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The doors in front of which the repentance videos were recorded. Source: malanka.media Legal qualification: Article 7(1)(h) of the Rome Statute:  Persecution on political grounds. Article 7(1)(k):  Other inhumane acts (intentional infliction of severe psychological suffering, public humiliation). Article 7(1)(e):  Arbitrary deprivation of liberty. M.V. was 19 years old. She studied in her third year at the journalism faculty of BSU. She was not an activist, but she had what her curator in GUBOPiK would later call “an excessive sense of justice.” She ran a small Instagram blog about books and life in Minsk. After August 2020 she sometimes wrote about her feelings, posted photos with white ribbons or flowers. In September, during one of the women’s marches, she took a photo where she hugged her friend holding a small handmade sign: “For our children.” They came for her on November 4, at 6:15 a.m., in her dorm room. Two men in civilian clothes and two in black uniforms with “OMON” patches. They didn’t knock. They broke the flimsy lock, threw her off the bed, and pressed her face to the floor. “Extremist, had your fun?” one of them hissed. Her roommate was there too, curled up in a corner and crying. The search lasted two hours. They turned everything upside down: closets, mattresses, emptied backpacks. They seized her old laptop, her phone, and—oddly—her notes on the history of Belarusian literature. She was taken to the GUBOPiK building. The interrogation did not begin immediately. First, they locked her for several hours in a small windowless room containing only a single chair bolted to the floor. Then she was taken to an office. The operative, who introduced himself as “Major Vasiliev,” was demonstratively polite. He put on the table printouts of her Instagram posts. “Maria Viktorovna, why did you do this,” he began, leafing through the pages. “You’re a future journalist. A smart girl. Why do you need these ‘puppet masters’? Why did you get involved with these…,” he said, poking disdainfully at a photo from the march. M.V. tried to refer to the Constitution, to the right to peaceful protest. The major laughed. “The Constitution? Girl, what world do you live in? Your Constitution now is the Criminal Code. Article 342. Up to three years. And this post—” he tapped another printout—“where you write about the guys from Okrestina… that’s 361, ‘Calls for sanctions.’ Up to twelve years. You’ll be out at 31. Your entire youth in a colony. Is that what you want?” He gave her water. “Look,” his tone softened, “we don’t need your blood. We can see you slipped. That you were used. Just help us, and we’ll help you.”The plan was simple: she had to record a video. She was to say on camera that she “deeply repents,” that she was “led astray by destructive Telegram channels,” and urge others “not to repeat her mistakes.” “I won’t do it,” M.V. said firmly. The smile vanished from “Vasiliev’s” face. He pressed a button. Two masked men entered the room. “So, the hard way,” he said. “You’ll go to Okrestina now. To the ‘politicals.’ They’ll teach you to love the Motherland quickly. And do you know what we’ll do with your friend? The one in the photo? We’ll make her the organizer. And you the accomplice. She’s already testifying against you, by the way. Says you dragged her in.” It was a lie, but M.V. didn’t know that. She was returned to the windowless room. An hour later she was brought back. “Vasiliev” showed her her phone. “Look how pretty you are here. Now imagine all these photos online… you get the idea. Along with your address and your parents’ phone numbers. Want that kind of fame?” After three hours of threats, psychological pressure and blackmail, she broke. They sat her in front of a camera in the same office. “Vasiliev” gave her a sheet with the text. “Look into the camera. Speak sincerely. If I see falsehood—you’ll go to the isolation cell.” She spoke, stumbling and choking on tears. “I, M.V., repent… I was misled… I urge…” The operator made her do three takes. “Too much crying. You need to sound convincing, not whiny.” The next day the video appeared in all pro-government Telegram channels. The comments were brutal. Some wrote: “Sellout whore,” “She broke!” Others: “One more enlightened.” Her full name and Instagram link were publicly available. She was released on her own recognizance. The next day she was expelled from university “for actions discrediting the title of student.” “Vasiliev” kept part of his promise: a criminal case was opened, but not under the “serious” article. Her trial took place two months later. It lasted 20 minutes. Despite the “sincere repentance” on camera, she was sentenced to 3 years of “home chemistry” (restrictive liberty without being sent to an institution).“They didn’t just force me to be silent,” she said later, after leaving the country. “They forced me to speak with their words. They hollowed me out and stuffed me with their text. It was worse than if they had just beaten me. They stole my face.”

