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"After all the events we have endured, after all this nastiness and filth, the dawn will come"

Marked with a red mark hit especially hard

Vitaly Grishin is a graphic artist, muralist and pottery artist. His trademark tools are brushes, paints, ink and pen. He used to devote all his spare time to art, and earned his living as a decorative tile moulder. He took little interest in politics and in what was happening in the streets. He preferred a philosophical attitude and watched from the side. In August 2020, his wonderful world of art became the colour of asphalt. On the evening of an ordinary day, Vitaly and several other people were pushed into the police prison van at Nemiga. After his backpack and phone were searched, he was accused of extremism, beaten and taken to the Detention Center at Okrestina Street

Vitaly Grishin,a pottery artist
Age: 39 years old
City: Minsk
When: 10.08.2020

Vitaly was detained and beaten by OMON (riot police) for having the book "Small Arms" in his backpack

Held in custody: Detention Center at Okrestina Street (Minsk) and Slutsk, 4 days
Medical diagnosis: Hematomas, multiple scratches, full-body bruising, rib fracture, hydrothorax
Aftermath: One week in hospital, three months of rehabilitation, loss of employment

Author: Project team August2020

Photo: Project team August2020

"I wasn’t a regular at the rallies, I didn’t march around with flags, I didn’t shout out slogans," Vitaly says. "And suddenly, I as a peaceful and law-abiding citizen find myself in a tank of this shit. Why? What experience, what lesson have they taught me? There is still one big question in my mind. I have no answer. And I don’t have a copy of the police report. Even the hospital report has disappeared from my medical chart. But the things they did aren’t going to be erased. You can’t scrape it out from the inside, can’t burn it out, can’t etch it out."    

"These guys from the wasps’ nest came to get us"
 

On August 10, Vitaly was going home from work and took his usual train to Minsk (the manufacturing facility was in Gorodishchy). A friend called him, "How about we meet?" They agreed to meet at Nemiga, where Vitaly planned to buy acrylic paints for his son’s plastic models of planes, tanks and soldiers. But he did not manage to reach the shop. He and his friend got trapped between two police prison vans, one of which they were forcibly dragged into.

   

He returned home in four days as if after a war, with bruises and broken bones. He remembers his mother’s tears. "I’m alive, look, only my shoelaces are missing." He remembers his wife’s anxiety and curiosity in his sons’ eyes. Vitaly takes a puff on his cigarette, "It is like in Vysotsky’s song – "Big deal, you have two teeth knocked out. Big deal, something is wrong with your head. Big deal, you have been robbed at the front door. Just be thankful you’re alive!" After jail, I considered quitting smoking, but in the hospital I couldn’t resist a puff, I wanted to let all that nastiness out of me together with cigarette smoke." 
 

Vitaly shows me a photo taken on that ill-fated day of August.
"It’s a history-making one. Here, we are standing outside the ‘Gallery’. No flags, no shouting, no slogans, no mass rallies. Nothing at all. Everything is quiet and peaceful. Nothing suggested the disaster which would befall us. We chatted and watched the police minivans and prison vans ‘swarming’ behind the Palace of Sports. It was like a wasps’ nest there. Then, one by one, the vans started to leave the ‘nest’. No one could imagine what would happen in five minutes." 

It all happened in a matter of minutes. A prison van drove by the two friends and stopped not far away. The second one stopped about 30 meters away. 

"It turned out these guys from the wasps’ nest came to get us. They arranged a trap for us and ‘flew out’ of the prison vans. Some people managed to escape across the road towards the Canal. But there was actually nowhere to retreat to. It was too late. I wasn’t expecting anything like this. Everything was happening rapidly, aggressively, rudely. I froze like a stone. They hit me on the back of my neck, bent me down at 90˚, twisted my hands behind my back and dragged me forward. They took away my backpack; they did not ask any questions. They pushed me into the van, "On your knees, face on the bench!" There was no point in explaining anything. I already realized this was a ticket, and that I would be very lucky if it was not a one-way ticket. ‘Ticket to the Moon’. I experienced indignation, rage, confusion, "How come? I haven’t even bought paints. Now what? What hellish stuff!"       

