INVISIBLE TRAUMA

photos of protesters taken with masks on Instagram, and interview

During protests and revolutions, the global media tends to document only the most obvious forms of violence, such as bruising and torture. Meanwhile, the emotional consequences of state terror often remain go unspokenunaddressed. In these horrific accounts, quieter, more mundane forms of oppression are often regularly overlooked;, such these include a state of as constant fear, paranoia, helplessness, and the absence of safe spaces when living under a repressive regime. This constant pervasive threat creates trauma that, because it is invisible, is considered less urgent even though it shapes daily life and is one of the regime’s primary tools of control and suppression.

As the state of absenceunseen toll is difficult to visualise, I use employ one of the symbols of the 2020 protests in Belarus: a blank sheet of paper. This symbol emerged during demonstrations against election fraud after the Belarus’ historic white-red-white flag was declared extremist. In response, people began placing blank sheets in their windows. Even this simple gesture could lead to arrest. The white paper later became a symbol of protest in China as well; the 2022 protests became , known as the ‘A4 Revolution.’ in 2022 — named after the blank A4-sized paper held by protesters. Although the Chinese protests were sparked by different reasons — namely, a reaction to the authorities strict ‘zero-Covid' policies involving barricading entire neighbourhoods and banning people from going outside — at their core, they shared the same frustration: an inability to express dissent in the ways available in democratic societies.

As part of the project Invisible Trauma, I collected stories and photographed respondents in collaboration with thea Ukrainian human rights advocate Katya Pomazanaya. But when traditional methods of documentary photography became too dangerous, we turned to the digital space. Using a blank sheet of paper on glass as a metaphor for silence and erasure, we created an Instagram filter (masking the face with a white paper) and a Telegram chatbot for anonymously gathering stories. I no neither photograph participants or nor meet them in person. Instead, we Pomazanaya and I built a space where people can take a photo and share their story safely and anonymously. For a time, this method enabled people to continue protesting — to express themselves publicly without fear of detention thanks to their anonymity.

CANCAN BIENNALE #1 Espace Saint-Nicolas / 2025. Coutances, FR

Weakness Street. Günter Grass Gallery
/ 2022. Gdańsk, PL

ECLAT Hybrid Festival
/ 2022. Hospitalhof church. Stuttgart, DE

Feb 20, 2021
anonymous

I feel constant anger. It's started spilling over into my family, and I've become more aggressive. Reading news about unfair trials and new repressions makes me boil, and I feel like I'm about to explode. But I can't imagine what that might lead to.

Feb 20, 2021
Anna Fedoronok

How is it possible that a bunch of people, led by a true villain, can terrorize so many people? I've always been emotional, keenly aware of injustice, and empathetic to the misfortunes of others. Life in our country these days, with daily news from the courts, is hell on earth for people like me. I've felt deeply unhappy since August 2020, even though objectively there are many positive aspects to my personal life (I have an eight-month-old baby; watching him, seeing his smile, and hearing his babble is such a joy). Perhaps he's the only thing that protects me from the public opinion, as it's difficult to attend marches with a stroller. But there's no escape from injustice, lawlessness, and terror. It's all causing me physical pain, and I don't even know what sedatives to take. Anger gives way to depression and apathy. And there's also the realization that if we give up, then all this suffering, all the torment of those in prison—it was all in vain. Giving up means agreeing to live in lawlessness and slavery to a completely immoral, terrible person. I don't see a way out yet... If light doesn't conquer darkness, then evil is stronger... and that's terrible.
"The capital's prostitutes and drug addicts are going crazy with the money."
This is the main slogan of the Yabatzek movement about protest activity in Belarus. Unfortunately, the regime's terrorization of activists not in regional centers, but in small towns and villages, isn't covered as vividly and widely as it deserves.
The heroine of our story is from the small village of Voropaevo in the Postavy District. A heroine—that's how one can most appropriately describe Anna Fedoryonok when you learn what this woman went through for the sake of her children's future. The Chekists' methods remain unchanged 100 years later – the extermination of the intelligentsia in the capital and villages, intimidation, torture, and repression. Anna and her relatives lived through all of this. She lived through it all to tell us the truth about:
- the reality of life in her small homeland;
- who people voted for in the presidential elections;
- how Lukashenko's repressive apparatus operates.
For the sake of this brave woman and thousands of similar Belarusian fates, which no one will ever know about if the regime crushes our will, we must win to give everyone justice in a Free Belarus!
Long live Belarus!
This is my story. I am Anna Fedoronok.

