Of late, German-speaking humanitarians and like-minded literati have been cheerfully discovering Halychyna for themselves. There has even emerged a special kind of "literary tourism" with groups of enthusiastic explorers formed to study this "no one's land" on the world map. Mostly they board flights to Lviv and set off on what they sincerely view as risky journeys into a land little known for civilization but notorious for gang wars and high radiation. Among the advantages of such ventures are local "risky" foods, absence of air-conditioners in hotel rooms and buses, and industrially devastated landscapes, adding an exotic touch to every such trip. Well, we have enthusiasts in every field of endeavor and such people will not be stopped by any hazards.
The myth about Halychyna (and Bukovyna to boot) is upheld in Western minds largely due to what I personally call the fall of the wall complex.
Here the geography suddenly acquired a new range. Eastern Europe turned out more European than considered by most analysts over the past several decades. German and Austrian tourists visit Lviv as the city of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. They take a ride to Brody to search for Josef Roth's phantoms and Chernivtsi for Paul Celan and Rosa Auslander. Sometimes they learn something about Ivan Franko and Olha Kobylianska, and get interested.
However, my subject is different. The other day I met with a group of German literary tourists in my own ex-Stanislaviv. They posed me questions which I found difficult and had to take my time answering. I met them on their way back from the Carpathian Mountains to Lviv, the last day of their Tour Galizien. Meaning that they had seen enough and formed their own ideas. So the questions I was posed could be summed up as follows: While visiting your country we have seen Taras Shevchenko statues everywhere, in almost every town and village we were shown. What do you personally think about this? Don't you consider this as yet another Soviet totalitarian holdover? Because we are people with our Western mentality, and such personality cult looks savage.
I knew what they were talking about. Most such "monuments" are Soviet propaganda idols, lacking in artistic quality and inspiration, erected on a makeshift basis, instructed by local party authorities eager to comply with "cultural program" directives from on high. Mostly, such statues are found close to official premises, city halls, bus terminals, cafes, often in place of Lenin or other Soviet gods (and often beside them, adhering to the official propaganda adage about "our history" and one's duty to preserve it), but this is found way to the east of Halychyna. After all, our monuments are graphic evidence of our social absurdities and degenerate aesthetic standard.
Addressing them, I knew that few if any in the audience had ever read Shevchenko. Of course, they could have some information – for example that he called for retribution against other peoples and hated the aristocracy. Of course, quotations could be found to corroborate this thesis to make these monuments/statues look relevant and logically motivated.
A scowling face with a Nietzsche mustache, large head set on broad shoulders with no neck, and a bulky figure, an embodiment of hatred. This is how one is tempted to described every such monument, the child's play at nationalism in young post-Soviet states: low cultural standards, historical anti-Semitism, violent slogans in place of constructive ideas, monuments in place of memories.
Answering their questions I tried to separate the grain from the chaff. I found myself sounding pompous (something I hate), describing Shevchenko as a "national prophet" and "great myth-maker." I tried to explain that the Ukrainian people found themselves in a unique historical situation in which this poet personified their existence (as their loving father, capable teacher, being close to the Messiah). I tried to explain that Shevchenko was not to blame for this "nationwide love" image imposed on him by communist propaganda and being upheld by force of habit. I told them that he was just a poet and had nothing to do with politics – the way our "people's chosen servants" try to present him so often.
Listening to me, my German guests nodded and smiled politely – and I thought I would probably do the same if I were one of them.






