“The task was insane: prepare someone in a very short time so they can sit at a news desk and not drown.”
On Saturday at eight in the morning, Warsaw is usually quiet and sleepy. But in a coworking space in the Zoliborz district, Alina is already wide awake. She gets up at five to make it to her “Saturday Journalism School” classes on time. Just a few days earlier, she’d arrived in Warsaw from New York, after deciding it was time to become what she had always wanted to be: a journalist.
Volha Shved, one of the Saturday Journalism School’s coordinators, remembers their very first exchange almost as a joke.
“We could accept you,” she wrote carefully, “but the course is offline. You live in New York, and we’re in Warsaw …”
“I know,” Alina replied. “I’ll just move.”
And she did.
The Saturday Journalism School is an intensive, in-person training program designed to help Belarusians without prior experience enter the profession. Over 10 consecutive Saturdays, participants learn the basics of news production, reporting, and editorial work through hands-on practice rather than lectures. The course was created as a response to the collapse of journalism education in Belarus and recruitment pathways for Belarusians in exile.
In just 10 weeks it turns beginners into authors, and disoriented newcomers into journalists who go on to win awards. All of this happens in small rented rooms in two cities, home to many exiled Belarusians, where faith in the profession is still somehow alive.
and other terms of the trade.
A Course Built to Fill a Void
For Shved, Alina’s story underscores how education in exile should work: if someone is willing to change continents for a course, it means the program hits a nerve. But the idea for the Saturday Journalism School germinated long before their first conversation.
In the wake of the mass protests that followed Belarus’s disputed 2020 presidential election, independent media in the country were systematically dismantled. Journalists were among thousands of people detained and sentenced; newsrooms were raided; outlets were shut down; and many reporters were forced into exile. As a result, much of Belarusian journalism now operates from abroad, under constant financial and human pressure.
Back in 2022, the foreign-based Belarusian Association of Journalists and Press Club Belarus had already started talking about what to do with the growing vacuum inside Belarusian media. Newsrooms in exile were stretched to the limit: some colleagues who stayed in Belarus were in prison, others had fled, and many had burned out and left the profession altogether. New people simply weren’t coming – because the entry point to journalism had collapsed.
“Editors were literally telling us: guys, we need new journalists – right now,” recalls Shved, a Press Club Belarus member. “There was no [substitute] bench, no pipeline. It became clear that we couldn’t rely on universities anymore” – because they were being forced to echo official state ideology. “Even if everything magically changed in Belarus tomorrow, newsrooms would have no one to lean on.”
The initial idea for such a course originated with Press Club Belarus. The Belarusian Association of Journalists joined in developing the program when the Press Club found the money to implement it. The school is a joint project of the two associations and Free Press for Eastern Europe, with financial support from the European Commission.
The idea of a journalism course became more than an educational project. It became a response to a structural crisis. Newsrooms needed people. People needed a way in. And the project needed to be more than just a set of lectures.
To make that entry point real, they needed someone who understood how journalism works in places where the system still functions. That’s how Katya Gorchinskaya, a Ukrainian journalist with years of experience in Western media, joined the project. She was finishing a journalism textbook, and based the school’s curriculum on the same basic principles.
“The task was insane: prepare someone in a very short time so they can sit at a news desk and not drown,” Gorchinskaya says. “Not just an enthusiastic person who ‘likes writing,’ but an entry-level reporter who understands standards and can handle facts.”
The program wasn’t built like a typical diaspora course, heavy on lectures and inspiration. It was designed as a practical, hands-on school. Less beautiful theory, more actual work. Fewer abstractions, more tools. In Warsaw alone, 33 people completed the first two modules, trained by 21 coaches, most of whom were working editors and journalists from Belarusian media outlets.
“We knew theory would just fly past people unless they tried it immediately,” Gorchinskaya explains. “But time was tight, so we had to force the theory in – just enough to give structure without suffocating the practice.”
Even during preparation, it became clear: if this worked, it wouldn’t be “a course,” but an infrastructure – a small journalism school functioning where all other schools had been destroyed. The result was a three-level program, each module consisting of 10 intense Saturday sessions.
“We knew we were building something that had to replace a missing system – not imitate it, but give people a fast, workable way in,” Shved says. “And when the first applications started coming in, it became clear that the demand was enormous.”
