Personal Journey and Context

Departure.

Q: After the 2020 protests in Belarus, you were charged on political grounds and imprisoned, then forced to flee Belarus. Can you describe that transition from working under an authoritarian system to suddenly finding yourself in Berlin’s democratic cultural landscape?

LP: I left the country in the spring of 2021. After being imprisoned, I stayed in Belarus for two more months and didn’t want to leave. But one day, it was Sunday at 8 pm: my parents’ house was searched: at the address where I was registered. My father wrote me a short text message “they’ve come for you” and didn’t get in touch for a long time. I remember being overcome with fear and realizing that I had no choice, I had to leave. At that time, there was a large exhibition of Belarusian art in Kyiv (https://artarsenal.in.ua/en/vystavka/evere-day-art-solidarity-resistance/), I took part in it, went to the opening and afterwards lived in a friend’s studio. Then there was a residency in Poland, then in the Czech Republic. In the first two years of my life in exile, I changed my place of residence in 6 countries, and all I dreamed of (and continue to dream of) was to stay somewhere longer. The work of artists is always associated with mobility, but there is a big difference when you return home and when you have nowhere to return to. That’s how, through a residency that my partner, not I, received, we ended up in Berlin. It was an accident, not a choice. We rented an apartment here and unpacked our suitcases. I’m looking for options and opportunities to stay here longer because this is certainly a culturally rich space. I feel how it influences my artistic practice, how I grow. I meet new interesting people, and I can say that I feel free here.

Before and After: Artistic Practice.

Q: How did your artistic practice change between working in Belarus and working in exile? What could you not do as an artist in Belarus that you can do now, and what have you unexpectedly lost?

LP: I think it is difficult to imagine how bad everything is with the support of culture in Belarus, if you do not have direct experience. Working in Belarus, I started from the absence, if you work with something that is of no interest to anyone, that does not bring any benefits and does not have a direct political context. My practice there was more participatory not because it is trendy, but because we did not have galleries where you could show your art. I can list on the fingers of one hand all the galleries of contemporary art that worked in Belarus. And many of them were made for narrow money, were closed in fact, in which there was no chance to ever get in. I must admit that even as a refugee who does not have the support of institutions, does not have a European education, competing with the European scene I have more chances than I had in Belarus. That’s why it’s hard for me to complain about anything; I didn’t have any privileges that I suddenly lost. Now my practice is more visual, these are objects, because I have lost the language for comfortable communication, but I have received opportunities and prospects to speak, through my exhibitions. And I appreciate it very much.  

The VEHA Archive Origins

Q: You founded VEHA in 2017 as an independent cultural initiative dedicated to preserving Belarusian vernacular photography and everyday life. How did you navigate creating this archive under Lukashenko’s regime? What restrictions or fears shaped how you developed this project?

LP: VEHA is an example of how culture can be preserved and reimagined in Belarus. Since there is no photography museum and archives are neither digitized nor accessible, VEHA collects photos from private family collections. With researchers and artists, we rethink how history is presented, publish books, analyze what people considered important and therefore photographed. Every contributor is credited, name is indicated. Our community of about 2.000+ people stay connected, most of them remain in Belarus. The VEHA helps Belarusians see themselves and their families as part of history and contribute to preserving cultural heritage. Unlike ethnography, VEHA does not record from above but includes people directly, showing their importance, which is very important for countries with authoritarian rule. For me, VEHA is like a political party, poor, but powerful in meaning.

Dictatorship vs. Democratic Funding: Lived Experience

Funding Under Dictatorship

Q: In Belarus, how did state control over cultural funding operate in practice? Was there any independent funding available for artists, or were all resources channeled through state institutions?

