»Right now, we are united by a profound pain that permeates every text–whether voiced and named, or present as a figure of silence«

Lately–and I don’t know why–I’ve felt a growing fear, a genuine dread, of the elemental forces of nature. At one point, I truly grasped how defenseless a human being is against nature, the moment it revealed its force and made me feel like a speck of dust–tiny, weightless, insignificant. Once in the mountains of Georgia, I had a really intense and deep feeling of my own insignificance and mortality–not mortality as such, but in that specific moment: I realized that if I stumbled, made a wrong move, or if the weather suddenly turned worse and a storm broke out, I could die. Not sometime in the future, but right then and there.

Revolution to me is a similar elemental force, only a social one. It starts independently of you, sweeping you up even if you don’t want it to, even if you resist or try to stay on the sidelines. But it just lifts you and carries off. We tend to think of ourselves as self-aware individuals who possess agency, principles, and knowledge, yet lately, I have become a staunch fatalist: when you really think about it, there are, in fact, not so many choices people  have.

The 2020 Belarusian revolution was that very force, which swept me into emigration–first to Ukraine, then to Poland. Of course, it was not merely a physical relocation from one place to another. It also triggered profound internal changes. And  the revolution ultimately transformed both my life and who I am. That is why the title of my book resonates so deeply with me: I may not »be« the revolution, but it rolled over me like a steamroller, leaving an indelible mark. Yet, by nature, I am inclined toward evolutionary growth; I am very consistent in my views, and I cannot say that my principles or worldview have changed significantly since my teenage years. So, the turbulent political events unfolding in the region are something I experience as concerning me personally and at a very deep level.

I agree that Belarusian books have become artifacts–objects of interior decoration–rather than sources of thought or discussion. In fact, that is what they have become for me, too. I don’t buy books to read them immediately; I buy them for my shelves, simply to know I have them. For some reason, accumulating books is important to me. Perhaps because I perceive the world through text.

The answer seems simple to me. When we talk about prose or essays–rather heavy genres–their task is not merely to react but to reflect, methodically processing what is happening around us into something meaningful. And I get a feeling that the Belarusian reader today isn’t looking for such meaning, but for something else–calmness, solace, or a way to give shape to emotion.

That is why what is being written now isn’t meant for today’s reader. I see it as preserving the era. It is addressed into the future. Other genres are taking center stage today: those capable of reacting faster to our reality, reflecting rather than interpreting it, allowing the pain to pour out. For me, this is primarily music or visual art, since they work more with the imagery than with abstract meaning.

Belarusian literature currently exists in a vacuum, without a readership. Its books are left to fend for themselves. But this is a long game. I believe the situation will gradually change in a few years when those dust-covered books are finally taken off the shelf and read.

For literature to cease being politicized, we ourselves must become depoliticized. Literature does not emerge from a vacuum; it is created by us–the authors who stayed in Belarus, silenced and voiceless, and the authors who left and are forced to survive in exile, stripped of the ground beneath their feet and a vision of the future. We speak and write about our pain, resulting in two distinct literatures on either side of the border. I wonder how we will eventually stitch them back together, given that–whether we left or stayed–we are largely talking about the same things.

It seems to me that we often try, with a painful obsession, to prove our »Europeanness«–whatever that might actually entail–but literature is an utterly honest medium; it tolerates no falseness. We need to write about what demands to be written. Right now, we are united by a profound pain that permeates every text–whether voiced and named, or present as a figure of silence.

I would probably slightly rephrase the question: it’s not so much a specific type of literature I’m missing, but rather a particular kind of reading experience. Framed that way, what I miss is that long-forgotten feeling of diving headfirst into a book, unable to tear yourself away until you’ve finished it. I miss truly gripping literature. Or perhaps I’ve changed so much myself that no book can truly captivate me anymore–not with everything happening right outside our windows, and all over the world.

As for topics, I’m currently going through a crisis of national identity, so naturally, I’m constantly looking for something on that subject. It might be a mistake to think that if you have questions, you’ll find answers–or even just clues–in books. Yet, whenever the topic of Belarusian national identity is raised in contemporary literature, it tends to be portrayed in a one-sided way: the village, marshes, old women whispering incantations, a return to roots and nature.

Yet the identity of a modern person is incredibly complex; it is made up of many sub-identities–including the national–and these sub-identities require a more nuanced approach. It’s not just about embroidered towels, straw »spider« mobiles, and grandmothers’ rituals. This is a problem that concerns not only literature, but entire contemporary Belarusian culture–this simplification of the national and its reduction to mere attributes of folk culture, seeking oneself in the past and remaining fixated on it. At the same time, the national aspect seems to exist in isolation from the universal human experience; it comes across as somewhat archaic, kitschy, and two-dimensional. I see nothing authentic in this: while rituals and traditions were part of our grandmothers’ daily lives and reality, for the modern person they are often merely a cargo cult–a matter of blind imitation or odd attempts to somehow modernize them.

I don’t really like naming specific authors, because I wouldn’t call myself an attentive reader of contemporary Belarusian literature, so I can’t claim to be objective. But I’m always delighted to hear the news of Belarusian authors translated into other languages. I don’t want Belarusian literature to appear monolithic. I want a variety of books to be translated: serious and light, prose, poetry, or fairy tales.

I would really love to see a translation of Tatsiana Zamirovskaya’s novel *Smerti.net* (literal translation from Russian »Death.net«). It is a powerful book about death, texts, and memory, a crucial book about us, a novel that predicts and precisely describes that state of »in-between,« a kind of death that many people experience while in emigration. Tatsiana has a rather interesting, distinctive style; her language isn’t just a tool, in essence it is an artistic device. I think conveying the uniqueness of this novel in another language would be an interesting challenge for its translator.

As for a text that surprised me, I’d point to Masha Gulina’s book *Letela belaya ptitsa* (A White Bird Flew By), a collection of travel stories. It is the work of a truly happy person, with no suffering, anguish, or loss, yet it isn’t empty–it feels tangible and vivid. This book is highly atypical for Belarusian literature: we know how to write about pain, but we lack the words to speak about joy–and speaking about it in a way that is interesting and captivating is a real challenge. Fortunately, Masha found those words and that tone. This book of joy seems all the more remarkable now, given how much unspoken, unprocessed trauma we carry within us.

If I were writing this book today, I would choose a different form and style; I would have told the story differently. For me, this novel is really a bit like a time capsule with memories from another life. It is a text that belongs to its own time, not the present. Unfortunately, the publishing process is long and cumbersome, so the book came out later than it should have, in my view. That only becomes apparent with the passage of time. Back then, it seemed as though the »revolution« on the cover and the revolution on the city streets would resonate in harmony.

I am currently writing a new novel; the first part is about to be released (and by the time this interview is published, it likely will have been). It is a work of autofiction about my own emigration and the three years I spent living in Ukraine. The words from that blurb could apply to this text as well–it is also a very sincere, feminine, and angry story; perhaps even more sincere and angry, given that I essentially repeated the path of the protagonist from *Revolution*: I emigrated and tried to pursue my creative work there. I am glad that these books turned out to be so harmonious and consistent; it wasn’t planned that way–it just happened as a result of circumstances.

I would like the reader to feel curious and ask themselves, »Which other Belarusian authors can I read?«