community Party goes to the opposite extreme. Everything goes contrary to normal society.

Wang Guocui was dead. Another delicate and charming flower was smashed by the giant wheel of Communism.

Original texts in Chinese can be found here

(Translated by Angela Hu)

Photo: John Salvino/Unsplash

A Travel Report

“ (…) in my days there are beetles/a dream of stardom, the city of Nanjing/and a pair of hands to bury the ruins.” Shi Tao, a journalist, writer and poet, was sentenced to imprisonment for 10 years in 2005 for releasing a document of the Communist Party to an overseas Chinese democracy site after Yahoo! China provided his personal details to the Chinese government. How does the imprisoned travel? What’s his community? Tao reports from a half-buried landscape.

By Shi Tao with Independent Chinese PEN Center

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Photo: JuniperPhoton/Unsplash

Taiyuan

the city of sunset, the city of Tang poetry

carrying a ticket

issued by Chang An Station of the Empire

I stepped into another dark castle

the sunset is not yesterday’s

sunset, though the Tang poetry is still recited

but you have to take a lift

rocketing up to the top of a fake ancient tower

to the vast groups of people

shouting a loud “Good”

otherwise…

there would be a piece of brick coating

spilling off from the ancient city walls

smashing grey imprints onto your body

to make you remember lifelong

the taste of cultural violence

Yinchuan

sunflower, the fruit of autumn

you introduced one line of a poem

into the tomb of poet Hai Zi

just as within the church of a fairytale

among the groups of people, one pair of eyes

is making pilgrimage to another pair of eyes

tonight, the silent sky

will be with me, together

to mourn a deceased, beloved person

Shanghai

from the eyes of a clown, I

entered a palace of human bodies

withered grass in silence, salt of the desires

the streets cooled down

from the fever of the season

from a thick art magazine, I

reached long-dreamed-of Shanghai

where graffiti in dreams

had turned into landscapes in everyone’s booklet

I used poems to write a six-year-long

travel report. several years later

I forced myself into

a stock house of memories,

“private, repeated and lengthy”

just like a bee yenning to share the happiness of an elephant

Nanjing

worn-out days are like the fallen ancient city

the fragrance of withered weeds on the city walls

also envies my fully soaked nostalgia

my story

once touched a lengthy dark night

silent passion disheartened by the cap of an opened wine bottle

in my days there are beetles

a dream of stardom, the city of Nanjing

and a pair of hands to bury the ruins

Original texts in Chinese can be found here

(Translated by Chen Biao)

Photo: Weiye Tan/Unsplash

Right For Culture - Belarus 2021

Artistic freedom lies at the heart of all strong communities. Art can teach us to question fixed structures and systems; it shows us that a community will always be a collection of voices, hopes, and visions, never a monologue. Without art, we’re simply losing ourselves, and our communities crumble.

In 2019, PEN Belarus began systematically collecting data on the violation of the human and cultural rights of cultural workers in the country. In January 2021, as the socio-political crisis intensified, PEN Belarus presented a public report of their monitoring results entitled “Belarus 2020: without the right to culture”.

In 2021, the crisis in Belarus continued, and culture remained the focus of the monitoring. The level of repression faced by cultural workers has not decreased since 2020. Among the current political prisoners in Belarus, 68 are cultural workers.

The monitoring by PEN Belarus contains statistics and analysis of the violations that took place in 2021. It was prepared using public information collected from open sources as well as direct communication with cultural workers and representatives of cultural institutions throughout the year.

By PEN Belarus

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Photo: Ehsan Eslami/Unsplash

I. MAIN RESULTS

We recorded 1,455 violations of the cultural rights and human rights of cultural figures in 2021. We collected information on the repression of 628 cultural figures, more than 240 organizations and associations, as well as on questions of cultural heritage and discriminatory policy regarding the Belarusian language.

Illustration: PEN Belarus

In 2021, the Belarusian authorities launched a fight against culture, civil society, and dissent with a scope that contrary to expectations turned out to be more severe than critical events we described in our monitoring “Belarus 2020: without the right to culture”.

The dynamics of violations per quarter from 2020–2021 can be seen in the graph below:

Illustration: PEN Belarus.

The number of violations recorded in 2021 is 2.5 times higher than the number recorded in 2020: 1,455 vs 593 respectively.

CULTURAL WORKERS WHO ARE POLITICAL PRISONERS

As of December 31.2021, there are 969 political (the procedure for recognition as a political prisoner is set forth in a certain framework document) prisoners in Belarus. 68 of these are cultural figures:

• architect Arciom Takarčuk – 11.20.2020 sentenced to 3.5 years in a penal colony;

• artist Uladzislaŭ Makaviecki – 12.16.2020 sentenced to 2 years in a penal colony;

• poet and programmer Anatol Chinievič – 12.24.2020 sentenced to 2.5 years in a penal colony;

• concert agency director Ivan Kaniavieha – 02.04.2021 sentenced to 3 years in a penal colony;

• artist Alaksandr Nurdzinaŭ – 02.05.2021 sentenced to 4 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• documentary film author and blogger Paviel Spiryn – 02.05.2021 sentenced to 4.5 years in a penal colony;

• poet and director Ihnat Sidorčyk – 02.16.2021 sentenced to 3 years in an open-type correctional institution [OTCI]. He has been serving this sentence since 06.14.2021;

• writer and journalist Kaciaryna Andrejeva (Bachvalava) – 02.18.2021 sentenced to 2 years in a penal colony;

• cultural manager Lavon Chalatran – 02.19.2021 sentenced to 2 years in OTCI. He has been serving the sentence since 06.13.2021;

• designer Maksim Taćcianok – 02.26.2021 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI. He has been serving the sentence since 06.18.2021;

• artist and animator Ivan Viarbicki – 03.15.2021 sentenced to 8 years and 1 month in a strict-regime penal colony;

• UX/UI-designer Dźmitryj Kubaraŭ – 03.24.2021 sentenced to 7 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• artist, former student of the Academy of Sciences Anastasija Mironcava – 04.01.2021 sentenced to 2 years in a penal colony;

• drummer Alaksiej Sančuk – 05.13.2021 sentenced to 6 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• cultural manager Mia Mitkievič – 05.20.2021 sentenced to 3 years in a penal colony;

• writer and socio-political figure Paviel Sieviaryniec – 05.25.2021 sentenced to 7 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• poet, founder of the “Medovaya” literary prize Mikalaj Papieka – 06.08.2021 sentenced to 2 years in OTCI. He has been serving the sentence since 09.13.2021;

• dancers Ihar Jarmolaŭ and Mikalaj Sasieŭ – 06.10.2021 sentenced to 5 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• arts patron Viktar Babaryka – 07.06.2021 sentenced to 14 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• actor Siarhiej Volkaŭ – 07.06.2021 sentenced to 4 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• lighting designer Danila Hančaroŭ – 07.09.2021 sentenced to 2 years in a penal colony;

• musician Paviel Larčyk – 07.09.2021 sentenced to 3 years in a penal colony;

• poet and publicist, a former student of the Faculty of Philosophy and Social Sciences at BSU Ksienija Syramalot – 07.16.2021 sentenced to 2.5 years in a penal colony;

• former students of the Faculty of Aesthetic Education in BSPU – Jana Orobiejko i Kasia Buďko 07.16.2021 sentenced to 2.5 years in a penal colony;

• former student at the Academy of Arts Maryja Kalenik – 07.06.2021 sentenced to 2.5 years in a penal colony;

• former student in the Faculty of Architecture at BNTU Viktoryja Hrankoŭskaja – 07.16.2021 sentenced to 2.5 years in a penal colony;

• designer and architect Raścislaŭ Stefanovič – 07.19.2021 sentenced to 8 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• musician & D.J. Artur Amiraŭ – 08.20.2021 sentenced to 3.5 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• history and social studies teacher Andrej Piatroŭski – 08.25.2021 sentenced to 1.5 years in a penal colony;

• poet, musician, and advocate Maksim Znak – 09.06.2021 sentenced to 10 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• musician and cultural project manager Maryja Kaleśnikava – 09.06.2021 sentenced to 11 years in a penal colony;

• musician Jaŭhien Piatroŭ – 09.11.2021 sentenced to 1 year in a penal colony;

• researcher at the Center for Research of Belarusian Culture, Language and Literature of the National Academy of Sciences Alaksandr Halkoŭski – 09.14.2021 sentenced to 1.5 years in OTCI. He has been serving this sentence since 10.16.2021;

• promoter of history and human rights advocate Taćciana Lasica – 11.03.2021 sentenced to 2.5 years in a penal colony;

• author of prison literature, activist of the anarchist movement Mikalaj Dziadok – 11.10.2021 sentenced to 5 years in a penal colony;

• musicians Uladzimir Kalač and Nadzieja Kalač – 12.14.2021 sentenced to 2 years in a penal colony;

• promoter of history, blogger Eduard Palčys – 12.17.2021 sentenced to 13 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• author of prison literature, activist of the anarchist movement Ihar Alinievič – 12.22.2021 sentenced to 20 years in a strict-regime penal colony;

• musicians Piotr Marčanka, Julija Marčanka (Junickaja) and Anton Šnip – 12.28.2021 sentenced to 1.5 years in a penal colony;

• cultural manager Eduard Babaryka – he has been in pre-trial detention since 06.18.2020;

• manager of cultural projects, author of a book of fairy tales written in captivity, businessman Alaksandr Vasilevič – he has been in pre-trial detention since 08.28.2020;

• activist, reenactor of history Kim Samusienka – he has been in pre-trial detention since 11.03.2020;

• director of documentaries, journalist Ksienija Luckina – she has been in pre-trial detention since 12.22.2020;

• poet, journalist and media manager Andrej Alaksandraŭ – he has been in pre-trial detention since 01.12.2021;

• author of musical projects and director of typography Arciom Fiedasienka – he has been in pre-trial detention since 03.19.2021 (01.14.2022 Arciom Fiedasienka sentenced to 4 years in a penal colony);

• chairwoman of the Union of Poles Anžalika Borys – she has been in remand prison since 03.23.2021;

• poet and member of the Union of Poles Andrej Pačobut – he has been in remand prison since 03.27.2021;

• artist Aleś Puškin – he has been in pre-trial detention since 03.30.2021;

• author and editor, political scientist, and analyst Valeryja Kaściuhava – she has been in pre-trial detention since 06.30.2021;

• writer, musician and author of the magazine “Naša historyja” Andrej Skurko – he has been in pre-trial detention since 07.08.2021;

• writer, researcher on the history of Belarusian literature, essayist and human rights defender Aleś Bialacki – he has been in pre-trial detention since 07.14.2021;

• street-art artist and IT-specialist Dźmitryj Padrez – he has been in pre-trial detention since 07.15.2021;

• philosopher, methodologist, and publicist Uladzimir Mackievič – he has been in pre-trial detention since 08.04.2021;

• sound engineer Kiryl Salejeŭ – he has been in pre-trial detention since 09.14.2021 (01.11.2022 Kiryl Salejeŭ sentenced to 3 years in OTCI);

• former teacher of Belarusian language and literature Ema Stsepulionak – she has been in pre-trial detention since 09.29.2021;

• musician, violin teacher Aksana Kaśpiarovič – she has been in remand prison since 09.30.2021;

• bass guitarist Viktar Katoŭski – he has been in pre-trial detention since 09.30.2021;

• photographer and journalist Hienadź Mažejka – he has been in pre-trial detention since 10.01.2021;

• history teacher Artur Ešbajeŭ – he has been in pre-trial detention since 11.02.2021;

• founder of Symbal.by, manager of cultural projects Paviel Bielavus – he has been in pre-trial detention since 11.15.2021;

• science fiction writer, journalist Siarhiej Sacuk – he has been in pre-trial detention since 12.08.2021;

• author of non-fiction books, journalist Aleh Hruzdzilovič – he has been in pre-trial detention since 12.23.2021;

• literary and cultural critic Julija Čarniaŭskaja – she has been under house arrest since 05.20.2021 (without the possibility of going outside or any communication with the outside world, with the exception of a lawyer) (01.13.2022 Julija Čarniaŭskaja had her measure of restraint changed and released from house arrest, but she remains a defendant in the criminal case).

In detention are also the writer, translator, and literary critic Alaksandr Fiaduta, the local historian and activist Uladzimir Hundar, and the cameraman Viačaslaŭ Lamanosaŭ. Illustration: PEN Belarus.

RIGHT TO LIFE

Vitold Ašurak, promoter of history and activist from Biarozaŭka, died in the colony in Škłoŭ city on May 21, 2021 in unexplained circumstances. The official reason for his death is a heart attack. His relatives, however, insist that he did not suffer from heart problems. Neither they nor the public have received convincing proof that he died of natural causes. 

Anatol Pasieka, an employee of the Janka Kupala Museum in Minsk, died in his workplace on August 5, 2021 during a planned fire safety check.

CONVEYOR OF CRIMINAL CASES

In total, 63 sentences were passed against 62 cultural workers.

Illustration: PEN Belarus

Data on the sentences of individuals who do not fall within the “political prisoner” category:

• cameraman Viačaslaŭ Lamanosaŭ 01.15.2021 sentenced to 2 years in a penal colony;

• architect Vadzim Dźmitronak 03.17.2021 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI;

• translator Volha Kalackaja 03.24.2021 sentenced to 2 years of home confinement (Restriction of liberty without referral to an open-type correctional facility, i.e. the convicted person remains at home but must comply with a number of rules such as going to work and reporting to the police);

• writer and activist Alena Hnaŭk convicted twice: 05.07.2021 sentenced to 2 years of home confinement, 09.03.2021 to 2 more years; in total, considering undone punishment – 3 years of home confinement;

• local historian and activist Uladzimir Hundar 05.20.2021 sentenced to 3 years in a penal colony;

• musician Uladzisłaŭ Navažylaŭ 06.21.2021 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI;

• poet and musician Hanna Važnik 06.28.2021 sentenced to 1 year of home confinement;

• librarian Julija Laptanovič 08.04.2021 sentenced to 3 years of home confinement;

• designer Taćciana Minina 08.12.2021 sentenced to 4 years of home confinement;

• cultural manager Iryna Chvajnickaja 08.20.2021 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI;

• cultural manager Rehina Lavor 09.16.2021 sentenced to 2 years of home confinement.

Analyzing the events of 2021, the following 24 cases should also be highlighted: 

• cultural managers Cimur Hazizaŭ (09.20.21 sentenced to 2 years in OTCI) and Jaŭhien Kračkoŭski (11.09.21 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI), writer and teacher of Belarusian language and literature Aleś Minaŭ (11.25.21 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI), and also art-manager Alaksandr Bahdanaŭ and set designer Maksim Kruk (12.17.21 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI) they are at large awaiting a decision on their appeals;

• cultural manager Taćciana Hacura-Javorskaja, translator Andrej Dyńko, poet Siarhiej Sys, an employee of PEN Belarus Volha Rakovič, cultural manager and human rights activist Andrej Paluda, writer Viktar Sazonaŭ, cultural manager Siarhiej Mackievič, writer and journalist Ihar Iljaš, cultural manager Taćciana Vadalažskaja were detained for periods from 1 to 13 days and currently have various restrictions (a travel restrictions, non-disclosure statements, etc investigative actions are being carried out against some of them);

• representatives of the Union of Poles in Belarus Hanna Panišava, Irena Biernackaja and Maryja Ciškoŭskaja were released under the condition of “leaving the territory of the country” – actually deported from Belarus on May 25;

• art-researcher Ala Šarko and cameraman Pietr Slucki were released from jail on 19 August, where they spent 8 months. Sviatlana Kuprejeva, a poet and member of Viktar Babaryka’s initiative group, was released from jail on October 12 after spending 16 months in prison;

• musician Maksim Šaŭlinski (04.23.21 sentenced to 2 years in OTCI) was pardoned and released on September 16;

• cultural manager Dzianis Čykaloŭ (03.22.21 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI) and musician Dźmitryj Šymanski (10.29.21 sentenced to 3 years in OTCI) left the country for security reasons;

• musician Ihar Bancar (03.19.21 sentenced to 1.5 years in OTCI) on December 17 he served his entire sentence by court verdict.

