"When journalists are silenced, the whole country becomes a prison"

Kseniya Lutskina is a historian, journalist, and former political prisoner. When protests broke out against the rigged presidential election in August 2020, Kseniya signed an open letter from state media employees and went on to lead a strike at the company. On 22 December 2020, she was arrested and later sentenced to eight years in prison for "conspiracy to seize power". After international pressure, Kseniya Lutskina was pardoned in August 2024 and secretly evacuated from Belarus in spring 2025. She now lives on a humanitarian visa in Berlin and continues to advocate for Belarusian political prisoners in Europe. In this conversation she reconstructs the mechanics of resistance and repression from the inside — arrest, state propaganda, and the situation of the journalists still held — and names what it would take to free the remaining political prisoners in Belarus.

How do you remember 9 and 10 August 2020?

On the night after the election there was an insane crackdown on protesters. None of it made it on camera, and the world's media never saw it. In the centre of Minsk there's this atmospheric place, the Komarovsky market. Normally people go there to buy groceries. But that night they were just shooting at people there. I live nearby, and I could see the flashes from my window. And just like all my neighbours, I kept opening the front door of our building so people running away had somewhere to hide.

On 10 August, I ran into a lot of people I knew, colleagues who worked in state television. You have to understand: for us, joining the protest didn't just mean getting fired. You were basically erasing yourself from the profession for good.

They were just dispersing people, shooting at them. And just like everyone else, I kept opening the front door so people could hide.

How did people inside the State TV and Radio Company react?

We wrote a collective appeal to the Ministry of Information on behalf of state media employees. We demanded the right to stay journalists and to show both sides. We understood there's propaganda on every side, and we wanted to prevent an irreparable split in society. It felt like the ground was already splitting open under our feet. I was the first to sign the appeal, with my real name and my job title.

The head of the Council of the Republic and the president's press secretary, Natalia Eismont, came to "calm us down". Suddenly Eismont asked: "What are you even doing here if you don't love the president? Do you know what ideology is?" We were in shock. We answered that ideology basically means loving your homeland. And she shot back: ideology means loving the president.

"What are you doing here if you don't love the president?"

That was the last straw. On Monday, 17 August, we went on strike. You couldn't watch TV. It was nothing but reruns. The news studio was running in some kind of semi-military mode, and you could tell staff were switching everything on by hand. Then on the second or third day, an FSB plane landed in Minsk with 15 Russian journalists on board. Basically, they really did replace us, and the mass firings began. My colleagues and I decided to build our own media platform and work the way we know how. Our strike was one of the most important moments: the collapse of that system. We showed that you could walk out of it.

An FSB plane landed in Minsk with 15 Russian journalists on board. Basically, they really did replace us, and the mass firings began.

A life frozen in time

Did you expect to be arrested?

My colleagues and I understood that sooner or later they'd arrest me. On 22 December, I went to the bank to pay for registering the "TV-Most" trademark. At the exit, a nondescript grey man was waiting for me, a man-in-an-overcoat type, in a shabby coat. Straight out of some mediocre Soviet film. Then four more big guys came up and tried to rip my phone out of my hands. They clamped a hand over my mouth, but I managed to send an SOS.

It was around 3:37 pm. The last person to call me was my ten-year-old son, walking home from school. I told him I'd be home in 15 minutes and we'd have lunch. And 15 minutes later I really was home, only not alone, but with quite a crowd. The day before, my son and I had decorated the Christmas tree.

Nobody took down the Christmas tree we'd decorated for three years: my son was waiting for me to come back. It became a symbol of a life frozen in time. You've been removed, but the celebration is still waiting.

I open the door, and my son walks right out into the hallway toward me. I will never forget his face, how it was "moving": every muscle twitched on its own. He says: "Mom, an investigator called me and said you're being summoned for questioning." At moments like that you understand what the animal in a human being is, the kind of rage you can feel. I turned to the security guys and asked: "What kind of idiot calls a child, knowing you're arresting me?" And the goons just mumbled, confused: "Honest to God, it wasn't us." They didn't let me hug my son again. The next time we saw each other was two and a half years later.

Nobody took down the tree we'd decorated for three years: my son was waiting for me to come back. It became a symbol of a life frozen in time. You've been removed, but the celebration is still waiting. Later I asked them to take the tree down. The room was turning into a crypt.

What were you charged with?