There was no point in explaining anything. I already realized this was a ticket, and that I would be very lucky if it was not a one-way ticket

To the very end, Vitaly hoped that they would take him to the police department, sort everything out, and he would go home. The worst outcome he imagined was a fine. He suppressed his indignation and yielded to his wicked fate. However, inside the prison van such atrocities began to happen, that Vitaly no longer understood what was going on at all. 

"All you can see are their combat boots. You raise your head and you get another blow, and not just one, but five or six to make you understand better. You are kicked for no reason - you stand in the wrong way, you sit in the wrong way, you lie in the wrong way - it doesn’t matter. They are absolutely insane. Talking to them is like talking to metal rails. Every man has a job, everyone is an expert at something. But those men in front of me were not experts, but some low, cowardly and helpless trash. They had no honour and no dignity whatsoever." 
 

"A man in his 60s was thrown in the van after me. He was lying next to me, face down on the floor, crying, whining, "I am a simple welder, a working man, I am going home to my family, my grandchildren, let me go." I don’t know how he made them pity him, but they grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, kicked his ass, and threw him out, "Get the fuck out of here, get out of our sight!" And the rest of us remained in the van, kneeling, with our foreheads on the benches, afraid to utter a word." 

"A fetal position saved me a little bit" 
 

"Behind the Palace of Sports, they moved us to another prison van. Before that, we were searched. One by one, they took our backpacks from the pile and examined the contents." 

"My phone had no password. They looked through the photos, found videos with white-red-white flag, and considering them inappropriate, they threw my phone on the ground and crushed it with their boots. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I had a book in my backpack - ‘Small Arms’. It was a beautiful, academic edition. I carried it in my backpack for two weeks. It was just a coincidence. I kept my train travel card in it, an ordinary train ticket." 

"I don’t just love books, I adore them. I buy books. Also, there is a recycling center not far from my house, where they accept waste paper. I made the acquaintance of one employee and asked her to pay attention to the books people dispose of. I don’t want any romantic novels. I like serious stuff. And that’s where I got this book. It’s like an encyclopedia; it contains arms classification by year, by type - smoothbore, rifled.  But it was impossible to explain anything to those boneheads. Guns! Small arms, too! When I remembered about the book in my backpack, I immediately realised they wouldn’t like it. A couple of minutes later, "Bang!" I heard, "Fuck, bitch, whose purple backpack is that? F.ck**** in the mouth!" I wanted to evaporate. I stiffened, I shrank into myself with horror. But nothing could be done – my passport was in the pocket inside the backpack. There was a stream of insults. I was caught in a circle of Hell. "What the fuck! Do you like shooting, do you like blowing things up, ******, hah?"     
 

"The fetal position saved me a little. Judging by the number of boots, there were five or six of them, but judging by the number of the kicks and blows, there were 42... I fell on my side under their blows, and they began to hit me from all directions At some point, I couldn’t understand any more what they were hitting me with - batons, boots, fists. It was like some kind of a creepy octopus grabbed me with all its arms: kh-kh-kh-kh. My scull was all bumpy. Later, when I ran my hand through my hair, I could feel only bumps. But the pain in my side overshadowed everything else. I hoped it was just a bruise."   

Judging by the number of boots, there were five or six of them, but judging by the number of kicks and blows, there were 42... At some point, I couldn’t understand any more what they were hitting me with - batons, boots, fists

The prison van into which the detainees were transferred contained individual sections. Together with two other men, Vitaly was shoved into one of those metal lockers. 

"There were two guys with me, in their early 30s. It was good we were rather skinny, because the officers squeezed the last guy into the locker with their feet. Our bodies intertwined in some ‘love triangle’. Now I’m joking, but at that time we were only thinking how not to hurt each other. We drove in silence. Once in a while, we exchanged a couple of words when we heard someone moaning outside. Everyone was in a state of shock; my body was fighting its own battle, ignoring the pain, and hope was still alive, "We will get to the police station, they will sort everything out. It will take an hour or two. Then we will go home. We shall endure. It is hot, big deal." 