LP: I know that European funding came to Belarus, but large sums were always regulated by the state. We have such a concept GO-NGO creation of projects by the state, to receive grants. The money was registered in the Ministry of Finance and a huge tax was withdrawn or the money was not registered. Therefore, many donors simply did not want to work with Belarus. There were projects for the restoration of castles and a lot of work was done in the area of ecology. There was definitely something in culture. However, as an artist, I found it inaccessible. Today, almost all independent NGOs have been liquidated, the fact that they received money from Europe was the reason for their liquidation. The PEN Centre Belarus constantly monitors the cultural field (https://penbelarus.org/en/) there you can find details on this issue. In some ways, this destruction has created new opportunities. Often, people in established organisations simply did not share information for fear of competition. In 2021 or 2022, a group called Sekktor appeared on Telegram (https://t.me/sekktor), which publishes open calls. In a sense, this was a revolution in the availability of information. You can submit news there, and it focuses on Belarusians and maintains a very high standard.     

The money was registered in the Ministry of Finance and a huge tax was withdrawn or the money was not registered. Therefore, many donors simply did not want to work with Belarus.

Self-Censorship in Belarus

Q: Our topic also adresses  “anticipatory compliance” in democratic countries where artists self-censor due to funding pressures. How does this compare to the self-censorship you experienced in Belarus? Did you witness signs of self-censorhip after you left Belarus? 

LP: In Belarus, censorship is rarely discussed; it is a topic that causes negativity. People say, ‘Stop calling us the last dictatorship in Europe’. Thirty years of dictatorship have shaped a generation that knows what can and cannot be shown. Sometimes, even within the art community, political themes are dismissed as ‘activism’ and therefore considered less valuable. As in the West, the main limitation remains financial: there are no exhibition spaces, festivals or galleries to support artists. Living inside this system, one stops noticing self-censorship, but distance, emigration and exile make it visible. I grew up in Bealursi and rarely traveled, so I feel part of the Belarusian community, I understand its problems, and forced emigration gave me the necessary distance to formulate the peculiarities of Belarusian culture. I still face my own fears of visibility: I want my work to be seen, but I fear it could bring trouble to my family back home. For example, in late 2024, I published a book comparing the protests in Belarus and Hong Kong, and the KGB’s Telegram channel posted about it, mocking exiles. Reading that made me feel physically threatened again. I realised how easily I could be found and that what I create carries more risks than benefits. To Europeans, my book is just another book about protests, but it put my family at risk. This risk is not obvious because dictatorships have acquired a certain charm.

European funding systems

Q: Now that you’ve experienced European funding systems through residencies (ICORN, IASPIS, Q21), how do you view the “funding manipulation” concerns raised in democratic contexts?

LP: This is my fourth year in exile, and it is only now that I can truly appreciate the opportunities I have had. At first, I didn’t know how things worked, what I could do or how to make the most of these opportunities. I was afraid that if I asked questions, people would not understand me or suggest that I was unworthy of being here. During my residencies, I must have looked wild, as though I had emerged from the forest. I needed time to recover psychologically, but I also knew that the attention I was receiving would not last. Sure enough, the focus shifted, Belarus was forgotten, and the invitations stopped. Nevertheless, these residencies helped me to grow, and I am deeply grateful for the opportunities I was given.

Freedom Paradox

Q: Do you find European artists’ concerns about subtle funding manipulation valid, or do they seem minor compared to what you experienced? How do you navigate this difference in perspective?

LP: I don’t know much about this, so it’s difficult for me to talk about it. 

Case example: The VEHA Archive: Memory, Funding, and Freedom

Archive as Resistance

Q: VEHA focuses on social memory using individual stories of Belarusian people as artistic material. How was preserving “vernacular” or amateur photography a form of resistance against official state narratives in Belarus?

LP: This question probably brings us back to the topic of censorship. Working with everyday photography is relatively safe, because it is neither commercially valuable nor politically charged. It exists in an “invisible” space. I arrived at this approach intuitively, thinking about how to bring a community together. For many, these materials were just “waste,” but for me, working with absence holds more potential than working with sharp, well-formulated topics. In many ways, Belarus itself is about absence. What I am doing now is an attempt to articulate this absence and to find new reference points (veha – means milestone) that can make us visible first to ourselves, and only then to the world. Belarusian culture has been appropriated by its neighbors, and what remains is what no one has taken. To me, this concept feels democratic, relevant, and contemporary.

Funding the Unfundable

Q: How did you finance VEHA in Belarus when it was documenting everyday life rather than state-approved culture? What creative funding strategies did you develop?

LP: I still don’t know how to finance this work. In Belarus, I invested my own money. We raised funds for books through crowdfunding and I created a paid course on organising family archives. That income covered the website and small expenses. Now, I am trying to figure out how to operate in this new environment, but I don’t really understand it yet. I truly hope to find like-minded people who could help me develop the archive. Currently, the archive survives thanks to short residencies or art projects that I secure through open calls. Needless to say, this significantly slows down the development of the VEHA archive. Nevertheless, I can say with certainty that it is very well organised. We do is consistent and of high quality, because our primary motivation is our personal and sincere desire to preserve Belarusian culture. That’s probably why they still haven’t given up this work.

Collective Memory Under Threat

Q: The research document discusses how funding cuts can disrupt “intergenerational cultural transmission.” How does this academic concept relate to your practical work preserving Belarusian visual memory through VEHA?

LP: Belarusian photography has traditionally been interpreted through Russian or Polish frameworks, leading to its marginalization or omission from both academic and cultural discourses. Western scholarship has frequently applied external terminologies and conceptual models that overlook the specificities of local histories and lived experiences. The VEHA Archive responds to these challenges by foregrounding informal, community-driven archival practices. We use vernacular photography—specifically family photographs—as unregulated documents of the past and tools of collective self-representation and resistance to historical erasure. These private images offer unfiltered insights into cultural practices and social bonds otherwise absent from formal histories. Belarusian photographic heritage faces unique threats due to limited historical access to equipment, the absence of rural studios, and the destruction of personal archives during wars and political repression—spanning the Russian Empire, Soviet Union, and contemporary Belarus. In a context where historical archives are often limited and no independent memory institutions exist at the state level, the VEHA Archive provides a crucial alternative model for preserving fragmented visual histories. 

Exile Networks and Solidarity

Belarusian Artists in Exile

Q: You’ve participated in exhibitions with other female artists from Belarus, Ukraine, and Russia. How do exile artist networks function differently from those in your home country? What role does solidarity play in sustaining artistic practice?

LP: Belarusians don’t really fit into this trio. Russian artists are interested in working with Ukraine. Belarus appears there as an incomprehensible co-aggressor that seems similar, which is actually not true. Exiled Belarusian artists haven’t formed our own networks, and we are included only residually in others’ networks. To achieve solidarity, you first need to recognise each other. We need patience and perseverance. I remember what solidarity felt like on the streets of Minsk in 2020. In exile, I have not yet experienced it. I’ve felt pity, condescension and genuine interest, but not solidarity. Perhaps it looks different here and I just don’t recognise it.

Russian artists are interested in working with Ukraine. Belarus appears there as an incomprehensible co-aggressor that seems similar, which is actually not true.

Alternative Funding Ecosystems

Q: How do Belarusian artists in exile create sustainable practices? Are you dependent on European institutional support, or have you developed alternative models?

LP: I think Europe’s cultural sphere already offers many opportunities. Now, you can work on Belarusian topics here, which is what I have been doing all my life. I meet professionals and gain experience that I could only have dreamed of before. Rather than creating something special for Belarusians, it would be better to integrate them into a wider context by hiring them and expanding networks. I think we can contribute and be useful. For me, the main thing now is developing my language skills and doing my job well. I don’t need any special treatment; I need to work on myself and grow professionally. This takes time.

Cultural Diplomatic Role

Q: Do you feel pressure (subtle or explicit) from European funders to represent “democratic Belarus” or serve as a cultural diplomat? How do you navigate these expectations?

