‘You beg them for soap and pads’ How Belarusian women’s prisons turn menstruation into a form of torture

There are currently more than 1,200 political prisoners in Belarus, according to the Viasna Human Rights Center. Those who have been released from Belarusian prisons have described hellish conditions — particularly for women, who are not only deprived of medical care but also denied basic menstrual products while behind bars. This past summer, the situation became even more dire when new rules came into effect that restrict the delivery of pads and tampons to inmates to just twice a year. At Meduza’s request, Belarusian journalist Yevgeniya Dolgaya, founder of the project Politvyazynka, collected first-hand accounts from women who have survived these brutal conditions. The pseudonymous photographer Volya, herself a former Belarusian political prisoner, created the photos and videos for this story.

Valadarka and Okrestina

During the pro-democracy protests that rocked Belarus in 2020, the pre-trial detention centers on Minsk’s Valadarskaha and Okrestin Streets (known as “Valadarka” and “Okrestina” after the streets where they’re located) became infamous. In these and other prisons, individuals arrested for opposing election fraud and protesting the Lukashenko regime were subjected to beatings and torture.

The Belarusian authorities continue to persecute dissenters to this day. Prisoners awaiting trial are held in cells with no mattresses or blankets, no access to showers, and no permission to receive packages. Conditions in these prisons can be especially brutal for women, who are not only denied menstrual products but also shamed and punished during their periods.

Alena (name changed)

Detained for protesting in 2022, released in 2023. Held in Valadarka and Okrestina as well as Women’s Penal Colony No. 4 in the city of Gomel.

When I was detained, I was on my period. First, they brought me to my home and searched it, then they took me to the GUBOPiK office. At home, I was able to change my clothes and grab a few things: three pairs of underwear, five pairs of socks — I mean, it wasn’t my first rodeo, I know [my country’s] history. I also took a pack of pads. And I brought some toothbrushes, of course, but they confiscated those immediately. But I clutched that pack of pads tightly, keeping it together with my passport. I held it with me everywhere: first in my interrogation at GUBOPiK, then at the district police department.

Then they brought me to Okrestina. They confiscated everything. But I clutched those pads to my chest and told them, “I can’t — I’ll bleed all over your cell. Give them back.” They gave me back the pads, but they didn’t let me have anything else.

After the trial, we were taken to serve our administrative sentences. They brought us to the detention center and put us [together] in an isolation cell. Naturally, there was nothing in the cell, not even toilet paper. There were eight girls in there. One of them had a 1.5-liter plastic water bottle, and that saved us. At first, we drank from it, and then we used it for all other needs, all eight of us. There was water in the cell, but it was just a faucet sticking out of the wall — no sink. In order to use it at all, we put the trash can under the faucet. We would try to use that cold water to wash our bodies; we didn’t care at that point.

In my panic, my period just wouldn’t seem to end. At one point, I was down to about five pads. I knew I needed to find some way to make them last. It was February, and we were sleeping on the cell floor, huddled together. The floor was concrete. We started realizing that our kidneys were freezing. So, we took my last five pads and stuck them to our lower backs to have at least some small bit of protection for our kidneys. Because we had no extra clothes: we were already wearing everything we had because it was so cold. That’s how my last pads were used up.

[Sometimes] a nurse would come, and we would say in unison that we all had our periods right then. She would give us, I think, one pad each per day. We’d gather them and give them to whoever needed them most. Sharing like that, we somehow managed to get by.

Volha Loika

Arrested in May 2021, held in Valadarka until March 2022.

They sold pads in the prison commissary, but we weren’t allowed to make purchases very often; only about once every two weeks, and sometimes less. The selection is very limited: there were several times when panty liners were the only thing available. The rest of the time, the only other options were thin pads, the ones labeled with two drops. The only way to get maxipads, overnight pads, or tampons was through packages from the outside. For those who didn’t get packages or only got them rarely, it was a real problem.

The mother of one of my cellmates [who’d been convicted on a non-political charge] sent her only small pads, and she really struggled: she would stick several together at a time and refuse to go for walks to avoid getting blood on her clothes.

A few times a month, she would drink coffee at night and try to sleep sitting up. The girls in that cell had all kinds of hygiene products, but she felt embarrassed to take them and convinced herself she would manage fine without them. When I got released, I left her a large supply. She took them and said, “I’ll save them for court.” During court transfers, you spend all day in the narrow holding space in the prison transport vehicle, and then in the courtroom cage. And your chances to go to the bathroom are few and far between.

