41 BELARUSIAN JOURNALISTS remain behind bars since 2020, punished for covering protests against presidential election fraud that gave Alexander Lukashenko a sixth term in power. Their prison sentences range from 3 to 15 years, simply for doing their jobs — reporting the news. Hundreds more have fled the country.
Yet we continue our work. Why? Living in Ireland for the past year, I was asked this question by my colleagues during my internship at The Journal, and it made me think deeply. In Belarus, I ran two independent news websites, before Lukashenko’s regime shut us down for covering election protests.
My first brush with danger as a journalist came on a freezing March evening in 2006, when I had to choose between staying with protesters on October’s Square or returning home to my one-year-old daughter.
I was a journalism student at Belarusian State University when Alexander Lukashenko, who had already ruled Belarus for 12 years, claimed victory in another disputed presidential election. Students set up protest tents in the square, refusing to accept the results.
On my way home I met a Belarusian artist who carried a warm blanket for protesters. That simple act of kindness could mean prison but he didn’t hesitate. Hours later, all the students I left behind were arrested.
Or maybe I realised the risk of being a journalist in 2009 while spending evenings in cigarette smoke at the editorial office of what remained the biggest business newspaper BDG interviewing its publisher Peter Martsev. He told me how in 1999 Lukashenko’s special forces killed opposition politicians who wanted to impeach him.
Later, I took the recordings of these conversations with Martsev and made them into a book. My friends saw special forces buses in front of the door of the art gallery where I presented the book “Martsev” in 2016.
Was I scared? I don’t think so. The only moment that made me nervous was after becoming media director of a publishing company. That was 2017 and the chief accountant of our editorial office said to me: “Do you realise you’re accepting criminal liability?”
I knew that in Belarus there was a criminal liability for economic crimes, including tax underpayment, and that there’s a barrack in ‘Vitsba-3′ prison where famous businessmen and startup entrepreneurs give economics lectures to killers and drug dealers just to keep themselves busy.
That’s why the corruption level in Belarus is lower than in neighbouring countries — you never know where a Belarusian businessman could find himself after giving a bribe or attempting tax optimisation.
How did all of these happen? My home country Belarus gained independence in 1991 after the Soviet empire collapsed. We experienced an intoxicating mix of freedom and poverty.
New independent media emerged, bringing sharp political cartoons, bold headlines, live TV debates — unthinkable during Soviet times. For future journalists like me, it was inspiring. But while we enjoyed press freedom our parents earned only 20 dollars a month as inflation ravaged our currency.
This fragile democracy lasted only three years. In 1994, struggling Belarusians elected Alexander Lukashenko, a former collective farm director who promised them economic stability and salary increases. By 1996, he had changed the Constitution to consolidate the full powers and began destroying his competitors. In 1999, three opposition leaders — Yuri Zakharenko, Viktor Gonchar and Alatol Krasovski — disappeared without a trace. Their cases remain unsolved, but sent a clear message: opposition would not be tolerated in Belarus.
The free press was next. Lukashenko quickly subordinated state television and major newspapers to his administration, and official journalism turned into propaganda. The remaining independent media faced crushing fines and constant harassment. The fate of BDG, once Belarus’s largest business newspaper, illustrated this brutal transformation — the independent print press was gradually silenced.
Everything changed in the mid-2000s when the internet became available in most Belarus homes. Belarusians found a new space for freedom. The online media TUT.by was launched, starting as a postal and search site before becoming the leader of local news and reporting, free for readers. In 10 years, it became a huge media business. Lukashenko didn’t pay much attention to the internet, considering it non-existent.
At this very moment a new generation of digital journalists arose, armed with encrypted messaging apps and virtual networks. We learned to write between the lines, using Aesopian language and making jokes about every political claim.
We laughed together with like-minded people and that was our rescue formula for journalism in the dictatorship.
In the end, you always face the same risks: being killed in a car incident, dying from an awful global virus, or finding yourself in a Belarusian prison for media activity.