DETENTION CONDITIONS

We have recorded 110 reports of cultural workers being detained in cruel and degrading conditions. “Preserving human dignity is first and foremost preserving basic sanitary and hygienic norms. Life, if you are a politician, becomes a round-the-clock fight to not become an animal” (© Andrej Dyńko).

Detained cultural workers have reported the absence of medical assistance, the failure to provide such assistance in a timely manner, the refusal of access to examination by specialists, the refusal of access to hospitalization, the refusal to provide necessary medications. 

Maryja Kaleśnikava’s father was refused the right to visit his daughter 15 times. He was only able to meet with her one year after her imprisonment. Paviel Sieviaryniec was not allowed to leave prison for his father’s funeral. Valeryja Kaściuhava also did not attend her father’s funeral.  

Limiting the right to correspondence is an additional means of pressure applied to practically all detained cultural workers. Alaksandr Fiaduta was forced to refuse medication in protest against the restrictions on his correspondence with his relatives.  

There is a special system of psychological pressure for political prisoners. Vitold Ašurak wrote from the Škłoŭ penal colony that it was not difficult to identify political prisoners because the prison administration made them wear yellow tags on their trousers. Journalist Ihar Iljaš highlighted that this is a means of segregating prisoners who have a tendency towards “extremism.” Many detained cultural workers were subjected to such “preventative measures.”

Access to books and printed media is denied without basis. 

ANALYSIS OF THE CONDITIONS

Statistics regarding rights violations are as follows:

Illustration: PEN Belarus

Persecution for dissent, the right to a fair trial, and arbitrary detention were the most common rights violations in Belarus in 2021. Dividing these violations into groups, it is clear that cultural workers most often suffer the violation of civil and political rights. These account for 80 % of recorded violations.

Illustration: PEN Belarus

Against the backdrop of the protracted socio-political crisis, civil and political rights have seen the most violations in 2021, just as they did in 2020. Nonetheless, it is worth noting that in 2021, the number of violations of socio-economic and cultural rights has increased significantly.

Illustration: PEN Belarus

To a large extent, these changes are the result of massive pressure on civil society organizations (creation of administrative obstacles for operation, the liquidation of organizations, the seizing of property) and the tendency towards mass censorship. 

II. VIOLATIONS OF THE RIGHTS OF CULTURAL FIGURES

In total, we recorded 1,041 violations of the cultural and human rights of private individuals in 2021. Overall, the rights of 628 cultural workers were violated. 

Illustration: PEN Belarus

Statistics of the most common types of rights violations can be seen in the graph below:

Illustration: PEN Belarus

PERSECUTION FOR DISSENT has been the key characteristic of 2021. We recorded 439 instances of this. Among them are the facts of dismissal from cultural institutions for political reasons as well as punishment for acts of solidarity on the anniversary of an artist’s death. Cultural workers have experienced all forms of pressure, from “preventive conversations” and recommendations not to express political opinions on social media, to dismissals, detention, raids, criminal cases, and expulsion from the country. 

In 2021, we recorded:

• 237 instances of arbitrary detention,

• 123 illegal dismissals / discontinuation of contract,

• 122 raids,

• 105 exits from the country for personal security,

• 89 instances of persecution through criminal cases,

• 80 instances of property confiscation,

• 3 deportations.

Besides these forms of persecution, we also recorded: interrogations, particularly thorough checks when crossing the border, the freezing of bank accounts, expulsions from educational institutions, removal of honorary titles and awards. The well known theater director and documentary filmmaker Valery Mazynski – who had been an ‘honored artistic worker of the Belarusian Soviet Socialist Republic’, the winner of many prizes, and one of the founders of the state theater “Lyalka” in Viciebsk and the “Free Stage” theater in Minsk, was deprived of his pension for ‘meritorious service pension to the Republic of Belarus’. He had criticized state policy regarding the cultural sphere.  

RIGHT TO A FAIR TRIAL / ACCESS TO JUSTICE are the second most common rights that have been violated in the case of cultural workers. They are violated every time a person gets a short-term arrest sentence and fines for expressing political opinions or playing the wrong songs on the guitar. In such trials, there is often no proof, the police records are falsified, and witnesses give false testimony. The right to a fair trial is violated every time cultural workers are sentenced to months, years, or even decades in prison for their participation in peaceful gatherings, for the public expression of opinions, for helping those who have been repressed so that their example will inspire others. Significant trials take place behind closed doors: without relatives, media, the public, or observers. This was the case in the trials of Viktar Babaryka, Maryja Kaleśnikava, Maksim Znak, Eduard Palčys, Paviel Sieviaryniec, Ihar Bancar, and others. 

Authorities suspended the investigation into the death of the artist Raman Bandarenka (November 12, 2020) and completely ignored the results of an independent investigation.

No criminal case was launched as a result of the death of political prisoner Vitold Ašurak in the penal colony.

On December 17, Eduard Babaryka had spent 18 months in detention. On 20 December, the authorities launched another criminal case against him instead of releasing him or taking his case to court.

ARBITRARY DETENTIONS

We recorded a total of 237 arbitrary detentions in 2021. In the majority of cases, the detentions were followed by administrative liability proceedings, administrative arrest, or fines. The days spent by cultural workers in prison become years and the fines they paid, in hundreds of roubles, go into the country’s budget.  

Illustration: PEN Belarus

RIGHT TO LEGAL ASSISTANCE 

As in 2020, we note both criminal and administrative liability cases. Lawyers have only 5 minutes to familiarize themselves with the case and to communicate with the defendant in administrative cases. Not allowing lawyers to be present during raids, detentions, interrogations, and hours-long “conversations” is common practice. We record the cases in which lawyers are unable to meet with the defendant for several days. Many of those providing legal assistance to defendants detained on political grounds have been deprived of their lawyer’s license or have been forced to cease their legal activities due to “reforms to the law on law practice” in 2021. The following individuals were deprived of their lawyers and the right to legal assistance in 2021: Viktar Babaryka, Eduard Babaryka, Ala Šarko, Pietr Slucki, Uladzimir Mackievič, Mikalaj Dziadok, Maksim Znak, Maryja Kaleśnikava, and Hienadź Mažejka.

RIGHT TO FREE EXPRESSION

The right of cultural workers to freedom of expression was violated at least 175 times. These violations took place as a result of politically motivated dismissals of cultural figures and students from cultural institutions, detentions for engaging in peaceful assembly and pickets, the expression of opinions in the media, posts or comments on social media, political inscriptions, for a piece of paper with the image of a heart attached to a window or a balcony.

III. VIOLATIONS REGARDING ORGANIZATIONS AND COMMUNITIES  

Statistics on the most common types of violations regarding organizations and communities can be seen in the graph below: 

Illustration: PEN Belarus

The creation of administrative obstacles to operations and the liquidation of organizations are, sadly, the most common types of violations. This type of violation was highlighted in the monitoring in 2021 period following the mass liquidation of non-governmental organizations. In 2020, there were also cases of administrative obstacles for non-governmental organizations, but the data from 2021 indicates that the authorities are now implementing their plan for destroying the non-state-controlled cultural sector. 

Shops with National Symbols / Commercial Organizations

The problems of commercial organizations in the businesses selling national souvenirs, symbols and paraphernalia began in 2020 during the first wave of the protest movement and increased interest of civil society in historical symbols. The creator of the store Symbal.by Paviel Bielavus stated that “as of summer [2020], they [the authorities] have constantly been causing problems for us.” At that point, customs officials were already not allowing the sending of packages containing flags and other national symbols. We have recorded the creation of administrative obstacles to the activities of the following shops across Belarus: Prince Vitaŭt, Symbal.by, Roskvit, Moj modny kut, Vokladki, BCHB.bel, Admietnaść, Cudoŭnaja krama, Chameleon, LSTR Adzieńnie, the workshop moj rodny kut, and the Honar designer clothes brand. From the beginning of 2021, the authorities began inspections which sometimes lasted several months. Inspections, raids, and interrogations of shop owners and their premises were conducted by representatives of the Ministry of Emergency Situations, the Department of Financial investigations, the Department for Combating Economic Crimes, the Department for Combating Organized Crime, the police, the Special Branch of the Police (OMON), the Labor Inspectorate, the State Committee for Standardization, the ideology branch of the City Executive Committee, and others. We recorded the confiscation of goods, technology, documents; the termination of rent agreements, etc. 

The creator of Symbal.by and cultural manager Paviel Bielavus, after being summoned by the police on November 15, was detained and sent to pre-trial detention where he remains to this day. He is accused of “participating in group activities that grossly violate public order”. On December 29, he was recognized as a political prisoner.

By the end of 2021, several shops had been forced to shut down: The Brest-based internet shop Prince Vitaŭt, the Hrodna-based Admietnaść, the Orša-based Cudoŭnaja krama, the Minsk-based Budźma-krama, and the Homieĺ-based Mroja (for economic reasons). 

Space for the Implementation of Cultural Projects

Since the beginning of 2021, we have recorded the trend of creating obstacles to activities within the cultural sphere. As is the case with shops selling national symbols, many art spaces have been forced to shut down.

On January 5, a representative of the company Art Corporation received an injunction from the ministry of Emergency Situations to cease activities in the cultural space Ok16, after which all events, and the rent agreement with the owner, were canceled. At the beginning of January, the authorities shut down the art-pub Torvald – a cafe and cultural center in Viciebsk. On January 25, the founder of the space Druhi pavierch Alaksandr Karalevič was detained and interrogated. Authorities raided the space.  At the end of January, the cultural space Kryly Chalopa (KCh) was forced to cease its activities. The financial police arrived at the premises and seized paper and electronic documents, after which representatives of the Ministry of Emergency Situations arrived and called the director Aksana Hajko to give explanations at the Department of Financial Investigations. The art space and bar Third place was forced to close for a period of time because the authorities demanded that the landlord cancel the rent agreement with the organization. In April, the Ministry of Emergency Situations and sanitary authorities arrived at the event space Miesca, as a result of which it was closed due to “violations”. On March 1, the platform Moving Art Factory (MAF) was forcibly closed. Its head reported the platform’s complete closure on March 16. The bar-club Hrafici collected money to pay fines for three authorities. In May, the Minsk-based art workshop 6B mastackaja majsternia closed. In October, authorities raided the Babrujsk-based art space “1387”, seized personal and professional technology equipment, items and goods from the premises and shop, and made a video. The activities of the space have been suspended since December 8. Art-Siadziba – a cultural platform that has been popularizing the Belarusian language and Belarusian culture – has been unable to continue its activities. 

Mass Liquidation of Non-Profit Organizations

The third quarter of 2021 was characterized by unprecedented pressure on civil society organizations across the country. Several hundred organizations experienced inspections, raids, seizure of documents and property, freezing of accounts, calls to interrogation, discreditation via propaganda channels, blocking sites, liquidation with and without a court decision. These measures are the authorities’ response to the growing solidarity of civil society and the broader population’s protest activities as a result of the events of 2020. Mass repressions and terror continue. Officials made multiple threats against civil society in 2021. On April 10, the Minister of Foreign Affairs Uladzimir Makiej reacted to the discussion of international sanctions as follows: “Any further sanctions will lead to the destruction of the civil society that they are intended to support. I would consider this absolutely justified in this situation” (Makei on calls for sanctions). As a result of the meeting on June 29, the Secretary of Russia’s Security Council Nikolai Patrushev supported Alyaksandar Lukashenka’s claim that outside forces were trying to overthrow him, and that the aim of non-profit organizations was to “overthrow the regime and the authorities” (Patrushev on the “external threat”).

Between July 14–17, many raids against non-governmental organizations, parties, rights defenders, and independent experts were conducted. On July 22, a day before the mass liquidation of non-profit organizations, at a meeting with the Council of Ministers, Lukashenka stated that in Belarus “there are about 2,000 NGOs, thugs and foreign agents. So what? Have you gotten your democracy? Now, everyone finally looked around and realized that it’s harmful for the state. We are conducting a sweep. Do you think it’s easy? There are already thousands of people working there, our people, mostly brainwashed, with twisted brains sponsored by foreign money“ (Lukashenka at the meeting with the Council of Ministers). On July 30, at a meeting with local authorities, Lukashenka stated that “185 destructive structures representing a threat to national security, including the representatives of foreign non-profit organizations, 71 national and local non-governmental associations, 113 institutions” (Lukashenka at the meeting with local authorities). In an interview with the BBC on November 19, responding to the correspondent’s question about the mass liquidation of civil society, Lukashenka stated that “we will destroy all the bastards that you are funding” (Lukashenka at the BBC interview). On December 16, at a meeting on counteracting sanctions, Lukashenka once again stated that “traitors will never be forgiven… Those organizations financed from abroad and who organized a coup d’etat and mutiny, we have liquidated all of them” (Lukashenka dotted the question of NGOs in Belarus). On December 21, with the aim of “defending the sovereignty and independence of Belarus”, deputies adopted – on the second reading – a law which makes participation in liquidated organizations a crime (Law “On Changing the Criminal Code”).

There are currently 309 organizations in the list of NGOs currently in the process of forced liquidation as of 12.31.2021 (Liquidations and suspensions of activities of civil society organizations in 2021). Their activities range from sports and beekeeping to education and rights defending. 

As with commercial shops selling historical symbols, targeted pressure on the non-commercial sector began in the autumn of 2020: criminal cases were launched based on foreign funding, and the raids of offices and employees. At that time, however, it was mainly human rights organizations that were experiencing this pressure. From May 2021, the Ministry of Justice began mass unplanned inspections of all types of non-profit organizations. The first organizations to experience such inspections were: PEN Belarus, the Belarusian Committee of the International Council on Monuments and Places, Association of Belarusians of the World “Fatherland”, the Union of Belarusian Writers, and other organizations. All had to provide an unprecedented quantity of information and documents in an extremely short period of time. 

We recorded the first liquidation of a cultural non-commercial organization in April 2021. On April 19, the Brest Economic Court decided to liquidate the NGO Polish School in order to “defend the interests of the State and Society” against the backdrop of a propaganda campaign against the Polish ethnic minority. In May, the Hrodna-based cultural-educational institution Center for City Life was liquidated due to an exhibition of the work by Aleś Puškin, in which there was supposedly a painting that violated anti-extremism laws. In June, the Brest-based socio-cultural institution Kryly Chalopa Theater and the cultural-educational organization Soil of the Future were liquidated. At the beginning of July, the Brest-based regional development agency Dziedzič – which organizes cultural festivals and other activities – was liquidated. After the “purges” of non-profit organizations between 14–17 June 2021 – as well as mass raids of offices and detentions of employees – the liquidations of non-governmental organizations began in earnest. Institutions, due to their legal formation, were liquidated in a simplified process, and almost no one from these institutions received written notification of the liquidation or its justification. They often only found out by reviewing the Unified State Register. Organizations liquidated in July include: Mova Nanova (New Language) – an organization promoting the Belarusian language and Belarusian culture; Unovis Forum – a historical-cultural heritage institution; Hrodna Rock Club – an organization founded by the musician Ihar Bancar; The Nil Hilevič University and many other significant cultural organizations were also liquidated, including:

• PEN Belarus: a social organization created by well-known writers in 1989, and member of the international PEN club. It was liquidated on August 9 by the Supreme Court.

• Art Corporation: Organizer of the international film festival Listapad and the theater art forum “Teart”. It was liquidated on August 25.

• Belarusian Committee of the International Council on Monuments and Places. It was liquidated on September 15.

