Author Archives: Alex Banbury

A Matter of Trust

One topic that comes up in both Voices from Chernobyl and The Babushkas of Chernobyl is the rift between farmers living near Chernobyl and the scientists/officials responsible for the nuclear reactor. The difference between these groups lies primarily in their respective relationships to nature. A monologue by an environmental inspector reveals that “[f]armers didn’t invent Chernobyl, they had their own relations with nature, trusting relations, not predatory ones, just like they had one hundred years ago, and one thousand years ago”  (Alexievich 173). This stands in sharp contrast to the “educated [people],” whom, after causing the Chernobyl disaster through their predatory approach to nature, ensured the farmers that “[t]here’s nothing to fear” (173). Despite the gradual shift since the emergence of the Soviet Union towards a hostile relationship with nature, the farmer’s fundamental relationship to nature has not changed. While historian Aleksandr Revalskiy claims that “Chernobyl is the catastrophe of the Russian mind-set,” he likely refers to the mindset of the Soviet elite rather than the farmers. He further claims the Russians “were raised with a particular Soviet form of paganism, which was that man was the crown of all creation, that it was his right to do anything with the world that he wanted” (175). In light of the comments of the environmental inspector, this predatory upbringing was likely more prevalent in urban areas, as it appears that rural farmers still held onto their traditional relationship with the world that they always have had.

The Babushkas in The Babushkas of Chernobyl carry on a trusting relationship with nature through their reliance on the land. Even though the scientists inform them of the detrimental effects of radiation, they continue to grow their own food and drink contaminated water out of both a love for their Motherland and the trust that nature will not harm them if treated with respect. The tragic aspect of this disaster is that those who had a trusting relationship with nature made up a large portion of those who were harmed by the actions of a few who did not. However, this relationship with nature may be one of the factors the doctor in the film refers to when he claims that “socio-psychological factors also greatly influence health” (The Babushkas of Chernobyl). Given the Babushkas’ old age, their traditional respect for the environment has possibly caused nature to return the favor by mitigating radiation’s impact on them.

Drawing the Battle Lines

Similarly to the Gorky excerpts from last class, “Voices from Chernobyl” on numerous occasions focuses on the warlike interactions between humans and nature in the 20th century Soviet Union. While the canal construction depicted in Gorky’s work focuses on a war with humans on the offensive, the Chernobyl disaster puts humans on the defense as they are faced with an invisible threat rarely encountered in the past.

Unlike conventional conflict, where the aggressors and defenders are clearly defined, the battle lines of Chernobyl are not clearly drawn given the nature of the disaster. As one of the individuals who returned to Chernobyl after the catastrophe claims, “Chernobyl is like the war of all wars. There’s nowhere to hide. Not underground, not underwater, not in the air” (45). Interestingly, although many of the people affected by this disaster have connections to previous wars, like World War Two, they approach the radiation with the exact same outlook despite the foe fundamentally being different. Radiation is a foreign opponent to people living near the reactor given its invisibility, the scientific knowledge required to understand it, and the inability to escape its destructive power. The uncertainty surrounding the radiation is highlighted not only by a boy’s question of “what’s radiation?,” but also by its characterization as “like God” (everywhere and invisible) (50-51). Given the unique warlike situation, some Chernobyl area residents adopt the steadfast attitude that “we lived through the war, now it’s radiation. Even if we have to bury ourselves, we’re not going!” (37). Not knowing how else to respond, some resort to holding onto their land and believing that where they currently are is where they need to be (38).

Ironically, while the Gorky excerpts depict a warlike approach to control and conquer nature, the attempt to completely control one of the smallest components of the natural world (the atom) prompts a retaliatory attack from nature itself in “Voices From Chernobyl.” Perhaps as a sign that humans are overstepping their bounds, Chernobyl serves as a reminder that the natural world is “not anyone’s land,” and that the disaster is only “God [taking] it back” (58). Perhaps this view of the catastrophe explains why some refused to evacuate, though it would be interesting to further discuss what prompted some people to think that their lives became better because of the fallout.