Some students came because they had always dreamed of writing. Others because exile had destroyed their previous careers. Some were sent by their newsrooms. And a few, like Alina, simply decided it was time to stop living someone else’s life.
Alina’s Journey
The 33-year-old woman we call Alina (her name has been changed to protect her family in Belarus) was born in Belarus, later relocating to New York, where she worked as a dental assistant – and kept feeling that she wanted something completely different.
“I needed to understand whether journalism was really mine,” she says. “I’m a creative person, I always wanted to be in the arts, but I never knew where to start. And then I saw this course. I thought: ‘Okay, I’ll try. But it has to be in person – so I’ll fly there.’”
She arrived in Warsaw at the start of this winter, rented a room, and showed up at her first class alongside dozens of others taking their first steps in journalism. And almost immediately she realized something important: entering the profession isn’t only about reporting skills, story structure, and leads – fear also enters in.
“I bought a recorder in the U.S. because I knew I wanted to do interviews, but I was terrified. I wasn’t even a journalist. What was I supposed to say I was?” Alina remembers.
Her first big leap happened at a local theater performance. She recognized well-known actors, knew she needed their comments, but her hands were shaking. “I told myself: ‘You left New York. This is why you came here. Go.’” The actors turned out to be open and kind; they gave her their comments – and her very first story was published not just anywhere, but by RFE/RL’s Radio Svoboda service.
“After that,” she says, “I realized I could try.”
A Reporting Bootcamp
Less than a year old, the Saturday Journalism School has already shown measurable results.
The first module, held in Vilnius and Warsaw from March to May 2025, became a real test of whether the idea would survive contact with reality. Thirty-two aspiring journalists completed the course. Over 10 Saturdays, they produced 58 stories that were published in independent Belarusian media – many of them first-ever publications for their authors. Stories by students appeared in such well-known Belarusian media outlets as Hrodna.life, Nasha Niva, CityDog, and others.
Even more strikingly, thanks to the course nine graduates found real jobs – some on news desks, others as freelancers, others in cultural media.
Buoyed by the promising results of the first module, a second school was held from October to December 2025, again in Warsaw and Vilnius, cities where many exiled Belarusians have found new homes. This time the students were already working in the media. The sessions deepened basic skills and introduced participants to a completely different system of producing content: more structured, more reader-oriented, more aligned with Western standards of quality.
And in spring 2026, the team will launch the third module – an advanced specialization track in video journalism, storytelling, reporting, and investigations. In other words, a path toward training the “strong mid-level journalists” Gorchinskaya hopes they will become.
When the very first cohort sat down at their (school) desks last spring, it became clear that this wasn’t just a course. It was a small newsroom running at full speed – every Saturday from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. for 10 weeks.
From the first session, participants are thrown into real editorial dynamics. No long lectures: a short theoretical block, and then straight into hands-on writing.
Even the opening “game” wasn’t really a game – it was diagnostics.
“At the start we gave them an exercise: take on newsroom roles, invent stories, build a news feed. It showed how they imagined an editorial team, how they made decisions,” recalls trainer and Green Belarus editor-in-chief Janina Melnikava.
“And at the end of the module, we gave them almost the same exercise – and the difference was enormous. People suddenly understood who does what, how roles work, where ideas come from.”
Gorchinskaya emphasizes that the school was built as a hybrid: Western methodologies shaped to fit the realities of reporting on Belarus from abroad, with reporters and editors dispersed over numerous cities and countries, forced to rely on sources, experts, and often other journalists who must remain anonymous for their own safety.
“Western journalism isn’t ‘the right journalism.’ It’s just a system that has proved effective,” she explains. “I never told them, ‘do it only this way.’ I told them, ‘understand the tools and apply them in your own environment. Journalism is a craft – and a craft is learned by doing, not by listening.’”
That’s why the course is built on writing, rewriting, and receiving feedback after every assignment.
In the first module, the emphasis was on basics: headlines, audience needs, the structure of a news story. But even here the trainers went far beyond the “classics.” What exactly is a news story? How do you write a headline that doesn’t make your editor wince? What is a “nut graph” and where does it belong?
“We were learning it ourselves!” Melnikava laughs. “At the trainer workshops, when they taught us about nut graphs, we – editors with 10 years of experience – were sitting there taking notes. And then we’d go and teach it to others.”
The school became a space where everyone learns – trainers and students alike. And as usual, the hardest part wasn’t the curriculum. It was the people.
