Author Archives: Maisie Campbell

In Living Memory

One theme that struck me throughout the film, The Babushkas of Chernobyl, and the book, Voices from Chernobyl, is the relationship between history, being forgotten, and life persevering. The babushkas in particular exemplified this interconnection of ideas—they live in abandoned, radioactive places and yet these women (those who are left) are living to the age of 80 and above. With minimal help from the outside world, they grow their own crops, brew their own moonshine and generally take care of themselves. Their headscarves are bright colors, as though to remind themselves that they are still alive and vibrant people, full of joy and a will to live despite the contamination around them, which they are consuming every day. Yet the contrast with the “stalkers” who are inspired by a video game to sneak into the contaminated zone acts as a stark reminder that some truly believe the Zone to be an empty yet thrilling place and worth nothing more than a good dare. The woman in the video of remarks that these “stalkers” are constantly forgetting that this zone is dangerous, as though they have forgotten the true history of what occurred there and see it solely through the modern lens of video games.

In the other short video we watched in class on Monday, the man remarks that returning to these contaminated and abandoned towns and homes is like looking into the past. There are photos and clothes and just the remains of these people’s lives. Which made me wonder—is looking at the babushkas’ homes still looking into the past? Are they isolated from time? Or are they themselves a remnant of history, living in isolation? But these homes are also reminders of abandonment, as a photographer describes in Voices from Chernobyl: “You wanted to just remember it: the globe in the schoolyard crushed by a tractor; laundry that’s been hanging out on the balcony for a year and has turned black; abandoned military graves, the grass as tall as the soldier statue on it, and the automatic weapon of the statue, a bird’s nest…People have left, but their photographs are still in the houses, like their souls” (Alexievich, 192). What these people leave behind is not just history, but part of who they are. And these babushkas of Chernobyl could be considered part of that which was left behind, even as they struggled and sneaked through barbed wire to come back to their homes. But they should not be remembered just as a part of history, but as living and vibrant people, which I believe the movie does a wonderful job of capturing.

Nature in Collusion with “The Enemy”

While reading the portion of Alexievich’s book for class, I found myself returning to the question we discussed when reading Shalamov’s short stories: which side is nature on? Is it colluding with the “enemy” or whoever is bringing the most pain to a large group of people? Or is it siding with the victim? In “A Child’s Drawings,” Shalamov accuses nature, “Nature in the north is not impersonal or indifferent; it is in conspiracy with those who sent us here” (Shalamov, 136). In this work, Shalamov reveals the cruelties of this northern environment and of the Soviet government in subjecting even an innocent child to these horrors to the point where this cruel corner of the world was all he knew: “The child saw nothing, remembered nothing but the yellow houses, barbed wire, guard towers, German shepherds, guards with submachine guns, and a blue, blue sky” (Shalmov, 138).

Alexievich presents a variety of different views, many of which also express a sense of betrayal towards nature and humanity in the aftermath of the disaster. Simple acts of sustenance were suddenly dangerous: “We’d always lived off our potatoes, and then suddenly—we’re not allowed to!…They advised us to work in our gardens in masks and rubber gloves” (Alexievich, 26). In this case, it seemed that nature and the government were colluding to deprive citizens of their food, nourishment, and homes. One person recalls, “The order of things was shaken. A woman would milk her cow, and next to her there’d be a soldier to make sure that when she was done milking, she poured the mild out on the ground…The farmers were raising their precious potatoes, harvesting them very quietly, but in fact they had to be buried” (Alexievich, 37). Now the soldiers are enforcing the new order, despite the fact that it is the radiation in the ground and animals that would harm these people. Although they are only trying to help, and keep the populace healthy to a degree, it nonetheless appears that nature and the soldiers are conspiring to spread hunger and attack the populace. The situations in the two authors’ works originate under very different conditions, as Shalamov describes an purposefully derived method of imprisonment and Chernobyl was an accident; yet the parallels indicate a distrust of the government and the truly confused and disastrous times for a large swathe of the Russian population.

