Misunderstanding Russia, Russians, The Soviet Union, The Russian Empire, and Eurasia (Excerpt from the 1990s novel "The Union Muzhik)

 

“That’s not all about it. You will find some kibbutzim and moshavim where people dance gopak, trepak and the different compositions of the lands they emigrated from around campfires at night. Even little children sing ballads from Morocco, Iraq, and Yemen. I didn’t mention the fact that they danced polka and mazurka in my kibbutz. I don’t have to belittle the obvious by saying that those compositions are from the west of our dead Soviet Union.”

“Don’t say that, Comrade Andrei Yeremenko. Even though the Soviet Union is dead, our union—the Soyuz Republic of Muzhiks—is still alive and waxing strong. We are reliving the Soviet Union in another form,” the slightly agitated Mikhail Pugo reproached in a monotone.

Yeremenko smiled in self-reproof. “You are right, my dear comrade. I see a successful experiment here, something our misled people can look up to and conclude that they made a mistake by allowing the Soviet Union to collapse. Our success can awaken their nostalgia for the good old and peaceful days. Perhaps our people may decide to come together again.”

Boris shielded his face with the back of his hand and brooded. His recollection of the Soviet Union’s demise was so depressing that he did not know what to say or do. He was still grappling with his unsettling emotions when the clatter of chairs and footsteps around him registered faintly in his subconscious mind, prompting him to raise his head slightly. That could mean only one thing. More people were gathering around to share in the daily tavern discourse. Boris sighed and opened his eyes again, willing himself to be a part of the whole amicable mood around.

“Old Comrade Boris!” Taidje Khanilov called and tapped Boris on the back, stirring him out of his silent melancholy.

“Ah, Comrade Taidje, my friend from the tundra,” Boris replied and shook Taidje’s hand, “Take a seat and join your Union-Muzhik friends. I’m glad you made it here as promised,” he added good-naturedly.

As Taidje busied himself with the search for a seat, the reverberating sound of footsteps could be heard all around the tavern ground, signaling the arrival of more men and women. Most of the new arrivals appeared to have a common thought that resonated in different forms as they gathered around to share in the informative and serene discourses that were the hallmark of the tavern. They wanted to know the identity of the stranger Boris Petrenkov brought with him.

Boris carried on in an oblivious manner like someone indifferent to the developments around him, “Ah, our union!” he exclaimed and sighed as if that would make a difference, “My only consolation now is that we have a new union here in a miniature form. It is a microcosm of our betrayed Soviet Union’s people, in a more successful form, I must add. It is something we must cherish until our last days.”

“I agree with Comrade Boris. Our Soyuz Republic is a noble dream come true, something we should never forsake for all the allure of the outside world,” Taidje said forcefully.

“Phew! What a time we are living through, Comrade Boris. There is tension every day and everywhere in the lands that are close to our hearts. Today, people who were born in lands they adopted and called home are afraid to mention their ancestral origins in public. Even union-nationalists like us, who before were thought to have steel nerves, have become embarrassingly nervous regarding the future of our people in the former Soviet Republics,” Kerbalay muttered, sighed, and then sat back in his seat.

“It is sad,” Eno Gallinin, an ethnic Estonian, bellowed, and then distinguished himself in the crowd by getting up from his seat.

“Explain that!” several voices in the crowd queried him.

“Comrades, I was born in Narva, a town in Eastern Estonia. Minorities, especially people of Russian nationality, make an estimated forty percent of Estonia’s population.”

“What is your point?” Mikhail Pugo bellowed.

“Comrade Pugo, you were born in the fairly Latvian border town of Ludza, so you know what I’m talking about,” Eno Gallinin stuttered.

“Nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet!” Mikhail Pugo growled, “How am I supposed to know what you mean when you have been blabbering about nothing in particular, for all I know?”

“Forget about your comrade friend and tell us the worries that have been plaguing your mind. Don’t worry. I’m getting the trend of your thoughts. Besides, you know very well that he becomes normal only after his fourth shot of vodka,” Taidje said light-heartedly.

“Thanks, Comrade Taidje! My point is that Narva is a border town with Russia. And the majority of its inhabitants are our Russian brothers. Wouldn’t you question the strangeness of the actions of our feeble-minded leaders in Tallinn who have built a border post in Narva, with the sole intention of breaking the age-old flow of human and material traffic to and from Russia that passes through Narva?” Eno Gallinin said with a look of disdain on his face.

“Hmm, a deliberate attempt to create hatred where it does not exist,” Yeremenko said.

“What is that supposed to mean, I ask you?” Eno Gallinin bellowed and then looked around him at the faces of the tavern occupants.

“What is that supposed to mean?” another voice asked.

“The authorities in Tallinn are implying that Russians by ethnicity or by nationality or even by adoption who call Estonia home would have to use passports for the short-distance drive across the border to see their relatives and friends in the Russian Federation or even to do business over there. That is even beside the point. The Estonian government is practicing ethnic cleansing, though in a subtle way.”

“What are you talking about? Ethnic cleansing is a hard combination of words to use, my friend, especially when we associate it with gun-toting thugs in the former Yugoslavia, Iraq, Morocco, and Sudan.”

“There is a reason behind my extreme denunciation, my dear comrades. Even minorities who were born in Estonia are being refused citizenship rights unless they prove their proficiency in the Estonian language. Such a surprising prerequisite defies a major law of nature. The bandits in Tallinn left no room for adaptation to come into play in this case. Do they consider the feelings of those who fought for Estonia’s freedom and of those who labored hard for its reconstruction and prosperity? Did they think of how those fellows would fare before depriving them of their rights in the Estonia they call home? Do they feel the hurt of these people who now find themselves relegated to the status of second-class citizens?”

“Preposterous!” somebody protested from the crowd.

“Preposterous! Preposterous! Preposterous! I’m glad you think it is preposterous. I fully accept your point of view vis-à-vis the situation over there. Dear comrades, please rally behind me and declare to the whole world that the actions of the fundamental nationalists in Estonia constitute abuses of humanity or violations of human rights.”

“Don’t you think you are being too judgmental in a very hard way?” Boris interjected.

“Not at all, Comrade Boris. Their policies constitute abuses, especially if you look at it from the perspective of a patriot who fought so bravely for the liberation of Estonia from Nazi Germany during the Great Patriotic War, or from the point of view of the other who worked hard for its reconstruction and development. Those two categories of patriots have every reason to feel betrayed in their genuine feelings for Estonia. They could even be more committed to the wellbeing of Estonia than the feeble-minded demagogues in Tallinn. Tell me, my dear comrades. Is such an irrational form of discrimination an embodiment of civilization or the twisted price to pay for independence?” Eno Gallinin asked.

“No, no, no…neither, neither, neither...no, no, no…neither, neither, neither…” the tavern occupants shouted in unanimity.

“No, no, no! Of course, the answer is no, my dear comrades. Tell the gangsters in Tallinn whose forebears sided with the Nazis that you, I, and all the rational-minded people out there in the world think they are pimps. We think they are pimps who forgot that they, too, have testicles that can be chopped off,” Eno Gallinin declared and sighed in exasperation.

“I will repeat your views verbatim and make sure they appear next Thursday as a front-page story in our national newspaper,” Mikhail Pugo said.

“And the sad thing is that the hypocritical Western World, known for claiming to be more advanced in civilized values, is quiet about this,” Eno proceeded as if he had not heard Mikhail Pugo.

“Why do you bring up the West again as if you have forgotten that they put their interests above everything else, even above the values they profess to uphold,” Boris said.

 “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if we learn tomorrow that they are giving their tacit support to the new leaders in the Baltic republics. Some people in the West still think that their tacit support for the xenophobes is another way of sticking two fingers up at people like us who still think Marx and Lenin found the true key to humanity’s harmony,” Eno said on a sad note.

“Tell us, my dear comrades! Please tell us, Comrade Boris, and Comrade Kerbalay! What is going on? What is wrong with the leaders of the countries that emerged from the demise of the Soviet Union?” Petro Polanski, a Pole by ethnicity, asked.

Boris did not offer an answer. Only a sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes and brooded.

Kerbalay thought of keeping his feelings to himself, but the expectant looks on the faces of the men and women around rekindled his spirits and stirred his blood into a state of robust effusiveness. “Comrade Eno!” he called, his agitation rising.

“What have I done now?” Eno Gallinin responded in a teasing manner.

“I was about to say that you revived my rancor by reminding us of the scandalous developments in the lands of the former Soviet Union. Never forget this: We still hold those lands that constituted the Soviet Union dearly because they are the embodiment of our hearts, even though the discriminatory nature of present-day politics excludes us for no apparent reason. We should never forget the fact that the current leaders of those republics deem it so.”

“Madness!” Mikhail Pugo growled.

“I agree with you, my dear comrade. There is no better word to describe the situation in the republics that came out of the Soviet Union. It is madness in its absolute form, my dear brothers and sisters. Please tell me! What has taken over the minds of our people?” Kerbalay asked gruffly, and then sighed.

“You will find the answer after emptying a bottle of vodka down your throat?” Eno Gallinin roared.

“Huh!” Kerbalay grunted and rested his right hand on the bar stool in a majestic manner, “My dear comrades, I’m a Tatar by birth. A Crimean Tatar, I must remind you. My grandfather caused the deportation of his family from Crimea because of his role in the Tatar collaboration with the Nazis during the Great Patriotic War. As Soviets, we lost more than ten percent of our population in that war—more than twenty million Soviet citizens died fighting the Nazis and their allies in the Great Patriotic War, thus safeguarding all that Comrade Lenin spent his entire life building. The point is that Stalin ordered the removal of Crimean Tatars from their homeland and sent them to different parts of the Soviet Union. The authorities settled our family with many other Crimean Tatars in the Bashkir Autonomous Republic, among other places. My dear comrades, I admit my grandfather was a blind nationalist. He was as blind as the new leaders in the republics today.”

“Then, why didn’t the authorities hang him or send him to the gulags, or why didn’t they shoot him and leave him to groan in pain and bleed to death in the streets like that mother of all traitors,” Yury Turchuk, a Zaporozhian Cossack from Dnepropetrovsk, bellowed in a hoarse voice.

“Stepan Bandera, you mean?” an anonymous voice in the tavern asked. It sounded so timid, indicating that the speaker did not want to be in the spotlight.

“Of course, it is Stepan Bandera I’m talking about. Who else do you think could have sold himself so cheaply to our enemies, the Nazis?” Yury Turchuk said.

“I agree with you, my Zaporozhian comrade. Stepan Bandera is a traitor to Ukrainians, to all the nationalities that lost sons during the Great Patriotic War and to all the countries that stood up against Hitler and the evil of Nazism. If you want me to be clear about my point, then this is what I must say: His case is extremely painful because he is the scorn of the past, present and future generations of our people. His collaboration caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Soviet citizens. Those losses could have been avoided. Now, back to my lineage,” Kerbalay said in a spirited voice.

“Back to your story! Excuse me for causing the digression by mentioning the name of that schmuck,” Yury Turchuk offered.

“Apology accepted! Now, I was talking about my grandfather. Guess what? His son, who is my father, turned out to be a staunch Soviet patriot who did the incredible thing of defying his almost two-meter-tall father by marrying a Mari woman. This woman’s mother stated on her marriage certificate that her mother was a Byelorussian, even though she did not know her maternal grandfather. That is my lineage, my comrades. Now, you can understand why I try to be rational whenever I talk about people, their origins, and the degree of their entitlement to the places they want to call home.”

“You are a humanist?” Boris said.

“I try to be one, Dear Comrade Boris. I try to be different from the group I’m often associated with. Please do not hold unnatural feelings against people like me because some of our dumb-witted Volga Tatars are pressing for the Tatar Autonomous Republic to secede from the Russian Federation. I’m actually tempted to rejoice because one can look at it as payback or vindication to Boris Yeltsin and his gang.”

“What do you mean?” Mikhail Pugo asked.

“You know the pivotal role the Boris Yeltsin-led Russia played in the breakup of the Soviet Union, don’t you? But I shouldn’t be joyful at all. Yes, I shouldn’t be happy about it because if I do, then I would be like the crazy and blind ethnic-nationalists in the different republics that emerged from the Soviet Union.”