Redefining the Human-Nature Power Dynamic

Vladimir Mayakovsky’s poem “Vladimir Mayakovsky Rented a Dacha One Summer; You Won’t Believe What Happened Next” focuses on the theme of human’s exerting power over nature and upsetting a natural order that had existed up until the industrialization of the early 1900s in Russia. At the beginning of the poem, the narrator expresses his dismay with the summertime conditions of the countryside, describing it as “a mazy heat” as if there were a “hundred and forty” suns (97). He also observes that “past the village was a hole where the sun sank surely, every evening without fail, slowly and securely,” creating a sense of natural regularity and inevitability that humans have no control over (97).  However, this power dynamic of the narrator consistently being subjected to the sun’s rays changes when he calls the sun a “parasite” and bids it to come into his house (98). Once the sun enters the house, the narrator thinks to himself “I’ve forced the fires of heaven back for the first time since creation,” implying that he has the unusual power to control nature that no one has ever possessed in the past (98). The fact that the narrator shouts at and makes demands of the sun highlights a shifting power dynamic from one where the sun has unrestrained power over all people to another where people are at least on the same level as the sun (or nature as a whole).

While the first half of this poem points towards the balance of power tilting towards the humans in their relationship to nature, it is interesting how the narrator and sun engage in conversation and become friends. At the end of their conversation, the sun claims they have become “like a couple of brothers,” which curiously suggests that the narrator’s gain of power in relation to nature allows him to see eye to eye with the sun and better understand it. By engaging directly with nature, even from a place of self-perceived authority, the narrator realizes how both he as a poet and the sun have the important job of lighting the “shadowy walls” of the world (99). The core message remains ambiguous as the narrator surprisingly makes demands of the sun (which may relate to industrialization becoming a formidable force against nature), all while they both achieve a higher level of clarity and understanding through their close interaction.

Mystical Forces of Good and Evil

One important concept that emerges in both Valentin Rasputin’s “Baikal,” as well as Aleksandr Petrov’s “The Mermaid,” is the duality of nature as a mystical force of both good and evil. Both works highlight the tranquility associated with serene bodies of water, but also how one can be fooled into thinking that serenity is the only possible state for these natural settings. In Rasputin’s “Baikal,” the narrator describes Lake Baikal as sacred for its” spirit of age-old grandeur and power preserved intact” (189). The narrator’s colleague, who accompanies him on a visit to the lake, claims that “[his] spirits have been lifted, and that comes from out there, from Baikal,” which underscores how the lake’s mythical power positively impacts individuals who respectfully relish in its beauty (191). The colleague however only saw “the tiniest edge of Baikal… on a marvelous summer day when everything around was showing its appreciation for the tranquility and sunshine,” leaving him without the impression that “Baikal can rage for no reason… as if whipped from inside” (191). While the lake on the surface appears tranquil, the sudden thrashing of the lake water and “winds that can instantly swoop down” reveal a darker side of the lake’s mystical force that go unseen by infrequent observers (191). The lake not only can raise peoples’ spirits, but also poses great danger for reasons only known to itself.

“The Mermaid” also focuses on the duality of nature’s mystical force. While the earlier portions of the film beautifully depict both the water and mermaid, the sudden storm that brews at the end, as well as the mermaid’s attempt to pull the boy underwater, complicate this beautiful depiction. It leads one to believe that beauty may only conceal evil intent, especially seen as the mermaid’s ultimate goal is to knock the boy off the boat and presumably drown him. Just as seen with Lake Baikal, both the mermaid and water appear serene on the surface, but are subject to change at any moment and reveal a dark side concealed by the outward beauty.

It would be interesting to further discuss in class whether one can classify acts of nature as inherently good or evil, especially given Rasputin’s writing that “[n]ature by itself is always moral; only human beings can make it immoral” (193).