• Talaka: Homieĺ-based folklore organization, reviving ancient Belarusian rites and the collection of folklore. It was liquidated on September 15.

• Belarusian School’s Society: Liquidated on September 24.

• Association of Belarusians of the World “Baćkaŭščyna” (Fatherland): Liquidated on September 24.

• Union of Belarusian Writers: A social organization founded in 1934. It was liquidated on October 1 by the Supreme Court.

• Francišak Skaryna Belarusian Language Partnership: One of the oldest social organizations in Belarus. It was liquidated on November 8.

One of the most common justifications for liquidation is that “the organization’s activities do not correspond with its charter”, but no one knows in exactly what way they do not correspond. Judging by the words of the Minister of Justice on the STV TV channel on December 5, these organizations were closed because they “undermined the foundations of State authority (New Minister of Justice about NGOs).

As of December 31, 2021, at least 98 non-commercial organizations had experienced the creation of administrative obstacles to operation. We have not seen a single instance in which the court has defended the interests of a non-commercial organization. The courts unquestioningly comply with demands from the Ministry of Justice (and regional justice departments) for the liquidation of such organizations.

Illustration: PEN Belarus

It is also important to note the growing number of non-commercial organizations deciding themselves to cease their operations. While this report only records forced liquidations, we are also witnessing requests by the founders of organizations for the liquidation of their organizations due to the unfavorable socio-political situation and/or pressure from the authorities. In total, the Lawtrend list includes 175 organizations that have decided to self-liquidate in 2021 (Decisions to self-liquidate made by non-commercial organizations). About 40 of them we refer to the sphere of culture. 

Among the organizations and spaces not mentioned above but also forced to cease their activities in 2021 were the Goethe Institute and the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD). These are the world’s premier organizations for the study of German language and culture. The Belarusian authorities also put pressure on the American center in Belarus – which facilitated educational trips to the United States and allowed participants to learn the best and most innovative practices on a variety of topics, including environmental protection and the preservation of cultural heritage. On December 20, 2021, the USAID office in Belarus was closed.

After a raid on the editorial office, the TUT.BY Gallery – acquainting visitors with modern Belarusian art – was closed. The Contemporary Artistic Theater was forced to emigrate from Belarus. The troupe of the Free Theater ceased its activities on July 1 and have not planned any further performances in Belarus. The theater laboratory “Fortinbras” – part of the Belarus Free Theater – was forced to suspend its activities. The musical club “Berlin” closed on October 14. 

We will mention the forced closure of print publications in the next section.  

IV. CULTURAL RIGHTS

CENSORSHIP AND CREATIVE FREEDOM

In 2021, we recorded 198 instances of censorship and 94 instances of the violation of the right to creative freedom. 

The following musicians and artists were not allowed to receive necessary certificates for their concert performances: Krama, Kasta, J:MORS, RSP, Daj Darohu!, Znich, Rita Dakota, and others. The Contemporary Artistic Theater was not allowed to stage “Former Son”, a performance based on the novel by Saša Filipienka. The authorities also did not grant permission for the performance of a play based on Uladzimir Niaklajeŭ’s drama “Jahajla” near Kreva Castle. Theatre Ch could not find a venue in which to stage its iconic play “Dziady”. The authors of the dance show “Inner and Outer Space” were denied a concert certificate. 

The following exhibitions were censored or closed:

• Maksim Saryčaŭ’s “I can almost hear the birds”.

• “The machine is breathing but I am not”, organized by Natalla Trenina and Taćciana Hacura-Javorskaja.

• “Together” exhibition of the creative association “Pahonia”.

• Aleś Maračkin’s personal watercolor exhibition “Akva/areli”.

• Nadzia Buka’s “Personal Business”.

• Viktar Barysienka’s photo exhibition “Time Itself Remembers”.

• Viktoryja Balcar’s “Dance Theater in the Theater”.

• Maryna Baciukova’s “Sula. Intact.”

In Grodno, authorities canceled the performance of “Kadyš” and a meeting of the actors; in Minsk, the play “Čarnobyl Prayer” based on the work by Svialana Aleksijevič was – without explanation – replaced with another. It then completely disappeared from the repertoire of the Republican Theater of Belarusian Drama; the Homocosmos Theatre’s play “White Rabbit, Red Rabbit” was canceled multiple times; Immediately after the premier of the play “Tyl” in the Jakub Kolas Theater in Viciebsk, the poster promoting it was removed from the billboards.

The Belarusian organizers repeatedly asked the band Kino not to play the song “Changes!” during their concert. After a statement by a “not indifferent” citizen two concerts in memory of Holocaust victims – “Yellow Stars” – were canceled in the Minsk Philharmonic. In 2021, a traditional international festival of spiritual music “Mighty God” – which has taken place every other year since 1993 – was meant to take place in Mahilioŭ but was canceled. The organizers did not comment on the reasons behind the cancellation; however, the authorities had been strongly opposed to the prayer of the same name since the festival’s previous iteration (Lukashenka’s speech: Look, you risk to run into trouble). Due to his previously expressed political views, the Russian author Aleksandr Tsypkin was not allowed to perform his project “Unprincipled Readings”. Musicians performing songs in the metro as part of the social project “Pedestrian” were detained. Due to observation by the security services, the satirical group “Aristocratic Paleness” suspended their activities. 

At the demand of Belarus Film, the much-anticipated film “Kupala” was pulled from the Eurasian Film Festival in London. The Belarusian premier of the film also did not take place in 2019 and, after the events of August 2020, it was “put on the shelf” (it featured a scene showing the shooting of peaceful protesters); all video materials related to the film were either blocked or disappeared from social networks. In November, Belarusian viewers could not watch the film “Temptation” – about the love between two nuns – by the director Pol Verkhoven. It had initially received a tour certificate, but later disappeared from billboards due to supposedly “unethical scenes of a sexual nature and sexual perversion”. Alaksandr Anisimaŭ’s film “The Adventures of Pranciš Vyrvič” featuring former actors from the Kupalovkij Theater was banned from being screened.

Works by Sviatlana Aleksijevič, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, and Vladimir Nabokov have been banned from the 11th class literature syllabus: Aleksijevič, from the “Prose – Humans and War” section, and Solzhenitsyn and Nabokov from “Dissident Literature”. 

LITERATURE

The pressure on independent publishing houses, individual publishers, booksellers, and press, authors, and even readers began in January 2021.

Publishing houses. In January, Hienadź Viniarski and Andrej Januškievič – directors of independent Belarusian language publishers – were detained and interrogated. The offices of Januškievič and Knihazbor were raided, and property – including computers, telephones, and books – was confiscated. The accounts of these organizations – as well as that of the online shop knihi.by, were frozen and remained so for 146 days, almost 5 months. They still had not been unblocked by June 8. During this time, the activities of these publishers were all but paralyzed and the organizations found themselves under the threat of closure, since it was not possible to pay for typographers, resources for new books, and recoup losses.  

Without the right to distribute. Belarusian customs authorities have been stopping the distribution of books by certain authors and from certain publishers. The novel “Revolution” by Viktar Marcinovič was withdrawn from circulation. The book entitled “The Belarusian National Idea” by Zmicier Lukašuk and Maksim Harunoŭwas not delivered to foreign buyers. The republished novel “The Dogs of Europe” by Alhierd Bacharevič – printed by the publisher Januškievič in Lithuania – was seized by customs officials on the grounds of supposed extremist content. To this day, the publisher has not been able to distribute the work. 

On January 29, 2021, an expert commission in Minsk concluded that the book “Belarusian Donbas” by Kaciaryna Andrejeva (Bachvałava) and Ihar Iljaš in contained extremist content. They did not specify the exact parts of the book that contained such content. On March 26, a court upheld the “extremist” designation, and the subsequent appeal by the authors was denied. The journalist Raman Vasiukovič, who had imported two copies of the book into Belarus before it had been deemed “extremist”, was fined approximately 220 USD. 

On March 4, this same commission concluded that the book “The Belarusian National Idea” – comprising 85 conversations with various people on the Euroradio channel – contained extremist content. The text of the conclusion was identical to that regarding “Belarusian Donbas”. Information about the court that deemed the book “The Belarusian National Idea” as “extremist” has not been made public. An administrative case was launched against Minsk resident Jahor Staravojtaŭ for possession of the book, bought in a State bookshop and withdrawn before the “extremist” designation. The court only dropped the case against Staravojtaŭ because of the expiry of the administrative liability period (2 months). 

In February, pensioners were detained and punished for reading books by Belarusian classics on the train – “opposition literature,” according to the police.

The ideological concept of “protest literature” was introduced – as both state media and law enforcement agencies refer to Belarusian classics and contemporary literature. Marcinovič’s “Revolution” and Uladzimir Arloŭ’s books are mentioned most often. We recorded instances of the discreditation of writers and historians by State media and pro-regime Telegram-channels. 

Distribution of literature within the country. The administration of Bielkniha – the largest bookseller in Belarus – gradually removed from their shelves, and ceased the distribution of, books by Alhierd Bacharevič, Viktar Kaźko, Uladzimir Niaklajeŭ, Viktor Marcinovič, Barysa Piatrovič, and many other authors. Public libraries have removed works by these and other authors. At the beginning of the year, the business Bielsajuzdruk unilaterally terminated certain print publications, including the cultural publications Novy čas and Naša historyja. In April, one of the biggest State book sellers Akademkniha refused to sell the magazine Naša historyja. Immediately after this, the Belarusian postal service terminated a contract with these publishers, starting from July 2021 one already couldn’t subscribe to them. Since July, the weekly paper Novy čas has been unable to secure the services of private typographers. There have also been a number of difficulties regarding the distribution of this year’s Naša historyja calendar.

Books under arrest. During a raid on the Nil Hilevič university, many books were confiscated from the library. Authorities removed the entire contents of the library from the Orša office of Francišak Skaryna Belarusian Language Society. Books from the series “Belarusian Prison Literature” were confiscated despite attempts by the editor Alena Lapcionak to save them. There have been many instances of the confiscation of books during raids on the property of activists. For example, authorities have already confiscated books twice from the Viciebsk opposition activist and book distributor Barys Chamajda. In December they confiscated 12 of his Belarusian books, which had been officially published in Belarus.

In 2021, the authorities prevented the publication of significant print media. The 2022 subscriber catalog of the Belarusian postal service did not list the magazine Vožyk which marks, this year, its 80th anniversary.  It is the country’s only satirical Belarusian language magazine, and has engaged many authors of Belarusian classics and artists. In connection with the liquidation of the founder of the publication Francišak Skaryna Belarusian Language Society, the authorities prevented the publication of the literary journal Vierasień in November. For the last 12 years, it has become an important fixture in the country’s cultural life. On December 29 in Lida, the last edition of the paper Naša slova was published. It had been running since March, 1990. The editor Stanislaŭ Sudnik noted that, on January 5, 2022, an online publication called Naša slova would be launched, but that it would not be the same as the original publication. The Minsk magazine where Minsk – which had covered the capital’s cultural life for 15 years – has shut down due to the economic situation in the country. 

Illustration: PEN Belarus

CONSUMERS OF CULTURAL PRODUCTS

In 2021, we noted instances in which law enforcement agencies paid particular attention to tour guides and participants in historical excursions. Detentions, or police convoys accompanying such excursions, took place in Polack, Navahrudak, and Minsk. In February, at the holiday resort Spark, near Smaliavičy, at a concert of Belarusian groups Raźbitaje serca pacana, Panska Mos and Ok-Band, performers and audience members were detained. 68 people – including minors – were arrested in total. 59 of these individuals were later transferred to prison cells in Žodzina. In March, police arrived at the free Belarusian language classes given by Mova Nanova in Vaŭkavýsk on the same evening on which the group Krama was meant to perform. In total, 35 people were detained including both students and teachers. The regional branch of the Ministry of Internal affairs detained them for around 40 minutes and took some of their fingerprints. On June 8, police detained 8 people at a joint viewing of the play “White Rabbit, Red Rabbit” at the cultural center “Red Palace” in Minsk. The majority were punished with 15 days of administrative arrest. 3 people were detained in September near Orša during rehearsals for a performance as part of the annual festival “Orša Battle ” – they were punished with 10 days of arrest or fines. In November in Orša, police arrived at a celebration of the birthday of the author of Belarusian classics, Uladzimir Karatkievich. Fans gathered in the park Fairytale Country with flowers and read the author’s works. The police said this was an unsanctioned event and recorded the passport information of all the participants.

V. STATE POLICY IN THE CULTURAL SPHERE

In the middle of December 2021, the Belarusian Helsinki Committee published a report on the state of human rights in Belarus in 2020 (Belarus National Human Rights Index, 2020), in which the right to participate in cultural life was evaluated based on 4 components, receiving an average score of 2.8 on a 10-point scale. Although the index was created based on data from 2020, the mass repressions of cultural workers and State interference in the country’s cultural life have only increased in their severity in 2021. 

Even before the crisis, state support for the cultural sphere was selective – independent cultural actors received practically no subsidies or preferences from State cultural institutions. This financial situation has not changed. The State has succeeded in its campaign of censorship and repression and, in 2021, also began to exert pressure on State cultural institutions.

State ensembles and orchestras continued to operate as normal throughout 2021 without any Covid restrictions for event attendees. The “Slavianski Bazaar” – a favorite of the authorities – took place without Covid restrictions. Many of the previously advertised artists refused to participate in the festival due to the political situation and requests from citizens not to support the totalitarian regime with their performances. For the first time, the festival – which, in previous years, was considered an unmissable event – did not generate much “buzz” and places had to be filled by distributing tickets through state-owned companies. 

For the first time since 2004, Belarus did not participate in the Eurovision Song Contest due to its disqualification after violating contest rules and providing the performer with an overly political song. In response, the Belarusian state TV and Radio corporation – the organizer of the national Eurovision selection process – refused to broadcast the contest. Belarus also did not participate in the children’s version of Eurovision. 

Without the participation of passionate and engaged specialists and independent experts, the State has not been able to produce high quality events. The current National Theater Award – which, even before, was far from ideal – became the “apotheosis of State policy towards the theater” (© Dzianis Marcinovič). The quality of the film festival “Listapad” also significantly declined, and was deprived of its accreditation in the International Federation of Film Producers (FIAPF).  

Staffing Policy and Dissent

At the end of September 2021, we recorded 64 cases of illegal dismissals. These occurred either as the termination of a contract, or the forcing of an employee to write a resignation letter stating that they were doing so “of their own free will”. Beginning in October, a list of “undesirable persons” to be dismissed from cultural institutions became public. Dismissals due to dissent characterized the final months of 2021. Theater agents entrepreneurs, museum workers, library workers, philharmonic musicians, and many more, were dismissed. The National Historical Museum in Minsk, the Academy of Arts, the National Library, and many other State cultural institutions, underwent “staffing reviews”. The Minister of Culture Anatol Markievič shed light on the true scale of this phenomenon, stating that more than 300 people had been dismissed for their “destructive positions”. He made this statement during a speech in Stoŭbcy on January 20, 2022 (Markevich on staffing) (Note: the minister’s words were removed from the media the next day). By the end of December, we had collected data on 123 dismissals of cultural workers from no less than 30 cultural institutions during 2021 either through public sources or personal communication with the individuals in question. We expect further details on these kinds of dismissals to emerge in the first half of 2022. 

One of the reasons why people are reluctant to make the pressure they have experienced public is the hope of getting a job in another cultural institution in Belarus. However, an analysis of changing employment requirements demonstrates that, in many cases, there is a de facto ban on the profession in any cultural institution in the country.  “Recommendation” letters advising employers not to hire certain individuals have been sent to recruitment agencies. We will understand more about how this works in practice in 2022. 