Illustrative photo Legal qualification: Article 7(1)(h) of the Rome Statute:  Persecution of an identifiable group (civil society) on political grounds. O.P., 52, was the long-time director of a human rights organization “Viasna” (name changed) in one of the regional centers. Their organization was not political in the direct sense: they were not fighting for power. They monitored elections, helped those convicted under administrative articles, and provided legal education. They had existed for 22 years. Over those years, they had helped thousands of people file complaints, win labor-dispute cases, and defend themselves against arbitrariness by local authorities. After 2020, their work became both vitally necessary and deadly dangerous. They documented torture, collected testimonies, and kept lists of detainees. The authorities, who had previously “tolerated” them, now saw them as an enemy. The crackdown began on the morning of 16 July 2021 — the day when searches were carried out across the country at dozens of human rights defenders and journalists. At 7 a.m., they came to O.P. Seven people: three from the KGB, two from the Department of Financial Investigations (DFR), and two “witnesses” who, as it turned out, had been brought along. “Search as part of a criminal case on financing riots,” the senior officer said briefly, handing over a warrant. “Everyone stay where you are.” They worked methodically and destructively. It was not a search for evidence; it was an act of destruction. They tore up floorboards, removed hard drives from all computers, including her student daughter’s old laptop. They seized every flash drive, every notebook, every business card. All bank cards. All cash they found in the apartment — about 300 dollars that O.P. had been saving for a vacation. “Where is the grant accounting?” asked the DFR investigator.“In the office,” O.P. replied. “Then we’re going to the office,” he said. At the office — a small three-room ground-floor flat — a second team was already waiting. The door had been cut open with a blowtorch; the hinges were hanging by a single screw. Inside, everything was turned upside down. System units had been ripped out “with the meat,” wires cut. Folders with personal files of people they had helped were scattered across the floor. “Ah-ha,” the investigator said with satisfaction, picking up a contract from the floor. “Western funding! Lithuania!” O.P. tried to explain that this was an official EU grant, registered with the Department for Humanitarian Aid, for conducting seminars on the rights of people with disabilities. “All of this was legal,” she said. “Legal?” the investigator smirked. “We’ll decide what’s legal here. You fed ‘extremists’ with this money. You churned out complaints to the UN. You shamed the country.” The search ended with the arrest of O.P. and her accountant. They were taken to the KGB pre-trial detention center. The charges were absurd: “Tax evasion on an especially large scale.” The logic of the accusation, later voiced by the Investigative Committee, was as follows: since human rights activity in Belarus is in fact “illegal,” all grants received for it cannot be considered humanitarian aid. Therefore, they are “undeclared income” of O.P. and her colleagues as private individuals, on which they should have paid personal income tax. The “damage” calculated by the DFR exceeded 150,000 dollars. While O.P. was in pre-trial detention, the Ministry of Justice filed a claim with the Supreme Court to liquidate their organization. The grounds: “carrying out non-charter activities” and “storing unregistered symbols in the office” (they had found a small white-red-white flag in a desk drawer). The hearing lasted 40 minutes. The organization’s representative, who came with a power of attorney, was not even allowed into the courtroom. “Viasna,” which had defended people for 22 years, was liquidated. O.P. spent a year in the KGB detention center. Operatives constantly summoned her for “talks,” demanding she admit guilt and “compensate the damage.” She was not allowed to see her family; her correspondence was blocked. In the end, she was sentenced to 7 years in a penal colony. “They calculated ‘damage’ from the money that went to printing brochures on labor rights and to pay lawyers for students,” she said in her final statement, which miraculously made it to the outside world. “They are trying us for helping people. We were the last resort for anyone who came when the state turned its back on them. Now that resort is gone. They didn’t just jail me. They left thousands of people alone with the repressive machine. But they are wrong if they think that by liquidating our legal entity they have liquidated the idea of human rights.”

Polish (foreground) and Belarusian border guards (background) stand near a group of migrants in an improvised camp on the Belarus–Poland border near Białystok, northeastern Poland, 20 August 2021. Source: babel.ua Legal qualification: Article 7(1)(k) Rome Statute:  Other inhumane acts (deliberate use of people as a tool, creation of inhumane conditions causing suffering). UN Protocol Against the Smuggling of Migrants (state-organized scheme). F.A., 28, was an English teacher in Mosul, Iraq. After his city was destroyed by ISIS and later during the fighting for its liberation, he lost his job and home. He was an educated man, far from war, simply seeking safety for his young wife and three-year-old daughter. In August 2021, he saw an ad on Facebook posted by a “travel agency.” It offered an “easy and legal” path to Europe. Route: Baghdad — Minsk — Germany. Price: $5000 per person. The agency claimed to have an “official agreement” with Belarusian authorities. F.A. sold his car and his wife’s gold jewelry. They received Belarusian tourist visas directly at Baghdad airport. The Iraqi Airways plane was filled with similar “tourists” — families from Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan. In Minsk, they were met. The first two days looked legitimate: they were placed in Hotel Belarus, even given a short city tour. “Coordinators”—strong Russian-speaking men in civilian clothes—told them to wait. On the third night, large tourist buses arrived. “We’re going on an excursion to Hrodna,” the coordinator said. There were about 100 people in the buses. They were driven for several hours and dropped in the middle of a dark forest. “Now go,” the coordinator said, pointing his flashlight. “Poland is there. Walk straight.” When people hesitated, men in Belarusian military uniforms with dogs emerged from the darkness. They didn’t speak English. They simply pushed people forward with rifle butts, shouting: “Forward! Go!” F.A., his wife, and daughter walked with the crowd through the forest. After an hour, they reached a tall barbed-wire fence. In several places the wire had been cut. “Look, an opening!” someone shouted. “Belarusians helped us!” They crawled through the gap. They were in Poland. They walked for another hour before searchlights lit them up — a Polish border patrol. The Poles detained them. They cried, begged for help, showed their children. “Asylum! Please!” F.A. shouted. The guards gave them water and rations but said camps were overcrowded. After a few hours they loaded them into trucks and drove them back to the border — pushing them through the same gap back into Belarus. And then the nightmare began. On the Belarusian side, the same soldiers in camouflage were already waiting. “No going back!” they shouted, forming shields. “To Poland! Go to Poland!” They were trapped. In the no-man’s-land between the two borders, in a narrow strip of forest. On one side — Poles, not letting them deeper into the country. On the other — Belarusians, not allowing them to return to Minsk or even to a Belarusian village. “We spent eight days in that forest,” F.A. later told volunteers. “It was hell. Temperatures fell to zero at night. We had no food, no tents, no warm clothes. My daughter cried constantly. We drank water from a swamp. Belarusian soldiers sometimes came. They didn’t give us food. They brought more migrants and pushed them onto us. They filmed our suffering on their phones and shouted at the Poles: ‘Look, fascists, what you are doing!’ Once they brought logs and shields and forced the men to storm the fence. They threw stones at the Poles, hiding behind our backs.” On the fifth day, F.A.’s daughter developed a high fever. She was unconscious. F.A. crawled to the Belarusian guards, holding his daughter, begging for help, for a doctor. “Get lost!” a soldier shouted and kicked him in the chest. On the eighth day, having lost all hope, F.A. saw a group of volunteers on the Polish side. He broke through the fence and surrendered to them. His daughter was immediately hospitalized in a Polish hospital with severe pneumonia and hypothermia. “I realized we were not clients. We were weapons,” he said in the refugee center. “They bought us in Iraq, brought us here, and used us like bullets to shoot at Europe. They did not see us as human beings. To them, we were just a ‘human shield’.”