Tatsiana

Arrested in the winter of 2023 for subscribing to an ‘extremist’ Instagram account and sent to Okrestina

After my arrest, they took me straight to the police department to fill out the arrest report. I persuaded a female officer there to take me to the restroom and asked her to get a pad from my personal belongings. I knew that I was facing, at best, a day in jail, and at worst, a criminal charge. I asked the officers to give me one more pad to take with me [before being transferred] to Okrestina, but they refused. I started to panic: I knew my period would start in the next few days.

I was brought to the isolation facility, and the next day, the court sentenced me to 10 days. There were eight women in the cell. One of them was homeless; there were lice crawling on her. We had no blankets or mattresses. Our relatives couldn’t deliver anything we needed, so we were left wearing whatever clothes we’d been detained in. I had a black hoodie, jeans, and a white T-shirt.

I was wearing the pad I’d managed to change at the police station for over a day. Once it became useless, I had to choose: either I could freeze in just the hoodie (it was cold in the cell) but tear my T-shirt up to use as makeshift pads, or I could leak. I decided to tear the T-shirt. My cellmates immediately understood what I was doing, and they helped me tear it into pieces. I remember how helpless I felt when I was ripping up my favorite T-shirt and the food hatch opened. The officer looked in, smirked, and said, “What are you doing, huh?”

The shirt didn’t help much — I still leaked.

I tried to ask for pads, but the [guards] said the prison didn’t provide them. I also asked the prison medic. This elderly woman with curly hair came and asked what the problem was. I asked her to bring me at least some cotton, but she wouldn’t even listen.

There was no way to wash yourself properly in the cell: only cold water. A small rag left over from the T-shirt served as my shower: I would soak it in water and try to clean myself that way. When I left the isolation facility, the back of my jeans was covered in blood. I walked out crying and feeling so ashamed. It seemed like all of the staff were pointing and laughing at me.

Gomel and Zarechye

There are only two women’s penitentiaries in Belarus. At least 111 Belarusian political prisoners and hundreds of women convicted of non-political offenses are currently serving sentences there. The larger of the two facilities is in the city of Gomel; that’s where women convicted of a felony offense for the first time are sent. That’s also where Maria Kalesnikava, one of the leaders of the Belarusian opposition, is currently serving an 11-year sentence in solitary confinement. Until mid-November, when she was finally allowed to meet with her father, her family hadn’t had any contact with her for more than a year and a half. Prisoners with multiple convictions, meanwhile, are sent to a smaller facility in the village of Zarechye in the Gomel region.

One of the most common infractions in Belarusian penal colonies is known as “alienation and appropriation.” It refers to violations of the ban on prisoners sharing any items with each other whatsoever, including food and hygiene products. Breaking the rule can lead to punishment, such as being placed in a punishment cell (ShIZO) or losing the right to receive packages, make phone calls, or receive visitors.

Nearly all Belarusian political prisoners start out with these privileges already revoked, having been declared “extremists” by the Belarusian authorities. In women’s prisons, “extremists” are automatically classified as “persistent rulebreakers,” which means they’re required to wear uniforms with yellow triangle patches.

Prison administrators can restrict phone calls and packages for “persistent rulebreakers” at their own discretion. They can also impose a limit on how much they’re allowed to buy. The limit might be set at one or two “basic units,” with a single basic unit roughly equivalent to 40 Belarusian rubles (about $12). Political prisoners who don’t receive packages from the outside must use this amount to purchase everything from toilet paper to pads or tampons to food.

Alena

Convicted for protesting in the fall of 2022, spent two years in the Women’s Correctional Facility in Gomel

Prison wages range from two to 20 Belarusian rubles ($0.60–$6) per month. Some people use that money to buy a chocolate curd bar or yogurt, while others save up for a single apple — just to give themselves a small treat. The craving for vegetables and fruit becomes overwhelming. Permission to receive packages, which allow inmates to live without relying on the prison commissary, is unpredictable; a political prisoner can suddenly lose the right to receive packages at any time due to a fabricated infraction report.

