Torture in Belarus

I now often see war in my dreams. Tight formations of marching riot police bang shields and cut like knives into a white-red-and-white river of protesters in the streets of Minsk, which was once my home. In these dreams I usually stand aside, frozen. I watch as bodies fall under metal batons, military boots stomping them into the ground. I cower from a black figure who turns the polished helmet of his head towards me, scared to see his eyes behind the visor.

What came first? Did the war that the maniacal dictator launched against its people spill into my…