Illustrative photo Legal qualification: Article 3(f) of UNGA Resolution 3314:  Providing territory for the commission of an act of aggression (context). Qualification of I.R.’s actions:  Within Belarus — “Act of Terrorism” (Art. 289 CC RB), “State Treason” (Art. 356 CC RB). Qualification of authorities’ actions:  Torture (Art. 7(1)(f) Rome Statute), persecution on political grounds (Art. 7(1)(h)). I.R., 29, worked as a railway track fitter at the Belarusian Railway in a small town in Homyel Region. He was not an activist, but he had what is often called “an acute sense of justice.” He loved his country and considered himself a patriot. When Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine on 24 February 2022, I.R.’s life was turned upside down. His station became a key logistics hub for Russian forces. “I saw it with my own eyes,” he later wrote in a letter to his family. “Trains with tanks, Grad launchers, barrels of fuel. They ran without stopping. On the platforms sat young Russian soldiers, laughing and waving at us. And I understood they were going to kill. And they were going there from my land, on my rails.” For several weeks, I.R. fell into deep depression. He read news from Ukraine, saw images from Bucha, Irpin, and Chernihiv — towns just across the border from his home. He recognized the vehicles shown outside Kyiv — the same ones he had seen pass through his station. In early March, he met with two friends, also railway workers. “We couldn’t just sit and watch,” he explained. “That was complicity. We decided we had to stop it.” Using their professional knowledge, they devised a plan. Their goal was not to blow up tracks, which could cause derailment and casualties, but to disable signaling equipment. They chose a relay cabinet responsible for signals and switches. One night in mid-March, they carried out their plan. They broke into and burned the equipment inside the signalling cabinet. Traffic on that stretch was paralyzed for a day and a half. Analysts later calculated that this and similar acts significantly slowed Russian military logistics toward Kyiv. They were identified quickly. The country was already under a counter-terrorist operation regime, and the KGB and GUBOPiK threw all resources into hunting “railway partisans.” A week later, at night, special forces stormed I.R.’s home. “It wasn’t an arrest,” he wrote. “It was a punitive raid.” Windows and doors were smashed; he was dragged outside in his underwear and beaten. Then the torture began. As human rights defenders later learned, I.R. and his friends were tortured with exceptional cruelty in the KGB pre-trial detention facility. They were suspended in the “swallow” position, electrocuted, and forced to confess to working for Ukrainian and Polish intelligence. During one interrogation, under the pretext of simulating an “escape attempt,” their legs were shot. “Their knees were shot through. This is not a metaphor,” an attorney under a nondisclosure agreement later reported. “They were forced to crawl with their shot legs down a corridor while operatives filmed it.” The trial was held in Homyel behind closed doors. Journalists and family members were not allowed in. The case was instantly reclassified from “property damage” to “Act of Terrorism committed by an organized group” and “State Treason.” The prosecution argued that, as a citizen of Belarus, I.R. had “aided a foreign state (Ukraine) in hostile activities” and “undermined the defense capability” of the Union State. The prosecutor requested 22 years in prison. The state-appointed attorney pleaded for leniency. The most powerful moment of the trial — known thanks to a leak — was I.R.’s “final statement.” He spoke calmly, standing on crutches. “Your Honor,” he said, “you are judging me for betraying my Homeland. But what is Homeland? It is the land where I was born. It is the people. And I could not allow death to be carried from my land to my neighbors. We were judged as terrorists. But we did not kill anyone, we did not endanger anyone. We simply stopped trains of death. I know that because of us several trains carrying missiles did not reach their targets. If that is the price so that at least one shell does not land in a Ukrainian home where children sleep — I am ready to pay it.” The court sentenced I.R. to 20 years in a high-security prison. His friends received 18 and 19 years. They were declared “terrorists,” and state propaganda used the case as a demonstrative punishment of “traitors.” In a censored letter to his wife, I.R. wrote only one sentence: “I regret nothing. The truth is on our side.”

Deportation of Ukrainian children to a camp in Belarus. Photo: BelTA Legal qualification: Article 8(2)(a)(vii) of the Rome Statute:  Unlawful deportation or transfer. Article 8(2)(b)(xxvi) of the Rome Statute:  Conscription or transfer of children from occupied territory. Article 49 of the Fourth Geneva Convention:  Prohibition of forced transfer. N.P., 11 years old, lived with his grandmother in Lysychansk. His parents had died back in 2015. When fighting for the city began in 2022, they spent weeks hiding in the basement. After Russian troops seized the city, a woman in a Russian EMERCOM uniform, accompanied by two soldiers, came into their yard. They brought canned food and told the grandmother that the city was “unsafe” and children were being “evacuated” to Russia, to “safe” camps. The grandmother cried and refused to let him go, but the woman in uniform threatened that “child services” would take him anyway, and that she could be “prosecuted” for disobeying orders of the military administration. N.P. and about two dozen other children from his district were put on a bus. They were told they were going to a “sanatorium” for three weeks to “rest from the war.” The bus drove for a long time and eventually brought them not to Russia, but to Belarus — to the Dubrava sanatorium in Homyel Region. At first everything looked like a normal camp: they were fed, given clean clothes, placed in rooms. But the next day the “program” began. In the morning they were lined up and forced to listen to the national anthems of Russia and Belarus. Counselors, speaking with a Russian accent, told them that Ukraine was a “terrorist state” that “bombed Donbas for eight years,” and that Russia and Belarus were their “brotherly saviors.” “They took us to ‘lessons of courage,’” N.P. later recounted through volunteers who managed to contact him. “Belarusian OMON officers came. They showed us rifles and taught us how to take them apart. They said we must be ready to ‘defend the Union State’ from NATO and ‘Ukrainian Nazis.’” The central event was a visit from Paralympian Aleksei Talai. He was brought onto the stage in the assembly hall. He told them he had lost his arms and legs not in war but in peacetime, but now he was “with the guys at the front with all his heart.” He brought children letters from Russian soldiers and gifts: sports suits with the Z symbol. “He said that we were Russian children,” N.P. recalled. “That Lysychansk was Russia. That we had to forget about Ukraine because it had betrayed us. He made us shout ‘Russia! Belarus! Power!’ Some older boys, 15–16 years old, he encouraged to apply to Belarusian military schools. My friend asked when we would go home. A counselor overheard him and scolded him harshly. She said our home was here now.” Children were not allowed to contact relatives. Their phones were confiscated on the first day. N.P.’s grandmother had no idea where he was for months. When the three weeks of “rehabilitation” ended, N.P. and the other children were not taken back. They were told their “session” was being extended indefinitely “due to shelling by the Ukrainian Armed Forces.” Later, thanks to international volunteer organizations, some of the children were returned through third countries. N.P. was among them. But he came back changed — frightened and disoriented. “They told me there that my uncle who serves in the Ukrainian Armed Forces is a ‘fascist,’” he whispered to a psychologist. “They told me I should hate him. But I love him… I don’t understand what is true.” N.P.’s deportation was not a humanitarian action. It was a war crime, part of which was forced ideological indoctrination and the attempted erasure of identity. And it took place on the territory of Belarus, with the full cooperation of its state structures — from Talai’s foundation to the administration of the sanatorium run by “Belaruskali.”

Launch of a “Grad” system by Russian troops. Source: euroradio.fm Legal qualification: Article 25(3)(c) of the Rome Statute:  Aiding and abetting in the commission of war crimes. Contextual crime:  Article 8(2)(b) of the Rome Statute (Intentional attacks against civilians or civilian objects). Article 3(f) of UN General Assembly Resolution 3314:  Allowing territory to be used for aggression. V.I., 55, had lived his whole life in a village in the Homyel Region, near the Zyabrouka airfield. He worked as a mechanic in a local collective farm. Zyabrouka had been an abandoned airfield, but at the end of 2021, activity began there. Rumors spread about the “Union Resolve” exercises. In January 2022, his village was flooded with Russian troops. They looked nothing like the Belarusian conscripts he was used to seeing. These were battle-hardened contract soldiers with expensive gear and an arrogant demeanor. They set up a camp in the forest near the village. “They behaved like masters,” V.I. later said after moving to his children in Poland. “They bought all the vodka and cigarettes in the mobile shop. They said they'd come to ‘protect us from NATO.’ And our local police officer and village council chairman tiptoed around them.” On the morning of 24 February, V.I. did not wake up to an alarm clock. He woke up because his house was shaking. “I thought an earthquake had begun. I ran outside. The sky in the east was red, and there was a roar you don’t just hear — you feel it inside your chest. As if the earth was tearing apart. It was planes taking off from Zyabrouka and missile launches. One after another. One — five minutes later another. And so it went all morning.” In the first weeks of the war, his village became a frontline zone. Day and night, columns of Russian vehicles marked with “V” passed along their road. In the forest where V.I. used to pick mushrooms, Russians deployed “Iskander” missile systems. “We were warned not to go into the forest. Belarusian soldiers, our soldiers, cordoned off the area and guarded the Russians,” V.I. recalled. “I saw everything from the window of my tractor while working in the field. They launched missiles right from there. At night — a flash lighting up half the sky, then a terrible roar, and the missile flew toward Ukraine. And an hour later, I'd turn on the radio, which picked up Ukrainian stations, and hear: ‘Strike on Chernihiv,’ ‘Hit on a residential building in Kyiv.’” Fear mixed with shame in the village. People were afraid to talk. A neighbor who tried to film a column on his phone was taken by the Belarusian KGB. He disappeared for two weeks. When he returned, he was gray-haired and with broken ribs. “The worst thing,” said V.I., “was the feeling of complicity. I repaired my tractor, and a kilometer away stood a launcher that was killing people right now. People who spoke the same trasjanka as we do. My aunt lived in Chernihiv. I couldn’t call her… What would I say? ‘Sorry, aunt, they’re firing at you from our backyard’?” In March, when Russian troops retreated from Kyiv, Zyabrouka turned into a hospital and repair base. “They brought equipment — destroyed, burned. And wounded soldiers. By helicopter, by Ural trucks. Our Belarusian conscripts were forced to load them. I saw them pull out the burned ones… And then rumors spread in the village that Russians were selling diesel stolen in Ukraine. And not only diesel. Washing machines, TVs…” When V.I. left, he looked at the airfield one last time. The Russian base was still there, guarded by the Belarusian army. “I didn’t fight. But I feel like a criminal. Because this happened with my silent consent. From our land. And our authorities and our military helped them. They are accomplices. And we, probably, are too.”