In his speech, the Minister of Culture also referred to the “optimization” of 1,611 staff units. As a result of this “optimization”, the Ethnology & Folklore faculty of the Belarus State Art & Culture University was dissolved after 20 years of existence.

After a spate of dismissals from the autumn of 2020, in 2021 new appointments began – of directors, artistic directors, producers; the selection of new acting troupes. New vacancies regularly open in the Janka Kupala National Theater. Since its “dispersal” after the 2020 election, in 2021 there have been 5 auditions, to which actors who are “talented and eager to work” between the ages of 21 and 65 were invited. We also recorded new appointments in education institutions in the cultural sphere where employees and directors had previously been dismissed. Museums also witnessed new appointments in 2021: in February, the Great Patriotic War Musem’s Head of Security became the new director of the State Museum of Belarusian Literary History. 

VI. INSTEAD OF CONCLUSIONS: OPPRESSIVE TRENDS

1. Increase in the number of political prisoners since the first arrests in the summer–autumn of 2020. As of 12.31.2021, there were 969 political prisoners in Belarus. 68 of them are cultural workers.

1. The criminalization of dissent: the increase in the number of criminal cases based on absurd accusations, the introduction of criminal responsibility for organizing or participating in the activities of a public association that has been liquidated.

1. Expansion of “extremism” laws and the clampdown on peaceful forms of freedom of expression.

1. Propaganda and hate speech are the languages of State media. The targeted campaign of discreditation of Belarusian cultural workers.

1. The state sees creative freedom as a threat and seeks to suppress it through censorship and self-censorship. Self-censorship is a means of surviving in the conditions of the socio-political crisis.

1. The polarization of society into “us” and “them”, which creates the conditions for discrimination and poses a threat to cultural diversity.

Additions.

In 2022, we will publish documents on the state of cultural heritage, the Belarusian language, contested historical memory, the fight against the historical white-red-white symbology.

We now have … an extremist theater, an extremist culture,
we are extremists ourselves, and our whole life is extremist
(© Dzianis Martinovich, theater critic)

METHODOLOGY. Basic concepts and comments

Cases of violations of the cultural and human rights of cultural workers – circumstances leading to the violation of one or more of the rights of cultural workers, organizations, communities, or participants of cultural processes. 

Violation – a type of violation within the following categories: cultural rights, civil and political rights, social and economic rights. 

People of word – writers, translators, literary researchers, political analysts, and intellectuals. The group “Writers and people of word” is paramount in the context of attributing a cultural figure to one or another creative group. The monitoring does not include journalists and bloggers, although these are also a target group of the International PEN Center. 

Data from public sources is collected on a daily basis. The information obtained through personal communications with cultural workers and direct appeals to PEN Belarus is recorded as it comes from these sources. The quantity of cases per quarter reflects the events that took place during the reporting period, as well as those that took place before but which were recorded during this period (about 10 %). 

Download the full report as PDF

The End Is The Beginning

“Now he was here on an airplane feeling clumsy as he struggled to fill in the immigration card they had just given to him. What was the flight number again? He searched through the carry on bag to try and find the ticket. The entire trip had left him feeling nervous for several weeks beforehand. What was he thinking? Why was he doing this?” Lawyer and podcaster Steven Moe tells a story of finding home.

By Steven Moe

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Photo: Kyle Cleveland/Unsplash

John walked slowly with his hands in his pockets, picking his way down the path from his Grandmother’s house towards the Arahura River. He could hear the sound of it in the distance, an angry rushing after the heavy rainfall last night, echoing how he felt inside. He still remembered the first time he had come here, seven years ago. What a horrible time that had been, with his parents deciding to go their separate ways. Somehow he had ended up here with his Grandmother for extended periods of time. Now he was almost 15 years old. Because of the storm that had come through the night before the rocks were all darker than normal, each one painted individually by the rain. A tree had uprooted on the other side of the bank and its branches now reached down to drape its fingers in the swirling muddy water.

He remembered coming down to this river those first times with his grandmother. Something had changed on the banks here for both of them and he still remembered how from that time on they began to talk and share. She seemed to accept him as he was but still always pushing him to become something more. It seemed strange now to think of the changes that were coming. He was so used to having her around. He sighed, and threw rocks over at the half fallen tree, missing most of the time.

Back in the house he knew his Mother was cleaning. Sorting as she went and putting things in piles, as if there was a deadline that had to be met. What did doctors really know, anyway? That is what he told himself, through tears, as they drove back each day from visiting her. But he knew it was true himself. He could see the changes. She had lost the strength that she had before and just seemed tired. The long walks they used to take beside the river dwindled and she became more accustomed to the kitchen with its view down towards the river.

John often went out on his own anyway on the weekends when he would come to stay. He found little treasures, like part of a birds egg, a tree branch in the shape of a letter, an unusual shaped stone. He always brought her a stone back because he knew that made her happy.

She would tell him stories about stones and show him books about others. He liked the square sort of ones that looked like miniature houses and she kept those over on the window ledge. The collection slowly grew.

“So, what have you found today?”, she would ask with a smile as he pushed open the screen door from outside. Always a laugh for something he had found, greeting each new discovery with joy as if that would make them feel welcome into her home. Sometimes his Mother would stay for the weekend with him and other times she would just drop him off. Other times his Grandmother would come in to town and pick him up instead. Either way he spent many of those weekends with her, getting used to not having a television to watch, over time absorbing information about her life and what she thought of things.

What seemed to keep his Grandmother busiest at the desk in the kitchen these last few years was paper. Letters came in from far off places - nearly all from America or Norway. He wasn’t sure exactly what they were because she didn’t talk about it much. When she was done for the day they would all be packed up into a yellow and green apple box and slid back under the coffee table in the lounge.

Today as they had driven up to the house after visiting her in the hospital his Mother had finally said it, glancing at him sideways as she finished slipping up the muddy road and turning into the driveway.

“She won’t be able to come back here, you know”. He knew.

“Maybe she will get better?” He said, without conviction.

“Yes, maybe she will”, his Mother said.

That was all. There was silence as they got out of the car and went into the house The conversation seemed to be enough permission to start the process of cleaning out the house. His Mother had started almost the moment she walked in the door. Now John was down by the river, throwing rocks at the fallen over tree that clung to the river bank. He trudged back up towards the house reluctantly when he had enough of that. This was not how the story was supposed to go. He wanted her to be there for a lot longer yet.

When he entered the kitchen he was unprepared for how quickly his Mother had worked. She seemed to have moved everything around already and he felt saddened that she was purposefully breaking the hold of his Grandmother on the house. His Grandmother had lived there for, what, 50 years? And now in one afternoon the entire place was being moved and jostled and pushed around like the new kid at school. It just wasn’t right and he fell heavily into the chair at the kitchen table.

He watched his mother move back and forth between the rooms and after a few minutes he slowly began to see an order in her movements. There was a small pile here in the kitchen on the table which had a few dishes, crockery, candlesticks. The kind of things which would easily find a place in another home. Then in the lounge there was a growing pile that was much larger and which had started on the couch and now spilled over onto the floor. It contained unique items which no doubt had a story and which most people would not have bought in the first place. John had a feeling he knew where that pile of items was destined to end up.

His Mother walked briskly and efficiently, picking up items from here and there and depositing them in one of the two piles. He got up and walked over to the large pile in the living room and began to pick through what remained. He soon started his own pile - a blue vase, a painting of a river and trees, some rocks that were heavy, an artist’s sketch book that was blank except for his Grandmother’s name on the inside cover, an old necklace with an almost white shaded piece of pounamu greenstone on it. All saved from that larger pile which just kept growing.

John started moving the items around to see what else there was underneath and that is when he saw the old yellow and green apple box. It was there buried below everything else like a foundation and explained why the pile had risen in height so quickly. He wondered if his Mother had even opened it. He reached down and pulled it open and saw stacked papers inside. Some of it seemed to have an order but a lot of it was just thrown in. He spent 5 minutes sifting through it and saw lots of names and date and people referred to. It didn’t mean much to him. He found a family tree and looked from his name at the bottom up. He only recognized his Mother, Father and Grandmother. His Grandfather was there too, but he had disappeared down in Milford Sound many years before John was born.

John placed the papers back in the box and shut it. He knew they had been important to his Grandmother but he wasn’t sure if he felt strongly enough about keeping them to move them from the pile they were now in. He decided to go for another walk outside as he had begun to feel like a traitor to his Grandmother, simply watching this packing up of her life. The tree that had fallen down became the target of his aggression again but simply stood there absorbing his anger with the stones he threw bouncing off it into the river where they sank quickly below the surface.

They spent the night there in that hollowed out shell of a house. John’s Mother had moved on from the sorting to cleaning and the little spider webs in the corner, the grime above the oven and the dust on the shelves had all been efficiently removed. The sparkling windows suddenly seemed to let in more light than before, as if they were new eyes. By the afternoon of the next day the back seat of their small car had also been occupied by the contents of the kitchen table.

John’s pile had been taken over and become part of the very large accumulation of objects that had grown on the sofa. They would be leaving soon. John went back in the house and pulled out the things he wanted to take. The large box was still there, buried once again. He cleared it off and lifted it up, then balanced the other things on top and walked out to the car. His Mother glanced up from the back of the car where she was fitting things in.

She paused, both hands still full. “What’s all that, then?”, she asked him.

“It is what I’d like to keep, to remember her by,” he said.

She looked over what he had, then nodded at him. “You can keep it all but why don’t you put it into that box.”

“The box is already full”, he said. He had made his choice and decided to keep the papers.

“I already looked through that box - there is nothing much in there.” His Mother said to him, as she got back to her work.

“I think I can find room around the front here”, John replied, moving to the passenger side of the car and evading the implication of her comment. In the end it all fit in quite easily.

His Mother did not agree with his choice. In her eyes it was more clutter for their small house. “I bet that you won’t open that box once in the next 40 years”, she said, as she glanced at it when they pulled away and drove back down the road. John ignored her and swivelled in his chair to look back towards the house as they bumped down the road and the trees began to get in the way of his view.

***

John hadn’t known how accurate his Mother’s word would be. It could almost have been a prophecy because in fact more than 40 years passed by quickly and John was nearly 60 years old when he finally came across the box again covered with dust in an attic. He had found he was often thinking about those days cleaning out his Grandmother’s house by the river when he began the process of cleaning out his own Mother’s place in Hokitika.

His daughter Sarah had called out to him, “what’s this old box, Dad?”. She had agreed to come over this Saturday and devote a few hours to help him out. A reluctant addition was his granddaughter Jane who walked in and immediately turned the old TV on before taking over the chair in the lounge. John walked up the stairs to the attic and stooped down to get through the door and enter the small room.

Sarah sat at the far end underneath the window. A small amount of light from outside came in just that end of the room through the dusty windows. Sarah had dragged the box out of the corner into the light and a dust trail had clearly been scraped across the floor.

They spent the next hour crouched there together. They looked at the names, the old family tree, the foreign language that was so incomprehensible. At age 15 John had not appreciated what these papers were. Now he felt like they were clues that needed to be explored further. His granddaughter Jane was just 17 but she put it best when they finally decided to carry the box downstairs and described what they had found to her.

“A boxful of jigsaw pieces,” she said, before turning back to stare at the TV. John had to agree with her. He wasn’t sure how it all fit together but it certainly felt like it was a challenging puzzle. He decided to take the box out and load it into his car to take home with him. As he walked out he saw his daughter Sarah was looking at the TV and then back at her daughter, clearly debating whether she should say something. Loading the box in the back only took a minute. When he walked back up to the door of the house he caught the tail end of their conversation.

“... well, it’s certainly ‘better’ than hanging out with those ‘bad influences’, as you call them, isn’t it?” said Jane, without even looking over at her Mother, who had sat down at the kitchen table with a frown on her face. Uncertain what to say. Letting silence settle uncomfortably and perhaps clinging to a false hope that it was a bridge between them. John felt awkward even though he probably shouldn’t have. He stepped in to the house softly and crept back between them to make his way up the stairs to search for anything else buried in the decades of dust that might be left up in the attic.

***

John vividly remembered one of the final trips to the hospital those decades before to see his Grandmother. She lay a little propped up on the bed, brown skinned still among the white pillows and sheets that covered her body. He sat on the left side of the bed and her eyes were looking away from him out the window into the trees outside where the birds hopped from branch to branch. They didn’t talk much at those times, he just sat with her silently. On this visit he had reached out for her right hand and slipped something into her fingers, folding them over gently. She smiled as she turned to him.

“So, what have you brought me today, John?” She asked. She bent forward and opened her fingers to reveal the stone. He thought there was something wrong as she drew in her breath suddenly and he almost turned to call out for the nurse. Then she was reaching forward quickly with her left hand to trace the shape on the stone.

“Is this...”, she seemed unable to finish the sentence, or look at him.

She held it up higher into the light that streamed in from the window. The stone was perfectly round and smooth with a distinctive shape crossing over it. She looked at him.

“But we. We threw this one in, I mean, you threw this one in that first day, I searched for it. Through the bag. It wasn’t there”. The words tumbled out of her quickly.

He shrugged, “I guess it was so perfectly round I kept that one. Put it in my jacket pocket and took it home. I thought you might like it.” he had said.

She looked from him to the stone, and back again. She smiled.

“You know, this stone taught me a lot about priorities. I always wished that I could give it to you and now I am glad that you are the one who will have it.”

Then softly she said, almost to herself rather than to him, “you were always more important, I just needed to lose it to find that out.” She looked deep into his eyes. Smiled again.

“Keep it, until you know it is time”, she said. She folded his fingers over it.

***

When the sale of his Mother’s house had finally completed John was very surprised at the amount of money someone had been willing to pay for it. According to the estate agent it had “real character”. That must have been code for a house that was falling apart and needed a lot of work. He gave some of the money to his daughter Sarah, who was very appreciative.

Now he was here on an airplane feeling clumsy as he struggled to fill in the immigration card they had just given to him. What was the flight number again? He searched through the carry on bag to try and find the ticket. The entire trip had left him feeling nervous for several weeks beforehand. What was he thinking? Why was he doing this? He was very comfortable at home. There was nothing to prove and what else could he really find out by making this trip? Those were the questions he had pondered many times, lying awake at night.

And yet there was more to it than that. One thing, maybe the most important thing, was that Jane sat beside him. Yes, his granddaughter had agreed to come on this journey with him. The timing had worked out well - the money came in from the house sale, the holidays were on before University would start, her getting pulled over and given a warning and of course the drugs (that, in theory, he did not know anything about). It had not been John’s idea at all in fact but instead was his daughter’s. They were having a talk one evening and she had raised it. Talking with him about the family history and the research he had done the last few months online and the connection he had made back in Sonora.

“Maybe you should actually go.” Sarah had said.

He just grunted, “hmm”, not convinced.

“And take Jane too?”. She asked, looking away.

“Hmm”, he said.

But in reality he could see the logic behind that idea. He could see that Jane desperately needed a change of scene more than anything else. A chance for a different perspective. And that is what had won him over, in the end. So they had driven to Christchurch airport and started the journey and now here he was somewhere sailing high over the Pacific filling in a form with small writing about bio security risks and confirming he was carrying less than $10,000 in cash. He felt out of place.

The drive up from San Francisco was extremely tiring after the long flight from Auckland. They pulled into a small motel in a place called Jamestown. The next morning they followed South Fork Road until they came to the log cabin that was described in the message. They got out of the car and stretched, both feeling nervous. They walked under the shade of the tall pine trees and across the driveway and knocked. No one answered for a while and then they heard some sounds from inside and the door silently swung open.

A curious face looked out at them. Curious both because of the expression it wore and the character it clearly contained. John could only think of Julie his grandmother when he saw her. There were only hints there, as if an artist had sketched Julie from memory and so got it a bit wrong. Short white hair circled the face with blue eyes like the ocean coloured in. She beckoned them both inside.

This meeting had been planned for months and had been sparked by the content of that old box of Julie’s. John had spent many days sifting through it all and getting a better sense of who was who. The old letters had been a revelation, sent back and forth by Julie when her different cousins and aunts and uncles were still living. One of the first things he had done was to prepare a letter describing himself and where he fit in the family along with a family tree that he created. He sent that off to each of the addresses that Julie had received a letter from. It was a bit like a lottery and he wondered if there would be any responses at all. Then one day the letter had come with the California postmark and he had been filled with anticipation as he opened it.

The correspondence that started then had led to John sitting here on a couch with his granddaughter, nodding and smiling at this second cousin of his. The sun flowed in through the open window and in the distance he could hear a stream falling over rocks. Rainbows scattered around the room from a small glass ball that had many edges and sat proudly in the middle of the window ledge. This living connection to his grandmother was named Marian Odegaard and she was telling them now about her family.

“My great grandfather was named Peter Odegaard and he emigrated from Norway with his sister Sigrid around 1910 and they both ended up here in California. Peter died long before I was born but I remember Sigrid - we called her Auntie. She loved this house and walking down by the stream. She often would take me down there during the daytime and sometimes even at night. I do not remember actually meeting your Grandmother Julie, but I probably did. I knew that she had moved to New Zealand and we exchanged letters many years ago when I was much younger.” She looked over her cup at them. It was hard to tell how old she actually was. Perhaps 85 but, then again, she could be even older.

She reached over to the shelf and picked up the little sun catcher and then she held it out to Jane.

“Perhaps you can find a use for this,” she said.

Jane took it into her hands and turned it over.

Marian said, “I think Sigrid would like to know that her great great granddaughter had this, even if it will leave my room a little less colourful”. She smiled at Jane, who seemed overwhelmed and had simply mouthed back, “thank you”, before looking down at the small glass ball and holding it up to the light.

She turned to John. “And for you, I have this.” She held out a small envelope. John opened it and flipped through some old photos and letters. He recognized some of the writing but not all of it - there would be time later to read them. He stopped at one photo of a little girl and an old woman standing beside a stream. He pulled it out and showed it to Marian.

She took it and said, “Ah yes, Sigrid and Julie. I can tell that the photo was taken right down there at the stream - would you like to see where?”

And so they found themselves following behind Marian under the canopy of large oak trees and alders until they came to a small bridge. Around them blackberries grew in patches and the sun filtered through the trees and formed patterns on the small stream before them. John found himself breathing deeply, feeling the wind, the warmth of the sun and the sound of the birds and the stream and imagining his grandmother standing in this same spot. So much time had passed between his visit here and Julie’s and yet it almost felt like the thinnest of veils that he might just be able to find a way through if he concentrated hard enough. He was glad they had made the effort to come and felt a peace he had not had for a very long time.

***

Jane looked up from the stream in front of them and saw that her Grandfather’s eyes were half closed. Marian, the ancient old lady who had led them here, stood blinking at the light reflecting off of the water. On the trip over Jane had read some of the papers her Grandfather had brought with him and so now she picked her way down the steep bank to the waters edge and bent halfway down, shuffling forward and brushing hair in behind her ears, scanning the bank as she moved slowly along. She picked out a few pretty coloured rocks and put them in her left pocket (her right one had the glass ball she had been given). Finally she found a stone that was the right shape and picked it up. She held it up to Marian and John so they could see, then she raised it twice in the air and turned towards the water. It skipped three times before it sank. She searched for another while listening to Marian and John who were chatting and laughing together about that old family tradition. It felt good to be here, with no pressure, just being alive in that moment. There was no sudden point which she would later look back on as being the critical time when this trip would be cited as a turning point. It was almost like she was a tree that had been planted in dry soil and this experience was soaking through and letting roots have the chance to grow.

When they returned to New Zealand Jane continued to spend a lot of time with her Grandfather John because she had begun studying at the University of Canterbury in Christchurch. A few years before he had sold up his place on the West Coast and moved to Whitecliffs which was about 40 minutes away from Christchurch, heading into the mountains. The small cabin he had there was nestled in among the trees and you could hear the Selwyn River when you stood outside. It reminded her a lot of that place back in Sonora that they had visited and the stream that ran down through the valley by the cabin there.

On her visits she helped him scan in all the old documents about the family and order them into boxes that were all labelled and then stored under his bed. Out in the garden they planted apple trees, pear trees, lemons and feijoas and enjoyed the long summer evenings and the twilight that never seemed to fade. It was on one of those evenings that he had given her the stone. The perfectly round stone with the criss cross on it. She knew what it was of course, as he handed it to her. She almost did not want to take it because it felt like there was some prediction of the future and finality in it being passed on to her. In a way that is exactly what it was. John was gone a few years later while she was traveling in Europe. She was left feeling hollow, without anything else to say, as if the phone conversation she had started had the reception cut out and had left her talking into the air.

When she got home just a few weeks later she went out to the property at Whitecliffs. Her Mother was still over in Hokitika so it was her Aunt who had taken it on herself to tidy up. There wasn’t much left after that. She wondered if the boxes were lying in the dump being slowly saturated by rain. It made her ache inside to think of it. Now the fruit trees were producing for no one and the ripened spoils lay on the ground being eaten by the birds. She sat in the old couch looking out at them feasting and turned her gaze to the mountain range in the distance. She could hear the stream in the distance but all else was still and silent.

***

“Hello”, I say.

It has been at least 20 minutes on hold. Perhaps 30 minutes.

“Hello, can I help you” says the voice, finally, at the other end. An unusual accent.

I have prepared in my mind what to say and hope it will work out. I start to speak.

“Yes, yes, hello, my name is Jane and, look, this may be unusual, but I am trying to get access to something my Grandfather set up and it is not working. I know the username but not the password.” I say.

“Well, you can reset the password by hitting the ‘forgot login’ on the right hand side”, she says back, crisply and efficiently. There must be other calls to be answered.

“No, the problem is I cannot access the email that was used to set it up either - you see, my Grandfather died. Several years ago in fact. Is there any way you can help?”

And so it went on. The person on the other end of the line could not help, didn’t really want to. She was just answering another phone call, listening to another complaint. In the end she took my email address and said she would look into that. I was still talking to her when I was surprised to see a message appear online in my inbox which just said “sigridjuliejohn321” as its subject.

I say slowly, “Did you ...” to the lady on the line.

“Yes, these calls are recorded, so I am sure you understand ... “ her voice just trailed off.

And here I had thought she had no interest. I smile. “Yes, I do, thank you.” I say, and hung up.

With that final piece I log in and I saw them all there, the scans of the old documents, the letters, the photos. I felt a lightness and breathed a little easier.

I stood up from the computer and stretched, then walked out of the living room into the hallway. The sun was streaming in from the old stained glass window and it made the old wooden floor colourful at this time in the morning. Rainbows scattered this way and that from the small glass ball that Marian gave me those years before.

Over and over in my hands I folded the stone back and forth. It always feels smooth and cool to my touch. I glanced towards the half shut door at the end of the hallway and wondered how long my son will sleep for. The curtains were pulled tight in there to make it dark which might meant he would sleep for 2 hours. This was my quiet time, my rest in the day when I wasn’t on baby duty. I stood by his door and listened closely. Yes, little John would probably let me have some more time alone.

I walked back into the lounge room and put the rock onto the window sill, next to the small glass ball. Rainbows still filled the room as the shade from the trees outside had not interrupted the sun yet. In the kitchen I poured myself a cup of tea and then sat down in the most comfortable chair to sip it. I looked out the window at the birds that darted from branch to branch and listened to the sound of the stream in the distance.

Photo: Kyle Cleveland/Unsplash

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“The End is the beginning” is the third in a series of three interconnected short stories. You can read the first story, “What Julie lost and what she found”, here. The second story, “A decision is made”, is here.

A Decision Is Made

“The letter itself sat there on the table. The envelope lay beside it, ripped apart and empty. A few pages with long cursive writing scratched on them was all that had emerged. Those pages just had words written there. Simple words really. Words about a new country, a new opportunity, a new century, a new chance. Words that were about to tear our family further apart.” Lawyer and podcaster Steven Moe tells a story of new beginnings and lost lands.

By Steven Moe

---

Photo: Dan Meyers/Unsplash

I watched as my brother Peter cut up his meat. The candle flickering in the middle of the table cast long shadows on his face. He kept cutting and cutting and never taking a bite, as if that would prevent him having to answer our Father.

“You’ve read the letter, so what do you think?” My Father said again, impatiently looking at Peter. It wasn’t really phrased as a question. We knew exactly what my Father thought already because he had spent the last 20 minutes explaining that. Now he was asking his youngest son to agree. I concentrated on my own plate and stole glances at my brother who sat across the table from me. He was only a year older than me yet the weight of this decision rested on his shoulders rather than mine.

“Well?”, said my Father.

The letter itself sat there on the table. The envelope lay beside it, ripped apart and empty. A few pages with long cursive writing scratched on them was all that had emerged. Those pages just had words written there. Simple words really. Words about a new country, a new opportunity, a new century, a new chance. Words that were about to tear our family further apart. My Uncle had written them and probably had the best intentions in mind as he did. That would not change their impact.

“There are many jobs here. Many carpenters are needed as construction is booming. Even cars are abundant and many families have one. The buildings of New York are very tall and when you come in by ship you pass a large monument called the “Statue of Liberty”. I urge you to consider sending those who have no connections and I will find them work here in Seattle.”

There were some other pleasantries at the beginning and end about how they were doing and messages to others in the family here but that was the important part. The part that had caused my brother to forget how to speak. All of us around the table knew what our Uncle meant by his reference to those with “no connections”. This farm was small and there could be only one heir. That would be my eldest brother who was on a trip to Oslo at the moment. Of course, I was 17 and soon enough would be married to someone who could provide for me. Well, that was my hope. A particular face emerged in my mind but then evaporated away quickly when my brother finally spoke.

“I am not sure, Father” my brother said, “I love it here in Kragero. The town, the ocean, my friends. I do not want to leave this place.”

My Mother got up from the table and cleared some dishes. She was biting her lip and did not look towards my Father. So many had left already to go to the United States and now she might be losing her son as well. I watched her retreat into the dark kitchen where she lit a small lamp. I wanted to join her, to retreat from this scene, but I sat still instead.

And then I saw it. I had not expected this because of the speech that had come before but My Father’s eyes had wavered - I was sure of it. He had looked away, then back again - it was quick, but I was confident of it now. My brother probably had not seen this as he was still moving the meat around his plate. It was watching my Father’s deep blue eyes that showed me this and suddenly I realized that he probably felt the same as my Mother. Could it be? Then why extol the benefits of a country he had never set foot on, which is what he had been doing since the letter was opened? When he spoke next I began to understand.

“Son, I ... I have so little to give you here. I work hard, but ...”. There was silence. My brother had glanced up when the words stopped. Perhaps like me he had understood more than words could even convey. Outside the wind continued to blow and I was sure in the morning there would be snow covering the fields. It would be the first snow of the year and it felt ominous that it was arriving tonight.

My brother’s response had been brief and my Father’s reply seemed to defuse the need to explore the topic further that night. The plate with the meat still on it was taken through to the kitchen and I saw my Mother grab hold of the hands that held it and look into his face. I could understand that she did not want to lose a son, even if there were so few opportunities here. “We can make a way”, was her response to most difficulties. She still told us how her own Father had made due with bone porridge during the harsh winters many decades ago. “We can make a way”, that had been her reaction to whatever life had thrown at her. But to lose her son to a ship that would carry him for weeks to a land she would never have the time or money to travel to. What do you do with such a reality?

***

The next morning I went for a walk very early in the day. The night had not yet given up its hold and the sun seemed weighed down and unable to rise up over the horizon. As my brother had said, the town of Kragero was near to the ocean and walking beside the water was also one of my favorite places to wander. It was sometimes called Perlen blandt kystbyene, “The Pearl of the Coastal Towns”, and if you visit you can see why. The Telemark region has hundreds of islands in that area and the water is a beautiful color blue with tall evergreen trees lining the shore. The trees grow straight and true and are fed by the frequent rain. Some hang precariously on the edges of cliffs above the water below. It looks like they will never fall and crash into the sea they wave a greeting at each day when the breeze blows through their branches.

The snow had not been as heavy as the wind last night had shouted that it might be so I was able to walk easily enough as it was already melting in the sun. I had a destination in mind. My Grandfather’s cottage was at the end of the beach and up a small hill. I knew he would not serve me the bone meal porridge of my Mother’s story. Instead there would be tea and perhaps even a biscuit of some kind. Since my Grandmother Elise had passed away he had learned many new skills and seemed to particularly enjoy baking. I had enjoyed teaching him some of the things I had learned from my mother and now one of my specialties, krub, was his favorite too. I would laugh at him whenever I opened his door in the evening and smelled the sliced potatoes in cheese.

“Grandfather, I see you have stolen my recipe once again.” I would say.

“But of course, my dear” he would gaze at me over his small glasses and reply with a small laugh and smile that turned his whole face into a welcome.

Usually he would be sitting in the small lounge in his favorite upright chair by the window smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper, when he could afford to buy the tobacco and the paper. Sometimes it was just one of those activities instead. His next words were always, “won’t you stay? There just happens to be enough for two”. Of course I always did stay. I loved this game that we played and I knew that he loved it too. He said I reminded him of his daughter, my Mother, and since I was the only granddaughter he had I had grown up being more than a little spoiled by him.

Walking along the path by the shore that day I turned over the conversations at dinner in my mind as if they were smooth rocks I had picked up from this beach. There were so many angles, so many perspectives. What was the right thing to do? Many others from our village and even further afield had made the same decision as my Uncle. They were saying that even in the big cities people were making the decision to move. To leave the “old country”, as they called it once they arrived in America.

I heard a voice shouting. “Sigrid Odegaard”. I turned around and looked back where I had come. The voice yelled again, “Sigrid Odegaard. Sigrid Odegaard!” I had stopped and turned around at this point and was also the only one there so the formality of using my full name seemed rather unnecessary. Then I saw that it was Sarah. I will not lie at this point, I do not care for Sarah. We were in the same class at school and she is only a few weeks older than me. However, you wouldn’t know that from the way she treats me. Well, it is not just me, it was everyone in school younger than she was. She acted as if her birth date had destined her to lord over all who came after her. I think she used my full name because it made us seem less like friends and more as if she was my teacher.

“Sigrid Odegaard”, she said as a statement when she had finally caught up. She stopped a few feet away and put her hands on her hips. She was smiling widely as if she had just been told a secret, like what she was being given for Christmas. I smiled back at her. She was not tall and had what I would only call a solid, sturdy sort of beauty with a wide waist and strong arms. Looking at her mother you could see that she would end up as a very matronly sort of figure. But she had been blessed with striking blue eyes that were the same colour of the ocean we walked beside. They seemed to radiate out and were hard to resist, when she decided you were worthy of their attention.

“I saw you walking off and I thought that I just must speak to you”, Sarah said. I smiled back at her. Smiling seemed easier than talking and I knew she would not need much encouragement to tell me whatever she wanted to say.

“I wanted to make sure you were invited to my house tomorrow afternoon”. She said. I must have looked quite surprised. I had never been inside her house although I had passed by it enough times. Since her father was the Mayor it was hard to miss as it was right in the centre of town.

Sarah had seen the look on my face. “I’ve asked all the girls” she said, to explain. I could guess who they would be. I knew them all well, of course - a dozen or so of us were all around the same age. You couldn’t help but know everyone in a small town like ours. She must have seen some hesitation in my eyes because she opened hers even wider and gave me their full benefit while saying.

“Oh please, you must come. It just won’t be the same if you are not there.” She smiled again at me.

