I try not to look there for a long time, — well, you understand where, — but in vain, because it will still catch up. Well, firstly, with “Kalibrs” and “Gerans.” And secondly, with such messages, eloquent in themselves and doubly eloquent considering the timing.
This is what I encountered on my friend’s social media: she was contacted, however funny it may sound, from Russia by a libertarian whom she mentioned in her post without naming. The libertarian, once nominally ours, recognized herself and began to give us moral evaluations, I emphasize, directly from there. She introduces herself as the wife of the famous Ukrainian artist Leonid Voitsekhov. Indeed, there was such a person: an Odessan, a member of the “Southern Russian Wave” circle (sic!), a painter, a performance artist. He was quite a decent artist, by the way. In 1987, he moved to Moscow, which was still trendy then. He exhibited. He died.
So the wife, like her husband, is a former Odessan. Today, right now, in response to our cold-war, she states that Odesa is being “sacrificed.” Just Odesa? And who, interestingly enough, is sacrificing it? Tell me, who?! Instead of explaining, she quotes her late husband (quoting in the original language because the intonation is important): “Here, on this land [on this land — meaning in Ukraine], nothing will change without destroying everything… [my italics — Y. M.]. We are lucky — we will see it all ourselves… I foresee how the Orange supporters [written two years after the Orange Revolution] will be caught in the woods like wild animals. For now, everywhere in the city, there are inscriptions: ‘May you be cursed, those who brought us to Maidan!’ For now, they write this, and in late autumn, they will start writing in blood on the snow. The main formula of Christianity has been forgotten, the one that turned it from a sect of Judaism into a world religion — ‘there is neither Greek nor Jew… [well, we know this without him, the Lord spoke about the practice of religion, but the migrant is referring to his own]… there is neither Russian nor Ukrainian’. […] The rams butt their heads. Soon, their horns will be broken off, along with their heads.”
I remind you, it’s 2006, there is no Language Law yet, Yanukovych is Prime Minister, Ukrainian books are scarce, there is no Ukrainian dubbing, radio and television are mostly in Russian, and there is the Great Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation, yet he, the poor guy, is burning in Moscow. The wife now adds: “And a small remark from me personally: as long as you, Ukrainian cultural figures ™, continue to fuel hatred, yes, unfortunately, innocent people will die who have nothing to do with this ‘clash of civilizations’ or the redistribution of money and territories in the interest of empires.”
To sum up just in case: no one knows who is causing the destruction or in whose interests it is, but the root cause is Ukrainian cultural figures inciting hatred, while the rest of the Ukrainians are somehow stubborn. An ideal Moscow formula, functional. Got it. It’s not much of an achievement to chastise a self-sufficient widow, but it’s not about the personal simple worldview of a recent Muscovite, it’s about the worldview of the so-called creative elites in the Third Rome. There is complete unity between the creative class and Putin, one might say, conciliarity. We are always lost in conjectures: well, okay, there are those driven mad by the restoration of the empire, there are those who profit from it, there are those in a boat who can’t get out, and there are those brainwashed… But the artists, the bohemians, the intellectuals — why them, what’s in it for them? That’s why.
After Independence, some of our citizens in the process of self-identification categorically refused national ties and decided to embrace the empire by relocation, God be their judge. There, on the wave of boundless… not even cynicism, boundless emptiness, a so-called ideology was born. Their metropolis essentially is all newcomers, and so it formed its own “moral code” through empirical means, which includes contempt for previous places of residence as a key component. As well as general disdain, a sense of one’s own perfection and superiority. The imperial matrix at the level of individual fate has proven to each of them the fallacy of morality as a brake on success. Ultimately, it’s tedious to delve into the motivations and decision-making mechanisms of the damned Moscow elites, it’s unnecessary for us, we have already understood and tested it on ourselves.
It is much more productive to explore the evolution of those who stayed at home but still, let’s imagine, have not identified themselves. Some are conscious “waiters,” a potential fifth column that is lying low, and they are more or less clear. Some seem to have identified as political Ukrainians, but they ecstatically cling to Bulgakov, often with the subtext: “I’m, of course, for all good things, but your Ukraine as such… I couldn’t care less.” Claims regarding indifference to the language and culture supposedly of their own country up to complete disregard are called nationalism. And there are others who, in search of spiritual fulfillment, have identified themselves as citizens of the world — we know, we’ve seen. However, they are not awaited in the big world, so they remain here, minimal-scale cosmopolitans.
This is not a unique phenomenon: the English in Ireland since the 1920s, the French in Algeria after 1962, not to mention the British in India. But those who chose to stay still had to decide sooner or later who they were. Let’s not talk about globalization or the experience of a united Europe. I have a cousin, half Bulgarian, half Russian by origin, who studied in Switzerland, got a job in Spain, married a German woman, and they had three sons. I ask, “What will they be?” They answer me: “Spaniards.” And another cousin in Australia married a Chinese woman, what will little Alex be when he grows up? Australian. There are libraries of memoirs and shelves of research on this topic. Among the precedents, we can mention famous artists. Rachmaninoff ultimately became American (yes, yes, American, you can keep listening to the 3rd concerto without guilt), Sikorsky was American. And Romain Gary and Henri Troyat were French. Mikhail Shishkin (the one who participated in a discussion where Andrukhovych got bitten) is Swiss, even though he still writes half of his texts in Russian and translates them into German himself. Whoever I call myself, that’s what I am. No one cancels anamnesis, but it can be preserved or overcome, which is also a moral choice.
Endless and equally pointless discussion. Nonetheless, belonging to an “imagined community” (B. Anderson) is a basic need for everyone, even despite multiple identities. If you don’t want to choose, you’ll constantly feel symptoms of seasickness. You might not make a final decision, life will decide for you. One of the markers: who will your children be? What language will the inscription on your grave be in? That’s why even if three generations of your family have lived on this land, or rather, especially if for three generations, and you haven’t rooted in it yet… Well, get rooted, it’s never too late. Whoever is in your headphones or on your tablet is no one’s business, but decide which country your heart aches for more. If none, and such functions are not provided for you by default settings, that’s your personal matter, just don’t preach. Sermons mostly come from “cosmopolitans” who have left the country, some quite recently: “nationalism… multiplicity… freedom of thought…” — you know who I mean. They certainly would have holed up in their mental cradle, but it’s scary there, they might be labeled a foreign agent or extremist, so better this way. And some stayed at home (at home?) and preach as well—it’s safe here, as, apparently, the “bloody regime” doesn’t imprison.
The big war has significantly simplified the choice. Cities that were previously particularly Moscow-centric, like Odesa, are quickly homogenizing and humanizing. People naturally ask themselves (at least those capable of it): if I am being killed just for belonging to this nation, maybe I do belong to it? A formula so elementary in its fundamentals becomes a guide on the long route of “who am I? where am I? with whom am I?” The process of indigenization is gradual, and it could be accelerated only under the condition of conscious cultural policy of the state. I immediately hear indignant voices: they stubbornly refused for thirty-five years, let them make efforts now. This is primarily said by those who recognize only bans and orders in raised tones among all cultural mechanisms. I would prosecute such people for sabotage and harmfulness, but who would listen to me. In any case, in terms of impetus for belated adaptation, a good word and a “shahid” work better than just a good word.
If you insist on sticking to the childhood phantoms, Yahweh, Zarathustra, Christ, and Muhammad will punish you: your soul will wither and become capable of spawning rotten hatred in the manner of the outburst I quoted at the beginning.