Illustrative photo Legal qualification: Article 25(3)(c) of the Rome Statute:  Aiding and abetting in the commission of war crimes by a person acting under orders. Contextual crime:  Logistical and medical support of an act of aggression and the resulting war crimes. D.K., a 19-year-old from a village near Vitebsk, was drafted into a mechanized brigade in the Homyel Region. He had six months left until demobilization. In January 2022, their unit was put on high alert. The “Union Resolve” exercises began. Their lives turned into chaos. Thousands of Russian soldiers arrived at their base. “We were told immediately,” D.K. said in an anonymous interview after completing his service, “that the Russians were our ‘elder brothers,’ that we had to do whatever they asked. Our brigade commander fawned over them. We conscripts were used as labor. We cleaned their barracks, brought them fuel, unloaded ammunition.” Russian contract soldiers behaved arrogantly, calling Belarusians “bulbashi” and looking down on them. “They were sure they’d ‘take Kyiv in three days,’” D.K. recalled. “They bragged they were going to ‘beat the Nazis.’” On the night of 24 February, D.K. was on duty at the checkpoint. “At two in the morning the engines roared. An endless column began moving — tanks, IFVs, Grad launchers. All marked with ‘V’ and ‘O’. They passed through our gates toward the Ukrainian border, which was 30 kilometers away. Our Belarusian officer stood there saluting them. I felt terrified.” His unit did not cross the border. They had another role. D.K. was a fuel truck driver. His job was to drive to the “neutral strip” or the border zone and refuel Russian tanks, which consumed fuel at an incredible rate. “I didn’t shoot,” D.K. says bitterly. “But I refueled those who did. I saw them return for refueling. Angry, filthy. One tank crewman, as young as me, smoked while his trembling hands showed me a video on his phone. ‘Look how we… smashed their checkpoint.’ And I realized that in the tank’s fuel tank was my diesel. Belarusian diesel that I had filled an hour earlier.” A week later their battalion was repurposed. They were sent to a field camp near Narowlya, which became a medical sorting point. “Ural trucks and helicopters brought in wounded Russians. We were ordered to help. I pulled them out — without arms, without legs, burned. They screamed in pain. They were being taken to our Belarusian hospitals — in Mazyr and Homyel.” But the worst began at the end of March, when the Russians retreated from Kyiv. “They moved past us like a dirty, shattered river. Their equipment was all mixed up. And on their armor… they carried loot. Washing machines tied to tank turrets. Plasma TVs. Carpets. Microwaves. They traded it to us for cigarettes. One officer offered my warrant officer gold jewelry ‘straight from a Khokhlushka’s ears.’ My warrant officer took it.” D.K. says his entire brigade was involved. Officers in aiding and abetting and looting. Conscripts in forced servicing. “I couldn’t refuse,” he says. “Every day the political officer told us the country was in a ‘state close to wartime.’ That refusal meant a tribunal. For ‘treason against the state.’ They simply made us accomplices. I still have photos on my phone… I don’t know what to do with them. If they find them — I’ll get 15 years. And if I show them — will it prove I didn’t want this? I’m just a 19-year-old kid who ended up in the wrong place. But I refueled the tanks that went to kill.”

A round dance in Brest, 13 September 2020. Screenshot from a Ministry of Internal Affairs video Legal qualification: Article 7(1)(e) of the Rome Statute:  Widespread or systematic deprivation of liberty. Article 7(1)(h):  Persecution of an identifiable group (protesters) on political grounds. Article 7(1)(k):  Other inhumane acts (use of the justice system for mass persecution). T.N., 58, was the chief accountant at a small enterprise in Brest. She had spent her whole life surrounded by numbers, balances, and reports. She was far from politics, raised her grandchildren, and was preparing for retirement. But the events of August 2020 — the fraud and violence in the streets of her hometown — shook even her. On 13 September 2020, a Sunday, she joined thousands of other Brest residents in a peaceful march. The mood was high, almost festive. People sang songs, carried flowers. When they reached the intersection of Masherov Avenue and Cosmonauts Boulevard, the crowd stopped. Spontaneously, to the sound of drums, people took each other’s hands and began to dance a round dance right on the roadway. T.N. joined in. “It was an incredible feeling of unity,” she later recalled. “I looked at the faces around me — young and old, all smiling. Cars that had stopped honked in support. No aggression, no violence. We were simply singing and dancing. It lasted about forty minutes.” After forty minutes, a water cannon arrived at the intersection. It began spraying people with dyed water. T.N. managed to run into a nearby courtyard. She returned home wet, frightened, but with a sense of having done the right thing. She thought it had been just an episode — the peak of her civic participation. She was wrong. The state machine did not forgive this humiliation. A year later, in October 2021, two men in civilian clothes came to her workplace. She, a 58-year-old woman, was arrested in front of the entire staff. She became the 84th defendant in the “round dance case.” The investigation dragged on for months. All participants were identified using footage from city cameras and protesters’ own recordings. T.N. was shocked by the charges. She and dozens of others were accused of “gross violation of public order” (Article 342 of the Belarusian Criminal Code). According to investigators, they “acting in conspiracy” blocked traffic, causing “damage” to the city — the trolleybus company had supposedly lost 619 rubles (about $250). The trial turned into a conveyor belt. Defendants were grouped into “batches” of 10–15 people. The judge did not look into details. The prosecutor monotonously read out the indictment, identical for all: “intentionally took part… shouted slogans… blocked traffic.” “I tried to explain in court,” T.N. told her family. “‘Your Honor, what conspiracy? I saw 90% of these people for the first time in my life! What damage? The trolleybus drivers applauded us!’ But the judge stared past me. He didn’t even listen.” The lawyer argued that the intersection had been blocked not by protesters but by the water cannon itself, which obstructed traffic. That the alleged damage was not proven. That peaceful assembly is guaranteed by the Constitution. All of this was ignored. T.N. and the other defendants were allowed to speak. “I have lived an honest life,” she said, holding back tears. “I paid my taxes, raised my children. I only wanted justice for my country. I am not a criminal.” The verdict was guilty for everyone. Because T.N. had no prior convictions and had positive character references, she received 2.5 years of “home confinement.” This meant she could not leave her home on weekends and had to be home by 7 p.m. on weekdays. She was forbidden to use a phone or the internet. Any violation — and she would be sent to a colony. “They turned my life into a prison inside my own apartment,” she said. “They took the most peaceful, the kindest moment of the protest — a round dance — and turned it into a serious criminal offense. They did not convict us. They convicted the very idea that people can take each other’s hands.” More than 130 people were convicted in the “round dance case.” They received real prison terms, “chemistry,” or “home chemistry.” The 619-ruble damage was divided among all of them.