Industrialization Interrupting the Hum of Life

In the film, Magnitogorsk and the poem, “I Do Not Look for Harmony in Nature,” there is a strong tension between nature and industrialization. In the film, this first presents itself in the creation of the labor-camp type developments at Magnitogorsk mining and smelting ore. In these camps, especially for those of persecuted kulaks, the new environment in the empty steppe is much harsher than they are accustomed to and this causes lots of sickness and death. Later in the film, a female scientist describes the perils of child rearing in this environment, polluted as it is by the ore smelting. In addition to lack of funds, which contributes to poor nutrition, she fears that the air and toxicity of the environment would negatively impact the life of any children she has. Because of this, she voices her decision to not have children at all. Thus, in this film, the environmental damage is interpreted through threats to human health.

In Zabolotsky’s “I Do Not Look for Harmony in Nature,” his description of the surrounding world conveys hopelessness and lifelessness, “It is a world of sleep and unreason / The heart hears no concordant music / in the obstinate chanting of the wind” (Zabolotsky, 177). The environment and nature surrounding the speaker lacks soulfulness and cheer. Readers quickly find the reason: industrialization. Limiting the “wild freedom” of nature, “glittering turbines…electric power, human construction” lays at the base of this lifelessness, even as Russia moves towards a more technologically advanced society. That is, as we heard in Professor Breyfogle’s talk on electric power in the middle of nowhere and the factories and industries that rose around it. Yet Zabolotsky presents industrialization as something antithetical to harmony within nature.

Inward and Outward Natures

In the two works, “The Bronze Horseman” and “The Flood,” the descriptions of people and nature are constantly merged. Pushkin describes the river Neva with feminine images and adjectives. Complementing her feminine aspects, “I love thy stern and comely face, / Neva’s majestic perfluctuation, / Her bankments’ granite carapace,” Pushkin uses feminine articles and describes her face as “stern” and “comely” (Pushkin, 9-10). He merges the natural beauty of a river with the romantic beauty of a woman. This becomes further sexualized: “Neva, her clamorous water splashing / Against the crest of either dike, / Tossed in her shapely ramparts” (Pushkin, 11). These descriptions maintain a somewhat militaristic quality, and yet are overly sexualized (for a body of water).

In contrast, in “The Flood,” referring to her pregnancy, “Her stomach was round, it was the earth. In the earth, deep down, invisible to anyone, lay Ganka, and in the earth, invisible to anyone, seeds burrowed with white roots,” Sofya feels within her a connection to the mother earth, and that motherhood is laced with death (Zamyatin, 276). Although new life comes from the earth and from the seeds planted there, it is also where the dead return, a haunting aspect of motherhood when juxtaposed with the earth. Her husband, on the other hand, is first likened to a machine, “And Trofim Ivanych could no longer suppress his laughter; it burst out of his nose and mouth like steam out of the safety valves of a boiler under pressure” (Zamyatin, 257). This description becomes more predatory, and yet still mechanical and cold, “Trofim Ivanych’s face twisted into a strange, slow, ugly smile; he seemed to be smiling only with his teeth” (Zamyatin, 264). His outward appearance reflects a contradiction between his feelings and how he acts on them (i.e. laughing mechanically, smiling through the fury). The intertwining of nature, humans and machines highlights the conflict warring within by bringing attention to the apparently incongruous aspects of humans, nature and machines.

“A revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having.” -V

In the two works, excerpt from Blockade Diary and “The Cave,” the authors take very different tones when describing the horrors and desperation of this period during the early-mid twentieth century.[1] Lydia Ginzburg presents the stories of a multitude of people at this time, all with a matter-of-fact tone, yet thoughtful. Her understanding of the terror of the air raids, “He doesn’t want to wake up to find the world falling about his ears, meeting his death in the tiniest fleeting moment. Better to be prepared” reveals to the reader the underlying psychology of someone in Leningrad at this time, futile though it may be in the long run (Ginzburg, 35). She presents the emotions of this time and the ironies of behavior to the outside observer, but while always maintaining that personal interaction with the individuals she describes. Her description of the power of social pressure to not steal or take more than your share, “Nothing more lies between them – no lock, no police, no queue. Just the abstraction of social prohibition” may seem inane and yet it is so effective (Ginzburg, 47). Even her description of the numbness after months of living in this terror filled existence seems so oddly matter-of-fact: “Oh, I’m not afraid of anything. I’d like to find something to be afraid of” (Ginzburg, 54).

