That was certainly true in the autumn of 2020, during the mass protests that followed President Alexander Lukashenko’s rigged re-election.
Back then, cab drivers were often better informed than the state-censored internet.
They knew where demonstrations were unfolding, which streets were blocked by police, where beatings and arrests had taken place—and they spoke freely, even defiantly, about the regime.
Today, it’s a different story.
On a recent ride, I tried striking up a conversation on the same topics. The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror and said grimly: "You probably don’t know, but the company forced us to install microphones and cameras in our cars. We now have to turn in the memory cards to management.”
We spent the rest of the journey in silence.
That hush extends to public transport as well. Trains and minibuses—once lively arenas of political debate—have gone quiet. Most passengers wear headphones and keep their eyes fixed on their phones. The wave of repression that began five years ago continues unabated. Few are willing to risk becoming the next victim of the system.
It might seem like Lukashenko has succeeded in silencing the nation. But even under a thick layer of ice, rivers still flow.
Purge of civic groups
Since the crackdown, nearly 1,900 independent civic organisations have been forcibly dissolved, according to Belarusian human rights groups
The purge began with independent media and human rights NGOs, then moved on to higher-profile groups led by well-known activists.
Even nature conservation groups weren’t spared. The head of BirdLife Belarus, Viktar Fenchuk, received a two-and-a-half-year sentence in a high-security prison for participating in protests.
Eventually, even local hobby groups and community organisations were dismantled.
The regime’s goal? To eliminate any platform for civic engagement not under direct ideological control.
Ideology as policy
That ideology now permeates every level of state enterprise. Each government-run company is required to have an on-site "ideology officer"—often a former KGB agent or retired military officer.
They don’t lead Soviet-style “political education” sessions anymore. Instead, they screen job applicants for past political involvement.
No one who protested or criticised the regime can get hired at a state company. A special centralised database contains the names and personal data of at least 100,000 Belarusians deemed ideologically suspect.
Even private businesses are being brought into line.
A friend of mine, who owns a medium-sized company, recently got a call from the district executive office. The ideology department informed him that private firms are now encouraged to hire their own in-house ideology officers.
When he asked whether this was mandatory, the official replied: "Not yet. But companies that do so voluntarily will be treated ... differently by the state."
He pressed further: “So I’m supposed to hire a total stranger?”
“Not necessarily,” the woman said. “It can be someone already on your payroll. Even you.”
He told her he’d think about it.
Borders and surveillance
While Belarusians can still leave and return to the country, crossing the border now often means surrendering your phone or laptop to the KGB-controlled border guards.
Travellers are routinely forced to unlock their devices.
A single “ideologically incorrect” social media like can land someone in jail.
First comes a night in a cell without a mattress, then a rushed court hearing, followed by 15 days of detention—or a steep fine for “supporting extremist activity.”
If the traveller is listed in the special government database, they may face criminal charges under Article 342 of the Penal Code: “organizing or participating in riots,” punishable by up to four years in prison.
As of now, nearly 1,200 people in Belarus are officially recognised as political prisoners.
Lukashenko recently claimed—without offering proof—that he offered to release some of them in talks with the Americans, but they “didn’t want them.”
Whether anyone believed him is another question. Most Belarusians don’t.
Exile and resistance
Since 2020, an estimated 400,000 people—out of a total population of 9 million—have left Belarus. Many of them have formed opposition hubs abroad. But resistance also continues inside the country, deep underground.
Hope was recently revived by a successful cyberattack carried out by Belarusian “Cyber-Partisans” and the Ukrainian hacker group Silent Crow. They breached and temporarily disabled servers belonging to Russia’s flagship airline Aeroflot.
Everyone here understands: if not for the full backing of Vladimir Putin and his vast security apparatus, Lukashenko’s regime would likely have collapsed by now.
Spectre of communism
After years of watching Belarus drift deeper into autocracy, I’m convinced authoritarian systems have only two paths: totalitarianism or collapse.
Today’s Belarus resembles the grim twilight of communist-era Poland: absurd, repressive and subservient to Moscow, which is now waging a brutal, medieval-style war against neighbouring Ukraine.
I see Belarusians every day. There’s little joy in their faces. But five years on, they haven’t fully surrendered. That’s my subjective take—but a sincere one.
Lukashenko’s Belarus today resembles Poland under martial law: secret police, informants, censorship, a crushed opposition. But eventually, all that ended. Things changed.
And here—if the winds from the West blow just right—they could bring change one day, too.
Jan Krzysztof Michalak in Belarus