Because of the Lithuanian relaunch of the refugee crisis, I am driving near the state that is currently more closed to us than any other in Europe – Belarus. The Lithuanian border town, which the Belarusian President Aleksandr Lukashenko uses to gleefully hand over thousands of refugees to the EU state Lithuania, is conspicuously a fairly Russian-speaking city. Only 27 percent of the residents in Pabradė are Lithuanians – the majority, however, are ethnic Poles, Russians and Belarusians.
I approach the border at midnight, drive many kilometers along the demarcation line and want to listen to Belarus. That doesn’t work, I can’t get any Belarusian radio stations in, the regime is not invasive in this regard. Then it finally sounds, the “First National Belarusian”. A young man enthusiastically announces that the youth state radio is now also offering an “alternative messenger channel”. Storm warnings are then read out, a classical concert by deserving folk artists follows, then again no reception.
Behind three fences
I come to the new hotspot around lunchtime. On Lithuanian television, series title: Migrant crisis, pictures are broadcast of Lithuanians demonstrating against the migrants who, who do not understand Lithuanian, could mistake them for complaining campers in the forest. In the hills behind Pabradė I overtake a team bus with a small, pale black, red and gold – the Bundeswehr. In the Russian-language circular I see photos of the traditional costume festival of the Belarusian ethnic group. And at the Foreigners Registration Center for migrants, construction workers are busy maintaining ventilation machines that boom on dozen of military tents. Hundreds of young men crouch behind two or three fences, apparently from the Middle East and Africa.
It turns out that I can only talk to old Pabradėr women. I wonder why Lukashenko sent the refugees through Pabradė of all places. Because the initial reception center in Lithuania was still half empty until recently? Because Lukashenko is playing with the emotions of the partially pro-Russian border population? The Pabradėr grandmothers interviewed, however, do not find Lukashenko important. They are not outraged about his actions, they do not even talk about him. They want to scold their government. And the EU.
I’m driving as close as possible to the border, to Zalavas. The hamlet has a Polish character, Marshal Pilsudski, authoritarian leader of Poland between 1926 and 1935, was born here. You come across an idyll of widely spaced, colorful wooden houses. Here you can receive the Belarusian state radio well. I sit in the car and listen. The speakers all sound concerned, but at the same time composed. A university doctor comments on Covid-19, sounds alarmist about Long Covid, understanding vaccination skeptics: “That’s a normal reaction, that’s how people are.” An 89-year-old woman with a white headscarf sits on the back of her courtyard , with daughter and granddaughter. The Polish woman believes the Pabradėr Russians and Belarusians are immigrants from the Soviet era; she has not yet seen any of the new immigrants. Yes, she is afraid, on the other hand she was also afraid before – the homestead is pretty lonely.
I am going back to the Pabradėr Initial Reception Center. A note on the outside fence announces a drone ban, a plump Lithuanian woman in a camouflage uniform is guarding a symbolic moat and forbidding me to stand by the fence. Right behind the camp is a Pabradėr housing estate. Its residents walk along the camp fence to the supermarket. A creative teacher with a young family like someone from a Scandinavian picture book has no problem with strangers, he has just moved from Vilnius. A 74-year-old with an elegant blue women’s hat, on the other hand, does not want to move because of the refugees. It is enough for her that half of her family has emigrated to England, as is customary in Lithuania. She is a traditional Russian woman and emphasizes: “We have been living in Pabradė since Peter the Great, please!” Even she doesn’t hear any noise from the camp, “I live at the back”. Other neighbors would complain that the migrants pray loudly at night – praying and drumming. She claims that the Polish government rejected migrants from Belarus, so Lithuania must now accept them. I ask her: “Who is actually ruling here? Liberals, right? “-” Yes, they are liberals, “she confirms and suddenly throws her arms up in the air:” And they are lesbians too! “
In the “Kaviné Varnelé” pub, five Pabradėr pensioners are holding a traditional small banquet for a 76th birthday. This includes an artfully draped arrangement of pieces of fruit, a white foamy majo salad, bubbly and vodka. The ladies speak Russian, one of them mixes in Polish from time to time, but Poland is far away.
To the demo in Vilnius
Pabradė is east of Vilnius, this Polish woman, at any rate, ticks pro-Russian. When the WiFi fails, she blames the nearby military base: “There are Americans stationed there, Germans, all sorts of things. We don’t like them. ”The day after tomorrow they want to get on a bus and demonstrate against the Lithuanian migration policy in front of the government seat in Vilnius.
Before I leave, it gets tricky – suddenly there’s a migrant at the bar. He looks like Che Guevara, only his eyes don’t sparkle, he also looks worn out. Even if they work more with grimaces and looks, the ladies scold the migrants. “That’s exactly what we don’t want here,” says one of them, forming an “Allahu akbar” on her lips. I’m fascinated by how Che reacts to it. But he doesn’t seem to notice the women at all. Lost in heavy thoughts, he sits down on the terrace.
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