"And then it got really bad. We could already feel there was no air to breathe. Drop by drop, sweat was running down. It got harder and harder. For about 40 minutes, the van drove around the city stopping at some hot spots and picking up more people on its way. We could hear the human bodies being thrown in and beaten. All this was accompanied by severe swearing. People asked the officers to stop the beatings. They were really begging. But it didn’t help. Finally, the van stopped, and we heard the doors open. Ok, "My Militia protects me" (a sarcastic popular saying about police). Nothing of the sort! Instead of the much anticipated RUVD (District Internal Affairs Department), they brought us to the Detention Center at Okrestina Street."     

  

Standing in the metal locker, they heard how the first detainees were leaving the van, and realised that it was necessary to follow the instructions and move very quickly. 

"Keep your body bent at 90˚ or even lower, the sharper the angle the better. Also, keep your hands behind your head properly. They’ve got 48 different combinations there; you can’t just walk out of the van. And it was not like, "Please, guys, hurry up." It was, "F.ck, bitch, hurry up, fuck, fuck, lower your head, move, fuck, bitch, down, b**!!!" ... And you fly out like a bullet. And everyone is running, running, running.  The most important thing is not to trip on the steps. And then there is a ‘corridor’ made by monsters in combat boots chasing you forward - 10 to15 batons on each side.  You cannot see where you are running. And to make matters worse, the third eye in the back of my head has got shut." 

I can barely contain a smile. In spite of everything, Vitaly manages to joke, to be ironic.
 

"Well, that’s me - an optimistic optimist. However, back then it hurt to laugh. I had no idea my rib was broken. I thought, "Oh, what a heavy blow that was, now I can’t even sneeze or cough." They took us to an exercise yard where we began to lick our wounds. Some guys had smashed heads, some had backs and buttocks the colour of a plum. After recovering a little from the initial shock, I began to feel all the unpleasantness of my condition. A couple of times, when I sat by the wall, I could not get up without support, my abdominal muscles hurt, and I could not take a full breath. I got up by pressing my elbows against the wall, but only if someone helped me as well. Every time I exhaled, there was a cracking sound."    

"There were 22 guys for 4 bunks. It was like Paradise"  
 

There were about 70 detainees in the exercise yard. They spent more than 24 hours standing outside. There was just a bare concrete floor, concrete walls and caged roof. Those who were near the walls dozed, squatting, burying their foreheads in their knees. Those in the middle tried to walk in a circle to somehow cheer themselves up. Those in the center stomped in one spot. There was one 1.5-liter bottle of water for all of them. It was just enough to take a sip or to wet their lips. People began to faint, some from pain, some from hunger. A local paramedic would come, do something, inject something and a man would continue to stand. 

"In groups of 15, they took us to the toilet in a solitary cell, in the same fashion – body bent at 90˚, hands behind your back, "Move, scum, hurry, bitch, f.ck!" They wouldn’t do this for the sake of just three. So those who couldn’t hold on any longer formed a group. Next opportunity would come many hours later."       

In the late evening, newly arrived prison vans were unloaded. The hours from 9 p.m. to midnight were the most tense. All night long new detainees were brought in and beaten. 
 

"Hearing their moans was an additional torture. In one of the neighbouring exercise yards, some daredevils started pounding on the door demanding a lawyer, truth, justice, law. They banged and banged. Then, one by one, they were taken out and severely beaten, one meter away from our door. At first, we could hear the blows and a man - begging, whimpering, crying. And then his whimpering faded, and just the blows could be heard in silence. In our yard, we all went numb. You know, you listen to this and can’t tell if it is for real or a nightmare. What is going on out there? Maybe a man has already been killed. Then the same happens to a second, a third. You listen to this real human plea for mercy and to someone possibly dying a meter away from you, you feel it with your whole body, you relive it rather than just hear it with your ears. It’s creepy." 

"After that, there was no desire to knock on the door, not even to ask for water - there was no way to guess how it would turn out. There were moments ‘on the edge’, when some cool guy in our yard would yell, "Open up, let us out!" The door would open and he would be warned, "If you don’t shut up, everybody will get hurt." And right away, everybody would start to calm him down. At some point, we were kicked out of the exercise yard and ordered to kneel down along the wall of the building. For an hour and a half, we knelt on chippings, with our foreheads against the wall. And a local villain filmed us, one by one, "Who are you? Where were you detained?" Then we were taken back to the exercise yard."   
 