What could I say to that? All I could do was nod and assure her I would come. She turned away and bounced off down the path by the shore back where she had come from. I turned to walk the other way and it was then that I noticed a stone. You may rightly observe that to be a strange thing to notice but I did so. I bent down and picked it up and felt the cold of it lying there in my outstretched palm. It was almost round and the melting snow made it wet and dark, almost black. I brushed it off and slipped it into the left pocket of my skirt and then continued walking.

When I arrived at my Grandfather’s house I could tell he was in because of the smoke that rose from the chimney in imitation of the pipe that seemed to have been built onto his lips. I knocked gently and opened the door at the same time. I could see him around the corner as he was sitting in the kitchen eating some bread for his breakfast. As I came close I could see the butter melting on top and it made me hungry to see the jam he had spread on over that. I sat down and reached for a slice myself. He just nodded and smiled. It was comfortable just to sit together and we did not feel the need to pollute the silence with talking.

“So what have you brought me today?”, he finally asked. He knew there would be something. Whenever I walked along the beach there was something to be found - some dried seaweed, some driftwood, the shell of a crab. I put the stone on the table. He looked at it, then picked it up and lifted it up and down.

“A good size and weight and perfectly flat”, he said, and looked at me.

I nodded back. “It will go far”, he said. We sat again in our comfortable silence until he said, “Let’s go for a walk later”. He knew I would agree because one of the reasons I came so often to see him was the excuse of being outside and going for a walk. I put my hand in the other pocket and felt the letter there. Then I pulled my fingers back slowly and reached for more bread.

***

By the time we had finished breakfast the sun was much higher. We walked down to the shore, jumping over boulders, and threw rocks like the one I had found so that they would skim along the surface. It was fun to watch them although more often than not the waves would claim them on the first bounce. Eventually we tired of that game and I sat down on a large log that must have been tossed around for years because it was worn smooth. Despite its long journey from some unknown forest the strong wood remained, even if the bark had been completely stripped away. My Grandfather sat down too. He was the same height as me but much thinner. He was too thin, actually. The changes were gradual and it was only by remembering him with my Grandmother that I could picture what he had used to look like. He needed to eat more of that bread and butter and Krub.

“So, how is Peter?” he asked. I gave a little start and wondered how he knew that my mind was thinking of my brother at that moment.

“He is fine. He went with Father today to buy some seed and other supplies,” I replied. I turned my gaze out to the ocean.

My Grandfather looked at me with raised eyebrows. “No, not that Peter,” he said.

I blushed. I could feel it rising up. How did he know about me and Peter Anders? Small town life at work once again no doubt. But there wasn’t really much to say, except for the fact that Peter was the man for me. Of that much I was sure. The last time we had spoken was yesterday, before I had returned home to the drama of my Uncle’s letter. I had every impression that he was thinking about something big as we walked down the road. Something that he was struggling to express and I knew exactly what it was. That lack of communication was my signal because normally we spoke freely and, most importantly, we laughed about everything. I felt like when I was with him I improved somehow and became a better version of myself. A bit like how I felt about my Grandfather, he helped me aspire to become better even if the reward was just a kind word of encouragement from his lips.

Peter was the only son in his family and their family farm was just a few minutes down the road from ours so we had grown up knowing each other. Summers in the fields, winters skiing to school. Originally I had gone over as a child to spend time with his sister Ruth. She was just a few months younger than I was and so we had a lot in common. As the years passed I became a frequent a visitor to their kitchen and spent many mealtimes around the table with their family. That was why It was going to work out perfectly because this way I could still stay near to my parents.

I didn’t know how to express all this to my Grandfather though. It made me feel suddenly shy and uncertain. I diverted the topic away down another road by reaching into my pocket for the folded up letter.

“Father thinks that there may be a better life in America”, I said, as I passed it to him.

I waited some time as I watched him unfold it and begin to read. The Uncle who had written this was on my Father’s side but my Grandfather had known him as a boy as well so all the news and greetings in the letter needed no translation. I watched the birds rising and falling through the air like kites as they plunged into the sea in front of us. If they managed to catch a fish they stayed a while floating on the top, otherwise they took off again to dive down. Over and over they plunged down in search of their elusive prey. I wasn’t sure which I identified with more but I hoped that I was more like the bird, although the fish could always escape by swimming away further and seeking the safety of the dark and deep fjords.

When my Grandfather turned to me finally I saw there were tears in his eyes, but I didn’t understand why until he spoke.

“You should go”, he said.

The words were said in an almost casual way as if he thought I had been asking his permission and he did not want to offend me. I had not expected that response at all and I quickly realised I had not explained fully who my Father had been talking about. My going had certainly never even been hinted at by my Father.

“No, no”, I said quickly, “Not me - Peter. Father thinks that Peter should go to America because there is no farm here to pass on. He is the one with no connections that my Uncle is talking about.” I looked closely at him - at his eyes, his glasses, his white hair poking out from under the brown hat. He was a hard one to read right now, perhaps because of the emotion he had just gone through. He seemed relieved but I could not tell what he was thinking and as we sat in silence I could only guess. I suddenly felt that somehow this silence was covering over a rift between us that I had never expected would be there. I wished that I had the words to transport us back in time what was only really a minute or two but it was now too late.

***

I knew something deeper had happened when the next morning I found my feet did not turn and take me on my usual path down to my Grandfather’s house. Instead they turned down the long walk towards town and I found myself eventually strolling down the small streets there instead. Houses crowded together hunched over in the rain like beggars. It was a gentle rain today which fell lightly and did not interfere with much. My Father and brothers would be pleased because it had been so dry recently. Over dinner the previous night no one had mentioned the letter or America and instead we had talked only about the animals and the need for rain. I had learned long ago that the weather was both a farmer’s best friend and his worst enemy. In fact, we talked about the weather so much that it almost took on a physical presence in our conversations and sat there in the darkest corner by turns laughing with us in our merriment or shouting at us in our tears.

Despite the soft drizzle of rain this morning there were a number of people out walking through the narrow streets of Kragero. You could hear the sound of the seagulls in the distance. That sound help reinforce to summer time visitors that no where was very far from the sea here. The sound of the water and the birds was the music that accompanied us all through our daily life. At this time of year there were very few who came down from the North to visit. The winter sleep would soon be overtaking everyone throughout Norway as the days grew ever shorter.

Eventually I found myself wandering past the childhood house of Theodor Kittelsen, the painter, until I came to the shore and looked out at the island of Øya a short stones throw away. I sat down and watched the small wooden boats coming and going, looking as if they controlled their own destinies when in fact men with oars and sails directed them here and there. I heard some laughter echoing down the street behind me and then the same voice, “Sigrid Odegaard” it called. “Sigrid Odegaard”. I reluctantly turned from the boats and looked back towards Sarah. She was with two others, Ingrid and Marit, and they were all laughing at some private joke.

“Sigrid Odegaard. I hope you haven’t forgotten this afternoon”, she said, as she walked by where I was. In fact, I had completely forgotten and tried hard to hide my true emotions.

“I’ll be there”, I said to her.

That left me a lot of the rest of the day to fill in so I passed the time visiting different relatives who lived in town. My parents both come from large families so there is no shortage of cousins or Aunts and Uncles. By the time I got to Sarah’s house the wet weather had moved on and a weak sun shone through onto the street. I took it as a good omen as I knocked on the door resolutely.

Sarah’s father Eric opened the door. He smiled down at me from his enormous height. It was hard to understand how his daughter was so short when her father had to stoop to enter most houses. He was a well liked and kind man, as a mayor should be to secure the votes of the public. But he genuinely did seem to care in a way that was not in a hunt for favor in the next election. He spent time even out our way talking with the farmers when the rain stopped for long periods. His large beard covered his entire face and when he laughed he would throw back his head and roar up into the sky in delight.

“Ah, Sigrid, I am glad you could come. How is your Father coping with the weather this year?”. You couldn’t help but respond to the warmth of his personality which made you feel like what you had to say was both important and true.

“Very well, or, I should say, as well as is possible”, I replied as I came in and shook the coat off of my shoulders.

“Yes, yes, I understand, it is very true” he nodded at my words as if I had successfully summarised all that was wrong in Norway and how we might be able to fix every problem while we were at it as well. I smiled, imagining him later that night composing a letter to the King with my comment.

I walked through to a small room where Sarah sat on a small couch with Ingrid on one side with Marit on the other. She looked up at me and then glanced through to the kitchen at the other end of the room where I could hear the sound of glasses and her Mother working away.

“Over here, Sigrid Odegaard”, she called kindly. Sarah signaled to Marit who quickly moved aside so I could sit down beside Sarah.

Sarah’s father had passed through the room and gone into the kitchen. I looked around the room and was frankly very impressed. It made me realize how very modest our own home was to see the comparative luxury here. They had large lamps and paintings were hung from the wall. There were several photos including some of Eric dressed up in his mayoral clothes. The rug underneath our feet felt thick and warm. Through the window I could see the ocean and I thought about how nice it would be to sit on my own and watch the boats from here.

“Will they bring some Akevitt now, Sarah?” whispered Marit across my face, as if I wasn’t there. She sounded excited.

“Yes, yes,” Sarah said, clearly annoyed. She seemed to have been holding her breath so the words were exhaled fast, as if she was quickly batting away a fly. Akevitt was only drunk at special times and I had only ever been allowed to have a sip. It was an alcoholic drink made from potatoes and grain. In the kitchen I heard Sarah’s father laugh and I could picture him in my mind with his head held right back again. I glanced at the photo of him dressed up as the mayor and it made me smile to think of the formality of that picture with his frozen face that contrasted so much with the laughter I could hear now.

I heard another voice joining in the laughter and realised it must be Sarah’s mother. Then I heard a third laugh that had now joined in and I felt my entire body jump involuntarily. My suspicion was confirmed when I saw Eric walk out holding a tray that had 7 small glasses on it. Behind him was Sarah’s mother and behind that walked Peter.

They walked out, a merry trio, humming along to some tune that must have been the source of the joke. At any other time I would have been smiling now, just seeing Peter, but the context was all out of place for me. When he saw me he stopped in his tracks and his eyes widened while he still hummed the silly tune. Clearly he had not expected to see me here either.

Sarah’s father placed the tray on a small table and turned to us all with a grand motion, as if he were about to address the hundreds who had voted for him to be mayor. I looked to my side at Sarah and saw that her mouth was open. Not in a smile, more like the moment of anticipation before you begin to speak. Those beautiful blue eyes were narrowed and were watching my face with some kind of pleasure. I turned away from her and saw that Peter had sat down on another couch and was avoiding me, looking at Eric instead.

“I am so pleased that you girls, Sarah’s closest friends, could join us here today on such a happy day.” He turned to the tray and handed the glasses around to each of us. I somehow knew what he would say next and I wanted to close my eyes, as if that might stop it being true.

“An engagement is such a momentous time for a couple and I am so proud of Sarah and Peter and all that they will be to each other, for this community, and for our family.” He said, sounding again like he was talking to his voters.

I felt crushed, numb. I had no words to say, no action I could think of, until my feet took over the situation and I found that I was standing and walking out past Eric, past a petrified version of Peter, out the door, down the road, not even turning around once. I was breathing and walking, breathing and walking. One step and then another.

***

I thought about my Grandfather a few months later as I looked back through the clouds trying to pick out the last shore of Norway that we would see. My brother Peter stood beside me and we looked at each other with a pursed half smile, each sad in our own private ways. I knew that my brother was secretly thankful for my decision but the look on our Mother’s face would haunt us both for the rest of our lives in that far off land.

But back to my Grandfather. I had visited him even more of course. That final day I had gone to his house, feeling almost like it was a normal stroll, but knowing that this would be the last time I let me feet pick my way down familiar roads.

I knocked and opened the door and we played our little games with conversation. My trunk was packed back at home and tickets had been bought and paid for with a large portion of the cost of mine coming from my Grandfather.

“Grandfather, I don’t know”, I said. “Have I made the right choice?” There was no easy answer, no right answer.

He looked at me through teary eyes. “Sometimes it is the act of making the decision which legitimizes the choice”, he said. “Now that you have chosen, it is the right decision.”

He smiled and walked over to the small fireplace. He reached down inside on the left and pulled something out.

“Did you know that this was my Grandmother’s secret hiding place?” He asked, looking over at me to see my reaction. I was quite astonished because I thought I had explored every part of this house over the years. I had never noticed any such place before.

I was sitting in his favorite chair and he came over beside me. He reached down and placed something into my hands.

It was a rock, but not any ordinary rock. For a start it was perfectly round like the sun. One side was quite a dark colour and it felt cool to touch. The other side had thin white lines which stretched across it almost perfectly forming the shape of a cross.

“I found it here, after she had died. It holds a story, I am sure, but I do not know what it is.” He said.

He folded my fingers over it. “Please take it, to remember me”, he said. “I feel like it is time to pass it on. You were always going to have it. I always knew that. I remember when you were a little girl and came here I thought of giving it to you then but always felt I should wait and, perhaps, now we know why.”

I felt the stone resting there in my hand and nodded, looking up at him. I am nodding in memory of that moment now as I feel the stone in my pocket with my left hand. I turn it over and over and trace the shape with my finger. The strong wind is blowing spray up from the waves below and we are starting to get wet but we continue to stare back at that dark shore which is still an echo on the horizon. After many long minutes Peter takes my arm.

“Come, Sigrid”, he finally says, “it’s time we went inside”.

Photo: K8/Unsplash

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“A decision is made” is the second in a series of three interconnected short stories. You can read the first story, “What Julie lost and what she found”, here. The third and final story, “The end is the beginning”, waits here.

What Julie Lost And What She Found

“When the kettle was full she turned to the stove to boil it and it was in that moment that she had a feeling that something was not quite right. She had lived with a certain order for so long it was almost as if she didn’t need to look to know. She put the kettle down and turned around slowly. The window sill above the sink was almost bare, as if someone had swept up the stones that had sat there. Julie knew in that instant what it meant and she ran towards the door.” Lawyer and podcaster Steven Moe tells a story of loss and belonging.

By Steven Moe

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Photo: Nathan Dumlao/Unsplash

Julie turned her face away from the water flooding the gutters of the street and looked in the window of the café. She contemplated the large blueberry muffin that she had seen when she paid for the coffee. It was the last one there. She saw someone enter and wondered if her chance had passed by. As she continued to look in the café her eyes suddenly refocussed from the inside of the café to the fogged up glass of the window and she saw her reflection. Immediately she thought of her Grandmother. Could it be that so many years had passed now and she had become so similar? She turned away and looked out at the street.

The hard rain had turned to a softer drizzle that was now descending from the low lying clouds as if it were an advance guard that was setting the scene for the clouds themselves to arrive. The people here were used to this and most didn’t even carry umbrellas. They moved quickly along the streets of Hokitika and darted between the dripping buildings as if they were children searching for a place to hide. Julie sat outside the café under a covering and watched them scurrying past. The coffee was nearly done and she was still not here. Given how well she knew her daughter that shouldn’t have surprised her but it did.

She watched the rain soak into everything almost like a blanket being draped over the land until nothing dry remained. Julie glanced into the café and again and caught another glimpse of her Grandmother. She still remembered clearly her time one summer when she was seven living with her Grandmother in her cabin by the stream. That had been so many decades ago and on a different continent, far across oceans on the other side of the world.

She remembered arriving and feeling shy of this woman who she did not know. But who else was there to take her? And so she had spent those months learning the ways of her Grandmother, who was 77 then, almost the same age that Julie was now. At the time of course, she hadn’t known her age. What was an age to a child - she only knew that some people were adults and others were children, and that was the way things were.

But she had inherited the papers later, the most intriguing ones written in Norwegian and smelling old and drenched with mystery. A friend of a friend helped with translation and so Julie had learned her Grandmother’s birth date and some scraps about her early life and when she had left Norway to move to a new life in America.