Illustrative photo Legal qualification: Article 7(1)(f) of the Rome Statute:  Torture (including the infliction of severe psychological suffering). Article 7(1)(k):  Other inhumane acts (deliberate creation of a situation of uncertainty for the family, use of isolation as punishment). E.K. was the wife of a well-known opposition politician sentenced to 12 years in prison on charges of “organizing mass riots.” The first six months after the verdict were difficult but predictable. Her husband was in a colony, they exchanged letters. He was allowed one phone call per week. Once every three months, a lawyer was allowed to visit him. Everything changed in one day. In March 2023, E.K. came to another scheduled lawyer call to get news. The lawyer walked out of the colony pale. “They didn’t let me see him,” he said. “The colony chief stated that the prisoner… refused to meet me. Wrote a written refusal.” E.K. knew her husband. He would never refuse his only link to the outside world. It was a lie. The next week, letters stopped coming. Her own letters, which she sent daily, began returning marked “recipient refused to accept.” Phone calls ceased. E.K. began knocking on doors. She went to the colony to meet the chief. “Is he healthy? What is happening?” she asked. The colony chief, a man with empty eyes, replied: “Your husband is fine. He is serving his sentence according to regime rules. He refuses correspondence and visits. That is his right.” “But why?” E.K. cried. “Probably doesn’t want to talk to you. Sort your family issues out yourselves,” he smirked. The incommunicado regime began. Total information blackout. E.K. filed complaints with the Department for Enforcement of Sentences and the Prosecutor General’s Office. She received boilerplate replies: “No violations of detention conditions have been identified.” A month passed. Two. Five. Eight. “I didn’t know whether he was alive,” E.K. told human rights defenders. “It’s the worst torture imaginable. You wake up every morning thinking: ‘Is he still alive? Or is he gone already, and they just aren’t telling me?’ You imagine the worst. That he’s being beaten in a punishment cell. That he slit his wrists. That he died of illness, and they are hiding it.” She tried to send him a parcel with medicine (he had a chronic condition). The parcel was rejected. “The inmate has no right to receive a parcel, as he is in a punishment cell.” This was the first clue. So he was in SHIZO. But for what? And why for so long? After ten months of complete silence, E.K. received a message. A former inmate released from the same colony found her through social media. “Your husband is alive,” he wrote. “I saw him. He is kept in PKT (cell-type confinement). He is completely gray and very thin. They are deliberately creating unbearable conditions. They put an ‘activist’ in his cell to provoke fights. His letters are torn up, his medicine is not given. The administration is doing everything to break him. He asked to pass you only one word: ‘Hold on’.” E.K. burst into tears right over her phone. He was alive. “I realized that this incommunicado regime is deliberate torture,” she said. “They tortured not only him by isolating him from the world. They tortured me and our whole family with this uncertainty. They wanted us to lose our minds from fear and grief. To imagine his death every day. This is their method — killing at a distance, stretched out in time.”

