Another festival with Makhno
Shoot me, but I don’t understand why Makhno was born in Huliaipole in Zaporizhia region. But don’t take my invitation to shoot me seriously. I’m warning you only because the issue here is Makhno the cut-throat.
This year I paid my second visit to the festival in Huliaipole, known as “Independence Day with Makhno,” which was organized by the tireless Oles Donii. Like last year, this year’s festival took place during a terrible heat wave that made me want to sleep or head for some dark, cold cellar and spend the rest of my life there. This heat is unusual for residents of Kyiv, but it is a fact of life for the local residents. In this kind of weather people don’t walk so much as swim, moving their legs slowly: fish move their fins exactly the same way. In this crushing heat, people are not able to talk quickly or loudly: their tongues move slowly and weigh one pood. Perhaps their promises weigh more.
How could the extremely temperamental Nestor Makhno see the world under such circumstances? I don’t understand. But I think that most, if not all, festival-goers would be surprised at my astonishment. Despite the merciless sun, the festival proceeded in a dynamic fashion. You should have heard emcee Ruslan Piven, who smoothly announced a session of throwing tomatoes at our favorite politicians, who, unfortunately, were not present, just their photos; or painting on naked bodies; or a contest for the best Makhno uniform.
It gives me pleasure to announce that I won the uniform contest. People with a traditional orientation were my rivals: they wore traditional khaki clothes that are familiar to everyone. I went on stage dressed in a military jacket, sheepskin hat, shorts, one boot and one slipper, but I was carrying a shovel instead of a rifle. The audience members, who greeted the contestants by shouting, reacted most loudly to my costume. I won two cases of Arsenal beer. I can only imagine what would have happened if I had drunk all the beer by myself. I gave it away.
None of the poets, musicians, and ordinary festival-lovers were troubled by the fact that this event was taking place on The Day that celebrates the independence of the Ukrainian state, the very state against which the hero of the festival fought on his military fronts: everyone knows that Makhno was against any state in principle. This kind of character has existed throughout Ukrainian history. He embodies the spirit of freedom and Cossack laissez-faire. He fought for the ideas of what today is called the “local authorities.” Why should we become like some other nations, which proclaimed the slogan, “He who is not with us is against us?”
We are not like them. We go happily attend festivals with Makhno. We are reviving our interest in our own history. There, people from Ukraine’s eastern regions argue with each other or share their impressions of what they’ve read and heard.
On my way back to Kyiv, I could not take a nap on the festival bus because my seat-mate, a student, kept asking me about the history of Makhno for the entire trip, as if I were the greatest expert in this subject.