On the first day she was there her Grandmother had taken her down to the stream. It was small and you could easily wade or even jump across it in places but they tiptoed over the wooden plank that was a bridge and which would gently rise and fall under their weight. They sat on the other side beneath a grove of Alder trees and watched the water rippling by, catching the sunlight and throwing it back for all to see. It seemed amazing that they were the only two spectators of such a show and Julie had stared long at the water. It was all so different to the city and all that she had ever known. She became aware that her Grandmother was watching her and turned to those deep green eyes that sat in her wrinkled face. They each just looked at each other for a long time, perhaps communicating more than mere words could offer.

Her Grandmother sighed, and then said quietly, “Lie on your back, Julie”, as she dropped her shoulders to the ground and flung her arms wide on the grass.

Julie didn’t understand but followed her lead and then looked up and saw that the world was alive with butterflies above their heads. Then she realised that they were green and were the leaves of the Alder tree being wooed by the wind into performing a dance.

“What do you see”, asked her Grandmother.

“I see butterflies”, Julie replied. She closed her eyes and opened them again. She heard her Grandmother make a sound of approval. She felt a sense of peace there beside the stream that she had not known for a long time.

Every day during that summer at about the same time they would come out and lie down beside the stream. And every time Julie was surprised at how her spirit seemed to rise up as if to join the leaves fluttering above.

Julie looked again at her reflection in the window and her Grandmother was gone and she remained. Dressed in a dark green rain jacket, white hair drawn back in a simple ponytail. She turned to look up Weld Street again and that is when she saw her daughter’s car heading towards her. Julie stood up and went to the side of the road where she was parking. She was surprised to see that in the front seat sat her grandson, John. She hadn’t seen him for years. He didn’t move or look up, instead staring down at a screen on his lap. Her daughter was there then beside her, and giving her a hug. It seemed odd to be so close to someone after so many years. Why had it been so long? She wasn’t even sure anymore. Her daughter was here now, and she was grateful for that.

“Mum”, her daughter was saying. It was her voice that brought her back to that moment, to reality, letting go of the hug and the illusion conveyed that everything was fine. Her eyes really took in her daughter then – saw the red eyes, the dishevelled hair, the panic in her expression.

“Mum, I wasn’t entirely clear when we spoke on the phone. I mean, what I really need is. I, what I wanted to ask is, can you...” Her words tumbled out like this for a long time, in a disorganised way that reflected her state of mind. “…I need you to take him, just for a few days, until I can work this out.”

Julie hadn’t been listening but somehow it all seeped in, “you want me to take John? To my house?” Her daughter nodding. Beckoning to John to get out. Pulling a bag of clothes from the back and dropping it by them. Waving as she spun the car around and sped away.

John looked as bewildered by developments as Julie felt. There wasn’t much to say. She picked up the bag and turned towards her car and he followed like someone would follow a nurse in a hospital leading them to the operating room.

He had been to her cabin when he was a baby, or maybe 1 year old. He wouldn’t remember it.

She found it hard to speak as she drove through the rain up the Arahura Valley, further and further away from the city and people. It was a miracle that she even had a phone line, when you thought about it. She slipped along the muddy road following the black line through the thick trees and bush until she reached her home. It was a small wooden house, painted an off-yellow colour that had faded in the sun and harsh winters. The dark red brick chimney that stuck from the top showed the fire had gone out long ago. Down the road a short walk was the Arahura River but she was safe from flooding this far away from it, nestled up in the curves of the hills that rippled through the entire valley. What must John think of this? She turned the key in the truck off and looked over at him. He was looking at the screen again.

***

That first night with her Grandmother Julie had cried. It was all so new. So far from the city and the sounds that she knew. The house was small, or maybe her Grandmother was listening outside the door. Either way, she came in and sat with her in the dark.

After about 10 minutes her Grandmother stood up. “Put on your clothes, we are going for a walk”, she said. This surprised Julie, but she was learning that her Grandmother would often surprise her. When they stepped out and began to walk up the path the night closed in around them and the darkness felt like it was something that could be reached out for and touched, like a curtain. Her Grandmother was humming a song, a Norwegian one, Julie could tell. She looked up at her and it was then that she saw the stars above. The city lights always dimmed them but out here they could be seen so clearly, as if there were a million little fires across the sky. She paused and her Grandmother looked down at her.

“Ah yes, the stars”, she said with her accent. She knelt down beside Julie. “Do you see them all, unchanging? They remind me that there is more to this life than living or dying, for we are each here for a reason.” Her Grandmother stopped abruptly, as if she had more to say but wanted to wait, or didn’t know the right words to convey the meaning. Julie could feel her eyes getting hot and the tears on her cheek. There was nothing more to be done. Nothing more that she could have done. They walked on through the night until they reached a spot in the stream which grew wider. The sound of the rapids died away completely and it looked almost like a small lake before them.

“The beavers are here this year”, said her Grandmother. They both looked intently into the night but could only see a low mound some distance away which was the dam that the beavers had created. In the dark it almost looked like a very small wave that didn’t get any closer.

Her Grandmother went down to the edge and picked up a small, flat stone. She turned and looked back at Julie and raised it twice in the air, as if they were part of a team and she was starting the play. Then she turned and faced the water and threw the stone, lightly, out into the darkness. Julie heard it hit the water, then heard it again. It had skimmed on the water twice before sinking.

“In Kragero, my grandfather taught me this one, long ago.” Her Grandmother said. Julie liked listening to her Grandmother speak, both for her accent and her unique choice of words. Anything she said sounded more like a song than a statement. She watched her pick up another stone, and saw her beckon Julie to her. It was strange to stand there in the dark, tossing stones into the water with her Grandmother. Julie found it very difficult to skim them on the top and had no success. They just plopped into the water with a small splash. To be honest, her Grandmother seemed to find it hard as well. Julie would only appreciate much later what skill this took to do at her Grandmother’s age. They came back the next day as well but during the day this time. The beavers were again discreet and made no appearance. But Julie gradually began to learn about the stones and how to get them to hit the water and bounce up again. The key was their shape. It was the roundest and flattest ones which were the best for they would sail like little Frisbees through the air.

When she later looked back on her life she realised that it was collecting rocks and stones to throw like that which marked her beginnings as a rock hunter. She found some that she didn’t want to throw into the water, and she brought them home instead. Soon she was noticing rocks everywhere that she went. There was an entire field of rock up behind the house. It stretched out in front of her and she learned that it was granite and no trees grew from it. She broke a piece off by jumping on an edge that poked out, and brought it home. She liked the different colours, the shapes, the patterns, the textures. The way that some would dissolve in water and let her finger off reds or yellows as if they were paint. Stones and rocks began to fill her dreams as well as her waking hours. Soon the front porch was littered with rocks that had been gathered – smooth pebbles from the stream, large round rocks that looked like melons, sharp obsidian that was black and yet translucent in places. That was hard to find but she enjoyed the challenge. Her Grandmother encouraged her in this and together they found a book at the small library in the town which described the rocks. She began to learn words like bedrock, outcrop, sandstone, shale and basalt. She had no idea that what had been started in those days would set a course she would follow the rest of her life.

***

Looking at it now, Julie realised that her house in the Arahura Valley was a distant echo of that home of her Grandmothers. She had boulders that lined the driveway and there were rocks around the house in uneven stacks, like small volcanos erupting. They had emigrated here so many years ago - could it really be 50 years? It must be as she had been 25 when they left California to come and explore for Pounamu – the greenstone of the South Island of New Zealand. She had read an article and seen some photos. They had finished their degrees – both studying geology at the same University. Getting married the week after they graduated. Life was there to be tasted and eaten. “Wouldn’t it be a great experience to visit New Zealand”? Which one of them had said it? She couldn’t recall but it didn’t matter – the other one had agreed right away.

It was an adventure and they had been young. They stayed a few weeks, which became months. Settling into a life here had been easy. They lived an entire decade together in that house, and had their daughter there too. He had been an expert at finding the some of the most difficult greenstone to source, which only could be found down south in Milford Sound. It was a skill which few possessed and the money he made from those finds paid their expenses, which were pretty minimal in that small house. They were happy.

She still recalled the moment of that kiss she gave him as he left for the trip down again to Milford Sound to look for more. When the news came back that he was lost she didn’t believe it and assumed he would just appear soon, so she cooked as if he would be there that night. In the end there was nothing to do but to pick up her baby daughter and continue on with this life. The Pounamu provided her some income. It was hard to find but like her husband she also seemed to have a sense of where it would be on the river bed or in the hills. These days she only took it from the beaches where she was allowed to collect. They looked just like normal rocks or boulders and it was often only by cutting them open that the beauty of the green stone inside was revealed.

The tourists who visited the West Coast bought sculpted pieces as a reminder of their trips but they didn’t really understand. What they purchased would mainly end up in drawers, stowed away and hidden from sight. She recalled the first time she had taken a large stone in and visited one of the Maori artists who sculpted them into different shapes. It was a hot day and she stepped into the cool shade of his studio, feeling conscious of her accent that immediately gave a first impression and flooded the room with unspoken assumptions. But fortunately he didn’t seem worried about her past or where she was from. In fact, he seemed very grateful for the stone she had brought in, for it would provide a good source for the necklaces, earrings and other crafts he created. That had been the start.

Of course, she had to learn a lot. She discovered that her favourite pounamu was not the nephrite jade that was so common but instead the bowenite that was called “Tangiwai”. It was clear, like glass and only found down near the place her husband had disappeared searching for it. One year, the year after he disappeared, she had gone there with her young daughter and spent a summer searching for Tangiwai – or was she really searching for him? It was the most ancient of pounamu and took its name from tangi (“to cry”), and wai (”water” or “tears”). The Maori she met in Milford Sound told her the full name was Koko-tangiwai, which referred to a deep sorrow that is never completely healed. “It is a tear water stone”, she was told. She could relate to that. She only found a few of them, despite deploying all her skills and neglecting her daughter for hours on end to hunt for more. One hung around her neck even now – it had never been sculpted but if you held it up to the light you could see the clear shade of green shining inside and through it, as if it were alive. It reminded her of her Grandmother’s eyes which had been almost the same colour.

***

One day towards the end of their summer together her Grandmother put something on the low wooden table where she sat eating porridge with raisins in it. The object was wrapped in paper.

“I will not be able to give you this, for your birthday, when you go back”, she said simply.

Julie looked at her, then unwrapped the paper. It was a napkin which was a light shade of blue. No tape, just folded over to conceal what was inside. She felt the stone before she saw it. It slipped coolly into her hand and she looked down at it. It looked like it was perfectly round and flat, like a small wheel. She turned it over and noticed the white line that criss-crossed it. One line was slightly longer than the other which made it form the shape of a cross.

She spoke gently and slowly, and Julie still remembered those words clearly, “This is from Kragero. From my grandfather – it is a memory. You can see, it is eternity breaking through and speaking through the very rocks themselves.” Julie took it up to her room and put it beside her bed. It felt different from the rocks she had been finding – this one had a story and had been a gift to her. She touched it again and ran her fingers over the lines.

The next day Julie’s eye started noticing how rocks sometimes had patterns or shapes in them. But she couldn’t find any by the side of the stream that had such a distinctive cross with two white lines going through them like a lower case ‘t’. This would be a challenge. Perhaps it was that combination or rarity and challenge that really started her on the rock collecting path. If it had been easier then what would have been the point? Over the years to come she was always looking out for rocks by the sea, rivers, streams, parks. And if she found one like that her Grandmother first gave her, then it would inevitably find a place at her home.

***

Julie got out of the car and grabbed John’s bag. They went into the house together and he sat down in the lounge. There wouldn’t have been a long tour of her house as it was so small but it would have been nice to show him around. Instead, the screen had his attention so she simply pointed to the toilet so he would know where that was. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The rain had died away and a few rays of sun lit up the window sill above the sink. She turned to fill the kettle and looked out at the trees and the drops which still clung to their leaves. The tree ferns in particular were weighed down by the water as if they were travellers carrying packs on a hike. As the water filled the kettle she looked at the window sill itself and saw the cross rock that her Grandmother had given her so long ago. It was now surrounded by many others from different rivers and streams, but none of them compared to the original. She reached out and picked it up and turned it over in her hand like she had done so many years ago, then she placed it back in position and turned to the boiling kettle.

When her husband had been alive drinking tea together had been a big part of the day. A chance to sit together and break out of the cleaning or reading or work they had been doing. These days it was a way to mark time, to have a break in the day and make sure all the hours were accounted for. She drank from the same cup with its chipped edges and stained insides which said “Sonora”. Just seeing the name reminded her of her Grandmother who had lived there so long. Drinking tea was familiar, a routine that she savoured and gave her comfort, like when she was a child and was asked to go and buy the bread fresh from the bakery. A smell of fresh bread still drew her back to that little shop and handing over the coins for a loaf of white bread which was still hot. The butter melting into a thick slice was the only addition it ever needed.

When her tea was done she thought about her next problem. She only had one bed. She hadn’t expected to have a small boy coming to stay with her when she set out that morning. Her daughter’s message had simply been that she wanted to drop by and see her. Not at her house, but in Hokitika. So when she drove into town there had been no planning on driving back with another person beside her. She decided that the couch would have to do and set about finding some sheets and a blanket. It wasn’t cold so it would be fine for him to sleep out there.

He was still buried in the screen while she cooked a simple meal for dinner. After they had eaten she said, “Let’s go for a walk”. He reluctantly put the screen down and they put on their rain jackets, just in case, and walked down towards the river.

“How are you feeling, John”, she asked, as they walked.

“I don’t know”.

“How are things at home?”

A pause. “Fine”.

“And school?”

“School is fine.”

She was struggling for topics. “How old are you now?”

“I’m 9.”

She wasn’t sure what else to say. So they walked on in silence until they reached the great Arahura River. It was much higher than normal because of the rain. Julie walked to the edge and subconsciously her eyes searched the rocks there on the bank. Julie couldn’t even stop herself anymore, it was just a natural reaction. This part of the river right in front was deep and slow moving. She saw a small cross rock and slipped it into her pocket. She glanced over at John. He seemed to be staring without looking at what was in front of them.

Julie had a thought then, and went to the edge. She spent some time searching and found a stone – a little too thick to work well but it was pretty flat. She turned to John. He had moved away, back up towards the road, and sat on a log.

“Your great, great Grandmother taught me this,” she called out loudly. She wasn’t sure he had heard her above the sound of the river. Suddenly she felt silly. She raised the rock twice in the air. There was nothing else to be done now – she was committed. She turned to the water and threw it as skilfully as she could. It hit the water once and then bounced high and splashed down before it sank out of sight. She turned back towards John and smiled at him.

His hands were in his pockets. “Can we go back inside?”, he called out.

She turned her back to the river and walked with him to the house.

***

The next morning they were having breakfast when his screen went black. He looked up from it, confused. They were eating toast and the steam wafted up from her cup of tea. They both looked through his bag of clothes but there were no cords there.

“Do you have a charger?” he asked. He moved close to her as he said this and spoke softly, as if it would help the answer to be yes. She didn’t like the screen, but she wished she could have helped him. That would have taken a true miracle. The most modern piece of equipment in her house was the old phone in the corner. You had to dial it using a circle which had numbers around the edge and it click clacked as it swung round back into position. She had no charger.

She shook her head. As she did this he turned his head into the sunlight, disappointed. She looked into his face then and saw much more than just a reaction to not having a charger. She reached out to him and tried to give him a hug but he pulled away.

“I didn’t want this. I just want …”, he slowed, as if to reveal himself in this way was a betrayal. There were tears and more there. It was thinking about that when Julie realised that his eyes were a deep green colour. She didn’t understand how it could have escaped her before now but she realised now that this boy right here stood as a living link to her own past, to her own childhood, to her own Grandmother. It had been too long to be away, to be apart from her daughter and from him. She knew that with a sudden clarity. But now he had taken the screen in his hands and sat curled in the sofa, as if his desire itself might will the screen to life again.