Illustrative photo Legal qualification: Article 7(1)(f) of the Rome Statute:  Torture (creating inhuman conditions of detention). Article 7(1)(k):  Other inhumane acts (deliberate denial of medical care leading to death). K.M., a 62-year-old community activist from a small town in the Grodno region, was a man of unbreakable will. All his life he fought for the Belarusian language and culture. In 2021, he was sentenced to 5 years in a penal colony on an absurd charge of “creating an extremist formation” — he was the administrator of a local historical Telegram chat. K.M. had serious health issues: type 2 diabetes and coronary heart disease. He needed regular medication and a special diet. In the colony he immediately became a target for the administration. He refused to write a clemency petition, spoke pointedly in Belarusian with inspectors, and demanded that his rights be respected — this enraged them. They began to “pressure” him. The mechanism was well-practiced: he was sent to SHIZO (punishment cell) for any fabricated reason. “Failed to button the top button of his uniform” — 10 days in SHIZO. “Did not greet an officer” — another 10 days. “Lay down on the bunk during the day” (although he felt sick from heart problems) — 15 days. SHIZO in a Belarusian colony is a concrete box two by three meters. During the day, the bunk is chained to the wall, and one may sit only on a small stool. The cell is cold, often intentionally left with an open window in winter. Instead of normal food — watery gruel and boiling water. For K.M. this was a death sentence. In SHIZO he was forbidden to have personal belongings, including the vital medicines — insulin and blood-pressure pills. “He wrote to us while his letters still got through,” his daughter said. “ ‘They want to rot me here. No walks. The doctor gives medicine irregularly, and in SHIZO doesn’t give it at all. Blood pressure 200/120. Sugar spikes.’ We filed complaints. We begged the colony chief, the prosecutor — ‘You are killing him!’ They replied that ‘the inmate’s health condition is satisfactory, he does not require treatment in SHIZO.’ ” In six months, K.M. spent a total of 90 days in SHIZO. The last time he was put there for 20 days for “not shaving.” A week after this transfer, at five in the morning, the phone rang in his daughter’s apartment. “Your father, K.M., died at 4:30. Cause — acute heart failure. Come for the body.” When the daughter and her husband arrived at the colony morgue, they were given the body in a sealed bag. They demanded it be opened. “We didn’t recognize him,” she said. “It was a dried-out old man. He had lost about 30 kilos. His face was ashen. His hands were covered with dark spots resembling bruises. There was an abrasion on his head, clumsily covered with makeup.” The official death report stated that he died “as a result of a chronic condition worsening.” Not a word about SHIZO, not a word about denial of medical care. “It wasn’t a worsening. It was murder,” his daughter said at the funeral. “They tortured him with cold, hunger, and deprivation of medicine. They knew he had heart disease and diabetes. They knew he wouldn’t survive in a concrete punishment cell without medication. They were simply waiting for it to happen. And it did.”

Illustrative photo Introduction: The legal nature of “crimes against humanity” In public discourse, the term “crimes against humanity” (CAH) is often used as an emotional assessment of acts of cruelty. However, in international law it is one of the most serious categories of crimes, clearly codified in Article 7 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC). The key distinction between CAH and everyday abuse of power or even mass human rights violations lies in two elements: Contextual element:  The crimes must be committed as part of a “widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population.” Element of state-directed policy:  This attack must be carried out “pursuant to or in furtherance of a State or organizational policy to commit such an attack.” In simpler terms, these crimes are not excesses of individual perpetrators but part of a deliberate state policy of repression. This is exactly what numerous reports of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) insist upon, noting that violations in Belarus are not random but systematic and coordinated at a high level. Qualification of events in Belarus as CAH Analysis of events after August 2020, conducted by Belarusian and international human rights organizations and international missions (e.g., within the UN and the OSCE Moscow Mechanism), allows qualifying the actions of the authorities under specific points of Article 7: Torture (Art. 7(1)(f)):  Systematic use of torture and inhumane treatment in the Okrestina Detention Centre, KGB pre-trial detention, GUBOPiK units, and police departments was documented by thousands of testimonies. This was not “rogue behaviour” — identical methods (overcrowded “boxes”, chlorine pouring, beatings in “corridors”, extension of detention, restriction of medical care, forcing heavy labour regardless of health, sex, or age) were applied synchronously in different cities, indicating a single instruction. Persecution (Art. 7(1)(h)):  Destruction of more than 1,000 NGOs, the crushing of all independent media, thousands of criminal cases for comments or likes — this is deliberate persecution of an identifiable group for political reasons. Imprisonment (Art. 7(1)(e)):  Tens of thousands of arbitrary detentions and thousands of political prisoners are not “administration of justice” but a widespread deprivation of liberty in violation of fundamental norms of international law. Other inhumane acts (Art. 7(1)(k)):  Forced recording of “confession” videos, creation of unbearable conditions in punishment cells, denial of medical care and communication (incommunicado), which led to deaths in detention (Vitold Ashurak, Ales Pushkin). Counterarguments: position of official Minsk Official Minsk categorically rejects all accusations. Its position is based on the following arguments: “This is an internal matter”:  The regime insists on the principle of state sovereignty and non-interference. The late Foreign Minister Vladimir Makei repeatedly claimed that international mechanisms are used for “political pressure” and “regime change.” This argument is still promoted by the authorities at the UN Human Rights Council. “Maintaining order”:  Authorities claim that law enforcement acted lawfully, defending the constitutional order from “foreign-sponsored extremists” and an “attempted coup.” “All of this is fake”:  Alexander Lukashenko personally claimed that the footage of beatings at Okrestina was “staged,” and the bruises “painted with makeup.” However, this argument collapses before the findings of international bodies. For example, the 2023 OHCHR Report concluded directly that “the scale and nature of violations … may amount to crimes against humanity.” Accountability mechanisms: successes and failures of history How can justice be achieved if the national judicial system (courts, investigative committee, prosecutor’s office, bar) has