Religious Extremism on the Rise in Tatarstan?

        Perhaps some of you who follow the news closely have noticed Kazan and Tatarstan’s increasing presence in the international news scene over the past few months. In mid-July, a senior Muslim cleric in charge of education was shot and killed outside of his Kazan apartment. Later that day, the chief mufti of Kazan survived a car bomb attack. Further attention from the media has been placed on the early August discovery of a fundamentalist Islamist sect (known as the Fayzarahmanist sect, named after the leader of the operation), which has taken up residence in an eight-storey compound underneath a mosque for the past 20 years. Just a few weeks ago, a vehicle containing an automatic weapon and fundamentalist Islamic literature exploded on the highway outside of Kazan due to the accidental detonation of a homemade bomb. In addition to this concentration of religiopolitical violence, a recent murder in Kazan has caused even more restlessness in the area. In the wake of the recent outburst of extremist Islamic activities, some are calling for a crackdown from the government, but few recognize the far-reaching effects that such a response will have.

            Tatarstan has long served as the prime example of religious tolerance and peaceful coexistence in Russia, and has served to contrast with the more tumultuous regions of Chechnya and Dagestan. The recent tragedies in the region have tarnished this reputation, leading some to compare it to more troubled regions and even suggest that religious extremism itself is on the rise. I would like to suggest that extremism is not necessarily on the rise, but that since the organizations that exist in Kazan are so small and disorganized, they must act in an opportunistic manner, thus the concentration of terrorist acts. This means that the recent attacks may not necessarily point to an increase in strength or membership of radical religious groups in Tatarstan. To jump to the assumption that Tatarstan is falling to rebel forces would be no more correct than to assume that periods of relative peace in more troubled regions (i.e. Chechnya or Dagestan) necessarily means that ultimate peace in those areas is near.

            In addition to arresting suspects in the shooting and car bomb cases, the regional government of Tatarstan took a wider-reaching approach to prevent religious radicalism in the region, and protect “traditional Tatar Islam”—after an emergency meeting and briefing on religious extremism, an amendment to the Law of Religious Freedom in the region’s constitution was passed. The Amendment included the establishment of uniform educational requirements for clergy members, and changed the regulations for the creation of religious institutions. While some blame the influence of more radically conservative strains of Islam on immigrants from the Caucasus and the fact that today many imams receive their education abroad at more conservative seminaries, Deputy Prime Minister Asgat Safarov the appearance of stricter strains of Islam in Tatarstan on historical consequence. After the fall of the Soviet Union, he says, imams were not prepared for the challenge of once again leading congregations, and were more easily influenced by foreign, more conservative forms of Islam. He, along with the President of Tatarstan, Mihail Minnehanov, are publicly urging faithful Tatars to remember the traditional strain of Islam that their ancestors subscribed to, and to return to those more liberal religious beliefs. In addition to the amendment, the government is investigating a number of local clergymen who are suspected of holding and preaching more radical beliefs. Many across Russia are calling for an even more severe crackdown from the central government. It is important to understand the profound effect that this would have. Tatarstan would lose the relative autonomy that the region has traditionally enjoyed and has allowed it to develop as it has. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the republic of Tatarstan has been allowed to govern itself more than other Russian republics and oblasts. Much of the economic stability in the region can be attributed to this. Not only could Tatarstan interpret intervention by the Russian Federal Government as overstepping a boundary, but it could also result in the actual reduction of autonomy for the region. Perhaps more critical to the Russian government is the consideration of how any intervention in Tatarstan could influence relations with other predominantly Muslim regions such as Chechnya and Dagestan.

While I certainly do not encourage religious extremism, I do question how the role the government is playing could end up affecting true religious freedom in Tatarstan, and in Russia. Right now, the intention is to cut out or push out a specific radical strain of a specific religion, but where is the line to be drawn? So slowly that it might not even be noticeable yet, freedom of religion is being whittled away, and as long as the belief exists that religious extremism is on the rise, this basic right will continue to dwindle. This underlines the importance of keeping the events of this summer, tragic as they are, in perspective.              

