Eleven years ago, on April 28, 2015, the police launched a crackdown known as Operation Phoenix (Fénix). As a result, I later decided to go into hiding—that is, to live underground. The following text serves both as a memoir of that period and as a critical reflection on it.

Going Underground

In 2015, the authorities cracked down, and a lot happened in a relatively short period of time: Four anarchists in prison. Media propaganda scaremongering about terrorism. Raids on homes and at the community center. Confiscation of personal belongings. Being dragged through interrogation rooms. Intimidation, sowing discord, police surveillance. There was a lot going on, and taken together, it created enormous tension. At least for me, without a doubt.

First, the police arrested me and informed me that I was suspected of committing crimes punishable by 3 to 10 years in prison. Although they released me without charging me, my friends were behind bars at the time, and I still had plainclothes cops on my tail. They had been following me for quite some time, constantly. Wherever I went, they were right on my heels. It was clear to me that this was part of psychological warfare. But I didn’t want to give up without a fight. So I chose a defensive tactic that wasn’t difficult but was quite effective. I started taking photos of the plainclothes police and later had the collected material published online. Those who were supposed to be following me were suddenly no longer invisible, and that certainly unsettled them. As a result, after a few days of taking photos, they left me alone for a while. I had developed methods to detect whether someone was following me, so it wasn’t hard to tell when the police had stopped. Well, yes, but even though the police had disappeared from view, the tension and fear of what awaited me were still present. That’s why I decided to disappear from the sight of the authorities.

I had very little time to make a decision. My fears and anxiety were so intense that, at the time, I saw going underground as my only chance of survival. Looking back, I see it as a strategic mistake. To anyone who might want to moralize and judge from a safe distance, I’d like to say just one thing: man, you’ve probably never experienced the intense sense of danger I felt, so it’s hard for you to understand my reaction. It reassures me that the people I care about, fortunately, possess a sufficient amount of empathy and understanding. And by that, I also mean those who saw my decision as a mistake but still have understanding for it.

I threw myself headfirst into underground, though I have to admit I actually had no idea what I was getting myself into. My belief in my own abilities and the support of a few close friends gave me confidence. Without them, I wouldn’t have lasted even two weeks. I didn’t have a clear vision, but I believed I would find one along the way. To a certain extent, that’s what happened, but unexpected problems began to pile up as well. Moreover, the inner tension I wanted to get rid of didn’t disappear. It just shifted to a different sphere. I took it with me from civilian life into the underground. Fear of the future was still present. So was frustration.

Burning Bridges

It’s hard to describe how I felt. I can’t think of anything from “ordinary” life that I could compare it to. When a person decides to disappear, it means, first and foremost, that they are consciously burning the bridges that connected them to what they once considered an important part of their life. You lose contact with people, your own identity, places, situations. You mentally prepare yourself for the possibility that this will be permanent. The thought, “I’ll never see them again,” often ran through my head. I couldn’t be where I used to be and openly admit who I was. Suddenly, I was someone else—not just to those around me, but to myself as well. Of course, inside, I was still me. But in order to survive, I had to learn how to deceive those around me enough that they would see me as someone completely different. And that’s not easy at all.

I needed a new identity, which also meant a backstory to make it believable. I chose a new name and got an ID card under that name, with my photo on it. But even that photo looked different from how most people knew me. Just how unrecognizable I had become became clear when, while moving around, I happened to run into people I knew well on the street several times. They didn’t say hello, and I could see from their expressions that they had no idea who they were passing by. Only once did I run into some acquaintances while boarding a bus; I struck up a conversation with them to prevent them from telling anyone about our encounter. I needed to keep my whereabouts secret and didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

Then there were people I hadn’t known before, but it was practical to maintain ties with them. To them, I presented a false story about my origins and life experiences. I always had to be on my guard so I wouldn’t say something wrong and someone would link me to my civilian identity. I had to get better at lying and at deciding which information was best to keep to myself.

All your life, you hear that lying is wrong. But in the underground, it’s one of the core values that keeps you relatively safe. I have no regrets about lying, even to people I care about. I just want to emphasize here how difficult it is, even when you realize it’s legitimate and necessary.

Resources and Hideouts

Another aspect of life in the underground was finding resources, hideouts, and places to live. The upside was that I wasn’t alone in this. However, my lack of language skills severely limited me. This limitation of mine annoyed me terribly, and surely my friends as well. They often ended up with tasks that I could have handled myself if I had a better command of languages. I tried to learn English because you can communicate almost anywhere with English. I was really determined, but my progress was painfully slow. It’s just always been my weak point.

So how did I get the things I needed to live? It goes without saying that someone from the underground probably can’t working legally. I got some of the money from friends in the anarchist community, and I obtained the rest through means that the criminal code wouldn’t exactly approve of. But I won’t go into details. I’ll just mention that even though I did things that weren’t legal, I didn’t do anything wrong. My actions had no negative impact on poor people.

Fortunately, for quite some time I stayed in places where there was a good supply of food without having to pay for it. I relied on a combination of dumpster diving and small-scale shoplifting. The dumpsters behind stores and the shelves inside them were full of food, and I took what I needed. Occasionally, I also helped myself to other items. Sometimes I’d slip clothes, books, condoms, or toiletries into my bag without paying first. Given that I had to keep my identity secret, these acts of taking were quite risky. But this wasn’t just a necessary step for survival; it was also a way to remind myself that I could still do something that brought me joy. I don’t mean consumerism, but the fact that even though I’m an outlaw, I can outsmart my enemies and mock them. In a year of living underground, the store security guards never caught me once. Although it’s true that it took me several months to work up the courage to take that first step.

During my entire time in the underground, I never went hungry or suffered from material deprivation. When I was on the move, I had a good place to live. There was no shortage of access to water, electricity, or transportation either. And, in fact, I often had more money than I do in civilian life. I am grateful to everyone who helped me with all of this. At the same time, however, I still carry within me the pain inflicted by those who so readily call themselves anarchists, yet threw me overboard even before I went underground. Since then, I expect nothing good from them. To me, they are a living example of the disconnect between words and deeds.

Unfulfilled Needs

Life in the underground soon revealed its pitfalls to me. For example, the fact that material abundance cannot fill the void in life created by an unfulfilled longing for connection with loved ones. Frustration is probably the right word for what so often filled my days. I couldn’t see my parents or many of my friends. I knew where to find them, but it was too risky to meet up with them. That’s why I kept my distance. We didn’t communicate. They didn’t even know where I was or, for that matter, whether I was even alive.

I realize that this frustration wasn’t something I felt alone. My loved ones surely felt the pain too, because they missed being in touch with me. But my options for finding comfort and forming other relationships were severely limited—far more so than theirs. There were so few people with whom I could share my emotions, desires, experiences, and thoughts. Sometimes I drowned my sorrows in alcohol. Even though I knew it wasn’t a solution, I couldn’t help myself and mostly downed beer. The person I loved back then sometimes had to put up with my drunken antics. Luckily, I didn’t develop a taste for harder liquor back then. If I had, I probably would have hit rock bottom pretty quickly.

Another source of frustration stemmed from the loss of my old perspectives and habits. I was used to being in the public eye, which I could no longer do. I was searching for an answer to the question of what I wanted to devote myself to, both personally and politically. But I knew it wasn’t just about what I wanted. It was also about what circumstances allowed me to do. And those circumstances were mostly preventing me from doing so. I was experiencing a truly deep crisis in this regard. Many of the things I wanted were now impossible. The things I could do, in turn, didn’t bring me satisfaction or make sense to me. One of the few things that brought me joy was writing. I wrote and published my reflections and commentaries. And when I occasionally received feedback from other anarchists, it was encouraging and supportive. I think writing was also a kind of outlet that allowed me to let off steam. You can’t live under constant stress for too long, because it could drive you crazy. That’s why I’m glad that writing helped me cope with stress in a constructive way during my time in the underground.

Reason and Emotion

It is sometimes difficult to find harmony between reason and emotion, even in times of calm. The task becomes all the more complex when every day is filled with a great deal of stress, tension, frustration, and feelings of vulnerability. And that is exactly what happened to me during my time in the underground. It led to me developing a strong tendency toward numbness, which manifested itself in a greater tendency to underestimate risks. Some might even say I started doing reckless things. Actions that I would have dismissed as too risky in a calm state suddenly became part of my planning. And so, one day, I arranged to meet with a few friends and began planning to contact my parents as well.

Even if I had planned it 500 kilometers away from where my parents live, it would still have been quite a risk. But I decided to do it right in the city where they live. Where I was born and lived for a long time. Moreover, at a time when I knew that the police had distributed my photos to public transit drivers and instructed them to report me if they saw me. I knew they were after me. I knew that I was in the database of people wanted by the police. Despite all that, I decided to do everything I could to reconnect with friends and family. Was it foolish? Probably, but not incomprehensible. If a person has been feeling the pain of losing contact with loved ones for a long time, they will try to restore it, even if it means getting arrested if things go wrong. And in the end, things did go wrong. I ran into a police patrol consisting of a man I’ve known since childhood. He recognized me. He obeyed orders and arrested me. He did it even though there was no personal conflict between us. He could have let me go without risking much harm to himself. He decided to act on his assholish tendencies.

Most assholes aren’t born that way. Circumstances turn them into assholes. For this particular guy, putting on a uniform and gaining police authority helped make him one.

After I was arrested, I spent seven months in prison. I was charged in the Fénix 2 case. I may publish my memoirs of my time in prison at a later date. But now that I’m out of prison, I’m thinking about how we can reach a point where there are no prisons, no states, and no class society.

“Lukáš, you should know that any amount of time in prison feels like an eternity. You’ll forget a lot of names and places. You won’t be the same person you were before you got ‘in there.’ That ‘former’ life will fall away like a shell; all that will remain are your values, beliefs, and the people close to you. Everything else in life is uncertain and fleeting. You have to go through it, suffer through it, endure it, and preserve and strengthen your values and beliefs. This is how people become true warriors—tenacious, determined, and unbreakable. Now I’m even grateful for this school of life. It gave me a second wind, and I met a lot of great people. You’ll meet them, too. Prison brings us together. Don’t regret anything; a new world lies ahead.”

Note: Ihar Alinevich wrote the following words to me in prison in January 2017. Note: He wrote this to me after he was released from prison. However, he was imprisoned again in the fall of 2020.