Zamyatin veers strongly in a different style of description. Rather than focusing on many, he focuses on one couple. Instead of the matter-of-fact and understanding style of Ginzburg, he writes bordering on the absurd, comparing these people to cave men. Rather than trying to understand and explain everything, he embraces a sense of mystery, “It may be a gray-trunked mammoth, it may be the wind, and it may be the wind is nothing but the glacial roar of some supermammoth” (Zamyatin, 91). Houses are caves, one’s wife becomes a stranger, and around every corner lurks danger, “a human had come from another cave, and—who knows?—he might fly at her and seize [the food]” (Zamyatin, 94).

Both pieces present these fear-filled times to the outsider. Yet encapsulating the true emotions, reasons and psyches of the people trapped in these times requires a great deal of skill and certainly different understandings of human nature. The Ginzburg piece reminds me strongly of the movie V for Vendetta, which I will probably bring up in class. People shouldn’t be afraid of their government. Governments should be afraid of their people.

https://youtu.be/KKvvOFIHs4k

[1] Although these two works were written at different times, it all seems to be one dark period of Russian history.

The Duality of Cold

In the two stories, “The Cold,” and “Master and Man,” reactions to extreme cold are either as firm and unyielding as ice itself or as heartwarming as a cup of hot cocoa after sledding, with the aftereffects of the cold still tingling in one’s limbs. The narrator in “The Cold” blurs the line between extreme cold and extreme heat as he describes the sensation, “I thought I felt someone burning my right cheek with flame” (Korolenko, 1). But internally, a similar leap from extreme cold to extreme warmth occurs. Even the dog, bowing to the need of another animal to escape the dangers of the cold, “simply clenched his tail and ran thoughtfully off, seemingly bewildered by his own benevolence” (Korolenko, 5). Sokolskii and his traveling companion in the story also feel this melting of the heart in the face of bitter cold in the desperation to save first the ducks and then the man. His companion despairs at the other’s apparent indifference, “Our conscious had frozen!… Of course, that’s how it always is: all you have to do is lower the body’s temperature by two degrees and conscience freezes up…it’s a law of nature” (Korolenko, 16). When faced with the delights of the warm sleeping quarters, the men harden themselves against the coldness of letting another live slip by into the ultimate cold of death.

In “Master and Man,” Vasily Andreyevich is hardened to the plight of others by his greed, which explains his treatment (and underpayment) of Nikita. Yet in the face of the cold, his heart burns first with fear, “They say people who drink are soon frozen…he began to shiver, not knowing whether from cold or fear” (Tolstoy, 519). The same kindness that the narrator of “The Cold” highlights in the mother deer saving her baby deer is mirrored by Vasily’s selflessness of using himself as a human blanket, “he could not bring himself to leave Nikita for even a moment and so disturb that happy situation in which he felt himself; for he had no fear now” (Tolstoy, 526). Rather than the icy indifference which causes Vasily to abandon Nikita initially, the sight of another human freezing to death melts Vasily’s heart to put the health of another human being above his own.

Yet both Vasily and Ignatowicz die for their kindhearted actions. Both stories ask the question, “Was this individual’s sacrifice worth it?” After all, Ignatowicz did not even manage to save the other man. Would it be better to harden our hearts to match the environment and so survive individually? Combine heat and resources with one another, reminiscent of the communal sharing in A Dream in Polar Fog? Or sacrifice one’s self for the slim hope that someone else can live and warm oneself with the strength of conviction alone?

On Cultural Assimilation

I think after reading The Cossacks, a question on many of our minds (or mine, at least) is how can someone assimilate into another culture? Maybe not a step-by-step process, but is it possible to completely adopt customs and ways of life former alien to you? A Dream in Polar Fog certainly addresses these questions and presents a view quite different from the one presented by Tolstoy. I’d like to explore this idea more, while keeping in mind that just by reading someone else’s words, I am bringing my own biases and former understandings to this discussion, which is just something I think is worthy of being aware of.

To start, after this portion of reading, it appears that for all intents and purposes, John has assimilated into the Chukchi community: he marries a Chukchi woman (both in his conceptualization of marriage and in the Chukchi understanding), he hunts with the other Chukchi men, he shares his gifts and supplies with the other members of the community (unprompted and even unexpectedly), and even supports the ideas of communal living and common good to a further extent than Armol’ in the case of purchasing a whale boat individually versus as a collective. Recognizing these facts of how John acts does not place a moral judgement on them. It is not objectively “good” or “bad” that he adopts values and behaviors of another group of people. But it is a marked change in how John thinks and acts that should be acknowledged for his personal adaptation, and growth in understanding and ability to learn new things. I am personally impressed and would judge his change and rationale for that change as overall “good” (in simplest terms). He makes informed, rational decisions, “Stay here forever?…These people had been so good to him, and had shown the kind of magnanimity he would not have expected in the world he came from” which stem from a choice to realign his values with those of a community to whom he owes a debt of gratitude and his life in many ways (129).