The prison permits inmates to submit a request for hygiene items once a month: a small piece of laundry soap, a small piece of regular soap, one roll of the cheapest toilet paper, and one pack of pads. The toilet paper is such poor quality that it literally falls apart in your hands. When these supplies run out, everyone just has to manage as best they can. Some steal from others, and some people just reek of urine. Some secretly take scraps of fabric from the sewing workshop.

Hanna (name changed)

Detained in the fall of 2022 and convicted of participating in protests. She was released in the spring of 2024.

The monthly allotment of hygiene supplies that women are given is not enough. In my unit, socks kept disappearing from the drying rack. At first, I couldn’t understand why — but then I realized that [they were being taken by] prisoners who had no outside support, mostly women who have been there for a long time. They literally use those black socks as pads. Socks and scraps of fabric taken from the sewing workshop — both are used as makeshift pads. I was horrified the first time I saw bloody fabric strips lying around the sewing workshop’s bathroom.

Political prisoners have it a bit easier in this regard, because even though it’s forbidden, people try to share. But overall, the hygiene situation is terrible. It’s one endless humiliation. In the prison, you’re only allowed to bathe once a week, and it’s impossible to wash properly. You’re lucky if you manage to wash yourself over the toilet in the cell using a bottle. Just imagine washing yourself over a toilet, with crowds of people walking past you. It’s one of many things you have to get used to.

Darya Afanasyeva

Belarusian feminist and LGBTQ+ rights activist who was detained for protesting in 2021 and released in 2024. She served her sentence in the Women’s Correctional Facility in Gomel.

I didn’t have painful periods until I was in prison. Before that, my cycle had always been regular, my periods lasted just three days, and I never felt any discomfort. But once I began life behind bars, my periods became unpredictable: they could disappear for several months and then come back, lasting nonstop for two weeks. The first and last days became incredibly painful. I remember barely being able to straighten up during roll call because my abdomen hurt so much.

When that happens, you go to what’s called the dispensary — the window where they hand out pills. You ask for pain relief and explain that it’s for your period. But they refuse because you need a prescription, and it takes a week to get a doctor’s appointment. The doctor will refer you to a gynecologist, which means another week of waiting. And they [the prison staff] know all of this. So there you are, doubled over in pain, staring at the painkillers, but you can’t take any. And pain doesn’t exempt you from duties like cleaning rooms, unloading a truck full of potato sacks, or clearing the grounds.

One time, it was the first day of my period, and it started snowing outside. Snow is banned in the prison: everything has to be cleared, down to the asphalt. So starting right after breakfast, I spent hours shoveling snow. For hours, I carried snow in bags, feeling like I was dying from the pain, and realizing I’d bled through my clothes. I only had one skirt, and if blood got on it, I’d have to somehow find time to wash it before work [to avoid getting in trouble].

Volha Klaskovskaya

A former journalist for Narodnaja Volya, Volha was arrested in October 2022 and released in the winter of 2022. Altogether, she spent nearly five months in solitary confinement and a penal isolation cell at the Women’s Correctional Facility in Gomel. While in detention, she developed abnormal uterine bleeding and underwent two surgeries.

You can’t bring a pack of pads into solitary confinement, even if they’re from a package that was sent to you. Pads are handed out one at a time, and it depends on the prison worker’s mood: if they want to give you one, they will, and if they don’t, they won’t. You beg them for soap and pads. [Then] the prison staff contact the head of the unit, and if you’re lucky, the unit head brings them to you.

For me, this was a nightmare. I constantly had to beg and humiliate myself. What else could I do? I had heavy bleeding, and I needed to use several pads at once. You’re only allowed one pair of underwear in solitary. But with such heavy bleeding, one pair isn’t enough. One staff member took pity and let me have a second pair. So I’d wash one pair of underwear in cold water, hang it on the radiator, and get yelled at because you’re only allowed to wash clothes on laundry day. It was hell.

When I was transferred [from the hospital] back to the unit, I was banned from getting packages. With only two basic units (about $24), you can’t afford to buy many pads. And the quality of the pads from the “shop” isn’t great. So I had to use rags to ease the suffering. I saw other inmates doing the same thing. Because there’s really no other option.

I felt completely humiliated, hopeless, frustrated, and worthless. I remember standing in the ShIZO with blood running down my bare legs (because tights and leggings aren’t allowed) and blood on the floor. And the staff stood there smiling, saying, “Well, you shouldn’t have broken the law.”