Winter Transformations

Both the excerpt from the “Blockade Diary” and “The Cave” highlight winter’s great transformative power and ability to upset the status quo. In Ginzburg’s “Blockade Diary,” the characters are transformed from sensible to senseless beings through the brutality of the cold and paucity of available food. The city dwellers, despite their acknowledgment of the danger, are not afraid of the relentless shelling of the city, and “instead of being frightened, [they are] annoyed; instead of being afraid of death, [they are] afraid of being stopped on the way and herded into shelter” (35). Additionally, “the man of winter,” as the city dwellers are described, no longer fears the military danger of the siege and instead is fixated on “starving [and] freezing” (34-35). While the people would normally take immediate shelter from the shelling, the winter transforms their senses to the point that they no longer think completely rationally and focus only on staying warm and finding food. The winter and scarcity of food renders the people just shadows of themselves, as they no longer feel any emotion and accept that death is upon them. One girl is described as “grown numb,” and “not a person at all” as a result of the sordid conditions, which causes her to “[not] care because [she knew she] could die at any minute” (53). As the winter has brought with it a sense of the inevitability of death, the city dwellers accept death and completely lose care for anything in their lives. As the girl claims, there is no use in caring when you could die at any moment.

Zamyatin focuses heavily on winter’s transformative power in “The Cave.” Not only do the characters’ behaviors change as a result of winter’s approach, but the humans are frequently portrayed using non-human descriptions. When Martin Martinych contemplates stealing Obertyshev’s wood, one transformation occurs as “The caveman, gnashing his teeth, knocked the other Martin Martinych down and… plunged his hand into the stack of wood” (95). While his old persona, “the Scriabin one” would not have committed the crime, the cold has transformed him into a criminal “caveman,” seen as he steals the wood to provide himself with warmth (95). Not only does the cold lead to Martin to commit crime that he normally would not, but it also causes him to be described as both “Mammothlike” and as having “mechanical contrivances” as limbs (98-99). There are many more examples in both works about the transformation of people and the world, which stresses winter’s unrelenting power to upset the status quo.

The True Master: Nature or Man?

Tolstoy’s short story, “Master and Man,” brings to light an important theme about the power that nature has over people. While the story at first focuses on the relationship between Vasily Andreyevich and the peasant Nikita, it ultimately addresses how nature serves as a master over all people. At the beginning of the story, Vasily Andreyevich clearly is Nikita’s master, as he pays Nikita for his work and is called master (492). The relationship between them is clearly understood, particularly since Vasily Andreyevich claims that they “are dealing straightforwardly. You work for me, and I stand by you” (491). This is a typical master and servant relationship, as the servant is expected to perform what the master desires; in addition, another instance of this relationship can be seen in reference to the snowstorm.

Vasily Andreyevich entire motivation for traveling during the storm is to get a favorable price on a plot of forest. The irony of this situation is that in trying to control natural resources, nature fights back and become the main characters’ master. While the storm is raging, Vasily Andreyevich and Nikita reject the offer to stay a night to wait out the storm; instead they press forward for the sake of “business” and the fear that “if you let an hour go, you may not be able to make it up in a year” (506). After being forced to stop their journey because of the storm, they begin to succumb to the masterful power of nature. Nikita articulates his acceptance of nature as the true master when he responds to Vasily Andreyevich question about them freezing by saying “we cannot help it” (513). Both characters are at the whim of nature, as their efforts to progress are constantly stymied to the point that they give up and hope to make it through the night. Neither of the characters have much power to control their fates, as it all depends on what nature desires.

While nature controls the lives of both characters, Vasily Andreyevich’s final action of saving Nikita to some extent calls into question to what extent nature is the true master of man. Interestingly, Nikita is described as saved by being “kept warm beneath his now dead master” (527). The fact that Vasily Andreyevich is described as a master at the end of the story reveals how nature may not be the final authority over all people, as man still has the capacity to act against the power of nature. I am interested to hear everyone’s thoughts about which “master and man” relationship is more significant and whether there are more such relationships in this work.

An Emerging Leader?