But I especially appreciate Rytkheu’s manners and methods of highlighting the complexity of ideas of inclusion, assimilation and what it means to “belong.” Orvo, in particular, provides a counter-opinion to (primarily Armol’s and even John’s) doubts about the efficacy of cultural conversion. Instead of calling the other person’s views wrong, Orvo questions them, “[if we drive John off] what about Pyl’mau?…What danger is there in a cripple? You’re not afraid of him, are you?” (161). In so doing, he and so Rytkheu, question the premises for these gut reactions of “white people are bad for the natives, they ruin everything they touch, they will cause the native’s demise and never truly be able to understand them.” (Also see Orvo’s thoughts on page 139—very interesting.) Ply’mau also voices doubts about John’s assimilation, “You’re a white man, and you need these things more” (159) but also acts as John’s foil in accepting John, his way of life, and teaching him Chukchi ways (as opposed to John accepting her way of life) in mixed actions from washing her face (page 131) to questioning how their daughter could possibly not be ‘real’, “As you see, this baby is real enough, and I’m sure that Tynevirineu-Mary will fly” (211).

This reflection only touches on a variety of events/themes that could be explored much more in depth (the significance of Tynevirineu-Mary, especially her name, how Rytkheu may or may not present his own opinion in Orvo’s point of view, Armol’s jealousy and what that means, Ply’mau’s role her own questioning of cultural assumptions), but I was very interested in how it all works together, and especially the idea of judgement (having just read a multitude of The Orient opinion articles in response to “I am Brett Kavanaugh”). There are also a lot of other ideas I had, from comparing Mr. Carpenter to John (notable page 146-149) and views on religion, and questions of “who benefits” from these interactions. Anyway, looking forward to hearing everyone’s thoughts on these topics and others.

One question I had, that I would like to put out there before I forget, is on page 169, are they talking about children killing their parents because the parents are no longer self-sufficient and so are a drain on resources? Or am I misreading this?

Truth and Happiness

In The Cossacks, Tolstoy weaves the tropes of Russian exotic with the absurd in the commonplace events. While some have life-changing moment of clarity after a life-threatening event, Olenin’s moment of clarity comes after a solitary hunting trip in which his biggest danger is the mosquitos. Reveling, “But does it matter that grass will grow?…I still have to live, have to be happy. Because there is only one thing I want—happiness,” Olenin considers his purpose in the grand scheme of life and measures being a mindless element in the circle of life, content in oblivion, against a creature capable of happiness (Tolstoy, 83). And so, thanks to Uncle Eroshka’s advice and the unchangeable nature of mosquitos that makes them bite humans, Olenin discovers the route to being happy is to be his best self.

Seemingly, Olenin is rewarded for this change—he allows himself to fall in love, considers abandoning the life of lies that constitute Russian society, and take up the simpler “truer” life of the Cossack peasants, not to mention prove his masculinity by facing down the Chechens. But in actuality, Olenin deludes himself with this “truth.” Claiming his new environment for himself, “my hut, my forest, and the beautiful woman I love,” he maintains the conqueror’s mindset that if it benefits him, it is his (Tolstoy, 130). Instead of disdaining the local people for their simplicity, he disdains those at home, and yet either way he justifies his inclusion in and dominion over his new environment, his new people. But, he forgets Uncle Eroshka’s perhaps most important lesson: “No one loves us, you and me—we’re outcasts!” (Tolstoy, 118). Eroshka hits upon the most salient point in this exclamation: for different reasons, there truly is no way for Olenin and Eroshka to fit into the Cossack society, as much as they might try to relate to individual people within it. Perhaps the most frustrating obliviousness that Olenin expresses* is the idea that Maryanka loves him. Maryanka never admits any feelings whatsoever towards Olenin, save that she does not dislike him and that his hands are soft. Instead she demurs, in lieu of answers, asking questions such as, “What is there for me to tell [my father]?” or “Why should I not love you, it’s not as if you were one-eyed or a hunchback” or “Why not? If my papa gives me to you” (Tolstoy, 149-150). These questions lend a doubt to any positive feelings Olenin takes away from this encounter. Is she actually expressing the potential for love or is she indulging a slightly crazy foreigner who is providing a generous income to her family? Does she have any agency in deciding who she spends the rest of her life with or will her father (and mother) decide all for her? Olenin decides to believe whatever will bring himself the most happiness and so finds himself deluded with ideas of “truth” and grandeur that few people will actually contradict because of his status as a wealthy Russian elite.