Feb 20, 2021
anonymous

Hi. I'm from the beautiful city of Grodno. I was born there and lived there until December 2020.
Now I'm in Bialystok. My story is less tragic than those of those beaten and humiliated in the fascist dungeons of Lukashenko's followers. But, nevertheless, it's my life. I'm a doctor. I worked in a large clinic, in a lab. When COVID-19 arrived in our city, I worked with biomaterial from infected patients. It would take a day to describe the conditions. At first, we bought personal protective equipment ourselves, then we started providing it, but not for everyone and in limited quantities. The room where the analyzer I worked on was located didn't even have a bactericidal lamp. There were no actual divisions into zones. Did our management know about this? Of course. The head of the lab told me, "If you don't like it, write your resignations; no one will keep you." By the way, they promised to pay, but then it turned out I wasn't covered by the main order; I was covered by an additional order, but the clinic didn't have the money to pay. Honestly, I didn't work for the extra pay, although it was quite substantial, but to defeat COVID faster. During the election campaign, I supported Babariko. I dreamed of how well we would live, how respected we would be by the state, after all, Viktor Dmitrievich's platform declared that the attitude toward medical workers would radically change. On August 9, I made my choice, boldly voting for Svetlana Tikhanovskaya. The horror that followed is indescribable. I lived in the center of Grodno, and on August 9, 10, and 11, I witnessed a war against my own people. On August 13, I was at a picket with colleagues near the medical university. I'm proud of it. I also attended other pickets. On August 26, I was summoned to the Investigative Committee; my investigator was a certain Maltsev. They showed me a document listing me as a witness under Article 342 of the Criminal Code. They clarified, just in case, that while I was still a witness, there were grounds for charging me. I was shocked, but I held firm, knowing I couldn't let them get me down; it would only get worse. He spoke rudely and intimidated me. Then he took me to the prosecutor. I don't remember his last name, but I remember his appearance. He was thin, with big brown eyes, and very nervous. He gave me a document to read and sign, declaring that next time I would be listed as a suspect. I said I wouldn't sign it and was about to leave. He jumped up, locked the door, and started yelling.
At some point, I became afraid; I thought he might beat me. I started appealing to his conscience, telling him that he shouldn't talk to women like that. I told him that if he didn't let me out, I would scream. He let me out and then ran after me down two floors, shouting and threatening. I went back to investigator Maltsev to ask what I'd done that could lead to criminal charges. He said I'd been seen in messages calling for a change of government. I returned home and had a terrible nightmare for two days. I only complained to my son. He's a student and lives in Bialystok. We decided I needed to go be with him. The investigator also had a question for me: how much the Polish puppeteers had paid me for participating in the protests. They said they knew perfectly well where this was coming from, since my son was studying in Poland, which meant he was against Belarus. My son, me, and the dog—that's my whole family. Of course, I didn't want to leave until I cried. I knew it was a one-way ticket. Because the chances of seeing my son again if I stayed in my home country were zero. At work, when I was still working, there were only a few like-minded people. Most were afraid of losing their jobs; it was easier for them to bury their heads in the sand and wait for someone else to do everything for them. Even the subscription to the Medical Herald was a huge success. Everyone subscribed to this stupid, worthless, pro-government newspaper.
I didn't. I signed the country's medical workers' appeal against the elections and violence with a clear conscience. It's very sad that only a few at the clinic did so. And now I'm in Poland. I'm renting a place, learning the language, sending out resumes, and I really want to work in my specialty, which I love. Is it difficult for me? Is it painful? Yes. My old life is in the past. I'm endlessly hurt by what's happening in Belarus. Every day I read the news from there and see how real Belarusians are suffering. I really hope the regime will be overthrown. Long live Belarus!