Formally, I was detained over a press club's unpaid taxes, at a time when I didn't even know about that press club. The real reason was the strike at the TV company. A year and a half later, a KGB officer told me in the pre-trial detention centre: "Your problem is that you decided to keep working. You're supposed to have one master." I answered: "I'm not a dog. I'm a human being and a professional."

"You're supposed to have one master." I answered: "I'm not a dog. I'm a human being and a professional."

In August 2021, I was re-arrested under the article for "conspiracy to seize power". Law enforcement officers kept coming to see me. They never introduced themselves, and they pressured me systematically: they threatened to put my child in an orphanage. It wasn't only the 15 people directly involved in the project who were at risk. It was at least 300 people who had signed the strike statement. I made a choice: either I sit alone, or a whole crowd goes down with me. So I pleaded guilty. In September 2022, the Minsk City Court sentenced me to eight years in prison.

"You're a gift to them"

How did you get out of Belarus?

I was number one on the humanitarian list because I have health problems: a brain tumour. The first time, in summer 2021, I refused to write a request for a pardon. But by 2024 I was passing out three times a day, and many of the women political prisoners begged me to agree. I told them: "You do understand they'll need a public repentance from me? That means television." They answered: "Nobody will believe any of it. Just get out of here."

On 20 August 2024, four TV crews showed up, my former colleagues, to record repentance videos. In forty-degree heat they spent two and a half hours asking whether I repented and whether I wanted to ask the president for forgiveness. Out of those two and a half hours they cut a twenty-second clip, with crude splices. When I was released, they told me: "You're a gift to them." And then: "If you want the others to get out, shove your tongue up your ass and keep quiet."

"If you want the others to get out, shove your tongue up your ass and keep quiet."

On 1 March 2025, I walked out of my apartment, and on 3 March I was in Europe, in Vilnius. Minsk to Vilnius is only 170 kilometres, but because of the complicated evacuation route it took me three days.

What does Belarus look like today?

In Belarus there's always been this joke: "I want to live in the country they show on TV." Now the level of repression is such that the streets of Minsk are empty. A million people have left, 10% of the population, above all the active, thinking part of society. After my release, I walked around Minsk and realised: the TV picture has finally matched what's out on the street.

In Belarus there's always been this joke: "I want to live in the country they show on TV." After my release, I walked around Minsk and realised: the TV picture has finally matched what's out on the street.

Today in Belarus, people end up in prison for a like, a comment on social media, or a private conversation. And the repression is quiet now; we don't see it. By shutting down all independent media, putting journalists behind bars and now deporting them too, Lukashenko has turned the whole country into a prison. Fifteen journalists are still behind bars. They're charged with "treason against the Motherland". What motherland could a journalist from a district newspaper possibly betray?

But if people still watch and read independent media in such a total atmosphere of fear, it means that, really, nobody wants to live like this.

Belarusian independence is in Germany's interest

How can Germany influence the release of political prisoners and journalists?

It's important to talk about this not only at the diplomatic level but in the media too. Support for independent Belarusian media is critically important. And you have to understand: the repression doesn't stop at Belarus's borders. It continues beyond them and becomes transnational. They try to recruit us; the KGB regularly tries to recruit me. Those are crimes committed on German soil.

It's important for Germany to distinguish between the Lukashenko regime and Belarusians. Belarusians don't want to fight Ukraine; many of us have family ties with Ukrainians. A stable, European Belarus, without repression, with a free press and functioning public institutions, is one of the guarantees of security for Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and all of Europe. We have to understand: there is a humanitarian crisis in the middle of Europe.

It's important for Germany to distinguish between the Lukashenko regime and Belarusians. A stable, European Belarus without repression and with a free press is one of the guarantees of security for all of Europe.

How can civil society, organisations and foundations help?

Organisations can keep up the work they've already started. Libereco created a political godparents programme. It's largely thanks to my political godfather that I ended up here. In prison it matters enormously to know that kind of support exists.

Even political prisoners who get out and stay in Belarus end up forced to leave the country. That's why rehabilitation and retraining programmes for former political prisoners are so important. People who are released and deported through the humanitarian lists are often in extremely poor physical condition. They need humanitarian visas and proper medical care.

What's the main message of the exhibition "The Unheard Voices"?

The main message is simple: as long as freedom of speech and of the press exists, people often don't value it. We are fighting for it, and we pay a high price. When independent journalists are silenced and there's no longer any counterweight in society, the whole country becomes a prison. I want to give a voice to those who are unjustly imprisoned and show that this problem directly concerns Europe.

Together with the journalists, the whole of society has lost its voice, drowned out by the single roar of propaganda.