"Little Boxes Made of Ticky Tacky"

 Paris, Rome, Prague. When travelers talk about their love for these and other famous cities, it always seems that they fell in love with them at first sight, as effortlessly as being struck by lightening. Beautiful architecture, vibrant artistic and literary cultures that are at once intellectually stimulating and somewhat easy to understand, delicious food, and relative hospitality towards travelers draw people in from the moment they step off the plane. These places are as easy to love as if they were created for the single purpose of being loved. At the mere mention of crepes, gelato, or romantic pseudonyms like “the City of Lights”, one can hardly control a racing heart, flushed face, and sweaty palms. When I was still under the impression that France was my “one and only”, I could barely help embodying the same blabbering idiot that emerges when talking about a childhood crush, whenever the topic came up in conversation.While Russia is not an easy place to fall in love with, once you find love for the country and the people, that love is unbelievably deep and strong, and makes fairytale lost-shoe and crowded-ballroom love seem superficial and insignificant. 

           Upon first impression, Russia is about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus. The climate in most of the country is severe for most of the year, it's enormity creates a sense of cultural disconnect, even its capital is nearly impossible to navigate, the people are not always outwardly kind or helpful, and its beauty is not always as evident as that of the Eiffel Tower or Venetian canals. A love of Russia does not sweep you off your feet, it slowly swells within you as you come to realize the impossibility of ever truly understanding a country that is still so far from understanding itself, work yourself into the hearts and minds of those around you in order to witness the deepest and most genuine expressions of emotion, and learn to find beauty in the most unexpected places.

          Although I have dealt with very little homesickness during my time here, one of the few things that made me miss home was the mind-numbing ugliness of my neighborhood in Kazan. Trees are scarce and scraggly, and the tall apartment buildings turn the streets into a life-size game of tetris. The amount of grey, blue-grey, and other colors that have faded to grey, is overwhelming, especially in the wintertime when the sky and the ground are also grey. The lack of variety in architecture, natural beauty, and personal touch that might make these giant cardboard boxes appear more like comfy, lived-in homes was suffocating at first. I missed the individuality that I associate with homes in America. A few months into my fruitless search for window planters and garden gnomes, I realized that rather than look for window hangings, I should have been observing the windows themselves. Although the flats look identical from the outside, balconies are like snowflakes--no two balconies are exactly alike. Finally, I have found the proof that individual people with individual lives inhabit these cubicles of sameness. Some families still have the original wooden window frames while others have opted to upgrade to plastic fames and plexiglass panes. However trivial this decision may seem, the window material on the balcony of an apartment affirms that a choice was made, that an individual person sat down and thought about whether or not it was worth it to improve their windows and, one way or another, came to a conclusion. Through these embodiments of personal choice, I see everything from potted plants, to sweet fair-weather sitting areas, to laundry drying on taught ropes. A mother rocks her baby to sleep, and her next-door neighbor—a flabby old man in a wife-beater—leans out of his window to inspect the passerby as he smokes his cigarette. All the while, I have born witness to a miniscule fraction of their life, and although these few minutes might not seem so important when they happen, life is nothing if not a collage of these moments.

         In the past, I have been known to discredit those who I believe place too much value on beauty. I maintain that judgement should not be passed based on external appearances, but I now better understand that beauty can mean so many different things. In my case, the Kvartl' region of Kazan is by and large void of obvious physical beauty—natural, architectural, and otherwise—but the individual lives of its inhabitants are as beautiful as any.

