The birds rise above the crumbling façade like liberated thoughts, fragile yet irrepressible — a quiet metaphor for those who dared to leave and still refuse to be silent.

On a wall in Vilnius, a sticker shows Putin’s face with a white strip across his mouth. A simple, direct message — here, the voices he tries to silence still find a wall to speak

Lydia, 21, Moscow. A student, she used to write on social media — opinions, doubts, sometimes awkwardly phrased words. One day, she was questioned by the authorities and accused of “terrorism” for online posts. She never understood how sentences could become a crime. Shortly afterward, Lydia left Russia. She left to escape fear, and to avoid learning how to silence herself.

Lydia’s parrot often remains still, watching the room from its perch. It sometimes repeats words without sensing their danger. For Lydia, it embodies a fragile freedom — the freedom to keep speaking, despite everything, in a world where speech has learned to be wary of itself.

Alina, 25 (Belarus), is a Belarusian activist. The daughter of an Orthodox priest who defied Moscow’s orders, she became a human rights lawyer in Vilnius. Her work focuses primarily on women facing prosecution for their fight for democracy, and often also for their feminist engagement, within a social and political context shaped by conservative traditions.

The forest around Vilnius reminds Alina of those in Belarus — the same pines, the same scent of damp soil. “Sometimes,” she says, “I close my eyes and it feels like I’m home again.”

On Alina’s couch lies a Russian book. She says she still reads in her language, even if every word reminds her of a country she no longer recognize

Yulia, 27 (Belarus), is a former teacher fired for assigning banned books, she now cleans offices by day and teaches Belarusian history to refugee kids by night. “The classroom,” she says, “is still a battlefield for truth.”

Yulia’s cat’s tail crosses the frame, appearing almost by accident. This discreet, stubborn movement introduces a breath — a small trace of life that persists at the heart of exile.

Svietlana, 36, is a Belarusian artist accused of “extremism” by the authorities. After the forced closure of her independent art space, deemed incompatible with the regime’s official line, she was compelled to leave her country. In exile, her new installations examine the mechanisms of authoritarian power and the ways fear, obedience, and a certain vision of masculinity are instrumentalized to control bodies, narratives, and imagination.

On the Hill of Crosses, every cross stands for defiance — faith turned into resistance. For many exiled Belarusian and Russian women, this landscape feels like a mirror of their own struggle: fragile, silent, yet unbroken.

Sofia, 22 (Belarus) is a young LGBT activist. After several arrests for participating in protests, she fled to Vilnius in 2022. Now studying graphic arts, she continues to speak out against both political repression and the everyday sexism she left behind.

Sofia’s bare feet recall a simple kind of freedom — not asked for, but taken back.

Sasha, 38 (Belarus/United States), a dissident, disabled since childhood and openly LGBT, performs solo stand-up comedy shows in which she mocks dictatorship and macho heroism. “Humor,” she says, “is my way of standing up to a regime that claims the right to decide who is allowed to speak, to laugh — and to exist.”

In an old photo, Sasha stands with her mother in front of an American flag — a memory from years spent between Minsk and the U.S. Her mother died in Belarus while Sasha was in Vilnius, unable to return for the funeral. traduire

Irina, 21 (Russia), a young lawyer defending domestic violence victims show a tattoo against war. She fled after new “foreign agent” laws criminalized her NGO. From Vilnius, she helps other women seek asylum and insists that “patriarchy and tyranny are twins.”

Irina’s laptop is covered with anti-Putin and anti-Lukashenko stickers — lightning bolts, raised fists, words of freedom. A work screen turned into a silent manifesto.

Sofia, 25 is a belarussian activist. When the secret police threatened her with prison unless she collaborated, she escaped across the border. Today, she quietly rebuilds her life while caring for disabled people, still haunted by the violence of men in uniform.

The shadow of Sofia’s hand falls across flowers and concrete — a fragile gesture between tenderness and defiance.

On Sofia’s wall, photographs of friends who remained in Belarus or are scattered across Europe. Loved faces, sometimes lost to distance, that continue to accompany her day to day — a way of refusing to let exile erase bonds.

Sasha, 22 (Belarus) a design student jailed for seven days, she now organizes cultural evenings for Belarusians, Russians, and Ukrainians in exile. Her feminism is pragmatic: creating spaces where women can speak safely again.

In her tiny Vilnius apartment, Sasha keeps a stick insect in a small glass cage. She laughs and says it’s “the perfect creature for exile — quiet, motionless, yet stubbornly alive.”

Nadia, 28 (Belarus), is an a mother of two and long-time activist, she spent months in hiding before escaping to Lithuania. Her writing denounces not only the ban on the Belarusian language but also the regime’s control over women’s voices.

Nadia shows a photo of her parents and sister who stayed in Belarus. She keeps it in her wallet, knowing she may never see them again.