Towards the evening, the guards began to take the detainees away from the exercise yard again. The first 15 men were gone. Time was passing, the sun was going down, but those guys were not coming back. Another 15 were taken away. Hearing the screams outside the door during the night, the remaining detainees didn’t know what to believe. It turned out the prison officers were sorting the detainees and transferring them to the cells. 

"There were 22 detainees for 4 bunks. It was like Paradise. There was a toilet and tap water. For two nights, I was lucky to sleep on a wooden floor. There were no matrasses, no blankets. There was a package filled with medical masks, about 40 pieces. Whoever grabbed it first, got a ‘pillow’. But how was it possible to sleep in there? The atmosphere was hectic, screams were heard all the time, every three hours they head checked us again and again. It was too stuffy, there was no air to breathe. The light in the cell was on all the time. The pain in my side was unbearable, and I did not know in which position to lie down."   
 

"Also, my thoughts were totally confused. There was one big question, "Why? What is this? How come?" And there was no answer to it. We were in a state of constant uncertainty. We didn’t know what was going to happen in five minutes. Some guys were taken away from the cell, others were brought in. We could not understand where people were going, where they were being taken. The guards did not even tell us the time. If anyone dared to ask, there was such yelling and spitting in response! There was only one comfort - I was given two pain-relief pills. I said, "I must have a broken rib." A female medic listened to the sounds of my lungs with a stethoscope, "Yes, I suspect there is a rib fracture, but the lung is not affected."      

"The reports were the same for all"
 

In the morning, on the day of the trial, we were finally given food. They brought ten plates of ugly watery porridge. Those who got the plates, ate and handed the plates back. The others were waiting for the next 10 portions. And the guard said, "You were told to share!" The next meal was in the evening. It was porridge again." 

"Before the trial, I waited for my ‘finest hour’ in the corridor. I still hoped to be fined and released like the others. I didn’t care about the amount of the fine. I heard that some guys were fined 20 basic amounts (basic amount is a sum determined by the government and used for calculation of various payments, fines and penalties). I thought, "I don’t care if it is 40 amounts, as long as I can call my family and tell them where I am." Finally, it was my turn. I entered the room. "Read the report." I began reading. The only true thing in the report was…my last name. The report said I was some kind of saboteur, a crazy, frantic, active protester, who marched around and shouted out slogans. And there were even a couple of witnesses – a Major from the Zavodsky District and someone else who had seen me doing all these things. And strangely enough, all the guys got the reports with the same text and the same witnesses. The judge asked me, "Do you agree?" I was indignant, "Well, that’s not true!" But there was no use in arguing with the system that was rotten to the core for so long. I was told to wait outside. They took me to the corridor and put me up by the wall with my forehead against it. Then the guards took me back to the cell."

I heard that some guys were fined 20 basic amounts. I thought, "I don’t care if it is 40 amounts, as long as I can call my family and tell them where I am" 

On August 13, the Detention Center staff started running around with name lists. Four or five people in our cell were told to get ready to leave. Someone mentioned Zhodino. A 15-day ‘last minute package tour’. The guards took the detainees outside and put them up against the wall. There was already a big group of people ready to be taken away. 

"A masked monster came up to me with a piece of paper, "Sign it" and whispered sarcastically in my ear, "Lucky you, you’re going to Zhodino." I thought, "That’s it, my time has come." And then there was the usual ritual of getting into the prison van. Have you ever tried to climb the steep stairs in a bent down position?  You must try hard not to smash your lips with your knees." 
 

It was a long drive. When the door of the prison van opened, they saw they were in a forest. Someone said, "That’s not Zhodino." It turned out to be a facility near Slutsk. Although Vitaly did not know, whether it was for the better or worse, but still he was glad. Here, everything was radically different. The approach was completely different. The detainees had to obey the Regulations and walk in a formation, but they were treated as human beings. 