Tapochki and Trowels: Some Springtime Thoughts

 Almost overnight, the icy winter has thawed to reveal the waterlogged sponge that is Russia in the spring time. Walking to class, my nostrils are flush with the fresh scent of fertile earth, and the leftovers of autumn decomposing after being freed from their frozen state. Even though we have been relieved of the risk of freezing, and springtime liberates the soul, feet feel no freer in rubber prisons built to protect them from puddles so deep they rival lakes. In this muddy transition between seasons, the line distinguishing “indoors” from “outdoors” that prevails in Russia year-round is at once blurred by rays of sunshine streaming through my bedroom window, and sharpened every time someone crosses the threshold.

Upon entering the dwelling of a Russian, it is customary to replace shoes with slippers or “tapochki”. In fact, Russians tend be a little obsessive about shoes; just the other day I was out with a Russian friend who constantly stopped to dust off his white sneakers with moist hand wipes. The origin of this mentality towards footwear is quite practical; for most of the year, Russia is snowy, wet, and muddy, and tracking the elements into the house makes a rather difficult job for the housekeeper. I have found, though, that the roots of this separation between street and home go beyond worrying about mopping the floor. Changing out of street shoes and clothes symbolizes the transition between the dirty, severe natural environment and the sanctuary of the home. While Russians have traditionally depended on natural resources such as land so rich it is sometimes referred to as “black earth”, fish from the numerous rivers, and the oil reserves that lie in Russian territories, the harshness of the out of doors is a hardship for many. In his book Russia: A Journey to the Heart of a Land and its People, Jonathan Dimbleby, a BBC journalist, constantly references that Russians' exposure to the elements often makes them look much older than they are. I, too, have witnessed such a tendency, especially in residents of smaller towns and villages far away from the city where their livelihood often depends on agriculture. While there is plenty of work to be done in the sphere of the home, it still serves as a place of refuge from work and weather. When the home is so highly valued as a place to hide from the natural world, it seems almost sacrilegious to track in the residue of the outside world.

As the sun warms us, though, the “dacha”--small summer home in the country-- begins to transform the outdoors into as much of a place of rest as a place of work. Many Russians who live in the city also own a small plot of land on the outskirts of town, or in a not-so-far-off village. A remnant of the Soviet era when the dacha served as a supplement to the dinner table—fresh produce in the summertime, and preserves all winter long—to this day, Russians look forward to the warm months when they can spend long afternoons working the land, and evenings in the “banya” (bath house). I, myself, have enjoyed jams and pickles thanks to my host family's labors, and this has clearly illustrated that the dacha, like slippers, continues to hold a practical purpose in Russian society. The light in their eyes when they talk about the countryside, though, shows me that their reverence towards and connection with the land borders on spiritual.

In this paradoxical culture, conflicting attitudes towards nature that usually wouldn't occur together strangely seem to fit. As I strive to make the most out of my last month in Russia (for now), I look forward to any opportunity I have to appreciate my natural surroundings with the vigor of a Russian soul, and will change into my slippers when I come home so as not to dirty the floors. On this note, I leave you with the words of Leo Tolstoy, “Rest, nature, books, music...such is my idea of happiness.”  

 Ekaterinburg in Photos

Hello all! I know it's been a while since my last post, so I'll try to make up for it. I was lucky to spend this past weekend in Ekaterinburg at an Economics Forum. Ekaterinburg is about a 15 hour train ride east of Kazan, and is located in the Ural Mountains. It is generally agreed that the city lies approximately on the border between Europe and Asia, so I was a little surprised to find that it felt much more typically "Russian" than Kazan. Tatar culture contributes so much to the city and the republic, and the difference between Tatarstan and the rest of Russia is tangible as soon as you cross the border. A big thank you to the Ural State Economics University, especially our gracious hosts Ivan and Anton, for putting this all together. It was such a pleasure to get to know your city and your students!
Enjoy the pictures,
Abby

One of my favorite Russian traditions: lovers and newlyweds put a lock marked with their names on a bridge to symbolize their eternal love. 

The mayor's office in Ekaterinburg 

The temple that marks where Tsar Nicholas II and his family lived during their exile before their brutal execution by the revolutionaries. 

