guest post series: laura in izhevsk

Today's insightful post comes from Laura in the Udmurt Republic.  I'm especially glad to have Laura's post on the blog because the Udmurt people are of the same Finno-Ugric lineage as the Karelians.  It's interesting to see the similarities and differences in the way ethnic culture is treated in two republics with some shared characteristics.  Thanks, Laura!

When I first came to the Udmurt Republic, I was eager to experience this new ethnic culture and learn more about these redheaded people (statistically, the second-most redheaded in the world, after the Irish) who have lived for more than 400 years alongside the Russians. Ever since Ivan the Terrible expanded Russia to include the Tatar Khanate, and along the way absorbed the Udmurt nation, Udmurts have lived in a Russian-dominated landscape. They were converted from nature-worshipping pagans to Russian Orthodoxy and assimilated many of the traditions of Russian village life.

Upon arriving in Izhevsk, the capital of the Udmurt Republic, I was surprised by how much it seemed like many other Russian cities; there was the same industrial decay and squat soviet architecture seen elsewhere in the country. Actually, thanks to a WWII initiative to move all “essential industry” away from the wartime front, the Udmurt Republic houses many nuclear, industrial, and weapons factories, including the maker of the AK-47. In the central square, which houses the republic’s Theater of Opera and Ballet, a decrepit TsUM (the ubiquitous soviet shopping mall), and two bustling movie complexes (one which is 3D), you can see an aged edifice of soviet power: an angular monument dedicated to the “Friendship of Peoples.” It is a vertical totem with three general motifs: it features the towering image of a hammer and sickle benevolently hanging above a male factory laborer and a female farmer who float over an anvil with a newly-minted gun. Because of its shape, locals affectionately call this monument “the clothespin” or the “Skis of Kulakova,” a famous Olympic gold medalist skier who is from the area.

There are a few hints in the capital of Udmurt national culture – the prevalence of wide-faced, almond-eyed redheads (which is generally how Udmurts look), cute clay whistles and wooden national instruments, mostly recreations from archaeological digs, and the existence of the Udmurt National Theater, where you can attend a number plays in Udmurt. A sad fact about the Udmurt National Theater, though, is that while the plays are in Udmurt, a Finno-Ugric language related to Finnish, Hungarian, Estonian, and Karelian, when the actors go out for a smoke break, they talk to each other in Russian. 

The Udmurt culture is dying, and it’s clear to see to those who are looking. There are a couple of vocal revival groups for Udmurt dance, song, national dress, and instruments, but generally speaking, people in Izhevsk think little of living in an internal republic within Russia, and consider Izhevsk more as a smaller city in Russia (at 600,000+ people, more than our nation’s capital Washington, DC, Izhevsk is the 19^th largest city in Russia) that lacks the prestige or job opportunities of Moscow or St. Petersburg.

There are some activists, however, who strive to increase cultural awareness and sensitivity, and to promote Udmurt national culture, language, and heritage. As one can imagine, they’re facing an uphill battle. For one, although many Udmurts who live in the small villages which make up much of the Udmurt Republic speak Udmurt to the exclusion of Russian in their families, Russian is the lingua franca. Furthermore, many Udmurts who leave their villages for better work opportunities and travel to Izhevsk (which houses approximately 60% of the republic’s population) frequently try to lose their Udmurt accent and abandon the language, since the accent associated with Udmurt speakers is considers rough and country bumpkinish. Every year less and less people self-identify as Udmurts on the census, because saying as much about one’s heritage means claiming a certain amount of social stigma as well. 

Another issue is that it’s difficult to determine how much of the Udmurt culture is left to preserve. A sad fact is Tsarist Russia, as well as the Soviet Union encouraged assimilation into a greater Russian culture. The Udmurts had a national epic, similar to the Kalevala, Finland’s national epic – set mostly in Karelia – which spurred ethnic pride and resolve to declare independence from Swedish and Russian influences. Unfortunately, the original compilation of ballads and tales was translated into Russian during the Soviet Union; somehow, in the meantime, the original was destroyed, and now the Udmurts are attempting to piece back their national epic and symbol of ethnic independence by translating it back from Russian into Udmurt. 