***

The morning passed quickly. They did not speak. After a lunch of soup and bread Julie went outside to the stack of wood lining the wall at the side of the house. John moved back to his place on the sofa. The fire had been used a lot recently because it cheered Julie up to have the flames at night when it was raining, even if it wasn’t very cold. She spent time stacking more wood into place, fitting them together like pieces of Lego.

When she came into the house she noticed that John wasn’t there. She looked around and saw his bag of clothes and the screen on the sofa but the jacket was not hanging on the door. She looked out the front window and saw him down beside the river. He would be safe enough there. She went to fill up her kettle and decided she would take her cup of tea down with her and see what he was doing. The trees and ferns had all dried out compared to the previous afternoon. Small birds now fluttered noisily among the branches in the sun.

When the kettle was full she turned to the stove to boil it and it was in that moment that she had a feeling that something was not quite right. She had lived with a certain order for so long it was almost as if she didn’t need to look to know. She put the kettle down and turned around slowly. The window sill above the sink was almost bare, as if someone had swept up the stones that had sat there. Julie knew in that instant what it meant and she ran towards the door.

She moved as quickly as she could down the road and she saw he was still there, standing at the edge. She called his name. She was running. Then she reached him and held his shoulders, while her eyes moved down to his feet. A grocery bag, one of the cheap plastic ones she kept under the sink. He looked up at her face and down at the bag. She was on her knees then, quickly clambering, clawing desperately through the stones and not finding what she was after. She sat back heavily and felt her eyes closing and a great weight pressing her down.

Then she heard his voice. It was as if it was calling her back across ages, into this moment, now. He was saying, “I can not make them skip like you, Grandmother. But, I am trying.”

She opened her eyes. She saw the river. She saw stones. She saw sky. She looked up at him.

Something had broken, snapped in her, like a flood breaking over the banks of a river. She looked back at the river and the rocks along the bank. She breathed in deeply and started to stand. She felt him try to help, a small little arm under hers, pulling up.

Julie was standing. She looked around her and took another long, deep breath. Then she looked down at the bag. She turned her face towards John. She smiled then, and said slowly, “Pass me the very flattest one you can find, and you take one as well”. He bent down and searched through the bag, then handed her one of the stones. He held another in his hand.

She raised her stone to him twice and then she turned to face the water.

Photo: Arun Clarke/Unsplash

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“What Julie lost and what she found” is the second in a series of three interconnected short stories. You can read the second story, “A decision is made”, here. The third and final story, “The end is the beginning”, is here.

Out Of Sight

“After the succession of nurses,/the anaesthetist, who was all business;/more drops, more stinging, more/numbing to be grateful for, a cannula/in my left arm. Then he approached with a felt tip pen, and announced/“Now I’m going to draw on your eye!”/My eye had to flick left, right,/up, down - his uneasy, shifting canvas.”

Poet and literary scholar, Dennis Haskell, examines a crucial sense. He drifts into a yellow haze and reports lucidly from a world of unseeing.

By Dennis Haskell & PEN Perth

---

Photo: Bayu Syaits/Unsplash

Out of Sight

                            with gratitude to Dr Olivia MacVie

Shifting steadily across the sky, banisher

of darkness and begetter of warmth,

Old Sol was for so long a God, a

golden guinea above us; now a friend

we could not live without

but only at a Goldilocks distance

from its explosive ferocity.

                                            Years

of seering air had turned my eye

to the sun’s own yellow, and so,

starvation and thirst from early morning

to the Eye Hospital I had to go. It’s true

the cataract haunted me like a passion.

To get in required a temperature check,

papers, and Covid questions, then waiting time

in a windowless place, all its light

artificial. Nurses, all my possessions

disappeared, questions, which would return

again and again, name and birthdate

like a chant. Then I was led away

in a sunless, timeless world

to an optometrist; my chin on a stirrup,

she moved a camera back and forth

to my unphotogenic eye: blink,

stretch it wide, hold, starkly,

my jaw contorted

before circles of stunning white light.

Gradually moved into the inner sanctum

as if into a séance, into mystery,

I became begowned and hair-capped;

pleasant nurses, drops after drops

into my eye: some stung,

some partly numbed the poor thing.

After the succession of nurses,

the anaesthetist, who was all business;

more drops, more stinging, more

numbing to be grateful for, a cannula

in my left arm. Then he approached

with a felt tip pen, and announced

“Now I’m going to draw on your eye!”

My eye had to flick left, right,

up, down - his uneasy, shifting canvas.

Finally, some “relaxant” flowed into my arm,

my chair went flat; my head on a jelly pillow,

I was wheeled away, into the dark

where my ophthalmologist suddenly appeared

and leaned over me, pulled down

a periscope-like light, and covered me

with mesh, all but a square for my oval eye.

I had read what she would do: nick my eye,

suck out the sun-coloured cataract

and drop in a new, clear bionic one

angled to the lines on my sketchy eye:

splotches of shifting red, blue

swam before me; but I hardly felt

the whole thing. It was over

before I really knew, and I was quickly

wheeled out to sit up with biscuits and tea.

That night it was a scratchy, watery eye,

the next day simply blinding light;

I had to wear sunglasses everywhere,

somewhere between Joe Cool and the Cyclops.

But healing had begun; my ophthalmologist

says she’s “just a technician” – it’s all science;

now clear-eyed, to me it’s a form of magic

almost as stunning as our accidental sun.

Photo: Simon Berger/Unsplash

The Magic Of Meeting

“When I studied acting we used to help our pals who had monologues; the help consisted in listening, really listening to the monologue, and believe me it helped! One of my best teachers surprised me by saying: “Very good work, Gianluca! It’s not easy to just listen but you did it perfectly!” Surprising, no? But also very true.” Italian filmmaker, Gianluca Migliarotti, dissects the magic of meeting. Meetings are crucial to both his personal and professional life, and with a daily dose of meetings comes the calibration of a valuable gift: the art of listening.

By Gianluca Migliarotti, filmmaker

---

Photo: Martino Pietropoli/Unsplash

Like the title of a music album by the poet  Vinicius De Moraes and his colleague Ungaretti, performed by Toquino.

A meeting is made of three fundamental steps: the introduction, the exchange, and the goodbye.

It’s similar to life’s structure, and all the three parts have the same importance and complexity.

Meeting people has always had a great importance in my life.

Human beings have had my full attention ever since I was a teenager. I’ve always found something interesting in everybody: just sitting in a crossroads of a big city where you have the chance to see a large amount of different faces, you might start to appreciate the uniqueness of anyone, ugly and beautiful, regular and peculiar, masterpieces of nature each in their own unique way.

This observation, and some experience, pull me into the curiosity of meeting people and get to know a little more about them, their life, their point of views.

Sometimes you learn something new, hopefully almost always; sometimes your views are confirmed or maybe you find out that everyone shares similar struggles, fears, and difficulties, which helps you finding your own position.

A few times you realize that your expectations of a person were higher than the reality, a little dissatisfying, but always useful; discovering that underneath a façade of strength, originality, or special features, rests a common person - that can help building your confidence; people can give you parameters to understand yourself.

I’m so curious about people that I’ve focused my work as a filmmaker on documentaries about their lives. The conversation (I don’t like to call it interview, I’m no journalist) is the main thing, and it has to be conducted in complete, relaxed freedom. To achieve this, you need trust from the person, and the only way, I find, is to let the person talk freely. I never try to push the conversation towards the topic I had in mind. I can actually completely abandon it for a while until it comes back. You need to really listen and ask questions to build a personal relation, even if a temporary one.

Everbody likes to be listened to and understood, everybody likes to share experiences and memories.

Even the most normal experience can sound very important and special if projected in an honest and passionate way.

One of the best compliments I have received in my life (professionally) has been: “When I sat down here I had never thought that I would tell you all this… I don’t know what happened.”

What happened was that we met. We connected.

This is what human beings look for since childhood: to be understood, to be heard in their daily life struggle, to be cared for, to be recognized. We need this, we need to feel that we are not alone. We are social animals, and we need to be together. We don’t need judgements, but understanding.

When I studied acting we used to help our pals who had monologues; the help consisted in listening, really listening to the monologue, and believe me it helped! One of my best teachers surprised me by saying: “Very good work, Gianluca! It’s not easy to just listen but you did it perfectly!” Surprising, no? But also very true.

I’ve spent a few years in New York as a student, and I remember the casual conversations in the subway, just sharing a few words about whatever topic with a stranger. Some people have this talent, to open up for a very brief conversation and close it naturally without putting the two in any awkward situation of fake confidence; I’ve always admired this capacity of opening with people, reaching a good level of confidence just to communicate strongly enough, to then been able to close it politely leaving a feeling of having actually met someone.

To be able to share something significant on different levels, not always dramatic or important, but a sign, a touch, for that limited amount of time, enough to create a shared experience.

Listening, you can’t fake it.

Curiosity, you can’t learn it, but you can train it.

Will to share your thoughts, feeling and experiences as to receive them in an honest way.

Those are the ingredients for the magic of meeting.

Improvising Communities: An Interview With Niels Lan Doky

“The most perfect example of democracy in action” – what is that? One answer is: Jazz. Why? And if it is right, what can we transfer from jazz to the process of creating great places?

By The Empty Square

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“The most perfect example of democracy in action” – what is that?’

One answer is: Jazz. Why?

Because you HAVE to listen to your fellow-players. All the time. Not only when you accompany them, but when you are the soloist. Everyone has to contribute, and everyone has to constantly listen and make use of the others’ contributions. Otherwise: No music.

Niels Lan Doky. Photo: The Empty Square

That, according to world-famous jazz pianist, Niels Lan Doky, is one of the essential learnings.

Another one lies in the potential of improvisation that is the foundation of jazz. Lan Doky estimates that 98 percent of what happens on the stage is unplanned.

Inspired by his TEDx Talk on improvisation, we met Lan Doky in his home to do a video conversation, examining whether we can transfer anything from jazz to the process of building cities and communities.

It was a fine conversation but coming back to the office, we found out we had made a mistake.

A technical error made the sound unfit for video production.

Niels Lan Doky. Photo: The Empty Square

“Do not fear mistakes. There are none”, said Miles Davis. As Lan Doky had just explained,  ‘wrong’ notes don’t exist in jazz. They are but steps towards the music. ‘Wrong’ notes are turned not only into ‘right’ ones but into essential notes. The transformation lies in the way the wrong note is caught by the other musicians. Instead of trying to hide it, they put spotlight on it, investigate it, repeat it, let it enter the story on its own premises.

Instead of asking Lan Doky for another interview, we invited the technical error to be a step towards another, maybe even more precise, format.

If jazz is the most perfect example of democracy in action, there must be something we can transfer to community building.

Is it the listening capacity? The ability to leave behind big egos, internal power struggles, and the need for individual recognition?

“If you take that with you on stage,” Lan Doky underlines, “the music will collapse immediately and everybody will lose the battle”.

Is that what we can learn?

Is it the combination of structure, discipline, precise techniques, tools, and principles on one side – and freedom, spontaneity, and letting go on the other side?

“Everybody has to master what they do and everybody has to contribute with something unique. A jazz band of drummers only won’t work.”

Are the right people invited to the process of planning great places – or do we only have the drummers? What tools and principles are we lacking when another standardized housing or shopping area arise? Is it time to change the structures (economic, ecological, cultural etc.) and widen the disciplines?

And what about freedom, spontaneity, and letting go, is that what we need the most?

“The best jazz improvisations happen when people let completely go of their self-control. It acquires that they trust themselves AND their fellow musicians. You must be sure they’ll catch you if you fall”.

How many of us (artists excluded) dare to truly let go when we are at work or at school? How many of us know for sure that we will be caught when falling?

“The constellation of musicians is also key to a good jazz improvisation. It’s really a question about chemistry. We always choose our fellow-musicians with great care.”

The rest of us would probably love to have that possibility, too. Reality is, however, that we are often put randomly together with people we don’t know. Uncertain chemical combinations and explosion risks occur.

“And then there is courage”, Lan Doky says. “Courage may be the most important factor of them all.”

Good point. We can transfer that. When dealing with cities, communities, and building, we certainly need courage – courage to listen incessantly, leave egos behind, turn ‘wrong’ notes into essential ones etc.

It all sounds inciting. Let’s jazz things up.

Niels Lan Doky. Photo: The Empty Square

But when jazz is the most perfect example of democracy in action, could it be because jazz is really the ideal biotope for democracy? In society, it’s still the worst form of government, except from all the others (as Churchill supposedly said).

In any case, we could start practicing great improvisations more consciously.

Maybe our challenges originate from our undeveloped talents within improvisations. “Yeah, I just  improvised…” Well, knowing what the good improvisation depends upon, nobody can ‘just’ improvise. But we can practice and be inspired.

And the result might be fewer buildings, urban spaces, and neighborhoods that talk too loudly. Or that don’t talk at all, standing muted, just as bad. More jazz in the process could lead to places that listen, converse, knowing when to be silent (not muted), when to sing, when to play.

Niels Lan Doky. Photo: The Empty Square

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You can listen to Lan Doky on your favourite platform here

The Philosophy Of Flowers: An Interview With Morten Skriver

We met Morten Skriver, an essential European thinker, artist, and writer, in his childhood home near Copenhagen. Skriver has come full circle, slowly settling into suburban life with his family in a paradoxical escape from a capital that, to Skriver, has become suburbanized and lifeless. In his books, Skriver examines freedom, beauty, and human existence. Essential questions are: How can we live together? How can we restore wisdom into our common existence?

By The Empty Square

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Morten Skriver. Photo: The Empty Square

We were pleased to meet Danish artist and writer, Morten Skriver, in his childhood home for a conversation taking inspiration in Skriver’s books and thinking.

Skriver touches upon and combines many of the most important and universal human issues – from community and art (as a daily, sensuous practice), freedom and education to economics and religion (as a metaphysic understanding of existence), nature and technology.

Skriver is an essential European thinker, a spirited voice calling for a wiser and more beautiful future.

The Philosophy of Flowers is the title of his book from 1995 (unfortunately in Danish only).

A Reflection On The Importance Of Failing Without Fearing: An Interview With Lenny White

We met drummer Lenny White for a conversation on fear, trust, and inspiration. A recurring question was: How do we find the courage to imagine the new?

By The Empty Square

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Are we good enough at failing?

We live in an era with an urgent need for rethinking how to live. True creativity and innovation are crucial, but for them to flourish we need to overcome the fear of failing and the fear of not being accepted.

Lenny White. Photo: The Empty Square

For the past 50 years, drummer and teacher, Lenny White, has been breaking new musical ground. He is one of the founding fathers of jazz fusion and has played with luminaries such as Miles Davis, Chick Corea, and Freddie Hubbard.

We met White for a conversation on fear, trust, and inspiration. A recurring question was: How do we find the courage to imagine the new?

Touching Heaven: An Interview With Lubomyr Melnyk

“Art makes you bigger. It makes people grow. It shoots electricity into our intelligence. It’s like food for the soul and for the mind, so that we can grow and learn and think”, says world-famous Ukrainian pianist and composer, Lubomyr Melnyk, who discovered ‘continuous music’ during the 1970’s. Continuous music is an art form building on beauty, love, presence, and transcendence.

By The Empty Square

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Lubomyr Melnyk. Photo: The Empty Square

We had the immense joy of meeting Melnyk in Copenhagen. We were as moved by his performance as his reflections on the potential of art.

Are we forgetting this potential in our everyday life? Can we somehow get it back into our communities and cities?

This is an invitation for a short trip to Heaven.

“Art makes you bigger. It makes people grow.”

— Lubomyr Melnyk