• Українська
  • Русский
  • English
Where there is no law, but every man does what is right in his own eyes, there is the least of real liberty
Henry M. Robert

HEROISM AT ITS PEAK

6 October, 1998 - 00:00

Every time I venture a trip to the "province" I notice that the thirst
for knowledge, for collecting fresh folk material, the joy I experience
whenever I come across some exotic folkways, are met with resistance in
my soul; we are brimming with knowledge which is beginning to be oppressive,
doing away with what is left of our optimism.

This time my route was in the south, where history is felt stronger
than anywhere else in Ukraine. Here even a short trip requires more than
a lifetime. Long rains and drafts make a visitor gloomy, bringing with
them a sense of hopelessness. This land is inhabited by a special kind
of aborigines dating from the time when the Zaporizhian Sich was destroyed
and outsiders allowed to settle. Countless migrants pass through these
parts, settling for a while in small towns and villages, then move on,
leaving behind dirty ramshackle homes. Rain, sun and wind finish them off,
creating an apocalyptic landscape. Locals have learned to live in harmony
with the cosmos. The expression in their eyes, complexion, gestures, walk
- all point to some unusual piety mixed with inviolable staunchness. They
are a special race for which wealth and misery are not worlds apart. Here
the words "history" and "destiny" have a greater meaning than all the others.
Here one is strongly aware of age-old history and one's vanity is subdued.
Here one finds a different breed of cows, different architecture. Early
in August the meadows and hills are buried under deadwood, dry wormwood,
hogweed...Yes, hogweed. It deserves separate notice. Growing as high as
sunflower, its pollen, when in blossom, is said to be hyperallergenic.
Years ago special commissions were set up, levying fines worth a monthly
wage or two on kolkhoz chairmen after spotting even a single bush of hogweed
in their fields. Today, hogweed grows far and wide, covering fields, pastures,
streets and courtyards. An inexperienced visitor might take hogweed for
an exotic tropical living fossil.

My last visit was a long time ago, so now I look around warily, half-expecting
to see dramatic changes. No, everything looks the same: same grand stairs,
the sun rising and setting as usual, lizards dashing among granite and
limestone boulders, and the same feeling of continuum, but a newcomer thirsting
for antiquity cannot help but notice the change in the populace: now the
locals are less willing to share stories about times long gone by. Most
of the conversations are focused on bitter realities. Well-dressed men
and women visit pensioners' homes, introducing themselves as company agents,
asking whether the host would prefer to receive grain instead of their
pension. And pensioners, remaining Buddha-calm, say yes or no. Grain can
be taken to the local mill and the owner will soon receive freshly baked
bread. But who knows what kind of flour this bread is made from? And how
long will one have to wait to get his bread? People's wisdom manifests
itself in a manner increasingly adequate to specific modern problems. This
village would have long died out, had it not been for the highway. Every
weekend the villagers are out lining the road, selling things. The highway,
separated from the village by a narrow muddy river, is full of noise day
and night. Passing cars stop and passengers get out to buy inexpensive
produce. There are vendors by the road, selling coffee, tea and mineral
water. During election campaigns the village often sees VIP motorcades,
the residents following them with ironically indifferent eyes: they know
only too well that they will be promised cheap fuel oil and other useful
things, and will even receive some. But only till those who promise get
their seats in Parliament or other high places... Recent history is rising
to its full height, snarling at the spirit of antiquity: the Ukrainian
version of Space Wars. One feels tempted to settle here for the rest of
one's life and watch the apocalyptic show to the end.

This place is no province, no reservation, but the center of the Universe.
Only three homes are left in place of what used to be the village of Yurkivka.
One, owned by a woman whose son is in business, boasts a dish antenna,
so the old villager can now tune in 96 channels.

 

 

Rubric: