Stories and ideas

Before the anti-government protests that shook Belarus in 2020, a thriving tech-industry existed in the country. Recent events such as Russia’s invasion of Ukraine have shown that a plateau in output is all but assured for at least the next few years. Overall, it appears that the country has suffered from a severe brain drain as talented workers have fled the authoritarian state.

Belarus was once called the “Silicon Valley of Eastern Europe”. From 2005 to 2016, exports of IT services and products grew 30 times over. The share of IT exports in Belarus’s total exports of goods and services increased from 0.16 per cent to 3.25. In 2021 the IT sector was contributing almost a third of GDP growth. However, after the outbreak of Russia’s full-scale war in Ukraine, the situation changed dramatically.

There is an ongoing "total purge" to cleanse the world of sensitive people capable of love. It is my conscious choice to engage in socio-political art. This is my feeble attempt to make a change.

The Moldovan government has recently made an effort to move closer to the European Union. This has been particularly true following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. As the country heads towards pivotal elections in the autumn, people across the country are trying to work out what is best for the future.

Since 2020 the Belarusian media field has lost up to ten important independent publications. Some of them did not survive the financial crisis while others were taken over by propaganda or decided to avoid covering politics. The decline in the number of independent media outlets and the difficulty in reaching audiences within the country, where consuming truthful news can result in criminal charges, affects the overall political mood in the country.

In 2023 Belarus ranked 167th out of 180 countries in press freedom, according to Reporters Without Borders. Since the political protests in 2020, the regime of Alyaksandr Lukashenka intensified its persecution of the free press. Currently, there are 35 journalists imprisoned on criminal charges, serving sentences in prisons where they face torture and isolation from the outside world and their families. From 2020 to 2023, nearly 600 journalists and media professionals were arrested, according to Press Club Belarus.

First there were the peasants who went from being subjects of the partitions to pioneers in the Wild West. Then there was the wave of educated people fleeing the communist regime. Among the Poles migrating to Canada were also veterans of the Second World War, in whom Canadian soldiers found a replacement for German prisoners of war.

The journey across the Atlantic was long and difficult. The ship sailed to Canada for a month. Walter F. Chuchla recalls that the ship rocked in all directions and seemed about to break in half. The sea was so rough that the travellers were not allowed to leave their cabins for four days. Disease outbreaks and crowding were also a problem. Many people were dying. Minors were allowed to travel in pairs, on a single ticket, as long as they used one bunk and shared a meal.

This year marks the 80th anniversary of the deportation of the Crimean Tatars, which reminds us of the double tragedy these people face. First in 1944, on Stalin’s orders, they were displaced from their homeland. Second, when after years of struggle, they returned home and rebuilt their lives in independent Ukraine. Despite this, Crimea was annexed by the Russian Federation in 2014. Since 2022, when the full-scale invasion started, the peninsula has been turned into a base for the Russian army.

I visited Crimea for the first time in May 2000. It was the 56th anniversary of the deportation of the Crimean Tatars. In Simferopol a gathering was organized to commemorate the victims of the deportation. Many people held blue Crimean Tatar flags. Some held posters detailing the story of their displacement, and some made demands to the authorities. At that time, and even more so in the years to come, it seemed that the tragic fate of the Crimean Tatars belonged to history. This was the case until 2014. Once the Russian Federation had annexed the peninsula, the Tatars were once again deprived of their right to honour the memory of the deportation as they wished. Worse, they found themselves faced once again with repression.

A native language has a clear and unique grip on an individual. While it is possible to learn others, it is perhaps impossible to escape the unique issue of identity when we discuss our first language. After all, we do not choose the language taught to us by our family.

“What remains?” asks German journalist Günter Gaus of Hannah Arendt during a 1964 television interview. The transcript of this conversation is well known in English, and Arendt's famous answer is most often rendered as “What remains? Language remains.” However, what Arendt really says is “Was bleibt? Es bleibt die Muttersprache.” Muttersprache means mother tongue, or in the patriarchal Polish, “father tongue”. Italians say Madrelingua. In Ukrainian, it is рідна мова, or literally, native speech. It is a language we do not choose.

At the age of 36, Vladimir Miketa retains few memories of the war and his past. However, what bothers him most is people’s attitude towards the environment in his area and how authorities manage waste in the region. As a passionate mountaineer and nature lover, he often explores the surrounding area during his hikes. It was during one of these excursions that he discovered a road leading to the village of Lončari.

Before the war in Croatia between 1991 and 1995, the small village of Lončari, situated in the central part of the country and belonging to Zadar County, was home to approximately 120 people, primarily of Serbian nationality. After they fled in 1995 following the military operation “Storm”, during which the Croatian army liberated a significant portion of territory previously under the control of Serbian rebels, the homes inhabited by Serbians remained abandoned for years. Many of these homes were used as stables by local residents, who kept goats and sheep in them.

Bosnia and Herzegovina's ambition to join the European Union faces a complex reality despite optimistic declarations from Brussels. The author and political scientist Jasmin Mujanović believes that the deeply entrenched ethnic and political divisions within Bosnia and Herzegovina are too often overlooked by the West. His latest book The Bosniaks: Nationhood after Genocide, gives greater insight into this complex history.

Bosnia and Herzegovina is keen to join the European Union. In Brussels the feeling is mutual. “Your place is in our European family,” said EU Council President Charles Michel on Twitter/X late last March. The post was much ado about nothing, though, warns Jasmin Mujanović. “Banal sloganeering about EU membership is completely divorced from the political realities of Bosnia and Herzegovina,” the political scientist writes in The Bosniaks: Nationhood After Genocide.

According to data from 2020, about 225,000 people live in the territory of Abkhazia. Of these, 47,000 are ethnic Georgians and most of them, about 45,000, live in the Gali region. Yet, as of today, no Georgian-language school is functioning in occupied Abkhazia.

Since the beginning of the past school year, teaching in Georgian in Georgian-language schools in Gali (in occupied Abkhazia) has been stopped, and education will now be conducted in Russian. Seventeen-year-old Natia K. is an 11th grade student of one of the schools in the low-lying area of Gali. Since September 1st, she has been taught Georgian as a foreign language at school.

The war in Abkhazia began in August 1992 and lasted for 13 months. By the end of the war, Georgia had 300,000 internally displaced people. Today, Abkhazia is recognized as occupied and the Russian occupation army is stationed there. The people living on both sides of the de facto dividing line are friends and relatives, but now they cannot meet or rarely manage to see each other, as Eliso Shamatava explains through her experiences.

“Eighty-five families live in the village of Khurcha. At least one person from almost each household has emigrated. My son is also gone. He took a gap year at the university and left to work in Poland. We, women living along the dividing line, work. But when we want to sell produce at the Zugdidi market, we are not allowed to take it with us on the municipal bus. We have to hire a taxi. This is how we live here,” says 52-year-old Eliso Shamatava from Khurcha in Georgia, who tells us about the specifics of living along the administrative boundary line.