Another favorite Russian tradition: if you want to hold onto good memories of a place and someday return, it is customary to leave something behind, usually a few kopecks (like our penny). I dropped a coin into the river in hopes that I can visit my friends again soon!

Vladimir Ilich Lenin 

The city, as seen from one of the tallest buildings in the city. 

Chekhov at the Bus Stop

             By the Russian mentality, spring has arrived. It is hard to muster up support for this concept when the temperature hovers around -10 degrees Celsius in mid-March. I consider this on my early morning walk to the bus stop. As I wonder whether or not I will still have toes attached to my feet when I take off my shoes, the bright blue sky suddenly seems to surround me as cold, sharp pain drills through my hipbone. The slip happened so quickly and with such little warning that I don’t realize what has happened until the ice beneath me begins to melt just enough to leave a dark wet spot of shame on my jeans. The following seconds are humiliating; I resemble a newborn deer that hasn’t yet learned where its feet are. When I finally pick myself up off the ground, hands gritty with sand and salt, I turn my brave eyes to the front and walk with feigned shamelessness to the very edge of the curb. I become painfully aware of the judging stares of my comrades, but forget to remember that these eyes burning holes through the back of my coat are just a figment of my imagination. Even the most graceful among us has fallen at some point or another. It happens to everyone. It is almost always sudden, and it is almost always followed by the sting of embarrassment. This little happening this morning reminded me of a lesser-known short story by Anton Chekhov, entitled “The Death of a Bureaucrat”. In this piece, Chekhov explores how, in his last days, the protagonist (Ivan Dmitrievich Chervyakov) becomes completely consumed by the fear that his superior is judging him unfavorable for accidentally sneezing on him at the theater. In addition to satirically handling the subject of social norms and standards in late-19^th century Imperial Russia, it more importantly serves as a hyperbolic example of our tendency to attribute more than the proper amount of significance to certain unavoidable details of life. Chekhov makes this point in two important ways—by commenting on the suddenness of the sneeze, and the fact that sneezing is universal.  

            Just before the sneeze occurs in the first paragraph of the story, Chekhov says “But suddenly…in stories you often come across the phrase “but suddenly”. Authors are right: life is full of such unexpected events” (Chekhov, 1). Emphasizing the fact that life is full of surprises, and especially underlining the suddenness of the sneeze serves to make the distinction between what is within our control, and what is out of our control. When something happens suddenly, the only thing that we can control is our reaction to the event. As any sufferer of hay fever will tell you, sneezing is out of our control; therefore, it must have been Chervyakov himself rather than his sneeze that determined the direction of the end of his life. Chekhov contrasts Chervyakov’s death in the last paragraph of the story with the suddenness of the sneeze. Using words like “dragged himself along” and “mechanically came home”, Chekhov tries to show the reader that death is not sudden or surprising, but mechanical and imminent (Chekhov, 19). While death is not sudden, it is also something that we have no control over. Chekhov uses the imminence of death to further his point that it is not the uncontrollable things that happen to us that define our lives, but our reactions to those events.

            After the protagonist sneezes but before he realizes that he has “splattered” on someone, he thinks to himself “Sneezing is not forbidden to anyone anywhere” (Chekhov 1). He goes on to list by job title people from all levels of society who, like the rest of us, sneeze. The character’s personal argument seems to be that, because sneezing is universal and uncontrollable, it is insignificant. Chekhov, however, uses this moment to show the reader that Chervyakov’s reaction—his extended analysis of the event—is what makes it significant. He further proves this through the character of Brizhalov (the “sneezed-upon”). Chervyakov spends his last days trying again and again to apologize and explain himself to Brizhalov, a socially superior stranger. Brizhalov realizes the insignificance of the sneeze and would prefer just to forget about it, but Chervyakov again and again misinterprets his forgiveness for hidden anger and eventually becomes frustrated with Brizhalov’s refusal to discuss it further. If Chervyakov had just let it go after he apologized the first time, perhaps he could have done something more meaningful in his last days.