“Each group is like a new newsroom. Different dynamics, different motivations, different speeds,” Melnikava says. “Sometimes you have to slow down, sometimes push. And you never know in advance how it will go.”
The intensity, the workload, the constant practice: all of this creates an accelerated maturation effect. People who were afraid to open their mouths on day one are, by week 10, already defending their ideas, explaining their story structure, and producing short pieces that can go straight to an editor.
And some have cracked open a door into a profession they never even dared to imagine.
Learning by Doing
The course’s format – 10 Saturdays in a row – is brutal for the team behind it. How do you give people the maximum in such a short period of time? The answer, Gorchinskaya admits, is unpleasantly simple:
“The hardest part is knowing you’ll give significantly less than you’d like. There’s no choice: either we overload them with theory without practice, or we focus on practice and inevitably leave important things out. It’s the most painful compromise.”
That’s why each thematic session begins with the trainer giving a brief overview, and then jumps straight into practice. Participants are expected to work independently, learning the material by doing rather than listening.
In the second module everything gets harder: no more simple news items, but complex stories – not just writing a piece, but delivering it in a way that makes the reader exhale: “Wow.”
The material isn’t presented in a vacuum. It’s tied to real newsrooms, real mentors, real assignments, real deadlines. That accelerates growth, and at the same time lays bare every weak spot.
This is where one of the school’s biggest successes begins: the stories of people who came in with no experience and suddenly discovered they could do far more than they ever imagined.
When asked how the trainers knew the program was working, Gorchinskaya answers calmly:
“We wanted someone, after the first module, to be able to walk into a news desk and not drown. To fit in, not freeze up, not panic. And we saw that. We saw even more than we expected.”
Several graduates have already won awards in the annual Volnae slova (Free Speech) competition hosted by the Belarusian Association of Journalists. Many now freelance or work in newsrooms.
Melnikava sees the same transformation:
“We have a guy in our newsroom who had zero journalistic background. After the course, he started writing deep, structured stories. Before that, it would’ve been impossible.”
But success immediately leads to the next question: where will all these people work?
“The sector [of Belarusian journalism] is in a tough place, especially financially. We can train solid people, but we want to be sure they have somewhere to go. For now, they do find work – but stability would help everyone: those who teach and those who learn,” Melnikava says.
‘At the Factory You Work for Peanuts – and Then Pay a Therapist’
For Kryscina Barysava, another participant, the situation was different from Alina’s. She already had degrees from Belarusian and Polish universities. And yet even for her, the introductory module was a revelation:
“When I finished journalism school back home, I honestly didn’t understand what a lead was or what a focus was. I was a good student, but there was almost no practice. Here everything was clear: they give you the theory – no fluff – and then straight into practice.”
The way she remembers her internship in Belarusian state media sounds like a bleak caricature:
“You come to work, sit on a chair … Someone says: ‘Look, we don’t really have anyone to supervise you.’ In the end, you just sign some papers and leave. You don’t write anything. You don’t do anything.”
Against this background, the course became a moment of crystallization: suddenly she could see that work could bring meaning, not burnout.
“I finally felt confident. I’d rather hang out with colleagues and earn modest money doing what I love than suffer at the factory I had to go to after [I went into] exile. If you’re in a job you hate, you pay for it anyway – if not with time, then with nerves. And then you take that money to a therapist.”
In the end, Barysava quit the factory, stayed on for an internship at MOSTmedia, and began working as a full-time reporter.
She repeats the same sentence twice, as if testing it:
“I realized I can do this. I really can.”
Many of the participants didn’t believe they could ever become journalists. They had no degree, no experience, and no newsroom behind them.
For some, everything shifted.
“You start doing homework not because you ‘have to,’ but because you want to,” Barysava says. “Because it’s exciting to try something new. Because you want to use it at work the very next day.”
The team behind the course has no illusions: the project runs on grant support, and that funding may end at any moment. But there’s a strong sense that if the course disappears, the last real entry point for young Belarusian journalists will disappear with it.
Katya Gorchinskaya puts it plainly:
“We do this because there’s no alternative. We have to pass this craft on. Otherwise, in a few years, there simply won’t be Belarusian journalism anymore.”
Tanya Hendzel is a freelance journalist specializing in environmental and social topics. Originally from Belarus, she is currently living in Belgium.
All photos courtesy of Saturday Journalism School.