In 2013, as Belarusians increasingly turned to online media for truth, my colleagues and I launched KYKY.org — an intellectual tabloid that combined urban lifestyle with sharp social and political analysis.
Our approach was unique: we used cultural commentary and humour to discuss serious political issues, making complex topics accessible to younger readers. By 2017, our success led us to acquire The Village Belarus franchise, expanding our reach with hyperlocal journalism and community stories.
The 2020 elections proved the impact of our work. Between our two platforms — KYKY with five million monthly views and The Village Belarus with two million — we helped shape public discourse.
When Lukashenko claimed victory despite losing to Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya (official numbers: 56% vs 34% according to ‘Voice’ tech platform analysed photos of ballots that people uploaded to the app), our coverage of peaceful protests reached millions.
The regime’s response was swift: our offices were raided, our websites blocked, and our team forced into exile.
Lukashenko wasn’t ready to surrender power to a woman. He forced Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya into exile in Lithuania and launched unprecedented repressions against civil society.
Approximately 30,000 Belarusians experienced imprisonment from 2020 onward, and half a million left the country. But Belarusians inside the country still need to read truthful media.
By the way, do you remember that artist who carried a warm blanket for protesters in 2006? Today that artist still protects my empty Minsk apartment that I was forced to leave in 2020 after a KGB search.
When I try to find an answer to why I’m still in journalism I remember this quiet resistance. It reminds me why Belarusian journalists still persist: for those who stay behind, maintaining their dignity under dictatorship. To make information available to people in Belarus, media managers in exile have opened dozens of NGOs and continue their work.
While 41 Belarusian journalists are behind bars, over 400 work in exile managing more than 30 news outlets from Lithuania, Poland and other European countries. The largest hubs are in Vilnius and Warsaw where we’ve established media centres and newsrooms to reach audiences inside Belarus.
It’s quite a complicated task.
Of course, mirror websites and VPN services provide free access but readers could face fines or even imprisonment for liking or reposting content that officials deem extremist.
That’s why we love social media with news feeds where readers don’t need to subscribe.
TikTok, Instagram and YouTube Shorts allow us to bring news in video format to Belarusians’ smartphones directly. Meta, Google and TikTok algorithms help us spread important stories and make them viral.
We’ve developed creative ways to reach our audience but the main problem, of course, is journalistic sources. When it’s strictly forbidden for Belarusians to talk to “extremist” media in exile, how can you get information at all? There are some life hacks:
1) When something happens, for example, if a Russian missile is seen in the sky near the Belarusian border with Ukraine, you can call any state organisation and ask for explanations as a common citizen, not as a journalist — they won’t speak to independent press.
2) You can ask readers to send you photos and videos if you ensure their safety and remind them to delete their chat history with you. They could be arrested for “conversation with the enemy”, so it’s easy to imagine how careful potential sources must be.
3) You can use content that ordinary Belarusians post on TikTok. Video is easier to verify. If you use it without mentioning the person, special forces won’t arrest them. Though Meta or TikTok algorithms might one day bring you a copyright infringement claim. But who thought life as a Belarusian journalist would be easy?
4) We’ve learned to package serious news as lifestyle content. A story about rising prices might appear as a cooking video or political analysis could be hidden within fashion trends. This “digital guerrilla journalism” helps us avoid fear and self-censorship of the readers while keeping Belarusians informed.
As Belarus approaches its seventh presidential election under Lukashenko, we face a critical moment.
After 31 years in power and unprecedented repressions since 2020, Lukashenko seems more entrenched than ever. Yet history teaches us that change can come suddenly — look at Syria.
Our role remains clear: document, inform, and maintain hope. Whether change comes tomorrow or years from now, Belarusians need access to the truth.
As one of our readers recently messaged: “Your stories are like oxygen—we can’t live without it.”
Sasha Romanova is a Belarusian journalist.
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