Apr 21, 2021
anonymous

Since August 2020, there hasn't been a week when I haven't dreamed about violence or stalking. Guys in uniform and civilian clothes are constant participants in my dreams. I've been lucky; I've never been detained, although I've been "outed" several times. But reading and absorbing stories of violence and the daily news give me a wonderful opportunity to imagine that this has happened, is happening, and will definitely happen to you.

I'm scared to live in Belarus. I think, "What if they stop me and check my phone?" "What if they come and search my house?"
Sometimes I want to move just to relax and feel safe, because this tension never ends; you simply exist, waiting for the time when you can live normally.

Mar 3, 2021
anonymous

Please don't publish my story. The woman I was talking about was afraid.

July 27, 2021
Alice

Returning home.
My entire vacation was permeated with references to home. Our white-red-white flags hung from many windows and balconies in Georgia. This evoked mixed feelings. On the one hand, joy and pride 🥲 On the other, pain. The pain comes from realizing that these are most likely our Belarusians, forced to leave the country and come here, that they couldn't hang a flag at home, or did hang one and faced repression.

After filing an objection, a letter awaited me in Minsk with a copy of the court ruling and a fine of 80 basic units (2,320 rubles). Well, I'll have to pay. The only thing I could think of was how I wanted to pay the entire amount in one-ruble coins, and preferably force every judge who tried me to eat it. To get a feel for it, so to speak...
Despite the fact that I haven't been paid for four months (it's a long story, involving courts, searches, repression, account freezes, and, as a result, all the employees are on unpaid leave) and my only income is a Group 3 disability pension (who cares!?), I decided not to ask for a six-month payment plan for the fine, as I was advised. The money was found. We decided to pay it and try to forget about it as quickly as possible. Some caring people from the neighborhood chat even helped out. It was really nice when strangers donated small amounts, but even that wasn't as important as the simple support and HUGGING! And that's much more important! 🤍❤️🤍

Anger.
After paying the fine at the bank, I still had to go to the Moscow court to give them the receipt. As if they don't already see who's paying?! I really didn't want to go there and see their faces. Okay, I'm off! And they wouldn't let me in the building just to hand over a fucking receipt because I was wearing shorts that apparently seemed a bit short! Holy shit! I didn't even come to court, I just came to hand over a receipt specifically 15 minutes before closing, and they still wouldn't let me in or hand it over for me. And then I had to run back and forth to hand over the receipt! 😤😡😠
The next day, on my second try, I succeeded.
But I also had to pick up my belongings from the police station, which had been seized (my old iPhone, which they confiscated and thoroughly searched my photos and social media).
So, I spent almost two hours at the Moscow District Police Department! Two hours, Karl! To get my phone back.
Registering as a criminal after being released from prison or attending an interrogation is really easy and unnoticeable compared to getting your phone back!

Watching so many movies where the main character runs to the bathroom and vomits after a lot of stress, I always thought it was an American thing. Most likely, it's a side effect of taking antidepressants or similar medications, which are very common there.

But when I got home after the police station, I went straight to the bathroom and threw up, even though I had almost nothing to throw up, but it took a long time. My husband thought I was just overheated and had heatstroke. I didn't want to upset him that it wasn't quite true.
But this was the first time in my life that I felt nauseous after stress. But now I know that the movies don't lie.

Fear 24/7
Psychotherapists and psychologists advise not to forbid yourself from being afraid. Being afraid is normal, they say. And they advise allowing yourself to experience these feelings. And then don't ban it, just limit the time you spend fearing. For example, I'll be afraid on Wednesdays from 6 to 8 o'clock. Set aside a special time for this. And you'll likely forget what those hours are for. And even if you don't forget, the fear will gradually subside.