LP: No, I don’t feel or see any problem at all. Maybe I’m even glad for this role as someone inside the community, I can share my experience. Often in the past people talked about us without our participation, I am glad that now I can represent myself. I think my generation of artists is like cultural compost. We do the work that the state or previous generations didn’t do. We must act as transmitters of information. We won’t feel the results ourselves, but for the next generation it will be much easier, this is work for the future.  

Comparative Perspectives on European Cultural Freedom

German Cultural System

Q: Based on your time in Berlin, how would you assess the independence of German cultural institutions? Do you see vulnerabilities that remind you of early warning signs from Belarus?

LP: I’m still very, very inexperienced in this. 

Scandinavian Experience

Q: During your IASPIS residency in Stockholm, you worked on the VEHA museum project. How did the Swedish cultural funding approach differ from Germany? What felt most secure or concerning?

LP: For me, it was the best residency I’ve ever known. But at that time, my PTSD made it difficult to work actively. All I dreamed of was staying in one place, and instead it was another journey. In Berlin, I couldn’t find anything then. The IASPIS residency gave me peace of mind and also a very important connection, I met an artist from Hong Kong who later became the editor of my book about the protests. I am deeply grateful to the institution, though I felt its level was too high for me, that I wasn’t worthy of being there. Still, I am thankful for this experience it changed my understanding of what residencies can be.

DESCENT INTO THE MARSH photodocumentation of the protests 

Subtle vs. Overt Control

Q: We have briefly identified five mechanisms of funding manipulation in Europe: administrative restructuring, criteria modification, bureaucratic warfare, financial strangulation, and leadership replacement. Which of these, if any, did you recognize from your experience as the most challenging? Which seem most dangerous in European contexts?

LP: Probably the change of criteria. I’m not even sure, but for example: in 2020 there were many opportunities for Belarusian artists, when I was still walking the streets. By the summer of 2021 almost none remained, and in 2022 started cancel. I was simply losing invitations and realized that the criteria had shifted. For instance, an institution in Stuttgart that had invited me to make an exhibition just stopped replying to my emails. This was the hardest stage year of my exile. I was on the edge, my health deteriorated badly, and I still struggle with illnesses that appeared then from stress. At that time, I applied for the Martin Roth-Initiative, but since I had left Belarus more than a year earlier, I was no longer eligible. I applied three times to PerspAKTIV the residency and cultural exchange project, realized with financial support from the German Federal Foreign Office. However, the program is run by Belarusians who simply didn’t want to accept me and preferred their friends. It was discrimination because I not only met the criteria, but also all the priorities of the competition. But there was nothing I could do about it. There is no institution to protect my rights, and the institution that manages the program itself engages in discrimination. Complaining to the program donors would only create problems or risk reducing the program, which would ultimately harm others and won’t help me in any way. While rejections from open calls competing with the European scene are one thing, situations like this are much harder to endure emotionally.

an institution in Stuttgart that had invited me to make an exhibition just stopped replying to my emails.

Economic Realities of Exile Artistic Practice

Financial Survival

Q: Can you be frank about the economic realities of being an exile artist? How do residencies, grants, and project funding translate into sustainable livelihood?

LP: I rent a room in a three-room apartment. It’s not too expensive and covers my basic need for a roof over my head. I live with my partner, and when I can’t afford basic expenses, he covers them — and when he can’t, I do. He is also an artist in exile from Belarus. Both of us can say that in the past four years we’ve had more exhibitions and opportunities than in our entire lives before. We try to reinvest any income into producing new works. We rented an old house in Poland and plan to turn it into a studio, since in Berlin it is difficult and expensive to find space, especially as we both work with sculpture and large-scale installations. There is a warehouse there now. This year I applied to different competitions but received rejections. At the moment, I have around 500 euros in my account and don’t know what comes next. I keep applying and looking for opportunities. So, sustainability is not really about me yet — but I am trying to find it. An artist’s work is always tied to risks. What I do, I’ve been doing all my life, and I am used to instability. I feel that I can speak through my art, and now every voice, even mine, can contribute to global change. 

