MG: Sure, it's a fast–paced story that touches the minds and hearts of the readers. For example, it was praised to me by Polish volunteers who now do a similar job to what the novel’s Elf did in 2014. But let's get back to your stay in Donbas. Then you also went to the suburbs of Donetsk, to a former factory transformed in 2010 into a cultural center. And this theme also comes back to you today, in literary form...
MP: Isolation, what a place it was! Amazing atmosphere. We walked for a long time from the centre, past empty car dealerships, looted or evacuated by the owners. Some dilapidated Ladas with DNR registrations whizzed through the streets. We arrived at Svitlana Doroga Street, No 3. I remember the dusty streets, the monotony of a flat landscape interspersed with chimneys and slag heaps, which, with a little indulgence, could be considered hills. 7.5 hectares of mine and insulating materials factory have been adapted for a cultural center and exhibition space. Isolation Gallery was the territory of free thought on the map of Donbas, its creators sowed artistic ferment in Donetsk and animated social debates. In April 2013, when no one had yet dreamed of the Euromaidan, the annexation of Crimea, and war, they were attacked by thugs from pro-Russian organisations, who intruded a Ukrainian-American seminar, and shouted something about American imperialism. Among the attackers were activists of the marginal Donetsk Republic association with a black-blue-red banner ... That was a warning.
MG: Did you manage to have a tour of Isolation?
MP: When I was in Donetsk in 2014, an unknown handful of boozers were already proclaiming independence and hanging the flag – next to the Russian one – on public buildings. Isolation was closed, we were shown around unofficially, under the watchful eye of security. Two weeks later, representatives of the 'ministry of social policy' will burst in there, cultural activists will be kicked out, the exhibits – stolen or scrapped. The staff evacuated to Kyiv, where the center is still operating. It seemed that this was the end of Donetsk Isolation. A shocking act of barbarism, but the reality turned out to be much more horrific. Officially, the separatists were to set up a humanitarian aid gathering point at Svitlana Doroga Street, but already in the summer of 2014, news began to flow that a secret prison was operating on the foundation's former premises. Everyone who was at odds with Russia and the bandit caricature of the 'republic' was detained there in intimidating conditions.
MG: And this is where the story described in the book begins, right?
MP: Correct. The brave journalist and writer Stanislav Aseyev stayed in the occupied Donbas and reported on the separatist order in the Ukrainian media. In 2016, he disappeared, later it turned out that he had just been taken to Isolation. He spent twenty–eight months in hell, was tortured, mentally tormented, went on a hunger strike ... He was released at the end of December 2019, as part of a prisoner exchange. His book The Torture Camp on Paradise Street, his account of the 'Dachau of Donetsk', has been published in Polish in my translation. Things like that weren’t supposed to be happening anymore. death houses, archipelagos, other worlds – they’re happening here and now. Aseyev will carry his trauma for the rest of his life, and we – his readers and debtors – will either draw conclusions or not.
MG: And not only from 'The Torture Camp on Paradise Street'. The reality after 2022 will certainly bring more topics for such books. And there will be new tasks ahead of you. Do you intend to continue translating books about war?