Afterward, many of my friends told me that they or someone they knew had also been given fines, some less, some the same. And I read in the news more than once that someone got a day's imprisonment. And I was quietly glad that I was lucky.

Now I remember how wonderful it was to get away on vacation and stroll around the city in the heat in my favorite white linen shorts and a red sleeveless shirt. Without the fear that I might simply not come home that day.

Without fear of being arrested and beaten (and lucky if they don't rape you!) if you (maybe even without a second thought) put on and go out in your favorite clothes that someone doesn't like.

Why in the modern world should you be afraid or even think about things like the color of the T-shirt you're about to wear? Clothes have long been a means of self-expression and style for us. But I don't want to constantly keep in mind that I could face this kind of terror simply because someone finds my red shirt/lipstick/nail polish "extremist"???
I'm a girl, isn't it normal to like beautiful and bright things (and the color red in general)??? Maybe I should be jailed for having a red sofa and white curtains at home for 10 years, or a red mixer and refrigerator in a white kitchen, or a red phone?
Why should I be afraid of any of this now?
How does fear work?

The problem is that now you have no idea what "they" will come up with next or where the next blow will come from. What if people are now being prosecuted for a blank sheet of paper? What if people leave the grocery store (Hit Express) with a red bag and don't make it home? What next?!
This defies all logic and explanation. Because if it did, it wouldn't be so scary!

Three days after my return, I received a press release with unconfirmed information that raids, searches, and "cleansing" operations were planned for the next day in Minsk on Derzhinsky Avenue (buildings between 100 and 130).

And they happened!

My windows overlook building 119, and all of this could be seen from the front row. I was even afraid to go out for a walk with the dog before lunch because of the concentration of "quiet" police officers and tinted vans in the courtyards.

Welcome home. As they say.
Honestly! I just don't know how to live here?!

July 26, 2021
Tanya

There were knocks on my door six times over the course of three months, at different times of the day: from early morning to late evening. Each time, it went something like this: someone would knock aggressively on the door and yank the handle really hard. We rented an old apartment, commonly known as a "babushka." It was on the second floor, and my window faced the street. A white sheet of paper had been hanging on it since the elections.

The door was old and had no peephole, so we couldn't see who was yanking it so hard. When the knocking repeated, my neighbor and I would go out into the hallway and stare at the handle, expecting the door to fall. I honestly don't know how she held up. We didn't. When the knocking came for the seventh time, my boyfriend decided it was time to talk to the person on the other side:
"Who are you?"
"I'm Vladimir, a friend of the landlord. By the way, where is he? Who are you? Open the door, why are we talking like monsters?" "We're renting an apartment here."
"So open up, I want to rent it. What kind of criminals are you for not opening the door?"
"We won't."
"Okay, write down my phone number. Tell the landlord to call. Next time, you'll have to open the door for me."

Our neighbor across the street was watching our conversation through the peephole. She was home and heard someone breaking down our door. She called me right away. She said it was a tall man in black, wearing a hood and a mask. Nervously, I removed the white sheet from the window and started looking for an apartment. A month later, we moved to another country. For various reasons. For the next two months, I jumped at every rustle outside the door.

August 10, 2021
Maxim

They threw me into a paddy wagon in the underpass behind the Sportivnaya metro station, across the street from the church. It was the night of August 10th-11th. I won't go into the details of how they beat me there or how we got to the Oktyabrsky District Police Department; that's not the story. It's important to note that after everyone had been processed and things had calmed down, the cops with their shoulder straps reversed, who had been guarding us in the assembly hall, allowed us to go to the restroom. We went one at a time, and there was a guard standing in the hallway. It was a typical prison toilet—a door that couldn't be closed, then a room with a sink, another door, and beyond that a filthy room with a toilet and a mountain of paper and God knows what else in the trash can and around it.
Sorry, there will be some juicy details, but the story, as promised, is centered on shit.
I peed once, and then I decided to take a big one. It's not that I really wanted to; it was night, after all, so some instinct kicked in. And most importantly, I had napkins with me, which they hadn't confiscated during the search. Basically, if I had the opportunity, I had to.

