Nasta Dashkevich recounted the day of Ales Pushkin's death — "the day when pain multiplied by pain in Belarus"

I will never forget July 11, 2023.

On this day, Zmitser's first term ended. I was very excited and waiting for him at home.

Since I was serving "house chemistry" myself, I couldn't go to Navasady to meet my husband near the prison. I stayed with the children.

This waiting was simply eating me from the inside. I couldn't find my place. I struggled to answer the endless children's questions:

— When, Mom?

— Soon?

— Will Dad be home soon?

I remember just pacing from corner to corner. Washing something, cleaning... And I turned on cartoons for the children to distract them somehow.

At that time, my friends were standing by the Navasady colony. Waiting for the prison gates to open and Zmitser to come out.

I called them every ten minutes. I asked about the situation, listening to every little detail: who went where, what they heard, what they said...

I tried to understand: why was it already 10-11 in the morning, and there was still no good news?

I remember the moment when one of my friends said: a police van entered the colony grounds... And after some time, it drove out.

Then, like a cold drip inside me, a suspicion spread, poisoning all hope: my husband was in that van.

Less than an hour passed when a call came from an unknown number. And all of us in Belarus are wary of unknown numbers. And for good reason.

The voice on the phone indifferently said:

"Anastasia Vladimirovna, good afternoon. Your husband asked me to inform you that he has been arrested on suspicion of committing a crime under Article 411 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Belarus."

At that moment, I was standing in a shop. Everything inside me collapsed.

I paid for my purchases. Got into the car. And allowed the pain to completely swallow me.

Everything else was a blur. Explanations to the children and their tears. Friends' tears.

Many people dear to my heart came to my home then, just to be near. On the table were draniki with machanka — Zmitser had really asked me to cook them after his release.

I asked everyone to serve themselves and eat. I myself was somewhere far away.

I remember how oppressive this silence and awkwardness of my friends were, as they didn't know how to support me. Everything resembled a memorial dinner. Tears, pain, muffled phrases...

I couldn't bear it anymore. I couldn't contain both my pain and theirs, so I just asked:

— Let's not. No one died. Everyone is alive. I hope, healthy. We'll manage somehow. We'll manage somehow...

I leave the dining room. I try to find a corner to be alone. I open the news on my phone and see something terrible: Ales Pushkin died in prison today.

"No one died" — my own phrase echoes in my head.

"Everyone is alive" — just a couple of minutes ago I tried to cheer up my friends.

But now everything is crossed out. Because Ales Pushkin died.

For us, there's prison ahead. For Ales, there's eternity.

I still hope to hug my husband someday. But Ales's relatives will only see him to say goodbye forever.

In that brokenness of heart, I prayed to God for Ales's relatives, and for Zmitser, and for everyone who remained in prison.

The next year after this became one of the most difficult in my life. And in Zmitser's life. But we had that year. And the next. And today's.

Ales Pushkin is a wonderful artist. A man who loved Belarus so much.

I hope that soon a museum named after him will open in his native Babr, and we will all visit it.

And someday I will tell this story there. About July 11, 2023, when pain multiplied by pain in Belarus.

But we managed somehow...

• 2
• 0
• 0
• 0
• 0
• 2
• 0
• 0