Kommentar von Marjana Gaponenko
Kommentar von Marjana Gaponenko
It began with the notion of waste separation. Plastic with plastic, paper with paper, the remaining rubbish with the remainder of the rubbish. Then came the separation of glass. Bottles are sorted according to colour: green glass with green glass, brown with brown, white with white. When I heard about bulky waste I was both shocked and delighted at one and the same time. What self-discipline these Europeans must have and what patience!...
“That’s what keeps them fit and healthy”, I thought to myself. In the CIS countries and in Ukraine – the name Ukraine means “at the edge” – people from the Western European countries, that is outside the edge, are described as Europeans. The subdivision into Western and Eastern Europeans seems not to have been grasped here yet, either in terms of language or mentality. The West is Europe and Western Europeans are Europeans. Despite all the political and geographical clarity what we ourselves are is unclear. Any kind of generalisation is impossible. “Former Soviet Union” is too long and sounds depressing. “Russia”, even in the classic sense, is for the thinking people, for former Gulag prisoners and their relatives, impossible.
Georgians call themselves Georgians, Ukrainians call themselves Ukrainians, Russians, astonishingly, call themselves Russians, but only since they have just themselves. I ask myself “How does a person from Moldavia explain to a Cambodian rice-grower where he comes from?” Moldavia lies in a mist. The definition “in the south west of Ukraine” could lead to him losing his head. Nor can he say in Europe, which geographically would be completely correct. Therefore he says Russia. The Cambodian nods, he has of course heard of Russia.
When I think about Russia I don’t think about the Federal Russian Republic nor about the Soviet Union nor about the Tsar’s Russian Empire. I think of the breadth that flows into Ukraine (at the edge) and leads into endlessness. I think of the steppe that extends like a dusty and yet golden thread from Ukraine across Eurasia.
For me Russia is completely separate from ethnic groupings, history and politics. It is only a thought and the feeling of being free, despite how incredible this may sound in the context of Putin’s Russia.
No matter how often I had to queue for sausage, cheese and bread, no matter how restricted I was in all respects – cramped living conditions, over-filled buses, the impossibility of travelling – I never thought of myself as not free. Quite the opposite in facat, the world was mine. The Black Sea lay in front of me and at my back the steppe began. On the map Western Europe seemed small and mishapen, Russia in contrast seemed enormous and harmoniously shaped.
Now and then ships came from foreign countries and the sailors sold bananas, oranges, proper chocolate, and chewing gum in the harbour. That was Europe. A paradise where everything was available. The idea of having everything was beautiful and calming. And then? What comes afterwards? Not having to queue was unimaginable. The battle for sausage in Gastronom no. 3 made life interesting. In packed buses one can have interesting conversations and the confinement of your own four walls did not really affect you. You had books, you dreamed, you went to the sea, you didn’t know anything else.
The Russian need to spread beyond the conceivable area of wishes and feelings creates a linguistic phenomenon: the presence of borders plays hardly any role in the Russian language. Where they are seen to be present they are something to be overcome. Expressions so common in German such as “to withdraw” or “to keep one’s distance” do not appear to have equivalents in Russian. People interfere, you are with others, among others. The word “tolerant” seems somewhat foreign, as people are incapable of making compromises. Everyday behaviour can acquire extreme forms of expression, now or never, life or death. “Melodramatic” is also a foreign word, although this is very much what people are.
Overcoming borders begins in the mind and continues in behaviour: mine and yours blend together at primary school stage. I like these colouring pencils so much that I am taking them with me. In terms such as “stealing” and “taking with one” the boundaries are very blurred. Flowers in the park are plucked and fir trees are felled on New Year’s Eve without any major qualms of conscience. If you are caught, you pretend to be drunk. A drunk person has the status of a sick person and is treated with more compassion than a normal citizen in a similar situation. To Russian ears “private sphere” sounds just as strange as “private property”. It isn’t so much that people don’t know what this is, it is just difficult to accept. The border is a challenge, crossing it stirs the soul, awakens spiritual forces and means expansion, progress, a step into the wide yonder, towards the absolute. Until the Russian learns to stimulate his spiritual and mental powers in a some other way than by overstepping boundaries and by defying prohibitions often involved in doing this, notions of law and legality will mean little to him and will remain senseless.