“Allow me to chip in a word or two on the growing Tatar sentiments for secession. I see your emotions are getting the better of you,” Temudin Yakov, another Crimean Tatar in the crowd, offered.

Kerbalay nodded in acceptance, looking broodier than before.

“Comrades, please allow me to express my soft side. The Volga Tatar issue is a highly disheartening one for accommodating souls like us. There is a rising clamor in the autonomous republic of Tatarstan for its secession from the Russian Federation. That does not mean the secessionists are in a majority. The uproar is coming only from the dumb-witted and selfish Volga Tatars who reside in that homeland. Only about thirty percent of the Volga Tatar people are in Tatarstan. There were close to eight million Tatars in 1989. Mustn’t Volga Tatars who reside outside the republic have a say in determining the nature of relations between ethnic Tatars and the other nationalities from the Soviet Union, especially if the relationship is about to be altered?”

“They certainly should,” Boris mumbled.

“My concern is that if the Volga Tatar nationalists accomplish an inconsiderate independence and feed their nationalism on discrimination like our stupid Baltic leaders are doing, then we should expect one outcome only.”

“What’s that?” Mikhail Pugo asked.

“Bear with me, my comrades. I won’t be surprised if these ultra-nationalists lead the Volga Tatars to trample on the rights of the forty-five percent ethnic Russians and the seven percent Chuvashes, Mordvinians, Udmurts and other smaller nationalities. Fear of repercussions, my comrades, has prevented an explosion thus far. But it is hard to imagine hostilities not breaking out when the growing Volga Tatar nationalism becomes xenophobic, and the xenophobes start suppressing the rights of Tatarstan’s minorities?”

“Madness, madness,” somebody in the crowd bellowed.

“Perhaps madness is the right word for the situations in the lands of our hearts,” Yakov continued, “Comrades, we should expect a backlash if things degenerate. The backlash would be on the innocent Volga Tatars who reside beyond the borders of the Tatarstan Autonomous Republic. Imagine the nature of the chaos that would ensue if all the minorities assert their rights and pick up arms? Mind you, we are on a time bomb that the irrational nationalism of our people is only strengthening. I fear the repercussions if it explodes. Hmm, I fear a boomerang in the lands we all cherish. That boomerang may even be worse than the unfortunate developments we are witnessing today in what was before a peaceful Yugoslavia.”

“It is sad,” Boris said with a sigh.

“I am puzzled by man’s tendency to be exclusive in the group he wants to identify with. It is as if all of us are not of mixed heritage? Yes, there is hardly anyone here with a pure lineage,” Yakov said and picked up his drink.

 “You are right, Comrade Temudin. All of us here are mongrels,” Taidje interjected.

“No, I’m not. I’m a full-blooded Kazakh,” objected the twenty-nine-year-old Nursultan Bazayev, who only twenty days ago won the National Chess Championship.

“What do you know, my young comrade?” Taidje said with a seriousness in his voice that made Nursultan push back the words he was about to utter. “Yes, you are a Kazakh today, a Kazakh of the Little Juz or Western subgroup. Tell me, what were the people you came from a hundred, two hundred, five hundred or a thousand years ago?”

“You tell us,” Nursultan Bazayev chortled.

“For your information, the Little Juz people are from the Nogais people, whom the Kazakhs defeated four hundred years ago. Interbreeding followed that defeat, and today, the Nogais people of that area identify themselves as Kazakhs.”

“Yes, all of us are mixed breeds,” Peter Miller, an English journalist who was dawdling with his bottle of beer, shouted from the counter, and then leaped from his barstool and faced Taidje.

“What do you mean by that, my foreign comrade? Permit me to call you comrade, even though you are yet to prove to us that you are not here to feed the West with false information about our true achievements,” Taidje said.

“I’m English,” Peter began with a ring of excitement in his voice. “But what were my people centuries or even millennia ago? Anglos and Saxons, they say; Children of Roman soldiers before that, and even cavemen who might have emigrated from the Middle East. I’m considered an Englishman today, for the simple reason that I identify with the English culture, language, food, territory, and history.”