One aspect that struck me while reading the last section of “A Dream in Polar Fog” is the great extent to which John integrates into the Chukchi community. Even more importantly than just integrating into the community, he becomes a leader of the people and also serves as their representative, especially when dealing with white people. By the end of the story, John promotes the interests and image of the Chukchi by ensuring that outsiders understand that “the people of the North… can be not only loyal and obedient guides, but also true heroes” (255). He aims to dispel the western notion of the Chukchi as savages by making it clear to outsiders, that the people should be respected for their understanding of the land and for living in unforgiving conditions. By taking pride in the Chukchi way of life, John make others (and the reader in particular) understand the Chukchi cultural tradition and how they thrive through what some would consider a primitive lifestyle.

As the story progresses, John takes on a greater role in the Chukchi community. While he initially completely depends on others’ help, he learns to provide for the tribe and subsequently plays a central role in their survival through his help on animal hunts. He also becomes a leader for the tribe through his further dealings with the white man. Upon John’s encounter with Captain Bartlett and discussion of national land ownership, the other Chukchi find it “strange… to see their own fellow-countryman Sson as someone in a position to discuss this unknown but evidently important business” (279). This marks a major change in John’s relationship with the tribe, as he now bears responsibility as a representative of the tribe’s interests. In the same scene with Captain Bartlett, John also requests the captain “not to use [his] engines,…make too much noise,… or shoot,” as this “frightens off the animals, [leaving us] without food or fuel” (280). The Captain respects John’s request, which underscores how John has the authority to defend the interests of the Chukchi. While John being a white man may have a role to play in the respect that Captain Bartlett gives him, John’s ardent support of the Chukchi interests nonetheless supports his emerged role as a leader for the tribe.

While John appears to have respect from the outside, one question I had at the end of the story is whether the Chukchi people consider him a leader. What intrigues me is how Orvo has few reservations about having John leave (and in fact encourages it), despite John becoming a key part of the community. I am eager to hear what others think about Orvo and John’s relationship and what role that plays at the story’s end.

Intellectual vs Practical Skills

Rytkheu’s A Dream in Polar Fog, provides an interesting perspective on the benefit of intellectual versus practical skills for exploration and survival. The main character, John, is initially described as an academic from Port Hope who indulges in stories about faraway seas (16-17). Clearly enamored with the thought of traveling and visiting distant lands, he embarks on a journey out of Nome. Once the ship gets stuck in the ice, however, it is revealed that the skills from his life at the university are not sufficient for him to manage in the rugged arctic landscape. Throughout the first ten chapters, John’s intellectual skills, such as reading and writing, prove themselves of little use compared to the practical skills of the native population.

John mishandling the dynamite at the beginning of the story reveals his lack of practical skills and intuition. He is described as “not thinking” as he bends over to grab the dynamite cartridge buried in the snow, when it detonates and severely injuries his hands (20). This lapse in judgment highlights his lack of experience doing challenging and dangerous physical work needed for such an expedition. While other crew members likely have experience using dynamite, John is given the responsibility despite his expertise not lying in arctic exploration. While his dreams of “seasoned mariners… [and] distant lands… undiscovered by civilized man” pique his interest in going on an expedition, his is utterly unprepared given his lack of practical skills (17).

Much like Olenin’s reaction when originally encountering the rugged landscape in The Cossacks, John has only read and dreamed about exotic people and places, which holds him back from understanding the native culture. This is clear from how John describes the native, Orvo, as “incredibly similar to the stylized picture of an Eskimo in the National University Museum in Toronto” (32). This oddly specific description of Orvo underscores John’s prior perceptions of the native culture as something exotic that he would only imagine encountering in a museum. His academic past creates a barrier between his constructed view of the Chukchi and the reality, as he does not have the skills necessary to go out and understand native tribes first hand. Though John eventually realizes that the Chukchi “way of life doesn’t require literacy or books,” he is slow to acknowledge the importance of practical skills like hunting and skinning, which complicates and impedes his embrace of the Chukchi lifestyle (84).

One Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure

A major theme that emerges from the readings this week is the idea of the Russian peripheries as distant lands filled with misunderstood and unappreciated natural purity. Tolstoy’s The Cossacks most strikingly reveals this through Olenin’s journey to the Caucasus mountains and his gradual attitude shift towards life in the empire’s periphery. Olenin’s friends initially question his decision to go to the Caucasus, saying that they themselves “wouldn’t do it for anything,” which reveals the important perspective the city dwellers have on these distant lands (7). While Moscow society is preoccupied with establishing one’s social status and speaking French, the periphery is viewed as undesirable (8). Olenin to some extent still embodies these characteristics at the start of his journey, as upon viewing the mountains for the first time he comments that “he could not find anything attractive in the spectacle of the mountains of which he had read and heard so much” (15). This is in line with Moscow society’s blasé attitude towards the periphery; however, Olenin’s attitude quickly changes the next day when he clearly sees the “enormous, pure white masses with their delicate contours, [as if it were an] apparition” (15-16). This marks a turning point for Olenin, where he starts to reject his city ways and embrace what the periphery has to offer.

Olenin’s embrace of natural purity makes him “quite a different man,” as he turns over a new leaf and adopts the Circassian way of life (48). Through his immersion in the majestic nature of the Caucasus mountains, he is reborn with more vigor than he ever had while living in Moscow (52). Olenin’s transformation critiques Moscow society while at the same time extols the splendor of the empire’s periphery that goes unappreciated by many. The Caucasus mountains serve as a physical, cultural, and societal escape from the Russian interior that Tolstoy brings to light through Olenin’s embrace of the land and its people.

Pushkin’s poem, Farewell to Russia, also touches on the interior peoples’ perspectives of distant Russian lands. What is most surprising by this poem is narrator’s mention of his “exile… beneath the Caucasian skies,” as it highlights how the Russian authority punishing him obviously viewed the Caucasus region as a vile punishment (5-6). The narrator, on the other hand, is greatly pleased to escape the undesirable conditions of the interior, which further emphasizes the varying interior perspectives of the periphery. To conclude, one question I have is whether those in the interior considered the empire’s periphery part of Russia, or more as foreign non-Russian regions?

The Peasant Cow

A first reading of Platonov’s The Cow might lead one to believe that it simply depicts a sad situation for peasants that witness the slow decline and death of their only female cow on the collective farm. Upon closer examination, and considering the time and context in which this story takes place (likely 1938 or 1939), the text reveals the contemporary peasant condition through the cow’s behavior in a rapidly changing world. In other words, the descriptions of the cow better communicate what the peasants are experiencing during this time than the peasants themselves do.

At the beginning of the story, the cow is described as living alone in a shed in the countryside and having a bull calf of her own (247). Her world is quickly disturbed, as her calf is taken away by her owner peasant to receive treatment by a vet after falling ill (247). This act of taking her calf away, along with her described as giving all her strength for the purpose of producing milk and work, causes the cow to embody the attributes of an exploited peasant under the collective farm system present during this time in history (248). While the peasant boy, Vasya, appears to care for the cow, it is clear that the peasants value the cow just for the milk and work she produces. This especially comes to the fore when Vasya’s father returns without the bull calf, claiming that despite the calf having recovered, it was best to sell “him to the slaughterhouse” as a bull is of little value (254).  The cow, longing for the return of her calf, falls into a depressed mood, while the narrator describes her as “not understand[ing] that it is possible to forget one happiness, to find another and then live again, not suffering any longer” (255). One can extrapolate the description of the cow to the peasants of this time, as it reinforces the idea of the backwards peasant who cannot cope with the loss of their lives as they knew them before collectivization. While the authorities who imposed collectivization may have had the attitude that the peasant could simply forget what they loved in the past and embrace new forms of happiness, Platonov’s work makes it clear that this was not the case.

The cow’s death in the final section of the story highlights the tragedy of the peasant under collectivization. The image of the cow, unable to escape in time, struck by the train running down the line is powerful and evokes the sense that nothing can stop the peasant from in a sense being annihilated by political and industrial forces of the time (257). While the analysis of this ending scene could greatly be expanded, the engine driver sums up the condition of the peasants perfectly with this foreboding statement: “she was running away from the engine, but she was slow and she didn’t have the sense to get off the line… I thought she would” (257).