The activists I spoke to do have hope, though. In the time of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Hungarian was spoken only by peasants, while Hungarian nobles fled to live in Vienna and speak German. Estonians also faced a similar dilemma not that long ago, when barely any people at all spoke Estonian. Now, with a strong national movement, many Estonian-born Russians feel as though they are in a hostile country. I doubt anything so drastic will happen in the Udmurt Republic, but for the sake of cultural and linguistic preservation, I hope more Udmurts become proud of their cultural heritage and traditions.

beginning of the end

I somewhat abruptly taught my last classes on Friday.  I was under the impression that we had one more week of classes, but found out on Tuesday that this week is a short week, so by Friday (when I teach my own classes) the semester would already be over.  It felt a bit anticlimactic, but I suppose that's to be expected.  The only students I really made a connection with were my second-years, which meant they were the only ones it was hard to say goodbye to.  Afterward one of the students from that group posted on my Kontakte (Russian version of Facebook) profile "Super Dastin, you are cool!" with a picture he'd made of my face crudely pasted over Superman's body.  So that was endearing.  And weird.

Brief digression: I don't know if I've covered this on the blog before, but the Russian language doesn't have a short "u" sound as in "pub" or "mug."  Instead it's transliterated as "a," meaning my name is not Dustin but Dastin (sounds like "Daaastin").  It's quite humorous and everyone (including me) still gets a kick out of it.  But anyway, a consequence of this is that all of my students and nearly all of my colleagues think that my name is spelled with an "a" in English.  Hence, Super Dastin.

I'm quickly coming to the end of things here.  I've got an official return date of June 19--booked the ticket today--so now it's just about enjoying my time here as much as possible before I leave.  I'd like to do a bit of traveling in that time, but Karelia's northern location is working against me in that regard.  Many of the cities I'd like to visit--Kazan, Volgograd, Rostov, etc.--entail more than 24 hours on a train.  Given that I've made some actual friends here that I may never see again after I leave, I'm not really looking to go on a three-week tour of central/southern Russia.  Maybe I'll take a trip to Veliky Novgorod or Arkhangelsk.  We'll see.

Be sure to check back tomorrow for another guest post!

guest post series: pat in ufa

Big thank you to Pat for this excellent guest post.  Apologies are also in order; he got this to me a month ago and I've just now gotten around to posting it.  He's definitely had one of the most unique experiences of any of us Fulbrighters this year, so it's definitely worth the wait.  Without further ado, a candid look at a criminally overlooked area of post-Soviet Russia.

At first glance Ufa looks like any other Russian city. The average street is lined with bleak buildings and the occasional antique house brightly painted with ornate trimming, crammed with briskly walking citizens (80% of whom wear black and 50% of whom carry cigarettes), and named something very Communist or after a great writer. The difference in Ufa is that the street signs are in two languages: Russian and Bashkirian, two of the three languages (in addition to Tartar) that are commonly spoken throughout the Republic of Bashkortostan. One of the first things you learn no matter where you live in this sprawling country is that it’s not all a solid block of people wearing funny hats dancing the mazerka, but a patchwork of different cultures and ethnic groups. Ufans display their Bashkirian nationality with pride, by cheering on their hockey team, encouraging all foreigners to learn about their national hero Salavat Yulaev (their equivalent of George Washington), and by cooking the traditional dishes such as manti (giant dumplings) and balesh (meat and potato pie seasoned with bay leaves). 

This peculiar Bashkirian culture isn’t the only thing that makes me experience here unusual, even when compared to my fellow ETAs. Unlike my fellow ex-pats, I spend most of my time in the hospital. When I wrote my grant proposal to come here, I was finally completing my physics pre-med requirement and putting together my med school application package. I figured the best way to spend my interim year after graduation would be to teach English in Russia and get acquainted with its medical system during my free time. 

 

Holding a leg stump during an amputation procedure and feeling warm blood wash over my thin latex gloves wasn’t what I had in mind when I proposed to shadow Russian doctors, but that’s exactly what I found myself doing a few months later. Dmitri, a general surgeon was at first a student in one of my classes, all of which I teach between 3 pm and 6 pm when doctors and med students finish up their daily rounds. He soon stopped coming to class when he realized the time I spent following him during operations was like a private English lesson, and I soon learned there are things you can do in Russian hospitals that you could never do in the States (for one thing, scrubbing in on a surgical procedure is illegal for anyone who hasn’t completed their second year of medical school).