itself become part of the repressive apparatus? A. International Criminal Court (ICC) Obstacle:  Belarus is not a party to the Rome Statute. The ICC lacks jurisdiction and therefore cannot initiate an investigation on its own regarding crimes committed solely on the territory of Belarus. A UN Security Council referral is impossible due to Russia’s veto. Nevertheless, the top leadership of Belarus can be held accountable for crimes against humanity before the ICC even though Belarus is not a party to the Rome Statute — in cases where such crimes acquire a cross-border character. This means that part of the unlawful actions or their consequences affect the territory of a state recognized under ICC jurisdiction. This is the reasoning behind Lithuania’s move in 2024 to submit to the ICC materials on persecution, torture and forced displacement of Belarusian citizens, arguing that part of these acts — in particular, forced flight of victims and persecution of activists — occurred on Lithuanian territory. Practical example:  The case of Omar al-Bashir (Sudan). The ICC issued a warrant for his arrest for genocide in Darfur back in 2009. Despite this, he ruled the country for years and freely traveled to states that do not recognize ICC jurisdiction. Even after his overthrow, Sudanese authorities are reluctant to hand him over. This proves that an ICC warrant is not automatically equal to arrest. B. Universal jurisdiction This principle allows any state that recognizes it to investigate and prosecute individuals accused of committing serious international crimes (including torture), regardless of where they were committed or the nationality of the perpetrator or victim. It is based on the recognition that such crimes affect the entire international community. Historical success:  The case of Augusto Pinochet (Chile). In 1998 the former dictator was arrested in London under a warrant issued by Spanish judge Baltasar Garzón, based on universal jurisdiction. Although Pinochet was ultimately not extradited to Spain (due to health reasons), the fact of his arrest was revolutionary. It broke the wall of sovereignty behind which dictators hid. Historical success-2:  The case of Hissène Habré (Chad). The “African Pinochet” was convicted in 2016 in Senegal by a Special African Tribunal for crimes against humanity. Current practice regarding Belarus:  This mechanism is already in operation. In Lithuania, Poland, and Germany criminal cases have been opened based on complaints from Belarusians who suffered torture. The German Federal Prosecutor is investigating cases related to crimes against humanity. The case of Yury Garavsky is one of the significant examples of universal jurisdiction applied to alleged crimes committed in Belarus. In 2023, former Belarusian SOBR operative Yury Garavsky, who publicly admitted participating in abductions and killings of opposition politicians in the late 1990s, was detained in Switzerland. Swiss authorities initiated a criminal case against him under charges of crimes against humanity, relying on universal jurisdiction. This precedent sent a strong signal: even if the state where crimes occurred does not provide justice, other states can take responsibility for prosecuting the perpetrators. Conclusion National justice in Belarus is impossible today. The ICC path is politically blocked. Therefore, universal jurisdiction becomes the main and most realistic tool . It does not promise quick punishment, but as the Pinochet case shows, it creates a “legal noose” that gradually tightens, making perpetrators non-travelable and toxic to any country in the world.

Meeting with migrants near the “Bruzgi” border point. Photo: president.gov.by The criminal activity of the Lukashenko regime is not confined to Belarus. It has evolved from persecuting the diaspora to acts threatening international security. These actions give the international community far more legal tools to respond, as they directly involve the jurisdiction of other states. Episode 1: The Ryanair Hijacking (State Air Piracy) Detained Ryanair aircraft in Minsk. Photo: delfi.lt On 23 May 2021, Belarusian authorities, under a false bomb threat and with a MiG-29 fighter jet, forced a civilian aircraft flying from Athens to Vilnius to land in Minsk to arrest Raman Pratasevich. Legal qualification: Gross violation of the 1944 Chicago Convention on International Civil Aviation. Act of unlawful interference under the 1971 Montreal Convention. Official Minsk’s position: Belarus insisted on the narrative of a “Hamas email.”Aviation official Artem Sikorski claimed dispatchers acted “recommendationally.” But ICAO’s final report (July 2022)  fully debunked Minsk’s claims, concluding that the bomb threat was deliberately false  and constituted unlawful interference by Belarusian authorities . Historical precedent: Lockerbie bombing (1988). It led to international isolation of Libya, UN sanctions, and eventual extradition of suspects. Crimes against international aviation carry extremely high political cost. Episode 2: The Instrumentalized Migration Crisis Migrants at the Belarus–Poland border. Photo: SCANPIX / TASS / Leta Since summer 2021, Belarusian authorities arranged the transport of thousands of migrants from the Middle East to Minsk and then forced or manipulated them into storming the borders of Poland and Lithuania. Legal qualification: Violation of UN Palermo Protocols against transnational organized crime, especially the Protocol against migrant smuggling. Potential crime against humanity  (Article 7(1)(k) Rome Statute): people were deliberately used as human shields, exposed to suffering and death — documented by Amnesty International. Official Minsk’s position: “The West is responsible”  — EU allegedly “bombed” the migrants’ home countries. “Poland is cruel”  — propaganda highlights Polish border guard actions. “Sanctions weakened control”  — Minsk claims it “cannot contain” the flows. Accountability mechanisms The transnational nature of these crimes opens legal pathways unavailable for domestic repression cases. 1. National jurisdiction of affected states Poland and Lithuania can fully investigate: the migration crisis as hybrid aggression, the Ryanair incident — the plane was headed for Vilnius and registered in Poland. 2. ICC jurisdiction via “cross-border completion” Despite Belarus not being a Rome Statute member, Poland and Lithuania are . Precedent: Myanmar/Bangladesh case .ICC ruled it has jurisdiction over deportation because the crime is completed  on the territory of a member state.Likewise, forced movement of migrants ends in Poland/Lithuania , enabling potential ICC investigation. 3. Lithuania’s case before the ICJ Lithuania has sued Belarus at the International Court of Justice for violating the UN Protocol against the Smuggling of Migrants, asserting that Minsk deliberately organized and directed migrant flows toward the EU. Conclusion By attacking its neighbours, the Lukashenko regime itself placed  powerful legal tools into their hands. It stepped outside the shelter of sovereignty  and fell under direct jurisdiction of EU courts and, potentially, The Hague.