            As I step aboard bus number 54 and shove myself between two big Russian men who smell like cigarettes, sausages, and garlic, I decide to forget about my embarrassing display on the ice since it was out of my control and not worth the overreaction. For the rest of the bus ride to the university, my thoughts drift between being grateful to the big garlic-y men for keeping the vampires at bay and being grateful that I have had the opportunity to live in Russia for long enough that I don’t always worry about what others are thinking about me. 

-Abby

Names on a Wall

        It seems that every place I visit in Russia has it’s own museum. These “mini-museums” range in size, from a small room or two cluttered with relics of the past, to a historical building with items neatly organized in glass cases and walls lined with paintings. Unlike many western museums where plaques nailed to the wall inform inquisitive visitors, the typical Russian museum is void of such conveniences and for this reason, visitors usually participate on a guided tour rather than explore individually. After visiting a number of these museums, I started to find them quite tedious and rather boring. I have seen the soviet-era coins, the traditional Russian, Tatar, and Chuvash costumes, the rusty tools and instruments of war, and letters so old and stained that I can barely read them. There was a time when I was enamored with tangible objects from the past, but two-hundred-year-old tinker things have since lost their power over me; I have found so much more value in stories and memories than physical trinkets.

            The museum in Cheremshan, a small village located in the southeast corner of Tatarstan, differs from other Russian museums because it also defines itself as a memorial center. The first room of the center is lined in photographs and portraits of researchers, professors, military figures, authors, political figures, and individuals who made significant contributions to the region’s development. When I first walked inside, my eyes settled on an oval frame holding a hand-painted portrait of an old Tatar woman. Below her picture was written her name and the reason the people of Cheremshan remember her in this museum—одинадцать дети (eleven children). At first it was laughable that the woman’s claim to fame is that she raised eleven children. Of course I have heard parents joke about how childrearing is a battle, and I admit that raising a family of eleven is quite the accomplishment, but the simple fact that this woman had eleven children is not the real reason her portrait hangs on the museum wall. No, she was not a mayor or an author or a soldier, but she was a beloved part of the Cheremshan community and, to the people who knew her or her family, is part of the region’s history. History is not only constituted of the relationships between countries and regions, but also (and perhaps more importantly) the actions, decisions, and relationships between individuals.

            Moving from the first part of the museum to the second was a shock to the eyes. Whereas the first room may as well have been wallpapered with photographs and paintings, the walls of the second room were covered in names. The strict lines of Cyrillic letters are overwhelming, and they only become more so when you realize that each name represents a life that was lost on the battlefront. Cheremshan recognizes every person who was lost doing what they believed was right for their country on these walls, from soldiers who fought on both sides of the Russian Revolution, to the 8500 soldiers who were sacrificed during the Second World War, to the women who were lost their lives while working as nurses on the front. Our tour guide told us that when she first started working at the museum, she got to know an old woman who would visit every week and ask to be shown her family member’s names. Every week she would say the same thing, “Each of these names represents a life—a young person who wanted to study, or travel, or love, it represents the opportunities that they never got to have, and it represents their family who suffered the loss of a loved one.”

As horribly sad as this woman’s words are, they are true and incredibly relevant to our current global situation. In a world where peace is a dream but not a reality, and schoolchildren constantly complain about studying history, I think that it is time for us to return to the names and remember that it is the individuals who influence the course of history. Furthermore, we have to remember that sometimes those names are in capital letters and those are the ones that are easier to remember—presidents, great and terrible leaders, famous activists, etc.—but sometimes the names are carved in lowercase letters into a wall. 

Personal Space Bubble, or Lack Thereof

          Even though I am living in the biggest country in the world, most of the time it feels like I’m living in the smallest. I have nothing but fondness for Kazan and all of its people, but sometimes at the end of a long day, I start to feel crowded. Buses brimming with students, men with mustaches and tattooed fingers, and old fat ladies wrapped in fur lumber down narrow streets behind masses of Ladas and old Ford models. Everyone is in a rush to get to where they should have been an hour ago, and no one is getting anywhere. In addition to this physical crowdedness, getting used to a social “crowding” that I have never experienced before has been even more exciting, overwhelming, and sometimes frustrating.