I didn’t make it through my first operation as an assistant – in fact, I ended up on the floor after I passed out, hitting my neck on the back of a metal table on the way down. When I came to, the patient, who was AWAKE while a few more inches of his already once-amputated leg were being trimmed down to make room for a prosthetic, told me himself that I scared the hell out of him when I fainted. Since then, although I’ve gained a less-than-desirable reputation around the hospital, I’ve scrubbed in on half a dozen surgeries and have learned how to control that dizzy feeling that seems to be a physiological reaction to the sight of blood. 

It doesn’t take 10 months in Russia to realize that medical standards and the general condition of hospitals are lower here than in the U.S., but observing it all directly has been an unforgettable and invaluable experience. Hospital Number 6 (as it is still called even though its name has officially been changed to the University Clinic) is pretty typical. Most of its buildings could easily serve as warehouses or storage facilities, and some even as dungeons if only cleared of their medical equipment. Stray cats and dogs meander through the hallways and are given scraps of food by patients and doctors who move to the staircases to smoke. In more technical fields like surgery, the last few years have seen an increase in the high-tech machines used to administer anesthetics or assist patients’ breathing, but for the most part, Russian medicine lags far behind that of America and Western Europe. The real tragedy is that these problems can be avoided. Instead of scratching their heads and asking why, doctors shake their heads and swallow the harsh comments they might say about their corrupt government if there weren’t in a professional (or what should be a professional) environment. My bright young students, who are still finishing school while Russian lawmakers are changing around the medical educational system to be more like Western Europe’s, are a reason for hope. Even so, like many problems in this country, the fate of Russian medicine lies in the hands of a powerful minority who seem to care little for the average Ivan or Svetlana. Until drastic changes are made in how the Russian economy is managed, hospitals like the clinic I’ve come to regard as a home away from home away from home are likely to remain underfunded and unable to adequately respond to the community’s medical needs.

If you'd like to read more about Pat's experiences, a link to his blog, "Rushin' Blood," is in the blogroll in the right column.  You can also click here.

victory day

The family visit went off without any hitches.  Well, one hitch.  They flew into Helsinki and planned on taking the afternoon train to Petersburg, but it was booked so instead of arriving at 6:00pm it was 12:00am, but otherwise everything went smoothly the entire time.  It was nice to have an excuse to be a tourist for a while.  Even though I'm in one of the great historical nations (and a short train from one of the best tourist cities in Europe), living here I sometimes forget to see all the great attractions Russia has to offer because I don't consider myself a tourist mentally.  It was my first time in the Hermitage, which is one of the most breathtaking structures I've ever been in.  More often than not I found myself looking at the sheer detail and opulence of the rooms themselves rather than the world famous works of art housed within them.

Our weekend in the PTZ (again, as the kids are calling it) was comparably less tourist-y and entailed much, much less walking.  By that point, however, I think it was a relief.  The weather wasn't the best; we flirted with the 50-degree mark but mostly stayed under.  All in all, though, I think it was enjoyable for everyone.  Even though the family couldn't stay for my concert, I did take them to one of our rehearsals and they had a really good time.

Today was Victory Day in Russia.  The rest of the Allied powers celebrate V-E Day on May 8, but by the time the papers were signed in Germany it was already the 9th in Russia, which is just fine with me because it means an extra Monday off.  I was invited by some of my students to take part in a parade through town to the main square.  After that the military marched to the second main square and did some precision marching that I couldn't see because there were too many people.  It wasn't exactly as grandiose as columns of Soviet-era tanks streaming through Red Square, but we did okay for a small town and the weather was fantastic.  By far my favorite moment was just before the parade started, when a few kids around 7-8 years old approached a dignified old man resplendent with his war medals standing off to the side with his wife, gave him some flowers and shook his hand.  Even 66 years later, the "Great Patriotic War" is still fresh in the Russian psyche.