*Frustrating for me at least, as a female reader.

On leaving Russia…

In these works, we see a transition in the way Russians perceive nature and their associations with it. Rather than nature as subsistence in the forest, an element to be combatted or a mother figure that both gives and takes, here the speakers and narrators remove themselves from Russia and find the kinder pastures elsewhere are more able to mirror their feelings and passions. But ever present in Russian works is the patriotism to the mother country, and this presents itself in the sadness that the narrators and speakers feel when separated from their country. In “Farewell to Russia,” this sadness of departing is tempered by the irritation of the speaker at the controlling state Russia has turned into. This distinction is clear as the speaker glories in his new freedom in Caucasus, “Far from slanderers and tsars, / Far from ever-spying eyes” (Lermontov, 76). While the speaker in this poem criticizes the government and the military (who support the government), he does not seem to criticize the land itself or the common peasant (unless they fit the category of “unwashed”—I personally took that to mean unclean in a moral way). Yet it is not until the speaker is exiled that he is able to find the peace equal to that in the skies above Caucasus.

Pushkin speaks of his love without naming its object. Yet given the speakers location in Georgia, in facing a foreign landscape, it is logical to connect his love not solely to a singular person, but rather his home of Russia. The river Aragva also acts to mirror the speaker’s emotions and is “murmurs” in an endless way, smoothing the river bed as the emotions wash over the speaker and slowly fade to an ever-present but almost unnoticeable susurrus. When the speaker laments, “For thus my heart must burn and love—because it’s true / That not to love—it knows no way,” his words are applicable to the love for which there is no tangible reason that most everyone feels for their home (Pushkin, 140). Yet this line also speaks to the oft felt love that follows the loss of that belatedly loved item. These poems and “Caucasus” are all moments when the speaker or narrator leaves his home and in travelling, finds that that which he has left behind holds an unexpected sway over the speaker/narrator.

I’ve been working on the railroad, all the live long day

Examining the work animals present in “The Cow” and Cossacks of the Kuban can reveal many conceptualizations of the interaction with humans and nature at this period of Soviet rule under Stalin. In “The Cow,” the young Vasya and his father treat the cows as primarily work animals, valued for such actions, “He liked everything about the cow…her large, thin body which was the way it was because, instead of saving her strength for herself in fat and meat, the cow gave it all away in milk and work” (247-48). His father too appreciates the calf for the services rendered, asking rhetorically, “What do we want with a bull calf?” and thereby expressing his disdain for a male animal that is too young to work and can’t produce milk and therefore is best put to use as a source of meat and income (254). Of course, the animal is such the perfect worker that Platonov chooses it to represent the ideal of a communist worker, but the idea that even a cow could fill this role of labor and proffering more than it keeps for itself (and then being torn apart emotionally and then literally because of these sacrifices) suggests that Platonov and/or the Soviet regime view people as not that far off from animals and a source of pure labor above all else.

Similarly, in Cossacks of the Kuban, the main work animals are horses, bred both for racing and transport. The contrast in the beginning of the film between the horses and the oxen, the latter of which pulling a load of humans and watermelons and thus plodding along slowly but surely, emphasizes the difference between the beasts of pleasure and those of labor. The oxen are like the hardened peasants, used to a life of hard work, unlike the galloping horses that compete in races and carry the single individuals of prominence in their seemingly flighty, yet elegant ways.

The horse, the ox and the cow are both animals that have been domesticated through many years of labor on the human’s side and the result is a blending of these work animals and the working humans that employ them. I’d like to talk more about the cow’s death and the symbolism there of it dying on the railroad tracks, hit by a train and the symbolism of the horse race as the pinnacle of the drama of the two love stories, but I’m not 100% sure of my ideas (and what exactly they are) and would rather discuss them in class instead.