            In my experience thus far, Russians are much more straightforward than Americans. If a student is unprepared for class, the teacher will call him or her out on it in front of the other students. If you fail to return an acquaintance’s text, don’t be surprised if they ask whether you are really interested in talking to them. Coming from New England where people are notoriously passive aggressive and have trouble expressing their true feelings, this shameless forwardness seemed abrasive at first. Over time though, I have come to appreciate how this cultural difference has helped my language skills. Back in the States, I always enjoyed getting to know exchange students, but I always avoided correcting their English for fear that it would introduce some kind of complication to the budding friendship. Here though, my language skills have reached the point where I learn more about the flow of conversations by having conversations with my host family and friends than I do working through practice drills in class. Where I always shied away from offering linguistic advice to foreign students, my Russian friends and acquaintances aren’t afraid to let out a giggle if I use a construction that sounds funny. Realizing that I don’t harbor some secret hate, but actually am extremely grateful for the Russians who are bold enough to correct my speaking, I find myself wishing that I had offered the same experience to the foreign students I befriended in the past. While the American concept of courtesy seems to be foggy with white lies, honesty and respect are tightly bound together in the Russian psyche.

            While I have become accustomed to, and even grown to appreciate, Russian honesty and straightforwardness, I sometimes have a hard time when what qualifies as “personal” in the United States and what qualifies as “personal” in Russia don’t overlap. As far as I know, I am the only person living in my body and I am therefore the only person who knows when I am cold, but since Russians dress for the calendar rather than the thermometer, I can expect to be scolded by a stranger if I am not bundled up enough in January regardless of the actual temperature. God only knows how many lectures I’ve endured from babushka’s I’ve never met regarding the effects of sitting on a bench at the bus stop in the cold on my fertility. If that’s not personal, then I don’t know what is! Even when it’s tempting to use the age old “you’re not my mother” retort when a stranger instructs you to put on a hat, knowing that these pieces of advice, regardless of whether or not you think they are appropriate, come from a place of love (and usually from the heart of a babushka) helps me to slap a smile on my face and just put on the gosh darned hat no matter how much I’m already sweating in my incubator of a coat.

Man Cheese: Part II

         Often, eating is one of those things that we do just for ourselves. We, not the hungering homeless person on the street, receive the nourishment from our food and enjoy the wave of pleasure as sweetness or saltiness or a complex savory flavor washes our tongue from front to back. Maybe the dinner table used to be a place for socializing and community building, but soccer practice, late meetings, and television get in the way of that now. In Russia, I have experienced an attitude towards food that we in America lack.

            Overall, the Russian people still recognize that eating is a necessary part of survival, and hold a certain respect for hunger that is rarely witnessed in the States. Collectivization, strict rations, and sweeping famines are still fresh in the minds of many here. On top of these unpleasant memories of hungrier times, to say that the country’s wealth is unequally distributed would be an understatement; poverty runs rampant while rich Muscovites enjoy their feast. Meanwhile, the collective focus of the American people is pointed towards the prevention of childhood obesity. Russia’s rather recent history is responsible for maintaining the idea in the minds of the Russian people that food is more than a luxury, it is a necessity, and this has granted the Russian people a higher appreciation for the sustenance that we sometimes take for granted. While I know people who heed expiration dates to a nearly religious degree, here a small patch of mold can be scraped off a bit of cheese without fuss. Not every dish is вкусный- delicious, but a lot of value is placed on the полезность-usefulness- of food. Maybe you cringe at the thought of eating liver for dinner, but a Russian would advertise it’s high iron content even if they share your point of view on the dry, crumbly texture and cat-food-like flavor. The food on the table is appreciated for what it is, even if it is not particularly appetizing.