The situation with the absurd is similar. Nothing that must exist is absurd. Waste separation, just like glass separation, does not have to exist. Therefore it seems absurd to me. With us this process takes place naturally, directly where the rubbish is produced and within just a few hours. Cats, dogs and humans live from this. Empty bottles are left standing in front of the rubbish containers so that homeless persons can convert them into money. Remnants of fish and meat are carefully placed on pieces of newspaper in the shadow of the rubbish containers, as is stale bread. Bulky items of waste land on the street without prior notice (there is nobody to whom prior notice could be given)and are gratefully taken away by other citizens. In our eyes this is entirely natural. To us it seems unnatural to compress cardboard before putting it in the container, what should one do if one has weak arm muscles? What does an elderly woman in Western Europe do with large cardboard boxes? Does she jump them to make them smaller? And what about glass sorting? When they are old who knows whether a small bottle of sparkling wine is green or brown. When I tell people in my country about rubbish and glass separation it sounds like a joke. But my story of the caviar sandwiches sounds just as absurd to people in the West. Yet it is nothing unusual for people of my generation. Caviar sandwiches was what one took with one towards the end of the 80s when, for a short time, there was nothing in the grocery shops except for caviar and vodka.
The German way of life is as precise and logical as the German language. Everything is ordered and according to plan. “I know that the train arrives at seven precisely.” That is how it should be and that is how it is. You cannot shift anything here, otherwise it would be wrong. In Russian every word in a subordinate clause can be moved around freely. And furthermore the trains never arrive on time, that is as certain as the apparent chaos that dominates day-to-day Russian life. You are happy that the train travels and arrives sometime or other. You are happy about the fact that trains travel and make stops. When they don’t stop something has generally happened and people get worried. Nobody gives out, nobody sues the railway company. You get out somewhere or other and travels back a few stations. Time flows more slowly in the East. People stroll rather than hurrying along. Anyone who runs is either mad or his fate is going to be decided in the next few hours. Someone who misses a bus waits a few hours for the next one. Or you take a taxi and stop a car by raising your hand. You sit beside the driver and normally you have a conversation about his old Lada. About his past as an opera singer, his youth in the navy, you discover what the weather is going to be like, what the dollar rate is doing. Generally you cannot sit in the back because the seat shows clear signs of the transport of animals or vegetables. No-one puts on their safety belt, or else it is so dusty that you decide you would rather die than dirty your lovely dress. If the car makes strange sounds you look at the driver’s face. If he rolls his eyes, or grows red then it is time to start praying. If he seems calm, then you can relax.
In contrast to western countries in the East we don’t talk about death. My grandmother would feel insulted if I were to ask her whether after her death she wants to be cremated or buried in the earth. What comes, comes. Here in the West it is much the same as with the trains. “I know that the train arrives at seven precisely.” The need for a will and life insurance is just as much taken for granted as death itself. Wills are written during the first half of life, at intervals like love letters. This is unimaginable for us, but here it is part of life. Even after death chaos must be avoided, everything must go according to plan… To write “my last will and testament” is for me physically impossible. To talk about death means in Russian culture to summon death, to bring death close. Superstition is everywhere. When I wear a dress that needs a button sewn on then I keep a thread in my mouth, so as “not to sew up the soul”. When I feel an evil glance touch me I instinctively cross my fingers in my pocket. When I want to convince somebody of the truth of what I say I swear by making the Sign of the Cross and saying “I swear by Almighty God”. At this point the Western superstition that is so often denied is revealed. I am told in a strict and serious manner: “Don’t swear, don’t misuse the name of God!”
This is where one recognises the romantic, touching face of the West. In my view this is the thread that connects us. No matter how different people are through centuries of history, different poles of landscape and language they are very similar in one respect: in their undefined yearning. In the East this yearning is lived openly and expressed. In the West, for a variety of reasons, it is misunderstood, concealed or denied. But it exists.
Nowadays when I go out the door I enter a seemingly perfect world. The lawns have been mowed, the hedges have been cut to form beautiful tall fences. I stop at some of garden gates and read: “I am watchdog here” or “I can reach the door in only 5 seconds… what about you?” If I slip on the asphalt that is wet from the rain my clothes remain relatively clean, as the streets have been cleaned with machines. Dog owners take their dogs for a walk in the park, with a bag in their hand for the certain, unavoidable case. Elderly ladies have short hair and wear trousers. Simply elegant or sporty. I attempt to imagine my grandmother with trainers and nordic walking sticks, in white trousers and a polo shirt. I can’t. Grandmother wears floral print skirts and does not shudder when she is addressed by children she does not know as “granny”. Babuscha, a gentle, tender word, and one that is meant tenderly. That is how it should remain…