I traveled to Russia for the first time when I was fourteen, as a part of an international missions organization. I spent that summer (and the next four) in Russia playing with children around wooded campgrounds, on flooded soccer fields, and under brilliantly lit midnight skies. The Russian kids teased me for my total lack of knowledge about their language. They taught me how to say silly phrases and patiently showed me how to play a Russian card game appropriately named “Fool”. The bond I made with two orphan girls that summer led to eight years of shaky, bilingual correspondence (fueled mostly by stickers and smiley faces).
I wish I could more accurately remember my first impressions of Russia, eleven years ago, but a combination of repeated trips to the same place and my horrendous memory makes this impossible. This recent Wired article on the science of forgetting sums up what I’ve been trying to explain to anyone who asks me to describe my first thoughts about Russia. “New research is showing that every time we recall an event, the structure of that memory in the brain is altered in light of the present moment, warped by our current feelings and knowledge.”
So in my head, I’ve always loved Russia. Each new trip, experience, bowl of borsht only reaffirms those sentiments.
I remember having to wash my laundry for the summer by hand. There was one room in our dormitory that was heated especially for drying our wet clothes. I remember coveting the window bed in a room of six squeaky bed frames. I loved sitting in the huge windowsill, both sets of the double paned windows wide open to the summer sunlight, my feet hanging out above the pine needles and young campers below me. I remember whispered conversations on the balcony, talking about fears and frustrations. I remember these summers as a time of teenage enlightenment and coming-of-age all wrapped up in the magnificent scenery and dramatic backdrop of Russia. This is why I love Russia. I fell in love at such an impressionable age, that my wax memory has deep etchings when it comes to this country.
But going back to the insecurities of Russians. When they ask me—incredulously—why I am in Russia voluntarily, I give them some sort of the answer above. But their lack of confidence is displayed in other situations.
In Irkutsk, a town I found breathtakingly beautiful and Petersburg-esq, I was photographing old wooden window frames. They looked individually hand carved, with small details of flowers or other designs painstakingly added for decoration. They had aged with grace that, in my opinion, probably made them most beautiful at this moment in time than when they were originally created. Xirsti and I were talking in English, while taking pictures, probably about how enamored we were with the city. A middle-aged businessman passes by, and then stops. He starts loudly reprimanding us in English for taking pictures of the old, dilapidated parts of his city. Why do you foreigners want to show people the ugly parts of our city, he bellows (approximately).
“Oksana” commented on the picture “… when someone gives a unique picture of your country with an open flesh on it under the title ‘Touch Russia’, I don’t think I should like it, as if nothing more precious is there in Russia to touch. Equality does not mean to let people give a wrong impression about your country even on pictures (sic).” (She also I suggested I go to a slaughter house and touch as much flesh as I want, but don’t touch Russia.)
I understand some people have a problem with killing animals, but that is not this woman’s complaint. She is complaining, that this outsider named Randianne, is showing the world the real life aspects of her country. Slaughtered birds do not fit into the picture Russians want the world to see. I replied as evenly as I possibly could, but internally upset that this woman couldn’t see that this picture represented my love for her country as much as any stereotypically picturesque photo I have of the Church of the Spilt Blood in Petersburg or the fall colors of Syktyvkar. Part of loving a country, or respecting a country, is to appreciate all aspects of the culture and people, whether these aspects are considered stereotypically beautiful or not. It is not enough to merely photograph the pleasant or the perfect, but to also capture the mundane or in some cases the shocking side of life.
But for someone like Oksana, who is hesitantly cautious about how the outside world views her country, I can see why “unbeautiful” pictures would threaten the view of her country she wants to project. As reasoning for this attitude, I offer up a recent article about Russian/American relations. “The end of the global confrontation [the Cold War] essentially destroyed Russia’s international stature. The United States gained almost everything that the Soviet Union lost. Russian public and political consciousness is still unable to process this…” (source: RBTH)
For me, post-Soviet Russia is in this stage of awkward teenage years (one I can relate to), when despite the assurances of peers and family that she is beautiful and skilled, she refuses to believe this about herself. She has strong opinions on everything, but is still so conscious of how other people view her speech and actions. She is shy and stubborn at the same time, desperately wanting to be understood, but not really giving people a chance to get to know her, the real Russia.