An artist’s work is always tied to risks. What I do, I’ve been doing all my life, and I am used to instability.

Long-term Sustainability

Q: Most funding for exile artists seems to be temporary (residencies, emergency grants). How do you plan for long-term artistic sustainability when you can’t return home?

LP: I would like to find a gallery that would be interested in representing me. I think this is my only real chance. It’s already hard for me to be considered a “young artist,” and the fact that no one represents me yet feels like a disadvantage. I have no clear idea how to achieve this, so I talk to people, and try to make more formal works, started adding graphics. If this is not resolved in the next couple of years, and no one wants to represent me, then my career as an artist will end, I will simply be too old for any grants and residencies. If that happens, I will return to teaching and focus on the VEHA archive. I have already taught courses at different colleges and universities, though only in Russian and Belarusian. I plan to improve my Polish and English, and that will be my Plan B. Perhaps it will be possible to do both. I am hard-working, and I have no shortage of ideas. I try my best.   

Creative Constraints of Dependency

Q: Do you feel creatively constrained by dependence on European institutional support? Does this dependency shape what projects you can pursue?

LP: No, I have many ideas on different topics.

Future Scenarios and Recommendations

Warning Signs

Q: Based on your experience of cultural repression, what early warning signs should European cultural communities watch for? What might the progression from democratic cultural freedom to authoritarian control look like?

LP: I grew up my whole life under a dictatorship, so I don’t really know what the early warning signs might have been. Every situation is unique, after all. Take Belarus, for example, where the government promotes a secular ideology and does not support Belarusian culture. The situation there is very different from that in countries where the government is shifting to the right. In my country, you can go to jail for speaking Belarusian or wearing white and red clothes — symbols of the national culture. How can you explain this in Europe? This does not seem to be a problem for the left movement. But the result is cultural absorption us by Russia. Everything is very specific to the individual situation. I think it is important to approach problems individually and not look for general solutions.   

Personal Reflection and Resilience

Artistic Identity in Exile

Q: How has forced migration changed your identity as an artist? Do you still consider yourself a “Belarusian artist” or have you become something else?

LP: I consider myself a Belarusian artist now more than ever. This realization doesn’t come from being inside the community, but rather from being outside of it and feeling the difference compared to other communities. I have Polish roots, and many of my Polish friends insist that I should take on a Polish identity, it would indeed make things easier for professional development. Or at least call myself a Belarusian-Polish artist. But over time I’ve come to the conclusion that such adaptation and integration feel like dissolution, and that I can be of interest for who I truly am. Belarus, for me, is a trauma, but it is also what interests me more than anything else. I am a part of it, and I don’t feel like I am a part of anything else.

Hope and Trauma

Q: How do you balance documenting trauma and oppression with maintaining hope and creative energy? What sustains your artistic practice emotionally?

LP: Have I succeeded in this? What supports me emotionally is receiving feedback and seeing that my work has been noticed and is being discussed. Recently, I learned that a student at EHU University in Vilnius is writing her thesis on the protests in Belarus and Hong Kong, and that she was inspired by my book. I heard this from her professor. It can be hard to understand the significance of your work when you’re working alone, without institutions, cultural media or critics. It’s only by chance that you discover that your work matters to someone. These are the moments that support and encourage me emotionally. 

Technical and Methodological Questions

Digital vs. Physical Culture

Q: How has digital technology been crucial for your work both under dictatorship and in exile? Could digital platforms provide models for maintaining cultural freedom even under repressive conditions?