"We were given a ‘kindergarten meal’: soup, main dish and a dry fruit drink. Human food. They even gave us books. I chose some Soviet-era fiction, but I didn’t have enough time to read it. I just started to settle in, washed my T-shirt and hung it on the headboard. And again, they came with name lists. Where to now? We just arrived. They ordered us to go outside. There were about 90 men. The one, whose name was called out, had to come forward and move to the side. There were 10 of us. Two officers came up and ordered, "Off you go." Apparently, the authorities overdid it (detained too many people). And prisons are not flexible (cannot contain so many detainees). It was not possible to grab that many people every day." 
 

Dawn 2021
 

On August14, Vitaly walked out of the prison gates, after signing a warning against participation in any rallies, or he would automatically be charged with criminal offences. Being completely at a loss as to where to go and how to get to Minsk, he walked up the path that led through the forest to the roadblock. 


"I walked up the hill, and I was just astonished. There were countless cars and people behind the roadblock. Volunteers checked the names of the released detainees in their records, offered hot tea and food, asked if anybody needed a lift home. So I was given a drink, used their phone to call my family, and got a ride to Minsk."
 

The next day, Vitaly was admitted to the City Hospital No. 10 with a fractured rib and fluid in the pleural area. In the Admissions Unit, when the doctors learned that he had been at Okrestina, they understood everything at once. In the Thoracic Department he shared a ward with similar guys.     
 
"They were admitted to the Hospital straight from the streets, bypassing Okrestina - a young IT specialist and a construction worker. One, with a bullet wound in the neck, was brought from the Stela. The other had a burnt hole in his chest from a shockwave - a flash-bang grenade had exploded next to him on Pushkinskaya Street, almost under his armpit. It was the first time the doctors had dealt with such injuries. And I was like a boy from Yeralash (Children's Comedy TV show) - I had just a fractured rib."

Surprisingly, I got the book "Small Arms" back. For some reason, I thought they would burn it down, hammer a stake into it, because I had been so badly punished for it

"The healing was long and painful, almost until November. I had to quit my job. I said, "Sorry, guys, I’m out." It’s a private production facility with price wages system; you cannot just receive a salary like in a state owned company. And there is no easy work there, because of pressure on the ribs. I couldn’t even lift up a baby in my arms and put it on my shoulders. I had to look for other solutions, other approaches. I am still trying to restore my health and position I had before August. I am waiting for Spring to come."    

"Surprisingly, I got the book "Small Arms" back. For some reason, I thought they would burn it, hammer a stake into it, because I had been so badly punished for it, their eyes had become bloodshot. But, no. They returned everything but the phone. Also, they pinned their tag on my backpack - some piece of paper with illegible signs on it. I used to be apolitical, but after these events I have become much more sensitive. I used to act on instinct, on my vocation as a man, as a breadwinner, but now a new feature is activated - I am concerned about the future of my children."
 

There is a painting on the sketchpad in Vitaly’s workshop. It has not yet taken on its colour. It is just a street.

"For now, this is nobody’s street. But it will be ours," Vitaly smiles. "The Dawn of 2021. I want to send a message that after all the events we have endured, after all this nastiness and filth, a dawn will come, a real dawn in all its beauty. And everyone will see the Sun. No one will look into Tomorrow with the fear a monster will crawl from around the corner and dare to raise his hand at an old man, a baby, a woman, especially."

P.S. Vitaly did not refer to the Investigative Committee, he did not file complaints or appeals. He does not believe that anyone will seriously investigate this. He also does not have a copy of the police report.  

*August2020 thanks  Human Rights Center "Viasna"  for help in preparing the material.

If you have suffered during peaceful demonstrations and are ready to tell your story, write to us at avgust2020belarus@gmail.com with the note “History”. We will contact you. thanks

Vitaly Grishin,a pottery artist
Age: 39 years old
City: Minsk
When: 10.08.2020

Vitaly was detained and beaten by OMON (riot police) for having the book "Small Arms" in his backpack

Held in custody: Detention Center at Okrestina Street (Minsk) and Slutsk, 4 days
Medical diagnosis: Hematomas, multiple scratches, full-body bruising, rib fracture, hydrothorax
Aftermath: One week in hospital, three months of rehabilitation, loss of employment