People in Belarus are living under a creeping totalitarian grip that shoves ordinary life into fear and irony. In a regime where simply wearing red and white—the colors of the opposition’s flag—can land someone in handcuffs, even literature becomes a hazard: Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four has been banned, a stark symbol of how far reality has mirrored fiction. This is just the surface of the repression depicted in this sobering film, which follows three activists from the early days of the pandemic through the upheaval of the Ukraine invasion.
Juliane Tutein crafts a somber, reflective portrait of resistance facing a colossal state apparatus. The film centers on Nina, 74, who acts like Belarus’s own Batman—an enduring symbol of protest whose visibility shields her from repression. Darya, a human rights advocate, leads her organization from exile in Vilnius after run-ins with authorities sparked by student activism. Tanya remains near Minsk, even as her husband and son flee to Kyiv; her NGO work and a film festival find themselves targeted by the authorities.
Persistence becomes almost a cliché in perilous times, as a local saying frames the struggle: “You think you’ve hit rock-bottom—then you hear a knock from below.” Nina embodies relentless optimism under pressure, yet every character acknowledges that progress often comes in tiny, incremental steps. The film hints that Belarus’s post-Soviet drift may stem from a grave civic disengagement and cultural amnesia, with Nina underscoring the regime’s alleged political murders and Tanya’s husband lamenting that true justice feels elusive when the bureaucracy is saturated with ex-KGB veterans.
There are no easy wins, and with public attention shifting toward Ukraine, the film’s most gripping moments aren’t always about spectacular breakthroughs. Darya’s storyline, though perhaps the most understated, still matters to audiences whose connections through her exile network receive support from Ukrainians and others in need. When evil can become banal, the film also invites reflection on the banality—and the audacity—of good.
But here’s where the story becomes most provocative: resistance in Belarus is a quiet rebellion that rarely yields immediate spectacle, yet it challenges the notion that oppression must be dramatic to be real. And this is the part many viewers might miss: the real impact lies in the steady maintenance of dignity, solidarity, and the stubborn refusal to normalize fear. How would you measure meaningful resistance when victories are small, scattered, and slow to appear? What price is worth paying for the chance of gradual change, and where should the line be drawn between endurance and desperation?