“You are right, our English friend,” said Yunis Selouane, who, as a brilliant teenager, won a scholarship to study medicine in the Soviet Union, “What am I? Who am I? I’m a Moroccan. A millennium and a half ago, our people identified themselves as Imazighen or Berbers, or as Moors and even more. They can’t even say for sure who they were two, three or four millennia ago. Even though the Arabs conquered our people twelve hundred years ago, their influence was limited to the cities and plains. You may not know this, but my grandfather, whose father spoke the Berber tongue called Tamazight, only picked up Arabic after he moved to the city. Before that, he could hardly understand a word in the language from Arabia, being the illiterate that he was. All his grandchildren speak Arabic today, and quite a few of my relatives have Arab blood running through their veins. So, who am I? Am I an Arab, a Berber, a Francophone, or a Moroccan? What would they call my children, whose mother is Udmurt?”

“You are a Union-Muzhik,” Mikhail Pugo shouted.

“I’m a Union-Muzhik too,” Benjamin De Maas chipped in with a raised voice. “I was born in Moscow and call the Soyuz Republic home.”

“No, you are not. You are a South African, and you are considered colored if you need me to be more precise about it. Hah…hah, hah, my Union-Muzhik friend,” Mikhail Pugo laughed and patted Benjamin on his shoulder, “I’m waiting to hear our Zulu comrade’s opinion on this,” he whispered into Benjamin’s ear.

“I consider myself a South African by origin, so I won’t allow anybody to say anything about it,” Benjamin De Maas articulated, assertively moving his shoulders.

“Preposterous. Your parents spoke Afrikaans as their mother tongue. That’s the language you spoke at home as a child. Your English isn’t good enough either, and you can hardly speak a word in any of our African languages. You say you are colored, but I consider you a Griqua,” Thabo Madlala, Benjamin’s Zulu friend, interjected.

“Don’t go there, my friend. I’m proud of my mixed heritage. In fact, I hold no grudge against my Dutch ancestors and extol the Khoisan side of my lineage. Now, do you want to run your mouth? Get on with it. My Khoisan ancestors called South Africa home millennia before your marauding Bantu ancestors, and the thieving Dutch almost drove them into extinction. I’m partly a product of their survival, yet you, the descendant of recent settlers in South Africa, think I’m not South African enough? Madness!”

“Consider my point a joke. That’s how I meant it. Believe me, I applaud you for standing up strong in making your point. You and I can identify ourselves as South Africans by origin and Union-Muzhiks by choice.”

“That’s my point. I curse ethnic nationalism in all its forms. My patria vera, or true fatherland, is the place that enriches my soul. That’s why we are union-nationalists,” Benjamin articulated.

 “It is sad! The developments going on in the lands of our people horrify me,” announced Nikolai Mazepa, a Zaporozhian Cossack from Ukraine.

 “What have you known all your life besides sadness? Didn’t you reject your mother’s breast milk when you were just five months old, and deprived her of the joy of motherhood even further by clawing at the tits of every woman who carried you, even though all you truly wanted was cereal?” Mikhail Pugo said.

 “To blazes with you, Comrade Mikhail,” Nikolai Mazepa shot back.

 “To blazes, I go. Now, what is your story?”

“I was about to say that my maternal grandfather told me colorful stories when I was a boy. He was a Don Cossack from Russia and talked proudly of his forefathers who participated in the grim campaigns that resulted in the exploration and consolidation of new lands. They encountered new peoples that they did a good job of befriending. The new nationalities became their compatriots, their brothers, and their sisters. I have Yakut blood in my veins. I’m part Kazakh, Komi, Buryat, Russian, Lithuanian, and Armenian. However, my Cossack blood is the one that dominates. I embrace people who cherish the land I love. I embrace all of them as my true compatriots. Tell me, my dear comrades! How many of our immobile compatriots think that way? How many of them can discard their prejudices? How many of them are capable of accepting other nationalities based on common values and common interests?”

“People with your mindset are numbered like trees in the tundra,” Kerbalay interjected…

 

The Union Moujik