We arrived in Zhodino, through adventures that I'll also skip, about 15 hours later, on the evening of August 11th, I think. The only food I had during that time was two waffles, which a kind riot policeman from the last paddy wagon gave me. By nightfall, we were finally assigned to a cell—an 8-by-8-meter room with a toilet in the corner, essentially a large toilet. We munched on some bread and quickly went to bed.

The next day, it turned out that you can only use the toilet to pee. The guys who ended up here on election night were fed cabbage soup for lunch, and the rules stipulate that there's only one food bowl for all the dishes. And until you finish your first course, there's nowhere to put your second course. They all poured the soup down the toilet, then added more compote. And the toilet clogged up. This "convenience" didn't have the usual flush. There was a faucet on the pipe from which a thin stream of water constantly trickled, hoping to somehow quell the stench.
There were 24 of us, two per bunk, but then more guys were brought in, and by the evening of August 12th, there were 36 of us in the cell. By that time, none of us had yet been sentenced. The prison schedule couldn't handle the influx of prisoners, and lunch was brought in for dinner, but there was no dinner at all. Some wanted to eat, some wanted to sleep, some wanted to smoke, but the biggest problem was the inability to take a dump. We asked the guard to call a plumber, and he promised to pass it on to the right people.
On Thursday, August 13th, exactly one year ago, they started summoning us to court. In the chaos, one of the guys managed to get two cigarettes through the bowl. But they didn't dare smoke, afraid they'd immediately want to relieve themselves. We discussed how the trial had gone, but the question of what to do with the toilet was more pressing. The guys pounded on the door, demanding a plumber. The guard asked why we hadn't asked sooner, since there was only one plumber and he'd already been on the floor that day. It became clear we weren't going to get anywhere this way, so one of the cigarette holders offered them as a reward to anyone who could perform a miracle and unclog the toilet.
The youngsters huddled together on the upper bunks and began laughingly discussing the options. There weren't really any options—they had to clear the blockage by hand. They laughed and hung around for another hour, but the tension was mounting, and they were also hungry. One of them got to work, slinging the plastic bag they'd been handing out bread in over his hand. The bag quickly leaked, but the guy didn't stop. He scooped out the cabbage and seeds until he was elbow-deep in the drain. It didn't work. The pipe then curved and narrowed, and this was the main blockage.
They rewarded the guy with a cigarette for his courage, and promised to give him a second one when the problem was finally solved. They came up with a plan "B"—defecating in bread bags—but it was a complete bummer, a last resort.
The prison windows were covered with several bars on each side, and inside the cell, a layer of fine mesh was welded to the window. While I was bored and trying to pull out a paper roll stuck between the frames, I noticed a hole in the mesh in one spot. I managed to unscrew one link, which turned into a decent metal rod, about 40-50 centimeters long. Using this artifact, the guy finally managed to breach the sewer and, to the applause of his cellmates, obtained a second cigarette. He smoked one himself and passed the other around.
Soon, another problem emerged: we were out of toilet paper. We approached the guard, and he, of course, promised to pass some on to the right people. The toilet paper issue wasn't as pressing; we had water and a bar of laundry soap, but we asked each new guard about it. By evening, to wipe our asses, they brought us two April issues of Sovetskaya Belorussia. Hungry for information and news, we eagerly began flipping through the pages, but the reading was so boring that some of us immediately started solving the crossword puzzle on the last page, while others tried to choose a photo of the public figure to be expelled.

Publications :

EIKON #123 magazine / 2023. 978-3-904083-16-4

FROM THE FOLDINGS #0. Art & Politics / 2024. Offing Press

Magazyn SZUM. ISSN 2300-3391

NO.10 Sputnik Photos / 2021

LESIA PCHOLKA

(1) research-based artist

(2) curator veha archive

HALF-LIFE: 40 YEARS AFTER CHARNOBYL — THE BELARUSIAN FALLOUT

⁽¹⁾research-based artist

⁽²⁾curator veha archive