LP: I study the issue of digital dictatorship and raise it in my works. During the 2020 protests in Belarus, the Telegram app was one of the driving forces, it helped people gather and exchange vital information, and today it remains the main messenger for Belarusians, as well as the space where independent media can still be read. But with growing popularity comes growing control. By early 2025, around 60,000 cameras are operating in Belarus, used for facial recognition — twice as many as in 2024. I don’t think artists can realistically create safe spaces within such a complex system. We see from global cases of selective campaigns how easily opinions can be manipulated online. Of course, the digital sphere opens new opportunities, and I could talk about this at length. But there are also problems: for instance, Belarusian artists, lacking access to real galleries, rely on Instagram to present their work. I believe we need to address this issue and learn digital security. In the first years after the Belarusian revolution, there were attempts to create an online state “New Belarus” without borders, based only on the idea of unity. I really liked this concept, but unfortunately it was not developed and gradually dissolved. 

Measuring Cultural Repression

Q: How should researchers and activists better document and measure cultural repression? What indicators might they miss if they haven’t lived through it? 

LP: When evaluating cultural repression, it is important to consider longer time periods, broader contexts and colonial influences. For instance, during the 1930s in Belarus, there was a large-scale execution of Belarusian intellectuals and figures from the worlds of culture, science and the arts. On the night of 29–30 October 1937, Stalin personally signed a list of individuals accused of ‘anti-Soviet activity’ in the BSSR. This event is known as the “Ноч расстреляных поэтаў”. More than 100 cultural figures were killed, though the exact number is still unknown. The Belarusian KGB is the direct heir of the NKVD. Schools and universities in Belarus do not teach in Belarusian; everything is in Russian. Belarusian culture survives almost by miracle alone, under constant pressure. For researchers and activists, this means that indicators of cultural repression cannot be measured by arrests, censorship or the closure of organisations alone. They must also consider historical traumas, the continuity of repressive institutions, the erasure of languages, and the long-term colonial context. Often overlooked is the invisible shaping of identity through silence, absence and the loss of transmission between generations. These losses are just as real as destroyed books or closed galleries, and they define the fragile survival of Belarusian culture today.

Closing Perspectives

European Cultural Future

Q: Looking at current political trends in Europe, how concerned are you about the future of artistic freedom on this continent?

LP: Art is flexible and holds as much power as media or politics. I’m optimistic about the future and believe that the new generation will be more democratic and open-minded. The current rightward shift in Europe appears to be a struggle between the past and the future. There is nothing surprising, there is a war going on. This is already affecting culture through funding cuts and pressure on artists to conform. Nevertheless, artists will adapt and resist. Digital tools, transnational networks and new forms of solidarity are creating opportunities that didn’t exist before. Even under pressure, art can preserve freedom and pass it on to the next generation.

Message

Q: If you could directly address European policymakers about protecting cultural freedom, what would be your most urgent message based on your journey from dictatorship to democratic exile?

LP: Cultural repression is often subtle and long-term. It encompasses more than just arrests and a lack of institutional support; it also involves the gradual restriction of opportunities for experimentation and critical voices. Policymakers must recognise these ‘invisible’ forms of oppression and understand that supporting artists in exile involves more than just funding. It is about creating safe spaces, visibility, and networks that enable cultural work to continue. Integrating into existing structures, rather than marginalising them, will strike a balance between control and development. In exile, different communities, experiences, and identities mix, and this blending makes us stronger, more resilient, and more capable of sustaining cultural memory and freedom.

Lesia Pcholka is a visual artist born in Belarus,
currently lives and works in Berlin/DE and Bielsk Podlaski/PL

Founder and Project Curator of the VEHA archive    

Pcholka’s practice brings together archival methods, collective memoriesy, and historical continuities to show explore how the past shapes contemporary life in Belarus and beyond. Through photography, video, and installation, she explores the tension between official narratives and undocumented histories, focusing on voices often silenced. Her work situates Belarus within a broader comparative frame, tracing parallels with other authoritarian contexts while also probing spaces of resistance. Exile sharpens her attention to displacement, belonging, and fragile memory, while gender perspectives inform her sensitivity to embodied experience and power. By mobilizing community archives and approaches in experimental storytelling, Pcholka creates layered narratives that move between personal and political, private and collective — reimagining how histories can be remembered and resisted.