The New Yorker - USA (2021-12-13)

THENEWYORKER,DECEMBER13, 2021 43

ferred to a job at the United Nations
office in Geneva. Zaretskaya was cap-
tivated by the Swiss system of local gov-
ernance, in which ordinary citizens in-
fluenced civic decisions, even on such
questions as whether to buy a particu-
lar kind of fighter jet for the Air Force.
“I participated in everything, every ac-
tivity,” she said. “I was so amazed to see
these people engaging in political life.”
She took exhaustive notes. “I wanted to
create the same story in Belarus.”
In 2018, Zaretskaya’s family returned
home, and she began giving talks on

Swiss democracy and its local possibil-

ities. She formed a network of like-

minded friends, often communicating

on Telegram. Their discussions facili-

tated what Zaretskaya described as “in-

ternal emigration”—leaving Belarus in

their minds. “You create a life in the

country that is not touched by the gov-

ernment,” she said. “You are trying to

save your soul.”

One of the places where this was

possible was OK16, an arts center in

Minsk. It was supported by Viktar

Babaryka, the chairman of Belgazprom-

bank, one of the country’s largest finan-

cial institutions. Babaryka was known

for leading a revival of Belarusian art;

he had helped secure works by Marc

Chagall and Chaim Soutine, both of

whom were born in towns that are now

part of Belarus.

Babaryka, like others who gathered

at OK16, found that the exchange of

ideas about art led to larger questions.

In early 2020, he declared that he would

challenge Lukashenka for the Presi-

dency. As his campaign manager, he

chose Maria Kalesnikava, an intense

and charismatic woman who was OK16’s

artistic director.

Kalesnikava, trained as a flutist, had

worked as a musician for twelve years

in Germany. When she returned to visit,

she would point out to her father, Al-

exander, that people in Europe enjoyed

liberties that did not exist in Belarus.

“Human rights, freedom—I didn’t un-

derstand them fully, and I did not fight

for them,” Alexander told me. “One of

the things that I have come to learn this

year is that the children were smarter.”

Babaryka was an unprepossessing fig-

ure, whom Lukashenka dismissed as a

“potbellied bourgeois.” But he was a

wealthy member of the establishment,

and his candidacy gave followers hope

that things were about to change. Hun-

dreds of thousands of people came out

to support him. Everywhere he went, he

told audiences, “Belarus has woken up.”

Others jumped into the race, includ-

ing a former diplomat named Valery

Tsepkalo. In May, 2020, Siarhei Tsi-

khanouski announced his candidacy.

In videos on YouTube and Telegram,

Tsikhanouski had enumerated the

crimes and failures of the Lukashenka

administration, urging his viewers to

“stop the cockroach!” The government,

which was mostly middle aged or older,

had been slow to register what was hap-

pening online. But, as Tsikhanouski’s

popularity surged, the regime began

harassing him.

On May 6th, he was detained while

campaigning in the city of Mogilev.

The ostensible charge was participat-

ing in an anti-Russia demonstration,

six months before. But the timing of

the arrest suggested a different reason:

it came just nine days before the dead-

line to file qualification papers. Tsikha-

nouski’s supporters, hoping to keep the

THEWEAKNESS MEANINGTIME

All morning gently swimming

in the misery of a dead writer.

Poverty like a genetic bequest, polar loneliness.

The finical, fanatical, reciprocal chiselling of mind and matter.

And the long silences, late saliences of God and sound

set like glyphs in the mother country,

childhood. All morning, as if it didn’t touch me,

as indeed it doesn’t, mostly,

one daughter dead, another mad as jacks,

drafts and diaries scattered like a plane crash in the ocean.

And fragments as fruition, and exile like a birthright,

and, as the sun bleeds out one evening like a suicide,

suicide. All morning my exercise

to keep these muscles strong enough to recognize

the weakness meaning time,

to climb out as if there were an out,

to dry off as if there were a dry,

to look back at a body of water, which, like all water,

leaves no trace.

—Christian Wiman