            While food nourishes the individual, sharing food is an important part of Russian food culture. Family members usually dine together, despite demanding academic schedules and the sixty-hour workweek. When receiving guests, invited or otherwise, it is customary to offer “tea”, but “tea” consists of more than just the hot beverage. It is a spread of fresh fruit and vegetables, cakes, and cookies. On special occasions, “tea” can also mean soup and blini—Russian pancakes. As a guest, sitting down to tea with your host is a sign of respect, and neglecting to do so is regarded as disrespectful. The older Russian generation (the beloved babushki and scarce grandfatherly types) fiercely looks down on the entire concept of fast food because the core of it’s being—food cooked quickly to be eaten on the go-- does not agree with the conversation and socializing that is almost as important as the food in a Russian meal. I have noticed that McDonalds in Russia has tried to adapt to this cultural difference. The most popular one in Kazan, located on the main pedestrian street, is a two-story establishment where youths hunker down for an hour or more to enjoy their burgers and fries that were ready in just minutes. I believe that the importance of dinner table conversation goes beyond the dining culture here; no matter how trivial the topic, engaging in conversation over a meal is therapeutic and makes the family community stronger.           

In my time here, I have adjusted my eating habits to match those of my host family. I can’t imagine finishing a meal in less than an hour, because that is how long it takes to enjoy the company and appreciate the food regardless of its taste. To me, the jam bowl that sits on my host family’s kitchen table day and night, never empty, is the perfect symbol of Russian food culture. It is depended on, it is constant, it is shared, and it is eaten by the spoonful with hot tea.

 -Abby

Man Cheese: Part I

            When I was four years old, my family spent a year living in a green house on Cape Cod. Most of my memories from that year are blurred against the background of the deserted winter beach, but certain memories stick out as vivid photographs in my mind. I remember watching my sisters make “sand cakes” and eat them, “crumbs” sticking to their fat fingers and cheeks. I remember what our living room carpet looked like, and I remember my sisters taking their first steps on that carpet on Thanksgiving. I remember nursing my wind-whipped hands as my father walked my bike home from the beach one winter afternoon. I remember that our Christmas tree that year was decorated not with ornaments, but with seashells. Perhaps most vividly, I remember sitting alone for what felt like hours at the kitchen table, adamantly refusing to drink my milk. Milk was a point of conflict between my parents and I for years. Now, I pride myself on being rather adventurous when it comes to exotic cuisine. I am always willing to try the spinach, the sushi, the cow tongue, or the asparagus ice cream, but I have never been able to get over my detestation of dairy.

            While I still strongly dislike milk and much of the dairy world, in the U.S. I have adapted to dressing my salads with oil and vinegar, spreading mustard on my sandwiches instead of mayonnaise, and ditching the “dollop of Daisy” when it comes to tacos. In the past few years, I have even grown to accept certain dairy products like various cheeses into my diet. Russian cuisine is a little less flexible, though, and dairy is an important staple. Mayonnaise, in particular, makes its way into everything from soup, to salad, to entrees. It’s rare to find a pizza in Russia that isn’t smothered in mayo. At home with my host family, I am usually able to avoid the constant stream of creamy stuff. But whenever we have guests I am introduced as “Abby, our American who doesn’t eat mayonnaise!” I do come across the occasional unlucky situation where the mayonnaise-monster just can’t be avoided. In these situations, the best-case scenario is that the dish in question is something baked. When the mayonnaise is baked, it becomes brown and crispy on top. There is no way that a congealed mess of mayo actually resembles cheese, but so far, the only way that I have learned to cope with the necessary ingestion of this ungodly sauce has been to call it “cheese” in my head. Mentally disguising baked mayo as “man-cheese” (short for “mayonnaise cheese”, of course) doesn’t change the weirdly sweet flavor or the slimy texture, but somehow it helps to keep the gag reflex at bay.

            In Russia, eating is a sign of respect. Most of the time, the worst-case scenario is the tummy ache that accompanies that “too full” feeling. Sometimes though, you come across a gastronomical challenge that is just too much and you have to be creative and use your problem solving skills. Sometimes you can sneak some of your leftovers onto a friends’ plate, and it’s not your problem anymore. Perhaps you are left alone for a moment in a room with a trashcan so that you can get rid of the meat dumplings that make you queasy without anyone noticing. You have to be careful when taking advantage of an open window, because a babushka doused in soup from above is not a happy babushka, but an option is an option. Calling mayonnaise cheese? It’s just another creative solution. Unfortunately, I have not found such a solution for the absolute treat that is meat jello (holodets).

Until next time,

Abby

Shake Your Groove Thang

As a child, I was always somewhat skeptical of the idea of Santa Claus. Of course the elves and flying reindeer all seemed a bit too far fetched even for my imagination, but the most difficult thing for me to believe was that, in just one night, Santa could make it down the chimneys of children all over the world. When I was seven, I raised the question of Santa’s existence with my parents. That Christmas was my introduction to the infamous “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” letter. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this letter, it was written in 1897 by Francis Pharcellus Church (then editor of the New York Sun) in response to eight-year-old Virginia’s query regarding Santa’s existence. His response can be summed up in the sentence “He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.” This year, Santa Claus did not visit my house. In fact, I doubt that he visited many Russians’ houses this year, or any other for that matter, because Russians do not celebrate Christmas the way that we do in the United States. Even the Russian Orthodox Christians who do observe Christmas celebrate on the Orthodox Church’s date—January 7. The more popular winter holiday here is New Year’s. Families all over Russia spend the day cooking together, and spend all night eating together. After helping my host family to prepare an enormous feast, they sat me down at the table on New Year’s Eve and told me, “Now we will eat until morning.” Much like the winter holidays in America, food, numerous toasts, fireworks, and gift exchanges characterize the Russian New Year. Those last ten magical seconds of the old year are counted down here much the way that they are in America, but rather than watch a massive orb work its way down a skyscraper (a tradition that I have, admittedly, never really understood), here we listen to the president’s address to the Russian people. Never once during this holiday did I regret that a fat man dressed in red did not break into my apartment while I was asleep. Celebrating with my host family, I experienced so much love, generosity, and devotion, and I couldn’t have possibly asked for anything more.

            Since the university was on break for the week after New Year’s, I spent some time at a winter camp (much like an American summer camp) where Russian students go to rest, play, and prepare for their state exams during the winter holiday. While I was considerably older than many of the other students, this immersion experience was wonderful language practice and I certainly enjoyed the games, skiing, and a particularly interesting history class that I attended while the other students were preparing for their exams. The dormitory-style housing was not a five-star hotel, but it was certainly comfortable enough. I am generally not a very picky eater, but I was glad to have packed some emergency Snickers bars. When I was a kid, I used to love books about orphans (Oliver Twist, The Little Princess, Jane Eyre, and the like). The word “gruel” was used in all of these books to explain the food that the poor protagonists were forced to eat. I don’t think I fully understood the term “gruel” until I spent a week eating grey mush three times a day. Sometimes a small round black thing would appear in the middle of my bowl and, while I am sure that it was probably just a burned bit of something, I would wonder to myself “Is this a weevil? Because I’m not really sure what a weevil is, but I didn’t know what gruel was either until now.” Every evening after a full day of studying and activities was “discoteka”—a word that seems to describe any time a roomful of people dances for an extended period of time in the dark. Unfortunately for me, I have the moves of a middle-aged librarian, a problem that might be cured either by bigger hair or by a bigger bottom. Eventually the rich Russian cuisine might help the latter, but my hair is incurably straight.

            Well, after a fun week at camp, I am very happy to be home in Kazan. The new semester has begun and classes are going well so far! Best wishes to my friends and family back home!

Abby